Ring

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I was walking through the Wal-Mart parking lot in a small mountain town. I heard someone say Ma’am? so I looked over. At first I thought the person talking to me was a young man. Based on appearance—shaved head, flat chest, shapeless athletic-style garments—I guessed the person was male. However, when the person spoke, there was a softness to the voice I didn’t expect. Was the person transgender? A butch lesbian? Neither the person’s gender no sexual orientation really mattered, but still, I was curious.

I’d seen the person earlier when I’d pulled into a parking space. The Man and I had sat in our vehicle for a few minutes discussing what we needed to buy in the store. In the parking row ahead of us, I’d seen this person emerge from the passenger side of a small, beat up car. They were carrying a purple case, the kind a child might use to transport a few sheets of paper and a handful of crayons. I’d wondered what was in the case. Now I’d have my chance to find out.

Ma’am? the person asked again. I stopped walking, and the person went on with their story. They were a miner and a jewelry maker. They lived in an even smaller town down the road, and their car was having problems. They were trying to sell some of the jewelry they’d made so they could pay for repairs on the car. Their higher end jewelry was for sale on Etsy, but that money could take a while to come through.

All of the preceding information was conveyed in a rapid-fire, highly enthusiastic manner.

I said I would take a look at what they were selling. They opened the case and started pointing to stones and rings and pendants. They had mined the stones and turned them into jewelry, they said. They were pointing out stones, telling me they names of the stones and where they had found them. They were talking very fast.

I hate to dis an artist, but I have to say, neither the jewelry nor the stones were impressive. The design and workmanship of the jewelry screamed absolute beginner without much talent. The stones were not cut well and barely showed a polish. Although I didn’t think the work was very good, I did want to help this person. They obviously needed money if they were hawking jewelry in Wal-Mart parking lot.

I should have just handed over five bucks and been done with it, but I like to encourage artists too. We were all beginners once. People bought my hemp jewelry when it wasn’t very good. I could do the same for another beginner.

A ring in the case caught my eye. I picked it up and the jewelry maker said they’d mined the stone. They told me where they’d found it. I tried on the ring and it fit. I’m a sucker for a ring that fits, so I asked the price. They said it was $20.

I should have handed over five bucks and left the ring, but I wanted to help. I wanted to encourage. I pulled a $20 bill from my wallet and handed it over. I had a new ring.

I introduced myself by way of parting. They told me the name they used when selling jewelry, then went on to give me their full, legal (feminine) name in order to explain their nickname. I asked if they had a card, but they didn’t. I gave them my card, although I’m not sure why I thought that was a good idea at the time.

I really wanted to part ways now. The Man was waiting in the truck and was probably ready to head home.

I took a step away, and the person took a step toward me. They started telling me about spending the winter in Quartzsite.

My partner ripped me off, they said. (I don’t know if they meant a business partner or a romantic partner.)

I had a small problem with a warrant in New Mexico. When I got picked up, my partner took everything! Here they named a huge dollar amount of supposedly stolen inventory and ended with saying the partner even stole my dog!

Whether this was true or not, I don’t know. However, I do know that if one wants to generate sympathy, one might tell a story in which a partner does one wrong by stealing not only a huge amount of merchandise, but one’s beloved pet as well.

It was all TMI to me. I just wanted to get out of there.

Ok! See you later! I said brightly when there was the slightest pause in the monologue. I took off, found the truck where The Man was waiting, and got in.

Look at my new ring, I told The Man as I handed it over for his inspection. He looked at it more closely than I had.

Ring made from rusty metal and a small piece of pink stone worn on the middle finger
That’s the ring I paid $20 for.

I think it’s made of barbed wire, he said, handing it back to me. I examined it. I thought he was right. Great. I’d paid $20 for a ring that was likely to give me tetanus.

