So, needless to say, Rachel was none too happy when she woke up. I'm sure she had a touch of the evil drummer man in her head, but add to that the fact that the first thing she saw when her eyes opened was a sign for the San Antonio city limits, and she was fit to be tied.
“What in the hell happened Jeaux? What are we doing? Are we seriously in fucking San Antonio?” she squealed, hurtin' her own head enough that her hands flew to her ears, probably in an attempt to hold the remnants of her brain in place.
“You know I'm not supposed to drive,” I answered simply.
“Not supposed to drive huh? I thought you got crazy road rage or something! Jeaux we're more than a hundred miles from home! It's Christmas tomorrow! What in the hell are you thinking?”
This I had an answer for. Jerkin' the car to the side of the road, I threw it into park and turned to look her in the face.
“I was thinkin' that I'm tired of sittin' around that damn town wishin' everyday I was with Kevin and tryin' my hardest to have a regular group of friends, because Lord knows I can't have a regular job, or a regular boyfriend, or a regular life of any kind. But I can't even have a regular group of friends that does regular things. No I still end up ridin' with strangers, acceptin' kisses I don't want, and behind the wheel of a car I shouldn't have to worry about bein' able to drive!
I was thinkin' I don't wish to sit through another family meal while my mother does her damnedest to make sure I don't offend anybody, and never fails at every opportunity to further explain or defend my lack of said career, boyfriend, life...
I was thinkin' I wanted to get the hell out of town. Get away from Kevin. Go somewhere I don't have to worry about my every step and my every word. Fly right through town on a whim, without lookin' back, without remorse, without guilt, without that forever impendin' sense of doom I have around people I have to see day in and out.
I was thinkin'...road trip.”
Rachel's facial expressions changed from surprise, to pity, to empathy, and right back around to anger as I concluded my rant.
“A road trip?” she sneered. “Are you fucking kidding me Jeaux? It's Christmas tomorrow! What am I supposed to tell my family? What are you going to tell yours? Your mom is going to kill us! My mom is going to kill us!”
“Oh come on! You know as well as I do, you don't really care if you miss tomorrow. Don't you ever get tired of the constant string of questions tainted in underlyin' “you're not good enough” connotations? Those, “why can't you be more like cousin so-and-so” comments or looks? You're tellin' me you're going to miss all that?”
I'm sure she didn't appreciate my mockin' tone, because she didn't soften right on up or anything. But I knew my words rang true. I'd heard her complain enough about her family, and the whispers of judgment she never failed to hear behind her back. She didn't even have a "nifty" disorder to get to use as her scapegoat.
“So where are we going then Jeaux?” she asked, leanin' back in her seat with a sigh.
“Guess we'll have to wait and see.” I didn't know anymore than she did.
Within minutes our bellies both sounded as though they were the introductory drum-roll to the sunrise. With, of course, an added melody of gongs and trumpets for added effect.
“Are you at least gonna feed me on this little excursion of yours? Have you even considered that we haven't got not one change of clothes Jeaux? How long are we going to be gone?”
“Only one question at a time please. And to answer the first, that is an affirmative senorita. And I'm thinkin' Mexican.”
Makin' a sudden mad dash across two lanes of traffic, I careened onto the access road, and pulled into the parkin' lot of a Jalisco's – who's business did not seem to be sufferin' from the early mornin' hour.
Rachel's hands were firmly clenched into the sides of her seat, and her foot had a mean hold on the floor board.
“Pushin' your brake over there?” I asked laughin'.
“Oh my God Jeaux. Okay-I'll go with you on this little soul-searchin' road-trip of yours, but I'm driving from now on!”
I just laughed and nodded my head. That would of course be for the best.
The restaurant was already alive inside with the smell of coffee, the hum of light conversation, and the sound of the traditional rhythms of Latin music on the speakers over-head.
Everything was painted in bright colors, and there were even pinatas hangin' from the ceiling. Quite festive I assure you.
Once we were seated, our drinks before us and our order had been placed, I still didn't have a straw. I gotta have me a straw! I'd already gulped my first cup of coffee and knew it wasn't helpin' the dehydration that was sure to set-in given the amount of alcohol I'd recently consumed.
I couldn't help but notice the glass of water that had obviously gone untouched at the table across from us. Beads of undisturbed condensation covered the glass from top to bottom. And it, miraculously, had a straw stickin' up from its brim.
I pushed away from the table, and Rachel started to say “stop” – thinkin' I was goin' to complain to the waiter, for she is a firm believer in not fuckin' with the people that fix her food. But to her benefit, but disbelief, I only leaned across to the opposin' table and stole the straw with a quick but certainly polite “you're not usin' this are you?”
Yeah – it was gonna be that kind of day. Accustomed to the looks by now, I just stuck the straw in my cup and sucked my water totally dry.
“Ah, that's so fresh,” I gasped wantin' more.
“Please tell me the next time you need something Jeaux. Wouldn't want you getting herpes of the mouth because you had the steal the neighbor's salsa.”
“She didn't touch it!”
“Oh my God, whatever! That's so gross.”
I couldn't help but take the opportunity to further disgust her by lickin' the sides of the straw, in a most definitely lewd manner, and then enthusiastically suckin' the last couple of drops as though the goodness of it all and made me cross-eyed for a moment.
“You're disgusting, you know that right?”
Still, she couldn't help but laugh along with me.
“So what are we going to do today? For real? Keep driving? Do the tourist thing?”
“I've never been here before. So I say we do the tourist thing. See the Alamo maybe?” I suggested with a grin. “I bet there's bound to be some Christmas stuff goin' on downtown. This is a big city. I'm sure we'll find something to do.”
26.12.11
19.12.11
Reality Check Part 2
Sittin' across from him, was a thin blonde with legs that wouldn't quit and cheekbones Cindy Crawford herself would die for.
“What? Come on, it's this way. You can walk and breathe can't you? Jeaux? Jeaux what's the matter with you?”
“Rachel did you or did you not talk to him?” I asked her again not botherin' to look away.
“Oh,” she said. Oh. She saw full well what I was lookin' at and exactly what I was askin' her. Did she know he was goin' on a date? Did she know that he would be at that restaurant in particular?
“Come on, Jeaux, I don't think it's serious. You're not helping yourself staring.”
I knew it wouldn't matter how many different ways I asked the question, whether Rachel had intended on me seein' Kevin there or not, I would probably never know.
But that thing I had wanted to know – that question, of like or love...or monogamy...(or a comparable number of painful nights pinin' at the very least)...or a stream of girlfriends I never knew about – was just as I had originally figured it to be... too painful to bare. I didn't want to know!
Now I could not NOT know. He was on a date! With a gorgeous woman. One actually in his league- 'cause as I have it figured, I am probably not.
My mouth felt dry, but my hands were slick with sweat. And somehow I felt cold all over but still felt something burnin' a hole in my chest. Any other day and I doubt I would have taken it so poorly. We'll call it bad timin' at its finest.
“Look at her Rachel! She's gorgeous!”
“Eh,” she grunted, shruggin' her shoulders (as any good friend would do), “Come on, let's go,” she coaxed again, tuggin' on my arm. I'm not sure if I was tryin' my absolute best to will Kevin to turn his head and look at me, but it sure wasn't workin'.
Just then, a group of guys came stumblin' out of the bar. Two of whom had been kind enough to buy Rachel and I a round of drinks, and were currently hailin' down a cab.
“Headin' to The Hideout ladies, care to join us?” they called, wavin' us over to their cab.
“Now Jeaux. Let's go,” Rachel demanded, stompin' her foot.
Jumpin' into the cab with the guys we barely knew, (sure I'd managed to make-out with one of them already, but that was a given considerin' my blood-alcohol level and his please-kiss-me lips) and drove away from the reality I wished that wasn't. The reality I knew I didn't want to know. I could feel my instinctive reflex to find a diversion. Anything. Anybody. And, I just happened to be in luck. There was a pretty handsome diversion sittin' next to me.
Pullin' a joint from his jacket pocket, he didn't bother to ask the cabbie, or be concerned with the criminality of his actions, when he lit the fat end, puffed twice and passed it to me.
By the time we got to The Hideout, I was drunk, high, pissed, hurt, and irritated even further that I had not yet consumed enough drug-type substances to let me forget that I was pissed and hurt.
Inside the bar, I was on a mission, and Rachel saddled up right next to me. I let my new friend (who's name I kept forgettin') stick around, snugglin' my neck and wrappin' his arms around me from behind. His kisses were soft and sweet, which was nice. But he wasn't the one I wanted.
“Shot!” I called out again.
Like magic, there was suddenly another round bein' passed out, put back, and glasses slammed down.
Another.
Again.
Swoonin' back and forth, I tried my best to bury myself into his chest. But he didn't smell right. I nuzzled his neck, but his skin was prickly with whiskers, not smooth as it should be. I tried to dance with him, but his hips kept movin' in the opposite direction of my own. We couldn't find a rhythm.
And I was toasted. The drunker I got, the less impressed I was with my new friend, and I found myself brushin' him away and soon was avoidin' his kisses altogether.
I had barely even acknowledged Rachel's friend, and had to be reminded that her name was Aubree, 'cause apparently she doesn't like bein' called “hey.”
“I'm ready to go,” I abruptly announced prolly a bit louder than was required. Mr. Kiss-me-lips, had become Mr. Can't-take-a-hint and I was ready to be rid of my leech. I literally swatted his hand away like a fly only moments before, and still, he was there, creepin' his way in for a feelsky.
“Oh my God! Can you not take a hint?” I finally cried out, “Thanks but no thanks, okay, it's not gonna happen.”
“What's your problem?” he asked, lookin' wounded.
“It's not you,” Rachel said, tryin' to help, “she's just upset.”
“I got something that'll make you feel better,” he grinned, tryin' to rub against me again.
