Crazy Cathy

This story is about a rather odd encounter I once had when I was desperately trying to track down a topic to write about for my Immersion Workshop.

While the titular character said things that obviously revealed some kind of insanity, I could not anticipate the even more insane twist at the end of the day, when her son got in my face with a camera and threatened me with all kinds of legal action. Suffice it to say, the whole family was nuts.

Crazy Cathy

She sits alone by herself in the middle of the University Town Center, surrounded by bustling shops and busy people. Wedged between a 24-Hour Fitness gym, the Edwards Cinema, and the Center for Living Peace is Cathy.

“Can you donate please?”

The words come out in a rehearsed gasp. She is old, her face sinking into a pool of wrinkles. Dark beady Asian eyes stare from behind rectangle lens and short white hair grows from her scalp. In her hand is a small cap, jutting out to collect donations.

She sits in a wheelchair, stuck to the side of a bench like a fixture. Her belly spills over her lap while shrunken legs lay tucked beneath blankets. She is covered in patchwork quilts; layers of jacket and sweater protect her from the cold. A dark scarf wraps around her neck. The sky is cloudless and the sun is sinking. It is late afternoon.

“You had better watch out for the mafia. The mafia are everywhere. They will poison you like they poisoned my husband.” The words come out easily, despite her physical effort. The bottom half of her mouth squirrels independently from the rest of her face, a row of bad teeth sloshing in the cradle of her jaw. Spittle threatens to spill with every word, but she pauses enough times in her speech to keep it in her mouth.

“Can you donate?”

A man empties a handful of coins into her cap. She tucks the hat into her body and the money mysteriously disappears. She sticks the cap out again, now devoid of money.

“Can you donate?”

Murals of bright colors and happy slogans saying to “Find your place” are painted on the walls across from her.

“Do you take vitamins?” she asks. “Do you take vitamins? It is very important to take vitamins. It keeps you strong. My husband, he was eating at a restaurant, but then the mafia poisoned him, as soon as he get to the door, he drop dead. Just like that. I lose 50 billion dollars. They stole 50 billion from us. The mafia are after me, I have to pay, I have to pay so much, 500, 10,000.” Her speech is hard to understand, her words slurring together.

On the bench beside her is a white plastic bag filled with clothes. It is placed neatly.Another person walks by, makes a show of checking his pockets, and says “Sorry, I have no money.” He takes a couple steps, stops, and puts a dollar in, “Oh, here you go.”

She doesn’t thank the man. She peers to her left and to her right, waiting for more opportunities for donations.

Most people ignore her; some have the courtesy to say “I’m sorry,” and few deposit bills into her cap. The crowd is diverse: students, couples, shoppers, and business people all walk by without a second glance.

The custodian comes to empty the garbage bags. The wheels of the plastic cart he pushes grates against the concrete.

“The woman? Yes. She don’t bother me. She not a problem,” he laughs. “She shows up starting this year. Her brother takes her here at 5:00 until about 8:00. I see police but I don’t want trouble.”

“Oh her? Yeah I know her,” Francisco, a student at UCI says. “I saw her there last year, last month, and this year too. It’s kind of a mystery.”

Even more mysterious are the things she says. Nobody stops, so nobody ever hears it.

“My ancestors used to have good land. The kingdom ruled over mountain and underground. We used to be so rich.”

She goes on to speak of fairy tale kingdoms, of wars and arrowheads.

It’s getting late, almost 9:00. She dislodges herself from the bench and puts herself in the middle of the path.

A trio of girls comes across Cathy. They stop to talk with her. Two of them leave and one stays behind. The one who stays is Marissa. She sits on the bench, hoping to keep Cathy company. The other girls return with a cup of coffee. Cathy doesn’t accept the drink.

“I can’t drink it.”

A few minutes later, the girls bring a box of rice for her.

“Oh no, I cannot eat this.”

The girls are puzzled.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to eat some rice?” one of them asks.

“I cannot eat rice you see.”

“You asked for a sandwich but then you didn’t want one. We offered to get you a sandwich,” the girl says, pointing to Lee’s Sandwiches.

“Oh no, it is too much for me. I cannot eat this,” she drops the bag of rice to the ground.

The girls are offended.

“Why did you do that?” Marissa asks. “You don’t just throw food to the ground. Didn’t you say you were hungry?”

“How can I trust the food? How do I know that you not mafia too? You try to poison me? Besides, I have food at home. It has everything I need, supplement, B1, B2, B3, all vitamins. Don’t worry about me.”

