Spare Me the Kudos

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Abstract

aces. For years, I’d called “Marlene” by the name “Molly” because I’d misheard her; for the same reason “Chuck” has been called “Doug” and I’ve been called “Lynn.”I’d met Mary Catherine a couple of times before; the last time, I’d recalled the “Mary,” but had concatenated it with an “Ellen”. Friday, I scored two for two: Mary Catherine.Mary Catherine’s hair had out-pinked mine when we first met. That bonded us right there — she volunteered her bottle’s label and vice versa. L’Oreal “Cherry Cordial” for her; Manic Panic “Vampire Red,” for me.Mary Catherine’s hair was by now back to brown. She was thinking of getting golden streaks, she said. Again, I had trouble hearing her. I kept having to stoop and ask her to repeat herself. Mary Catherine is much shorter than me — probably by six inches. I’m not even 5’1’’ myself — so I’m normally the “stoopee” in attempted club conversations.Apart from being unusually short, Mary Catherine has remarkable features. Her neck is thick, and her chin appeared sunken into it. It appeared to me that these striking anomalies constituted a syndrome of some sort, though whatever it may be, it clearly doesn’t affect her intelligenc

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e.Indeed, Mary Catherine was a sharpie when it came to who’s who in pop music. “Stevie Wonder?” I asked; “Stevie Wonder,” she concurred. “Chuck Berry,” I stated; “Fats Domino,” she corrected.Amidst the musical “Q and A” Mary Catherine mentioned that she has OCD. “Which stinks,” she said.Indeed it does, I agreed. Though mercifully, I’ve been largely free of symptoms for the last 50 years, as a 9-year old I was tormented by thoughts of germs and contamination, to the extent of scrubbing my hands until they were bloody hunks of meat. These days, I am blithe about the threat of microscopic critters. My motto: if you can’t swat ’em, don’t sweat ‘em.Then Mary Catherine fed me another spoonful of alphabet soup: besides OCD, she told me, she has DS.Down Syndrome. “Which stinks too,” she said.I wouldn’t know about that; I will take the word of one who does. All I know is that I enjoyed Mary Catherine’s company and conversation. So, you see, my friends, I am not the paragon of charity you make me to be. No extra credit accrues for those 20 minutes I spent on that “poor little girl.”“Mary Catherine” is her name.</article></body>

Credit to my account? In error!

As I returned to my table Friday night, after some 20 minutes on the dance floor, I was surrounded by fawning admirers. They had gathered, in awe — not of my awesome spectacle of spasticity, nor of my glamorous gown and its elegant accoutrements — but of my astounding act of kindness.

Say what?

My surprise shower of thanks — more like a deluge of congratulations — was initiated by my having spent all that time — 20 whole minutes — dancing with that “poor little girl.”

That “girl” — Mary Catherine Bates — was nearly 39. Her birthday was September 19th, she told me. She’d been born in 1978, the year of the Big Blizzard, she said.

I had trouble making out a lot of what Mary Catherine said. The music is too damn loud in these places. For years, I’d called “Marlene” by the name “Molly” because I’d misheard her; for the same reason “Chuck” has been called “Doug” and I’ve been called “Lynn.”

I’d met Mary Catherine a couple of times before; the last time, I’d recalled the “Mary,” but had concatenated it with an “Ellen”. Friday, I scored two for two: Mary Catherine.

Mary Catherine’s hair had out-pinked mine when we first met. That bonded us right there — she volunteered her bottle’s label and vice versa. L’Oreal “Cherry Cordial” for her; Manic Panic “Vampire Red,” for me.

Mary Catherine’s hair was by now back to brown. She was thinking of getting golden streaks, she said. Again, I had trouble hearing her. I kept having to stoop and ask her to repeat herself. Mary Catherine is much shorter than me — probably by six inches. I’m not even 5’1’’ myself — so I’m normally the “stoopee” in attempted club conversations.

Apart from being unusually short, Mary Catherine has remarkable features. Her neck is thick, and her chin appeared sunken into it. It appeared to me that these striking anomalies constituted a syndrome of some sort, though whatever it may be, it clearly doesn’t affect her intelligence.

Indeed, Mary Catherine was a sharpie when it came to who’s who in pop music. “Stevie Wonder?” I asked; “Stevie Wonder,” she concurred. “Chuck Berry,” I stated; “Fats Domino,” she corrected.

Amidst the musical “Q and A” Mary Catherine mentioned that she has OCD. “Which stinks,” she said.

Indeed it does, I agreed. Though mercifully, I’ve been largely free of symptoms for the last 50 years, as a 9-year old I was tormented by thoughts of germs and contamination, to the extent of scrubbing my hands until they were bloody hunks of meat. These days, I am blithe about the threat of microscopic critters. My motto: if you can’t swat ’em, don’t sweat ‘em.

Then Mary Catherine fed me another spoonful of alphabet soup: besides OCD, she told me, she has DS.

Down Syndrome. “Which stinks too,” she said.

I wouldn’t know about that; I will take the word of one who does. All I know is that I enjoyed Mary Catherine’s company and conversation. So, you see, my friends, I am not the paragon of charity you make me to be. No extra credit accrues for those 20 minutes I spent on that “poor little girl.”

“Mary Catherine” is her name.