Taking Care of Business Part 1: Downtown

Sometimes it’s difficult for freelance writers to convince people they actually work for a living. It often appears that all they do is check email, stare out the window, go for walks to “clear their head,” or make another cup of coffee.

One good tactic is to say, “There are some things I have to do downtown,” as if those “things” are essential for whatever you’re writing. This claim is even more acceptable if you offer to multitask by doing a little childcare at the same time. Forty years ago, I had a willing accomplice—our two-year-old daughter who also often had “things” to do downtown.

Emily and I could spend hours going to the post office, bank, stationery store—a good source for crayons; the hardware store—a good source for dangerous shiny objects; and the children’s section of the library—a good place to do research for people of all ages.

At some point, we’d always stop to get a cup of coffee for me and a donut for her that she’d wash down with several of those little plastic cups filled with cream.

People who passed us on the sidewalk had a tendency to try to make friends with Emily. But she had little time for chit-chat. After all, she was self-employed and downtown on business. She’d just move swiftly and smoothly to keep her shoulders squarely in front of the interloper—like a martial artist keeping her opponent at bay.

It wasn’t fair, I figured, to always make her follow me around on my less-than-critical errands so sometimes I followed her around. Which tended to lead us into lawyers' offices, garages, other peoples' apartments, or down some alley to investigate an incongruous spot on the ground—usually either tar or old bubble gum. I learned to say, “yuck” very convincingly, although she would often look up skeptically, to make sure dad wasn’t pulling a fast one on her.

One of the best parts about hanging out downtown with Emily was that she was always on the lookout for some noteworthy anomaly: a small pile of sand leftover from a sidewalk construction project that she could turn into a playground for ants; street grates that, for some reason, children always find fascinating; and child mannequins in a window whom she was determined to coax out of their poses.

Once, she was window-shopping several storefronts ahead of me and stopped in front of one with rock and roll blaring out the front door. She paused for three or four seconds and then did a perfect two-step in time with the music, sticking one foot out and bending to the sound, and then bringing the foot back and her body straight again. A girl coming out looked at her, looked at me, and nodded approvingly as if she’d just witnessed a command performance.

Sometimes we’d take a break and sit on a bench. There, I’d point out birds and dogs (a.k.a. “Puppies!”) to take her mind off more pressing concerns—like her bottle being empty, cutting a baby tooth, or (like her father) being way overdue for a nap. She liked it when I pointed and soon began to mimic me. One time she began pointing and insistently making her sound for “bird” even though there weren’t any birds in sight. It was only after she did this several times that I realized she thought I had been making the birds appear when I pointed…

While Emily could be curious about anything, for me, her most inspired moments were when she was curious about everything. She would suddenly stop and stand dead still, absorbed simultaneously in the world around her and her own little world. Waiting. She might turn her head slowly and look right at and through me, without changing expressions, until the beep of a horn or the bark of a dog brought her back to the here and now. Then, she would break into a run, sometimes towards where I was, sometimes tearing in the opposite direction.

Decades later, I can still picture those moments. And they still make me wonder whether the knowledge I’ve gained over the years is anywhere near as valuable as the curiosity I’ve lost.

A version of this story originally appeared in Shark Reef, a 20-year-old literary journal named after a nature sanctuary on Lopez Island in Washington State.