El Sendero

In his dating profile picture, Greg has sun on his face, his cheeks and shaved head glowing with a hue that is clear, unfiltered warmth from the sun. He is half-smiling in an inviting sort of way, and though his arms are firmly crossed, his shirt is slightly wrinkled and slightly unbuttoned, so he appears approachable. He seems to have taken the act of writing a dating profile somewhat seriously because he’s offered specific little tidbits like “I gravitate towards work/art that is tactile” and “I like language a lot.” But he has also listed his occupation as “Important Person jk” with a company descriptor of “Hard Work.” And he seems to have given a middle finger to some of the prompts, like finishing the statement “I’m a great +1 because . . .” with “I’m fun.”

He messages me first, which I appreciate because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about men in their forties on dating apps in the last few months, it’s that most put in the bare minimum level of effort to communicate. He asks how I’m doing and I write something basic in response and he says he’s about to buy a one-way ticket to El Salvador. That he bought some land there that nobody else wanted because there was this wide canyon cutting through it, making it impossible to traverse, but that he likes to build things so he thought, I can build a bridge across this canyon, and so he purchased the land. The first few weeks that we chat on the dating app, he is in Baltimore, then in El Salvador, then Baltimore, and I start to lose track but sort of don’t care because he’s fun to talk to. His story sounds a bit unbelievable; my first instinct is to think of that show Catfish, and I imagine him asking me to wire him money to El Salvador when he’s in a bind. But he starts sending me little video clips from El Salvador—which he narrates for me—describing the difficulty of the terrain for building, how he’d misjudged a washout area and needed to add some underpinning. We interact in bursts through his youtube videos and my dating app messages (You don’t even have his phone number? my friend asks me, shaking her head). My father, my brothers, uncles, cousins—they all built things for a living. There is something about the need to fix things, to envision a project and become obsessed with it, that is intriguing to me.

I don’t ever think about suggesting a first date to be honest, because he just seems so all over the place and when he messages me, it’s sporadic and unpredictable. A video of some fruit trees he discovered on his property, a hand drawn sketch of a café he wants to build on his property, ideas for what to name it. But then one night, I’m going to meet someone else I’d been chatting with on the dating app and the fucking guy doesn’t show up and I’m pissed off. I’m not pissed off in the regular “oh I got stood up” way, because who cares, I don’t even know these people, but I’m pissed off because I have three different jobs and I run a nonprofit and I have two little kids and to coordinate the time away from life without any humans depending on me, even for an hour, takes significant planning and prep and honestly, stress. I cannot stand it when someone wastes my time. If I’m away from my kids, or my writing, or my work, it has to be meaningful.

Anyway, I get stood up and I call my friend Dorothy to bitch about it and she says she’ll come to the bar and meet me so it’s not a total wash, since I have a babysitter and all. We sit at the bar, swap phones like we occasionally do, and weigh in on the people we’re each chatting with on dating apps. At this age, not many of our friends are single and dating, so she’s my person for all this nonsense. She’s mine, and I’m hers. She pulls up Greg’s profile and says, Ask him to meet you for coffee tomorrow. I shake my head. I don’t know if he’s even real, or if he’s in the country. She shrugs, pushes my phone back across the bar towards me. So I message him and ask if he wants to get a coffee tomorrow and to my surprise, he immediately says yes and suggests a local food hall to meet at. It’s a date.

~

The next morning, I build a tower with my son before taking him to school. It is the same tower we build every morning. We stack magnetic tiles to build the same sized tower, big enough to fit his Lego motorcycle with a Spiderman figurine atop. Vroom vroom, he says every morning, as he slides the toy motorcycle through the narrow gap we’ve left at the front of the tower. Every morning we build this tower, he navigates the Spidey motorcycle inside, and then he smashes the whole thing with his fists. The cacophony of the tiles crashing down is jarring every time. But this is what he enjoys at the age of four—build up this tower, send it crashing down.

