I'm not the type to be rude to folks just because they knock on my door. It doesn't matter what they're selling... Vacuum cleaners, magazines, religion... it's all the same to me. It's a tough job, and I'm just glad I don't have to do it. I don't typically get many uninvited visitors, and most door-knockers have the sense not to ply their trade in the middle of February in the Midwest; it's just too cold. This year, however, the weather's been unusually warm through the central United States.
Today we hit 70 degrees. I was in the kitchen, dancing around with dish suds up to my elbows, singing at the top of my lungs to the Avenue Q soundtrack, when some one rapped on my door. On the porch was a mocha-skinned man in a knit vest the color of egg yolk and navy blue pants that broke above his ankles.
"Excuse me, ma'am, and please pardon the intrusion, but I'm Mr. Social Studies Teacher at Church of the Holy Somethin-or-Other parochial school two towns over. I was wondering if I couldn't take a moment of your time?" It was about this time I realized that the song pouring through the cocked screen door was "Every One's a Little Bit Racist", which is, of course, backed by hokey Sesame-street-esque music.
"We have a few students this semester that are having difficulty paying their tuition. We've never turned students away before, and although the school is prepared to operate at a loss, we're looking for support from our local community."
Now, I just happen to be blessed with the knowledge that this private school takes on "problem" youth and helps them get their lives turned around. It also received a write-up in the local paper a few years back (amazing what the mind will regurgitate) for being a Christian school with an outstandingly strong curriculum. I'd like to do my part to contribute, and I say so. "If you'll hold on for just a moment, I'll be right back."
I scrawl out a check for what I can spare and deliver it back to the porch. The man, awkward and appreciative, accepts the check with a heart-felt, "Thank you!" He walks down the steps in time with the music from "The Internet is for Porn", which is pouring through my open living room windows.
Halfway through his decent, he stops and turns, looking up at me. "Are you a counselor?" the man asks. "A teacher?"
"Nah."
"Mind if I ask about your interest in the school?" It's pretty obvious I'm not the church-going type.
"Education is important to me. Beyond that, I'm a student. I know how hard it can be to get together enough money for tuition. Everybody needs a little help now and then."
I'm reasonably sure that at some point during our interaction, the man noticed the lyrics to the songs in the background. I'm also reasonably certain he was surprised to find support in "a wretch like me". Sometimes, I guess, it's okay to let a stranger watch over the flock. Sometimes it's okay to shake the hand of a neighbor we don't necessarily like or understand. I don't know if he only accepted the money because the school is desperate. I don't know if, given a different set of circumstances, he would have judged me for the lifestyle I lead. I'd like to think he's the type of man who follows the word of the book to the letter when it says, "Love thy neighbor..."
Compassion is a beautiful thing.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Sunday Night Blues
Cigarette and cigar smoke mingle with the distinctive incense of a pit barbeque, hanging over the crowd like a blanket of fog. The drummer onstage growls into the microphone, “I’m tore down. I’m almost level to the ground,” and one can’t help but believe him. It’s Sunday night at eight o’clock, and Parker’s is packed with a motley crew. Bikers and yuppies, barflies, lovers, and drunks ensure that it’s standing room only tonight. They’re all here for the same reason: the Sunday night jam session.
The Bobs and Williams of Monday through Friday become Hambone and Buffalo Bill on Sunday night. A sign-up list for would-be jammers is clamped to a cracked clip board, resting on top of the neglected jukebox. Behind it, the wall is covered with photographs of regulars, past and present. Musicians sit along the walls, both in the crowd and of it, warming up while they wait for their turn on the stage. Any other night of the week, that jukebox would be spouting the latest top forties pop, but not on Sunday. Sunday night is sacred. Sunday night is reserved for the Blues.
Neon red from the “Parker’s” sign out front flickers through the window, tapping out its staccato rhythm in time with the driving backbeat. The host band, a local “Rockin’ Blues” quad from Kansas City, has dragged the Sunday night jam session from site to site for five years. It’s to the point now that the regular jammers have been playing together so long the music is seamless. This isn’t a bunch of wanna-be rock-star types getting together and hiccupping out a song or two; these are professional-grade musicians who, for one reason or another, can’t quit their day jobs, so they wind up here, putting on a show anybody on the floor would gladly pay to see.
The song ends, signaling the conclusion of the host band’s set, and the beginning of the jam. Among the whistles and applause, a crowd member jeers, “Man, my grandmamma can rip a better lick than that!”
The singer, grinning and leaning into the microphone, jokes back, “Yeah, well, at least I don’t think the lyrics to Texas Flood are, ‘Well back home I know floods and tomatoes, baby the sun shines in the hay!’” The audience explodes into hysterical laughter. It’s just as likely for the stage group to initiate the provocation, and it’s all in good fun; no egos are bruised by the light-hearted banter.
The night wears on, each musician taking the stage in turn, slowly cycling out the group of performers so that roughly every forth song, there’s a whole new band up front. As jammers come offstage, they’re met with hearty slaps on the back, good-natured ribbing, and frosty mugs of beer. The line to the bathrooms start to creep out through the swinging saloon doors and across the front of the stage. The restrooms, which are designated “male” and “female” by paper sign printouts stuck to the doors with box tape, are tucked down a back hallway stuffed with instrument cases. In a place with plastic-coated table cloths where smoked meat is sold by the pound and beer flows freely from the tap, both male and female customers cycle through whichever stall becomes available first, without regard to gender.
The waitresses are petite and young, but quick on their feet, and quicker with a smile. They know how to work this crowd, casually leaning on tables, cracking jokes and calling everybody “Darlin’”. They tend to ignore the clusters of new folks that bunch around the “Please Wait to be Seated” sign at the front door. Eventually, the customers figure it out and seat themselves. Without fail, at least one person in the party will trip over the uneven flooring in the entranceway. The regulars never cease to be entertained by this, and they watch in glowing anticipation for the moment a toe catches on the raised board. Everybody trips the first time. It’s almost an initiation rite.
Parker’s isn’t much to look at. It’s a cheap, run-down place snugged in between a fading Mexican restaurant and a gas station in a small town a lot of people from the city have never heard of, despite the fact that it’s a mere fifteen miles away. Part of what makes it so special, though, is that “gem in the rough” quality. Not many can guess that a place with faded, second-hand theater drapes hanging in the windows and corrugated sheet metal lining half the inside walls would be a place one could find their soul. It isn’t the location that makes Parker’s so special. It isn’t the décor. It isn’t their A-list clientele. Parker’s is special because for a few hours every Sunday night, a broken-down old smoke-shack becomes home to every stranger that walks through its doors. Black and white, old and young, day laborer and CEO can sit side-by-side in genuine friendship, bound together by the music pouring out into the parking lot and down a quiet country highway.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Stalker Bob
Stalker Bob* has been admiring me from not-so-afar for close to three and a half years. He used to come by and bug me at work, following me around the warehouse talking for an hour or two, until I finally got tired of playing "Serve the Customer" and told him I really, really had to get back to work.
Somewhere along the way, he was driving down my street and I just happened to be outside doing yardwork. Of course he had to stop and say hello. Of course I didn't tell him how absolutely creeped out I was that he now knew where I lived. Of course. He is, after all, a reasonably harmless fellow. A lonely old professor for some city university who fancies himself attractive to a younger woman. He doesn't mean me any harm, he's just annoying. More nuisance than threat.
While I was overseas, I began getting emails from Stalker Bob. I guess he stopped by the house one time while I was away, and my sister (who was "taking care" of the place while I was gone) gave him the house phone number and my e-mail address. Let's ignore for a moment the fact that my sister is giving out my personal information to complete strangers... it's just WEIRD getting random e-mails from some one you never think about unless they're standing right in front of you.
Stalker Bob called at random the entire time I was gone, according to my sister (serves her right, having to deal with him, after giving out the information). One of these random calls occurred about a month ago. Since I didn't recognize the number, I picked up the phone. Great way to confirm to your stalker that you've returned to the homeland and are prepared to resume normal activities, such as recieving uninvited house calls.
I guess he got tired of me not answering his e-mails or the telephone, and decided to stop by this morning. We had a bit of an ice storm blow in last night, so everything was covered with a thin, shiney layer of the hard, slippery stuff. Bob announced his arrival by falling up the front steps, which of course set the dog to barking. After a brief chat, which ended in me saying, "You know, you really should call before you come over," Bob fell again going back down the stairs. Highlight of my day... you don't get two smiles from the same idiot in a 30-minute period very often.
