Okay. I quit the market. It wasn't a good investment of my time.

I got a new client for All Around the House. Reverand L. is a retired Methodist Pastor. I met her in the pharmacy where I was picking up a perscription for Mrs. C.B. The wierd thing was, when I found myself offering her my business card I wasn't thinking, "I can sell my services to this person". I was thinking, "She looks so tired and weak" I first offered to carry her bags to her car, just because if someone is standing beside you and they have just told the pharmacist they are, at times, too weak to hold up a hard back book, it just seems natural to say, "Hey, can I carry your bags?" When she said she could handle it I found myself saying, "I'm a professional helper for things like housekeeping and errands. May I offer you my business card?" I met with her and her splendidly sociable little black cat, and did my first house cleaning for her today. It was a lot of fun, and since she wanted me to use her equipment and supplies, and so I got to try new things which I could sort of evalutate the effectiveness of. I also quoted her a higher rate, which went down without a question....so I can't be too outrageous.

But I promised to tell you about the Avon Convention and about Atlantic City. It was exciting to go someplace new and to meet new people. I had never been to Atlantic City before. Everyone always talked about how dirty it was, what an aweful neighborhood surrounds the casinos. It's true. It was dirty. Public parks were overgrown, houses were boarded up. There was the issue of that guy on the street corner misunderstanding why we were slowing down to talk to him. Little, little children run across the street unsupervised, in the dark. The lights of the casinos glitter meaninglessly. There is no "trickle down" economics working here. If anything, the reverse seems to be true. Ramshakle homes seem to be inhabited mostly by immigrant families who are the only ones willing to put up with the low wages and demeaning conditions of the casinos.

Later, I saw someone really demeaned. I saw something happen, that, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have thought it could happen in today's world. This is what happened:

On the last day of the convention, we decided to eat lunch on the boardwalk so we could at least say we had been there. We parked at the Hilton Hotel and walked into their lobby. We stuck our heads in the hotel casinos. They were bright, noisey, all festive colors and cigarrette smoke. Okay. We stopped in the ladies room of the hotel on the way out.

The ladies room was staffed by two rest room attendants. And that's a good thing, because this is a crowded, busy ladies room. Lots of women do just what we were doing and the hotel is also crowded, the casinos even more so. An older lady who had a nametag on that says "Frances" moved slowly, but effeciently, making sure the paper towel dispenser is full and wiping down the sinks. Her co-worker cleaned one of the stalls. The stalls are made out of white carrara marble, and they have corkscrew hooks on backs of the doors so no one can reach over and steal your handbag when you are indisposed. There are little plates set out for the patrons to tip the rest room attendants, which is a reasonable and customary thing to do, though not mandatory. A thin, brittle woman in her 60's approached the sink, but she didn't wash her hands. She reached out and hit the edge of the little plate which holds a few dimes and nickles. The plate flipped, the change flew everywhere. The Brittle Bitch - excuse me, but sometimes you just have to call 'em like you see 'em - stepped back and folds her arms. I see her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were bright. She smiled. As Frances, with obvious difficulty, bent down low to pick up the small change which is a part of her wage, The Brittle Bitch smiled more broadly. Satisfied. Happy.

My first thought was that The Brittle Bitch is mentally challenged in some way. I want, desperately, to think that. But her expertly applied makeup, several hundred dollar hair cut and color and real gold jewelry, as well as the way she carried herself mark her as a competant, privilaged woman...grinning from ear to ear as the artheretic attendant struggled for the change. And the look on Frances' face was something between woe and desperation.

I'd like to say I bent down to help Frances pick up the change, but I didn't. I was stunned. I just stood there looking at The Brittle Bitch trying to attach some kind of reason to her actions. It took me the whole time that Frances picked up the change to come around to the fact that The Brittle Bitch was just plain mean. Through with her entertainment, and with dirty hands, The Brittle Bitch left the restroom. I washed my hands trying to think of something to make the situation better. I found a few quarters in my handbag and put them carefully in the middle of the plate. I looked at Frances and tried to smile in a friendly way, "Thank you" I said, "it looks nice in here."

Frances smiled back at me, and looked a bit relieved,but that could hardly be enough. Years ago, when I was younger, I would have spent a long time thinking about what The Brittle Bitch's problem was. Was she in pain, or having a bad day, or not over a lousey childhood, or getting revenge on someone else in her mind? But, finally, when I was about 26, I realized: some people are just plain mean. There is no reason for their behaviour, at least not a good one.

Still, though, I wonder what they tell themselves. Do they know they're doing it? Do they think of it as harmless fun? As "teasing"? Do they think everyone acts like that? Do they think people like Frances would do it to her if she got the chance? Or is it just the influence of El Shadian, Saten, "The Adversary"?

I do think that places like this, The Ladies Room, are places where little mini-battles take place. And the "weapons" of kindness seem so paltry and ineffective. Frances won't remember me, even if I could have somehow been 7 times nicer to her. She'll remember The Brittle Bitch, and worse, I have the bad feeling that The Brittle Bitches of the world might all go on vacation there, in droves, at one time.

What a nightmare!