~

I park at Belvedere Square on time to meet Greg for our first date. It’s a beautiful fall day so I wait outside by the entrance. I only have a few photos from his dating profile to go on. I know he’s a builder, so I expect him to drive a pickup truck, but he rolls up on a motorcycle instead. When he takes his helmet off to hook it on the side of his bike, he nicks his scalp. He’s on the phone as he approaches me, speaking in Spanish quickly and enthusiastically. He sees me and a flash of recognition crosses his face, and he shoots me a smile, gesturing with a rotating finger that he’s trying to wrap up his call. I see a spot of blood on his scalp start dripping down the side of his head, but I’m too nervous to tell him he’s bleeding—I mean, it’s not like a serious injury and it might embarrass him more than help him if I call it out. The blood will dry up quickly, I’m sure.

It’s supposed to be a coffee date but he asks me if I’ve ever had Thai tea and I say no, and he puts his hand on my back and steers me towards the back of the food hall. He orders us two Thai teas, which come in a plastic bag you jab a straw into. We grab a table outside, and I feel childish and unromantic drinking my tea out of a bag with a straw, but it’s delicious, and I can’t remove my mouth from the straw. I also can’t remove my gaze from the trickle of blood on the side of his head, but at this point, I definitely can’t bring it up. He asks me about my writing, my kids, my work, and he doesn’t look at his phone, or anyone else around us, or even his tea. The bag sits untouched on the table. His attentiveness is mesmerizing. At some point, he pulls a Ziploc baggie of baby carrots out of his back pocket. He munches on a few before noticing that I’m staring at the bag with amusement and offers one to me. Carrot? I laugh and shake my head, tell him that my last name means carrot in Czech. Do you always carry a bag of carrots around? I ask. He nods. Yeah, I do.

This date is unlike any date I’ve been on before—it’s as if he couldn't care less about the fact of it being a date. Instead, he just seems genuinely curious about who I am as a human being. He doesn’t flirt, unless you count that flashy carrot-chomping smile, he doesn’t utter a hint of whether he’s interested or not, aside from the unrelenting captivation with every word I speak. We sit there for hours, and at some point I realize I’ve missed a work call, but something about his nonchalant demeanor makes me feel a bit like—who the fuck cares? It’s just a meeting, I’ll apologize later. I’ve spent my entire afternoon sipping this tea and listening to his existential theories on freedom and economics, and a bit of a tangent about the complexities of flat roof repairs on DC rowhomes. I’m feeling emboldened by the end of the date and I tell him I want to give him my number and he raises his eyebrows as if he’s surprised, but takes out his phone and taps the numbers in.

~

I am so late leaving the food hall that I have to go straight to pick up my kids from school without going back to my house first. They are hungry and whiny, but their cheeks are still plump with baby fat and joy and I kiss them all over their faces before buckling them in and handing them snacks that I’ve stored in the cup holders. At home, they beg me to make them a sidewalk chalk obstacle course, which is this silly series of pictures I draw all the way up the driveway, each an obstacle they must tackle. They ride their scooters while I squat down and draw—a blue chalk ladder they must pretend to climb, a daisy flower they will stand in the center of and spin in five circles, a series of green lily pads they will hop to like a frog. It is the same obstacle course every day—I try to add in new images now and then but they frown and pout, It’s not the same Mommy. I’ve given up trying to freshen up the routine. I continue the same tending-to on repeat: I bring the snacks, I listen to the woes of the day, I clean up the messes, I solve the problems.

~

The next day, Saturday, the kids are with their father for the day and I’m meeting my friend Dorothy at a brewery. Just before I leave, Greg texts me.

Greg: My conversation with you woke up a part of my brain that mostly stays asleep.

Me: That’s the best compliment I’ve received in a while.

Greg: That’s great. 😊

Me: I am going to hit up a brewery with a friend later if you want to join.

Greg: Ok, I might, around what time?

Me: 5

Greg: Can I bring a friend?