Some people just can't see the signs, even when they're smacking them dead in the face... multiple times... and laughing about it.
Somewhere along the way, he was driving down my street and I just happened to be outside doing yardwork. Of course he had to stop and say hello. Of course I didn't tell him how absolutely creeped out I was that he now knew where I lived. Of course. He is, after all, a reasonably harmless fellow. A lonely old professor for some city university who fancies himself attractive to a younger woman. He doesn't mean me any harm, he's just annoying. More nuisance than threat.
While I was overseas, I began getting emails from Stalker Bob. I guess he stopped by the house one time while I was away, and my sister (who was "taking care" of the place while I was gone) gave him the house phone number and my e-mail address. Let's ignore for a moment the fact that my sister is giving out my personal information to complete strangers... it's just WEIRD getting random e-mails from some one you never think about unless they're standing right in front of you.
Stalker Bob called at random the entire time I was gone, according to my sister (serves her right, having to deal with him, after giving out the information). One of these random calls occurred about a month ago. Since I didn't recognize the number, I picked up the phone. Great way to confirm to your stalker that you've returned to the homeland and are prepared to resume normal activities, such as recieving uninvited house calls.
I guess he got tired of me not answering his e-mails or the telephone, and decided to stop by this morning. We had a bit of an ice storm blow in last night, so everything was covered with a thin, shiney layer of the hard, slippery stuff. Bob announced his arrival by falling up the front steps, which of course set the dog to barking. After a brief chat, which ended in me saying, "You know, you really should call before you come over," Bob fell again going back down the stairs. Highlight of my day... you don't get two smiles from the same idiot in a 30-minute period very often.
Some people just can't see the signs, even when they're smacking them dead in the face... multiple times... and laughing about it.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Be my Valentine!
My friend L took me out for Valentine's day on Tuesday. He'd made reservations at 6:30 at Ivy's, a restaurant he really liked, but I'd never been to. The plan was to meet him at his place around quarter to six and then head to dinner. When I got there, he was standing next to the car, keys in hand.
"We have to go," he says, climbing into his car.
"I thought we were at 6:30?" Now I'm confused... I could have sworn he'd said 6:30.
"Well, we were at 6:30, until they lost the reservation. Now we're at 6:00."
So it's Valentine's Day... it's one of the biggest food-days of the year, next to Mother's Day (it may actually beat Mom's out, but you'd have to ask somebody who knows... I'm not in the food business). Maybe they've been crazy for the last few weeks. Maybe the book got lost or something, and that's why they dont have the reservation. Maybe.
The parking lot, which is shared with a half-dozen or so other restaurants, was full of cars. I was positive the restaurant would be packed. In the foyer, though, there seemed to be a problem. Not only did they lose the original reservation, but they seated some one else on the pencilled-in reservation they made when he called to confirm. We were standing there blinking at the hostess, while she frantically searched through the (very full) guest list for somewhere to stick us. Just as I thought she was about to chew a hole through her bottom lip, a couple came out of the dining area, scowling.
The waitress (who was serving them, I assume) was following them out, appologizing profusely. "I'm very sorry, sir. Your drinks are on the house."
He stopped dead, turned his head, looked her square in the eye and snorted, "Oh, I know."
He then strode out behind his puffed-up wife.
L and I watched the exchange, watched the hostess ask the waitress what the couple's name was, watched her erase the couple's name from the guest list and pencil in his. Obviously pleased with her ingenuity, she picked up a couple pieces of paper from the host stand and chirped, "Follow me!" with a grin.
She dropped us off at a cozy table in a corner, near a window. It was a nice, intimate table a bit removed from the rest of the dining hall. The first thing I noticed was that the room was nearly empty. There was one other couple there with an infant in the opposite corner, and a table of fifteen or so men across the room from us, laughing noisily and kicking back a few beers. Strange, on Valentine's Day. Maybe the dinner rush starts at 7:00? The Midwest isn't known for it's night-owls, though. Something wasn't right.
The entire time I was looking around the dining room, the waitress was babbling about the "select" menu. She put a piece of paper down in front of us with four menu items on it. I scanned over it. L scanned over it. There wasn't one item on the menu I wasn't allergic to.
"Excuse me, Miss? Where's the regular menu?"" L knows what I can and cannot have. He pays attention to that sort of thing.
"Well, because of the holiday, we have a special menu tonight."
"She can't eat any of this. Is there any way we can order something else?"
"I'll have to check. Hold on just a sec." She pranced off to the kitchen, presumably to ask the cook if he could fix up somethin special.
"They didn't tell me about the menu," L said, pursing his lips and wiggling the table, which is teetering back and forth unsteadily on a gimp leg.
"So, let me get this straight," I said, eying him. "They failed to inform you when you called to make the reservation the first time that they had a restricted menu. Then they lost you reservation. Then, when you called to confirm your reservation, they rebooked you, but gave it to some one else before you got here, and again did not inform you of the restricted menu. Nor did they inform us of the restricted menu while we were waiting to be seated out front."
"Yeah, that's about right," he said, leaning on the table edge, which caused the entire table to shift a good three inches towards him. "We're gonna need a new table."
The waitress, of course, came back to inform us that no, there were no other foodstuffs in the kitchen that could be scrounged together to make a meal that wasn't already listed on the menu, but she'd be happy to take our order and request that they not use any sauces or butter, and that would probably be okay.
She shifted us to a new (structurally sound) table as L grilled me about why I was willing to risk a trip to the Emergency Room for a night out.
The waitress, who has heard this entire exchange, blinks at us with an empty-headed smile. "So, can I take your order?"
"Actually, I'd really like to speak with your manager," L says. The waitress, not nearly as bouncy now, slinks off to retrieve the requested manager, and returns with the hostess.
"Sarah* says you asked to speak with me." No question, just that simple statement.
"Well, yes," L starts. "We were never informed that the menu wouldn't be your normal menu. No one told me when I called to make the reservation, or when I called to confirm. We wouldn't have come here if we'd known. She has food allergies that prevent her from eating anything you're serving tonight. It's now nearly 7:00 on Valentine's day, and we're sitting in a restaurant looking at a menu from which we cannot eat."
She just stood there and blinked at him, and L blinked back. They did that for awhile. Finally, she said, "I'm sorry, Sir," collected the menues, and turned to walk off. As an afterthought, she turned back and picked up the bill (for the two drinks we ordered but didn't drink, since we wern't staying for dinner). "The house will take care of your drinks." She laid his card back on the table and carried off the bill folder.
We wound up chowing down on hot, fresh, EDIBLE Chinese food from a place two doors down. We laughed and talked and had a great time in our cheap little booth with the plastic flower on the table. Damn shame about Ivy's, though. They've lost L's business, and probably a few of his friends', too. Cozy little place, and I'm sure their food is delightful, but eating out is about more than what's on the plate. It's about service. Apparently, the folks at Ivy's don't understand that.
"We have to go," he says, climbing into his car.
"I thought we were at 6:30?" Now I'm confused... I could have sworn he'd said 6:30.
"Well, we were at 6:30, until they lost the reservation. Now we're at 6:00."
So it's Valentine's Day... it's one of the biggest food-days of the year, next to Mother's Day (it may actually beat Mom's out, but you'd have to ask somebody who knows... I'm not in the food business). Maybe they've been crazy for the last few weeks. Maybe the book got lost or something, and that's why they dont have the reservation. Maybe.
The parking lot, which is shared with a half-dozen or so other restaurants, was full of cars. I was positive the restaurant would be packed. In the foyer, though, there seemed to be a problem. Not only did they lose the original reservation, but they seated some one else on the pencilled-in reservation they made when he called to confirm. We were standing there blinking at the hostess, while she frantically searched through the (very full) guest list for somewhere to stick us. Just as I thought she was about to chew a hole through her bottom lip, a couple came out of the dining area, scowling.
The waitress (who was serving them, I assume) was following them out, appologizing profusely. "I'm very sorry, sir. Your drinks are on the house."
He stopped dead, turned his head, looked her square in the eye and snorted, "Oh, I know."
He then strode out behind his puffed-up wife.
