December 8, 2002:

"What kinds of presents does your mother like?"

Sidewalk, Port Townsend, WA, summer afternoon beneath a cloud-dappled sky. Ann's decided on my behalf that while waiting for our movie theater to open we'll go shopping for my mom.

It's never a good idea to decide things on my behalf.

"She doesn't like presents," I reply, none too super enthusiastically.

Toyota Corolla, northbound Highway 1, Pacifica. Stout, elderly woman in the passenger seat. She has tight-permed gray-white hair like a poodle's, and flabby soft arms that can barely lift the weight of her fingers. Smells like Avon. Stares out the window in an exaggeratedly distracted way.

"One of my songs is getting radio play," the driver tells her. Fortyish, tall, lanky, boyish, temples beginning to gray, although not enough to imply either maturity or wisdom.

"Uh-hmm," she replies, in an exaggeratedly distracted sing-song which shouts the subtext, "I'm not interested in you."

There's a pause. They climb the big hill toward San Francisco.

He tries again. "Writing's going well. Published several pieces recently."

"Uh-hmm."

A long pause. They pass Stonestown.

"There's a huge spider on your leg."

"Uh-hmm."

Long pause. Enter the Park. "There's a bomb under your seat."

"Uh-hmm."

Pause. Turn right on Clement Street.

"There's a meteor headed our way. We're all gonna die."

"Uh-hmm."

She likes Vietnamese food, although she has mixed feelings about Vietnamese people. He takes her to Le Soleil sometimes for lunch. She tells the staff, in her exaggerated way, that it's the best meal she's ever had in her life. They look at her with skepticism, as if to imply, you must not get out much.

"Seriously," she persists. "What kinds of things do you usually buy her."

There's a pause while I contain my rising anger. This is neither an invited nor a welcome conversation.

With tight lips I say, "The last time I bought her something she threw it in the trash and said, 'I don't want that.'"

Ann is very puzzled by the notion of unsociable people. My mother would hate her with a passion bordering on sociopathy. I remain angry for three or four days.