I call Dorothy. She already heard my recap of our meetup, had pressed: I don’t understand, did he not notice he was bleeding? She laughs, and says, Tell him to bring a friend.

The brewery is outside of the city, a bit up north. There is a band playing outside, some food trucks; it’s crowded. Dorothy and I grab beers and find a table outside in a structure that appears to be a shipping container with a missing side. A mural is painted along the inside wall. When Greg and his friend join us, they are charming and full of banter, but Greg’s gaze is on the shipping container. As we talk about the type of beers we ordered, he is staring up above at the overhang. As we discuss how the two of them met, he is peering around us at the mural. He eventually says, I’ll be right back, and disappears. When he returns, he has retrieved a tape measure from somewhere, presumably his motorcycle. Without explanation, he begins measuring—not our table, but the entire shipping container, packed full of patrons sipping their flights of IPAs and hefeweizens. They all look at him curiously, as I do, watching as he measures and speaks dimensions into his phone’s voice recorder, measures and speaks, measures and speaks. He finally sits back down next to me, scooting his chair closer to mine before explaining that the café he wants to build in El Salvador should be in a shipping container just like this one.

~

I’m not sure what to make of Greg after all this. He is still not flirting, still not showing any specific interest other than the ridiculously undivided attention he shows when I’m speaking to him, which is in itself a trait I’ve rarely witnessed from men his age. But I like hanging out with him. My therapist asks me why and I can’t quite figure out how to articulate it. I go to therapy every other week. It is part of the routine. I go to my house. I build towers for my son. He knocks them down. I pick my kids up from school. I make chalk obstacle courses. They complain that they aren’t quite the same as the last time. I promise them I will do better. I go to therapy. I dissect why I like or dislike the last person I went on a date with. I repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

~

A week later, I am working at a book festival in the city. I work this book festival every year for my nonprofit independent press, and every year, I forget to eat. I set up the table before the festival opens, I park terribly far away from the festival’s vendor spaces, and I lug heavy suitcases and tote bags of books and supplies, on my own, to the folding table that has been supplied. I often don’t have other people helping, because we can’t pay anyone, and it’s tough to get volunteers to sit out in the sun and try to sell books. Last year, at this very same festival, I was asked to speak on a panel on stage. It was a cool moment for me, and I was proud of it, and I had asked my children’s father if he could bring our daughter to see their mother talk on stage. Microphone and all. He had brought her by the table before my panel presentation started and I had said, mouth watering and sweat pouring, Could you get me some food? I haven’t eaten all day. He looked at me as if I had just asked him to father another whole child, shook his head, pointed at the daughter we shared as explanation for why he couldn’t help me, and walked away.

This year, it is slightly cooler. There is a breeze, and I’m not speaking on any panels, just manning the table. One of my volunteers, Emily, sits next to me, and we gush about books, and writing, and the literary community. And then there is Greg. He appears unexpectedly, during the morning hours, walking next to his bicycle. He is beaming that flashy smile of his, and my face lights up like a child’s when I realize he has gone up and down the aisles looking for my specific table. He looks so damn proud to have found me.

Greg leans the bike against the table, holds out his palm and says, Do you want an eggroll? A smudged series of letters in black ink adorns his palm and wrist. It reads something like: Crab–3, Shrimp–2, Mixed–4. Emily has a bemused smile on her face. I’m sorry, I say, did you just ask if I want an eggroll? Greg laughs and says, yes, figured you might be hungry working here all day, c’mon, let’s go. I look over to Emily and she, without hesitation, declares: Go. I fumble to get my purse and mumble something to her about handling book sales as she waves me off.