L and I watched the exchange, watched the hostess ask the waitress what the couple's name was, watched her erase the couple's name from the guest list and pencil in his. Obviously pleased with her ingenuity, she picked up a couple pieces of paper from the host stand and chirped, "Follow me!" with a grin.
She dropped us off at a cozy table in a corner, near a window. It was a nice, intimate table a bit removed from the rest of the dining hall. The first thing I noticed was that the room was nearly empty. There was one other couple there with an infant in the opposite corner, and a table of fifteen or so men across the room from us, laughing noisily and kicking back a few beers. Strange, on Valentine's Day. Maybe the dinner rush starts at 7:00? The Midwest isn't known for it's night-owls, though. Something wasn't right.
The entire time I was looking around the dining room, the waitress was babbling about the "select" menu. She put a piece of paper down in front of us with four menu items on it. I scanned over it. L scanned over it. There wasn't one item on the menu I wasn't allergic to.
"Excuse me, Miss? Where's the regular menu?"" L knows what I can and cannot have. He pays attention to that sort of thing.
"Well, because of the holiday, we have a special menu tonight."
"She can't eat any of this. Is there any way we can order something else?"
"I'll have to check. Hold on just a sec." She pranced off to the kitchen, presumably to ask the cook if he could fix up somethin special.
"They didn't tell me about the menu," L said, pursing his lips and wiggling the table, which is teetering back and forth unsteadily on a gimp leg.
"So, let me get this straight," I said, eying him. "They failed to inform you when you called to make the reservation the first time that they had a restricted menu. Then they lost you reservation. Then, when you called to confirm your reservation, they rebooked you, but gave it to some one else before you got here, and again did not inform you of the restricted menu. Nor did they inform us of the restricted menu while we were waiting to be seated out front."
"Yeah, that's about right," he said, leaning on the table edge, which caused the entire table to shift a good three inches towards him. "We're gonna need a new table."
The waitress, of course, came back to inform us that no, there were no other foodstuffs in the kitchen that could be scrounged together to make a meal that wasn't already listed on the menu, but she'd be happy to take our order and request that they not use any sauces or butter, and that would probably be okay.
She shifted us to a new (structurally sound) table as L grilled me about why I was willing to risk a trip to the Emergency Room for a night out.
The waitress, who has heard this entire exchange, blinks at us with an empty-headed smile. "So, can I take your order?"
"Actually, I'd really like to speak with your manager," L says. The waitress, not nearly as bouncy now, slinks off to retrieve the requested manager, and returns with the hostess.
"Sarah* says you asked to speak with me." No question, just that simple statement.
"Well, yes," L starts. "We were never informed that the menu wouldn't be your normal menu. No one told me when I called to make the reservation, or when I called to confirm. We wouldn't have come here if we'd known. She has food allergies that prevent her from eating anything you're serving tonight. It's now nearly 7:00 on Valentine's day, and we're sitting in a restaurant looking at a menu from which we cannot eat."
She just stood there and blinked at him, and L blinked back. They did that for awhile. Finally, she said, "I'm sorry, Sir," collected the menues, and turned to walk off. As an afterthought, she turned back and picked up the bill (for the two drinks we ordered but didn't drink, since we wern't staying for dinner). "The house will take care of your drinks." She laid his card back on the table and carried off the bill folder.
We wound up chowing down on hot, fresh, EDIBLE Chinese food from a place two doors down. We laughed and talked and had a great time in our cheap little booth with the plastic flower on the table. Damn shame about Ivy's, though. They've lost L's business, and probably a few of his friends', too. Cozy little place, and I'm sure their food is delightful, but eating out is about more than what's on the plate. It's about service. Apparently, the folks at Ivy's don't understand that.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Balance in White
It's snowing. Fat white flakes that float instead of fall, and cover everything in a blanket of insulated white. There aren't too many things in this world more beautiful than freshly-fallen snow. The whole of everything looks clean and new and soft. This is only the third snow of the year, but, since it's into February, it's probably one of the last.
I'm looking out my window, watching miniature drifts peak along the picket fence, contemplating the future, and movement, and stagnation. Life seems to be hovering on a precipice, waiting for the slightest breeze to tilt the balance just a little... just enough.
I was bustling around my little house today, tidying up from the renovations that are in progress, doing normal, mundane, domestic things. I've been here for five years, last October, not counting the 12 months I spent in the Gulf. It's the longest I've ever lived anywhere in my life. This is home for me... at least, the closest thing to home I've ever known. I'm finding peace here, in my little house on the prairie. School and life and work and home.
Balance.
I'm looking out my window, watching miniature drifts peak along the picket fence, contemplating the future, and movement, and stagnation. Life seems to be hovering on a precipice, waiting for the slightest breeze to tilt the balance just a little... just enough.
I was bustling around my little house today, tidying up from the renovations that are in progress, doing normal, mundane, domestic things. I've been here for five years, last October, not counting the 12 months I spent in the Gulf. It's the longest I've ever lived anywhere in my life. This is home for me... at least, the closest thing to home I've ever known. I'm finding peace here, in my little house on the prairie. School and life and work and home.
Balance.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Plaster: Good AND Good for You!
So I got this idea rolling around in my head, and, as per the usual with me, became totally obsessed with it. I wanted to make a body in plaster. I had the image of what I wanted it to look like in my head, but of course the only female torso I have immediate access to on a consistent basis is my own, and there's no way I'd have been able to hold still AND wrap my naked bod in plaster-dipped gauze, so I drafted L to help me (go figure, he didn't complain). I now have a plaster mold of my torso with a shoulder, collar bone, breast, belly button, and hip. It's got great curve, but it isn't perfect, so we'll have to make another one. Poor L.
I took my first music lesson yesterday. When I was in school (we're talking Middle- and High-School) I played the Euphonium (which, for all intents and purposes is nearly the same thing as a baritone). I decided a few weeks ago that I really need to start doing some things for myself, activities whose sole purpose is to feed my mind and spirit. Music is one of those things. It's amazing to pick up my horn and play it again. I'm not near as rusty as I expected to be, which is a good thing. My tone quality is terrible, and by the end of the first duet, I was completely winded, but I'll get back into shape eventually.
The house is coming along nicely. L helped me tear out half a wall between the living room and the kitchen. We moved the cabinets all over the kitchen and rewired some things. In a week or so, that'll be finished, and hopefully by the time August rolls around, I'll be ready to dive into school full time, without worrying about this place falling down around my ears.
So that's that. I'm getting back into artistic expression, getting back into music, getting myself lined up to start a real courseload in the fall. Life is moving right along.
What d'ya know? He didn't kill me after all.... I just went to sleep for awhile.
I took my first music lesson yesterday. When I was in school (we're talking Middle- and High-School) I played the Euphonium (which, for all intents and purposes is nearly the same thing as a baritone). I decided a few weeks ago that I really need to start doing some things for myself, activities whose sole purpose is to feed my mind and spirit. Music is one of those things. It's amazing to pick up my horn and play it again. I'm not near as rusty as I expected to be, which is a good thing. My tone quality is terrible, and by the end of the first duet, I was completely winded, but I'll get back into shape eventually.
The house is coming along nicely. L helped me tear out half a wall between the living room and the kitchen. We moved the cabinets all over the kitchen and rewired some things. In a week or so, that'll be finished, and hopefully by the time August rolls around, I'll be ready to dive into school full time, without worrying about this place falling down around my ears.
So that's that. I'm getting back into artistic expression, getting back into music, getting myself lined up to start a real courseload in the fall. Life is moving right along.
What d'ya know? He didn't kill me after all.... I just went to sleep for awhile.
------------------------------------------------------------------
"We are made to persist. That's how we find out who we are." (Tobias Wolf, "In Pharoh's Army")
Short Story - Untitled
This was for an assignment from one of the classes I'm taking. It's a bit formulaic because of the assignment outline, but it's passable (I hope). -p.
The weight of that building seemed to tie me to the Earth, as though, over time, it had filled to bursting with law and order. They were spilling out now, pouring over and around and through me, and I was drowning in them, stuck in the mud of guilt and tears. Images from the moments before flashed through my head like snapshots: my mother, standing up and screaming at the judge; the judge threatening to hold her in contempt of court; the bailiff escorting her from the courtroom; the judge looking at me over the rim of his glasses and mouthing his declaration of, “Unfit parent. State custody.” The echoed memory of the gavel snapped me back to the present.
