I still wonder if Brian left the notebook out purposefully. It would seem so. I guess leaving it out would be the perfect way to get someone annoying to leave you alone. I remember several occasions in which I have passive-aggressively insulted someone with the intention of burning the bridge.
Manny was a problem to get rid of. He was a scavenger, as defined by Dave Chapelle. He never had his own weed, but whenever you had some, here he came. He wasn’t the first scavenger I had ever known. Truthfully, I had a few friends who could be defined as such. What made Manny so irritating was his complete inability to handle his chemicals and the resulting damage to my property. I had already given him two of my towels, filled with puddles of his own vomit. I wasn’t feeling much like investing in any more, nor did I have any oxy clean for the carpets.
The day finally came that my idiot boyfriend was not there to welcome him. When he knocked, I looked through the peephole cleared my throat loudly. I turned up the stereo, made a fake phone call and even hit the bong hard enough to send myself in to a coughing fit. I peeked outside a couple times to make sure that he had heard me. He knocked several more times before finally turning to leave. I waited until he was at the bottom of the stairs before I opened the door. When he turned to look at me, I said:
“I didn’t open the door for a reason.” I waved and shut the door.
That clicked. We never saw Manny again. Good riddance.
Later in my adventures, I was on a date that was apparently mistaken as a platonic get together by another would-be-suitor in the bar. I am not sure what compelled me to lead him on a little. Maybe it was the brass ones he showed when he visibly admired my ass leaning over the pool table. --Admire, but please try to keep from drooling— No, maybe it was the later brazen “accidental” stroke of my left one that forced me to don a fake smile and make this guy think he had a chance. I was almost too happy to give him the phone number I had waiting. I wrote it on a cocktail napkin.
---I still have to thank the people who created the recording—
The rejection hotline informed this game-lacking ass clown that not only did I not want him to have my real number, but that the thought of dating such an individual is as appealing as “playing leapfrog with Unicorns.” Pure. Genius.
Rewind to the awkwardness of 14 and I am staring at a notebook page that has been divided in to 2 columns. One column is marked “People We Love.” Below it is a list of names that includes several of my friends, and several of my unfriends. The second column is labeled “People We Bash.” My name is second on the list; the first is my mother.
I don’t remember reacting. Brian returned to the room to find me standing by the desk in front of the open notebook. He said nothing, not even looking at the notebook. I had just arrived, but I told him I had to leave. I was crushed by my crush, but his plan was effective. I never attempted to speak to him or his friends again.
There is no moral here. How could there be?
The End.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
So I dated a squirrel killer
I never really did like his bedroom. It smelled weird. I think it was a combination of jockstrap, musty basement, and the ferret in the next room. What made it worse was the shit poster above the headboard. Cartoons of drunken turds wearing sombreros, corny turds, ghost turds and menacingly dangly turds were cataloged and classified. I promised myself it would not be the room I lost my v-card in. I couldn’t bear the thought of being at eye level with the Anaconda turd. I had higher standards than that.
He popped my cherry in the back of his 1994 Ford Blazer. We drove it to a campsite in the mountains, one he had visited before. We lit a citronella candle and rested it on the console. He was kind enough to fold the seat flat and pad everything with sleeping bags and blankets. Then he took my hand and led me to a tree in the corner of the campsite.
Carving initials in a tree used to be such a cute and romantic thing but something, somewhere, went horribly wrong. The “I” stood a couple feet above my head, about 6 inches from top to bottom. A heart of similar size was carved beneath it. Following in order down the trunk of the tree were the 5 characters of my name, the final at the level of my feet. While I gaped, perplexed, he described the ritualistic animal sacrifice he performed after he had carved it. The squirrel had been decapitated and the blood used to color the heart red. I received a printed photo of the artwork.
Maybe part of me thought it wildly rebellious, a fitting match to the black nail polish I wore and the ballpoint pen masterpiece I had drawn on my arm. Maybe it was because I had put it off for a year and a half. Maybe I felt guilty? He had certainly been patient, and apparently pent up sexual tension can drive a teenage boy to murder innocent forest creatures. I had turned him down numerous times, including prom night, saying that I was not ready. My conscious would tell you that I was ready, but not for him.
But I conceded. I gave up. I let the squirrel killer deflower me. I stared at the ironic full moon, feeling cold and numb, lacking completely the fiery arousal I felt during other dark and secret encounters. I didn’t realize I was crying until my tears were mistaken for those of happiness and I lied in 4 words: “I love you, too.”
***
Four years later and the passing scent of animal reminds me of ferrets and squirrels. I shake off the fog of memory and contemplate the bona fide nut-job that now sits before me. He is sipping coffee and I find myself inadvertently staring at the evil clown tattooed on his arm. Apparently the look on my face is one of horror, because he laughs.
“Yeah, I didn’t think you would like it.”
I only shrug an acknowledgment.
“Where are you headed next?” I ask. This is our first encounter in a year. Six months ago I effectively ended our Colorado to Okinawa relationship, but I had agreed to see him when he came back to town.
“North Carolina. I leave in two days.”
“It would never work out.”
“It would if you wanted it to.”
I don’t respond. I can’t argue with that point.
We say goodbye in our usual screwed-up fashion. We make out in his car. He still slobbers. I still talk to myself when I kiss him, running over to do lists in my head or wishing for a handkerchief to wipe the drool. I pull back abruptly.
“This is not a good idea.” I say.
He pauses for a second and then starts the car, speeding through lights and fishtailing through turns in his new Camaro until he reaches my apartment. He reaches in his glove compartment and pulls out a pen, scribbles his cell number on a piece of paper and shoves it in to my hand.
“If you call this number before I leave in two days, then I know we have a chance. Otherwise, it’s been nice lovin’ ya.” He says through furious eyes.
“Oh!“ He adds with a sudden grin, “And good luck with that short fuck you are dating now.”
Oh. Shit. He has been watching me somewhere... and he is dead right. My short-fuck future is exactly that. What the new lacks in evil clown tattoos he makes up for in sexual dysfunction and the occasional need for help wiping his own ass. I play it off like this assessment is totally wrong and, with as much dignity as I can muster, I exit the vehicle with time enough to catch my balance as he speeds away.
The next morning, in a momentary panic, I try to find the piece of paper with his number on it but some benevolent force of nature has caused it to disappear.
He popped my cherry in the back of his 1994 Ford Blazer. We drove it to a campsite in the mountains, one he had visited before. We lit a citronella candle and rested it on the console. He was kind enough to fold the seat flat and pad everything with sleeping bags and blankets. Then he took my hand and led me to a tree in the corner of the campsite.
Carving initials in a tree used to be such a cute and romantic thing but something, somewhere, went horribly wrong. The “I” stood a couple feet above my head, about 6 inches from top to bottom. A heart of similar size was carved beneath it. Following in order down the trunk of the tree were the 5 characters of my name, the final at the level of my feet. While I gaped, perplexed, he described the ritualistic animal sacrifice he performed after he had carved it. The squirrel had been decapitated and the blood used to color the heart red. I received a printed photo of the artwork.
Maybe part of me thought it wildly rebellious, a fitting match to the black nail polish I wore and the ballpoint pen masterpiece I had drawn on my arm. Maybe it was because I had put it off for a year and a half. Maybe I felt guilty? He had certainly been patient, and apparently pent up sexual tension can drive a teenage boy to murder innocent forest creatures. I had turned him down numerous times, including prom night, saying that I was not ready. My conscious would tell you that I was ready, but not for him.
But I conceded. I gave up. I let the squirrel killer deflower me. I stared at the ironic full moon, feeling cold and numb, lacking completely the fiery arousal I felt during other dark and secret encounters. I didn’t realize I was crying until my tears were mistaken for those of happiness and I lied in 4 words: “I love you, too.”
***
Four years later and the passing scent of animal reminds me of ferrets and squirrels. I shake off the fog of memory and contemplate the bona fide nut-job that now sits before me. He is sipping coffee and I find myself inadvertently staring at the evil clown tattooed on his arm. Apparently the look on my face is one of horror, because he laughs.
“Yeah, I didn’t think you would like it.”
I only shrug an acknowledgment.
“Where are you headed next?” I ask. This is our first encounter in a year. Six months ago I effectively ended our Colorado to Okinawa relationship, but I had agreed to see him when he came back to town.
“North Carolina. I leave in two days.”
“It would never work out.”
“It would if you wanted it to.”
I don’t respond. I can’t argue with that point.
We say goodbye in our usual screwed-up fashion. We make out in his car. He still slobbers. I still talk to myself when I kiss him, running over to do lists in my head or wishing for a handkerchief to wipe the drool. I pull back abruptly.
“This is not a good idea.” I say.
He pauses for a second and then starts the car, speeding through lights and fishtailing through turns in his new Camaro until he reaches my apartment. He reaches in his glove compartment and pulls out a pen, scribbles his cell number on a piece of paper and shoves it in to my hand.
“If you call this number before I leave in two days, then I know we have a chance. Otherwise, it’s been nice lovin’ ya.” He says through furious eyes.
“Oh!“ He adds with a sudden grin, “And good luck with that short fuck you are dating now.”
Oh. Shit. He has been watching me somewhere... and he is dead right. My short-fuck future is exactly that. What the new lacks in evil clown tattoos he makes up for in sexual dysfunction and the occasional need for help wiping his own ass. I play it off like this assessment is totally wrong and, with as much dignity as I can muster, I exit the vehicle with time enough to catch my balance as he speeds away.
The next morning, in a momentary panic, I try to find the piece of paper with his number on it but some benevolent force of nature has caused it to disappear.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Aught to be Clowns
The microphone smells like vomit and whiskey. I don’t know that, of course. I am making sweet love to it. I am Nora Jones; I am convinced of it. I am Fiona Apple, seducing the men sitting at the bar. Maybe one of them will pay my seventy-three dollar tab.
After my cigarette break, I will become Alicia Keys. My voice will carry out in to the alley and the locals will come flocking. There won’t be much room to flock too. Juan’s place is small and cozy. Some call it stuffy, I prefer to think of it as charming. It is no wider than the alley next to it. Juan even named it so. Jazz Alley… they love me here. This is the peak of my musical career. Here in this stuffy hallway of a bar, I am Aretha Franklin; I am Billie Holiday.
I sit in my stool at the bar and light a Camel. Juan pours a fresh drink. Double Crown and Coke. Sammy casually pokes me in the ribs and I turn to blow my smoke in his face.
“Take it easy, kitten,…” he says as he fans the smoke from his eyes. I don’t know why he cares; he has not been without a lit cigarette for the last 10 years. “You look beautiful tonight, doll…”
“Thanks, Sammy,” I say, impatiently. I slide from my stool and walk toward the front, and only, door. The current karaoke singer is attempting “Carry On My Wayward Son” and he is making a fine mess of things. I say something out loud about how a band should never name itself after a shitty state. Someone says, “Fuck you!” but I am already out the front door and into the November air.
The concrete out front seems slightly unstable, so I settle for leaning against the side of the building. Something is wet on my hand and it takes me a minute to notice how cold it is. I have spilled some of the whiskey and coke on myself.
“FCKiiiiiiiiiiit,” I say, only realizing I have said it out loud when someone responds.
“I’m Sorry??”
“I spilled.” I say, swaying a bit, “I said FUCK IT!!!” I laugh merrily to myself. The man sitting at the table, chuckles.
“You remind me of those old V8 commercials,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
“You know how all of the people were kinda’ leanin’ to the side, like?”
Processing… processing…
The information takes a minute to compute, but I realize that I am leaning, significantly, to my right hand side. I shimmy my way up the wall, in to an upright position before I set my drink on the table. I try to light a new cigarette… I can’t seem to find the one I just had.
He asks me, “How long have you been singing?”
“Dude… only since I was a fetus,” I mumble this through a cigarette and cupped hands. I succeed in burning myself slightly with the flame of the lighter, but I won’t notice it until I see the blister in the morning.
He raises his eyebrows, “You don’t say!” His face is full of laughter, although we are not laughing.
“Yeah, man.” I am all too eager to share my history with this complete stranger, “My mom has had us on a stage since before grade school.”
“Us?” he seems genuinely interested now… and who wouldn’t?
“Me and my brothers.” I say, “They would dress us up and parade us around like little show ponies. Ever since we could memorize a song together she had us entered in all the little talent shows and shit.”
“Well, that’s pretty neat.” He says. I wonder why he has used the word “neat.” What a dumb word. It should only be used when ordering a drink.
“Well, it wasn’t, really,” I say, pretending to be slightly irritated, “It sucked a lot sometimes. You know any John Denver songs?”
“Can’t say that I do…”
“Well, I do! I know them very well.”
“He sang Rocky Mountain High… or whatever it was,” he contributes, valuably.
“Yea!” My mood immediately shifts. “John Denver was a pothead!” I laugh and laugh.
The man is laughing with me now. Later I will amend that to say that he was laughing at me.
“So what else do you sing?”
