GYN 101 with Professor Jimmy @ Reed College

Bambi, Scarlett, Stanley and I sat around a table, diplomatically discussing people, the day's events, our life-challenges and philosophies. We tipped back beers and Tin House Martinis (which should be called "TinTinis"); we reveled in the afternoon sun and first of several conveniently scheduled happy hours. Not one of us--four intellectual poets at the Tin House Writers' Workshop--spoke a word about feminine hygiene and maintenance. It was Jimmy, intrepid vagabond, who introduced such issues to our discourse.

"Can I clear off this table?" He asked, gesturing toward the recklessly abandoned round table beside ours.

Where did he come from? was the look on each of our faces.

"Sure, go ahead." I called out. I wondered if he intended to collect the bottles to create interesting art projects. Perhaps he wanted to deposit them and use the money for his new cape.

Did I mention he wore a cape? It was actually a lightweight blanket with carefully sewn arm holes, fashioned as a summer shawl of sorts. It was a tailor's feat well-executed. I was impressed.

Arms full of bottles, he wandered toward the garbage area. "His name is Jimmy," I declared as he hobbled off. Bambi, Stanley, and Scarlett unquestioningly nodded.

"Hey, you know, they don't take their time with Pap smears." Suddenly, Jimmy sidled up to our table with gynecological tidbits to share.

The other three women looked at each other. Always sangfroid when faced with such situations, Stanley calmly replied, eyebrow slightly raised, "Well, that's ... true."

"It is true. It's absolutely true. They don't take their time. They don't look carefully at them." Jimmy had his facts.

"And they should take their time. That HPV is killing women." I thought we should broaden the conversation rather than harp on the same point.

"Yeah, that Gardasil vaccine. I've heard mixed things about it," said Bambi. Jimmy walked away again, distracted by a writer at a neighboring table who wore a poncho. Jimmy would not be outdone.

"Well, I got the first two shots, and I can't wait to get the third one. It's a big deal." Now I was serious about this Pap smear issue.

Scarlett nodded her head, threw it back, and laughed at our somber tone in light of the ambiguously homeless stranger with the cape. Bambi and I locked into a discussion about side effects/deaths linked to the Gardasil.

"I'm scared, I don't know. I've heard that people die from it." Bambi brought interesting ideas to the table.

"I knew someone. She died. She died because they didn't look carefully enough." Suddenly, Jimmy had a lot to say about death and dying, and the vaginal experience. Again, where did he come from? Scarlett glanced between the other two women and I, began laughing.

There was silence. "She had that cervical cancer. By the time they figured it out, she had to decide whether she wanted to live or if she wanted her baby to live. She died. She died because they didn't look carefully enough."

Okay.

Scarlett looked at me and I almost broke down, laughing. Luckily I didn't. Not before Jimmy wandered off again.

Once he left, we wondered what just happened. Two minutes later, I looked toward the bar building.

"Hey, what are those security guards doing talking to Jimmy?" I was concerned for his welfare. Would they take his cape?

Stanley noticed something we hadn't seen when he hovered over our table. "Does he have a crossbow? And is he carrying a yoga mat?"

Yes. Yes he was and yes he did. Jimmy sported a lovely stole with a yoga mat slung over his right shoulder and a crossbow facing front. A man must accessorize.

Another security guard joined their small meeting. Jimmy looked as though he had everything under control.

Fellow poet, Young'N (she's a rapper from MO), observed, "I heard him [she meant Jimmy] say to the security guard that he was wondering where he could get a resume."

That settled it. Job-hunting Jimmy graced us with his presence (and infinite gynecological wisdom) in pursuit of a job. Perhaps he hopes to become a community organizer. Or peer educator.

I've always had this philosophy: If you're trying to get someone to believe in what you're talking about, a crossbow never hurt.