I watched as my case-worker, Lashaunda, wedged herself into her sea-foam green, base-model compact, and I barked out a short, hollow laugh. The scene was somewhat reminiscent of an inflated balloon being stuffed into a jellybean; she was nearly as big around as she was tall. She waved at me impatiently through the windshield, urging me to hurry into the car. I stood for a moment, unable to move. Movement meant progression. Movement meant leaving everything I’d known behind. Movement meant acceptance of the situation. Finally, I stepped off the landing.
The sea-foam jellybean turned out of the courthouse parking lot and towards Downtown. Lashaunda took to murmuring into her mobile phone about another case of hers, a boy who’d slit his wrists the night before and was in intensive care at the local mercy hospital. I watched her as she spoke, studied her, and noticed for the first time how tired she looked. Lines of misery were etched deeply into her full face, lines that shouldn’t have been there at her young age. I turned away from her pain and stared out the window, letting her voice become fuzzy and indistinct as I concentrated on the things going on around us.
We moved from Downtown into the Historic District, full of renovated Victorian homes. Birds chirped unseen in the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a mower whirred, clipping a manicured lawn to perfection. There were no signs of life beyond the leaded windows. Those big, beautiful homes, full of everything money could buy, were empty. There was no life in them, no love, no joy, no sorrow. For all their grandeur, they served no purpose. The jellybean rolled right past them.
We turned into the suburban neighborhoods. Middle class homes, each nestled precisely in the middle of its designated grid square, each a perfect replica of its neighbors, mirrored themselves down both sides of the street. Familiarity tickled the base of my neck as I looked around this neighborhood, so much like my own. Multicolored family vehicles carried over-stressed, over-medicated passengers back to their perfect, boring houses with their perfect, boring families and their perfect, boring lives. A car door slammed as a brown-haired, brown-eyed man climbed out of a deep red minivan. The color was most likely supposed to look sporty, but failed to hide the utilitarian functionality of the vehicle. He slung his drab suit jacket over his arm, gripping his standard-issue black briefcase in one hand while loosening his hideous tie, most likely a birthday present from one of his 2.5 blond-haired, blue-eyed children. The man stopped suddenly and looked at me, his brown eyes reflected in mine. His shoulders slumped forward, as if the pity there awakened a long-sleeping recognition that his life was a shrine to mediocrity. He blinked, then, and turned away, and we proceeded with our journey. We did not stop at any of those houses.
The jellybean pushed on, turning seemingly random corners, with Lashaunda still a muffled hum in the background. We left the middling neighborhoods and drove through the lower-middle neighborhoods, past town homes and row homes in stern, sedate brick, beyond everything that was familiar and known, beyond everything that had been labeled safe in my childhood. We passed through the upper-lower neighborhoods, the lower neighborhoods, and the lower-lower neighborhoods, past the trailer parks with their doublewides in various stages of disrepair, and turned onto a tiny stretch of street nestled just behind the city projects, into an area even I knew was called Broke Town.
Dilapidated homes with layers of peeling, multi-colored paint were crammed up and down both sides of the street. Broken windows were stuffed with crumpled newspapers and plastic bags, and a torn, moth-eaten blanket hung over a doorway with empty hinges. In one driveway, three young men bent under the hood of an old sky-blue Cadillac with an earthquake of bass pouring through its open doors. Ink-black children and filthy mutt-dogs raced across the street, laughing and barking, oblivious to the cars on the road. Overgrown lawns, littered with car parts and empty beer bottles, were surrounded by sagging chain-linked fences. Some of those fences served to hold in dogs, some were to keep intruders out, and some provided wired prisons where smaller children played. Their mothers carried on animated conversations across side-yards, oblivious to my shock.
Gravel crunched under the tiny black tires of the jellybean as we pulled into the last driveway at the end of the street. Vertical wrought-iron bars covered the faces of the windows, combining with the brick walls and crumbling mortar to give the overall impression of a miniature prison. The lawn, yellowing in the hot summer sun, was edged severely along the side of the drive. A curled old man, who later turned out to be the paternal figure for my new foster family, stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane and sucking on his gums. Shock-white eyebrows stood out dramatically against his wrinkled, blue-black skin. I climbed out of the car, retrieving my bag from the backseat, and staggered back a few steps as Lashaunda backed out of the drive. Not one word was directed at me, not one moment of reassurance, not one ounce of advice. She didn’t miss a beat in the staccato rhythm of her mobile conversation.
I eyed the man on the porch, and he eyed me. Hard ebony eyes pierced me, studied me, dared me to sneer at his proud home, this single thing that was his to tend to, his to care for. We stood for awhile like that, and finally, as the heat drew a bead of perspiration across my forehead, he jerked his head towards the inside of the house and turned away, allowing the barred screen door to slam shut behind him. I stood for a moment alone on that gravel drive, and time stopped. I would not grasp until several years later the precipice from which I had just been thrown, but even then, wrapped in naivety and confusion, I knew my life would never be the same. I took a deep breath, adjusted my grip on my bag, and stepped forward into my new life.
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I stood alone on flagstone steps in the shadow of an ancient courthouse, looking toward a horizon my accumulated sixteen years of life experience couldn’t define. The faces of its limestone blocks, worn and green with moss and time, stood cold and resolute against my plight. This was to be my fate, and there would be no rescue, no respite, no waking from the dream that was to become my reality. I didn’t understand then, the changes that would be brought about over the course of the next hour; the ego of youth does not allow comprehension in that way.
The weight of that building seemed to tie me to the Earth, as though, over time, it had filled to bursting with law and order. They were spilling out now, pouring over and around and through me, and I was drowning in them, stuck in the mud of guilt and tears. Images from the moments before flashed through my head like snapshots: my mother, standing up and screaming at the judge; the judge threatening to hold her in contempt of court; the bailiff escorting her from the courtroom; the judge looking at me over the rim of his glasses and mouthing his declaration of, “Unfit parent. State custody.” The echoed memory of the gavel snapped me back to the present.
I watched as my case-worker, Lashaunda, wedged herself into her sea-foam green, base-model compact, and I barked out a short, hollow laugh. The scene was somewhat reminiscent of an inflated balloon being stuffed into a jellybean; she was nearly as big around as she was tall. She waved at me impatiently through the windshield, urging me to hurry into the car. I stood for a moment, unable to move. Movement meant progression. Movement meant leaving everything I’d known behind. Movement meant acceptance of the situation. Finally, I stepped off the landing.
The sea-foam jellybean turned out of the courthouse parking lot and towards Downtown. Lashaunda took to murmuring into her mobile phone about another case of hers, a boy who’d slit his wrists the night before and was in intensive care at the local mercy hospital. I watched her as she spoke, studied her, and noticed for the first time how tired she looked. Lines of misery were etched deeply into her full face, lines that shouldn’t have been there at her young age. I turned away from her pain and stared out the window, letting her voice become fuzzy and indistinct as I concentrated on the things going on around us.
We moved from Downtown into the Historic District, full of renovated Victorian homes. Birds chirped unseen in the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a mower whirred, clipping a manicured lawn to perfection. There were no signs of life beyond the leaded windows. Those big, beautiful homes, full of everything money could buy, were empty. There was no life in them, no love, no joy, no sorrow. For all their grandeur, they served no purpose. The jellybean rolled right past them.
We turned into the suburban neighborhoods. Middle class homes, each nestled precisely in the middle of its designated grid square, each a perfect replica of its neighbors, mirrored themselves down both sides of the street. Familiarity tickled the base of my neck as I looked around this neighborhood, so much like my own. Multicolored family vehicles carried over-stressed, over-medicated passengers back to their perfect, boring houses with their perfect, boring families and their perfect, boring lives. A car door slammed as a brown-haired, brown-eyed man climbed out of a deep red minivan. The color was most likely supposed to look sporty, but failed to hide the utilitarian functionality of the vehicle. He slung his drab suit jacket over his arm, gripping his standard-issue black briefcase in one hand while loosening his hideous tie, most likely a birthday present from one of his 2.5 blond-haired, blue-eyed children. The man stopped suddenly and looked at me, his brown eyes reflected in mine. His shoulders slumped forward, as if the pity there awakened a long-sleeping recognition that his life was a shrine to mediocrity. He blinked, then, and turned away, and we proceeded with our journey. We did not stop at any of those houses.