Disregarding his actual question I say, “Dude, my fuckin’ mom used to make me sing Celine Dion for company at home and for talent shows… I even sang it in church once. We changed the words so that it was about mothers on mother’s day. I mean…. What is that about, man? Celine Dion? What kind of fucked up shit is that?! I was like, thirteen, and singing all about the power of love…What kind of parents do that kind of fucked up shit, man?”
I have his full attention at this point. I am baffling him with the dreadful experiences of my past. He is fascinated that I survived such a psychologically damaging childhood.
“Lemme tell you another thing, dude. My mom was the first person to ever make me stuff my bra!” I say, eyebrows alert, ready for the certain look of shock from my audience.
He laughs, abruptly, startling me a bit.
“Awesome!”
“Not to me! They made me look like I had old saggy tits so I could sing about the bucket.”
“So you could sing about the bucket?” He asks through his continual laughter.
“Yeah, the hole in the bucket dear Liza. Dude! I was Liza!”
“Oh yeah?” Still trembling with amusement.
“Yeah, and my kid brother had a corn-cob pipe. He always got the cool props and shit! I just got saggy tits.”
“That must have made you bitter.”
“What are you, my shrink?”
He shrugged and continued to chuckle.
“They did that shit to me until middle school, when I started to make the rules!” I jam a thumb in my sternum.
“What happened in middle school?”
I try to think through a fog of liquor. Making a mental note that I am cut-off, I push the existing drink away from me.
“I sang a song. One they didn’t know about. I was encouraged to try out for a solo in choir and I got it.”
“What was it?”
I can’t hear his question. I am remembering the day I tried out for that solo.
My heart was pounding. I asked the teacher if I could face away from the class when I sang, so that my voice wouldn’t crack....
“Hellooo in there,” I see a hand wave in front of my face and am abruptly aware of my drunken reality. I can hear my friend, Scott, in the middle of his locally-famous Prince rendition.
“Dude, I gotta go.”
I leave my drink on the table and go inside. A group of people is in the front of the stage, singing along. All I want is your extra time and your….. Kiss!!!
I scribble on a piece of paper and hand it to the DJ.
“Let’s bring Amber back up here. Amber?”
I am situated on a barstool in front of the mic when the music starts and I soulfully begin….
“Isn’t it rich? Aren’t we a pair?......”
Two intoxicated couples slow dance. I sing with my eyes closed, picturing a time when my I wore a teal cumber bund. My hair was longer and my lungs pinker. Within the choir was my support, my motivation. I sang goodbye to my childhood, and to being a show-pony and started to sing for myself.
“I thought that you’d want what I want. Sorry, my dear.”
Juan is grinning behind the bar. Sammy is paying my tab. The man from outside is standing in the doorway, listening.
“But where are the clowns? There aught to be clowns.”
I open my eyes to look around the room. The drunk and desperate are here. The lonely, the depressed, and the hopeless sway over their drinks. This will be my final number.
“Don’t bother. They’re Here….”
After my cigarette break, I will become Alicia Keys. My voice will carry out in to the alley and the locals will come flocking. There won’t be much room to flock too. Juan’s place is small and cozy. Some call it stuffy, I prefer to think of it as charming. It is no wider than the alley next to it. Juan even named it so. Jazz Alley… they love me here. This is the peak of my musical career. Here in this stuffy hallway of a bar, I am Aretha Franklin; I am Billie Holiday.
I sit in my stool at the bar and light a Camel. Juan pours a fresh drink. Double Crown and Coke. Sammy casually pokes me in the ribs and I turn to blow my smoke in his face.
“Take it easy, kitten,…” he says as he fans the smoke from his eyes. I don’t know why he cares; he has not been without a lit cigarette for the last 10 years. “You look beautiful tonight, doll…”
“Thanks, Sammy,” I say, impatiently. I slide from my stool and walk toward the front, and only, door. The current karaoke singer is attempting “Carry On My Wayward Son” and he is making a fine mess of things. I say something out loud about how a band should never name itself after a shitty state. Someone says, “Fuck you!” but I am already out the front door and into the November air.
The concrete out front seems slightly unstable, so I settle for leaning against the side of the building. Something is wet on my hand and it takes me a minute to notice how cold it is. I have spilled some of the whiskey and coke on myself.
“FCKiiiiiiiiiiit,” I say, only realizing I have said it out loud when someone responds.
“I’m Sorry??”
“I spilled.” I say, swaying a bit, “I said FUCK IT!!!” I laugh merrily to myself. The man sitting at the table, chuckles.
“You remind me of those old V8 commercials,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
“You know how all of the people were kinda’ leanin’ to the side, like?”
Processing… processing…
The information takes a minute to compute, but I realize that I am leaning, significantly, to my right hand side. I shimmy my way up the wall, in to an upright position before I set my drink on the table. I try to light a new cigarette… I can’t seem to find the one I just had.
He asks me, “How long have you been singing?”
“Dude… only since I was a fetus,” I mumble this through a cigarette and cupped hands. I succeed in burning myself slightly with the flame of the lighter, but I won’t notice it until I see the blister in the morning.
He raises his eyebrows, “You don’t say!” His face is full of laughter, although we are not laughing.
“Yeah, man.” I am all too eager to share my history with this complete stranger, “My mom has had us on a stage since before grade school.”
“Us?” he seems genuinely interested now… and who wouldn’t?
“Me and my brothers.” I say, “They would dress us up and parade us around like little show ponies. Ever since we could memorize a song together she had us entered in all the little talent shows and shit.”
“Well, that’s pretty neat.” He says. I wonder why he has used the word “neat.” What a dumb word. It should only be used when ordering a drink.
“Well, it wasn’t, really,” I say, pretending to be slightly irritated, “It sucked a lot sometimes. You know any John Denver songs?”
“Can’t say that I do…”
“Well, I do! I know them very well.”
“He sang Rocky Mountain High… or whatever it was,” he contributes, valuably.
“Yea!” My mood immediately shifts. “John Denver was a pothead!” I laugh and laugh.
The man is laughing with me now. Later I will amend that to say that he was laughing at me.
“So what else do you sing?”
Disregarding his actual question I say, “Dude, my fuckin’ mom used to make me sing Celine Dion for company at home and for talent shows… I even sang it in church once. We changed the words so that it was about mothers on mother’s day. I mean…. What is that about, man? Celine Dion? What kind of fucked up shit is that?! I was like, thirteen, and singing all about the power of love…What kind of parents do that kind of fucked up shit, man?”
I have his full attention at this point. I am baffling him with the dreadful experiences of my past. He is fascinated that I survived such a psychologically damaging childhood.
“Lemme tell you another thing, dude. My mom was the first person to ever make me stuff my bra!” I say, eyebrows alert, ready for the certain look of shock from my audience.
He laughs, abruptly, startling me a bit.
“Awesome!”
“Not to me! They made me look like I had old saggy tits so I could sing about the bucket.”
“So you could sing about the bucket?” He asks through his continual laughter.
“Yeah, the hole in the bucket dear Liza. Dude! I was Liza!”
“Oh yeah?” Still trembling with amusement.
“Yeah, and my kid brother had a corn-cob pipe. He always got the cool props and shit! I just got saggy tits.”
“That must have made you bitter.”
“What are you, my shrink?”
He shrugged and continued to chuckle.
“They did that shit to me until middle school, when I started to make the rules!” I jam a thumb in my sternum.
“What happened in middle school?”
I try to think through a fog of liquor. Making a mental note that I am cut-off, I push the existing drink away from me.
“I sang a song. One they didn’t know about. I was encouraged to try out for a solo in choir and I got it.”
“What was it?”
I can’t hear his question. I am remembering the day I tried out for that solo.
My heart was pounding. I asked the teacher if I could face away from the class when I sang, so that my voice wouldn’t crack....
“Hellooo in there,” I see a hand wave in front of my face and am abruptly aware of my drunken reality. I can hear my friend, Scott, in the middle of his locally-famous Prince rendition.
“Dude, I gotta go.”
I leave my drink on the table and go inside. A group of people is in the front of the stage, singing along. All I want is your extra time and your….. Kiss!!!
I scribble on a piece of paper and hand it to the DJ.
“Let’s bring Amber back up here. Amber?”
I am situated on a barstool in front of the mic when the music starts and I soulfully begin….
“Isn’t it rich? Aren’t we a pair?......”
Two intoxicated couples slow dance. I sing with my eyes closed, picturing a time when my I wore a teal cumber bund. My hair was longer and my lungs pinker. Within the choir was my support, my motivation. I sang goodbye to my childhood, and to being a show-pony and started to sing for myself.
“I thought that you’d want what I want. Sorry, my dear.”
Juan is grinning behind the bar. Sammy is paying my tab. The man from outside is standing in the doorway, listening.
“But where are the clowns? There aught to be clowns.”
I open my eyes to look around the room. The drunk and desperate are here. The lonely, the depressed, and the hopeless sway over their drinks. This will be my final number.
“Don’t bother. They’re Here….”
Good Ones
“I am sorry I haven’t been here in a while.” I said as I sat next to Colin. I took a deep breath of the morning air. In the west the mountains towered, sunny and snow- capped, marked by pine and flatiron rocks and set on robin’s egg backdrop. I lit a cigarette and passed it to him.
“I quit,” I said, “So this one is all yours. Turkish Royal.”
His eyebrows met his hairline.
“Well good for you!"
He took a long pull and blew out two smoke rings.
“Is it the same?” I asked.
“What?”
“The cigarette.”
“No. Nothing is. It’s better. There is no attachment.”
“Do you still get high?” I produced a joint from my wallet.
“What you call 'high' is a constant state here.”
I laughed until I realized he was totally serious.
“What do you think humans are craving in this life?” He asked me, “They are all after the same thing.”
“What?”
“Joy. Bliss. Euphoria. Pick a state-of-being.”
“Then how do you explain suffering and those who create it?” I asked a little bitterly.
“Balance.”
“Huh?”
“You remember Star Wars?” He asked as I took a long drag from the joint.
“Duh.” I choked a bit on the smoke and let out a few hard coughs, “I am a fuckin’ Jedi.”
He laughed. “Within the force there is balance, otherwise nothing would exist. You cannot have joy without suffering, just as you cannot have hot without cold… or the light and dark side…” he winked.
“Can’t have heaven without hell.” I said with a toothy grin and bloodshot eyes.
“Just made up words: 'heaven and hell,' he said, smiling dreamily at the thunderheads creeping over the mountains. Afternoon thunderstorms were his favorite.
“So you’re saying there is no such thing as eternal damnation?” I asked, faking disappointment.
He laughed again. I enjoyed watching his eyes sparkle.
“I definitely wouldn’t say that.”
“Oh yeah?! So the Lake of Fire is real?” I asked, with all the hope of a child on Santa’s knee.
“Think about what it would be like to be a mosquito.” He said.
“Yeah, that would suck.” I said smiling. Colin laughed with me.
“Now think about being a mosquito, being smashed and killed, then waking up the next day to do it all over again.”
“Oh, snap!”
“What do you think happened to Hitler?”
“Karma is a bitch.”
I handed the joint to him.
“I thought you were already high.” I said, smiling as he inhaled.
“Well,” he said letting out the smoke, “That doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy the way it tastes and smells. That’s the whole thing… senses… and emotions… that’s what it’s all about, the experience, ya’ know?”
“What about good people?” I asked. “Do we get to become eagles or great whites or some shit?”
“Good Karma allows you to be, do or have whatever you want.” He said, “I imagine the happiest people on earth are those with the best Karma.”
“How is your Karma?” I asked, completely serious.
He turned to me and smiled.
“My choices are good ones,” he said.
I looked up as the sky as it began to rain, despite the bright sunshine, another one of Colin’s favorite phenomenon.
“Well, would you look at that!”
But when I looked down, I saw nothing but the ashy remains of an unsmoked Turkish Royal in the grass on my kid brother’s grave.
Beep Beep! I had a new text message.
My friend is pregnant. I dropped the phone. She wasn’t supposed to be able to have children.
I looked up at the sky and felt raindrops on my sun-soaked face.
My choices are good ones.
“I quit,” I said, “So this one is all yours. Turkish Royal.”
His eyebrows met his hairline.
“Well good for you!"
He took a long pull and blew out two smoke rings.
“Is it the same?” I asked.
“What?”
“The cigarette.”
“No. Nothing is. It’s better. There is no attachment.”
“Do you still get high?” I produced a joint from my wallet.
“What you call 'high' is a constant state here.”
I laughed until I realized he was totally serious.
“What do you think humans are craving in this life?” He asked me, “They are all after the same thing.”
“What?”
“Joy. Bliss. Euphoria. Pick a state-of-being.”
“Then how do you explain suffering and those who create it?” I asked a little bitterly.
“Balance.”
“Huh?”
“You remember Star Wars?” He asked as I took a long drag from the joint.
“Duh.” I choked a bit on the smoke and let out a few hard coughs, “I am a fuckin’ Jedi.”
He laughed. “Within the force there is balance, otherwise nothing would exist. You cannot have joy without suffering, just as you cannot have hot without cold… or the light and dark side…” he winked.
“Can’t have heaven without hell.” I said with a toothy grin and bloodshot eyes.