“Seriously?” I couldn't believe this guy. I grabbed his nuts in my fist, watched as his eyes bulged along with his Adam's-apple, (and I'm pretty sure he might've stopped breathin' for a minute) and spat, “You don't have half of what I need.”
“Definitely time to go!” Rachel squeeled jumpin' from her seat. Grabbin' my purse and Aubree's hand, she pulled me away from Mr. Not-so-much and shoved us all out the door.
Outside, Rachel nearly fell down she was laughin' so hard. Barely standin' upright, she hunched over, grabbin' her sides with her hands and with tears streamin' down her cheeks.
“Oh my God Jeaux! Did you see the look on that guy's face? We've got to get out of here! Oh my God!” she said still shakin' with laughter.
I couldn't help but feel kind of bad for Aubree. I think she might've found her a keeper, and she didn't look to be quite as understandin' of the treatment wrought upon my fella. Her deer-in-the-headlights gaze, combined with the fact that her jaw still hung half agape, made me wonder if my company might be a bit much for the poor girl.
And in perfect harmony with my “change” themed day, a bicycle cabbie pulled up in front of us.
“Need a ride?” he asked.
“Yes!” we all chimed together.
My mind was still awash with thoughts of Kevin, but given my hefty buzz, they were all of a more risqué nature than that of the torturous emotions of a mind more concerned with realisms.
“So you make pretty good money doin' this?” Rachel asked the cabbie. I only then noticed how slurred her speech was startin' to get. I hadn't been payin' attention to how soused our DD was.
The cabby's shirt was stained with sweat down the center of his back, and his hair was shiny along his brow. He had the best calves I had ever seen though. Gotta look for the positive in a job like that I'd assume.
“My God, how did we get so far away?” Rachel asked, lookin' around like she was lost. “Weren't we parked just around the corner?”
“We took a cab over there remember?” I reminded her.
“Umm, you can just drop me off here,” came a tiny voice. Oh, it was Aubree. Why was she so easy to forget about? Was I really so completely consumed by my own bullshit? Yes, I think I was.
Droppin' her off, and havin' to remind Rachel yet again, of our destination, because yes, we had taken a cab, and yes we were currently bein' towed by a guy on a bike, and no, he was not goin' to slaughter us an in alley...and man, this was gettin' out of hand fast.
After payin' the cabbie, and tippin' him handsomly for his chivalrous attempts at heavin' the now nearly unconscious Rachel from the carriage, we were loaded in the car.
There was just one problem.
I was in the driver's seat. And I don't drive for a reason.
“What? Come on, it's this way. You can walk and breathe can't you? Jeaux? Jeaux what's the matter with you?”
“Rachel did you or did you not talk to him?” I asked her again not botherin' to look away.
“Oh,” she said. Oh. She saw full well what I was lookin' at and exactly what I was askin' her. Did she know he was goin' on a date? Did she know that he would be at that restaurant in particular?
“Come on, Jeaux, I don't think it's serious. You're not helping yourself staring.”
I knew it wouldn't matter how many different ways I asked the question, whether Rachel had intended on me seein' Kevin there or not, I would probably never know.
But that thing I had wanted to know – that question, of like or love...or monogamy...(or a comparable number of painful nights pinin' at the very least)...or a stream of girlfriends I never knew about – was just as I had originally figured it to be... too painful to bare. I didn't want to know!
Now I could not NOT know. He was on a date! With a gorgeous woman. One actually in his league- 'cause as I have it figured, I am probably not.
My mouth felt dry, but my hands were slick with sweat. And somehow I felt cold all over but still felt something burnin' a hole in my chest. Any other day and I doubt I would have taken it so poorly. We'll call it bad timin' at its finest.
“Look at her Rachel! She's gorgeous!”
“Eh,” she grunted, shruggin' her shoulders (as any good friend would do), “Come on, let's go,” she coaxed again, tuggin' on my arm. I'm not sure if I was tryin' my absolute best to will Kevin to turn his head and look at me, but it sure wasn't workin'.
Just then, a group of guys came stumblin' out of the bar. Two of whom had been kind enough to buy Rachel and I a round of drinks, and were currently hailin' down a cab.
“Headin' to The Hideout ladies, care to join us?” they called, wavin' us over to their cab.
“Now Jeaux. Let's go,” Rachel demanded, stompin' her foot.
Jumpin' into the cab with the guys we barely knew, (sure I'd managed to make-out with one of them already, but that was a given considerin' my blood-alcohol level and his please-kiss-me lips) and drove away from the reality I wished that wasn't. The reality I knew I didn't want to know. I could feel my instinctive reflex to find a diversion. Anything. Anybody. And, I just happened to be in luck. There was a pretty handsome diversion sittin' next to me.
Pullin' a joint from his jacket pocket, he didn't bother to ask the cabbie, or be concerned with the criminality of his actions, when he lit the fat end, puffed twice and passed it to me.
By the time we got to The Hideout, I was drunk, high, pissed, hurt, and irritated even further that I had not yet consumed enough drug-type substances to let me forget that I was pissed and hurt.
Inside the bar, I was on a mission, and Rachel saddled up right next to me. I let my new friend (who's name I kept forgettin') stick around, snugglin' my neck and wrappin' his arms around me from behind. His kisses were soft and sweet, which was nice. But he wasn't the one I wanted.
“Shot!” I called out again.
Like magic, there was suddenly another round bein' passed out, put back, and glasses slammed down.
Another.
Again.
Swoonin' back and forth, I tried my best to bury myself into his chest. But he didn't smell right. I nuzzled his neck, but his skin was prickly with whiskers, not smooth as it should be. I tried to dance with him, but his hips kept movin' in the opposite direction of my own. We couldn't find a rhythm.
And I was toasted. The drunker I got, the less impressed I was with my new friend, and I found myself brushin' him away and soon was avoidin' his kisses altogether.
I had barely even acknowledged Rachel's friend, and had to be reminded that her name was Aubree, 'cause apparently she doesn't like bein' called “hey.”
“I'm ready to go,” I abruptly announced prolly a bit louder than was required. Mr. Kiss-me-lips, had become Mr. Can't-take-a-hint and I was ready to be rid of my leech. I literally swatted his hand away like a fly only moments before, and still, he was there, creepin' his way in for a feelsky.
“Oh my God! Can you not take a hint?” I finally cried out, “Thanks but no thanks, okay, it's not gonna happen.”
“What's your problem?” he asked, lookin' wounded.
“It's not you,” Rachel said, tryin' to help, “she's just upset.”
“I got something that'll make you feel better,” he grinned, tryin' to rub against me again.
“Seriously?” I couldn't believe this guy. I grabbed his nuts in my fist, watched as his eyes bulged along with his Adam's-apple, (and I'm pretty sure he might've stopped breathin' for a minute) and spat, “You don't have half of what I need.”
“Definitely time to go!” Rachel squeeled jumpin' from her seat. Grabbin' my purse and Aubree's hand, she pulled me away from Mr. Not-so-much and shoved us all out the door.
Outside, Rachel nearly fell down she was laughin' so hard. Barely standin' upright, she hunched over, grabbin' her sides with her hands and with tears streamin' down her cheeks.
“Oh my God Jeaux! Did you see the look on that guy's face? We've got to get out of here! Oh my God!” she said still shakin' with laughter.
I couldn't help but feel kind of bad for Aubree. I think she might've found her a keeper, and she didn't look to be quite as understandin' of the treatment wrought upon my fella. Her deer-in-the-headlights gaze, combined with the fact that her jaw still hung half agape, made me wonder if my company might be a bit much for the poor girl.
And in perfect harmony with my “change” themed day, a bicycle cabbie pulled up in front of us.
“Need a ride?” he asked.
“Yes!” we all chimed together.
My mind was still awash with thoughts of Kevin, but given my hefty buzz, they were all of a more risqué nature than that of the torturous emotions of a mind more concerned with realisms.
“So you make pretty good money doin' this?” Rachel asked the cabbie. I only then noticed how slurred her speech was startin' to get. I hadn't been payin' attention to how soused our DD was.
The cabby's shirt was stained with sweat down the center of his back, and his hair was shiny along his brow. He had the best calves I had ever seen though. Gotta look for the positive in a job like that I'd assume.
“My God, how did we get so far away?” Rachel asked, lookin' around like she was lost. “Weren't we parked just around the corner?”
“We took a cab over there remember?” I reminded her.
“Umm, you can just drop me off here,” came a tiny voice. Oh, it was Aubree. Why was she so easy to forget about? Was I really so completely consumed by my own bullshit? Yes, I think I was.
Droppin' her off, and havin' to remind Rachel yet again, of our destination, because yes, we had taken a cab, and yes we were currently bein' towed by a guy on a bike, and no, he was not goin' to slaughter us an in alley...and man, this was gettin' out of hand fast.
After payin' the cabbie, and tippin' him handsomly for his chivalrous attempts at heavin' the now nearly unconscious Rachel from the carriage, we were loaded in the car.
There was just one problem.
I was in the driver's seat. And I don't drive for a reason.
15.12.11
Reality Check
You know that moment when you're dreamin' a good dream...and I mean a real real good dream...just gettin' to the best part...when you're awakened by some stupid tickin' or a persistent fly on a kamikazi mission to make sure if he's awake, by God, you will be too...and all you wanna do is go back to sleep? You lay there for a minute, squeezin' your eyes shut, tryin' your best to will yourself back into the depths of sleep, of the reprieve of the dream, the bliss of what could be...
But no. Stupid fuckin' fly.
I was havin' a magnificent dream, and Kevin was the starring actor. If I had to chase that fly with a bat only to succumb to burnin' down the house to be sure I singed its stupid buzzin' wings, that's exactly what I would do. Somebody was goin' to die.