The jellybean pushed on, turning seemingly random corners, with Lashaunda still a muffled hum in the background. We left the middling neighborhoods and drove through the lower-middle neighborhoods, past town homes and row homes in stern, sedate brick, beyond everything that was familiar and known, beyond everything that had been labeled safe in my childhood. We passed through the upper-lower neighborhoods, the lower neighborhoods, and the lower-lower neighborhoods, past the trailer parks with their doublewides in various stages of disrepair, and turned onto a tiny stretch of street nestled just behind the city projects, into an area even I knew was called Broke Town.
Dilapidated homes with layers of peeling, multi-colored paint were crammed up and down both sides of the street. Broken windows were stuffed with crumpled newspapers and plastic bags, and a torn, moth-eaten blanket hung over a doorway with empty hinges. In one driveway, three young men bent under the hood of an old sky-blue Cadillac with an earthquake of bass pouring through its open doors. Ink-black children and filthy mutt-dogs raced across the street, laughing and barking, oblivious to the cars on the road. Overgrown lawns, littered with car parts and empty beer bottles, were surrounded by sagging chain-linked fences. Some of those fences served to hold in dogs, some were to keep intruders out, and some provided wired prisons where smaller children played. Their mothers carried on animated conversations across side-yards, oblivious to my shock.
Gravel crunched under the tiny black tires of the jellybean as we pulled into the last driveway at the end of the street. Vertical wrought-iron bars covered the faces of the windows, combining with the brick walls and crumbling mortar to give the overall impression of a miniature prison. The lawn, yellowing in the hot summer sun, was edged severely along the side of the drive. A curled old man, who later turned out to be the paternal figure for my new foster family, stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane and sucking on his gums. Shock-white eyebrows stood out dramatically against his wrinkled, blue-black skin. I climbed out of the car, retrieving my bag from the backseat, and staggered back a few steps as Lashaunda backed out of the drive. Not one word was directed at me, not one moment of reassurance, not one ounce of advice. She didn’t miss a beat in the staccato rhythm of her mobile conversation.
I eyed the man on the porch, and he eyed me. Hard ebony eyes pierced me, studied me, dared me to sneer at his proud home, this single thing that was his to tend to, his to care for. We stood for awhile like that, and finally, as the heat drew a bead of perspiration across my forehead, he jerked his head towards the inside of the house and turned away, allowing the barred screen door to slam shut behind him. I stood for a moment alone on that gravel drive, and time stopped. I would not grasp until several years later the precipice from which I had just been thrown, but even then, wrapped in naivety and confusion, I knew my life would never be the same. I took a deep breath, adjusted my grip on my bag, and stepped forward into my new life.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Short Story - The Witch
The Witch
“Where's the book? Where is the book!” The old witch scrambled around, sending piles of books and rubble spilling to the floor. Papers with half-spells jotted on them floated in the darkest corners, watching the chaos from their protected nooks. The cauldron cursed and muttered as the witch shooed it out of the way. She stopped, finally, hair waving in wild, electrified tendrils around her head, propped her hand on her hip and said in a huff, “Alright, who’s got my spell book?”
The trunk tried to slide behind a bookshelf, only too late remembering that it was dragging a corner, its leg lost decades ago to a spell that called for a chunk of hardwood.
“Aha!” crowed the witch, diving at the trunk, attempting to pry its jaws open. “Give it to me!” she croaked out, heels buried in the floor, fingertips digging into the trunk’s leather binding. The trunk shook itself back and forth in defiance, although rather awkwardly due to its missing leg, and slammed it’s lock-latch down for reinforcement.
“Give it to me or I shall hack you open with the axe!” The trunk looked towards the door to where the axe leaned glistening against he wall, sunlight pouring through the window and shining off its blade. The axe wiggled a bit, slicing through a stray dust mote, then leered at the trunk and glinted some more for emphasis.
Shivering, the trunk popped its lock-latch and creaked open its jaw. There, nestled among old afghans and hats and spare capes, was the spell book. Just as the witch reached for her prize, the trunk dropped its lid half-down, the threat to snap shut on the witch’s fingertips apparent.
“Ive had about enough of you, you dusty old thing. Ought to put you outside and let you rot, that’s what I ought to do. And I would, too, except that I’ve somewhere to be.” She crooked one gnarled finger at the trunk, narrowing her eyes in malevolence.
She turned then, the run-in with the trunk all but forgotten. “Broom!” she bellowed, smoothing her cape and setting a musty old hat atop her head. Up popped the broom from behind the couch, where it had been snuffling after a newt freed from its jar during the commotion. It flew to the witch, dodging here and there, barking in excitement.
“Door!” she bellowed again, causing it to fling itself open. She grasped the broom roughly about the neck, then jumped on and gave it a shake to calm its ridiculous energy. The witch pushed off and flew out the door, which snapped shut directly behind her. The door, as it happened, was exceptionally conscious of letting drafts into the cottage.
“Oh dear,” the wand worried, hovering by the window. “It would appear she’s forgotten me again.” It thought of chasing after her, but decided to sit and wait instead, until she realized her error and returned. Wands, after all, are much slower than brooms, and it didn’t see the point in wasting all that energy hustling about.
“Cauldon?” It turned towards the cauldron, who slumped over further and grumbled disagreeably to whatever the wand was proposing. “What do you say we prepare a nice cup of tea for her, hmm?”
And so they settled in to wait, and set about making tea and cleaning up the mess left behind in the witch’s hurry to be off. Smoke snaked up out of the chimney of the little cottage, who wished desperately that they would stop using it’s hearth so often; the soot wreaked havoc on its sinuses.
The trunk tried to slide behind a bookshelf, only too late remembering that it was dragging a corner, its leg lost decades ago to a spell that called for a chunk of hardwood.
“Aha!” crowed the witch, diving at the trunk, attempting to pry its jaws open. “Give it to me!” she croaked out, heels buried in the floor, fingertips digging into the trunk’s leather binding. The trunk shook itself back and forth in defiance, although rather awkwardly due to its missing leg, and slammed it’s lock-latch down for reinforcement.
“Give it to me or I shall hack you open with the axe!” The trunk looked towards the door to where the axe leaned glistening against he wall, sunlight pouring through the window and shining off its blade. The axe wiggled a bit, slicing through a stray dust mote, then leered at the trunk and glinted some more for emphasis.
Shivering, the trunk popped its lock-latch and creaked open its jaw. There, nestled among old afghans and hats and spare capes, was the spell book. Just as the witch reached for her prize, the trunk dropped its lid half-down, the threat to snap shut on the witch’s fingertips apparent.
“Ive had about enough of you, you dusty old thing. Ought to put you outside and let you rot, that’s what I ought to do. And I would, too, except that I’ve somewhere to be.” She crooked one gnarled finger at the trunk, narrowing her eyes in malevolence.
She turned then, the run-in with the trunk all but forgotten. “Broom!” she bellowed, smoothing her cape and setting a musty old hat atop her head. Up popped the broom from behind the couch, where it had been snuffling after a newt freed from its jar during the commotion. It flew to the witch, dodging here and there, barking in excitement.
“Door!” she bellowed again, causing it to fling itself open. She grasped the broom roughly about the neck, then jumped on and gave it a shake to calm its ridiculous energy. The witch pushed off and flew out the door, which snapped shut directly behind her. The door, as it happened, was exceptionally conscious of letting drafts into the cottage.
“Oh dear,” the wand worried, hovering by the window. “It would appear she’s forgotten me again.” It thought of chasing after her, but decided to sit and wait instead, until she realized her error and returned. Wands, after all, are much slower than brooms, and it didn’t see the point in wasting all that energy hustling about.
“Cauldon?” It turned towards the cauldron, who slumped over further and grumbled disagreeably to whatever the wand was proposing. “What do you say we prepare a nice cup of tea for her, hmm?”
And so they settled in to wait, and set about making tea and cleaning up the mess left behind in the witch’s hurry to be off. Smoke snaked up out of the chimney of the little cottage, who wished desperately that they would stop using it’s hearth so often; the soot wreaked havoc on its sinuses.