“Just made up words: 'heaven and hell,' he said, smiling dreamily at the thunderheads creeping over the mountains. Afternoon thunderstorms were his favorite.
“So you’re saying there is no such thing as eternal damnation?” I asked, faking disappointment.
He laughed again. I enjoyed watching his eyes sparkle.
“I definitely wouldn’t say that.”
“Oh yeah?! So the Lake of Fire is real?” I asked, with all the hope of a child on Santa’s knee.
“Think about what it would be like to be a mosquito.” He said.
“Yeah, that would suck.” I said smiling. Colin laughed with me.
“Now think about being a mosquito, being smashed and killed, then waking up the next day to do it all over again.”
“Oh, snap!”
“What do you think happened to Hitler?”
“Karma is a bitch.”
I handed the joint to him.
“I thought you were already high.” I said, smiling as he inhaled.
“Well,” he said letting out the smoke, “That doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy the way it tastes and smells. That’s the whole thing… senses… and emotions… that’s what it’s all about, the experience, ya’ know?”
“What about good people?” I asked. “Do we get to become eagles or great whites or some shit?”
“Good Karma allows you to be, do or have whatever you want.” He said, “I imagine the happiest people on earth are those with the best Karma.”
“How is your Karma?” I asked, completely serious.
He turned to me and smiled.
“My choices are good ones,” he said.
I looked up as the sky as it began to rain, despite the bright sunshine, another one of Colin’s favorite phenomenon.
“Well, would you look at that!”
But when I looked down, I saw nothing but the ashy remains of an unsmoked Turkish Royal in the grass on my kid brother’s grave.
Beep Beep! I had a new text message.
My friend is pregnant. I dropped the phone. She wasn’t supposed to be able to have children.
I looked up at the sky and felt raindrops on my sun-soaked face.
My choices are good ones.
(Tidbit)
I woke up to the thought of three impending phone calls. I was to deliver great news twice, and bad news once. I was excited for all three. I tried to remember if I had ever been excited about delivering bad news. The only occasion I could remember was when I was eighteen and I told my family I had decided to move to Boulder to live in an apartment with two men. They didn’t take it well and I reveled in their discomfort.
I rolled out of bed and stood up, taking a moment to balance myself under the weight of my colossal pregnancy. I waited for the blood to return to my feet. After I steadied myself I took a shower and ate my breakfast. My workday would take place at the small built-in desk in the living room. Jeff had already left for the morning. He would spend the day in meetings while I stayed home to follow up with the new clients we had met the day before.
We held our new client meetings at the coffee shop down the road. I never liked the stupid green aprons or the fact that I had to yell to be heard over the enormous coffee grinder every few moments. The only office we had was twenty-five minutes away in Greeley, a town that perpetually smelled like cow shit, so we dealt with the overpriced coffee and smug sociology students moonlighting as baristas.
The day before we had scheduled six meetings. Two of them didn’t show, one was a woman who we later discovered was lying about her identity, and the remaining three were potential new clients. Each interview took about an hour. Fifteen minutes of trying-to-be-genuine small talk, fifteen minutes of listening to sob stories about a life devoid of privilege and dreams not yet fulfilled and thirty minutes of me asking the same generic questions.
What are your social security numbers? How long have you been with your current employer? What is your yearly income before taxes? What is the balance of your retirement account? When was your bankruptcy discharged? Do you owe any alimony or child support? How much do you currently pay for rent? Is it current?
We met with a young couple, Sam and Jamie. They shared a flooded and moldy apartment with their two children. The building was owned by a drunk who was under investigation for drug dealing. I felt for this little family. Sam had suffered an injury at work two years prior and had been rewarded with a mountain of medical bills. They had been forced to file bankruptcy, which had been discharged only six months before our meeting. Jeff told me that finding a loan for them would be a long shot. I tried not to get my hopes up.
Steve was a single man looking to buy a condo. Fortunately, he did not have any major financial issues and made great money. Slam dunk, I thought to myself.
Don and Angela were a potential golden goose. They had arrived right on time, showing us a pamphlet for a three hundred fifty thousand-dollar house they intended to buy. A three hundred fifty thousand-dollar loan amount represented a five-figure payday for us, the kind of check that would pay the bills for three months and then some. When they told us they had no debt and showed us pay-stubs demonstrating their ability to repay, it took everything in me not to look excited.
Jeff and I were in the habit of beginning the loan approval process as soon as we had access to a computer. When we arrived home the night before, Jeff stationed himself at the desk and booted up the computer. I went to the kitchen and filled a bowl with four scoops of ice cream for us to share. This was the ritual, the moment of truth. Jeff would key the necessary information in to our mortgage software and hit the “Order Credit” button. We would wait for the three magical numbers to appear on the screen. If the middle number was higher than 600, we were golden. If not, I would ask the clients if they knew where to find a quick twenty grand, a question that was always met with the same response, “Heh… are you kidding?”
This morning, I stood at the kitchen counter with the open files in front of me. I decided I would call Steve first. His was the easiest. His moment of truth had been ideal. Jeff had pushed the button while I created the drum roll…
““727… 701… 714…”
“Woohoo!!!!” I hollered, ice cream falling from my mouth on to my shirt. I was still making exclamations of joy as I cleaned it off. Steve was a guaranteed approval and a guaranteed paycheck.
I dialed his phone number and delivered the good news. Steve was almost as thrilled as I was. I recommended a real estate agent. He told me that he would be condo shopping over the weekend. All I had to do now was wait for a purchase contract. I congratulated him, he thanked me again, and we both hung up.
I looked at the two files in front of me and decided Don and Angela should be next. This one was going to be fun. Their moment of truth had shocked both Jeff and me and had led to a long discussion about the American sense of entitlement. He pushed the button and scrolled down. I thought I heard a drum roll, but it was only Jeff’s mumble of confusion.
“Um…. 401… 389… 380… “ He stared at the screen, bewildered.
My only response was “holy shit” through a mouthful of rocky road. These were the lowest credit scores I had seen in my year in the mortgage business.
I picked up the phone. When Don answered, I identified myself and asked if Angela could listen in on the phone call as well. When I heard her pick up, I began.
“I thought it important for both of you to be listening because this is something that impacts you greatly.”
“Can we get an approval letter?” Angela interrupted.
I stifled a chuckle and instead feigned some concern.
“On the contrary, there is no way of obtaining an approval for you at this time.” I said, “It would be impossible for me or any other lender.”
“WHAT?!!” They said in unison.
Angela began a rant of incoherent sentences. I picked up the occasional “I don’t get it” and the whiney, “But WHYYYYY???”
Don angrily asked me why.
“Don, your credit scores are well below the necessary level for approval.”
“Well, what are they?” He demanded.
“401, 389 and 380.” I said, calmly.
“So WHAT does that mean?”
“Don, I have your credit report here. Would you like to go through it?”
“YES!” They said, again in unison.
We began on page one of the seventeen-page credit report.
“First of all,” I said, “There are no positive trade lines on your report. What I mean is there are no accounts on your report that are active, current and in good standing.”
They both began to argue, and I had to politely interrupt and tell them I would give them all of the details. I began with bounced checks to every store imaginable, Wal-Mart, JC Penny, Best Buy, even Red Lobster. I continued by listing all of the credit cards that were maxed out and had not been paid on time in years. There were nine of them, totaling approximately twenty-seven thousand in debt by themselves. I continued.
“Don, you have unpaid child support dating back almost ten years and a judgment from the Larimer County Court in the amount of thirty-eight hundred dollars for unpaid rents.”
“I will never pay that asshole landlord!” He said, “And I am fighting the child support. That bitch doesn’t need anymore money.”
“Well, regardless, Don, this is something that has destroyed your credit. As long as you have these delinquencies, no bank will loan you money.”
I mentioned an account from a jewelry store that had rolling lates dating back over five years. I learned that this was for Angela’s wedding ring.
“We paid that LAST month.” Angela whined.
“Angela, the payment last month does not erase the history of the account.”
“God damn motherfuckers!” Don said.
I cleared my throat. “I am sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news,” I lied, “But you should both know that just because you don’t pay your debts doesn’t mean you don’t have any.”
“Well, FUCK that.” Don said. “I ain’t payin’ shit!!!”
“Well, I am very sorry, but there is nothing that I can do.” I said. I couldn’t help but picture Don and Angela as the personification of American greed, draped in stars and stripes.
“So what the hell are we supposed to do now?” Don asked me, as if I cared what they did with their ignorance.
“I am in no position to give you legal advice, Don,” I said, “But if you are interested in improving your situation I would recommend you speak with a bankruptcy attorney.”
Angela let out a gasp and Don said, “Will that get that money-grubbing bitch off my back?”
“If you are referring to your ex-wife, no,” I said, “Child support will need to be handled legally. You cannot discharge that or your old student loans in the bankruptcy. But, again, I am not an attorney.”
I promised I would email a copy of their credit report and some attorney referrals and I hung up, relieved. I laughed to myself. I found the entire situation hilarious.
I had learned a long time ago that when you have news or feedback to deliver, or tasks to complete, you should use the Oreo method. I used it with my bartender trainees. I would praise them with something, positively mention something they should work on, and then end by praising something else. It was the best way to get positive results. This morning, I was using the method on myself. I called Steve first, then Don and Angela and saved Sam and Jamie for last.
I had not bothered with a drum roll for Sam and Jamie because I had been holding my breath. Jeff had completed the steps and I closed my eyes while he read the numbers.
“585… 614… 601…”
“REALLY???” I asked, elated and in total disbelief.
I picked up the phone and dialed. Sam answered and put the phone on speaker. Given my raging hormones, I could not help getting choked up as I heard them scream for joy. I ineffectuality fought the tears as they said over and over,
“THANK YOU! OH, GOD, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!!”
I rolled out of bed and stood up, taking a moment to balance myself under the weight of my colossal pregnancy. I waited for the blood to return to my feet. After I steadied myself I took a shower and ate my breakfast. My workday would take place at the small built-in desk in the living room. Jeff had already left for the morning. He would spend the day in meetings while I stayed home to follow up with the new clients we had met the day before.
We held our new client meetings at the coffee shop down the road. I never liked the stupid green aprons or the fact that I had to yell to be heard over the enormous coffee grinder every few moments. The only office we had was twenty-five minutes away in Greeley, a town that perpetually smelled like cow shit, so we dealt with the overpriced coffee and smug sociology students moonlighting as baristas.
The day before we had scheduled six meetings. Two of them didn’t show, one was a woman who we later discovered was lying about her identity, and the remaining three were potential new clients. Each interview took about an hour. Fifteen minutes of trying-to-be-genuine small talk, fifteen minutes of listening to sob stories about a life devoid of privilege and dreams not yet fulfilled and thirty minutes of me asking the same generic questions.
What are your social security numbers? How long have you been with your current employer? What is your yearly income before taxes? What is the balance of your retirement account? When was your bankruptcy discharged? Do you owe any alimony or child support? How much do you currently pay for rent? Is it current?
We met with a young couple, Sam and Jamie. They shared a flooded and moldy apartment with their two children. The building was owned by a drunk who was under investigation for drug dealing. I felt for this little family. Sam had suffered an injury at work two years prior and had been rewarded with a mountain of medical bills. They had been forced to file bankruptcy, which had been discharged only six months before our meeting. Jeff told me that finding a loan for them would be a long shot. I tried not to get my hopes up.
Steve was a single man looking to buy a condo. Fortunately, he did not have any major financial issues and made great money. Slam dunk, I thought to myself.
Don and Angela were a potential golden goose. They had arrived right on time, showing us a pamphlet for a three hundred fifty thousand-dollar house they intended to buy. A three hundred fifty thousand-dollar loan amount represented a five-figure payday for us, the kind of check that would pay the bills for three months and then some. When they told us they had no debt and showed us pay-stubs demonstrating their ability to repay, it took everything in me not to look excited.
Jeff and I were in the habit of beginning the loan approval process as soon as we had access to a computer. When we arrived home the night before, Jeff stationed himself at the desk and booted up the computer. I went to the kitchen and filled a bowl with four scoops of ice cream for us to share. This was the ritual, the moment of truth. Jeff would key the necessary information in to our mortgage software and hit the “Order Credit” button. We would wait for the three magical numbers to appear on the screen. If the middle number was higher than 600, we were golden. If not, I would ask the clients if they knew where to find a quick twenty grand, a question that was always met with the same response, “Heh… are you kidding?”
This morning, I stood at the kitchen counter with the open files in front of me. I decided I would call Steve first. His was the easiest. His moment of truth had been ideal. Jeff had pushed the button while I created the drum roll…
““727… 701… 714…”
“Woohoo!!!!” I hollered, ice cream falling from my mouth on to my shirt. I was still making exclamations of joy as I cleaned it off. Steve was a guaranteed approval and a guaranteed paycheck.
I dialed his phone number and delivered the good news. Steve was almost as thrilled as I was. I recommended a real estate agent. He told me that he would be condo shopping over the weekend. All I had to do now was wait for a purchase contract. I congratulated him, he thanked me again, and we both hung up.