It wasn't like I had never had these dreams before. But the fire between Kevin and I had been gettin' hotter for weeks. Ever since our afternoon together for Veteran's Day there had been a stronger-than-usual shock factor between us. It was like electricity every time we were together - the sexual tension practically settin' off sparks when we touched.
And it didn't matter.
I couldn't have him. I couldn't ever truly call him my own. It was something I wanted to ask him all the time. How did he feel about me? Really? Did he love me? Was he dating anybody else he wasn't tellin' me about? Did he love her?
But I didn't ask. I never did. We didn't broach the subject, as though all we needed to ever say was understood and therefore needn't be said...but it wasn't understood! But would understandin' make it any easier? Either way? If he loved me and couldn't have me, that would make it all the more painful, probably awkward, and could possibly prove to dismantle our friendship. If he didn't love me, and I really was left pinin' alone, that would surely be more painful than I could bare...and would again probably dismantle our friendship. So we bared the burdens of our functional and beloved yet undefinable relationship with an unspoken agreement not to speak of it (our true feelings) with me all the while workin' diligently to convince myself I didn't really want to know.
Completely sexually frustrated, and now irritated that my happy haze had been replaced by the swarmin' thoughts and girlie, irrational, ricochetin' emotions in my head, I again returned my attentions to the fly.
Stupid fucking fly.
Grabbin' the magazine from my bedside table, I rolled it up and flew out of my bed. I could see him sittin' on my dresser, all buzzy and cheerfully unaware that he was currently breathin' his last gulps of air.
After a few wild attempts, I managed to calm my thrashin' arms a bit and mercked the irritatin' little shit before I finally did have to ignite my own house in order to guarantee his demise.
I'll be honest, I was a little too gleeful in my trip to the toilet to flush his squished little body. I didn't even realize the devilish grin I had plastered on my face until I was watchin' him spin down into the pipes and a small chuckle escaped my throat.
Jesus Jeaux, you gotta relax. You need a change of scenery. A change of self maybe? Change is good.
I told myself all these things. Change.
What does a girl do when she awakes and impulsively seeks something she can immediately change in of herself?
She visits a beauty parlor.
“I need a haircut,” I told the woman at the front-desk at the salon.
“Was there a stylist you would prefer?” the woman asked.
“No,” I answered, barely payin' her any attention. My attention had focused on the pictures along the wall of the hair models. I was thinkin' something drastic. Drastic change would be the order of the day.
After my hair had been thoroughly washed (which is of course my favorite part of visitin' a salon) and I was cozied up in my chair with my stylist smilin' brightly behind me, she finally asked, “So what are you lookin' for today?”
“Short. Cut it all off.”
“How short? You have such beautiful hair,” she smiled again, runnin' her fingers through the long stretches of brown waves down my back.
“Here,” I gestured, drawin' a line with my finger from my ear to my chin. “Just chop it off.”
“Are you sure? It had to have taken you years to grow your hair this long.”
“Yes. I'm sure. Just do it okay. Donate it. Whatever. I don't care. Just cut it off. We're goin' for a change. Complete makeover okay?” I said startin' to feel a little exasperated with the woman.
“You can makeover yourself all you want and it won't makeover you life hunny,” she whispered, placin' her hand on my shoulder.
Words of wisdom from a girl lookin' much to young to be handin' them out...A life I knew I couldn't change...Feeling such a lack of control it felt like the roller coaster of my life went on unhinged from the tracks, my seat alone left forgotten and unattached...My hair, it seemed was the one thing I had total control of.
Grabbin' the scissors from her hands, I pulled my hair into a ponytail at the side of my head and in four easy snips, took complete control of that tiny sliver of my life.
“Okay, think you can clean that up for me?” I asked, handin' her the scissors.
Stunned – I'm quite sure that was a first for her – she barely nodded. “Straight across the back? Or, I think a slight bob would work well with your curls maybe?” she asked timidly.
“You're the expert, just do whatever you think would look best,” I replied tryin' to smile.
Luckily, my snarky behavior managed to keep the typical salon dribble to a low, minimizin' my chances of hurtin' the stylist's feelings any further.
So with my new haircut, waxed eye-brows, manicured fingers and still burnin' upper lip, I left to find Rachel to do my make-up and play dress-up. I wasn't worried that she'd have anything better to do...I figured she'd be so shell-shocked by my uncharacteristic requests, she'd know something was up and be ready to dish over the day's dramas.
Not to mention, all I'd have to do was give her one look at my new hair, and I was pretty sure my future would also include a large bottle of wine. She was handy that way.
A few hours later, I was workin' on my third glass of wine and my face had been colored with every kind of pen, brush, and powder Rachel had to offer. I had already poured my heart out about Kevin (even though I was always hesitant to discuss him with her) and sent her into a fit of laughter over the poor stylist I'd abused, and had leaned on her shoulder when I then burst into tears in the peak of my pity-party lamentin' my life, my disorder, and my secret but totally undeniable love for my best friend.
“Okay, finish that glass and we're going out! We're going to go drink and dance and flirt and scrounge up some fun. And you are going to stop thinking Kevin and you are going to start enjoying yourself. Do you have any idea how many people would love to be you? Come on now...drink up,” she encouraged, tiltin' my glass for me, so I had no choice but to gulp down the rest.
“That's a good girl,” she said grinnin'. “Come on now, lets get you dressed.”
“Alright alright,” I groaned, pullin' myself from her couch. “Have you talked to him today?”
“You seriously did not just ask me that did you?”
I only stared back. It was a stupid question. But apparently today was ask-and-say-stupid-unspoken-things-out-loud day.
“I'm not even going to dignify that with a response Jeaux. I'm not gonna do it!” she exclaimed, wavin' her hand in the air.
On the strip, the night went along like most any other. We drank, we danced, we turned a few heads. It was goin' along great. I had even managed to keep myself from thinkin' about him for more than five minutes at a time.
The combination of alcohol, loud music and smoke too thick to see through made me feel as though all of my senses were being clogged. Lights blinked, makin' the dancers appear to be movin' faster than they really were. It just made me feel like I couldn't find my next step quite right. Was the floor movin?
“We gotta go meet my friend Aubree at The Hideout. You ready?” Rachel asked.
Yes.
Outside, the crisp air made me feel a little more alert. I took two deep breaths, enjoyin' the fact that I could see again, and breath without coughin'. Maybe I wasn't as drunk as I thought I was.
But I soon wanted to be.
Across the street, through the window, I caught a glimpse of a very familiar profile.
It was Kevin. And he wasn't alone.
But no. Stupid fuckin' fly.
I was havin' a magnificent dream, and Kevin was the starring actor. If I had to chase that fly with a bat only to succumb to burnin' down the house to be sure I singed its stupid buzzin' wings, that's exactly what I would do. Somebody was goin' to die.
It wasn't like I had never had these dreams before. But the fire between Kevin and I had been gettin' hotter for weeks. Ever since our afternoon together for Veteran's Day there had been a stronger-than-usual shock factor between us. It was like electricity every time we were together - the sexual tension practically settin' off sparks when we touched.
And it didn't matter.
I couldn't have him. I couldn't ever truly call him my own. It was something I wanted to ask him all the time. How did he feel about me? Really? Did he love me? Was he dating anybody else he wasn't tellin' me about? Did he love her?
But I didn't ask. I never did. We didn't broach the subject, as though all we needed to ever say was understood and therefore needn't be said...but it wasn't understood! But would understandin' make it any easier? Either way? If he loved me and couldn't have me, that would make it all the more painful, probably awkward, and could possibly prove to dismantle our friendship. If he didn't love me, and I really was left pinin' alone, that would surely be more painful than I could bare...and would again probably dismantle our friendship. So we bared the burdens of our functional and beloved yet undefinable relationship with an unspoken agreement not to speak of it (our true feelings) with me all the while workin' diligently to convince myself I didn't really want to know.
Completely sexually frustrated, and now irritated that my happy haze had been replaced by the swarmin' thoughts and girlie, irrational, ricochetin' emotions in my head, I again returned my attentions to the fly.
Stupid fucking fly.
Grabbin' the magazine from my bedside table, I rolled it up and flew out of my bed. I could see him sittin' on my dresser, all buzzy and cheerfully unaware that he was currently breathin' his last gulps of air.
After a few wild attempts, I managed to calm my thrashin' arms a bit and mercked the irritatin' little shit before I finally did have to ignite my own house in order to guarantee his demise.
I'll be honest, I was a little too gleeful in my trip to the toilet to flush his squished little body. I didn't even realize the devilish grin I had plastered on my face until I was watchin' him spin down into the pipes and a small chuckle escaped my throat.
Jesus Jeaux, you gotta relax. You need a change of scenery. A change of self maybe? Change is good.
I told myself all these things. Change.
What does a girl do when she awakes and impulsively seeks something she can immediately change in of herself?
She visits a beauty parlor.
“I need a haircut,” I told the woman at the front-desk at the salon.
“Was there a stylist you would prefer?” the woman asked.
“No,” I answered, barely payin' her any attention. My attention had focused on the pictures along the wall of the hair models. I was thinkin' something drastic. Drastic change would be the order of the day.
After my hair had been thoroughly washed (which is of course my favorite part of visitin' a salon) and I was cozied up in my chair with my stylist smilin' brightly behind me, she finally asked, “So what are you lookin' for today?”
“Short. Cut it all off.”
“How short? You have such beautiful hair,” she smiled again, runnin' her fingers through the long stretches of brown waves down my back.
“Here,” I gestured, drawin' a line with my finger from my ear to my chin. “Just chop it off.”
“Are you sure? It had to have taken you years to grow your hair this long.”
“Yes. I'm sure. Just do it okay. Donate it. Whatever. I don't care. Just cut it off. We're goin' for a change. Complete makeover okay?” I said startin' to feel a little exasperated with the woman.