Monday, January 23, 2006
The Single Life
I went book-shopping today. The gal at the book store gave me a great deal on a few stacks of hardcovers (3 for $1.... cant beat that!). I went to the grocery store, I took my instrument in to be refurbished (it was underwater for a few weeks during the flood last fall).
Today was the first day I've actually ENJOYED being alone since my return to the US. I suppose a month and a half isn't a terribly long time to adjust to the single life, I just expected it to come sooner than it did. Part of it, I'm sure, is the vacation I took last week. I spent a lot of time thinking, and talking with a friend, and just processing everything that's happened over the past few months. Part of it's been re-visiting myself, before I left. Part of it's redifining my wants and needs, and redefining the time line for satisfying those.
So, life is good. Things are getting better. Next step? Getting out of my jammies before noon for a week straight...
Today was the first day I've actually ENJOYED being alone since my return to the US. I suppose a month and a half isn't a terribly long time to adjust to the single life, I just expected it to come sooner than it did. Part of it, I'm sure, is the vacation I took last week. I spent a lot of time thinking, and talking with a friend, and just processing everything that's happened over the past few months. Part of it's been re-visiting myself, before I left. Part of it's redifining my wants and needs, and redefining the time line for satisfying those.
So, life is good. Things are getting better. Next step? Getting out of my jammies before noon for a week straight...
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Happy Birthday to me
From my Doha Diary:
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January 17, 2005: Happy birthday to me.
It was kind of odd... quiet. Not that they're ever anything but quiet, because well, let's face it, I'm pretty solitary, but today was exceptionally quiet.
I got up and made a cake at 5am, because the girls in the office love my cakes, and pineapple upside down cake is worth packing on a pound or two for. The girls at work took me out for lunch (well, went out to lunch with me... I bought my own meal). Mother wasn't feeling well, so she was in bed moaning about a migraine when I got home.
I sat down at the kitchen table and had a piece of "birthday cake", and sang myself the Happy Birthday song in my head, then went upstairs and read for a few hours. It was exceptionally uneventful, and peacefull. A friend back home said it was sad that I had to make my own cake. It didn't occur to me that it would be sad. My mother is "sick", I've only been in Qatar for a month... who else would make it? I still don't think it's sad...
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I remember that day more clearly than I remember the movie I watched last week. I lied, in the entry. It WAS sad. I was lonely, and miserable, and I wanted to go home. But I didn't... I stayed, and I learned, and I'm glad for it. I resolved that day that I would go out and meet people and make friends in Doha, that I would find a life there, and that's precisely what I did.
People tend to find determination around major milestone days. Days like New Year's Eve, or birthdays, or anniversaries, or the death of a loved one. I tend to make resolutions on my birthday, rather than at New Year. It just makes sense to me that the anniversary marking the amount of time I've been on this Earth would be a good day to mark the setting down of a stepping stone.
The resolution this year? To take better care of myself.
Saying it is easy. It's a vague, fluid concept that requires a lot of definition. I sat down and wrote out my own personal definition of what it'll take. I know. It isn't easy at all. It's hard, and long, and it'll probably take me years to get it right. Maybe a lifetime. But I'll be better for it. I'll be happier. And isn't that what it's all about, really?
Friday, January 13, 2006
The speed of obsession
I drove out to a friend of mine's yesterday for lunch, because he was having a crap day and needed the company, and I needed human contact. On my way out there, I'm zooming down a major highway, singing along with a fabulous local rock band, and the next thing you know, there's a cop coming down the offramp to my right. I'm busted, and I know it. I pulled over before he even had a chance to turn his lights all the way on. He gets out of the car with a smile on his face, and walks up to my window.
"Did you know you were going 90 under that overpass?" Ninety? I was going at least 95, but sure, I'd take the favor.
"No Sir, I did not. 90 huh? Yeah, 90's pretty fast." I passed him my license and settled in to wait. As I sat there, worrying the steering wheel with my fingertips, I remembered my "former life", before I went overseas, before I came back as somebody else. I remembered some one else getting in trouble with the law...
"Did you know you were going 90 under that overpass?" Ninety? I was going at least 95, but sure, I'd take the favor.
"No Sir, I did not. 90 huh? Yeah, 90's pretty fast." I passed him my license and settled in to wait. As I sat there, worrying the steering wheel with my fingertips, I remembered my "former life", before I went overseas, before I came back as somebody else. I remembered some one else getting in trouble with the law...
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Bentley* was 32 when I was 19. He was tall and stunningly slim, with ink-black hair, deep, penetrating eyes, and olive skin. He was slick, articulate, graceful, and refined. He was gorgeous, and I was in love. Actually, I was more than in love... I was obsessed.
Bentley worked long, impossible hours at a difficult, thankless job. He liked to watch sports in the evening, was a pretty darn good cook, and would come up with the sweetest, most thoughtful surprises at random. He was also unreliable, emotionally distant, impulsive, and childish. We had the type of emotionally-intense, dramatic relationship they write sap romances about. We loved each other passionately at night, and in the morning, I'd whine that I didn't see him often enough, or long enough, or that I wasn't an important enough fixture in his life, or any number of other things that young women try to lace men down with. With Bentley, that was relationship suicide. I don't know why he kept me around for as long as he did. I was cloying, and needy, and I just couldn't understand why he couldn't drown in me the way I wanted him to.
So... on to the story. He was having a night out with his co-workers, and I wasn't invited. He was supposed to call on his way home from the bar. I waited up until nearly 3am (the bars in my area close at 2), and the phone never rang. When I called the next morning, he didn't pick up. I didn't actually hear from him until mid-afternoon the following day.
Apparently, he'd been pulled over on his way home from the bar. Bentley wasn't a heavy drinker, but he wasn't the most aware drinker, either. There were a lot of times he stumbled through the front door and I gave him hell because he shouldn't have been driving. This, apparently, would have been one of those times. He'd failed a breathalizer test at a standard sobriety checkpoint. He'd been arrested, of course, and issued a DUI. His license had been confiscated. His precious cherry-red Lexus had been impounded.
Bentley could have said:
"Maybe I shouldn't have had that last drink," or,
"Maybe I should've waited longer before I got behind the wheel."
But he didn't. He said the test wasn't performed correctly, that the police officer didn't inform him of all his options, that, despite the fact that he was, in fact, driving under the influence, that it didn't matter, because the test was invalid. He said whatever it took to get the charges dropped and the DUI dismissed.
"Maybe I shouldn't have had that last drink," or,
"Maybe I should've waited longer before I got behind the wheel."
But he didn't. He said the test wasn't performed correctly, that the police officer didn't inform him of all his options, that, despite the fact that he was, in fact, driving under the influence, that it didn't matter, because the test was invalid. He said whatever it took to get the charges dropped and the DUI dismissed.
I never could look at him quite the same, after that. It was the beginning of the end...
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So I sat in my seat, fingers plucking at the strings in the steering wheel, thinking that I could talk myself out of this ticket, if I really wanted to. But I didn't. I didn't even try.
Why? Because the cop was just doing his job. Because I really WAS speeding excessively. Because I deserved the ticket ($168, by the way). Because I drive fast regularly, and it makes sense that I should pay more for my insurance because of it.
Because accpeting the consequences of my actions is the right thing to do, and that's reason enough for me.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Homeless groceries
"Solitude is the profoundest fact of the human condition. Man is the only being who knows he is alone." (Octavio Paz)
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Yesterday, I went to rummage through the fridge, searching for something to nibble on to satisfy the gnawing hunger in my neglected belly. I really should eat more often, but I get distracted. Right. So today, I was on my way home from the beautician, coming up to the intersection where my regular grocery is. The grocer is the center anchor in a small shopping strip, with a barber and post office to the left, and a military recruiter and liquor store on the right (funny that they'd put those two next to one another). I slide my car in and head inside.
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Yesterday, I went to rummage through the fridge, searching for something to nibble on to satisfy the gnawing hunger in my neglected belly. I really should eat more often, but I get distracted. Right. So today, I was on my way home from the beautician, coming up to the intersection where my regular grocery is. The grocer is the center anchor in a small shopping strip, with a barber and post office to the left, and a military recruiter and liquor store on the right (funny that they'd put those two next to one another). I slide my car in and head inside.
