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Other Writings
RHODA'S MEMOIR, RHODA: HER FIRST NINETY YEARS IS NOW AVAILABLE AT:  www.Amazon.com
           The Pitch or Who's Pitching Whom?
           His name was John. He drives the streets of San Francisco, Berkeley, Oakland, on the lookout for cars with dented fenders or scratched sides, and offers to fix the dents and scratches on the spot. As I was pulling up in front of my house in North Berkeley, on a clear afternoon in May, he pulled up alongside me and made his pitch.

           "I can fix those dents and scratches for you right now," he said. "I have the tools in my car. I'll give you a good deal."

           "No, thanks. My driveway is so narrow; I'll just scratch it up again. Look, I've even hung a red ball in the middle of the driveway to steer by when I back in. I've put silver duct tape on the right side of the driveway, and I still smash into the sides. Never mind."

           "Look," he said, "I'll give you a real good deal," and went on with a long, involved story. I stopped listening and just looked at his scuffed shoes, his anxious eyes. He was clean-shaven, his pale face decorated with a small, carefully-trimmed mustache. I guessed him to be in his late forties or early fifties. His line was familiar, and I was amused by how rapidly his price dropped as I continued to shake my head. I reached into my battered car to get my groceries, which included a loaf of fresh French bread.

           "That bread looks good," he said.

           "Here, break off a hunk." I was hooked. If he was that hungry... As he munched on the bread, he kept coming down on the price, and finally I succumbed.

           "Okay. Do it," I said, and started to walk down the driveway to my apartment.

           "Do you have any peanut butter or jam?" he asked.

           "No peanut butter, but jam," I replied. "I'll be right back." I walked down the driveway, went into my small kitchen, cut off another big hunk of bread, spread it with my special health-food store margarine, home-made strawberry jam, took out an apple, and brought it up to him.

           "I can't eat the apple," he said. "Poor teeth," he gestured toward his mouth, "but thanks for the bread."

           I stood and watched him work for a bit, and then went inside. When I thought he would be finished, I went outside again, and once again he tried to talk me into more work on the car. I had already gone over the budget I had set for myself, and realized I was going to have to buy some touch-up paint anyway, since all he had done was to pull out the dents and work over the scratches with some regular scratch-remover stuff. Then I asked if I could write him a check.

           "No, it has to be cash. It takes too long if I have to take it to my bank, and cash it, and..."

           I cut him off. I didn't want to hear whatever made-up story would follow.

           "All right. You'll have to follow me to Andronico's where there is an ATM."

           "I can drive you there," he said. "Then I'll bring you back here."

           Whoa! That would be pretty stupid, wouldn't it?  "We could go in my car, and I could bring you back here. But what would be the point of that? Just follow me to Andronico's."

           "Where's that?" He seemed stunned, and didn't seem to be able to understand my directions. I could hear the wheels clicking in his head. Finally he got it, and said he would follow me.

           Before I got into my car, I asked him where he lived and if he had a business card. His eyes fluttered around, and evasively he said, "I'm living with a friend." I pressed him.

           "In Berkeley, or Oakland?"

           "San Francisco." Then he said, "I don't write so good."

           All my senses went on the alert. "You don't read either, do you?"

           He shook his head, his eyes on the ground.

           "Okay." I said. "I'll see you in the Andronico's parking lot, and we'll talk there."

           As I drove, I kept looking in the back-view mirror to see if he was following me, and when he peeled off to follow a different route, I knew he knew where he was going. When I got to the parking lot, he was already there. I went into the ATM, and came out with the exact amount he had asked for.

           "Do you really want to be able to read and write?" I asked.

           "Yeah, I'm ashamed. I can't even read a menu in a restaurant."

           "I suppose you eat mostly in cafeterias, where you can just point to stuff."

           "Yeah. How'd you know?"

           No need, I thought, to tell him that I had had years of teaching newly arrived immigrants how to speak, read and write English. Neither did I have to tell him that years of teaching illiterate adults born in the U.S. to read and write had given me a diagnostic ability I wished I didn't have. A wave of sadness swept over me.

           "I didn't. I just guessed. How far did you get in school?"

           "Fifth grade. Then I left. Shined shoes. Didn't do no drugs though." He flashed a glance at me to see how I took that information. I kept my face still.

           "Do you live in the Mission District?"

           "Yeah." He looked at me oddly. "How'd you know?"

           I shrugged. "You can go to the Mission Adult School in San Francisco and learn to read and write. It's free."

           "Nah. They throw you out if you're late, or if you don't come to class. It's too hard. I have a couple of kids, they're growed now."

           "How about your wife?"

           He shook his head. "We was together; she got pregnant. Then she split."

           Well! That was a condensed story of a life. "She stayed with you for quite a while, didn't she? She must have thought you were worth it. What happened? Did she get disgusted and leave after your kids grew up?"

           "Yeah. That's what happened. You got nice hair, you know?"

           "Yes, I know. Look, I can give you the names of some teachers at Mission Adult School who will pay special attention to you, but I'm not going to do it, unless you promise to check it out on your own. I won't give you my card, because you can't read it. You can still learn to read and write, and most of the students in that school feel just the same as you do. You can go to a few classes and drop out if you don't like it. It's open enrollment and open exit." Oops. I realized that the words "open enrollment" and "open exit" didn't mean anything to him, so I said,

           "You can just go and sit in on a class. If you like it, you can sign up. And you can leave any time you want to. No one will scold you."

           He looked at me. "I wish you could be my teacher. I'm gonna get some business cards."

           "I'm not the teacher you need. And if you get some business cards, drop one off at my house. You know where I live. Just write three words on the back of the card, 'I did it.' Then I'll know that you did what you need to do, and I'll help you move on."

           He nodded, but his head drooped. I reminded myself again that shame and longing are not enough to change a perceived sense of failure. Someone he trusted had taught him his sales pitch and his meager skills. Why did it matter to me? Was his pitch a well-rehearsed scam? Ah, well, if it was, I couldn't help falling for it. He was obviously getting by. Was I right? Was he really disappointed in himself? He knew how to hide his disability, he knew the ingenious ways an illiterate person gets by. I sighed, waved goodbye, and wrote down the license number of his van as he pulled away. His pitch was successful. He got his money. Was mine? I didn't think I would ever find out.


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