What On Earth Have I Done?

by Robert Fulghum

  Well, so what? Most of us don’t really know how we look from behind, even though tight-butt jeans are the fashion these days. Still, I didn’t laugh. I admire his social courage on behalf of his health, though I wouldn’t be caught dead in an outfit like his in public.

  Too bad about his dancing phobia. But I can relate to that. The first time I went to a Cretan village wedding, I sat on the sidelines when the dancing began. I’m not Greek. I don’t look or dress Greek. And the Greeks’ fancy footwork intimidated me. “Don’t make a fool of yourself,” I thought. Reading my mind, an older woman dropped out of the dance, sat down beside me, and said:

  “If you do not join the dancing, you will feel foolish. If you dance, you will also feel foolish. So, why not dance? And I will tell you a secret: If you do not join the dance, we will know you are a fool. But if you dance, we will think well of you for trying. And if you dance badly to begin and we laugh, what is the sin in that? We all begin there. Come on.”

  I danced.

  Why not dance the dance of fools, and laugh the fool’s laugh, and wear the fool’s outfit, and care less about how I impress others?

  Worse than a fat butt is a fat head.

  25

  Thanksgiving Spring

  for Babycakes

  Out walking in the late fall afternoon, I am serving as a self-appointed inspector of the deciduous trees in my neighborhood. Making sure those trees that are supposed to be turning their leaves from green to yellow and orange and red are doing their job. And they are.

  The northerly housekeeping gales have not yet blown through to sweep the trees clean. The leaves remain where they have fallen, which means the streets and sidewalks and lawns remain a many-colored carpet.

  These long Seattle autumns take people by the hand, lead them out into a state of enchantment, and return them to sit quietly by a fire, sorting memories, preparing themselves for Thanksgiving.

  Walking in that mood, I’m unexpectedly alarmed.

  As I approach the neighborhood flower stand, I see buckets of tulips out on the sidewalk for sale. Tulips! What’s more, bowls of budding daffodils and narcissus are available. What? SPRING? Now?

  “They’re local,” says the charming flower lady. “Forced in greenhouses. Between horticultural science and air express, you can have almost any flower you want any time of year. Seasons don’t make any difference anymore. And since we’re open twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, you can have almost any flower you want anytime you want it.” She explains this gently to me as if I have not yet been informed it is now the twenty-first century.

  “But it’s November!” I say, grumpily. “Autumn. Fall. Selling tulips and daffodils and narcissus now must be illegal or immoral or just plain wrong. Whose idea was this?!”

  She smiles sweetly, and says I don’t have to buy them or even look at them if the idea troubles me.

  “Stay calm, Babycakes,” she says, “It’s OK.”

  (Babycakes? Nobody ever called me Babycakes. Nice.)

  At that moment, a shaky old man walked slowly up to the stand. Hanging his cane on the counter’s edge, he picked up a bowl of almost-blooming daffodils and said he’d take these—gift-wrapped, please. He explained to the flower lady and me how pleased he is to find the daffodils.

  “My wife of fifty-seven years is dying in the hospital,” he says. “She’s ninety. Terminal cancer. A couple of weeks at best—a few days at worst. Last night she said how sad she was about not living long enough to see just one more spring. She’s a gardener. Loves flowers. Loves spring. Wonderful to find these daffodils. Now I can give her spring for Thanksgiving.”

  Oh. Well, then . . .

  “Babycakes will have a dozen tulips and a pot of daffodils . . .”

  26

  What Remains—a Letter to Friends . . .

  On the fourth Thursday night in November I went out walking around midnight. Overfilled with food and friendship after the feast of Thanksgiving, I was too wide awake and restless to turn toward my bed and sleep. Something was missing—a period at the end of the paragraph of the day.

  The night was cold and rainy. The streets were empty of life. Venturing into a neighborhood off my usual path, I imagined I was in the coach of a slow and silent train passing through a village somewhere in Europe. All of the houses were dark and mysterious. Except the one on the corner.