There was a homeless man stumbling around on the sidewalk in front of the liquor store. It's cold out, 30 degrees, and he couldn't seem to decide whether it was more important to hold his bottle, or keep his fingers safe in the warm confines of his coat. He starts waving his arms around and screaming at another homeless person (female, I think, but it was hard to tell) picking up something off the ground in the doorway of the grocery.
"Hey! I been lookin' for you!"
"Why? Why you been lookin' for me?" she screamed back, rolling her lips open in a sort of snarl, showing her toothless gums. They walked towards each other, exchanged a few muffled words, and the next thing I know, they were swinging at each other. The sky was grey and heavy with impending snow. The temperature was only going to drop from there on out. I don't know if those two actually had something to argue about, or if they were just trying to get in out of the cold.
I thought about them while I meandered through the grocery. Maybe it's the solitude. Maybe, since they don't have any one else to interact with, since there isn't any one who ever says much to them, aside from, "Get a job, ya bum!" maybe they lost the ability to connect, to discuss, to communicate. Maybe they fell together, because there wasn't any one else to fall into. Maybe...
Thursday, January 05, 2006
I'm not "People"
"People" are selfish. They're arrogant, and pushy, and needy. "People" drop the door when you're walking in behind them, and cut you off during rush-hour without waving a "sorry". "People" think their time is more important than yours is. "People" let their kids cry in restaraunts, and don't pick things up off the floor when they drop them in department stores. I dont like "people"... but I'm not one of them.
Neither is my friend L, whom, I expect, hasn't been "people" for decades. He also happens to be the most thoughtful, selfless man I know. L invited himself over for a movie last week. He knew I was having a crap day, and that I needed to get out of the house. The theater, unfortunately, was closed (price you pay for living in a small Midwestern town, I suppose). We decided to go for a beer, instead. Now, when I say I'm "not a big drinker", I'm significantly understating the situation. I drink about twice a year, three times if I'm feeling frisky. The last time I've had anything with alcohol in it was probably close to six months ago. We squat on a couple of bar stools and order. The bartender mixes my drink pretty strong, so after choking down a swig or two, I call her over.
"Can you throw some more non-alcoholic liquid in that thing, babe?"
"Sure," she says. "What would you like?"
Now, I'm not sure what, exactly, is in the drink I ordered, only that the last time I had it at this place, I liked it.
"Whatever you put in it before is fine." She shoots a couple spurts of various colors from the fluid spout, and hands it back. I turn back to L with my newly-diluted beverage. "My sister wants me to go to her house and play cards with her and her friends."
"You gonna go?" he asks, clinking the ice in his glass.
"Nah. I don't much care for her friends. Besides, I'll probably be drunk by the time I finish this!." I grin, and take another swig. I'm only 1/3 of the way into it, and already I can feel my tongue is getting heavy.
We talk about life, and love, and work, and his kids. We talk about my health.
"You'd be amazed at what all has milk in it," I babble, chasing ice cubes around my glass with a pink plastic straw. I tell him about not being able to go with Dad to Korea when I was sixteen, because I have to be within 30 minutes of a hospital. I tell him about going into anaphlylactic shock as a kid when I accidentally ate something I wasn't supposed to.
By the time we finish our drinks (one each, mind you), I'm more than a little tipsy. L drives me home, walks me to the door like the gentleman he is, and sends me off to bed with a "Good night!" and a wave. When he gets home, L shoots me an IM.
"How ya feelin?" He knows I'm a little loopy.
"My head feels like a fishbowl..." We chit-chat for a minute or two before my phone rings.
"Whassup, biatch!" My sister, in all her rambunctious splendor.
"Nothin," I slur, giggling.
"Ohmigod, are you drunk!?!" she squeels into the phone. I swear she nearly popped my eardrum. "She's drunk!" I can hear her saying to some one in the background. "Can you believe that? My sister is drunk!!!" They have a laugh (at my expense, of course).
"Get your coat on. I'm outside." Demanding little thing, ain't she?
"Wha? Where are we going?" I'm now peeking through the front window at the car parked on the street, full of three faces pressed against glass, trying to catch a glimpse of me stumbling around my living room.
"To the store!" My sister's a shop-a-holic. Did I mention it's about 11pm? What on earth could she need from the store at 11pm?? My sister, by the way, is "people". So are her friends.
I crawl into my coat, stumble out the door, and the next thing I know, we're whizzing through the streets of my little town. The next few hours of entertainment involve watching my sister and her two friends play Halo on their playstation and eating cold McDonald's fries. I'd like to say it was better than sitting at home, alone, but in all honesty, I'd rather push a screwdriver through my eye than have a repeat of that night.
When they finally drop me back off at my place, somewhere around 2am, there's a note in my door...
"She says: My head feels like a fishbowl.
She asks a question.
He answers.
She doesn't reply.
He thinks about the medical problem.
He thinks about how she didn't know exactly what was in the drink.
He thinks about a head like a fishbowl.
He thinks about her falling to the floor.
He thinks about calling 911.
He knows he worries too much and that the internet is a shitty place and people aren't always like they are in real life but he can't get the image of her passed out on the floor out of his mind.
He drives back to her house in 25 minutes. He finds the inside lights off and the porch light on. He realizes what he's been pretty sure of the whole time.
She's not dieing.
She just left."
L lives 45 minutes away from me. He went all the way home, and drove all the way back out here to make sure I was alright, even though he knew I was probably with my sister. L was thinking more about my health and well-being than his own time, convenience, and lack of sleep. L is not "poeple". I'm lucky to have L.
Neither is my friend L, whom, I expect, hasn't been "people" for decades. He also happens to be the most thoughtful, selfless man I know. L invited himself over for a movie last week. He knew I was having a crap day, and that I needed to get out of the house. The theater, unfortunately, was closed (price you pay for living in a small Midwestern town, I suppose). We decided to go for a beer, instead. Now, when I say I'm "not a big drinker", I'm significantly understating the situation. I drink about twice a year, three times if I'm feeling frisky. The last time I've had anything with alcohol in it was probably close to six months ago. We squat on a couple of bar stools and order. The bartender mixes my drink pretty strong, so after choking down a swig or two, I call her over.
"Can you throw some more non-alcoholic liquid in that thing, babe?"
"Sure," she says. "What would you like?"
Now, I'm not sure what, exactly, is in the drink I ordered, only that the last time I had it at this place, I liked it.
"Whatever you put in it before is fine." She shoots a couple spurts of various colors from the fluid spout, and hands it back. I turn back to L with my newly-diluted beverage. "My sister wants me to go to her house and play cards with her and her friends."
"You gonna go?" he asks, clinking the ice in his glass.
"Nah. I don't much care for her friends. Besides, I'll probably be drunk by the time I finish this!." I grin, and take another swig. I'm only 1/3 of the way into it, and already I can feel my tongue is getting heavy.
We talk about life, and love, and work, and his kids. We talk about my health.
"You'd be amazed at what all has milk in it," I babble, chasing ice cubes around my glass with a pink plastic straw. I tell him about not being able to go with Dad to Korea when I was sixteen, because I have to be within 30 minutes of a hospital. I tell him about going into anaphlylactic shock as a kid when I accidentally ate something I wasn't supposed to.
By the time we finish our drinks (one each, mind you), I'm more than a little tipsy. L drives me home, walks me to the door like the gentleman he is, and sends me off to bed with a "Good night!" and a wave. When he gets home, L shoots me an IM.
"How ya feelin?" He knows I'm a little loopy.
"My head feels like a fishbowl..." We chit-chat for a minute or two before my phone rings.
"Whassup, biatch!" My sister, in all her rambunctious splendor.
"Nothin," I slur, giggling.
"Ohmigod, are you drunk!?!" she squeels into the phone. I swear she nearly popped my eardrum. "She's drunk!" I can hear her saying to some one in the background. "Can you believe that? My sister is drunk!!!" They have a laugh (at my expense, of course).
"Get your coat on. I'm outside." Demanding little thing, ain't she?
"Wha? Where are we going?" I'm now peeking through the front window at the car parked on the street, full of three faces pressed against glass, trying to catch a glimpse of me stumbling around my living room.
"To the store!" My sister's a shop-a-holic. Did I mention it's about 11pm? What on earth could she need from the store at 11pm?? My sister, by the way, is "people". So are her friends.