“You can makeover yourself all you want and it won't makeover you life hunny,” she whispered, placin' her hand on my shoulder.
Words of wisdom from a girl lookin' much to young to be handin' them out...A life I knew I couldn't change...Feeling such a lack of control it felt like the roller coaster of my life went on unhinged from the tracks, my seat alone left forgotten and unattached...My hair, it seemed was the one thing I had total control of.
Grabbin' the scissors from her hands, I pulled my hair into a ponytail at the side of my head and in four easy snips, took complete control of that tiny sliver of my life.
“Okay, think you can clean that up for me?” I asked, handin' her the scissors.
Stunned – I'm quite sure that was a first for her – she barely nodded. “Straight across the back? Or, I think a slight bob would work well with your curls maybe?” she asked timidly.
“You're the expert, just do whatever you think would look best,” I replied tryin' to smile.
Luckily, my snarky behavior managed to keep the typical salon dribble to a low, minimizin' my chances of hurtin' the stylist's feelings any further.
So with my new haircut, waxed eye-brows, manicured fingers and still burnin' upper lip, I left to find Rachel to do my make-up and play dress-up. I wasn't worried that she'd have anything better to do...I figured she'd be so shell-shocked by my uncharacteristic requests, she'd know something was up and be ready to dish over the day's dramas.
Not to mention, all I'd have to do was give her one look at my new hair, and I was pretty sure my future would also include a large bottle of wine. She was handy that way.
A few hours later, I was workin' on my third glass of wine and my face had been colored with every kind of pen, brush, and powder Rachel had to offer. I had already poured my heart out about Kevin (even though I was always hesitant to discuss him with her) and sent her into a fit of laughter over the poor stylist I'd abused, and had leaned on her shoulder when I then burst into tears in the peak of my pity-party lamentin' my life, my disorder, and my secret but totally undeniable love for my best friend.
“Okay, finish that glass and we're going out! We're going to go drink and dance and flirt and scrounge up some fun. And you are going to stop thinking Kevin and you are going to start enjoying yourself. Do you have any idea how many people would love to be you? Come on now...drink up,” she encouraged, tiltin' my glass for me, so I had no choice but to gulp down the rest.
“That's a good girl,” she said grinnin'. “Come on now, lets get you dressed.”
“Alright alright,” I groaned, pullin' myself from her couch. “Have you talked to him today?”
“You seriously did not just ask me that did you?”
I only stared back. It was a stupid question. But apparently today was ask-and-say-stupid-unspoken-things-out-loud day.
“I'm not even going to dignify that with a response Jeaux. I'm not gonna do it!” she exclaimed, wavin' her hand in the air.
On the strip, the night went along like most any other. We drank, we danced, we turned a few heads. It was goin' along great. I had even managed to keep myself from thinkin' about him for more than five minutes at a time.
The combination of alcohol, loud music and smoke too thick to see through made me feel as though all of my senses were being clogged. Lights blinked, makin' the dancers appear to be movin' faster than they really were. It just made me feel like I couldn't find my next step quite right. Was the floor movin?
“We gotta go meet my friend Aubree at The Hideout. You ready?” Rachel asked.
Yes.
Outside, the crisp air made me feel a little more alert. I took two deep breaths, enjoyin' the fact that I could see again, and breath without coughin'. Maybe I wasn't as drunk as I thought I was.
But I soon wanted to be.
Across the street, through the window, I caught a glimpse of a very familiar profile.
It was Kevin. And he wasn't alone.
5.12.11
How to Get Banned from Macy's
I don't know how I always manage to let Rachel talk me into things. But somehow it never seems to take much convincin'. She has a way about her, I guess you could say that makes you just want to agree with just about everything she says.
So it's the weekend of Black Friday – I absolutely refused to come on the actual day of – and we are at the mall of all places in the entire world we could possibly be. The parkin' lot is so full we had to park in friggin' Bangladesh and hike up the Appalachian friggin' trail to get to our destination – the Macy's.
It wasn't long before Rachel was stuck to the counter of a shiny glass case, starin' down at the sparklin' diamonds and sapphires twinklin' back at her. You could practically hear them singin' her name. Or I'm sure she could anyhow.
“Miss!” she called, wavin' at a sales clerk. A slightly heavy set woman wearin' too much make-up and too much hairspray bustled over to assist her, but without the happy smile typical of a commission-earner about to make a big sale.
As though we were a complete waste of her time, she quickly sighed and spat, “Can I help you?”
I already didn't like her. She just rubbed me the wrong way. I didn't like her attitude. That “I work in a fancy store so I'm better than you,” attitude.
“I don't know, can you?” I asked.
“Not now,” Rachel said shushin' me. Normally she would have jumped all over the invitation to have the “can you, may you” debate, but the rush of the holiday shoppin' madness was beginnin' to infect her as well.
“I'd like to see that necklace, please,” she asked the lady ever-so-sweetly, pointin' at the necklace with her finger pressed upon the glass.
I saw the quick cut of her eye, heard the tiny sigh, before she reached for her keys to open the door. I leaned over on the glass, pressin' both my forearms along the top of the counter.
She sighed again.
As though I was suddenly overcome with curiosity at what I was sure was a completely over-priced set of earrings only my great-grandmother would wear, I went to lean in even further over the counter, rubbin' my arms along the surface as I reached.
A perfume bottle nearly fell over as I stretched my arm for the earrings from the twirlin' tower. I quickly set it right, nudgin' it over a hair, then grabbed the earrings. As soon as the necklace was laid down in front of Rachel, the woman reached over and nudged the perfume bottle back into “place," glarin' at the fresh smudge marks at the same time.
I don't know if it was a bad day or what, but she apparently didn't know how much Rachel liked to shop. If she were smart, she'd have been a little more invested in our needs. Well, Rachel's needs, but whatever.
So I nudged the bottle over again.
The woman gave me one of those looks that asks, “Really?” and moved it again to its proper location.
I, of course, reached over to move it again, the but she beat me to the bottle, placin' her hand over the lid, and huffin' “Would you please?”
“Please?” I queried back as though I didn't know what she were about to ask of me. Man I was feelin' catty! I must really, really not like this woman, I thought.
“Jeaux stop it,” Rachel jumped in, “I'm sorry. I'll take this by the way, thank you, and...”
“Okay, I'll get you at this register over here,” the sales clerk interjected. But, Rachel hadn't been finished. Now...there was my girl...she was gettin' irritated.
By the time Rachel was finished makin' her purchase, a solid sale for the woman she had to admit, I had been fulfillin' my time by swappin' the earrings and bracelets and pins in the little trays beside the register.
She'd just love that.
“If, you're done, thank you ladies and have a good day,” she said with a horrifically fake smile.
Hah. We'll just see about that, I thought. Jeez...what was wrong with me today? Was I experiencin' some kind of sick shoppin' rebellion or what?
Rachel was too jazzed about her new jewelry set to pay me much mind and had forgotten all about her irritation in her moment of shoppin' bliss. We turned to go and I nearly ran right into a set of those three-tiered towers holdin' folded sweaters and a new arrivals.
I stopped and grabbed one of the sweaters on the top of the tower, and glanced to see the woman watchin' me as she hurriedly tried to fix the mess I'd made of her trays.
I couldn't help myself. Without takin' so much as a three-second look at the sweater, I lifted it up just enough to completely undo the folds and tossed it back down in a heap.
As we turned the corner of the path circlin' the floor of the store, I saw her again rushin' over to fix what I'd done. And by the look of her flushed cheeks and squinty eyes, I'd say she was mad.
And then, as though I'd been suddenly thrown into a WWE wrestlin' ring, I was bein' basically attacked by the shoppers already so infected with the sickness their will to remember their humanity had vanished. Somewhere, I assumed right along with the money in their wallets.
So I decided to stop fightin' it and started grabbin' at shirts and jackets with a comparable frenzy...you know...like my life depended on their purchase, and that alone. I'm pretty sure this one lady would have been willin' to hit me in the face had I not let go of one suede coat when I did.
But this other lady! Oh my God she had it right! Screw tryin' to hold the clothes she wanted, she was wearin' them!
Rachel saw me lookin' at the beacon of shoppin' brillinace and commenced to followin' suit. Before long the three of us were dressed to the nines – or would you say tens? – in multiple layers of un-matchin' shirts and one particularly god-awful sweater for myself, that I had to wear for only one reason – it was too hilarious not to be worn; for I prayed it would be the only time it would see the light of day.
Even given the sensational mad-house that was wreakin' havoc on this side of the partition, the clerks were laughin' and helpin' and doin' their best to keep their peace between the lunatics, as they dodged from left to right like running-backs in haste to their posts.
Maybe that other lady was just a scrooge.
Rachel was tuggin' me on my sleeve around another row of racks when I saw her again. This time, the scrooge was helpin' another customer, the Luis Vitton bag on this woman's arm so shiny I wondered if it still had the brown paper paddin' inside.
And whaddya know? Scrooge was all smiles. From ear to ear, and lookin' genuine as hell too. Well that really rubbed me the wrong way.
Slinkin' over like a cat-burglar duckin' behind one tower and jumpin' to hide behind the next, I made my way back to her counter. Rachel was lost to me by now. I was on my own.
“Oh yes ma'am,” I heard her coo, “that would look absolutely divine on you! You know, I think we have a whole matching set to go along with it, if you have the time let's get you all dolled up and see what it looks like hmm?”
Well, wasn't she just the perfect little helper?
As she was too focused on her upcomin' sale to notice me behind her, I took immediate advantage of my window of opportunity.
Wrappin' my arms around one of the earring towers from the counter, I lifted it and put it on the other end. A few earrings fell off the hooks, sure. Then, I transferred the watch rack and placed its velvet case where the earring tower had been. No harm done there. Then, I tip-toed back behind another rack of panty-hose and waited for her to walk around to my side of the counter.
