What are we talking about?

Dear ___________,

2010-09-15T23:56:00.003-05:00

I saw that it was a Hustler and I relaxed a bit. Sleazy, but at least it wasn’t totally weird. You obviously went through a tremendous amount of effort to hide the magazine. I discovered it when I attempted to open the bathroom drawer and found it jammed shut. I could tell that something was stuck in the tracks, so poked my head in the cabinets beneath and found the magazine not-so-expertly hidden.

My instinct was to jokingly give you a little hell about it, but only after I had a peek myself…

And then it hit me. I have never had a problem with pornography. I am usually a big fan. You were aware of this. So, why would you choose to hide this from me? Why not throw it on the bed, wide open, like bait? I am a pretty easy catch.

It was hard to not think about our sex life at that point. I traveled frequently for work. When I was home, our relationship was routine and heavily sweetened with marijuana. Through this purple haze it had become difficult for me to see what was happening.

I started to back track in my head. How long had it been? Three… four months? Four months and no sex. Well, at least not with you. Like I said, I traveled. So maybe I wasn't the most honest and faithful girlfriend. Did you deserve it, though? What with all of that classiness you have?

[Break for laughter]

There is definitely nothing sexier than guy who is wasted after 3 beers, has a problem going to work on time, any time, and has habit of doing incredibly dumb shit. Such were my thoughts as I yanked the magazine out of the metal tracks.

Why did it have to be the Multiple Penetration Special Edition? My imaginary train of thought hit a violent switch track.

I sat on the toilet, perplexed. I had refused to ever believe that you had some kind of sexual issue or fetish that I would have a problem with. A small part of me had hoped that you were just gay and we could move on with our lives.

I opened the magazine as if it contained a hidden explosive. I gave the first picture an honest try. However, to me there is nothing arousing about a girl taking two unimpressive cocks in her ass. I know it works for some, I am not judging. I prefer pornography in which the female is having fun or at least doing a damn good job of acting like it.

This talented young lady stepped it up for the centerfold -- two in the front, one in the back and one in the mouth. Impressive, I admit, but more in a ‘Ripley’s Believe It or Not’ kinda way. I couldn’t even justify touching myself let alone breaking out the heavy equipment.

I thought about the fact that you elected to buy this magazine, out of all your choices. I prefer less sausage and more taco, but that’s just me. I stopped looking and left the magazine on the bathroom counter. I felt dirty and definitely not in a good way.

I confronted you about it that night. Deep down I was hoping you would do something dramatic like yell at me and then bend me over the patio railing and fuck me for all to watch. No such luck, though. When I asked you why you hadn’t made a move to touch me in four months you responded by starting to cry.

“My mom taught me to never touch a girl unless she asked,” you said through your sobs.

I stared at you.

“Did you think I was going to cry RAPE???” I asked, hearing the disbelief in my tone, “Jesus-fucking-Christ! RAPE ME! Seriously, I want you to!”

Um… That was your cue. Really. You could have done anything to prove your manhood in that moment and you chose to let your lip quiver. You sucked back your snot and wiped your eyes, looking at me like a lost, lame dog.

It was then that I realized what your issue was. You didn’t have any sexual dysfunction and you definitely weren’t gay. You simply preferred to see a bunch of dick because you were so burnt out on looking at pussy in the mirror all day. Yep, I went there.

Dear ___________,

2010-03-02T21:28:00.003-06:00

I think the way that I threw myself at you was atrocious. Sorry about that. I couldn’t have made it any more obvious that I was in to you. I guess I was just frustrated that you wouldn’t give in… and I couldn’t figure out why. The night that I stayed with you and Jenny in Greeley was pretty pathetic. I am sure that you would agree. I made up some lame excuse for why the couch wouldn’t work and then I conned my way in to your bed. I may as well have just said, “Fuck me” but you weren’t having any of it.

I thought I would try to get your attention once more when we went to the Tom Petty concert. Jenny and I made a pact that we would get “hoed out,” dressing scandalously with the intention of making a bad name for young women every where. I bought a new outfit and, I must say, I looked hot. My hair was cooperating perfectly that day and my butt looked amazing in those pants. I had no trouble attracting attention from everyone but you. Even Jenny was in to it. She and I marched around Red Rocks like we owned the place. We even decided to walk right in to the men’s bathroom instead of waiting in line for the women’s. No one complained.

I would have been happy calling it a night once we left Red Rocks, but the big party was that night. Everyone was there. A mutual friend had a cabin in the mountains and had arranged an overnight party for every trainer from the restaurant we all worked for. We arrived to find the party in full swing. Our co-workers were all inebriated. I partially have myself to blame. I had loaned my famous “Drunk Jenga” game to the group just for this occasion. Apparently it had been a hit. Katy, who I loathed, greeted me with wine stained teeth and some warbled story about how she had fallen down a hill and her prosthetic leg had come off. I laughed, picturing how glorious that must have been. What I wouldn’t give to watch that dumb bitch tumble down a hill, her wooden appendage following closely behind.

Walking in to a party where everyone is already heavily intoxicated can really be a drag. No pot-head likes to hang around a bunch of slobbering idiots, so I decided to hang out on the deck. I had a bag of weed, a cold beer, a blanket and pillow and about a gazillion stars to keep me company. I hung out for a while until I heard someone say something about truth or dare. I listened to the muffled laughs and random uproars and postponed using the bathroom until it was absolutely necessary. When I could hold it no longer, I went inside. What I saw I don’t think I will ever forget.

Ray was one of the “older” of our co-workers and I say this gently because he could have fathered many of the rest of us. Maybe it was his divorce that drove him to complete insanity, I don’t know. What else could compel a grown man to pull out his nasty testicles and slap them against a young girl’s forehead on a dare? I was horrified. At the same instant I witnessed the tea-bagging, I also looked over to find you, bent over, pants at your knees with a piece of my Drunk Jenga game shoved neatly in your ass.

“Wow!” I said out loud, “You can keep the fucking game.”

Hilarity insued. That is when I realized that several people were documenting every dare with disposable cameras. I couldn’t decide who was in for more humiliation, the people who would later be blackmailed because of the photos, or the poor kid being paid minimum wage at Walgreen’s to develop them.

Needless to say, my attraction to you vanished instantly. Thereafter, I became revolted at the thought of you. I was so grateful that I never succeeded in getting in your pants. Who knows… you may have asked me to stick a light bulb or a tire iron or a small rodent in your ass. That would have been terribly awkward. And while I will never be able to erase the things that I saw from my mind, I much prefer those memories to any that may have been made with you in an intimate setting.

I made no secret of what I saw that night. I told everyone who would listen. I had no mercy. For you or anyone else. Sure, I received an attitude from those who were bitter I spent the night on the deck, but they said nothing when pictures of testicles, tits and hairy ass cracks started to circulate. Thank goodness for self-respect. ☺

Everybody's Billy

2010-02-02T00:19:00.000-06:00

Billy is pushing 30 now. No one really ever talks about where Billy came from and why he is always sitting in that same old leather chair. My brothers never liked Billy. They picked on him, but if you ask me it was only because they were scared of him. Billy has that unnerving way of staring. Billy and I are about the same age now. I discovered, only recently, that I am the reason Billy remains… Everybody’s Billy.

“What’s his name?” They asked me, as if he couldn’t speak for himself.

“Name, Biwwey.” I stated matter-of-factly. I don’t remember why his name was Billy. Did he tell me? Did he speak a language I only knew at age two?

Billy has a new lady friend. He always has someone new. Sugar and spice and everything nice, she meets Billy and becomes… different.

“Billy needs to sleep!” She will say if she finds that he has attracted the attention of someone else. She will stomp and pout, pull hair and throw punches all for Billy. She wants Billy all to herself, and I think he likes that.

My brothers and I slept in the basement. So did Billy. Actually, he rarely ever left the leather chair. He just sat and stared. My brothers would crawl over next to me in the night. They would swear that Billy was tormenting them. They would say that they couldn’t sleep. Billy wouldn’t stop staring.

“Just ignore him.” I would say, careful not to catch Billy’s gaze from across the basement.

I would dream of Billy’s eyes, blinking so slowly, and I would wake in a cold sweat. Panic attacks, my family would say. I was being attacked by something, that’s for sure. What it was is anyone’s guess.

Cameron would say that he could see Billy watching us at night. He said Billy crept to our bedsides to stare at us while we slept. I told him he was silly and he should stop saying these things. I really wanted him to stop scaring me. I didn’t want to think about Billy’s eyes on me at night.

“Did you hear the latest about Billy?” My grandfather asked me recently.

I shook my head in reply.

“We almost lost him,” he said.

Billy spent a week away, taken by one of his latest ladies, pink and proper. Her reluctance to bring him back could better be described as defiance. Tears poured and words one would never expect came pouring from her mouth. When the battle was finally over, Billy was returned to his leather chair.

He sits there now, apparently content with his long and enigmatic existence, waiting for the next sweet little fly he can trap in his web.

He remains, dressed like Chucky in red with stripes. His shoes are worn as if the motionless doll has been walking for years. Perhaps Cameron was right all those nights that he insisted Billy was moving around in the basement. Billy remains, a malignant negative energy force that cannot be eradicated, even after 30 years.

Do I have myself to blame for opening the door to him? Did he somehow communicate with me all those years ago? Did he tell me his name was Billy?

My Dear _______ Letters...

2010-01-27T23:02:00.001-06:00

I like men the way I like a good trail mix, totally unpredictable. Now, I am not really a huge fan of trail mix, so perhaps that is not the best metaphor to use here. But how else would you describe the kind of men I have a history of being attracted to? There is no common theme. They are tall, short, skinny, Not-skinny, hairy, hairless, metro’s, macho’s, brunettes, blondes, redheads, and bald guys. They are White, Black, and Hispanic. (Yes, strangely, I have never had it for an Asian, other than the hot Army captain from Disney’s Mulan.) I am the only common denominator. If you lined them all up side-by-side, there would be no universal physical trait to identify them as “my type,” except a great smile, which I admit to being a sucker for.