“We just don’t want to give you money because we want to make sure that you’re using it correctly. We want to get you food.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Fine, do you want us to keep you company?” Cathy’s nose is dripping. She takes a tissue to wipe it.“You see, they killed my husband and stole my money. They stole 50 billion dollars. My husband was an inventor. He made the nuclear submarine, the ultrasonic sonar, but the mafia killed him. The banks own the mafia and Illuminati controls the United States. They use microwaves.” She regales the trio with tales of fantasy kingdoms and conspiracies.

The girls are agitated, staring at the old woman with scrunched faces and pity.

A drunken bicyclist crashes 10 feet away.

“We have to go now,” they say, “can we pray for you?”

“You don’t need to pray for me, I pray for myself everyday you see, I pray that I don’t get poisoned by mafia.”

Despite her protests, Marissa blesses her.

“May the lord be with you.”

Marissa and the other girls leave.

It’s 11:00. The night chill is enough to make breath visible. Cathy now wears a red beanie over her head. She has sat in the same place without eating for six hours, asking for donations all the while.

Suddenly, a silver Toyota stops by the curb. A man comes out dressed in a blue track suit. He isn’t too old with short black hair. He walks briskly towards Cathy, grabs the plastic bag of her belongings, and starts wheeling her towards the car.

“Who are you?” he asks, eyes wide, momentarily stopped in his pushing of the wheel chair. “I’m her son and she has been a victim of mortgage fraud! No I won’t give you my name! Do you know that you can’t ask for that kind of sensitive information in this day and age? My nephew is the assistant DA of Los Angeles. I will sue you; I will charge you right now if you are in any way associated with the banks.” He continues to make legal threats and finally leaves, pushing his mother towards the car.

The man comes back again, with a Sony HD camcorder in hand. He begins an interrogation, taping for evidence.

“Are you working for the banks?”

After asking a couple questions, he forgets his recording task, and tilts the camera aside to go into a tirade about how the banks controlled everything in the country.

“Don’t you know that California is corrupt? Name any judge or attorney here and I can tell you that they’ve taken millions of dollars in bribes. You are a fool to believe in university education. The communist country, North Korea, we came from North Korea, and its communist right? Well you know what, this country is even worse than North Korea! That’s why my mother needs to gather donations. Because the government—the banks—stole everything. My father was a scientist, but they targeted him. They’re targeting me, and if you print what I’m saying, you’ll become like me. I’ve filed charges for assault and conspiracy but they don’t do anything, because they control the system.” He continues to ramble on. “Yes, I got a degree, I’m an engineer, but I was fooled back then, and the same is happening to you!”

Just as abruptly as he started ranting, he turns around and leaves without saying goodbye. They disappear into the night, only to repeat the same song and dance until something gives.

"Can you donate?"

Boba Boba

I have something to announce:

I hate boba.

It is, as my good friend Emon says, something that people "either love or hate, but never in between." On the axis of love-hate, I feast on the negative end, espousing my hatred like prayer in a church. Something about it just rubs me the wrong way–the balls maybe. Those squishy, slimy little things feel weird in my mouth, sloshing in my saliva like micro-testicles. I've tried multiple flavors but never found one that didn't make me want to gag.

The reason I bring up this godforsaken drink is because it's the only thing that people around here ever sell on campus. I'm talking about clubs and Greeks, parking their tents around Ring Road, hawking their boba like it's some grade-A primo product. What I hate most is the assumption that everybody likes it. Whenever I ignore them, they give me this evil eye, as if to accuse me of some kind of prejudice, like my purchase was based on them selling it and not the product itself. Why else would I not buy something as delicious as boba? The truth is—I don't want to buy it, period.
 

The next time I pass by, know that it's not you, and it’s not me, it's just that boba sucks.

What Can I Buy With Ten Dollars?

Maybe my sense of value is off but theme park pricing premiums are ridiculous. I had cousins from Germany visit, and my family wanted to show them around. Since I've never been there before, I decided to tag along when they went to Sea World.

As I sat down to watch the trainers make seals do amusing stunts for my entertainment, the lady below me wanted to buy some coke from the beverage vendor, who was parading around like he had peanuts at a baseball game.

"Can I get a coke?" the lady asked.

"Sorry, we only have Pepsi."

"That's fine, how much?"

"Ten dollars."

Ten dollars.

Ten dollars!

For Pepsi!

What kind of nonsense was this?

She didn't even blink when she pulled out a twenty to pay for it. I suppose she was mostly paying for the cup, a cheap purple plastic bauble with a crazy green straw. She wanted a matching set, and asked the vendor if she could get a purple straw to replace the green one she had.

Honestly, the color of the straw should be the least of your concerns lady, you just got ripped off. But if you're paying ten dollars for that junk, you might as well have it the way you want it--all purple.

Guess there's just something about seals--or arctic creatures for that matter--that make us want to drink cola. Stay frosty, my friend.