Finally, she came around. And luckily, nobody noticed me skulkin' around behind the panty-hose like I were tryin' (poorly at that) to sneak a five-finger discount or something.
It took her a minute to notice, but seein' an earring out of place on the counter, she picked it up and went to hang it in it's place, only to find, it's place was no longer in it's usual place. Ha ha!
Her face was priceless. She looked confused. Then, actually shook her head as though she were tryin' to remember if her memory were servin' her right or if somebody was messin' with her. She seemed to notice the swap, and I was pretty sure she was on to me, when I peeked my head over the partition just a little too high.
“I see you over there! You leave my counter alone before I call security! I mean it!”
The laughter finally sputtered forth (I'm pretty sure I actually spit on a few scarves, woops) then and I came tumblin' out of my hidin' place and ran back to find Rachel. I nearly passed her, as she had come to find me as well, but had stopped to smell some perfume selections.
I smiled, a little out of breath, and she did too. “Having fun?” she asked, knowin' me well enough to take a quick glance behind me in search of security guards or somethin'.
“Always,” I said.
She was smellin' a particularly dainty lookin' bottle of women's perfume, one that looked like a glass flower, the stem of the bottle the stem of the flower, and it's lid the petals. I was pretty sure if I held it I'd break it.
A line of women streamed into the store just then, and as we were very near the entrance, we were soon bein' pushed and brushed aside by their bouncin' shoppin' bags, purses, and big asses.
Rachel curled her nose at their inconsideration and turned to catch the last lady in the line-up with a hefty dose of the floral smellin' perfume in her hands.
“Hi! Welcome to Macy's!” she said in a high-pitched sing-song voice. If you didn't notice her own shoppin' bags in her arms, you'd have been sure she worked there.
“Hi! Welcome to Macy's!” she chimed again, squirtin' another surprised customer. I had to smile. The infection was startin' to subside (probably with the amount of money in her bank account). She had started a little game with herself.
I wanted to play.
So, dainty or not, I grabbed another bottle of the perfume and stood a few feet to the side of Rachel. She caught those comin' from one side, and I got the other. At first it was just a few ladies. Then a couple kids. Then even boys and men were fair game, as we knew our game would soon be cut short.
The whispers questionin' our authority as Macy's Perfume Spray Girls had been heard already.
“There! That's them! That's the girl!”
Dammit! Scrooge! I heard her shrill, I'm better than you-and-you-and-you voice, and knew it was time to go!
“Rachel! It's about that time,” I said puttin' the perfume bottle back on the table and gesturin' for the door. But the bottle fell to the floor - the fragile lid breakin' and sendin' shards of glass in all directions. Damn!
Lookin' towards the sound of the voices, I saw a tall, hefty security guard barrellin' towards us. Suddenly, I felt like a criminal. I was scared like a kid.
“Come on Rach, go time, now!” I said runnin' for the open doorway leadin' to the mall. But, as though in one final act of rebellion, (scared or not) I grabbed a purse and hat from one table, and ran to another, puttin' them down and pickin' up a pair of jeans and a shirt. Then I ran those to the next table and made another swap. I was apparently on a mission to mis-match Macy's right out the door, and I was laughin' like a crazed hyena the whole way.
“Jeaux, wait!” I heard Rachel shout, but I was too busy and quickly makin' my way out the door. In the open spaces of the mall's central court, I stopped to wait for her.
That's when I turned to see Rachel in the doorway, takin' off the shirts she had layered over herself, because...once you passed the store's doors, it was stealing.
The sales-clerk was now beside her with a crooked grin. But the security guard was still comin' toward me, pointin' at the ridiculous sweater I was still wearin'...had totally forgot about...and had never paid for.
Shit...
So it's the weekend of Black Friday – I absolutely refused to come on the actual day of – and we are at the mall of all places in the entire world we could possibly be. The parkin' lot is so full we had to park in friggin' Bangladesh and hike up the Appalachian friggin' trail to get to our destination – the Macy's.
It wasn't long before Rachel was stuck to the counter of a shiny glass case, starin' down at the sparklin' diamonds and sapphires twinklin' back at her. You could practically hear them singin' her name. Or I'm sure she could anyhow.
“Miss!” she called, wavin' at a sales clerk. A slightly heavy set woman wearin' too much make-up and too much hairspray bustled over to assist her, but without the happy smile typical of a commission-earner about to make a big sale.
As though we were a complete waste of her time, she quickly sighed and spat, “Can I help you?”
I already didn't like her. She just rubbed me the wrong way. I didn't like her attitude. That “I work in a fancy store so I'm better than you,” attitude.
“I don't know, can you?” I asked.
“Not now,” Rachel said shushin' me. Normally she would have jumped all over the invitation to have the “can you, may you” debate, but the rush of the holiday shoppin' madness was beginnin' to infect her as well.
“I'd like to see that necklace, please,” she asked the lady ever-so-sweetly, pointin' at the necklace with her finger pressed upon the glass.
I saw the quick cut of her eye, heard the tiny sigh, before she reached for her keys to open the door. I leaned over on the glass, pressin' both my forearms along the top of the counter.
She sighed again.
As though I was suddenly overcome with curiosity at what I was sure was a completely over-priced set of earrings only my great-grandmother would wear, I went to lean in even further over the counter, rubbin' my arms along the surface as I reached.
A perfume bottle nearly fell over as I stretched my arm for the earrings from the twirlin' tower. I quickly set it right, nudgin' it over a hair, then grabbed the earrings. As soon as the necklace was laid down in front of Rachel, the woman reached over and nudged the perfume bottle back into “place," glarin' at the fresh smudge marks at the same time.
I don't know if it was a bad day or what, but she apparently didn't know how much Rachel liked to shop. If she were smart, she'd have been a little more invested in our needs. Well, Rachel's needs, but whatever.
So I nudged the bottle over again.
The woman gave me one of those looks that asks, “Really?” and moved it again to its proper location.
I, of course, reached over to move it again, the but she beat me to the bottle, placin' her hand over the lid, and huffin' “Would you please?”
“Please?” I queried back as though I didn't know what she were about to ask of me. Man I was feelin' catty! I must really, really not like this woman, I thought.
“Jeaux stop it,” Rachel jumped in, “I'm sorry. I'll take this by the way, thank you, and...”
“Okay, I'll get you at this register over here,” the sales clerk interjected. But, Rachel hadn't been finished. Now...there was my girl...she was gettin' irritated.
By the time Rachel was finished makin' her purchase, a solid sale for the woman she had to admit, I had been fulfillin' my time by swappin' the earrings and bracelets and pins in the little trays beside the register.
She'd just love that.
“If, you're done, thank you ladies and have a good day,” she said with a horrifically fake smile.
Hah. We'll just see about that, I thought. Jeez...what was wrong with me today? Was I experiencin' some kind of sick shoppin' rebellion or what?
Rachel was too jazzed about her new jewelry set to pay me much mind and had forgotten all about her irritation in her moment of shoppin' bliss. We turned to go and I nearly ran right into a set of those three-tiered towers holdin' folded sweaters and a new arrivals.
I stopped and grabbed one of the sweaters on the top of the tower, and glanced to see the woman watchin' me as she hurriedly tried to fix the mess I'd made of her trays.
I couldn't help myself. Without takin' so much as a three-second look at the sweater, I lifted it up just enough to completely undo the folds and tossed it back down in a heap.
As we turned the corner of the path circlin' the floor of the store, I saw her again rushin' over to fix what I'd done. And by the look of her flushed cheeks and squinty eyes, I'd say she was mad.
And then, as though I'd been suddenly thrown into a WWE wrestlin' ring, I was bein' basically attacked by the shoppers already so infected with the sickness their will to remember their humanity had vanished. Somewhere, I assumed right along with the money in their wallets.
So I decided to stop fightin' it and started grabbin' at shirts and jackets with a comparable frenzy...you know...like my life depended on their purchase, and that alone. I'm pretty sure this one lady would have been willin' to hit me in the face had I not let go of one suede coat when I did.
But this other lady! Oh my God she had it right! Screw tryin' to hold the clothes she wanted, she was wearin' them!
Rachel saw me lookin' at the beacon of shoppin' brillinace and commenced to followin' suit. Before long the three of us were dressed to the nines – or would you say tens? – in multiple layers of un-matchin' shirts and one particularly god-awful sweater for myself, that I had to wear for only one reason – it was too hilarious not to be worn; for I prayed it would be the only time it would see the light of day.
Even given the sensational mad-house that was wreakin' havoc on this side of the partition, the clerks were laughin' and helpin' and doin' their best to keep their peace between the lunatics, as they dodged from left to right like running-backs in haste to their posts.
Maybe that other lady was just a scrooge.
Rachel was tuggin' me on my sleeve around another row of racks when I saw her again. This time, the scrooge was helpin' another customer, the Luis Vitton bag on this woman's arm so shiny I wondered if it still had the brown paper paddin' inside.
And whaddya know? Scrooge was all smiles. From ear to ear, and lookin' genuine as hell too. Well that really rubbed me the wrong way.
Slinkin' over like a cat-burglar duckin' behind one tower and jumpin' to hide behind the next, I made my way back to her counter. Rachel was lost to me by now. I was on my own.
“Oh yes ma'am,” I heard her coo, “that would look absolutely divine on you! You know, I think we have a whole matching set to go along with it, if you have the time let's get you all dolled up and see what it looks like hmm?”
Well, wasn't she just the perfect little helper?
As she was too focused on her upcomin' sale to notice me behind her, I took immediate advantage of my window of opportunity.
Wrappin' my arms around one of the earring towers from the counter, I lifted it and put it on the other end. A few earrings fell off the hooks, sure. Then, I transferred the watch rack and placed its velvet case where the earring tower had been. No harm done there. Then, I tip-toed back behind another rack of panty-hose and waited for her to walk around to my side of the counter.