Such an epic line up would be a great opportunity for me to clear up some things with a handful of these poor saps. Reflecting, there are a few hearts that I perhaps stomped on and maybe a few physical encounters that became a bit sticky, and not in a good way. The power to put together my ex-conquest line-up is out of reach for now, but the power of the pen… or the Macbook I guess, is not.

Dear ___________,

2010-01-27T23:00:00.004-06:00

I don’t know if you ever realized that the leopard print thong you so carelessly left out had been hung from the fire sprinkler in your room. I still wonder if you left it there.

Our fling was doomed from the beginning. I think we both knew it. That trip to the vineyards in California was fun, but I think anything can be fun after several bottles of wine. I don’t remember exactly, but did you really have the balls to go down on me on that bus ride back to the hotel? I am not sure… Surely there was someone in our group who was sober enough to remember… maybe not.

Now, help me out… did we fuck in the elevator that night, or was that a different night? We thought we were smooth thinking no one was on the elevator at 3:00 AM. That poor guy was either traumatized or thrilled to see your white ass pounding away when the elevator doors opened. I am sorry that I couldn’t stop laughing. Gratuitous public displays of sex make me feel a little silly. Plus, his reaction was classic.

“Uh… I’ll… uh… take the next one.” He said over my uncontrollable giggles.

I don’t think we finished… that seemed to be our story. The second time we tried to do it sober. Big mistake. I realized that I didn’t really find you all that attractive. I think your thought process was about the same, because you shriveled and shrank as I vainly tried to convince myself that I was turned on. I think we both decided at the same time that we were done trying. Have you every tried to stick a limp noodle in a rusted keyhole? That’s a metaphor, of course.

Everything was just so awkward. It took me until that last day to really figure it out. I don’t remember what brought all of us to your room, but there were several of us there. You were packing to leave and had apparently forgotten that all of your skivvies were on the bed for everyone to see.

All of the sudden it hit me… I have never had a good sexual experience with a man who wears thongs. Sorry, I just find it seriously creepy. Add to that the fact that they were leopard print and I think every person in the room was thinking exactly what I was…

“This guy is totally gay.”

Don’t get me wrong I love gay people. They give great décor and fashion advice and who doesn’t love a woman who will sport a t-shirt that reads, “I dig your girlfriend.” However, never did I intend to have numerous awkward, semi-public sexual encounters with someone who was questioning which team they wanted to bat for.

It wasn’t my idea to hang the thong up on the sprinkler. It was Joe’s. I don’t think that crazy Mexican likes gay people as much as I do.

A rumor surfaced only a few weeks after the trip. People started to say that you had been caught red handed with someone of the same sex. It was a big scandal for a while. I simply disregarded it. After all, I already knew.

Dear ___________,

2010-01-27T23:00:00.003-06:00

I am sure you noticed that I vanished. Sorry about that. Hey, at least we weren’t in a relationship! Yeah, I know that we were decent friends for a couple years before we went on that business trip to California. There was something in the California air, I think, or maybe it was the fact that I had tried to get it on with another guy who turned out to be useless in the dick department. I was feeling horny, so I decided you were “it.” It was a just a bonus that you’re good looking!

According to my plan, I ended up in your hotel room. What a great conversation! Music, chess, you have a brain! I thought I had hit the jackpot! I was thrilled when we kissed. You have a talent for it, for sure. I was definitely hot for you. I know the feeling was mutual. I noticed that as soon as we lay on the bed. Everything was going swimmingly when I decided to check out the goods. Well endowed to boot! At this point I was giving myself an imaginary pat on the back.

…And then you had to bust out what some would call a “shit-eating grin.”

Really? I have never been so terrified.

For a split second, I thought I had found a ticklish spot and was ready to laugh out loud until I realized that I had somehow awakened your inner clown.

In later conversations with close friends I have attempted to explain the horror that I felt at the sight of your face. You reacted as if I had touched your penis, given you a million dollars, and sent you down a roller coaster hill all in one instant. Was it your first time? I almost asked you this out loud.

To top it all off, you started to pant a bit. I think this is where my out of body experience began. I saw a horrified girl on a hotel bed holding the cock of an extremely happy Latino, who was quite possibly impersonating a golden retriever, drool and all.

That is about the time when I told you that I really liked you and that I didn’t want to rush anything. I wanted to save it and make it special. Well, sorry, I was feeding you a line of bullshit. I bailed as fast as I could.

I know that I promised to call and visit, but when you started to say not-so-subtle things about soul mates and marriage and litters of children, I started to sub-consciously plot your demise.

I changed my number and I am thankful to this day that we lived so far apart.

Dear _________,

2010-01-27T22:54:00.002-06:00

I am so sorry if I hurt you. I should be real… I know that I hurt you. It was not my intention. I was truly attracted to you, but it never would have worked any way. It was a fling, and nothing more.

You were adamant that you had never met any one like me. I believe it. I am pretty sure that I don’t have anything in common with girls in LA. I don’t have any understanding of fashion or celebrities or botox… it’s just not my thing. And I knew that you hadn’t traveled much before…

I lied to you. I had a boyfriend back home. He was a waste of space and my relationship with him ended very shortly after I met you. Perhaps you were the catalyst for that break-up, and for that, I thank you.

I will never understand why you preferred to be called Pablo when it's not your real name. You were a gringo through and through. Such beautiful blue eyes! You were so sweet, and funny, and lord knows that I have always had a thing for chubby guys. They are usually the best in the bedroom, which you proved admirably, even if it was just orally. I am glad we never slept together. That would have made it too complicated and probably would have hurt you even more.

I knew that it would have to end. I knew it the night that I woke you up in your hotel room at 3 AM to come outside and see the snow. You had never seen snowfall before and the look on your face was priceless. It was romantic as hell when you danced with me in the snow, but then I noticed the look in your eyes. It was THE look, and I suddenly felt horrible. I knew that the very limited time we spent together in Utah meant no commitment, but you were wearing the commitment face.

I was a coward and I didn’t want to leave one crappy relationship just to jump in to a long-distance one. So, I did what a coward would do, I stopped answering the phone. It wasn’t right of me. I should have just been honest with you and for that I am so sorry.

To this day I wish you nothing but happiness and I hope that you have found another girl who can play pool, buy you a lap dance, drink you under the table, and dance with you in the snow, because that is what you deserve.

Dear ________,

2010-01-27T22:50:00.003-06:00

I think it’s fair to start out by saying that you are a complete douche bag. Who spells Nick without a ‘C’ any way?

I find it wildly hilarious that you somehow thought you were the man. Let me clue you in to something, sir. You are anything but. In fact, your genitals are greatly lacking and your ego is as big as the moon. You know that day when you came out to your car after work to find a box of “finger condoms” (as we call them in the restaurant business)? My friend and I left those there for you after we decided to start calling you “Pinky Dick Nik.”

It was a shame that I wasted time on you. You were attractive in the face, which may be why I gave it a chance… the tequila helped. But the tequila certainly hadn’t numbed me enough. I remember thinking, “You’re inside me? Jesus, I have experienced more stimulation from my pal, Playtex.” So, I rolled you over. It was the only way that I was going to have any fun. When I kept saying “Shhhh…shhhhh” and putting my hand on your mouth, I wasn’t trying to make it hot. I just wanted you to stop saying, “Are you close? Are you close?” Jesus, what a turn-off. So I got off, hopped off, and was delighted to leave you hanging, if you can call 3 inches of pencil thickness hung.

A few weeks later you came to my condo for a party I was hosting. I had no issue with it. You were there with your latest lady, a bartender from our restaurant. I will never forget overhearing her telling another girl that sex with you was some of the best she has ever had. I laughed out loud, nearly choking on my Jell-o shot. All I could say was, “Wow, I am so sorry.” She looked at me with disgust as I continued to laugh. I am pretty sure you both left shortly afterward. Poor girl. I hope she found a thick one after you and realized what she had been missing out on… and why I laughed so hard.

Dear _________,

2010-01-27T22:37:00.003-06:00

I consider the two dates we went on as nothing more than a comedic scene in my memory. I was never attracted to you. We were casual friends, but from a dating standpoint I thought you were creepy.

Nothing physical happened between us, thank goodness, not even a kiss. I find the idea somewhat revolting actually.

I guess the only reason I owe you a note is to clear the air regarding the night that I allegedly stole your car.

First of all, when you invite a girl to your birthday party, she usually expects a party. You and two of your idiot friends playing Nintendo does not count. Secondly, it is usually not the best etiquette to answer the door completely hammered drunk… that is supposed to happen as the night progresses. I politely sat long enough to drink one beer before I decided I had enough. I remember wanting to kick myself for being dropped off with no plan for a ride home.

I told you that it was time for me to leave and had made the commitment to call a cab. You followed me to the parking lot, keys in hand, stumbling belligerently, insisting that you could drive me home. I didn’t want to spend the fifty bucks it would take to pay for a cab, but I certainly didn’t want to end up dead either. So when I watched you fumbling through the keys and trying to decipher which car was yours… well, let’s just say that I have an inner evil laugh. It was too easy.

I slowly sat in the passenger seat and closed the door as you clumsily plopped in the driver’s side and tried to stick the key in the stereo. I watched the hilarity for a few seconds before you found the ignition. It was perfect. You hadn’t even shut the door. I shifted my weight and, using both legs, I kicked you out of the car and on to the pavement. I jumped in to the driver’s seat, shut the door and took off before you even had time to roll over. I probably could have just left it at that, but I couldn’t help myself. I reached my arm out the window, gave you the finger, and yelled, “LATER, FUCKER!!!”

I laughed for a solid 15 minutes on my way home. And, hey, I was nice enough to bring your car back the next day.

Bash List

2009-12-06T02:22:00.001-06:00

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.