I looked at the two files in front of me and decided Don and Angela should be next. This one was going to be fun. Their moment of truth had shocked both Jeff and me and had led to a long discussion about the American sense of entitlement. He pushed the button and scrolled down. I thought I heard a drum roll, but it was only Jeff’s mumble of confusion.
“Um…. 401… 389… 380… “ He stared at the screen, bewildered.
My only response was “holy shit” through a mouthful of rocky road. These were the lowest credit scores I had seen in my year in the mortgage business.
I picked up the phone. When Don answered, I identified myself and asked if Angela could listen in on the phone call as well. When I heard her pick up, I began.
“I thought it important for both of you to be listening because this is something that impacts you greatly.”
“Can we get an approval letter?” Angela interrupted.
I stifled a chuckle and instead feigned some concern.
“On the contrary, there is no way of obtaining an approval for you at this time.” I said, “It would be impossible for me or any other lender.”
“WHAT?!!” They said in unison.
Angela began a rant of incoherent sentences. I picked up the occasional “I don’t get it” and the whiney, “But WHYYYYY???”
Don angrily asked me why.
“Don, your credit scores are well below the necessary level for approval.”
“Well, what are they?” He demanded.
“401, 389 and 380.” I said, calmly.
“So WHAT does that mean?”
“Don, I have your credit report here. Would you like to go through it?”
“YES!” They said, again in unison.
We began on page one of the seventeen-page credit report.
“First of all,” I said, “There are no positive trade lines on your report. What I mean is there are no accounts on your report that are active, current and in good standing.”
They both began to argue, and I had to politely interrupt and tell them I would give them all of the details. I began with bounced checks to every store imaginable, Wal-Mart, JC Penny, Best Buy, even Red Lobster. I continued by listing all of the credit cards that were maxed out and had not been paid on time in years. There were nine of them, totaling approximately twenty-seven thousand in debt by themselves. I continued.
“Don, you have unpaid child support dating back almost ten years and a judgment from the Larimer County Court in the amount of thirty-eight hundred dollars for unpaid rents.”
“I will never pay that asshole landlord!” He said, “And I am fighting the child support. That bitch doesn’t need anymore money.”
“Well, regardless, Don, this is something that has destroyed your credit. As long as you have these delinquencies, no bank will loan you money.”
I mentioned an account from a jewelry store that had rolling lates dating back over five years. I learned that this was for Angela’s wedding ring.
“We paid that LAST month.” Angela whined.
“Angela, the payment last month does not erase the history of the account.”
“God damn motherfuckers!” Don said.
I cleared my throat. “I am sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news,” I lied, “But you should both know that just because you don’t pay your debts doesn’t mean you don’t have any.”
“Well, FUCK that.” Don said. “I ain’t payin’ shit!!!”
“Well, I am very sorry, but there is nothing that I can do.” I said. I couldn’t help but picture Don and Angela as the personification of American greed, draped in stars and stripes.
“So what the hell are we supposed to do now?” Don asked me, as if I cared what they did with their ignorance.
“I am in no position to give you legal advice, Don,” I said, “But if you are interested in improving your situation I would recommend you speak with a bankruptcy attorney.”
Angela let out a gasp and Don said, “Will that get that money-grubbing bitch off my back?”
“If you are referring to your ex-wife, no,” I said, “Child support will need to be handled legally. You cannot discharge that or your old student loans in the bankruptcy. But, again, I am not an attorney.”
I promised I would email a copy of their credit report and some attorney referrals and I hung up, relieved. I laughed to myself. I found the entire situation hilarious.
I had learned a long time ago that when you have news or feedback to deliver, or tasks to complete, you should use the Oreo method. I used it with my bartender trainees. I would praise them with something, positively mention something they should work on, and then end by praising something else. It was the best way to get positive results. This morning, I was using the method on myself. I called Steve first, then Don and Angela and saved Sam and Jamie for last.
I had not bothered with a drum roll for Sam and Jamie because I had been holding my breath. Jeff had completed the steps and I closed my eyes while he read the numbers.
“585… 614… 601…”
“REALLY???” I asked, elated and in total disbelief.
I picked up the phone and dialed. Sam answered and put the phone on speaker. Given my raging hormones, I could not help getting choked up as I heard them scream for joy. I ineffectuality fought the tears as they said over and over,
“THANK YOU! OH, GOD, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!!”
...
The room was stuffy and packed with chairs. The west wall had huge windows that were sadly sealed shut. Men and women were scattered in the seats. Jeff and I found two chairs in the middle of the cluster and sat, waiting for our turn to be called. A morose game of musical chairs was played each time a name was read. The named person would move to the front of the room and take a seat in front of an ill-tempered man behind a pretentious wooden desk.
Do you swear all of the information you have provided regarding your assets and debts is true to the best of your knowledge? Do you understand your rights under Colorado law? What is your plan with your current automobile? I see you have a recent tax return. You will be required to pay a sum of twenty-five hundred dollars to the court. You will have to sell your truck, Mr. Jones.
“Allen/Jarvis…”
Jeff and I took our turns at the desk. With our attorney present to assist, we raised our right hands and swore to our identities. The four-eyed trustee opened our case file and began…
“…Do you understand your rights under Colorado Law?”
“Yes, Sir,” Jeff and I said in unison.
I awaited the same script I heard the trustee recite with every person before us, but it did not come. The man peered through steel rimmed frames at our file, flipping through each page as a frown grew on his forehead.
“Sooo…” he said after a deep breath, “You were in the real estate business?”
Jeff and I looked at each other as we confirmed the trustee’s assumption. The heat of the room caused sweat to bead and run down my back. The tick of the clock on the wall echoed in my head and the sound of pages turning caused me to flinch several times. I eagerly anticipated the sunshine and cigarette that waited for me outside.
The trustee began a conversation, which I let Jeff handle. I made few comments and answered only questions directed toward me. I let my mind wander back to the day it all began. It all started with a steak dinner.
Do you swear all of the information you have provided regarding your assets and debts is true to the best of your knowledge? Do you understand your rights under Colorado law? What is your plan with your current automobile? I see you have a recent tax return. You will be required to pay a sum of twenty-five hundred dollars to the court. You will have to sell your truck, Mr. Jones.
“Allen/Jarvis…”
Jeff and I took our turns at the desk. With our attorney present to assist, we raised our right hands and swore to our identities. The four-eyed trustee opened our case file and began…
“…Do you understand your rights under Colorado Law?”
“Yes, Sir,” Jeff and I said in unison.
I awaited the same script I heard the trustee recite with every person before us, but it did not come. The man peered through steel rimmed frames at our file, flipping through each page as a frown grew on his forehead.
“Sooo…” he said after a deep breath, “You were in the real estate business?”
Jeff and I looked at each other as we confirmed the trustee’s assumption. The heat of the room caused sweat to bead and run down my back. The tick of the clock on the wall echoed in my head and the sound of pages turning caused me to flinch several times. I eagerly anticipated the sunshine and cigarette that waited for me outside.
The trustee began a conversation, which I let Jeff handle. I made few comments and answered only questions directed toward me. I let my mind wander back to the day it all began. It all started with a steak dinner.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Excerpt Number 1 (This is an excerpt from my upcoming book)
Prolonged exposure to Dorothy Gail painted as a mermaid can cause nightmares. She sat in a giant oyster shell. In her lap rested a scaled and finned depiction of Toto. The bubbles in the ocean water around them held the faces of Marilyn Monroe, Elvis, Kermit the Frog and a very stoned Paul McCartney. I began to wonder exactly what chemicals Mr. Stephens was indulging in when he created this LSD lover’s masterpiece. The gaudy monstrosity glared at me from across the office.
I need to turn my desk, I thought.
Directly below Dorothy, Joshua’s desk was a mountain of madness. Overflowing files created a wall the height of my waist. Current client information was buried beneath closed files from years past. Homeless documents were strewn in every direction, each detailing an enormous amount of personal data. Social security numbers, bank account and driver’s license numbers, and a myriad of other private financial documents from various clients were scattered in a three-foot radius, creating disaster valley beneath the mountain.
I looked at the clock. 11:30 AM. Joshua would be rolling in shortly. His workday usually began right as I was getting ready for my lunch break. I had submitted a new loan, completed several convoluted steps for three other files, and had a forty-five minute conversation with an underwriter.
Right on cue, Joshua came in the double doors. I gave him a nod without losing the shoulder grip I had on the phone. His thin and curly red hair was wet. He carried a stack of crumpled papers under one arm and an overloaded leather briefcase in the other. As usual, he was wearing a corduroy overcoat complete with elbow patches. He waddled behind his desk and dropped his pile. Some of the paper hit the desk; the rest fell beneath his chair and massaging footrest. I made another superfluous phone call so I could avoid one of Joshua’s random conversations about art or composting or the state of the beaver population in Washington.
I hung up and said a quick hello before I dove in to the explanations of the day’s business. He squinted and listened while he took off his coat. His pants were ironically too big for his frame. They fell too low, revealing a hairy and pasty gut that protruded from the unbuttoned bottom of his dress shirt. He pulled his pants up and tucked in his shirt; something I would witness ten more times before I left that afternoon. Today he wore a Tweety tie that ended just above his Santa-like belly.
“How is everything with the Prosser loan?” He asked.
“Everything is fine,” I answered. “We had a little hiccup in underwriting. Apparently Mr. Prosser had a forty-five day gap in his employment last year. He had taken a short sabbatical. I am waiting for an underwriter to clear it. She said she would call me this afternoon.”
“Okay,” he nodded, his brow creased, “So do you think we can close it tomorrow morning?”
“I think that would be seriously pushing it,” I said, confused. The closing date we agreed to wasn’t for another five days. I was right on schedule. “It still needs to clear underwriting.”
“Oh. Well, okay.”
I rolled my eyes when he turned his back.
“I am headed to lunch,” I said, “I left all of your messages on the desk.”
“Okay, alright, yeah, I will see you in a bit.”
I grabbed my little cooler and headed downstairs. The bottom floor of the three-level building had a small pizza shop and liquor store. I walked down and bought myself a cup of coffee. The shop was the only pizza and alcohol delivery service in Boulder. The walls were painted with psychedelic mushrooms and stars. Lava lamps graced every table. The same handful of pierced and dreadlocked employees worked in shifts during the week. I loved it. I had befriended all of them. I sat on their patio, mystified by the Flatiron Mountains that towered above me. The job had perks.
I ate my lunch, read a book, and used every minute of an hour before I climbed the stairs to the third floor office. When I arrived, Joshua was missing and my desk was littered with pieces of the Prosser file. I panicked. All of the documents had been removed from their clasps and several were missing completely. Joshua came back in from the bathroom wiping his wet hands on his pants.
“What happened here?” I asked, trying to sound calm.
“Well, you said you had a hiccup in underwriting so I submitted some things to another bank.”
I sat down abruptly and was startled when the phone rang. I answered. It was the underwriter whose call I was waiting for.
“Hey there! We have made that exception for you.” She said, cheerily, “All we need now is the tax certificate and we will be ready to go.
I looked through the file, but nowhere did I find the document she was requesting. I had just received it that morning and would need twenty-four hours if I wanted another one.
“That was the underwriter. She said everything is fine.” I said this almost testily and then I asked, “Where is the tax certificate?
“I think I faxed it.”
“It’s not in this pile.”
He fished through the mess on his desk several times before I joined the search. My blood was racing. Every delay in the mortgage origination business could cause a domino effect of ruin.
I started to open all of the files in the mountain. He didn’t seem surprised when, fifteen minutes into the search, I found the document I was looking for shoved in a file that had been closed for three years; a file with a last name that in no way resembled “Prosser.”
“Gosh, I don’t know how it ended up in there.”
I took the document to the fax machine and sent it to the underwriter.
“The other lender said they could close in two days,” Joshua said to my back.
“So what.” I snapped, “We are already through underwriting with this bank. It will be done on time, if not a day early.”
“Well, see, I told Mr. Prosser that we could close tomorrow morning because he plans on taking a last minute vacation.”
I found myself gripping my pyramid shaped paperweight, a gift from one of my Account Executives. I imagined the paperweight sailing across the office and lodging itself in the empty skull of the mass that sat before me.
“When-did-you-tell-him-this?” I chewed on my words.
“Last week.”
Adrenaline was pumping through my body.
“Excuse me.” I said.
I left the office and made my way to the bathroom in the hallway. I made sure I was alone before I started kicking the stall door repeatedly. The heels on my boots placed several new dents next to those I had already created in past visits to the bathroom. I splashed my face with water at the sink and looked at myself in the mirror. Behind my reflection hung one of Joshua’s insane paintings, this one depicting a flamingo in cramped hotel room. I wanted to take it back to the office and force Joshua to watch and cry as I destroyed it. I settled instead for giving it the finger and turning it sideways.
He was on the phone when I came back. I busied myself in repairing the damage he had caused to my desk while I waited for him to hang up.
“Joshua, there is no possible way for this loan to close tomorrow.” I said. “It is probably a good idea to let Mr. Prosser know.”