Finally, she came around. And luckily, nobody noticed me skulkin' around behind the panty-hose like I were tryin' (poorly at that) to sneak a five-finger discount or something.
It took her a minute to notice, but seein' an earring out of place on the counter, she picked it up and went to hang it in it's place, only to find, it's place was no longer in it's usual place. Ha ha!
Her face was priceless. She looked confused. Then, actually shook her head as though she were tryin' to remember if her memory were servin' her right or if somebody was messin' with her. She seemed to notice the swap, and I was pretty sure she was on to me, when I peeked my head over the partition just a little too high.
“I see you over there! You leave my counter alone before I call security! I mean it!”
The laughter finally sputtered forth (I'm pretty sure I actually spit on a few scarves, woops) then and I came tumblin' out of my hidin' place and ran back to find Rachel. I nearly passed her, as she had come to find me as well, but had stopped to smell some perfume selections.
I smiled, a little out of breath, and she did too. “Having fun?” she asked, knowin' me well enough to take a quick glance behind me in search of security guards or somethin'.
“Always,” I said.
She was smellin' a particularly dainty lookin' bottle of women's perfume, one that looked like a glass flower, the stem of the bottle the stem of the flower, and it's lid the petals. I was pretty sure if I held it I'd break it.
A line of women streamed into the store just then, and as we were very near the entrance, we were soon bein' pushed and brushed aside by their bouncin' shoppin' bags, purses, and big asses.
Rachel curled her nose at their inconsideration and turned to catch the last lady in the line-up with a hefty dose of the floral smellin' perfume in her hands.
“Hi! Welcome to Macy's!” she said in a high-pitched sing-song voice. If you didn't notice her own shoppin' bags in her arms, you'd have been sure she worked there.
“Hi! Welcome to Macy's!” she chimed again, squirtin' another surprised customer. I had to smile. The infection was startin' to subside (probably with the amount of money in her bank account). She had started a little game with herself.
I wanted to play.
So, dainty or not, I grabbed another bottle of the perfume and stood a few feet to the side of Rachel. She caught those comin' from one side, and I got the other. At first it was just a few ladies. Then a couple kids. Then even boys and men were fair game, as we knew our game would soon be cut short.
The whispers questionin' our authority as Macy's Perfume Spray Girls had been heard already.
“There! That's them! That's the girl!”
Dammit! Scrooge! I heard her shrill, I'm better than you-and-you-and-you voice, and knew it was time to go!
“Rachel! It's about that time,” I said puttin' the perfume bottle back on the table and gesturin' for the door. But the bottle fell to the floor - the fragile lid breakin' and sendin' shards of glass in all directions. Damn!
Lookin' towards the sound of the voices, I saw a tall, hefty security guard barrellin' towards us. Suddenly, I felt like a criminal. I was scared like a kid.
“Come on Rach, go time, now!” I said runnin' for the open doorway leadin' to the mall. But, as though in one final act of rebellion, (scared or not) I grabbed a purse and hat from one table, and ran to another, puttin' them down and pickin' up a pair of jeans and a shirt. Then I ran those to the next table and made another swap. I was apparently on a mission to mis-match Macy's right out the door, and I was laughin' like a crazed hyena the whole way.
“Jeaux, wait!” I heard Rachel shout, but I was too busy and quickly makin' my way out the door. In the open spaces of the mall's central court, I stopped to wait for her.
That's when I turned to see Rachel in the doorway, takin' off the shirts she had layered over herself, because...once you passed the store's doors, it was stealing.
The sales-clerk was now beside her with a crooked grin. But the security guard was still comin' toward me, pointin' at the ridiculous sweater I was still wearin'...had totally forgot about...and had never paid for.
Shit...
28.11.11
Like A Kid Again
You ever have those days where you just feel silly?
I have those days sometimes – days when the world seems to be my playground more so than others; when the clouds in the sky seem to dance like my own personal puppet show.
My momma had already tired of my antics by lunchtime and was practically shovin' me upstairs, beggin' me to start gettin' ready.
“Mommy!” I whined, “But I don't wanna take a shower, I wanna play with you!”
“Lord help me,” she muttered, maskin' a laugh, but whinin' back nonetheless, “You had better behave yourself today girl. The whole family is comin' and we have reservations at The Hilton, don't forget. I'm asking you... Please, try to control yourself.”
“Scouts Honor,” I affirmed, jumpin' to attention. But we both knew I had never been in Scouts and would do as I would do, albeit my attempts at anything otherwise.
It was Thanksgiving, and we were due to meet the family at 3:00 for a “lovely, traditional, and luxurious dinner” at the Hilton restaurant that overlooked the bay. The restaurant sat on the top floor and was said to be the finest in town. Still, I couldn't quite overcome the idea of my Thanksgiving maintainin' its traditionalism while simultaneously bein' cloaked in luxury.
After I had been properly primped and plated exactly per my mother's every instruction...I felt perfectly...coiffed. I hate that word. It's stuffy. But, that's how I felt. I may as well have had one of those huge Victorian collars round the back of my neck for all I felt I could move.
Dressed in a silk blouse the color of leaves just before all the life has completely dried-up, and a black pleated skirt (the pleats servin' to do little more than accentuate my thighs, leavin' no extra room for maneuverability; assurin' me that were one of my stilettos to fail, my knees would be of no use in stoppin' what was guaranteed to be an embarrassin' fall) my mother squealed with delight when she saw me finally emerge from my bedroom. It's true...I give her few opportunities to dress me up like a doll.
It wasn't like my family didn't know about my condition. It was more like, there was this giant rug we dragged around with us so we could continue to sweep everything underneath it.
Jeaux groped your husband?
Sweep, sweep.
Jeaux cursed at your nine year old?
Sweep, sweep.
Ohhh, Jeaux groped your husband, felt up your new boob-job, cursed your daughter and told your grandmother she was fartin' like a pack mule?
Sweep! Sweep! Sweep!
Really, I was kinda glad for my lack of motility. Maybe it would create a sort-of “horse-blinder” effect so I wouldn't be goaded by too much.
I was amazed at how much I had managed to work myself up by the time we came to the top floor of the Hilton. My legs were shakin' so much I was sure I would fall down with my next step, the platform heals not doin' me any favors in bearin' extra support for my unsteady equilibrium.
Seein' my nerves stand on end, my mother's look of concern deepened across her frown lines, knowin' me well enough to know that the more nervous I am the less control I have.
But there was no time to waste in worryin' over things that had yet to happen, for my Aunt Perdy came swoopin' in to bring us to the rest of the group.
“Oh! Jeaux, you sit down right over here by me! I want to hear everything!”
My Aunt Perdy was one of those women that lived her days under a veil of nostalgia, whether through her own children, or new prey like me, she craved hearin' the newest tales of our youthful adventures.
My mother, bein' the smart lady that she is however, kindly refused the seat for me, pushin' me down the line (a rather long line, I realized, barely pullin' my eyes from the floor) to the other end where the kids were gathered. She only had to ask two other people to scoot down and move their entire place-settings, but she managed to position herself right next to me, and on my other side a line of children, all under the age of 12.
Kids, we both knew, were easier. If I was goofy, the adults accepted that I was tryin' to entertain the kids. The kids, on the other hand, just thought I was goofy or brilliant, either way, no harm no foul. (That was, however, promisin' that no little heathen decided to piss me off, but I figured they had all been given a similar warnin' as I had.)
Somehow, I managed to keep my indiscretions to a minimum the entire meal.
Aside from a few straws in a number of nostrils and some sugar packet launchers, me and my minions were complete angels. (What else did they expect a bunch of kids to do with 114 extra forks?)
I even managed to mask the urge I'd had to reach out and pat my cute ole' Grandpa Joe on his baldin' head, as an attempt to dust off a piece of lint. He might've looked like a cute old man, but I didn't dare remind him that that's what the rest of us saw. I'm sure he would prefer believin' we're still just as scared of him as when he stood a solid six inches taller.
My mother did her best to answer any questions directed at me, for me, before I had the chance to embarrass myself...or her.
After the majority of the kids found their blackened game-hens, a little too baby-chickeny, most everybody on my side of the tracks wanted something else. Anything else. But a stop to McDonaalds for some chicken nuggets was quickly negated by my quick reminder that “nuggets are just like that but all chopped up and fried into tiny balls,” – oops – it was decided that a stop at Chuck-e-Cheese would work well to feed everyone and let us all work out our pent-up energy. (And you'll notice I said “our”, because yes, at that point, I was even resigned to categorizin' myself with the kids.)
When we finally made our way to Chuck-E-Cheese, I indeed felt like one of the kids. The loud dings of the games and rush of laughter and squeals almost made me forget how perfectly “coiffed” I was.
Immediately acceptin' the role of chaperone, I went off with the kids to find the fun.
It wasn't difficult. Kids can be like a pack of rabid wild dogs. You come up on them unawares, and you might be in trouble. You run with the pack, and you're probably gonna be okay.
I had already been initiated into the “circle” during dinner, and so we all ran off together for the arcade games.
The first game we tried lit up like the 4th of July as I beat my opponent. The skinny pale-faced kid had probably beat every video game he'd ever tried.
“No fair Jeaux! You cheated!”
“Nathan I did not! There's no way to cheat this! You point and shoot!” I laughed.
Lookin' bruised, the kid turned to walk away, and even though I wanted to tell him that maybe if he'd ever stayed outside long enough to shoot a real BB gun or sling-shot that maybe he'd know what bein' a good shot was really all about, I only threw my arm over his shoulders and mussed his blondish hair.
“Don't worry, I'd bet twenty bucks you could beat any other kid here with a score like that,” I said.
“With magnifiers like that on his face, what's stopping him?” came a squeaky voice behind us.