The book festival is taking place on a Saturday, when there’s also a farmer’s market, and so Greg and I wheel his bike through the market, eyeing up the local honey stand, and the produce baskets teeming with tomatoes and peppers and herbs as we chat. Greg steers me down a few side streets and up to an odd, unmarked window on the side of a building. He rests his bike against the stop sign there, and orders eleven eggrolls. I ask, Who are these all for? He says there are guys working on his motorcycle, that he’s just feeding the whole shop, and figured he’d swing by and grab me one. After the order is handed out through the window, he swiftly hands one to me with a quick hug, hops on his bike and goes. Back at the festival table, I eat my eggroll. Emily says it looks ridiculously good and I tell her it is. She asks who that was, and I tell her—I don’t know? We went for coffee. I don’t think we’re dating. But I don’t know?

~

The days are getting chillier, but I still try to get my kids outside every day. I build my son a tower, he smashes it down. I take them to school, I work, I pick them up, we make chalk obstacle courses. On one day, my daughter tells me the obstacle course is perfect. On another day, she sobs so loudly at the course I have drawn, calling it horrifying and rude, that a neighbor peeks out of her door to make sure no one’s been injured. I smile and wave cheerily, shout: I’ve just messed up some chalk, no big deal, have a nice day! The neighbor nods and I turn back to the messy asphalt. The thing is, you can’t erase chalk. I move up the far end of the driveway, get my daughter to approve the new location, and start over again.

~

There are other dates, or, if not dates, get togethers. I am so enamored by the idea of Greg bringing me food at this book festival, which is probably almost entirely because it is contrasted with my recollection of extended hunger the year prior, that I invite him to attend a poetry reading with me at the library. From what I have known of Greg, it is quite preposterous to imagine that he would be able to sit still through a quiet reading in a library for an hour, but I have let my enthusiasm for his unpredictable nature and flashy smile get the better of me. He asks me, is it interactive? to which I laugh and beg him not to try and make it interactive, to think about just sitting, and listening. After the reading, Greg asks me to follow him and I find myself in an apartment building a few city blocks away where a couple is tending to a small boy whose mother has been detained by ICE. Greg says, None of us are parents. We don’t know what to do with him while she’s gone. I thought you could help. We play dominoes with the boy, who they just refer to as el niño, teach him how to line up the matching dots. We feed him chicken and rice. We play music and dance. We watch him laugh.

Another night, Greg and I go to a Korean barbeque restaurant, where the staff come rushing out to insist that our meal is on the house, on account of Greg diffusing some sort of violent altercation the month before. Another time we go to a popular coffee shop; we share coffee and a hot bun, and he confesses he’s been seeing a girl who wants him to be exclusive. I shrug and tell him—I don’t think you’re really that into me anyway? I’m just enjoying your company. I ask, Can I bitch about all my bad dates now? and we laugh and laugh and laugh. Each time I go out with him, I call my friend Dorothy on the way home. Each time, she answers by saying, I cannot fucking wait to hear what chaos happened with Greg today.

Each time we hang out, Greg is quizzing everyone, crowdsourcing opinions on what to name his café in El Salvador. He tells them he likes the idea of a word meaning vista or lookout, canyon or throughway. He asks restaurant workers and attendees of my beloved poetry readings, bartenders and parking attendants, anyone who will engage with him. His top prospect for the café name is El Mirador, but he feels like there’s a better idea out there.

One day, Greg texts me: Hey. Would you go to church with me? The last thing I would have thought about Greg is that he goes to church, but I say sure. I call Dorothy to ask what I should wear. Girl, she says, I cannot wait to hear what kind of church this man goes to. But wear a dress. I put on a long, black cotton dress, a denim jacket, and a pair of knee-high boots. It’s a chilly fall day, but I think I should be fine in a church.

I park at his house, and he is outside waiting for me. Aren’t you going to be cold? he asks. Wait, I say, are we—taking the motorcycle?

No, he says, but church is outside.

Church is outside? What kind of church is outside? I am only thinking of what my phone call to Dorothy is going to entail later this evening. I’ll be fine, I say, mumbling something like, might be a good thing to mention to someone next time, as I climb into the passenger seat of his pickup truck. As I’m buckling in, he reaches over and offers me a child-sized packet of gummy bears. I laugh, and accept it, because, I don’t know, what the fuck? As I am plucking my gummy bears out of their little child-sized pouch, Greg drives us towards our destination, chattering about his day and an essay of mine he’s read and enjoyed and then very abruptly adds: Oh and by the way, this is a homeless church. So… pretend you don’t have a home.

