Lady wandering up and down Plaza Drive-- Denise? Neighbors:

I saw a lady peering into driveways as I glided up to the farmstand on my trusty Xtracycle (full-disclosure, I'm a spokesmodel for the hot Marin dad's e-biking neighborhood watch app, inc, a Delaware C Corp (we're not raising, sorry)).

I'd seen this lady before walking up and down Plaza while I was tending to the stand (stop by for our dia de los muertos altar on Monday night-- more on that below).

She's a nice-looking lady with long black hair, about 5'5, athletically built, always seemed innocuous, at worse one of the hard-sleepers from over the hill you sometimes get careening up to/down from the bike path.

She had a vey clean and tidy appearance. She wears a mask upfront (surgical) and pack on her back (scholastic).

It was just a few hours ago and the details are still vivid, almost painful.

She peered into the Vival pots by the Stand (full disclosure Vival is the smartest way to grow). Then she moved on along the pots, which people sometimes do. I thought she might be an example of the pick-your-own farmstand use-case, which I find interesting, from a purely pop-up commerce perspective.

But she didn't seem to find anything interesting and quickly moved on, up Plaza, stopping to peer into our neighbors driveway. Scan, survey, consider, ponder-- hard to say what she was doing. I'm no mindreader. And then she moved on to the next driveway. She stopped again and did the same. Peered. Scanned.

I glided up behind her with my littlest on the back, his nose buried in a book.

(By the way, this is not a scary Halloween story about witches.)

I rolled up at a considered distance, call it 12 ft away, and hailed with a hearty hello.

Now, besides being exceedingly handsome and yoked like some caricature of a greek statute in one of those Italian museums everyone liked to visit in the Pre-Corona era, I'm also quite tall, and was on a bike, and was approaching from behind, unexpected, so I ingested all those data points into my world class neural network and modulated the volume, tone, and assertiveness of my query accordingly.

"Hi! Whatchyadoing?"

She turned to face me and my youngest, who I could feel lowering the book behind me to observe the interaction.

"I know these people." She said. "I have permission. I have permission to be here."

"Sounds good to me," I said and pedaled away.

I really hope she's just some local character who I don't know that well.

Not true.

I followed the Sounds good with a: "It's just I saw you peering into the driveways and looking around and I thought I'd see what's up."

"I have friends here who let me pick fruit. Lemons. Tom from around the corner."

I love this concept. I send my kids up trees all over the neighborhood. I'm all about localism, locavores, growing food, sharing nature's abundance, taking the trash out early in the morning in my underpants after I leap out of bed like some lion-man at the rumble clank of a dawn garbage patrol.

And so that was good enough for me: I bid this urban farmsteader good-day and headed back to my house.

Almost.

Before I went, I thought it prudent to ask if she knows Rich and his awesomely prolific apple tree (Rich, if you're reading this, I'm coming for the ladder this WE, I promise).

In retrospect I'd break down my motivations for asking this follow-up:

40% neighborhood security, 40% urban foodie humblebrag, 20% native curiosity.

"I said Tom. And I said Lemons." she replied to my Rich/Apple query with a bit of an edge, as if I'd been trying to catch her in a prevarication, which 40% I had.

I responded with a bit of context-- I told her about the recent burglary, pointing directly across the street, and to another scene of home invasion over the hill on Lomita next to the house where my children sleep when they are in the care of their talented photographer of a mother (full disclosure, she's the reason my kids are so cute-- book her for a family holiday shoot, a real artist, follow her insta https://www.instagram.com/jamiegrenough/.

My name is Denise the lady said. You have no right to accuse me of doing anything wrong. I have permission to be here.

Denise didn't seem phased by my mention of the nearby crime scenes. Which I didn't think was unusual. The way she used the word permission though was uncanny and hard to scan.

On the one hand, for sure everyone does have a right to be, and to be walking up Plaza, looking around, stop by the farmstand, get some fruit. Why not? But the way she said it was odd, like she had some ancient easement that ran along the curb up Plaza.

Okay I said to Denise. I guess maybe just be aware that looks a bit odd that you're peering in driveways given the context I just provided. I'm paraphrasing now because this is getting long and the edible is starting to work its magic-- jk, I don't typically indulge when I have the boys in my care).

Stormclouds seemed to gather and things got quiet.

And then she spoke, sharply.

You have no right to talk to me this way. You don't know me. You cannot speak to me like this.

Her accent was foreign. European. Dutch? Hard to say. She was fluent in English. but her accent was sharp and smooth. She'd spoken English a long time and some other language a long time too. That much I could tell.

You got it Denise, I said, wheeling around. Enjoy your day.

A minute later I was back at the farmstand. And then I had a thought-- maybe I was the Tom she meant and she didn't recognize me and that it was me who had given her some lemons from our tree. Could that be it?

Holy moley I thought, what an unpleasant outcome from a wonderful connection.

I wheeled around and raced back up Plaza.

But Denise was gone. There was a shiny round object on the ground where she'd been standing.

It was a perfect honey crisp apple.

I picked it up, rubbed it on my sleeve, and took a big jaw unhinging bite. I was thinking of offering it to my son when I felt the razor blade slice the center of my lip to the gum line.

As the blood gushed out I thought I heard a cackle of laughter that floated in the crisp autumn air above Horse Hill.

And.... scene!

Just kidding.

What actually happened was Denise accused me of racial profiling and told me never to approach her again, as if to imply I'd acted improperly. I didn't get a chance to share my Urban Farmer bonafides. Sad face.

What do you think?

Vote in the Comments below:

1. She was casing the neighborhood and you, sir, are a hero and a pillar of the community.

2. She's just a nice fruit lady you privileged jerk.

3. Leave Denise alone, we lover her. She's up in my tree right now eating a persimmon.

P.S. Come by our Dia de los Muertos altar Monday night and light a candle, drink some tequila, and remember someone who's returned to the great unmanifested.

Denise, you are invited!