I recognized the antagonizing-little-attitude-with-legs from dinner. She was my Aunt Florence's step-daughter from her 2nd marriage. And she was something else.
I did my best to ignore her, but couldn't help feel Nathan's shoulders tense under my arm, and couldn't help but think of how many times he'd been teased for his glasses. Or pale skin. Or scrawny figure. Or who knows what else. And family didn't treat one another like that. I'd have to think on what to do about her.
Some of the younger girls came runnin' up on us just then, makin' me tense now, sure I was about to be run over by the small herd.
“Jeaux! Jeaux! Will you come with us to the ball pin? Please?” They all chimed together, draggin' out and elevatin' their 'please' until I was sure I would soon hear glass shatter.
Puttin' my hands up to my ears, I caved, laughin, “Okay Okay, let's go let's go! Just shhhhh!”
Gigglin' with either the giddiness of basically takin' me to my knees, or that their “we'll kill her with cuteness” plan worked, I was then bein' dragged to the ball pin.
Truthfully, a ball-pin can be a hazardous place. But, who can deny it, it's always the best part.
I'd been dunked, and “drowned” and revived a horrible sea-monster at least three times. I'd sent children flyin' and showed a toddler how to ride the waves and acted as a human safety raft when we ship-wrecked.
I also found a very nice little prize. Pushed right up against my cheek, I suddenly felt as though I were bein' licked. And for a second, I turned expectin' to yell at somebody for bein' nasty. But no, it was just a ball. Just a slime covered, who knows who's, snot or spit covered ball. Nice.
Instinctively, I grabbed it and threw it to the far side. But now, my face and my hand were smeared in the goo. I'm not a germ-freak, persay, but come on, that's gross.
“Time-out!” I yelled. “Bathroom break!”
It was good timin' I assume, because I soon had a line of little girls filin' behind me.
Aunt Florence's daughter saw us making a B-line for the bathroom, and ducked into the door just in front of us.
“Hey!” one little diva, (soon to be fightin' for the “I've got the most attitude” championship title) yelled, “No cuts!”
“I'm not cutting. I was just here first. Deal with it.”
Seein' as how a few of the girls were already bouncin' and holdin' their privates, this girl's continuously callous demeanor was really startin' to rub me the wrong way.
I was helpin' one of the other little girls, my baby cousin Tiffany, wash her chubby little hands. She was just a hair too short to reach the sink by herself.
Miss-Attitude sidled up to the sink next to ours. But, when she reached under the faucet, a spray of water hit her palm just right, and came flyin' our way. Sprayed in the face. My perfectly plated hair, felt a touch of moisture. My mom was gonna freak out.
Oh well. What's done is done, I thought.
Setting Tiffany on the ground, I grinned, not waitin' for Miss Attitude to attempt an apology (and pretty sure she wouldn't have anyway) and reached under my nozzle, funneling the water through my arms and poppin' it out of my fist and right into her chest.
“Ahh!” she screamed, taken totally off guard. I'm sure she didn't expect for an “adult” to react so childishly.
I grinned, and shrugged my shoulders, “Oops.”
The little twerp actually growled at me. I mean, a low, in the chest, rattle the throat, growl.
And it was on.
Sprayin' each other and flingin' water with our hands as fast as we could fill them, the water-war soon included all the girls in the bathroom. I'm not even sure that they were all family members.
Squealin' and gigglin', we ducked behind stall partitions and tried to use paper-towels as shields. Soon, the floors were completely covered in water, and it wasn't long before there was a fall.
“Truce!” I shouted. “Truce! Truce!” Miss Attitude and I were both soaked from head to toe. Unless we were willin' to just straight-up duke it out, I think we'd gotten each other about as good as we could.
“You're mascara's running,” she taunted.
“You're A-cup is showin,” I spat back, pointin' at her white blouse.
“Yeah, well, your hair's a wreck!”
“Yeah, well not even Tim Gunn would approve of that shirt."
“Ah!” she gasped.
“Would you two stop fighting please! We're all wet. My mommy is gonna be mad at me,” squeaked Tiffany, tuggin' at my soaked skirt.
Crap. I was about to get every single one of us in trouble.
Then, I had an idea. The hand dryer. It was one of those turbo-jet fancy-type dryers. There wasn't much to be done with my hair, but, I thought, I bet it could help to dry us out.
Skippin' over to the dryer, I sat down underneath it. The automatic sensor turned the blower on, partin' my hair down the middle. Lifting my face to the jet, I was overcome by the amount of air forced into my mouth and throat.
Jerkin' my head back down, I was greeted by more laughs and pointin' fingers. “Do it again Jeaux!”
I could feel the air blowin' into my mouth, movin' my skin from side to side under the pressure, and makin' my lips vibrate. It must have looked awfully funny, because another round of laughs ripped through my audience.
Then they were all around me. Arms, hands, shirts, faces, feet. Everyone was tryin' to stick something under the hand dryers. With the two dryers along the wall, and a line of girls underneath them, and only a few stragglers circlin' round, we were soon makin' another game of who could make the funniest faces into the wind.
That's when they found us.
The moms.
A line of them, in search of their young, whom they had entrusted in my care. Not that anybody was injured, but I wondered if we'd be receivin' a few dry-cleaner's bills. Lookin' from the heated faces of the surprised mommas to the frilly and soppy Sunday-best dresses, I was sure of it.
My mother was last in line.
Apologies all around, we were all shoved out of the bathroom and into our respective vehicles.
I waved goodbye to my little friends as I tried to drown out the sound of my mother's voice as she continued to chastise my antics and whine over my ruined hair and possibly ruined silk shirt. It didn't look like my cousins were havin' a better time of it with their parents either.
But we were all smiles.
I have those days sometimes – days when the world seems to be my playground more so than others; when the clouds in the sky seem to dance like my own personal puppet show.
My momma had already tired of my antics by lunchtime and was practically shovin' me upstairs, beggin' me to start gettin' ready.
“Mommy!” I whined, “But I don't wanna take a shower, I wanna play with you!”
“Lord help me,” she muttered, maskin' a laugh, but whinin' back nonetheless, “You had better behave yourself today girl. The whole family is comin' and we have reservations at The Hilton, don't forget. I'm asking you... Please, try to control yourself.”
“Scouts Honor,” I affirmed, jumpin' to attention. But we both knew I had never been in Scouts and would do as I would do, albeit my attempts at anything otherwise.
It was Thanksgiving, and we were due to meet the family at 3:00 for a “lovely, traditional, and luxurious dinner” at the Hilton restaurant that overlooked the bay. The restaurant sat on the top floor and was said to be the finest in town. Still, I couldn't quite overcome the idea of my Thanksgiving maintainin' its traditionalism while simultaneously bein' cloaked in luxury.
After I had been properly primped and plated exactly per my mother's every instruction...I felt perfectly...coiffed. I hate that word. It's stuffy. But, that's how I felt. I may as well have had one of those huge Victorian collars round the back of my neck for all I felt I could move.
Dressed in a silk blouse the color of leaves just before all the life has completely dried-up, and a black pleated skirt (the pleats servin' to do little more than accentuate my thighs, leavin' no extra room for maneuverability; assurin' me that were one of my stilettos to fail, my knees would be of no use in stoppin' what was guaranteed to be an embarrassin' fall) my mother squealed with delight when she saw me finally emerge from my bedroom. It's true...I give her few opportunities to dress me up like a doll.
It wasn't like my family didn't know about my condition. It was more like, there was this giant rug we dragged around with us so we could continue to sweep everything underneath it.
Jeaux groped your husband?
Sweep, sweep.
Jeaux cursed at your nine year old?
Sweep, sweep.
Ohhh, Jeaux groped your husband, felt up your new boob-job, cursed your daughter and told your grandmother she was fartin' like a pack mule?
Sweep! Sweep! Sweep!
Really, I was kinda glad for my lack of motility. Maybe it would create a sort-of “horse-blinder” effect so I wouldn't be goaded by too much.
I was amazed at how much I had managed to work myself up by the time we came to the top floor of the Hilton. My legs were shakin' so much I was sure I would fall down with my next step, the platform heals not doin' me any favors in bearin' extra support for my unsteady equilibrium.
Seein' my nerves stand on end, my mother's look of concern deepened across her frown lines, knowin' me well enough to know that the more nervous I am the less control I have.
But there was no time to waste in worryin' over things that had yet to happen, for my Aunt Perdy came swoopin' in to bring us to the rest of the group.
“Oh! Jeaux, you sit down right over here by me! I want to hear everything!”
My Aunt Perdy was one of those women that lived her days under a veil of nostalgia, whether through her own children, or new prey like me, she craved hearin' the newest tales of our youthful adventures.
My mother, bein' the smart lady that she is however, kindly refused the seat for me, pushin' me down the line (a rather long line, I realized, barely pullin' my eyes from the floor) to the other end where the kids were gathered. She only had to ask two other people to scoot down and move their entire place-settings, but she managed to position herself right next to me, and on my other side a line of children, all under the age of 12.
Kids, we both knew, were easier. If I was goofy, the adults accepted that I was tryin' to entertain the kids. The kids, on the other hand, just thought I was goofy or brilliant, either way, no harm no foul. (That was, however, promisin' that no little heathen decided to piss me off, but I figured they had all been given a similar warnin' as I had.)
Somehow, I managed to keep my indiscretions to a minimum the entire meal.
Aside from a few straws in a number of nostrils and some sugar packet launchers, me and my minions were complete angels. (What else did they expect a bunch of kids to do with 114 extra forks?)
I even managed to mask the urge I'd had to reach out and pat my cute ole' Grandpa Joe on his baldin' head, as an attempt to dust off a piece of lint. He might've looked like a cute old man, but I didn't dare remind him that that's what the rest of us saw. I'm sure he would prefer believin' we're still just as scared of him as when he stood a solid six inches taller.