So I dated a squirrel killer

2009-12-05T01:57:00.005-06:00

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.

Aught to be Clowns

2009-09-13T23:17:00.004-05:00

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….”

Good Ones

2009-09-13T19:04:00.005-05:00

“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.

(Tidbit)

2009-09-13T18:14:00.001-05:00

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!!”

...

2009-09-13T17:49:00.002-05:00

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.

Excerpt Number 1 (This is an excerpt from my upcoming book)

2009-03-21T19:43:00.002-05:00

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.

Wishing you Poverty and Chastity this Christmas

2009-02-21T14:56:00.001-06:00

“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.

Hindsight

2009-02-01T00:31:00.001-06:00

“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

2009-02-01T00:30:00.002-06:00

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.

Doctor Johnson and the Demise of the Ford Taurus

2009-01-10T11:33:00.004-06:00

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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?!”

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.

“Lord, help me.” I said.

Lost in Translation in Mexico?

2008-12-27T17:37:00.002-06:00

Being in a foreign country, there is obviously a language barrier. This is not, however, a barrier that cannot be overcome. Gradually, you learn how to say, “No, I want my cerveza now, Bitch,” and, “You’re fucking crazy if you think I am paying that much for a taxi.”

Without help, there are certain things that foreigners will not be able to overcome. I have decided that it is my moral duty to teach these things to innocent, un-expecting folks who may be thinking of traveling or living in a tourist-heavy region of Mexico. The following are direct translations that I have learned from my time here. I certainly hope that this will be of assistance to the general gringo population.

1. “I will make a special deal for you, my friend.”

TRANSLATION:

I am gonna charge you twice as much as the last gringo tourist.

2. “It’s almost free!”

TRANSLATION:

You are about to get ripped off.

3. “It’s a good apartment. Only 8000 pesos a month!”

TRANSLATION:

It is a flooded, filthy, shit-hole… perfect for lovers of large insects.

4. “This is really good stuff.”

TRANSLATION:

This is the same nasty, seedy, brick weed you can buy in South Texas, but I am gonna charge you three times as much.

5. “This pipe is made of Crystal.”

TRANSLATION:

By “Crystal,” I mean blown glass.

6. “There is no way that you can find it for that price.”

TRANSLATION:

I know exactly where you can get it for that price, but I am just not going to tell you.

7. “Um… the taxi fare is 40 pesos.”

TRANSLATION:

The taxi fare is 20 pesos, but I think you are an idiot, so I am gonna charge double.

8. “You look Rich; like a Movie Star.”

TRANSLATION:

You’re white and I want your money.

9. “Please help us maintain a clean bathroom.”

TRANSLATION:

Please try to hit the toilet and don’t smash the cockroaches. It leaves a huge mess.

10. “Please throw your toilet tissue in the waste basket.”

TRANSLATION:

Please throw your shit-covered toilet paper anywhere but in the toilet. Our sewer system can’t handle it.

11. “You look like Jesus.”

TRANSLATION:

Wow, you can grow facial hair.

12. “The tip is included.”

TRANSLATION:

The tip is included, but I am going to pout like a little baby if you don’t leave more.

13. “The public restroom is located over there.”

TRANSLATION:

The restroom is wherever you can find a hidden corner or an empty bottle. And don’t worry; you can leave the piss-filled bottle anywhere you would like.

14. “Yeah! I know Denver!”

TRANSLATION:

I illegally worked in Denver!

15. “I will let you know in about an hour.”

TRANSLATION:

I will call you in a few days, or whenever I feel like it, or maybe never.”

16. “I can walk your dog 3 times a day, 5 days a week, for only 200 pesos!”

TRANSLATION:

I will swing by once if I feel like it and take your dog out for a few minutes, then let him sit in his kennel and piss all over himself for the rest of the day for only 200 pesos!

17. “We will wash your Jeep and have it done in about an hour.”

TRANSLATION:

We will wash your Jeep, and then we will let one of our employees (we don’t actually have record of) take it, wreck it a few times and then sue you for the damage.

18. “Our chicken is delicious!”

TRANSLATION:

Our iguana is delicious!

19. “I have the best prices around!”

TRANSLATION:

Please believe me! Please believe me!

20. “If you are going to buy some crap you don’t need, it is better to buy it here!”

TRANSLATION:

We all have the same junk, but I have 18 kids! Please help!

21. “This is cheaper than K-Mart!”

TRANSLATION:

This will break before you make it home.

22. “Wanna see my junk? I am a farmer.”

TRANSLATION:

(Huh?) I would get my ass kicked if I said this in the States, but I’ll say any random shit to get you to look at the cheap China crap I have for sale.

23. “Hola, amigo! Come in and break something so you can buy it!”

TRANSLATION:

Hey, Buddy! Come in and break something so you can buy it!

24. “Welcome to the Cancun ‘Ambiance Villas.’ Have a nice stay.”

TRANSLATION:

We have no idea what “ambiance” means. Eat my ass.

25. “Yes, the bar sells water, but I’m on break.”

TRANSLATION:

Fuck off. I’m on break.

26. “Yes, we have a pool.”

TRANSLATION:

Yes, there is a hole in the ground filled with rainwater. Watch out for the dead scorpions.”

27. “Oh, you can brush your teeth with the tap water but I wouldn’t drink it.”

TRANSLATION:

I’m gonna laugh my ass off when you get the shits later.”

To be continued…

It may sound like I am ranting a bit so, to be fair, I will say this…Life here is beautiful. The people are beautiful and the sea is beautiful. I wake up each ay and thank the Universe for bringing me here. I have been given such an amazing gift and, for that, I will be eternally grateful. Yes, there are many circumstances that would leave less “stable” individuals with a bad taste in their mouth. I enjoy the humor in every situation and I hope that I can make others laugh as well. Nature, kind people, delicious food and breathtaking views are all around me, and are here for anyone who is open to receive. Namaste.

Doctor Johnson and the Red-Neck Block Party

2008-10-01T21:52:00.010-05:00

(I have changed some names in this story...)

Chris' brother, Adam, was graduating from high school so we did what any family in South Texas would do. We buried a pig in a pit in the front yard to smoke for 2 days prior then bought some beer and whiskey for the kids and wine coolers for Chris’s mom, Mandy, and her long- time lesbian partner, Jerri. Combine that with some baked beans, a front yard full of guests, and a joint the size of a Sharpie marker, and you have the recipe for a full blown red-neck street party. Mandy even took the time to clean the dog piss off the living room floor!

My brother, Cameron, was in Texas visiting at the time, so he joined us at the party for Adam. We started drinking at 10:00 AM before the graduation ceremony. We drank throughout, and came back to the house to drink some more. Being a seasoned drinker and a full time bartender, I had a knack for all day drinking without feeling terrible and without getting belligerent. My brother, Cameron, while not being “in the business,” was a self-trained drunk. One of those natural talents, you know?

I cannot ever say the same thing for Chris. While he controlled himself to a degree during the ceremony, the after party was a whole different story. Once I had cracked my third beer, he had almost cracked his skull by falling on the ground, narrowly missing the charcoal grill that stood cooking brats and hot dogs. Cameron and I stood side by side, sipping our “Crrrs light” and shaking our heads.

“Whad’ya reckon we oughta do wit ‘im?” Okay, so my drawl hadn’t become that bad yet, but let’s pretend for dramatic effect!

Cameron arched his back in a stretch, yawned and scratched his stomach.

“I don’t fuckin’ care. We can just let him lie there.”

“Sounds great to me,” I said.

I still laugh at the fact that Cameron and I always seemed to be on the same front when it came to dealing with Chris. It was usually us, looking down on him, shaking our heads.

I looked at my watch. 7:32. The sun was still up.

We let Chris lie under the grill. I enjoyed the company of my friends without worrying about where he was and if he was getting himself in to trouble. Jerri carefully maneuvered her 300 pound frame around him to grab food whenever necessary, but otherwise we just left him alone.

“He HEEE….” Jerri laughed. “Boy just caint control ‘imself. Ya’ll been drankin all day, ain’t cha?”

Cameron and I nodded.

“Yeah, but we’re better trained.” I said.

Jerri laughed again. “I know you’ll train ‘im right girl.”

Mandy and Jerri liked me a lot. Say whatever you want, but I think it is just because I was good for Chris.

A short time later, someone had started a fire in the pit in the front yard. We all continued to drink and sneak around the back of the house to smoke the occasional bowl. Cameron had made a new friend, a petite little Latina thing from the neighborhood, and had disappeared. I looked at the grill and noticed that Chris was not in his spot.

“Shit.” I said out loud.

I asked Adam if he had seen Chris, but he was too intoxicated to understand what I was asking. I asked Mandy, then Jerri, but no one had seen him.

He finally emerged from the back door of the garage with a an open bottle of champagne and a handful of disposable wine glasses not yet assembled.

“Heeeyyyyyy.” He said as he stumbled a jagged path back to where we all sat, near the fire.

I put myself between his path and the flames to assure that Chris would remain a drunk moron instead of a drunk burn victim.

“It’s time to celebrate, man!” He thrust the arm holding the champagne in the air and spilled a bit on himself.

“I didn’t know we had Champagne!” Mandy said with a smile.

“I found it!” Chris said with a slur. “It was in the freeeezer in the garaaage.”

“Ooohhh.” Mandy and Jerri said in unison, as thought realizing something very distressing.

Mandy looked at me.

“We have had that bottle of champagne since our commitment ceremony. We were going to save it for our 20th anniversary coming up in 2 years.”

I ran my hand over my face in exasperation.

“Nuttin’ to do now but drank it.” Jerri said.

“Yeeeahhhh!!!!!” Chris yelled.

By this time Cameron had come back to the group, a strange glow about him.

“What the hell happened?” He asked.

I explained everything to him and he gently shook his head.

“What a fuckin’ idiot.”

After most of the guests had gone and the bottle of 20 year old champagne was polished off by people who would later throw it up, Cameron and I began the process of getting Chris in to the car.