He proceeded to ask me “Why” several times and I had to remind him of the basic procedures of his job, typical timelines, and the detrimental habit of over-promising. We were set up to under-deliver, yet again, due to Joshua’s infinite stupidity, yet again.
“Well, man, that stinks.” He said.
He got up and put on his coat. I recognized this cue. In T-minus-ten-seconds he would make up some lame excuse for having to leave and then ask me to call the client and deliver the bad news.
“I have a meeting,” he said.
Meeting my ass, I thought. His job was to bring in loans, something he had not done in a month. The only loans closing were those that I was prospecting from the thousands of files in the office. The Prosser loan had been one that he had taken an application for and then forgotten completely. He ran across it two weeks later and exclaimed, “Oh yeah!”
I, the lowly processor, had pushed the limits to get the loan through underwriting in record time and was watching Joshua single-handedly demolish it.
“I will call Mr. Prosser,” I said, exasperated.
Joshua wasted no time in walking out the door. He took nothing but his car keys. I dug in my bag for my secret stash of cigarettes, walked out on to the small balcony and lit one. I took a long and satisfying drag and blew it out toward the mountains.
I would call Mr. Prosser. I would calmly explain the circumstances to him as he yelled from the other end of the phone. I would apologize repeatedly and take a few verbal blows before I would console him enough to continue working with us.
When Joshua came back, I told him that everything was okay. I bit my tongue when he produced some large prints of more acid tripping, black light responsive artwork, which could only have come from his “meeting.”
I worked the rest of the day, grunting in response to Joshua’s comments on maple trees and how delicious tuna can be when prepared just right. I was not shocked when the 3:30 appointment revealed a woman who refinanced for sixty-five thousand in cash only three months before, but had not paid her mortgage in six. I remained unaffected as she paced back and forth during our meeting. She repeatedly scratched her neck and sniffed loudly while trying to account for the sixty-five thousand that had magically disappeared.
I left work early and daydreamed of all the different ways to suffocate an old fat man, but I still came back the next day. A glutton for punishment, a punching bag; I was described as both by my husband and it only took me ten months of my life before I agreed and told Joshua to shove Dorothy right up his ass.
I need to turn my desk, I thought.
Directly below Dorothy, Joshua’s desk was a mountain of madness. Overflowing files created a wall the height of my waist. Current client information was buried beneath closed files from years past. Homeless documents were strewn in every direction, each detailing an enormous amount of personal data. Social security numbers, bank account and driver’s license numbers, and a myriad of other private financial documents from various clients were scattered in a three-foot radius, creating disaster valley beneath the mountain.
I looked at the clock. 11:30 AM. Joshua would be rolling in shortly. His workday usually began right as I was getting ready for my lunch break. I had submitted a new loan, completed several convoluted steps for three other files, and had a forty-five minute conversation with an underwriter.
Right on cue, Joshua came in the double doors. I gave him a nod without losing the shoulder grip I had on the phone. His thin and curly red hair was wet. He carried a stack of crumpled papers under one arm and an overloaded leather briefcase in the other. As usual, he was wearing a corduroy overcoat complete with elbow patches. He waddled behind his desk and dropped his pile. Some of the paper hit the desk; the rest fell beneath his chair and massaging footrest. I made another superfluous phone call so I could avoid one of Joshua’s random conversations about art or composting or the state of the beaver population in Washington.
I hung up and said a quick hello before I dove in to the explanations of the day’s business. He squinted and listened while he took off his coat. His pants were ironically too big for his frame. They fell too low, revealing a hairy and pasty gut that protruded from the unbuttoned bottom of his dress shirt. He pulled his pants up and tucked in his shirt; something I would witness ten more times before I left that afternoon. Today he wore a Tweety tie that ended just above his Santa-like belly.
“How is everything with the Prosser loan?” He asked.
“Everything is fine,” I answered. “We had a little hiccup in underwriting. Apparently Mr. Prosser had a forty-five day gap in his employment last year. He had taken a short sabbatical. I am waiting for an underwriter to clear it. She said she would call me this afternoon.”
“Okay,” he nodded, his brow creased, “So do you think we can close it tomorrow morning?”
“I think that would be seriously pushing it,” I said, confused. The closing date we agreed to wasn’t for another five days. I was right on schedule. “It still needs to clear underwriting.”
“Oh. Well, okay.”
I rolled my eyes when he turned his back.
“I am headed to lunch,” I said, “I left all of your messages on the desk.”
“Okay, alright, yeah, I will see you in a bit.”
I grabbed my little cooler and headed downstairs. The bottom floor of the three-level building had a small pizza shop and liquor store. I walked down and bought myself a cup of coffee. The shop was the only pizza and alcohol delivery service in Boulder. The walls were painted with psychedelic mushrooms and stars. Lava lamps graced every table. The same handful of pierced and dreadlocked employees worked in shifts during the week. I loved it. I had befriended all of them. I sat on their patio, mystified by the Flatiron Mountains that towered above me. The job had perks.
I ate my lunch, read a book, and used every minute of an hour before I climbed the stairs to the third floor office. When I arrived, Joshua was missing and my desk was littered with pieces of the Prosser file. I panicked. All of the documents had been removed from their clasps and several were missing completely. Joshua came back in from the bathroom wiping his wet hands on his pants.
“What happened here?” I asked, trying to sound calm.
“Well, you said you had a hiccup in underwriting so I submitted some things to another bank.”
I sat down abruptly and was startled when the phone rang. I answered. It was the underwriter whose call I was waiting for.
“Hey there! We have made that exception for you.” She said, cheerily, “All we need now is the tax certificate and we will be ready to go.
I looked through the file, but nowhere did I find the document she was requesting. I had just received it that morning and would need twenty-four hours if I wanted another one.
“That was the underwriter. She said everything is fine.” I said this almost testily and then I asked, “Where is the tax certificate?
“I think I faxed it.”
“It’s not in this pile.”
He fished through the mess on his desk several times before I joined the search. My blood was racing. Every delay in the mortgage origination business could cause a domino effect of ruin.
I started to open all of the files in the mountain. He didn’t seem surprised when, fifteen minutes into the search, I found the document I was looking for shoved in a file that had been closed for three years; a file with a last name that in no way resembled “Prosser.”
“Gosh, I don’t know how it ended up in there.”
I took the document to the fax machine and sent it to the underwriter.
“The other lender said they could close in two days,” Joshua said to my back.
“So what.” I snapped, “We are already through underwriting with this bank. It will be done on time, if not a day early.”
“Well, see, I told Mr. Prosser that we could close tomorrow morning because he plans on taking a last minute vacation.”
I found myself gripping my pyramid shaped paperweight, a gift from one of my Account Executives. I imagined the paperweight sailing across the office and lodging itself in the empty skull of the mass that sat before me.
“When-did-you-tell-him-this?” I chewed on my words.
“Last week.”
Adrenaline was pumping through my body.
“Excuse me.” I said.
I left the office and made my way to the bathroom in the hallway. I made sure I was alone before I started kicking the stall door repeatedly. The heels on my boots placed several new dents next to those I had already created in past visits to the bathroom. I splashed my face with water at the sink and looked at myself in the mirror. Behind my reflection hung one of Joshua’s insane paintings, this one depicting a flamingo in cramped hotel room. I wanted to take it back to the office and force Joshua to watch and cry as I destroyed it. I settled instead for giving it the finger and turning it sideways.
He was on the phone when I came back. I busied myself in repairing the damage he had caused to my desk while I waited for him to hang up.
“Joshua, there is no possible way for this loan to close tomorrow.” I said. “It is probably a good idea to let Mr. Prosser know.”
He proceeded to ask me “Why” several times and I had to remind him of the basic procedures of his job, typical timelines, and the detrimental habit of over-promising. We were set up to under-deliver, yet again, due to Joshua’s infinite stupidity, yet again.
“Well, man, that stinks.” He said.
He got up and put on his coat. I recognized this cue. In T-minus-ten-seconds he would make up some lame excuse for having to leave and then ask me to call the client and deliver the bad news.
“I have a meeting,” he said.
Meeting my ass, I thought. His job was to bring in loans, something he had not done in a month. The only loans closing were those that I was prospecting from the thousands of files in the office. The Prosser loan had been one that he had taken an application for and then forgotten completely. He ran across it two weeks later and exclaimed, “Oh yeah!”
I, the lowly processor, had pushed the limits to get the loan through underwriting in record time and was watching Joshua single-handedly demolish it.
“I will call Mr. Prosser,” I said, exasperated.
Joshua wasted no time in walking out the door. He took nothing but his car keys. I dug in my bag for my secret stash of cigarettes, walked out on to the small balcony and lit one. I took a long and satisfying drag and blew it out toward the mountains.
I would call Mr. Prosser. I would calmly explain the circumstances to him as he yelled from the other end of the phone. I would apologize repeatedly and take a few verbal blows before I would console him enough to continue working with us.
When Joshua came back, I told him that everything was okay. I bit my tongue when he produced some large prints of more acid tripping, black light responsive artwork, which could only have come from his “meeting.”
I worked the rest of the day, grunting in response to Joshua’s comments on maple trees and how delicious tuna can be when prepared just right. I was not shocked when the 3:30 appointment revealed a woman who refinanced for sixty-five thousand in cash only three months before, but had not paid her mortgage in six. I remained unaffected as she paced back and forth during our meeting. She repeatedly scratched her neck and sniffed loudly while trying to account for the sixty-five thousand that had magically disappeared.
I left work early and daydreamed of all the different ways to suffocate an old fat man, but I still came back the next day. A glutton for punishment, a punching bag; I was described as both by my husband and it only took me ten months of my life before I agreed and told Joshua to shove Dorothy right up his ass.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Wishing you Poverty and Chastity this Christmas
“Thank you for putting together such a great package, Class,” my teacher said.
I had taken several cans of corn and green beans from our pantry to add to the adopt-a-family donation my high school class put together. Some family, right here in our own town, was going to have a brighter Christmas. The bell rang and I was officially on Winter Break. I left through the double doors and walked the half-block home.
I walked slowly, in no hurry to make it back to the house. It had undergone a horrifying transformation in the previous month. Like a beacon to spacemen, the house was lit up on all sides. Several mechanical reindeer bobbed their heads up and down in the snow. The crabapple tree boasted about a million twinkling lights. Santa, complete with motion detector, waited at the door to greet me with an ass-shaking rendition of a song telling me he was coming to town. I stood in the driveway amazed at the work my dad had done and amazed at how much I hated it.
I gave Santa the finger and he told me I had better watch out. My mom had attached huge bells to the front door, so my attempt at a stealthy entrance was foiled. I wiped my feet on a poinsettia welcome mat and went to wipe myself with snowman toilet paper. I washed my hands with holiday spice soap and dried them with a candy-cane-striped towel.
I went to my room and shut the door, blocking out all the flashing lights. I lit some incense to kill the smell of cinnamon and cheer. I turned on my stereo to drown out Celine Dion wishing us all a merry little Christmas. I buried my nose in a book until I was forced to come out of hiding. Dinner was almost ready and I was to set the table.
Each plate was painted with an overflowing sleigh, the glasses were red and green and the serving spoons were etched with more poinsettias. I sat the table, averting my eyes from the blinding light of the tree. The needles of the fake tree were no longer visible. My mother had masterfully covered every square inch with ornaments. There were at least thirty wrapped boxes: some for me, some for my brothers, some for my parents, and a bunch for the dog.
“Blankets?” I heard my mother say, as she and my father walked in to the kitchen, “What the hell do I need blankets for?”
“Honey, that is just what they gave us, we can’t be picky.”
“And I already have everything I need for dinner! I don’t need any of those damned canned goods!”
“What are you guys yelling about?” My youngest brother asked, before I could beat him to it.
“You know that your dad doesn’t make a lot of money so we signed up for a program to try and get you kids some more presents.”
My dad brought a package out of their bedroom. The box was eerily similar to the one I had deposited corn and green beans in to that afternoon.
“Oh my god!” I said, scandalized. “Seriously? We’re the poor family?”
“We qualified for the program,” my mother said, defending herself, “I was thinking of you kids. I asked them for a Nintendo because I thought you kids would love it, but they just sent us food and stupid blankets and a twenty-five dollar gift card to Wal-Mart. We did it for you. We did it for all of you.”
I didn’t hear a word she said. I clicked the “Mute Mom” button on my brain remote.
The dog received his plate of pot roast with all the fixings and we all held hands while my dad said thank you for the blessings, yadda yadda, blah blah blah.
My other kid-brother, the infamous middle child, was right on cue.
“Hey, does anyone else think it is a little jacked up that we are doing this?” He said.
“Doing what?” My father asked.
“Well, last year there was no tree, no dancing Santa and no jingle bells. We didn’t sing carols, we sat around and talked about how everyone in the world was a materialistic Satan-worshiper.“
“The Church was wrong,” my mother said, “They have the right to change their doctrine...”
“It’s all insane,” I interrupted, “There is a freakin’ nativity scene on the piano!”
“Both of you will stop this instant!”