  A light was on in the kitchen. And I could see a woman washing dishes through a window steamed from the hot water in the sink. She wore a white apron over a bright yellow blouse. A striped dishtowel was draped across her shoulder, and from time to time she raised a damp hand to brush back a lock of gray hair from her forehead.

  At first I thought she must have someone helping her, but then I realized she was alone, talking and perhaps singing to herself. Once she smiled, stopped, and looked up as if remembering something. She laughed and went on with her dishwashing. She, like I, must have had a splendid Thanksgiving.

  When she was finished she turned off the kitchen light, walked into the dining room, came to a window, and looked out. It was raining hard now, but I still stood holding my umbrella under the corner streetlight, reluctant to let go of my momentary companion. She noticed me. She smiled and waved. I waved back. As I started to cross the street, I looked back. She was still there. “Good night, whoever you are,” I thought, “And thanks for waving.”

  I hope she wished me the same.

  And I turned away as the slow silent train of my life moved on through the village of the world. Looking back one last time from a block away, I saw that the light in the living room was off. The house was dark.

  This letter began the Sunday morning after Thanksgiving. Alone in the quiet of my house. Cold and stormy outside. Snow was falling at dawn, but not sticking—very slow rain. Slow is the operative word for the weekend. Bowl of oatmeal and cup of hot chocolate. Stay home. Go slow. Be still.

  The dominant news on the radio was the tragedy in Iraq and the madness of holiday shopping. I caught the end of part of the president’s saturday radio broadcast. “God Bless America,” he said. I wish it was the tradition of those who represent us to the world to always say, “God bless everyone, everywhere.”

  I turned off the radio and turned away from the news of what I can’t stop or fix. A long-distance call came from a friend in Greece. He began the conversation with a question. “What the hell are you Americans thinking?” I don’t know. I don’t know. I feel a sense of shame. Shame for what we’re squandering in the world—the money, the good will, and peace. Shame for my complicity in the lies and stupidity and the dying. So I hung up and turned away and stared out the window at the falling snow. Be still. At least until Monday.

  My mother-in-law died this week at eighty-six. Quietly, easily, softly, she went in her sleep after the long decline of Alzheimer’s. Good woman. Second generation Japanese. A doctor—pediatrician. Faithful mother and wife. We placed her ashes in the family grave on Friday. She didn’t belong to any religious community and asked that there be no service when she died. Thus, a small, simple quiet occasion. Only the close family members were present to say good-bye.

  I had volunteered to pick up her ashes at the mortuary and place them in an urn. The task was unexpectedly complicated. There was only a small hole in the bottom of the urn, and the only way to get the ashes inside was to pour them from the plastic bag through a funnel, which took some time and care.

  An instructive experience, actually. A reminder of my own mortality. As I watched the gray, granular, sandlike remains slowly fill the urn, I considered the remains of my own life running through the hourglass of time. I try not to take death personally, but sometimes . . . sometimes, I do.

  After the brief graveside service, I walked around in the cemetery alone after everyone else had gone. The image of that lady in the window on Thanksgiving night came back to me. A bright memory still. Sometimes it is enough to notice one another. For the time being, it’s the best we can do
.

  To wave. To wave back. And go on.

  When you read these words I hope you understand it is my way of waving to you. And I hope, with all my heart, that you wave back.

  27

  Sunday Morning

  Sunday, Sunday morning. Some in church. Some in bed. Some in limbo. Some in slow motion to nowhere in particular. And one out alone looking for a small slice of the pie of delight:

  Around 8:30, cool and foggy—shifting toward warm and sunny.

  Walking along a quiet street, I hear a melodious voice sing out:

  “Sweetie Pie; oh, Sweetie Pie; where are you, Sweetie Pie?”

  I stop and listen. “Who? Me?”

  The voice came from the porch of a house across the street.