I crawl into my coat, stumble out the door, and the next thing I know, we're whizzing through the streets of my little town. The next few hours of entertainment involve watching my sister and her two friends play Halo on their playstation and eating cold McDonald's fries. I'd like to say it was better than sitting at home, alone, but in all honesty, I'd rather push a screwdriver through my eye than have a repeat of that night.
When they finally drop me back off at my place, somewhere around 2am, there's a note in my door...
"She says: My head feels like a fishbowl.
She asks a question.
He answers.
She doesn't reply.
He thinks about the medical problem.
He thinks about how she didn't know exactly what was in the drink.
He thinks about a head like a fishbowl.
He thinks about her falling to the floor.
He thinks about calling 911.
He knows he worries too much and that the internet is a shitty place and people aren't always like they are in real life but he can't get the image of her passed out on the floor out of his mind.
He drives back to her house in 25 minutes. He finds the inside lights off and the porch light on. He realizes what he's been pretty sure of the whole time.
She's not dieing.
She just left."
L lives 45 minutes away from me. He went all the way home, and drove all the way back out here to make sure I was alright, even though he knew I was probably with my sister. L was thinking more about my health and well-being than his own time, convenience, and lack of sleep. L is not "poeple". I'm lucky to have L.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Food for thought
A (male) friend took me to dinner last night, since I was accompanying him to go buy furniture (giving a woman's perspective, i guess). The waiter's cute, and young (21, it turns out), and comes up to our table looking like somebody just ran over his dog. I've worked service for 10 years, give or take. I know what it's like to not want to be there, to not want to plaster a fake smile on your face and sing the old refrain of, "The customer's always right!" But that's the job. Sometimes the job sucks.
So I start grinning at the guy, cracking jokes, making lots of eye contact and generally attempting to add levity to his situation. It works. The kid is walking a little taller every time he comes by our table, and is now smiling and laughing right along with us. He swings by to check up on us about half-way through our meal and comes out with, "Just wanted you guys to know I took $5 off your ticket, because you're being so cool about everything."
Now, I've been comped stuff before, for various reasons... a mistake was made, the guy behind the bar was trying to flirt, whatever, but never simply for making somebody smile. This is a good feeling.
The check comes, and my friend is picking up the tab. It's a mid-grade Italian chain joint without a lot of foot-traffic. After the $5 deduction, the bill's $27 and some change. My friend leaves $31.
Four bucks. Less, actually, taking into account the change factor. That's it?!? Now, I understand that's %15 off the modified ticket, and %15 is a decent tip from a cheap suburbanite in his mid-forties. I, on the other hand, know that wait staff in my area make less than $3 an hour. The place is dead, we're the kid's only table, and he provided exceptional service. I don't think it's enough, but I'm not buying. It takes me two seconds to come up with a solution.
"Why don't you go grab the car. I'm gonna run to the ladies' room, and I'll meet you out front." Being the gentleman that he is, I probably would have had to stand on the curb and wait for him to pull the car around anyway, so this makes sense. I move towards the bathroom to reapply my lipstick as he goes to fetch the car. I fish a $10 out of my purse before heading out of the can.
On my way out, the kid's dealing with some customer in the corner who's talking to him like he's not worth the dirt on the bottom of her shoe. I drop the ten on the table and walk out with a smile.
Ever been in this situation? Does it make you uncomfortable to go out with a "cheap" friend? If you were the buyer, would it piss you off if you found out your friend slipped a little extra to the waiter on the sly?
UPDATE: Well, guilt finally got the better of me (that didn't last long). I told my friend what I did. He laughed at me. "So, you think I'm cheap?" I knew that was coming.
"You should have just tossed a couple bucks on the bill, if you thought he needed a bigger tip." I explained that I didn't want to offend him. Friendship, apparently, transcends small slights such as these.
I'm all smiles now. My friend isn't angry, I have my sneaky behavior off my concience, and the waiter got a 50% tip. All is right with the world.
So I start grinning at the guy, cracking jokes, making lots of eye contact and generally attempting to add levity to his situation. It works. The kid is walking a little taller every time he comes by our table, and is now smiling and laughing right along with us. He swings by to check up on us about half-way through our meal and comes out with, "Just wanted you guys to know I took $5 off your ticket, because you're being so cool about everything."
Now, I've been comped stuff before, for various reasons... a mistake was made, the guy behind the bar was trying to flirt, whatever, but never simply for making somebody smile. This is a good feeling.
The check comes, and my friend is picking up the tab. It's a mid-grade Italian chain joint without a lot of foot-traffic. After the $5 deduction, the bill's $27 and some change. My friend leaves $31.
Four bucks. Less, actually, taking into account the change factor. That's it?!? Now, I understand that's %15 off the modified ticket, and %15 is a decent tip from a cheap suburbanite in his mid-forties. I, on the other hand, know that wait staff in my area make less than $3 an hour. The place is dead, we're the kid's only table, and he provided exceptional service. I don't think it's enough, but I'm not buying. It takes me two seconds to come up with a solution.
"Why don't you go grab the car. I'm gonna run to the ladies' room, and I'll meet you out front." Being the gentleman that he is, I probably would have had to stand on the curb and wait for him to pull the car around anyway, so this makes sense. I move towards the bathroom to reapply my lipstick as he goes to fetch the car. I fish a $10 out of my purse before heading out of the can.
On my way out, the kid's dealing with some customer in the corner who's talking to him like he's not worth the dirt on the bottom of her shoe. I drop the ten on the table and walk out with a smile.
Ever been in this situation? Does it make you uncomfortable to go out with a "cheap" friend? If you were the buyer, would it piss you off if you found out your friend slipped a little extra to the waiter on the sly?
--------------------------------------------------------------------
UPDATE: Well, guilt finally got the better of me (that didn't last long). I told my friend what I did. He laughed at me. "So, you think I'm cheap?" I knew that was coming.
"You should have just tossed a couple bucks on the bill, if you thought he needed a bigger tip." I explained that I didn't want to offend him. Friendship, apparently, transcends small slights such as these.
I'm all smiles now. My friend isn't angry, I have my sneaky behavior off my concience, and the waiter got a 50% tip. All is right with the world.
In the beginning...
"You know...that a blank wall is an apalling thing to look at. The wall of a museum -- a canvas -- a piece of film -- or a guy sitting in front of a typewriter. Then, you start out to do something -- that vague thing called creation. The beginning strikes awe within you." -Edward Steichen
I don't consider myself trendy. I don't listen to modern music. I haven't got a clue what hip-hop is all about, or why it's so popular. My clothing is out-of-date and conservative. I don't have, and never have had, a tongue, eyebrow, or belly-button ring. I think cel phones are social atrocities. I don't even own a television. Among people of my own age group, I stick out like a tick on a hairless cat.
In a lot of ways, I'm just like everybody else: I hit the snooze button in the morning. I put my pants on one leg at a time (most days I even remember the underwear before I get the fly zipped). I break the speed limit and don't come to a full stop at stop signs.
I've also been married three times, spent a year in the middle east just to see what it was like, and bought a house at the age of 19. I have a mural of jazz players that stretches around my living room; I painted it on a whim one afternoon.
Life, for me, is fluid.
The purpose of the blog is to relay day-to-day life and observations from the point of view of a twenty-something female in today's American climate.
Maybe not edge-of-your-seat type stuff, but it keeps me entertained from sun-up to sun-down... and then some.
I don't consider myself trendy. I don't listen to modern music. I haven't got a clue what hip-hop is all about, or why it's so popular. My clothing is out-of-date and conservative. I don't have, and never have had, a tongue, eyebrow, or belly-button ring. I think cel phones are social atrocities. I don't even own a television. Among people of my own age group, I stick out like a tick on a hairless cat.
In a lot of ways, I'm just like everybody else: I hit the snooze button in the morning. I put my pants on one leg at a time (most days I even remember the underwear before I get the fly zipped). I break the speed limit and don't come to a full stop at stop signs.
I've also been married three times, spent a year in the middle east just to see what it was like, and bought a house at the age of 19. I have a mural of jazz players that stretches around my living room; I painted it on a whim one afternoon.
Life, for me, is fluid.
The purpose of the blog is to relay day-to-day life and observations from the point of view of a twenty-something female in today's American climate.
Maybe not edge-of-your-seat type stuff, but it keeps me entertained from sun-up to sun-down... and then some.
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