Free Buddha Baby by Kim Wong Keltner Page A

world adored him. It was as if he wore an invisible sign around his neck that read, next helpful young man, 52 miles. When they saw him, elderly gals instinctively knew that he would be glad to help them reach a precariously perched can of herring in wine sauce, or fix the wobbly wheel of their shopping cart. He was the pied piper of the AARP, and Lindsey was forced to share him.
    After gathering the items she needed for dinner, plus some extra-special treats for dessert, she went off to search for him in the "incontinents" section. But he wasn't there. After wandering all the aisles, she decided to pay for their groceries, and waited outside for him.
    Standing in front of the store, she scanned the parking lot and spotted Michael's red Toyota. He was driving slowly in circles, and as he rounded one corner, Lindsey was perplexed to see someone sitting beside him. As she tried to make sense out of the strange scene, she noticed that the passenger was an old Asian lady, and she was leaning out the window and pointing. Lindsey watched as the car crawled though the lot and eventually stopped. She saw the old lady get out of the car, and
    Michael helped her transfer her groceries into what was presumably her own car. Seeming to sense Lindsey's gaze, Michael looked up toward the front of the supermarket and spotted her. He waved, hopped back into his car, then whipped around to pick her up.
    "What was that all about?" Lindsey said, hoisting her purchases onto the seat.
    "You sprinted off down the ethnic foods aisle, and I realized I forgot my wallet so I came out to get it. The next thing I knew, this old lady gets in the passenger seat and orders me to drive around and look for her car. I couldn't say no."
    Lindsey sat down and slammed the door. "That's how people get murdered, you know. She could've had a hatchet in her purse."
    "I think I could've taken her," Michael said, pulling out of the lot. "Besides, if she were my grandmother, I'd want someone to help her." He smiled at Lindsey. "But don't worry. Now you're gonna be my old lady. I'll always carry your groceries, and won't help anyone else from now on if you don't want me to."
    Lindsey gave him a sideways glance. Scooting closer to him, she ran her fingers through his hair. "No…" she said. "I wouldn't want to change that about you."
    Michael drove slowly, making full stops at the stop signs and waiting for pedestrians as they made their way across the intersections. Lindsey said, "You know, you're not like any of the guys that girls in magazines complain about. You're not addicted to ESPN and porn, and don't have to win at Pictionary or Wiffle ball just to prove how great you are. I think because you were a busboy in college, you know what it's like to serve other people so when we go out you don't treat people like crap. I like that you give people the benefit of the doubt, and drive like a granny, and don't give slow drivers the finger. I
    used to think it was a show of weakness that you couldn't be bothered to get all pissed, but now I realize that, actually, it's strength."
    She let go of Michael's head, and as she talked, she checked her own hair in the mirror on the passenger-side sun visor. She reached into her purse and proceeded to touch up her makeup.
    Michael turned onto Steiner Street. He said, "When I first moved here, did I tell you I was on a Wiffle ball team? Incidentally, we did win."
    "Yeah, I know, but that time when we were playing with those little kids in the park, it's not like you had to run them into the ground to prove you're a man. You let them win. And another thing, about moving here. A lot of people come to San Francisco and like it for a while, then leave or go back to wherever they came from. Other people, like you, once they get here they realize they can't possibly live anywhere else. I don't know what it is in a person that makes you become a San Franciscan, but even if the city has kicked your ass, or you've never been to the Mark