I continued, “And what the hell is up with the care package? You have plenty of money for all of this stupid crap,” I did my best Vanna, “But not enough presents, so you have to sign us up for the poor-adopt-a-family-program?!”
“Young lady, I bought all of this stuff at garage sales.”
She must have been referring to those garage sales where everything has a price tag, and you receive a free Macy’s or Kohl’s bag with purchase. She forgot I took out the trash from time to time.
“Whatever,” was all I said.
I kept to myself as much as I could until Christmas morning. I admit to feeling a bit chipper when we sat around drinking hot chocolate and opening presents. My brothers each got a new stereo, so I knew I was getting something big, too. My big present came in a little box.
I opened it to find a gold ring. There were three hearts on it. It was cute, not really my style, but a nice gesture. I was about to thank my parents when my mother began an explanation of the ring. She told me it was very special. She told me that one heart represented me, one represented my future husband, and one represented my commitment to remain a virgin until I married. I choked on a mini-marshmallow. I had been given a chastity ring.
“Uh, wow, Mom,” I said. “That’s really… nice.”
“You will wear it until the day you are no longer a virgin and then take it off. That is how I will know.”
Holy sweet mother of baby Jesus, I thought. My boyfriend had given me a ring too, the day before, right before I fucked him. I was seventeen and had turned in my V-card over a year earlier. My mother watched, expectantly, as I put the ring on.
A short while later, I sat outside with a new steaming cup of hot chocolate in hand. The neighborhood was completely still. Snow fell in big, silent flakes. I sat on a bench beneath the crabapple tree, fiddling with the ring and staring in to nothing. I felt like the devil parading as a nun. We pretended to be poor. I pretended to be chaste. We pretended that every holiday prior to this we hadn’t judged and mocked people who celebrated Christmas, calling them sinners and condemning them to an eternity of burning in a lake of fire.
We sent out gaudy cards, joined the Black Friday chaos, and even put a little wreath on the front of the mini-van. It was the first time I felt completely fake and completely out of touch with my family. It was my first Christmas.
I had taken several cans of corn and green beans from our pantry to add to the adopt-a-family donation my high school class put together. Some family, right here in our own town, was going to have a brighter Christmas. The bell rang and I was officially on Winter Break. I left through the double doors and walked the half-block home.
I walked slowly, in no hurry to make it back to the house. It had undergone a horrifying transformation in the previous month. Like a beacon to spacemen, the house was lit up on all sides. Several mechanical reindeer bobbed their heads up and down in the snow. The crabapple tree boasted about a million twinkling lights. Santa, complete with motion detector, waited at the door to greet me with an ass-shaking rendition of a song telling me he was coming to town. I stood in the driveway amazed at the work my dad had done and amazed at how much I hated it.
I gave Santa the finger and he told me I had better watch out. My mom had attached huge bells to the front door, so my attempt at a stealthy entrance was foiled. I wiped my feet on a poinsettia welcome mat and went to wipe myself with snowman toilet paper. I washed my hands with holiday spice soap and dried them with a candy-cane-striped towel.
I went to my room and shut the door, blocking out all the flashing lights. I lit some incense to kill the smell of cinnamon and cheer. I turned on my stereo to drown out Celine Dion wishing us all a merry little Christmas. I buried my nose in a book until I was forced to come out of hiding. Dinner was almost ready and I was to set the table.
Each plate was painted with an overflowing sleigh, the glasses were red and green and the serving spoons were etched with more poinsettias. I sat the table, averting my eyes from the blinding light of the tree. The needles of the fake tree were no longer visible. My mother had masterfully covered every square inch with ornaments. There were at least thirty wrapped boxes: some for me, some for my brothers, some for my parents, and a bunch for the dog.
“Blankets?” I heard my mother say, as she and my father walked in to the kitchen, “What the hell do I need blankets for?”
“Honey, that is just what they gave us, we can’t be picky.”
“And I already have everything I need for dinner! I don’t need any of those damned canned goods!”
“What are you guys yelling about?” My youngest brother asked, before I could beat him to it.
“You know that your dad doesn’t make a lot of money so we signed up for a program to try and get you kids some more presents.”
My dad brought a package out of their bedroom. The box was eerily similar to the one I had deposited corn and green beans in to that afternoon.
“Oh my god!” I said, scandalized. “Seriously? We’re the poor family?”
“We qualified for the program,” my mother said, defending herself, “I was thinking of you kids. I asked them for a Nintendo because I thought you kids would love it, but they just sent us food and stupid blankets and a twenty-five dollar gift card to Wal-Mart. We did it for you. We did it for all of you.”
I didn’t hear a word she said. I clicked the “Mute Mom” button on my brain remote.
The dog received his plate of pot roast with all the fixings and we all held hands while my dad said thank you for the blessings, yadda yadda, blah blah blah.
My other kid-brother, the infamous middle child, was right on cue.
“Hey, does anyone else think it is a little jacked up that we are doing this?” He said.
“Doing what?” My father asked.
“Well, last year there was no tree, no dancing Santa and no jingle bells. We didn’t sing carols, we sat around and talked about how everyone in the world was a materialistic Satan-worshiper.“
“The Church was wrong,” my mother said, “They have the right to change their doctrine...”
“It’s all insane,” I interrupted, “There is a freakin’ nativity scene on the piano!”
“Both of you will stop this instant!”
I continued, “And what the hell is up with the care package? You have plenty of money for all of this stupid crap,” I did my best Vanna, “But not enough presents, so you have to sign us up for the poor-adopt-a-family-program?!”
“Young lady, I bought all of this stuff at garage sales.”
She must have been referring to those garage sales where everything has a price tag, and you receive a free Macy’s or Kohl’s bag with purchase. She forgot I took out the trash from time to time.
“Whatever,” was all I said.
I kept to myself as much as I could until Christmas morning. I admit to feeling a bit chipper when we sat around drinking hot chocolate and opening presents. My brothers each got a new stereo, so I knew I was getting something big, too. My big present came in a little box.
I opened it to find a gold ring. There were three hearts on it. It was cute, not really my style, but a nice gesture. I was about to thank my parents when my mother began an explanation of the ring. She told me it was very special. She told me that one heart represented me, one represented my future husband, and one represented my commitment to remain a virgin until I married. I choked on a mini-marshmallow. I had been given a chastity ring.
“Uh, wow, Mom,” I said. “That’s really… nice.”
“You will wear it until the day you are no longer a virgin and then take it off. That is how I will know.”
Holy sweet mother of baby Jesus, I thought. My boyfriend had given me a ring too, the day before, right before I fucked him. I was seventeen and had turned in my V-card over a year earlier. My mother watched, expectantly, as I put the ring on.
A short while later, I sat outside with a new steaming cup of hot chocolate in hand. The neighborhood was completely still. Snow fell in big, silent flakes. I sat on a bench beneath the crabapple tree, fiddling with the ring and staring in to nothing. I felt like the devil parading as a nun. We pretended to be poor. I pretended to be chaste. We pretended that every holiday prior to this we hadn’t judged and mocked people who celebrated Christmas, calling them sinners and condemning them to an eternity of burning in a lake of fire.
We sent out gaudy cards, joined the Black Friday chaos, and even put a little wreath on the front of the mini-van. It was the first time I felt completely fake and completely out of touch with my family. It was my first Christmas.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Hindsight
“Hey, I am having a party and there is this guy here who won’t shut up about you,” said my friend. “When I told him that you were my friend, he begged me to call and ask you over.”
“Well, why wasn’t I invited to begin with?” I asked, teasingly, “And who is this guy talking about me?”
I pretended to lack interest, but I hadn’t had any good fun in a while. My unexceptional boyfriend was in Japan, not to return for six more months.
“He says ya’ll go waaay back,” He slurred slightly, which suggested he had been partying for a while. Then he told me the mystery guy’s name.
My heart clenched. It felt as though it were a lead weight and had dropped in to my feet. I didn’t know whether to be thrilled or furious.
“I didn’t know he was home.” I said, a little too quietly.
“Wha??”
“Nothing, never mind,” I said. “I will be there in about an hour.”
I looked presentable, but I wanted some time to compose myself. I needed some time to rehearse, out-loud, the impending conversation I was not prepared to have.
“Hey.” I said to my reflection. I practiced a look of nonchalance with a touch of sexy. I batted my eyes just right, and opted for a different pair of jeans that better hugged my award-winning ass, if there were such an award.
“How are you?” My reflection replied.
“I am good.” Practicing my best sly smile. “I didn’t know you were home.”
What would he say, though?
“I am really sorry.”
“Oh, are you? A little late for that, don’t you think?” I snapped, surprising even myself.
“I didn’t mean to leave things as we did.”
I rambled about ten more versions of the dialogue, only coming to the same conclusion: I had no idea what was going to happen. I promised myself that I would not let his smile work this time. During our friendship, I never held a grudge, but I wanted to now. I wanted to be hurt and angry.
Even as I said these things I could feel my heartstrings pull and couldn’t ignore the current of anticipation that was building inside me. It had been five months. Our last parting had left me crushed, drinking heavily for days, and crying to my friends.
I chain smoked my way to the party. I blasted motivational heavy-metal music like an athlete before a game. I was preparing for battle.
I arrived at the party and parked a block away so I could walk slowly in the crisp air. It was Christmastime in Colorado. My breath billowed around me. I walked in the gutter, crunching the glassy ice that had formed, remembering similar times on walks home from school, walks with him.
I took a massive breath before opening the door to the house. I immediately saw several of my friends, and walked through a cloud of smoke as I passed the entry. I gave a few hugs and hit a few joints before making my way to the garage. He was sitting on a folding chair, chatting with people I didn’t recognize.
He smiled big and slow. I found myself involuntarily mirroring his expression.
To break the tension, I introduced myself to the others and grabbed a Guinness out of the refrigerator. I fumbled for a moment looking for a bottle opener.
“Still drinkin’ like a man.” He said, more than asked. He rose and stood in front of me. He took the bottle from my hands. I shoved them in my pockets.
“What in the hell is wrong with you?” I thought to myself. “You know how to deal with this. You know this guy better than he knows himself.”
“And he could say the same thing about you.” My conscience answered.
“Fuck off!” I told my self, but I knew I was right. He didn’t have to see my hands to know that they were shaking.
I nervously caught, avoided, and re-caught his gaze as he opened my beer, and handed it back. He had lost weight.
“You look great.” I said, before thinking it through.
He chuckled. “The Marines will do that to you. Kicking my fuckin’ ass.”
I laughed. He looked fantastic. I had seen him after he had returned from basic training, but only for a short while, and only to end in heartbreak. He looked even better now, as if he had relaxed in to his new lifestyle. It suited him.
We chatted nervously, tip-toeing around anything remotely sensitive, each of us aware of the last time we had spoken. I wondered if he was reliving it in his head as I was.
I remembered the look on his face that day five months prior. Complete indifference. In the years that I had known him, he was never cold, never distant. He was my best friend and, even though we never admitted it to anyone, he was much more than a friend when no one was looking.
I asked him to stay with me on that night. We had not seen each other since graduation and only had a few days left before we both went off on separate adventures. My parents were out of town and…
He said no. He never said no. We had a house, with a bed, without parents, for twenty-four hours. NO?
I said nothing, only sat, perplexed. He was in the drivers seat, staring out the front windshield. It was the only time that I could not read his thoughts.
“Okay.” I finally said, quietly. I leaned over to kiss him and was met by motionless lips and a blank stare.
“Did I do something to upset you?” I asked.
“We can talk about it later.” He said, without looking at me. “Bye.”
And with his “bye”, I felt a pang of panic. That “bye” was different. In the weeks that followed, I replayed the events of that day over and over hoping to discover what went wrong. He came back from basic training, his mother had hosted a party, and then I asked him for a ride home. That is all I knew.
He had shut me out. He never explained it, and he had not contacted me until…
I pulled my attention back to where he stood, looking down on me as he spoke. My heart was pounding. I was shocked to find that my beer was approaching empty.
He caught me looking at it and chuckled again.
“You killed it, Chiquita,” he said, using the nickname he had given me in seventh grade.
“I like Guinness.” I replied, absently, just looking for something to say.
“It’s okay,” He said, looking me in the eye, “I’m nervous too. Let’s mingle,” and he offered me his arm.
We walked around the party, enjoying brief conversations with clusters of people. We took a shot of tequila together in the kitchen. We eventually found ourselves outside. I took out my Marlboro Lights and lit one.
He scolded me, using my full name, and then winked as he lit his own. I had a sudden burst of courage, perhaps fueled by tequila.
“So, the big elephant in the room… “ I began.
“It was a huge mistake.” He interrupted.
“What do you mean?”
“I was acting like an idiot, for stupid idiot reasons. I was mad. My pride was bruised. Instead of telling you, I let it fester, and then proceeded to make the biggest mistake of my life.”
“What were you mad about?” I asked, trying to fight the tight swelling in my throat.
“I wrote to you when I was in Boot. You never wrote back.”
