• Disbarred Lawyer Robert Le Grand -- Homeless seemingly by choice, and given to sudden outbursts of song and long speeches that went nowhere, this courtly older gentleman I met by chance in Tucson wanted me to help him write a rebuttal to his son’s book about what a terrible father he was. His son had recently been on Oprah, and Mr. Le Grand decided that the time was right to tell the other side of the story. His former authority and intelligence would sometimes shine through his madness, and although I passed on the co-writing opportunity, I occasionally regret it.
• Carl the Cart Guy -- I met Carl the day I got out of the mental hospital, while walking home through Quincy Market in Boston. Carl ran one of the souvenir carts. For some reason, I ended up writing my address on the mailing list for the company that owned the carts. Carl appropriated it to send me long poems full of mythological references, praising my beauty and expressing his hope for our future, and asking me to come see his band. Which I never did. He had one long pinkie nail painted black, and that just was not my scene, man.
• Sweaty Steve, Convicted Felon -- Our acquaintance is another by-product of my year in Tucson. Just released from nine years in Federal prison, Steve hired me to do some graphic design work for his Grateful Dead “tribute” band. (And don’t call it a COVER band, because that will cause Steve to sweat with rage and, possibly, as a side-effect of his methamphetamine abuse.) For reasons I do not fully comprehend, I agreed to go over to the little cinderblock casita where he lived with his pouty girlfriend Kit, a slovenly illiterate he’d taken in off the streets. While I worked, Steve and his friends fed a baby rabbit to a boa constrictor in the next room, and Kit skulked and posed, glaring at me. Steve then pronounced all my work insufficient, and re-did it himself to hideous effect. Soon thereafter, he was visited by a SWAT team who busted down his door and threw in a concussion grenade, then hauled him off again for drug-dealing. His girlfriend spread the word that she hated my perfume. I spread the word that she shouldn’t worry, because she’d never be able to afford it.
• Gary One-Arm -- Gary’s one of the dock denizens, or was, before he got kicked out of the marina for non-payment of his slip fees. I first encountered Gary One-Arm when the Keelhauler and I got our first boat, the Too Close for Comfort. Gary was out on disability for Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, which left him ample time to hang around, dispensing unwanted and inaccurate advice. He was remarkably hard to avoid, and once involved in a monologue, rarely paused for breath. He had dreams of sailing solo to Hawaii on his 26-foot boat, but both times he’d embarked, he hadn’t made it past the buoy that marks a mile out of the harbor. Gary wore a black brace on one arm, which, along with his general Weeble shape, might have hampered his sailing skills, had he had any. “I hope you’re ready to say goodbye to the Keelhauler!” was the way he greeted me one time when I arrived at the boat to find him aboard, “helping” with a project. He announced that he and the Keelhauler were planning to take our boat to Hawaii, then on to Palmyra, a tiny uninhabited island most famous as the site where a yachting couple was murdered in the mid-'70s. Suffice it to say, the Keelhauler had no such plans. Then, Gary moved away, and we were surprised to see him reappear a week or so ago, as the Keelhauler and I were working on deck. We had just reached the part where we needed all four of our hands to hold a piece in place as some cement dried. Our busy-ness, if he noticed it, did nothing to deter him from announcing his return. “Hello, you good people!” he called, strolling over, brace glinting in the sun. “Sorry, Gary, busy, gluing, can’t talk…” we both called back, not looking up. Eventually, he strolled away again.
• Jason the Stalker -- It was so great when Jason was finally arrested after two years of stalking me, because prior to that, I hadn’t known his name. Jason was a volunteer stalker—we had no relationship, and met only once, by chance (I thought), on the street where I lived in San Francisco. From that brief meeting blossomed a two-year whirlwind of stalking and intimidation, peppered with occasional meetings between me and officers of the SFPD. Jason’s arrest, which was facilitated by my then-husband Carson, was followed by a trial, after which Jason was awarded with a restraining order bearing my name, along with those of three other women. Gooooo, Jason! He violated the order twice in the next year, and was tossed back in jail both times. I felt that it was what he wanted. I’m nothing, if not giving.

Happy Valentine’s Day, all.

*Some names have been changed to protect me from leering shut-ins with a talent for creative Googling.