"I'm a Lopez, too!"
a SUIT retelling of a story by Chris Jungle

Columnist's note--Sometimes the best stories come from people and not a newspaper. This tale was originally told to the columnist by Lucas Critchfield, a percussionist and the "I" in the story.

I was driving along Lomas, stopped at a red light, when a tiny, withered lady knocked on my window and asked for a ride. She looked frantic and a little scared, so I let her in my truck to help her out. Wearing a flimsy cloth outfit, she gave me a thankful smile through her matted hair.

"Hi, my name's Lucas," I said, trying to be friendly.

She nodded her head and shifted her thin frame. "Lopez? I'm a Lopez, too."

I decided to ignore her misunderstanding and asked where she wanted to go. She blurted out that she wanted to go the 24 hour laundromat on San Pedro. It was near my place. Not out of the way at all. Nothing wrong with a good deed every now and then.

Within five minutes, we arrived at the Laundromat, and I stopped the truck. She sat without making much of an effort to open the door.

"Come on legs," she said, looking down at her stationary limbs. "Come on."

"This is your stop," I said. "This is where you asked to go."

"My legs aren't working," she complained.

"I saw you walking before you got in my car," I said not feeling like being so helpful anymore. "You can walk now."

"Come on, legs. Let's go," she said not sounding very optimistic about them moving.

I had to try something. Anything to get her out peacefully. So I dug into my pockets for some change. It was really more of a bribe than a donation. "Here, let's go," I said putting the change in her hand and opening the passenger side door.

"But I'm a Lopez, too," she whined quietly sliding out of the truck.

The door was shut, and I turned the key in the ignition to leave and go home. Before I could put into gear, the lady re-opened the door and sat back down.

"Ah, forget it. Just take me to Rudy's," she said, frustrated with her location.

I knew what Rudy's was, and it wasn't anyone's house. It was a liquor store a few blocks down.

"That's where you want to go?" I asked. "Where you really want to go, and you'll get out of the car."

She nodded.

I didn't care about morals or ethics or good deeds anymore. I wanted her out of the car, and if that meant driving her to a liquor store, that's how it had to be.

Any friendly conversation was now impossible. She gave up any passenger privileges when she got back in the truck without asking. All I could think about was getting to Rudy's and dropping her off. When I pulled into the liquor store parking lot, I made sure to keep the car running. She went into her routine again.

"Come on legs," she said, possibly forgetting she'd done that bit already.

I wasn't going to have any part of it this time. I got out of the truck, walked around to the other side of the car, opened the passenger door, picked her up, and placed her legs solidly on the ground.

As I did this, she brought up our peculiar bond again. "I'm a Lopez, too."

I noticed something as I put her down. There was an IV needle and tube sticking in her arm. Her matching cloth outfit now made total sense. I hadn't really thought about it until that moment. She had been in the hospital. Very recently.

It didn't matter to me any more. I had gone above and beyond the call of a good deed. Especially for hospital escapees or whatever reason she had for her outfit. I walked around to the driver's side and made sure to lock the passenger side door before she decided to hop back in for another ride. Many people around the liquor store had stopped to watch me drop off the woman in hospital garb with an IV in her arm, and I drove away quickly. They wouldn't have understood, and even if they would have, I didn't want to explain. I just wanted to go home.

Her picture or description never appeared on the local TV news or newspapers, and I never learned her name. Except that she was a Lopez, too.

Chris Jungle swears writing down other people's stories is not stealing, merely preserving.

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