I took a deep breath and thought. I had been traveling when he was in Boot. I had received his letters all at once, when the mail finally caught up with the bus I was on. I received them only two weeks before his post-Boot Camp party, only two weeks before he had stopped talking to me. I never wrote back, because there was no time.
He was still talking as I remembered this.
“… and I know that I had no right to be upset. You were having fun, and it’s not like I’m not your boyfriend but I still missed you and you have the right to do whatever you want and… and who am I to be jealous when I don’t get all of your attention? It was a stupid thing to…”
I stopped him and explained the situation with the letters. As I did, he looked down at the ground and shook his head slowly.
“I am so sorry.” He said.
“So am I.” I agreed, sincerely.
He hugged me then, making me feel tiny in his frame. I continued to swallow the ball in my windpipe.
With our hatchets buried, we were feeling lighter and happier. We toasted to ourselves and joked about growing up. I smoked a joint, he drank a beer, we both had a shot, and around and around again.
After many hours of shenanigans, the party died. Guests found designated drivers while we sat on the back patio laughing drunkenly, enjoying each other thoroughly. My friend, the host, clumsily said goodnight and told us we could crash on the couch if we wanted to.
We looked at each other. We did not hear a bedroom door shut before I was in his lap.
We made out passionately, the way we always had. His tongue and mouth found all of their familiar spots on my lips and my neck. It was not long before we groped our way inside to christen the couch with clothing, sweat, and musky scent of fulfillment. We talked to each other, breathless. He kissed me on the end of my nose. I memorized all of the little freckles and hairs and spots.
We stayed until early morning. I woke first, needing to head to work only a few hours later. I sat with him on the couch. He held me and told me again that he was sorry.
“I will call you soon.” He promised.
I smiled and kissed him. This time, my kiss was returned. Warm and soft and complete; a kiss I had experienced thousands of times and I always wanted more.
It was snowing outside. I listened to Chicago on the way home. I forgot to light my cigarette.
Crossroads sneak up on us, giving us ill time to consider outcomes, giving us an excuse to say something about hindsight.
…
Everyone is finally asleep. It took some time to get the little one down, but my loving and devoted husband is such a great help. He is sleeping peacefully as well. I kissed him good night and said a silent “thank you” to the powers-that-be for my family. I have made a cup of tea and am taking some time to return emails.
Ding! I have an instant message. I don’t recognize the screen name…
“Hey Chiquita.”
My heart is lead. I close my eyes and remember; it was snowing. I remember the date today. It’s been almost 10 years.
”How are you? Great! I am good! Yea, me too thanks. Two kids now, you? Wow, how old? That’s great! It’s so nice to hear from you…”
I knew the pause would come.
“So, the big elephant in the room…” I start.
“Oh god, it was a huge mistake.”
Dirty Nurse
To say that I noticed the stench would be an understatement, like noticing the smell of a skunk outside. It would be better to say the stench hit me like a locomotive to the face. I immediately looked at Chris in horror. We should have turned back, but that’s hindsight talking.
I took a deep breath before I stepped through the screen door that Chris was holding open. The welcome mat was dog shit. The entire carpet was literally caked with dog shit, which I estimated to have been there since Texas was Mexico.
“Fuckin’ Christ,” I whispered to Chris.
Martha had waddled her gigantic frame into the kitchen, out of sight. I didn’t want to follow. I wanted to run like hell.
I stood in place for a moment. Like a character in a video game, jumping floating rocks across boiling lava, I accessed the best route through ancient dog shit and the many carcasses of dead cockroaches.
The roaches were alive in the kitchen. I threw up in my mouth a little when I saw the couch she wanted to give to us. It was piled with old pizza boxes, various food and candy wrappers, empty cans, and insects, both dead and alive.
“Oh, I’ll clear that off for you,” she said.
Her massive daughter came in to the room holding a soda and a hot pocket. The fake cheese was on her fingers. She licked it off when she talked.
“Need some help, mom?
“Yeah, help me get this couch cleared off so they can load it in their truck.” Martha said as she opened the back door of the house.
I watched as the two hippos chucked pile after pile of refuse out the back door. The two dogs outside barked and jumped, trying to catch the boxes and wrappers in their teeth.
Martha brushed away the insects with her hands and I noticed the stains. Stains of every color. Red, maybe blood, maybe barbeque sauce. I tried not to guess the origins of the other stains; I already wanted to vomit right there on the nasty floor.
Once the couch was cleared off, Chris went to one end and motioned me to grab the other. I looked at him wide eyed and shook my head quickly, but he mouthed the word “Go” and nodded toward the door.
I picked it up backward, so it rested on my back. I didn’t want to put my face next to it. It was already bad enough that I had to touch the filthy thing. It smelled of shit and trash and fat people. We loaded it in the bed of the truck. I threw up in the grass.
“Chris, let’s go,” I said while I rinsed my mouth out with bottled water.
“We can’t do that!” He said. “She is trying to do us a favor. You know she’ll tell my mom and all of the other nurses. It would be rude.”
“Rude?!” I said, a little too loud. Then a little quieter, “I don’t think that manners are very fucking important right now, Chris. These nasty women live in an outhouse… seriously. I am totally cool going without furniture until we can do better than this.”
“I’m going back in. The only thing left is the bed frame and headboard, and those aren’t made of cloth, so they should be okay, right?”
“Whatever,” I said, with a new cigarette in my lips. “I will come in when the mosh pit in my stomach is over.”
I took another deep breath, and looked back at the truck longingly as I walked back in to hell. Then I realized I had to pee.
I carefully walked down the hall, breathing through my mouth, fighting the urge to blow chunks when each step crunched on shit or carcass. I opened the bathroom door and lost the fight. I threw up in the sink. I didn’t even bother washing it down the drain because I didn’t want to touch the faucet. It’s not like they would notice any way. I rather preferred the scent of vomit over the reek I was already experiencing.
There were several piles of shit in the bathroom. Just like the rest of the house, the toilet had never been cleaned. There was a gaping hole in the tiled shower wall. A solid path of ants lead from it, to an old soda can that sat on the bathtub's edge. A roach fell from the top of the medicine cabinet in to the vomit puddle and I let out a squeal.
“Sorry, love. I should have warned you about the ants.” Martha hollered from the kitchen.
“No, you should have warned me that you and your morbidly obese daughter are the nastiest people on the planet.” I thought.
I decided I would hold it and nature-pee on the way home. The thought of poison ivy or a rattlesnake bite to the ass was far more appealing.
“The bed stuff is back here,” Martha said, starting to walk down an unsettlingly dark hallway. “I kept the frame and the headboard in the dog’s bathroom.”
“What?!” I almost said it out loud. I felt Chris reach backward and touch my leg, to comfort me, or keep me silent, I don’t know.
She opened a door and pulled on a string to turn on the light. The headboard was sitting there. I immediately knew that the dogs were boys. The bottom half of the headboard was so water… no… piss damaged that the wood was warped and wavy and peeling.
“I-don’t-think-it’s-gonna-work.” I said, quickly, with a big, fake smile and wide eyes.
“Why not?” Chris said through gritted teeth.
“It’s a queen size.” I said. “I absolutely must have a king size!”
“King size? What are…” I kicked him to shut him up. The idiot even said, “Ow.”
“We will just take the rails for the mattress,” Chris said while rubbing his calf. “We really appreciate everything.”
I let him carry all the rails. I could not get out fast enough. I had to wipe my feet outside when we left the house. I laughed a little, deliriously, at the irony of it. I jumped in the drivers seat and started the truck. I pulled away before Chris even shut the passenger door.
I was silent, smoking and speeding for a few blocks before I calmed down. The smell was still in my nose. I shivered with disgust.
“We can always try to Febreeze the couch.” Chris said.
I looked over at him, astounded.
“Yeah, I am sure that would work out real well.” I almost yelled. “Hey, maybe Glade makes an anti-squalor fragrance! Or maybe we can just rub it down with potpourri! Or… Or, I know! We can just soak it in gasoline and burn the motherfucker! Yeah!”
Chris didn’t respond.
When we arrived back at our apartment complex, I backed the truck up to the closest dumpster.
“What are you doing?” Chris asked.
“What the fuck does it look like?” I answered. “Get out and help me.”
We sat the couch next to the dumpster. In any normal circumstance, some random person would have snagged it. Families came by, picked up the cushions and ran away. They sat on it before they noticed the smell and then jumped up in horror. They even tried to pick it up when a rogue cockroach came out of the cushions, forcing them to drop it, breaking the legs, and releasing a few more insects.
I watched it all from my apartment where I sat on my new bug-and- shit-free sofa, laughing hysterically.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Doctor Johnson and the Demise of the Ford Taurus
At the end of the Summer, 2000, I was in Washington D.C. I had just performed my last show for Drum Corps World Championship Finals and was preparing to head back home. At the time, I was dating a guy named Chris, or Doctor Johnson, as my friends used to call him.
That night, 3 of the 4 buses in the Blue Knights caravan headed back to Denver. One went to the airport with a load of people and then back to Colorado as well. Looking back, I cannot remember what possessed us to get on the bus to the airport. We had exactly $20 between us and no chance of buying an airline ticket to anywhere. What we did have was a sense of adventure.
Once we arrived at the airport we somehow managed to con our way in to a Greyhound bus ticket from Washington D.C. to Victoria, Texas. It was a 39 hour trip to the city, which is located in the very Southern end of Texas, on the coast.
We came to Victoria with nothing except a couple duffle bags filled with shorts, tank tops, about 20 bikinis, ratty tennis shoes and two sleeping bags, all that we had left from our season of marching. We lived for a short time with Chris’s moms, his biological mother and her long-time lesbian partner.
Once we arrived at the airport we somehow managed to con our way in to a Greyhound bus ticket from Washington D.C. to Victoria, Texas. It was a 39 hour trip to the city, which is located in the very Southern end of Texas, on the coast.
We came to Victoria with nothing except a couple duffle bags filled with shorts, tank tops, about 20 bikinis, ratty tennis shoes and two sleeping bags, all that we had left from our season of marching. We lived for a short time with Chris’s moms, his biological mother and her long-time lesbian partner.
During that time we both worked at Denny’s. I worked the early bird shift and Chris worked grave. We saved the money we made so we could eventually find our own place and our own car.
One afternoon, I was watching some bad daytime TV when I saw and ad for a new dealership in town which offered in-house financing on cheap used cars. Having no credit to speak of, and very little money, I immediately called the number. I told them I only had $600 to put down and that I was looking for something reliable just to get me to and from work. The man on the phone invited us to the dealership, so we decided to meet him the next day.
We were only shown one car that we were qualified to purchase. It was a 1995 Ford Taurus, light blue. While it had a relatively high number of miles, it was in fairly good condition (or so I naively thought) and it was our only option at the time. We immediately agreed and signed the finance agreement.
For a while, all was grand! We finally had a car, we moved into our own apartment shortly thereafter, we both landed jobs at a new Italian restaurant, everything was working out well.
One afternoon, I was watching some bad daytime TV when I saw and ad for a new dealership in town which offered in-house financing on cheap used cars. Having no credit to speak of, and very little money, I immediately called the number. I told them I only had $600 to put down and that I was looking for something reliable just to get me to and from work. The man on the phone invited us to the dealership, so we decided to meet him the next day.
We were only shown one car that we were qualified to purchase. It was a 1995 Ford Taurus, light blue. While it had a relatively high number of miles, it was in fairly good condition (or so I naively thought) and it was our only option at the time. We immediately agreed and signed the finance agreement.
For a while, all was grand! We finally had a car, we moved into our own apartment shortly thereafter, we both landed jobs at a new Italian restaurant, everything was working out well.
One evening while Chris and I were headed out to eat, I noticed that the car seemed to be getting fantastic gas mileage. After we had filled up on our first day, the gage gradually went down and had seemed to hover at a quarter of a tank for quite some time.
“Lucky us!” I thought stupidly.
As if the car understood my stupidity, it started to spit and sputter through a busy intersection in town. I realized, only after 15 seconds of panic, that the car had run out of gas. The gage was already broken! Chris, in his amazing respect for my feelings, told me to get out and push and he would steer us to safety. While I cussed him for being a jerk as I pushed the car in to a parking lot, I also realized that I was probably far more capable of doing so than he was any way.
Shortly before we stopped, some good samaritans came to help me push the rest of the way. We explained to them that we just realized the gas gage was broken. What a fun way to find out!
The man, a husky figure in a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt, laughed and said to his equally husky wife,
“The dealership is brand new in town and already selling lemons.”
“Please don’t say that,” I thought.
What I did not want to think about was the very likely possibility that we had been swindled.
Chris, making up a bit for his lack of chivalry before, had gone to get a can of gas while I made small talk. Once refueled I said thank you to the samaritans and we were on our way.
The next couple weeks went without incident other than the fact that we had to make educated guesses on whether or not we had enough gas. Then things started to happen.
“Lucky us!” I thought stupidly.
As if the car understood my stupidity, it started to spit and sputter through a busy intersection in town. I realized, only after 15 seconds of panic, that the car had run out of gas. The gage was already broken! Chris, in his amazing respect for my feelings, told me to get out and push and he would steer us to safety. While I cussed him for being a jerk as I pushed the car in to a parking lot, I also realized that I was probably far more capable of doing so than he was any way.