I told The Man about the encounter that had led me to buy the ring. I think that person was on meth, I said as I wrapped up the story. This idea hadn’t occurred to me while I was talking to them, but now it seemed perfectly clear. Trying to sell trinkets in a parking lot was the first potential sign. The pride in the poorly crafted goods was a red flag I had ignored. The rapid speech and over-excitement should have both been tip-offs. The oversharing was another sign. If the sad stories (broke down car, lowdown partner, theft of merchandise and dog) didn’t give it away, certainly the slightly sweaty look of their face even though it was a cool evening should have.

Backside of a ring made from rusty metal worn on the middle finger
Backside of the ring I paid $20 for.

I didn’t realize it then, but I realized it now: I’d been suckered.

You helped them get whatever they needed tonight, The Man comforted me.

I hoped they’d use the $20 I forked over to really turn their life around…but I knew $20 wasn’t enough to turn any life around. Twenty dollars is really so little.

In the end, I faced the fact that it wasn’t my job to save that person, and it wasn’t that person’s job to be saved. I remembered how when Mr. Carolina gave money to someone flying a sign or panhandling in a parking lot, he didn’t care what the person used the money for. He gave the money to help the person get whatever they needed in the moment, be it food, beer, or crack. It’s not our place to judge, Mr. Carolina taught me, and it’s not our place to tell other people what they do or don’t need. People make their own decisions, and when it comes down to it, we can help each other, but each of us has to decide to save ourselves (or not).

All that said, I hope I was wrong about the person I met in the parking lot of that small-town Wal-Mart that cool spring night. I hope there’s no meth habit holding them down. I hope their skills grow, and they can one day make the jewelry as they currently envision it. I hope their car gets fixed. I hope they find a trust-worthy partner and a new dog to love. I hope they soar.  

I took the photos in this post.

About Blaize Sun

My name is Blaize Sun. Maybe that's the name my family gave me; maybe it's not. In any case, that's the name I'm using here and now. I've been a rubber tramp for nearly a decade.I like to see places I've never seen before, and I like to visit the places I love again and again. For most of my years on the road, my primary residence was my van. For almost half of the time I was a van dweller, I was going it alone. Now my (male) partner and I (a woman) have a travel trailer we can pull with our truck. We have a little piece of property, and when we're not traveling, we park our little camper there. I was a work camper in a remote National Forest recreation area on a mountain for four seasons. I was a camp host and parking lot attendant for two seasons and wrote a book about my experiences called Confessions of a Work Camper: Tales from the Woods. During the last two seasons as a work camper on that mountain, I was a clerk in a campground store. I'm also a house and pet sitter, and I pick up odd jobs when I can. I'm primarily a writer, but I also create beautiful little collages; hand make hemp jewelry and warm, colorful winter hats; and use my creative and artistic skills to decorate my life and brighten the lives of others. My goal (for my writing and my life) is to be real. I don't like fake, and I don't want to share fake. I want to share my authentic thoughts and feelings. I want to give others space and permission to share their authentic selves. Sometimes I think the best way to support others is to leave them alone and allow them to be. I am more than just a rubber tramp artist. I'm fat. I'm funny. I'm flawed. I try to be kind. I'm often grouchy. I am awed by the stars in the dark desert night. I hope my writing moves people. If my writing makes someone laugh or cry or feel angry or happy or troubled or comforted, I have done my job. If my writing makes someone think and question and try a little harder, I've done my job. If my writing opens a door for someone, changes a life, I have done my job well. I hope you enjoy my blog posts, my word and pictures, the work I've done to express myself in a way others will understand. I hope you appreciate the time and energy I put into each post. I hope you will click the like button each time you like what you have read. I hope you will share posts with the people in your life. I hope you'll leave a comment and share your authentic self with me and this blog's other readers. Thank you for reading.  A writer without readers is very sad indeed.

4 Responses »

  1. Not to worry. Sounds like they needed the $20.00 more than you did at the time. We have all been “ripped off” at one point or another.

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