By MARY FRANCES DAVIDSON
Elijah walks toward me with a limp across the Easy Fix auto shop parking lot with a folded-down, green, beach umbrella.
“See? The casino gave this to me,” he says under the boiling summer sun of the San Gabriel Valley’s August heat wave. “We can go to the beach.”
“We’re getting married,” he tells Andreas, who owns the shop.
“He’s kidnapping me,” I chime in playfully, as, after a short inspection of my car engine by Andreas, in which he determines a new water pump is needed, we leave the premises.
Elijah, whom I had recently met at an area senior center, has generously offered, or almost forced me to allow him, to help me with my car problem.
“I don’t need any help,” I say, trying to remember the fact that I’ve seen him in a Trump T-shirt, and he’s also flashed some kind of Trump-supporter card at me.
“I have already had it looked at by five mechanics.”
“Well, what’s the problem with a second opinion?” he asks.
“I just said I’ve already had FIVE mechanics look at it,” I scream back at him.
“But I want to help you,” the 72-year-old says.
He has been in America from Lebanon for 17 years and his Chinese girlfriend, Grace, moved out six months ago.
“I like you,” he says, “I want to help you. I don’t know why, but I like you. I want to marry you. I have a lot of money. I’m very good-looking.”
To which I, a descendent of Irish and English immigrants, respond, “You don’t know me!”
Adding, “And people with a lot of money don’t drive old Toyotas!”
We’re eating at Zankou Chicken now, a Lebanese place in Pasadena, with a few locations all over LA.
It is a favorite restaurant for thousands, including myself and Elijah, something upon which we can agree.
Deciding to test him, even though I know I don’t want to engage in unethical activity or take advantage of a crazy, old dude, I say, “Well, ok, take care of the water pump for me, about three or four hundred dollars.”
“I will,” Elijah responds, “when I win again at the casino. I will. I don’t have it now.”
“Ok,” I say. “Don’t worry about it. I have my own money. It’s fine.”
A few days earlier, we’d lunched together at the nearby Cheesecake Factory, and he had broached the topic of politics.
It’s probably best we avoid all political discussion, I’d said, remembering the Trump T-shirt.
“Yes, yes, that’s good,” the little man with a long nose and a limp replied. “Yes, you’re smart. I like you. I want to marry you.”
But a minute later, he flashed the little, business-style, Trump-supporter card.
I didn’t appreciate it.
Then, since it was $7 Tuesday at the mall theater complex, we saw the movie, “Trap”, a name befitting the way I feel about most relationships, personal and professional.
The third time we met, I came across him at the mall and we headed to California Pizza Kitchen.
He couldn’t hold back and said, “Trump inherited one million from his father and turned it into billions.”
To this, I laughed and finally launched into a tirade.
“That’s not correct!” I said. “Trump wants to trick you. He caused the pandemic by ignoring and denying it. I’ve read every book on him. The economy is complex, one person doesn’t make or break it. I can see that you don’t understand what is really going on. You ruined your marriage and your life with gambling. Trump loves to take advantage of stupid people like you!
“He wants to scam you with Trump NFTs and crypto currency! What kind of candidate does that?”
When we get up from our table, Elijah tells the waiter, “We’re getting a divorce.”
That’s more like it, I think.
Last night, after returning clothing items at Forever 21, I ran into Elijah again.
This time his gout has flared up and he looks like he’s worn the same clothes for more than a week.
He’s kind of ripe and needs a bath.
He can barely walk.
I see with the eyes of a social worker. He is a vulnerable senior.
He needs another Grace, his former girlfriend, to take care of him.
Elijah doesn’t know anything about me. He doesn’t know how or why I dumped my car due to catastrophic failure, the jobs I’ve had, or even where I’m from.
I tell him I’ll go to Zankou, but only if I drive us in his car.
“They tell me gout is from eating red meat,” he says.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” I say, myself pretty terrified of any possible health issues while having the great fortune of life-long excellent health, “That’s why I want to go to California Pizza Kitchen for a salad!”
On the way back, he started off with the same pro-Trump spiel about how the man most famous because of “The Apprentice, “another tacky, reality show, inherited a million and turned it into billions.
I think of Barack Obama’s blistering mockery of Trump at the 2011 White House Correspondents Dinner, which some feel was the catalyst for the man rated America’s worst president in history by many scholars’ decision to finally run in 2016, and I feel calm.
“None of that matters, Elijah,” I say. “We are ok right now. Everything is ok.”
He gives me ten bucks as I pull into Walgreens to get him some epsom salts for the gout.
I feel comfortable enough as I continue driving to mention he needs to get into the tub with the lavender-scented, Dr. Teal’s pure epsom salts, and he needs to put on clean clothes.
“Ok, ok,” I will. “Thank you. I love you. You want to get into the bathtub with me?”
No, I respond. I don’t.
But I will call you in an hour and a half to see if you are feeling better.
Because he can’t walk, Elijah climbs over from the passenger seat in order to get into the driver’s side after I get out on my street.
I love you, he says again.
I love you, too, I respond, as I walk toward my place.
And I call him at the stated time to make sure he is ok.
Elijah needs another Grace.
I hope he finds her.
MARY FRANCES DAVIDSON is a writer-at-large for LAMonthly.org. She attended the USC Annenberg School of Communication and Journalism. She can be reached at davidson.mary@myyaho.com