Shortly before we stopped, some good samaritans came to help me push the rest of the way. We explained to them that we just realized the gas gage was broken. What a fun way to find out!
The man, a husky figure in a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt, laughed and said to his equally husky wife,
“The dealership is brand new in town and already selling lemons.”
“Please don’t say that,” I thought.
What I did not want to think about was the very likely possibility that we had been swindled.
Chris, making up a bit for his lack of chivalry before, had gone to get a can of gas while I made small talk. Once refueled I said thank you to the samaritans and we were on our way.
The next couple weeks went without incident other than the fact that we had to make educated guesses on whether or not we had enough gas. Then things started to happen.
We popped two tires, which were sorely worn to begin with. One of the two motor mounts not only cracked, it broke clean in two. (For those who don’t know, a motor mount holds the entire engine in the chasse of the car.) It created this horrible banging sound every time we went over a bump. We asked a friend, who moonlighted as a mechanic, to fix it. He let it sit in his garage for 3 weeks before he cared to do anything about it, even though we had purchased the part and agreed to pay him for the labor.
After finally receiving the car back, we replaced belts, rotors, the alternator (which I completed myself), the air filter and the entire brake system, shoes, pads, everything.
“You know, Chris,” I said one day, “I know it is just temporary, but I am starting to think it might be fun to push the car over the edge of a ravine.”
He laughed, but said nothing. Very typical.
We lived a fun, and sometimes crazy life in Victoria for two years, all the while driving the same damn car. I drove it in to the ground. We went to Dallas and back several times, to Waxahatchie for work, Corpus Christy, Austin, San Antonio and Houston. I doubled the miles on the car in less than 2 years.
It then came time for us to leave Victoria. We rented a U-Haul for all of the furniture and miscellaneous belongings we had accumulated during our time in Texas, and hitched the Taurus to the back.
I drove us from Victoria to Denver. When I say “I,” I mean it. Chris slept most of the way. Again, very chivalrous of him.
“You know, Chris,” I said one day, “I know it is just temporary, but I am starting to think it might be fun to push the car over the edge of a ravine.”
He laughed, but said nothing. Very typical.
We lived a fun, and sometimes crazy life in Victoria for two years, all the while driving the same damn car. I drove it in to the ground. We went to Dallas and back several times, to Waxahatchie for work, Corpus Christy, Austin, San Antonio and Houston. I doubled the miles on the car in less than 2 years.
It then came time for us to leave Victoria. We rented a U-Haul for all of the furniture and miscellaneous belongings we had accumulated during our time in Texas, and hitched the Taurus to the back.
I drove us from Victoria to Denver. When I say “I,” I mean it. Chris slept most of the way. Again, very chivalrous of him.
I put up with driving through Oklahoma on HWY 35 which was, at the time, under construction for about a zillion miles. This meant one lane, blocked on each side by cement barricades. To make matters even more fun, there was a torrential downpour and I was driving at night, with no exit to be found. Fuck Oklahoma.
Chris finally offered to drive once we had reached the western border of Kansas.
“That would be great!” I said, sarcastically. “I don’t think I can make it the last 4 hours!”
He didn’t seem to notice my sarcasm. Perhaps the weed had damaged his ears.
We headed to Parker, Colorado where we stayed for about a week with Chris’s fathers; his biological father and his long-time gay partner. No, I am not kidding.
We had moved back to the wonderful state of Colorado to work for the same Italian restaurant we had started working for in Victoria. We found an apartment in the beautiful town of Loveland and made a home for ourselves.
Over the next year, I worked my ass off. I had been promoted to a corporate trainer and was traveling 3 weeks out of every month to a different state to train new employees in restaurants that were being opened. Chris and I hardly saw each other. I never complained. Truthfully, I was prowling about in my travels and having plenty of fun.
I saved as much as I could even though I was the primary bread winner and Chris was the primary debt accumulator. I eventually saved enough money to buy myself a new vehicle, a Dodge Ram, the truck I had wanted since high school. Shortly before I did, the brakes on the Taurus went out again. I told Chris that I had no desire to fix them this time and that if he wanted to keep the car, he could figure it out.
Chris decided the best idea was to leave the Taurus in the parking lot adjoining the restaurant and the shopping complex behind it. I decided it was no longer my problem, even when the neon towing warnings started appearing on the windshield.
One evening, after working a 12 hour shift, I left the restaurant to find Chris outside waiting for me. He had been done with work shortly before. I walked out to the truck and lit a cigarette with the intention of sitting a few moments to rest my feet. We had worked very late, so the only person left in the restaurant was my manager, Josh. Chris said that he was going to check something out with the car, so I agreed to wait for him. I watched Chris get in the car and drive it around to the front of the restaurant and out of my sight. I was not really sure what he was doing, but I didn’t really care.
I closed my eyes for a few moments and enjoyed the gradual relief that I was experiencing in my feet. While there, I thought about the time when Chris and I were living in Boulder. He and our other roommate, Sean, had decided to tow our old Honda CRX to Parker. Chris sat in the drivers seat of the CRX while Sean pulled it with the Suburban. Chris, being as bright as he was, had forgotten to put the car in neutral AND decided to hold down the brakes throughout the entire 45 minute trip. Once they arrived, the hubcaps fell completely off the car. He had melted the brakes. Brilliant on his part.
Chris finally offered to drive once we had reached the western border of Kansas.
“That would be great!” I said, sarcastically. “I don’t think I can make it the last 4 hours!”
He didn’t seem to notice my sarcasm. Perhaps the weed had damaged his ears.
We headed to Parker, Colorado where we stayed for about a week with Chris’s fathers; his biological father and his long-time gay partner. No, I am not kidding.
We had moved back to the wonderful state of Colorado to work for the same Italian restaurant we had started working for in Victoria. We found an apartment in the beautiful town of Loveland and made a home for ourselves.
Over the next year, I worked my ass off. I had been promoted to a corporate trainer and was traveling 3 weeks out of every month to a different state to train new employees in restaurants that were being opened. Chris and I hardly saw each other. I never complained. Truthfully, I was prowling about in my travels and having plenty of fun.
I saved as much as I could even though I was the primary bread winner and Chris was the primary debt accumulator. I eventually saved enough money to buy myself a new vehicle, a Dodge Ram, the truck I had wanted since high school. Shortly before I did, the brakes on the Taurus went out again. I told Chris that I had no desire to fix them this time and that if he wanted to keep the car, he could figure it out.
Chris decided the best idea was to leave the Taurus in the parking lot adjoining the restaurant and the shopping complex behind it. I decided it was no longer my problem, even when the neon towing warnings started appearing on the windshield.
One evening, after working a 12 hour shift, I left the restaurant to find Chris outside waiting for me. He had been done with work shortly before. I walked out to the truck and lit a cigarette with the intention of sitting a few moments to rest my feet. We had worked very late, so the only person left in the restaurant was my manager, Josh. Chris said that he was going to check something out with the car, so I agreed to wait for him. I watched Chris get in the car and drive it around to the front of the restaurant and out of my sight. I was not really sure what he was doing, but I didn’t really care.
I closed my eyes for a few moments and enjoyed the gradual relief that I was experiencing in my feet. While there, I thought about the time when Chris and I were living in Boulder. He and our other roommate, Sean, had decided to tow our old Honda CRX to Parker. Chris sat in the drivers seat of the CRX while Sean pulled it with the Suburban. Chris, being as bright as he was, had forgotten to put the car in neutral AND decided to hold down the brakes throughout the entire 45 minute trip. Once they arrived, the hubcaps fell completely off the car. He had melted the brakes. Brilliant on his part.
I wondered what brilliance he was summoning now.
A couple moments became too many and I started to wonder what the hell Chris was doing. I looked to the restaurant to find him walking around the outside and toward the truck. Because it was dark it took me a few seconds to realize that he was completely soaked. From head to toe, it looked as though he had just jumped in a lake. A wave of horror started to creep into my belly. He approached the truck and I took a deep breath.
“We have a problem,” he said.
“Dear god, do I even want to know?”
I got out of my truck and followed him to the front of the restaurant, but the car was not there.
“Oh sweet Jesus.” I said.
Around the entire shopping complex ran a drainage ditch. About 15 feet deep, and filled with about 6 feet of water, it encircled the entire square block. As we drew nearer, I could see that one of the young Aspen trees atop the ditch had been completely knocked down and uprooted and there were tire tracks in the grass, leading straight in to the ditch.
I looked down to find our Ford Taurus, submerged head-first, the water reaching the very end of the trunk.
“You have GOT to be kidding me right now!!!” I yelled. “What the FUCK happened?!”
“I wanted to see if…well, I wanted to see if there was a way to get the car back to the apartment.”
“So, you thought that maybe the brakes had just magically HEALED themselves, or what?” I asked, shocked and furious.
“Well, no.”
“Okay, so when you realized that they weren’t working you decided to head for the ditch?!”
“I thought the tree could stop the car.”
“It’s a GOD DAMN SAPLING, for Christ’s sake! Have you no brain cells at all?!”
A couple moments became too many and I started to wonder what the hell Chris was doing. I looked to the restaurant to find him walking around the outside and toward the truck. Because it was dark it took me a few seconds to realize that he was completely soaked. From head to toe, it looked as though he had just jumped in a lake. A wave of horror started to creep into my belly. He approached the truck and I took a deep breath.
“We have a problem,” he said.
“Dear god, do I even want to know?”
I got out of my truck and followed him to the front of the restaurant, but the car was not there.
“Oh sweet Jesus.” I said.
Around the entire shopping complex ran a drainage ditch. About 15 feet deep, and filled with about 6 feet of water, it encircled the entire square block. As we drew nearer, I could see that one of the young Aspen trees atop the ditch had been completely knocked down and uprooted and there were tire tracks in the grass, leading straight in to the ditch.
I looked down to find our Ford Taurus, submerged head-first, the water reaching the very end of the trunk.
“You have GOT to be kidding me right now!!!” I yelled. “What the FUCK happened?!”
“I wanted to see if…well, I wanted to see if there was a way to get the car back to the apartment.”
“So, you thought that maybe the brakes had just magically HEALED themselves, or what?” I asked, shocked and furious.
“Well, no.”
“Okay, so when you realized that they weren’t working you decided to head for the ditch?!”
“I thought the tree could stop the car.”
“It’s a GOD DAMN SAPLING, for Christ’s sake! Have you no brain cells at all?!”
In his hysteria, he had apparently leaped from the car as it plunged in to the filthy water.
He said nothing else of consequence, only apologized like a 5 year old in danger of being spanked while I went inside to seek help from Josh.
Fortunately, between Josh’s truck and my own, we were able to tow the car out of the ditch. After doing so, I stood at the top looking down in to the water and wondering if we should have just left it there.
“It’s no ravine,” I said to myself, “but it still would have been nice to see it float away.”
I pictured the car floating away, and then pictured Chris in it, and smiled.
I turned around to see the car parked in front of the restaurant and my smile disappeared. Water drained from all crevices, trash clung to the tires, and clusters of dead leaves sprouted from everywhere.
“What should we do now?” Chris asked me.
“We?” I said. “I am going home, you can do whatever the fuck you want.”
He followed me to the truck and I did not argue when he climbed in. We rode in silence and, once home, I went to the bedroom with a freshly rolled joint and locked the door.
The car was towed 2 days later and I broke up with Chris 2 weeks later. The nail in the coffin was the day that Chris came home sporting a Dodge Ram, prettier and with more bells and whistles than mine, which he financed at 10% knowing that he didn't make any money. It was the lowest blow yet.
Shortly after I kicked Chris out, I met my husband. I was swept off my feet immediately. On our first date, however, I realized something. He drove a Ford Taurus.
He said nothing else of consequence, only apologized like a 5 year old in danger of being spanked while I went inside to seek help from Josh.
Fortunately, between Josh’s truck and my own, we were able to tow the car out of the ditch. After doing so, I stood at the top looking down in to the water and wondering if we should have just left it there.
“It’s no ravine,” I said to myself, “but it still would have been nice to see it float away.”
I pictured the car floating away, and then pictured Chris in it, and smiled.
I turned around to see the car parked in front of the restaurant and my smile disappeared. Water drained from all crevices, trash clung to the tires, and clusters of dead leaves sprouted from everywhere.
“What should we do now?” Chris asked me.
“We?” I said. “I am going home, you can do whatever the fuck you want.”
He followed me to the truck and I did not argue when he climbed in. We rode in silence and, once home, I went to the bedroom with a freshly rolled joint and locked the door.
The car was towed 2 days later and I broke up with Chris 2 weeks later. The nail in the coffin was the day that Chris came home sporting a Dodge Ram, prettier and with more bells and whistles than mine, which he financed at 10% knowing that he didn't make any money. It was the lowest blow yet.
Shortly after I kicked Chris out, I met my husband. I was swept off my feet immediately. On our first date, however, I realized something. He drove a Ford Taurus.
“Lord, help me.” I said.
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