My gummy bear packet is empty now but I feel myself clench it between my fingers, feel my jaw go still with the last gummy bear attached to a bottom back tooth as I turn my eyes to him. Pretend I don’t have a home? I say incredulously. He doesn’t laugh, this isn’t a joke to him, and I can see that clearly. They don’t know I have a home, he says. I mean, it doesn’t matter—you don’t have to pretend to be homeless, I just mean—yeah, I dunno, I don’t want them to know I have a home.

We get to a neighborhood in West Baltimore, and Greg parks the truck in an empty parking lot next to a vacant building. This is where I used to live, he says. My neighborhood. I nod as I open the door and follow him. We don’t go far—just to the other end of the parking lot. There is no structure there, only a few stacks of broken pallets. Greg gestures to one and when I clearly don’t understand what his gesture means, he sits down on one. Oh, I say, and take a seat next to him. We’re early, he tells me. I know you said you had some family issues with organized religion so I just thought, maybe you should see this. See what it’s supposed to be like. Something about this sentiment causes me some tremendous combination of grief and joy that I can’t explain. I am trying to discreetly dab a teardrop out of the corner of my eye when folks start showing up for the service. Greg walks around greeting people, and I sit and watch. A woman arrives with trays of food, and Greg helps her arrange them on a folding table. The pastor arrives, pulls Greg in for a long hug. A man tells the group he’s been laid off from his job and Greg offers him work, takes his phone number.

I don’t know how to describe the service except to say that it is exactly what each of the attendees need at that moment, including me. I stop trying to hide that I am crying. I just sit on that pallet, shivering in my light jacket, and listen.

~

On my drive home, I don’t call Dorothy. Instead, I allow myself to cry. It is a thing I don’t often have time for, on account of all the things I have to do to tend to my children, to tend to my family, to tend to the companies I consult for, to tend to all the people who need tending to. My days and hours and minutes are squished full of moments of tending to. When my therapist had asked me what it was about Greg that made me like hanging out with him, I’d said that I thought it was his unpredictability. That among the monotony of my day-to-day routines, there was something freeing about not knowing what was going to happen when we hung out. But as I drive, I realize I don’t think that’s it at all. Yes—there is something to that wildness, but it’s not as if Greg is moving through life with no plan or intention. It’s that he’s tending to people, in a wholly different way than I do, but he’s tending to them. He’s buying them eggrolls and finding them work and fixing their roofs and listening. I think I am crying now because I cannot remember the last time that someone tended to me in this way. That perhaps I have not allowed it for some time.

~

After that, the weather gets colder and I don’t hear from Greg much. He sends me messages from El Salvador, where he’s gone to escape the cold and the boredom of monotony. I ask if his girlfriend cares that he bought another one-way ticket and he responds, well kinda. I tell him I’m writing an essay about him and he says his signal sucks, but he can’t wait to read it. I ask him if he ever decided on a name for his café. He responds: El Sendero. I look up the translation. It is Spanish for pathway.

I think of the bridge he built over the canyon. The drop of blood trickling down the side of his head when we first met. The obstacle courses I draw for my children. The game of dominoes we played in that apartment with the boy. The towers I build for my son. The pallets in the abandoned parking lot where we sat for the church service. I text Greg back and tell him the name is perfect.

The next day, when my kids ask me to draw an obstacle course in the driveway, I ask for permission to add a new obstacle. My daughter pouts, but then looks at the washed out drawings from a few days before. She nods, says, Yeah we’re bored of that one. I sketch two tall plateaus with a gap between them—a canyon. Do we have to jump over that? my daughter asks, studying the image. No, I tell her. I’m going to build you a bridge.