Highly intoxicated people can sometimes be a pain in the ass. Chris put a whole new swing on this. Our attempts to get him in the car became a scene not unlike parents with an unruly toddler. He fought us, pushing himself out of the car, laughing hysterically. He would fight or go limp when we attempted to move him. All the while, giggling like a school girl.

After 45 minutes of fighting him, I sat on him in the back seat with my feet on his head to hold him down. Cameron locked the car and we jumped in the front seats and sped away. Chris giggled and jabbered incoherently the 5 mile drive back to our apartment in town. Cameron and I passed a joint back and forth in silence.

Once we arrived at the apartment complex, we fought again to get Chris out of the car. 20 minutes later, Cameron had thrown Chris over his shoulder like a rag doll. Chris continued to laugh. Cameron had to climb a flight of cement stairs to get to the door of my apartment. About 3 steps from the top, I heard him let out a yell.

“OH, I KNOW you did not just do that.” He dropped Chris in front of the door and turned to show me the wet spot that started on his shoulder and went down his shirt and pants.

“Tell me he didn’t just PEE on you?!!!” I said, disbelieving.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kick the shit out of your dumbass boyfriend right now!?!” He said, while yelling down at Chris.

I shrugged. I couldn’t come up with a good reason.

We dragged Chris inside and let him lay in the hall, incoherent, until Cameron had a chance to take a quick shower and put on some clean clothes.

I was in the hallway when Cameron came out. As he did, Chris stumbled in to the bathroom and attempted to pee. He forgot to pull down his pants and ended up peeing on himself instead. This time, Cameron and I just laughed.

He turned slightly toward us.

“Whaaaatt maaaann.” As he spoke, he tipped backward and fell directly into the bathtub.

Cameron and I laughed even harder. We looked in to the bathroom and found him sprawled in the tub, one leg out, with the faucet that always leaked, leaking right on his face. He giggled and licked the drops from chin.

“I am really tempted to turn the water on, but if I leave him here, I get the bed all to myself.” I said.

We left him in the tub. Only minutes later, our usual 11:00 crowd showed up. In the year that we had lived in Victoria, Chris and I had created a huge group of friends. About a half dozen of these could be guaranteed to show up around 11:00 Thursday through Sunday. It was a Saturday.

I was grateful for the company and for the joints that were being passed around the living room. My closest friends, Joey and Alban, had brought me an order of fries from Whataburger.

“What’s happening with Doctor Johnson?” A nickname Joey had given him months earlier, it stuck like glue.

“He is covered in his own piss and passed out drunk in the bathroom.” I said over a mouthful of fries.

Alban laughed, coughing as he blew smoke out of his nose. I told them about the events of the evening while we sat on the patio, overlooking the pool. We all laughed until we were misty eyed.

“Crazy vato.” Joey said at one point.

We sat for a few more moments until I heard my friend, Connie, scream.”

“OH MY GAWD!” She yelled.

We looked inside to see Chris, who had come out of the bathroom. He had decided to take off the piss-covered clothes. Problem was, he had forgotten to put any back on.

I am all for Man-scaping, meaning men who trim and shave. All the better to lick you with, my dear. Chris did this for me, but there was one problem. Being that he was only about 5’4”, 135 pounds it made him look like he was 12 , especially when flaccid.

I rushed in to the living room amid a storm of laughter.

“What’s up guuyyyyyyzzzzzzz.”

“I think that’s about enough.” I said as I turned him and walked him back to the bedroom. I pushed him flat on the bed, pulled some underwear out and threw it on his face, muffling his giggle.

“Fucking pull yourself together.” I told him, angrily.

“Aieeyyyyytt.”

I turned the light off as I walked out and turned to see him in the same position on the bed, with the underwear on his face. I shut the door and immediately decided I was going to sleep on the couch in order to avoid any unexpected projectile vomit to my face.

When I came back in to the living room, Alban handed me a 2-foot bong with a fresh, Texas sized bowl as Connie said,

“Way to go, Mom!”

It was like taking a blow to the gut, and I choked on my hit.

Jesus, I was a mom, wasn’t I? This was just one night. What about the hundreds of other times I had been forced to take care of Chris as I would a child?

“Fuck.” I said to myself.

Mommy dearest

2008-09-29T20:15:00.003-05:00

I find that I am almost bombarded with hilarity every day. Take our recent trip to a “Mexican” restaurant here in Minnesota. We asked the waitress for some extra green chili on a burrito. She looked at Jeff, confused, and responded by saying:

“Oh, we don’t have green chili here. We only have chili verde.”

Hmmm...

How about the conversation that I found myself in over dinner with the family last night? We were discussing odd parenting methods when someone mentioned eating soap as a punishment for profanity. Jeff’s mother was recalling one of her childhood memories. As I laughed in agreement, I continued the conversation.

“Yeah, I hated it when my parents cut a chunk off the bar of soap and made me chew it up and swallow it.”

I was met by crickets…total silence and looks of bewildered shock on both Jeff and Linda’s faces.

“They made you chew and swallow it?” Linda asked, incredulous.

“Yeah, and they wouldn’t let us brush our teeth.”

“That’s horrible!” She exclaimed, disbelieving.

I wondered just what she meant. Wasn’t this a normal occurrence in parenting? I refrained from bringing up the time that my parents had made me and my brother, Cameron, scrape the wax off of the kitchen floor with a butter knife, a project that took us over a week.

I also figured she might not understand if I were to tell her about the time that my parents saved a punishment from an earlier sin until later that evening…well, more like early the next morning. My mother woke me up at 4:00 AM to tell me that I had to stand in the corner, face the wall and remain that way for an hour. I was 9. Seems like the typical punishment for whatever cookie or soda it was that I stole out of my mother’s bedroom closet full of food, right?

My personal favorite occurred when I was a senior in high school. On New Year’s Eve I was invited to a party and was given a curfew of 12:30. I tried to explain to my mother that the New Year’s celebration usually begins around midnight but, poor thing, she just didn’t get it.

I arrived home right on time and, as I walked in the door, I found my mother perched on her trusty corner of the sofa. The TV in the living room and kitchen were playing the same show, creating a cheap surround sound effect. I greeted my mother and she rose from her cushion to come and smell my breath.

“You have been drinking.”

If it had been on another night I would have been up shit creek without a paddle, but on this particular evening I had spent much of my time smoking weed and having unprotected sex in the cab of a truck. Good thing for me!

“I have not had anything to drink tonight, Mom. I promise.” I said, defending myself.

“Don’t you lie to me. I smell it on your breath.”

I smelled Diet Coke and chocolate on hers.

“I swear,” I said, raising my voice a little. “I had a root beer tonight and that’s it.”

“Oh, bullshit, Amber. You’re drunk.”

“Drunk?!” I yelled. “What the hell are you talking about?”

About that time I would have killed for a glass of water, some Cheetos, and a good stretch of my overworked quad muscles, but I didn’t say that.

“Jesus, Amber, your hammered!” She yelled back. “Listen to the way you are slurring and yelling at me.”

“SLURRING???!!!! DO I SOUND LIKE I AM FUCKING SLURRING??!!!”

“Oh my god, Gary, she is so drunk she is completely violent.” She said to my father, who stood watching the progression of this argument without offering assistance to either side.

“VIOLENT??!!”

By this time, tears streamed down my face and my voice cracked with rage. I felt hurt, I felt betrayed and, most of all, I felt like knocking my mom on her ass. So, maybe I was feeling some violent tendencies.

“I think it’s time we called the police, Gary.”

My father casually walked to the phone and dialed. I am pretty sure that by this time our family had the Broomfield police on speed dial.

The police arrived about 10 minutes later to find me in hysterics and my mother wearing a bogus look of motherly concern.

“Hi, Mike.” I said to one of them between my emotional gasps and hiccups. I probably looked pretty worse for the wear upon first impression.

“Hi, Amber. What’s going on with you tonight?”

“Absolutely—hic—nothing. My insane—hic—mom —thinks that I have been—sniff—been drinking and I have—hic—had absolutely—sniff—nothing.”

The look of skepticism on his face was apparent as he explained to me that he was going to have to give me a breathalyzer.

“Fine.” I said, confidently. “Bring it.”

The other officer pulled out the machine and I obligingly blew in to the little straw.

The officers waited a moment and then looked at each other. They looked at my mother, then me, then back at my mother and then said something I will never forget.

“Donna, the amount of alcohol that is in Amber’s system could have been caused by a breath mint or a dose of Nyquil."

Or a couple shots of breath freshener to cover up the smell of cigarette smoke.

"We have better things to do, so goodnight."

Mike gave me a hug as he left and whispered in my ear, "Sorry, sweetheart."

"It's cool," I said as I wiped my nose with the tissue Cameron had brought me.

I looked at my mother. Swollen eyed, cotton mouthed and satisfied, I lifted my middle finger and held it in front of her face. I then went to the phone, made a call and had a chariot on the way to pick me up. I didn’t come back for two days and my mother never apologized.

So what is wrong with all of that? I never thought it strange that, as children, my 2 younger brothers and I knew the Broomfield police force on a first name basis, or that we knew every creek in the floors and doors of our home so well that we could sneak in to the same room in which my mother slept and steal chips, cookies and any other food we could find after picking the lock on her closet. It just never occurred to me that these things were abnormal. I just figured everyone’s parents sucked as much as mine did.

Observations over Camels and Crown

2008-09-29T18:38:00.002-05:00

Just sitting here...people watching; wondering where they are going and where they are coming from. The 3 "kids" next to me, for instance...they are shaking the table, for one. Good friends, Hat offered to buy the first round. Beanie is pretty quiet, drinking Newcastle, hasn't said a word. Then there is Girl, slightly pudgy with dishwater hair and studious glasses perched on a pixie nose. They chain smoke and make casual conversation about the weather. Joined by Mother and Son, they exchange stories of destinations and arrivals; Milwaukee and San Jose.