  Trees and bushes hide the front of the house.

  All I can see are the bare legs of the woman who is calling.

  Nice legs.

  “Sweetie Pie; oh, Sweetie Pie. Where are you, Sweetie Pie?”

  So, what the hell . . . what harm?

  “I’m over here, darling,” I answer in my best bedroom voice.

  She can’t see me either.

  I’m hidden by the trees and bushes on my side of the street.

  But she’s hip and sings out:

  “I hope you’ve taken your dump,” she says. “Come eat your nibbles,”

  Aha! A game is afoot.

  “The dump is done. Can I have a latte with my nibbles?”

  She doesn’t back down.

  “And would you like a tummy rub with that?”

  She laughs.

  I laugh back.

  And now her shaggy little black dog has finished his dump and comes woofing across the lawn and charges up the steps.

  “Come to momma,” she says, “I didn’t know you liked coffee.”

  I wander on down the street, and the lovely voice calls after me.

  “Have a nice day, Sweetie Pie.”

  I see her now. An old lady in her nightgown waving from her porch.

  Nice legs.

  Nice, nimble mind, too. She’s a player.

  I walked on with the dog of my imagination running unleashed through the bushes of my brain, looking for a place to unload.

  Too bad her dog came back.

  I could have used a tummy rub.

  28

  Players

  That Sunday Morning Lady is a Player.

  Definition: Persons with enough nimbleness of mind to accept a surprise invitation to jump into a quick game of imagination. People with a loosey-goosey sense of mischief. Players are also Laughers. And you can’t tell the Players by the way they appear on the outside.

  Example: Here’s a uniformed city bus driver standing in the door of his vehicle, staring into the rain. An invitation from me, passing by: “OK, here’s the deal: I’ll pay for the gas, and you’ll drive us to California to the beach at Santa Monica.”

  With a straight face he says, “OK, meet me here at midnight. It’s the end of my run and they won’t miss me or the bus until morning. I’ll get some barbecue.” He smiles.

  A Player.

  ________

  Consider this lady with a shopping cart full of oddball stuff standing beside me in front of the cheese counter at the grocery story. My invitation: “I like the groceries in your cart better than mine. Want to trade? You take mine and I’ll take yours. Could be interesting when we get home.”

  She smiles. Checks out my cart. “You’ve got a deal,” she says. We take each other’s carts and roll away.

  Later, she’s waiting for me at the check-out counter. She knows and I know: we weren’t really going to go through with it. But those few moments of madness brought new meaning to “going to the store for a few things.” And the lady knows the game.

  A Player.

  On the other hand: There’s a tailor shop on Queen Anne Avenue. Sign in the window says ALTERATIONS AND REPAIRS FOR MEN AND WOMEN. The tailor is standing in the doorway. I stop. “I’d like to get altered and repaired,” I say.

  She looks at me cautiously. Goes inside. Closes the door.

  Not a player.

  Players may be discreet. Here’s the charming woman who works at the sidewalk flower stand at a nearby market. She called me “Babycakes” just before Thanksgiving Day, but I haven’t seen her since. Invitation: “Do I still look like Babycakes to you?” I ask.

  She looks at me shrewdly. “Sir, it is the policy of the store that employees are not to get familiar with customers.” “Oh, too bad,” say I. She’s no longer a player. As I turn my back and walk away, she whispers, “Thanks for coming by, Babycakes.”

  She’s an undercover Player now.

  Here’s me again, at a well-known company to pick up copies of a manuscript. I am visibly annoyed—this is my third trip to get what was promised yesterday. The anxious clerk, Miss Saucer-eyes, is obviously new to the herd behind the counter and doesn’t know what to do with me or for me. The work is still not done, despite promises. Getting mad won’t help.

  “OK, I won’t make any trouble,” I say, “Just give me a really clever, off-the-wall creative excuse—the wildest thing you can think of. Make me laugh and I’ll go away.”