The four people to my 12 o'clock are beginning their Vegas vacation early. Man doesn't appreciate his wife. His gaze lingers on the tight ass of the chocolate haired waitress leaning over the bar. I wonder how many of his thoughts he acts upon. But, who am I to judge? I am just a spectator.

Son with baby-blues smiles and laughs as he talks to Mom about life and where it is taking him. Beanie still hasn't said a word and Girl lights another Marlboro.

Parker, the 3 year-old on a mission, scurries at my feet as his frustrated parents try to nab him from under the bar table. Busboy changes my ashtray and smiles while catching what he may have thought was a smooth glance at my chest.

Ahh…and the Fraternity Trio. They sit across from me and order light beer. Wimps...I sip my Crown on the rocks and chuckle to myself.

"Quit shaking the damn table!!!" I think to myself.

I glare at Beanie who seems to be getting fulfillment at my expense. Girl decides it's time to go and the weather conversations cease. They are replaced by Maroon-haired boy. Perhaps a theatre junkie? Artist? Meth-head? There I go, judging again...

The Trio talks about throwing a kegger in the bar and exchange grief over drink prices and the fact that they received Lanky for their server instead of Chocolate-hair.

Goodbye to Mother and Son, 2 dollars, 10 cents and 3 Camels later. Their warmed seats are quickly occupied by Grandma in navy blue. Definitely not her natural hair color. Virginia Slims...I wonder if they make her feel more graceful in her quest for cancer? Maroon is talking on the phone and while hiding his face (not a conversation about the weather, I assume).

I smile at Frat 1 and 2 and ask about their college. Yep, I was right...frat boys. I make small talk, then I leave without introducing myself. Not that it matters; it is not like I will ever see them again. They head off to San Fran, and I to Michigan.

I walk past the crowds of people, not making eye contact for fear that someone may see straight in to my brain.

Now at the gate; this crowd is completely different. Most are impatient and fatigued from their travels thus far. Baby cries and Mommy coos, Broker talks a few decibles too high, and 2 year old squeals with delight while watching the 747 outside.
I wait...and watch...and wait.

Where are these people going, and why? Some for weddings, some for funerals. Some for business and some for pleasure. Graduations, anniversaries and birthday parties; reunions and separations. These people pass through my thoughts as quickly as 5:00 traffic. I wonder, and then I forget. A thousand lives pass before me without any interaction save a simple glance. Grandparents, friends and CEO's. Divorcees, Newlyweds and entrepenuers; not affecting my life, but infesting my thoughts and arousing my curiosities about others and where they are going...and whether they wonder about me too.

What happened to the simple things?

2008-09-29T18:01:00.006-05:00

I took a trip to Nebraska last year to allow me some time to be alone. No better place to be alone than in the insignificant town of Wauneta, population 600ish. There was not much opportunity for distraction in my mother’s home town. The drive to Nebraska is straight, flat and, to some, boring. Not for me. I revel in the idea of physical solitude, and in the company of Robert Smith, Dave Matthews, Trent Reznor or any artist who may cause a stir inside of me. Listening to The Cure under the stars of the middle-of-nowhere HWY 6 is what I would call a spiritual experience. I remember stopping the car on a small dirt side road surrounded by the browning stalks of recently harvested corn. I lay flat on the hood and stared in to the universe. Looking up in to a sky like this was like looking in to the eyes of my son the day he was born. I could not help but to feel a sudden sense of awe and reverence. Millions…no…billions of stars lit the night sky. Each one a force beyond my wildest dreams; each one a distance I would never be able to travel. And, as if by instinct, the radio in my mind tuned in.

Somewhere out there...beneath the pale moonlight...

“Somewhere out there, indeed.” I said aloud.

There was no moon this night, but it didn’t matter. The light created by the spectacle of stars was almost as bright as the moon. Before I lost all sense of time, I got back in to the drivers seat and sped away.

After a 4 hour drive, I arrived in Wauneta and headed for my grandmother’s house in the center of town. The old brick house had been added on to more times than I even know. The "flow" of the house was never considered. So it is now a series of square rooms attached to one another, each one gaudy in its décor. From the completely finished, yet meaningless, attic, to the recently remodeled, windowless, dungeon of a bedroom at the far end of the basement, each room is a collection of things from the past and things from now.

I cannot say that I do not enjoy the oddity of the house. There is something still so familiar about it, even now in my adulthood. It still smells the same and there are still the same creaks in the floors, even if the carpet is brand new. There is still a shiny Cadillac in the garage. Although, this is Sinner’s Cadillac XII, or something close.

Yes, my mother’s family name is Sinner. We will get to that later.

The poor car sits in the garage and racks up a sorry ten thousand miles at best before being traded in for something better. Oh, to get that Deville on the back roads of south western, who-gives-a-crap Nebraska…out where no one cares because there is no one to care...

When I was a young girl my grandmother seemed so wise and so exciting. She now seems more, well, like a grandma. That is really the best way to describe it. I find that conversation is a bit slower these days because her daily routine has not changed in the last 27 years. She still gets her hair fried and permed at the same salon, in the same little town an hour away from her little town. She still tells me all about how great Mike, her stylist, is.

“How meticulous he is, Amber!" She exclaims. "Why, he has the most spotless shop in town, and the girls there just love him. I cannot understand why he can’t find a nice girl and settle down.”

I think what I cannot say; “Because he’d rather find a nice boy and go down.” I chuckle to myself.

One thing I hope never changes is her food. This seems to be true for just about every family I know. How is it that the generation of our grandmothers can be a collective group of geniuses when it comes to throwing things in pots, ovens, and crock pots and, as a rabbit from a hat, pull out something that makes mouth water in anticipation?. My grandmother made the best cornbread. Today, I cannot stand cornbread as it is made everywhere else in the world. My grandmother’s was a light, almost crispy, delicacy that complimented fresh green onions and cherry tomatoes from her garden with perfection. Every meal was planned and prepared for immediately after the previous. My grandmother still lays out the serving utensils, bowl, napkin and cup for my grandfather’s breakfast, the night before.

I wonder what has happened to the percentage of the 1950’s culture, other than my grandparents, of course, that actually made it through their lives as the Cleavers. If it worked out for my grandparents, how many other wives are still planning every meal to perfection, cleaning daily and making weekly trips to the same salon they have been going to for 20 years? How many of them are there to wait upon their John Wayne at the end of the day with devotion and love? Are there really women out there who are truly meant to be a housewife and excel at doing so above anything else? It would seem that is the truth for my grandmother.

This particular road trip was due, in part, to my need to study for my Colorado real estate license. Something that I never wanted to do in the first place, the test was now becoming the only thing seemingly holding me back from “unparalleled success.” I spent much of my 3 days in Wauneta studying and trying to absorb useless information about a subject that made me nod off with boredom.

I tried, I really did. But, I have learned now that if your gut is telling you not to do something, then it is not in alignment with what you are really supposed to be doing. Thankfully I have learned that at a relatively young age. This real estate license thing was definitely not for me. I didn’t want to be one of them and found it embarrassing to tell people what I was doing for a living. It only took me 3 months after this little road trip to figure that out.

While I was in Nebraska I spent most of my time alone. I went to the park that my brothers and I used to play at as children. It is much different now. The metal twisty slide that existed when I was young was replaced by a more modern plastic slide. Good thing, too. A metal slide that has been sitting in the intense summer heat is capable of doing horrible things to a young butt. I speak from direct experience.

The park is still right next to the public pool. A place of many memories for me, the pool seems much smaller and shabbier than it did when I was growing up. Back then it was a haven for the children of the town. It was an exciting place where I was taught to swim by the same girl that worked as a secretary for my grandfather. It was the place where I would be rewarded with a 3 foot long licorice rope at the end of the swim day. I would walk back to my grandmother’s house eating the licorice until the red, sticky juice would run down my arms.

They recently added a tennis court immediately behind the pool. I find the idea idiotic. I cannot for the life of me think of a single person in the town who is a big tennis buff. These people are into Cornhuskers football and whose tractor is bigger than whose. In my grandfather’s case, it is whose Big Rig is bigger than whose. These are the same people that look at me as if I were an alien when I jog past their house in the morning. Yeah, physical activity is not the norm in Wauneta. It makes me wonder if there was one person on the city council who really wanted a tennis court, or if they are trying to increase tourism.

I slept in the original master bedroom upstairs. It is the creakier, older side of the house. I love every minute of it. It smells like an old bed and breakfast. The sheets are spotless and stretched to fit the hard mattress with military precision. Most people may not be thrilled with a hard bed, but being a person who has slept in far worse conditions, I thought it wonderful. The pillows are always big and soft and the cases smell like Downy. When I am there, I am family and a guest at the same time. While I am expected to help with the dinner dishes, I am also allowed to sleep in as late as I like with no interruption.

Amusingly, I have been trained as a parent to wake up in the morning so the latest I make it is usually around 9:00. I awoke around this time each day and went out for my run. The humidity in Wauneta is more than that of Denver, which lacks it altogether. A relatively moist morning is something that I enjoy completely. I enjoyed it when living in Texas and appreciate it every time I experience it now. I relished in the feeling of the morning on my face and the complete silence of the sleepy little town. Traffic consisted of more than 2 cars traversing the immense 3 block stretch of what locals call Main Street. The silence was intoxicating.

Taking the time to observe how the people of Wauneta lived I was struck by the wonderful simplicity of it. I started to think that I was missing something. The harder and harder I worked to make my life better, the more stressful and complicated it became. This brought my thoughts back to the real estate licensing exam and the seemingly impossible mountain I was expected to climb. I felt nauseous.

"Fuck it." I thought to myself.

Three months later, after I had attempted the practice exam for the third time and failed, I told my boss that I was not heading in the right direction. After a few heated words and a few tears shed by both of us, I finally made the first step in walking away from 5 years in career that I hated every minute of. Shortly thereafter, the whole thing collapsed.

This evening, I read articles about the impending depression the US is facing which began with the collapse of the subprime mortgage market. This was the field I had studied, fought and agonized over for half a decade. Then it hit me. I am done, completely done, with that entire period in my life. I am so happy I find my eyes misted and the prospect of tomorrow exhilarating.

God in the waterbed

2008-09-29T17:57:00.002-05:00

I have tried over and over to recall the earliest memories of my childhood. When I think of my youngest years, I can specifically recall the way my car seat felt. I can feel the cheap velour material under my hands and the straps over my shoulders. I remember how it used to feel to sit in a hot car seat while my parents talked to someone outside the car. The sweat would build up uncomfortably between my chubby legs and the skin under the straps would grow hot and damp against whatever frilly dress I was most assuredly wearing.

I remember traveling to Northglenn Mall one day, which was customary in my family. The mall is, to this day, a most popular destination for my mother. I would find it hard to believe if anyone visits the mall more than my mother, unless they are employees therein. The sounds and smells of a mass-commercialism still make me a bit queasy. I avoid these horrible places with a passion that cannot be described. It is a wonder I have seen the Mall of America without vomiting. On this particular day, my then 8 months pregnant mother brought me to the mall to buy supplies for one of her many baby showers, weddings, or other odd celebrations of life. My mother has a unique gift when it comes to cake decorating. While some may chuckle at the idea, it is really quite fascinating. She could have been a very successful woman, but that is another story altogether.

During this trip to the mall, which has now been all but shut down and replaced with even gaudier versions of it’s predecessor, I remember wanting so badly to watch the huge fountain in the interior courtyard rise and fall while changing all the colors of the rainbow. The fountain was surrounded by a rod-iron fence, which I grabbed hold of with all the might my 2 year old strength could bear. I don’t remember exactly how long it took my mother to get me away from the fountain, but I know it ended up hurting. My mother tells me that she yanked my arm away from the fence and I proceeded to do what any 2 year old scorned would do, I threw a tantrum and made sure everyone in the mall knew that my mother had violated me. Once back in my sweltering car seat, made even worse by hours in the sun, my mother told me that if I wanted my arm to feel better, I needed to pray to god to make me a better girl and he would make the pain go away.

When we returned to our small, drafty trailer, I proceeded to take my issues up with God immediately. My mother recalls preparing dinner that night and noticing suddenly that she could not hear me. She called for me and I did not answer. The trailer being small as it was, it did not take long for her to find me. I had made my way to their “master” bedroom at the rear of the mobile.

The waterbed era was a unique one. Whatever possessed someone to fill a mattress with water is beyond me. Being sensitive somewhat to motion sickness, I find the prospect of sleeping on one daunting at best. My parents had one. They had many over the course of my childhood, in fact, and still have one to this day. In the trailer was no exception. I had seen my parents many times kneeling over the edge of the bed and clearing their conscious with the god we believed in then. At 2 years old, it is easy to understand why I may have been confused in these circumstances. After all, why would you kneel over a bed of water and talk to it if it weren’t for a reason?

My mother found me in this tiny room, much of it impeded by the gigantic bed frame, with my face in the bobbing mattress, chattering in a language that we all forget with age. My mother asked me what I was doing and I looked up at her, with my innocent grey-blue eyes and said, “I’m talking to God, Mom. God is in the waterbed.”

Suckers on parade

2008-09-29T17:56:00.001-05:00

I was recently listening to a radio program in which the disk jockeys were accepting calls from listeners. These listeners felt the need to share their strange phobias with the public. One caller, a woman in her 30s, explained her belief that inanimate objects have feelings.

“If I have a tootsie roll and throw away the wrapper, I will have to eat another in order to throw away a second wrapper.”

Her girlie high pitched chuckle made me picture her as a Mouseketeer.

“We all need friends; I didn’t want the first wrapper to be lonely.”

“Gosh, I could think of nothing worse than the wrapper spending eternity in a landfill alone,” The DJ sarcastically responded, “What horror!”

Again, the girl giggled. It’s always funny to listen to someone being made fun of, especially when they don’t know it.

The disk jockeys asked if the tootsie roll itself had feelings and, if so, why it did not scream in terror when being chewed brutally between molars and then swallowed and digested in stomach acid. The caller said that being eaten was the tootsie roll’s mission in life, and it would therefore be a most joyous experience.

Well, that explains everything. Suddenly I feel very sorry for the leftover Kung Pao chicken that is molding in my refrigerator.

I find humans, especially Americans, incredibly compelling. I love to sit and watch people pass me by. In Boulder there is an outdoor pedestrian mall called Pearl Street. It is a hub for swanky restaurants, head shops and book stores; a stage for street performers and a hangout for all of the highly liberal residents of Boulder. It is the only place that I have visited where I met a Buddhist monk, a protesting atheist, and a Jamaican contortionist in one day.

On my last visit to Pearl Street, my path was crossed by a very large group of streakers who were protesting some local political issue. Unexpected full frontal nudity is always a bonus in people watching. My close friend, Eydie, called me recently to tell me that during her drive to work she had seen a 60 year old man casually “strolling” down the street in naught but his birthday suit.

Some people have all the luck.

I applaud people who have no problem flaunting their privates in public. People who have no issue letting their insecurities waggle and bounce for all to see have to be among the strongest or most medicated people around. As exciting as that is, however, there are only so many flaccid penises and overgrown bushes one can see before it just gets boring.

Driving always brings out an interesting side of people. Just like reading is conducive to a pleasant bowel movement, driving makes nose picking both satisfying and rewarding. I admit that I have fallen victim to the inevitable urge to dig for gold on the interstate. I often wonder what other people do with the booty. Do they flick it out the window? Are there pickers who are responsible enough to have tissues on hand? Or do most people fall in to the “wipe it under the seat” category?

I never really bothered to ask the people who I have seen in the act of nose picking. Typically when I find someone busily digging, they either look away in horror, pretend they don’t see me at all, or they look me right in the eye, pull out a huge specimen and then pop it in their mouth before smiling merrily at me and speeding away. Next time I see someone, I will be sure to roll down the window and ask where they intend to put the booger. I may have to yell to be heard over traffic, but I am willing to give it a try.

While the various groups of humans provide hours of fun and education for me, none will ever quite measure up to frustrated parents. Parents may not be naked as the streakers, but they are nevertheless dangling their insecurities out there for me to scrutinize. Nothing makes me feel like a better mother than venturing out in public to watch all of the parenting examples in my community.

Jeff and I witnessed a young boy throwing a tantrum in a local restaurant recently. I watched, engaged, as his parents grabbed at flailing arms and legs, rushed to wipe up spilled milk and begged in a loud whisper for the child to stop.

“PLEASE, Little Johnny! You need to calm down!” They would beg.

Mommy, wiping strands of sweaty hair out of her eyes, dodged a left hook from the toddler.

Another beverage spilled, 3 “SHHHH’s” from the surrounding patrons, and one thrown fork later and the husband signaled for the waitress.

“Good,” I said to Jeff. “They are finally leaving.”

I had spoken too soon.

“GET US SOME ICE CREAM! QUICK!!!” The husband pleaded to the waitress.

Within moments, there was a peaceful silence. The toddler now swung his legs with glee, back and forth, back and forth. He wore a chocolate syrup smile and had whipped cream on the end of his nose.

Mommy and Daddy smiled at each other. A beautiful moment occurs in parenthood when mother and father are completely on the same page, when they share in the joy of knowing that they have accomplished something big. Like the first word, or the first step, parents will always credit themselves with some measure of success for these things. Moments of success in parenthood also include those in which there is a moment of peace, a moment of joy, and a moment of knowing that you are a responsible parent and you can overcome anything. Mommy and Daddy shared this moment with each other with a quick squeeze of hands and a smile.

I watched the toddler for a few more moments until, I swear, he closed his eyes, savoring the whipped cream, smiled to himself and whispered, so only I could hear…

“Suckers.”

I am huge in Japan

2008-09-29T17:55:00.003-05:00

Shortly after our performance, Sara and I happened upon each other. I am not sure who was looking to bum a cigarette, though the chances are good that it was me. We stood in the parking lot satisfying our cravings before we boarded the bus and made our way to the next city.

Mid-drag, Sara and I were approached by a shy young Japanese boy with a camera. He was no more than sixteen and was wearing a nervous smile.

“Roo ahh booteeful. I ruv a piktcha.” He said.

Sara and I both chuckled and put our arms around him to pose while his friend snapped a few pictures. Once done clicking, the friend posed with us to have pictures of his own taken. I looked at Sara and smiled between shots. Sara was blonde with blue eyes. I, brunette, although sun-streaked, had grey-blue eyes and a dark tan. I guess we looked a little different than the girls back in Japan.

Have you ever wondered who the random people are in the backgrounds of the photos of your family album? Even better, have you ever wondered how many pictures you are in all over the world? How many families have shots of you walking behind Mickey Mouse at Disneyland, or you shoving a turkey leg in your mouth at fair? How many books and albums is your mug gracing, and are there places where you can be seen bending over in the background of the Johnson family camping trip photos?

I had this exact thought after Japanese boy number two had finished posing. When I looked up, I could not believe what I saw. A line, easily composed of all one hundred fifty members of the Japanese Drum and Bugle Corps, had formed in front of us. All of the boys were chattering nervously and every last one held a camera. Now, I am not usually one for stereotypes, but what is it with Asian people and cameras?

Each boy lined up to have his picture taken with two fabulous American women. We laughed until our stomachs hurt, but made sure each and every Japanese boy had the opportunity to get their photo taken with us. I have never felt more famous. When I think of all of the places where my face can be seen, I like to tell people that I am huge in Japan… because I am.

Louisiana

2008-09-29T17:52:00.001-05:00

I will avoid the state of Louisiana for the rest of my life. Given the events of the recent past, I could not, in good conscience, begin this story with the statement I would really like to make about Louisiana.