  Miss Saucer-eyes is mute. This situation was not covered in training school last week. “I’ll speak to my manager.”

  Definitely not a Player. But the story continues.

  Miss Saucer-eyes retreats to the back of the shop and consults with her boss, a high-energy, sharply dressed woman, who marches briskly toward me with a steely look. She leans over the counter and explains:

  “Sir, you may not know this, but this store has been a front for the Irish Republican Army for years. We’re supposed to be turning in our firearms, and it seems a bazooka is missing from the inventory. When we find the bazooka, things will get back to normal. If I were you, I wouldn’t make any trouble—just come back tomorrow, OK?”

  A big league Player.

  A garbageman in charge of a monster truck. Lousy day. Cold. Rain. But he’s a Player. This time the invitation comes from him. As I pass by, he says, “Hey, you look prosperous.”

  “Thank you. I feel prosperous.”

  “You look like a man who might have some frequent-flyer miles.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Lots of them.”

  “Listen, I need enough to get me to Buenos Aires, one way.”

  “I’ve got enough. They’re yours. But what’s in it for me?”

  “Take the keys to this garbage truck. It’s yours. Even trade.”

  Yes! I’ve long had an urge to drive one of those things. I’d like to dump a load of garbage in a certain person’s front yard.

  “It’s a deal.”

  “You got a license to drive a truck?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Deals off. I can’t be part of anything illegal, but no problem. Get a license. I’m here every Monday.”

  As he drives off, I wonder how many other people on his route get offers from him every day.

  He has all the nervy characteristics of a nonstop all-day Player.

  It’s early morning. Here’s a lady standing at a bus stop. All seven people waiting with her have wires coming out of their ears. Radios, Ipods, Walkmans, or cell phones. All seven are in a zone—nodding heads in time to different music, staring off into space, or talking to invisible people.

  Weird.

  As I pass, I invite the lady to play: “They’re all alien robots, you know. Their souls have been sucked out of them and exported.” The lady gives me a hard look, moves closer to the curb, and stares down the street.

  Not a Player.

  A man who has just walked up says, “Yes, but they aren’t useless. They’re a street-theater company, and I’m their manager. We’re on our way to a gig downtown.”

  “Really? What’s the name of the performance?”

  “Bus Stop Stupor. Look for us everywhere.”

  A Player.

  _________

  One final example
: A double whammy I didn’t see coming.

  Clerk in a bookstore—older lady with dyed red hair.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “Happy birthday,” I say. (Always makes people smile—sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but sometimes right on. An invitation to play.)

  “Well, I hope you’re coming to my party,” she says. “We need someone to jump out of a cake.”

  “I’m your man.”

  “You’d be expected to go-go dance naked.”

  “Then I’m not your man.”

  “My mistake. I thought you looked a little kinky.”

  A Player.

  A lady waiting in line behind me overheard this bookstore babble and drifted away from the counter and out the door. She missed her chance.

  Probably not a Player.

  Later, as I walked by a sidewalk table at a nearby coffeehouse, I spot the lady who fled the store. “Sorry, hope we didn’t annoy you,” I said.

  She smiled. “Oh no,” she replied, “It’s just that I jumped out of the cake last year. It hurts my feelings to think they’re looking for a replacement.”

  A Player after all.

  29

  Sidewalk News

  “I am afraid of Vikings and parrots.”

  That sentence was written in white chalk on the sidewalk two blocks from my house. Several blocks away I found another message: “I have three dead mittens.” And in the street many blocks further on, these words: “My teeth sometimes leave my body at night.”

  Well, then . . . So I bought some chalk . . .

  Why not get into this person’s game? Are they crazy or poetic or imaginative or looking for someone like them or just confused about the messages the world needs to be getting? Or maybe a Player? I don’t know. Maybe it’s a secret code between members of a non sequitur club or a message from an alien. Who cares? It would be interesting to know. Why miss the opportunity?