It was August during this leg of our tour. The Blue Knights caravan, which I mean in all truth, arrived at a small high school in Southern Louisiana. I remember it was raining on this particular day; the kind of rain that I have only experienced in the South. It falls in gallons and leaves the air thick and the ground crawling with various fascinating insects. The plants and trees, all larger and greener than those of my home state of Colorado, sagged under the weight of the water and the gutters flooded, washing debris from the street. The smell of ozone was thick in the back of my nose when I stepped off the bus. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Mama Pickett, our colorguard bus driver and mother to one of the soprano players, was a huge fan of the air conditioner on our bus. We had all grown accustom to sleeping with multiple layers while on board, including winter caps.

The rain had stopped. The buildings and trees dripped and sound of cicadas was almost deafening. The heat of the warm southern evening hit me as soon as I stepped on to the asphalt. I shivered with delight as warmth and feeling returned to my toes. I immediately stripped off the extra layers and waited for my bag to be unloaded.

Moments like this were ones I cherished. I stood with friends reveling in the nicotine I had been craving for the last 6 hours. Many people find it amusing that there is such a large smoker population in Drum Corps. Given the fact that we were athletes and musicians in one, it really does amaze me that we could all handle it. We endured 16 hour rehearsals on sweltering black asphalt, or worse, Smurf Turf. Boise State University has Smurf Turf. It is bright blue and horribly hot when in the summer sun. Our 2 days in Boise resulted in over a dozen cases of heat exhaustion. Yet, regardless of that and the many other physical challenges we endured, there was still a band of us who gathered to light up at every opportunity. Tonight, we talked about the next show and about the fact that we had a “nice” grass field to rehearse on at this high school. That was always exciting. Being on the Colorguard meant that dancing was involved at every moment. Doing so in sneakers is never the most graceful, nor the easiest. A good grass field meant bare feet, and that was great for all of us.

My bag unloaded, I rolled my belongings in to the high school gym and quickly found a place to unfold my small travel mattress and put my trusty sleeping bag on top. All finished with that, I took my bathroom bag and towel, which had not seen a laundry day in weeks, in to the girls locker room.

It’s always a bit disappointing to arrive at a high school to find that the bathroom facility is not just less than accommodating, but totally horrifying. I immediately noticed the yellow slime that ran down all corners of the locker room. Once glance at the lockers themselves, and I decided to keep my bathroom bag with me. I expected the sink to be as bad as the rest of the bathroom, but I wish I had been more prepared. As I approached one, movement caught my eye. A roach, about the size of my thumb, scurried over the edge of the sink and underneath in to a hole in the tiled wall. I screeched and drew the attention of a few others. The state of the bathroom was no news to anyone here, and had most likely reached the staff already. I took a deep breath and let it out. I was no stranger to this. I had showered in troughs, been eaten alive by mosquitoes while trying to pee, and had been forced to drink water that in no way resembled water. So, this was the first challenge that Louisiana had for us.

“Bring it on, you Cajun bitch,” I thought to myself.

I did what most of us did when checking out the water conditions. I filled a cup with water and peered in to check it out.

I have been so blessed to live in Colorado, with Rocky Mountain water, for so long, that I had no idea what other people have to deal with. I have seen the green water of Indiana, the cloudy water of Ohio and the eerily blue water of Tennessee. Louisiana water is brown. Not just brown, brown with UFOs; unidentified floating objects. Regardless, water is water, and there was no way that I would survive without it. Almost as bad as the prospect of drinking it was facing the fact that I was still wearing show make-up that simply had to come off. I closed my eyes and washed my face as fast as I possibly could. Watching the water swirl down the drain and resisting the urge to heave, I decided I would use my own saliva to brush my teeth…but I would have another smoke first.

Chico and a few others were already outside. When I walked out I made a mental note not to wear a white sports bra for rehearsal in the morning. Humidity like this was certain to cause problems for any female who may be sweating profusely while wearing white. I came up beside my friends and lit my Marlboro light without interrupting the conversation that was already in progress.

“Fucking nasty…!”

“…totally not showering until right before the show!”

“Put a lot of ice in your jug…you won’t notice the taste.”

I agreed and filled them in on my bathroom encounter.

Chico laughed, “Check this shit out, girl…”

We walked around the corner of the building. There was a fluorescent light perched on the roof of the school, 15 feet above our heads. At first glance, I could see nothing but the triangle of light cascading down the brick wall. But, after a moment the brick wall outside of the triangle of light seemed to shift. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that it was moving and I let out a girlish squeak and walked very quickly in the other direction, shaking imaginary bugs from my shoulders.

I purposefully made sure not to lean against any walls, or any objects at all when I came back to the small group. Cancer meetings, we used to call them. I stood 10 feet away from anything and made sure I was smack in the middle of the pool of light from a lamp overhead.

“How long are we here?” I asked, anxiously.

“Two days, girl.” Chico answered, coming up behind me.

“Great.” I said, as he put his arm around my bare waist.

“Let me know if you need protection from the bed bugs.” He said with a grin. His eyes were cashed and I could smell the lingering scent of a joint thick in his hair. I rolled my eyes and laughed, but returned his sideways hug.

We lingered for a few more minutes, most of us having a second cigarette, before heading off to whatever sleeping arrangements we had procured. I made a thorough inspection of my sleeping bag before sliding in and assuming a comfortable position.

To this day I can sleep like a baby on a hard floor with nothing more than a couple blankets and a pillow. Being crammed into a bus seat and forced to sleep sitting up is much like being rocked to sleep for me.

This night was no different. Even with the relatively eventful evening, I slept soundly. Morning, however, was a whole different story.

“GOOD MORNING BLUE KNIGHTS!”

This, to me, is much like having a rooster crow directly in your ear. There was always a split second each morning that I wanted to cry, or throw something at our drum major.

“Fuck you, Andy!” Molly yelled from somewhere in the gym. Most of us chuckled. Molly had a way of just making everything humorous.

I opened my eyes and stared up into the gym lights as they slowly warmed and brightened. I let out a sigh of defeat. No sense in wasting the precious time I had before stretch. I rolled my head to the right and clamped my hand over my mouth to muffle the involuntary scream. About 4 inches from the side of my pillow was a cousin of my bathroom friend, legs stiff in the air, frozen in death.

I leaped out of my sleeping bag and danced around wildly to assure there were no visitors in my bra or shorts. I shook out my sleeping bag, and finding no more threats, I found the nearest object I could to sweep the hideous insect far away from me, and under the bleachers.

Several others had visitors as well and I heard the random exclamations echo through the gym as we all awoke. What bothered me more than the dead roach was the fact that it was alive before it ended up there. I shuddered to think of what may have passed in the night and decided, again, to assure that I had no stowaways on my person.

I dressed quickly in the cleanest bikini I had, and threw on a pair of men’s boxer briefs. I secured my long, curly brown hair in a knot at the top of my head before tying a bandana around it, grabbing my water jug and field bag and heading outside.
The heat of the day was intense. I could feel the temperature change long before I reached the double doors, and the metal of the handle was warm under my hands. I walked out in to the blistering morning sunshine and immediately lit a cigarette. I spent a few moments with the collection of people who had gathered near the equipment truck, a massive 18 wheeler, our beautiful logo painted on the side. This truck was loaded with all of the horns, drums, marimbas, uniforms, and colorguard equipment. I grabbed my ratty flag bag and walked away. Most of the girls in the colorguard had the time, money or motivation to create a decent equipment bag. I had none of the above before we left on this tour. My bag was made of one leg from an old pair of jeans that I had sewn closed at the bottom and which was barely long enough to hold my 2 rifles, saber, 3 flags, and one 8 foot long piece of bamboo that, with a spectacular flag attached, was the big effect in the closer of this season’s show.

I found a home for my equipment and field bag before making my way to breakfast. All meals were prepared in our other 18 wheeler, which had been converted to a mobile kitchen. I found my trusty Golden Grahams at the end of the serving table, choosing to skip the pancakes and sausages that were already being investigated by the local flying insects. I ate quickly, noting that I had exactly 15 minutes left until stretch. Enough time to use the bathroom, apply a liberal amount of sunscreen, fill up my water jug (eek!) and have one more cigarette.

Water filled and sunscreen on, I made my way to the frightening restroom where I had decided, once more, to “hover.” I enjoyed the last few drags of my cigarette outside the double doors, and then joined the slow procession that had begun in the direction of the football field.

The “nice” grass field that we were promised was anything but. The grass itself rose to mid-calf, leaving sufficient area near the roots for various life-forms to creep and crawl. I grumbled to myself. I guess bare feet weren’t an option. Too bad I had left my fly fishing boots back at home. My sentiments were shared by everyone else in the corps, and I heard Kendra’s pitchy squeal of a voice complain about the circumstances. I took a deep breath and prepared myself for what was shaping up to be a very interesting rehearsal.

Four hours later, much to our relief, we broke for lunch. I had re-applied sunscreen twice in the time period, but I could feel the warmth of the fresh sun on my shoulders. By this time in the season, many of my friends referred to me as “Mexican.” However, regardless of the amount of SPF 45 I applied each hour, my skin would still feel slightly well-done by lunchtime.

Hamburger Helper ingested, I made my way a distance from the food truck to the side of the building where I took a few moments to shut off the rest of the Corps. Living in such close quarters for 3 months straight made alone time nearly impossible. I was thrilled to find that I had 20 minutes left until we returned to rehearsal. This seemed like an eternity and I smiled to myself. I found a place to sit and as I did so, I grimaced slightly. I had broken out in a heat rash right on my behind. Something that happened in the roughest climates, it had become an issue today. I decided to grin and bear it. Not much that I could do right now and it would be a while until I had a chance to sit down, especially by myself. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. The smell of flowers and trees filled my nostrils. I stayed this way for a few moments until I heard a throat clear behind me.

“Hola.” Chris said.

“Need a smoke?” I asked, handing out my pack, opened for the taking.

“Thanks.”

Chris lit the cigarette, inhaled slowly and then let out the smoke, only to inhale it again through his nose. I laughed and he smiled, his crooked teeth hidden behind thin lips.

“Field fucking blows, right?”

“I can’t stand it here. I have to jazz-run 40 yards at the beginning of the ballad and I have to do so through a damn swamp.” I explained, annoyed. “I am ready to get the hell out of here.”

“I am kinda used to it.” He said. “This ain’t much different than Victoria.”

“Well you can have it. I will stick with good ol’ Colorado.”

“Yeah, I am thinking about staying there after tour.” He replied. “My dad is in Parker. I may live with him for a while.”

I smiled. “That would be great. We will have to hook up sometime.”

He returned my smile and blushed a bit.

We sat in silence for a moment before I put out my cigarette and threw the butt in the closest trash can.

“I had better get back.” I said, making my way back toward the field.

“Talk to you later.” He said and took a drag.

I walked in the other direction, feeling his eyes on me, and laughed a bit to myself. I was not sure what it was about Chris. He was not all that impressive to look at, other than the fact that he could hold a cigarette in the crease of his 8-pack abdominal muscles. He was a bit of a loner and about 2 inches shorter than me, but he was my friend. We had a few great conversations during training and since tour had started. There was a part of me that could see us maybe dating casually in the future.

I shook off the idea and made my way back to the field, growing anxious for the end of this very challenging rehearsal. As the day wore on, we were all afflicted with the incessant, biting insects and beating sunshine, but we marched on. Several of us were forced to rehearse in soggy shoes and most of us were covered in grass and mud. But, through it all, there was always laughter and smiles. We had worked hard to be here and, damn it, we were going to push through the petty obstacles.

Near the end of the day, as the sun began to set and the mosquitoes came out in droves, we finally heard the words that we had been waiting all day to hear.

“WATER UP FOR A RUN!”

The Corps cheered and a second-wind seemed to wash over all of us. We would all take a quick water break, set up all of our equipment, run through the entire 15 minute show from beginning to end, and we would be done for the day. My stomach growled loudly at the thought of imminent food. It seemed like it had been forever since lunch.

After setting up all of my equipment, I made my way to my starting point on the field, right on the 50 yard line. Chico met me there with his snare drum in tow. I smiled at him and put my arm over his shoulder, then rested my head on top in our beginning pose.

“Have a good run.” I whispered to him.

“You too, mama.”

The adrenaline of performing, even when we are only performing for our own staff, is exhilarating. I found myself flying on a new-found wave of energy as I made my way through the opener without a flaw.

The ballad music began softly and, with my hands trembling from nailing all of my opening rifle tosses, I took a deep breath and made my way to my spot halfway across the field, trying to look graceful as I did so.

40 yards cleared without incident, I danced my pretty self through the ballad and onto the loud and powerful closer. After the rifle introduction, we switched to flag and I made my way to my spot on the left side of the field. At this point, I was in place for 36 counts performing the already choreographed material. Counting in my head, I went through the routine.

“Six, seven and eight, and up two, three, toss and freeze.”

And freeze I did. As soon as my foot hit the ground, I felt my leg light on fire. The pain was so intense and so unexpected that I made no sound. And then I felt the white-hot sparks erupt on the backs of my legs, making their way up my boxer briefs. I felt a wave of dizziness and headed to the back of the field where I immediately and violently became ill. I stood swaying for a moment, my damp flag sticking to my skin and the metal pole sliding from my hands. I absently brushed my hand down the back of my legs and felt the sparks once again. I grimaced and began to walk clumsily around the outside of the field, drawing sideways looks from all those still performing.

Once I reached the track, I collapsed to my knees and dropped my flag. Kevin, one of my instructors and also and old friend, was making his way quickly toward me.

“BUFFY!” He liked to call me, “What the hell are you doing?! Get the hell back out there!”

I tried to respond, but as I turned my head I felt a wave of nausea and fell on my side. I did this in time for Kevin to see the damage that had been done to the backs of my legs and he gasped.

“ROBBIE!” He called to our caption head.

Robbie came running to the track and came down to his knees in front of me. He and Kevin chattered nervously back and forth for a moment. I found the moment oddly amusing. I thought they were queens before, but the excitement made them seem even more gay.

“THEY’RE KILLING MY BABIES!” Robbie cried.

He and Kevin lifted me up and put my arms around their shoulders to help me to the trailers. I felt as though I had not slept in a week. My head was foggy and my legs felt the size of tree trunks.

One of our Corps Moms was with us in moments, bringing with her Benadryl and a large tube of hormone cream. I swallowed the Benadryl with water and was lead in to the gym, stripped and greased down with a massive amount of the noxious-smelling cream. I felt disgusting, but the pain started to lessen. My head was still spinning as I was laid to rest on my sleeping bag. I looked around with blurry eyes to make sure that I was not lying down on any unexpected friends and sank my head in to the pillow. Kevin knelt beside me and took my hand. I felt him put something small in to my palm and hand me some water. I opened my hand to find a tiny white Vicodin. I smiled and thanked him, grateful to have friends that came prepared. I washed down the pill and put my head back down.

I don’t remember anything until noon the next day. I did not hear the Corps come in after rehearsal the night before, nor did I hear Andy’s wake up call that morning. I could have slept through a hurricane, I thought to myself when I finally opened my eyes to look at the clock on the gym wall. I shivered a bit to think that I was in the perfect location for one, and then tried to sit up.

I felt like Jell-o. My body was not at all used to this much sleep. I immediately noted that my ears felt plugged. I yawned a couple times to get my ears to pop before I realized that I had headphones on. I slid them off my head and followed the cord to the CD player that was tucked neatly under my pillow. It was Alicia’s. She had put a Dave Matthews Band CD in it for me. I smiled and said another silent thank you to the powers that be for blessing me with such wonderful friends.

It was several moments before I realized that I was not alone in the gym. On the far corner someone sat, nose buried in a book.

“Tater?” I said.

He looked up from his book and gave me a quick nod.

I slowly rose from my make-shift burrow and walked in his direction.

“You okay?” I asked. I looked at the clock again. I could hear horns and drums in the distance along with the incessant beat of Andy’s block. Something most definitely was wrong with him for him to be here.

“I don’t wanna fucking talk about it.”

Tater was always a bit on the gruff side, but his grumpy countenance was even more apparent today.

“Ooookkaayyy….Is there anything I can do to help?”

He laughed, almost merrily, and then shook his head and said, “Yeah right.”

I grabbed the necessary items for the field and left, wondering if I should just go pretend to still be sleeping. I could not do that, however. It was a show day and I needed to make sure I was prepared. This many hours of inactivity was sure to put me a little behind.

After reapplying some cream to my sore and half-eaten legs and hastily eating a granola bar, I walked down to the field and found Kevin and Robbie. I learned from them that I had most likely stepped on some sort of fire-ant hill and had been appraised as a fine supper for them. After assuring them both that I was perfectly okay to march, I joined the rehearsal.

At this point in the day, there was only 3 hours left before we loaded everything in the caravan and prepared for our evening show. This time passed without incident and my run-through at the end of rehearsal was fantastic.

When rehearsal was over, I sat on a half wall outside the school to relax before dinner and a shower. Brandon came over and sat beside me.

“Yo.” He said. I smiled and offered him a seat.

“Hey, what’s wrong with Tater? I saw him in the gym earlier.” I asked. Brando, as I call him, sat and lit a cigarette.

He started laughing, but with an almost-grimace on his face.

“DUDE! You will not fucking believe this shit.” He began. I was immediately intrigued.

“So, I don’t know if it is the climate or if Tater was attacked or what, but he has the most god-awful case of jock-itch I have ever seen!”

I gasped and clasped my hand over my mouth.

“That’s why?!” I said, incredulous. “Christ, it must be horrible if he left rehearsal”.

Brandon shook his head and laughed again.

“Amber, he is fucking cracked and bleeding!”

“Oh my god!” I exclaimed, involuntarily brushing a hand over the testicles I did not have. “That is the most horrible thing that I have ever heard!”

I glanced around to see if I could find him somewhere, but did not see him among the clusters of people. I suddenly felt very sorry for him, and very grateful that my incident seemed so mild in comparison.

“The guys have already started calling it the Chatch,” He said, chuckling, “There are a couple others who aren’t looking so hot, either, so I am gonna have to be very careful. Hopefully this shit’s not contagious.”

“Good lord,” I said, laughing and shaking my head. The whole thing seemed terrible and horribly funny at the same time. “Louisiana...”

“Cut it off the fucking map for all I care.”

“Seriously.” I agreed.

Tater didn’t march that night. Apparently walking was excruciating, let alone marching balls-to-the-wall and playing a Mellophone all at the same time. No one blamed him.

The Blue Knights Colorguard was spectacular vision just before a show. We were the only Division I Corps in all of Drums Corps International with an all-female guard. We wore white this season. All perfectly tan and amazingly fit we were a troop of blondes, brunettes and one fabulous red-head that demanded not only turning heads, but full-on serenades from other Corps.

As soon as we stepped foot on the field that night, the bright lights from the stands instantaneously washed away everything that had happened in the last 48 hours. I thought of nothing more than the high I was feeling. I leapt higher, threw faster and sent shudders through my body with every crack of a rifle catch. I found a handful of people in the front row to flirt with and winked at the camera man and I flew by. The crowd cheered when we began and roared during the standing ovation at the end. My heart pounded in my ears and the sweat poured down my face, across my neck and down my bare stomach. When the last note sounded I stood, facing the crowd, arm stretched in the air. Gasping, sweating, aching in my legs, and loving every second of it.

This was the reason that I came to this awful place. This was the reason that I sacrificed my modesty and my privacy. This was the reason that I risked my health and body. This was the reason that I trained, and the reason that I left everything behind. This was the reason, at least for now, for my existence. This was the reason; for this moment.