My mother did her best to answer any questions directed at me, for me, before I had the chance to embarrass myself...or her.
After the majority of the kids found their blackened game-hens, a little too baby-chickeny, most everybody on my side of the tracks wanted something else. Anything else. But a stop to McDonaalds for some chicken nuggets was quickly negated by my quick reminder that “nuggets are just like that but all chopped up and fried into tiny balls,” – oops – it was decided that a stop at Chuck-e-Cheese would work well to feed everyone and let us all work out our pent-up energy. (And you'll notice I said “our”, because yes, at that point, I was even resigned to categorizin' myself with the kids.)
When we finally made our way to Chuck-E-Cheese, I indeed felt like one of the kids. The loud dings of the games and rush of laughter and squeals almost made me forget how perfectly “coiffed” I was.
Immediately acceptin' the role of chaperone, I went off with the kids to find the fun.
It wasn't difficult. Kids can be like a pack of rabid wild dogs. You come up on them unawares, and you might be in trouble. You run with the pack, and you're probably gonna be okay.
I had already been initiated into the “circle” during dinner, and so we all ran off together for the arcade games.
The first game we tried lit up like the 4th of July as I beat my opponent. The skinny pale-faced kid had probably beat every video game he'd ever tried.
“No fair Jeaux! You cheated!”
“Nathan I did not! There's no way to cheat this! You point and shoot!” I laughed.
Lookin' bruised, the kid turned to walk away, and even though I wanted to tell him that maybe if he'd ever stayed outside long enough to shoot a real BB gun or sling-shot that maybe he'd know what bein' a good shot was really all about, I only threw my arm over his shoulders and mussed his blondish hair.
“Don't worry, I'd bet twenty bucks you could beat any other kid here with a score like that,” I said.
“With magnifiers like that on his face, what's stopping him?” came a squeaky voice behind us.
I recognized the antagonizing-little-attitude-with-legs from dinner. She was my Aunt Florence's step-daughter from her 2nd marriage. And she was something else.
I did my best to ignore her, but couldn't help feel Nathan's shoulders tense under my arm, and couldn't help but think of how many times he'd been teased for his glasses. Or pale skin. Or scrawny figure. Or who knows what else. And family didn't treat one another like that. I'd have to think on what to do about her.
Some of the younger girls came runnin' up on us just then, makin' me tense now, sure I was about to be run over by the small herd.
“Jeaux! Jeaux! Will you come with us to the ball pin? Please?” They all chimed together, draggin' out and elevatin' their 'please' until I was sure I would soon hear glass shatter.
Puttin' my hands up to my ears, I caved, laughin, “Okay Okay, let's go let's go! Just shhhhh!”
Gigglin' with either the giddiness of basically takin' me to my knees, or that their “we'll kill her with cuteness” plan worked, I was then bein' dragged to the ball pin.
Truthfully, a ball-pin can be a hazardous place. But, who can deny it, it's always the best part.
I'd been dunked, and “drowned” and revived a horrible sea-monster at least three times. I'd sent children flyin' and showed a toddler how to ride the waves and acted as a human safety raft when we ship-wrecked.
I also found a very nice little prize. Pushed right up against my cheek, I suddenly felt as though I were bein' licked. And for a second, I turned expectin' to yell at somebody for bein' nasty. But no, it was just a ball. Just a slime covered, who knows who's, snot or spit covered ball. Nice.
Instinctively, I grabbed it and threw it to the far side. But now, my face and my hand were smeared in the goo. I'm not a germ-freak, persay, but come on, that's gross.
“Time-out!” I yelled. “Bathroom break!”
It was good timin' I assume, because I soon had a line of little girls filin' behind me.
Aunt Florence's daughter saw us making a B-line for the bathroom, and ducked into the door just in front of us.
“Hey!” one little diva, (soon to be fightin' for the “I've got the most attitude” championship title) yelled, “No cuts!”
“I'm not cutting. I was just here first. Deal with it.”
Seein' as how a few of the girls were already bouncin' and holdin' their privates, this girl's continuously callous demeanor was really startin' to rub me the wrong way.
I was helpin' one of the other little girls, my baby cousin Tiffany, wash her chubby little hands. She was just a hair too short to reach the sink by herself.
Miss-Attitude sidled up to the sink next to ours. But, when she reached under the faucet, a spray of water hit her palm just right, and came flyin' our way. Sprayed in the face. My perfectly plated hair, felt a touch of moisture. My mom was gonna freak out.
Oh well. What's done is done, I thought.
Setting Tiffany on the ground, I grinned, not waitin' for Miss Attitude to attempt an apology (and pretty sure she wouldn't have anyway) and reached under my nozzle, funneling the water through my arms and poppin' it out of my fist and right into her chest.
“Ahh!” she screamed, taken totally off guard. I'm sure she didn't expect for an “adult” to react so childishly.
I grinned, and shrugged my shoulders, “Oops.”
The little twerp actually growled at me. I mean, a low, in the chest, rattle the throat, growl.
And it was on.
Sprayin' each other and flingin' water with our hands as fast as we could fill them, the water-war soon included all the girls in the bathroom. I'm not even sure that they were all family members.
Squealin' and gigglin', we ducked behind stall partitions and tried to use paper-towels as shields. Soon, the floors were completely covered in water, and it wasn't long before there was a fall.
“Truce!” I shouted. “Truce! Truce!” Miss Attitude and I were both soaked from head to toe. Unless we were willin' to just straight-up duke it out, I think we'd gotten each other about as good as we could.
“You're mascara's running,” she taunted.
“You're A-cup is showin,” I spat back, pointin' at her white blouse.
“Yeah, well, your hair's a wreck!”
“Yeah, well not even Tim Gunn would approve of that shirt."
“Ah!” she gasped.
“Would you two stop fighting please! We're all wet. My mommy is gonna be mad at me,” squeaked Tiffany, tuggin' at my soaked skirt.
Crap. I was about to get every single one of us in trouble.
Then, I had an idea. The hand dryer. It was one of those turbo-jet fancy-type dryers. There wasn't much to be done with my hair, but, I thought, I bet it could help to dry us out.
Skippin' over to the dryer, I sat down underneath it. The automatic sensor turned the blower on, partin' my hair down the middle. Lifting my face to the jet, I was overcome by the amount of air forced into my mouth and throat.
Jerkin' my head back down, I was greeted by more laughs and pointin' fingers. “Do it again Jeaux!”
I could feel the air blowin' into my mouth, movin' my skin from side to side under the pressure, and makin' my lips vibrate. It must have looked awfully funny, because another round of laughs ripped through my audience.
Then they were all around me. Arms, hands, shirts, faces, feet. Everyone was tryin' to stick something under the hand dryers. With the two dryers along the wall, and a line of girls underneath them, and only a few stragglers circlin' round, we were soon makin' another game of who could make the funniest faces into the wind.
That's when they found us.
The moms.
A line of them, in search of their young, whom they had entrusted in my care. Not that anybody was injured, but I wondered if we'd be receivin' a few dry-cleaner's bills. Lookin' from the heated faces of the surprised mommas to the frilly and soppy Sunday-best dresses, I was sure of it.
My mother was last in line.
Apologies all around, we were all shoved out of the bathroom and into our respective vehicles.
I waved goodbye to my little friends as I tried to drown out the sound of my mother's voice as she continued to chastise my antics and whine over my ruined hair and possibly ruined silk shirt. It didn't look like my cousins were havin' a better time of it with their parents either.
But we were all smiles.
14.11.11
Waste Not Want Not
So, to add to the growin' list of things I'm no longer asked to do, we can add grocery shoppin'. I suppose everyone can sympathize with the unexpectedly large grocery bill after a hunger-tinged shoppin' binge, but imagine addin' havin' the uncontrollable urge to grab and purchase everything you see that makes your taste-buds dream to sing. And I do mean everything.
If the checkers at the store don't already know me and hate me, they soon will. Of that I'm sure. If I don't have so much stuff that it requires them assistin' me to the car, (and there's just not a lot of them to go around, it's a small place, I get that) then I end up with so much stuff my card gets declined. My mom learned real quick-like that givin' me the debit card was pretty much insane, and so opted for the new cash cards which she could fill to her fancy.
Either way, I still manage to stock our house with a sturdy supply of groceries – enough really to feed a small army at any given time. So, it wasn't the first time, nor was it a surprise to once again hear my mother's shrill voice yell up to me this mornin' that I'd “done it once again.”
“This food is all about to go bad Jeaux! Why do you buy so much? You know we could never eat all of this! Just trash. It's all going to go to waste. Money right down the drain.”
Still wipin' the sleep from my eyes, I sauntered down the stairs to better hear what I wished I could not. Maybe if I were closer, at least she'd stop yellin'. Her voice couldn't help but rise a solid 3 octaves when she tried to yell...our shout...or cry...or was really really happy....you get my drift.
“Mom. Stop. Yellin'. You know I don't mean to.”
“Leave the girl alone,” my father said suddenly comin' to my rescue. “You're the one who didn't want to have to reorganize the freezer to make room for half of that.”
My mother has a very specific order in which she likes to keep all her fruits, vegetables, meat, canned items...well again, you get my drift. And then there's me, like a two-year old right behind her, constantly puttin' it all in disarray.
“Well what do you propose we do with all this food then? Just let it go to waste? Look at these vegetables – they're already showing signs of rot! And I'd hardly give that meat another two days. I can't put together a dinner party that fast, even if I did want to feed the whole neighborhood.”
I don't know when my mother got so tired. I remember a time, a long time ago, but I do remember a time, when I think that's exactly what she would have done.
“That's a great idea Mom.”
“What's a great idea?” she asked lookin' confused.
“We should feed the neighborhood.”
Her face didn't seem to register my suggestion. Well, her suggestion really. So, I turned to my dad.
“Dad, you can throw most of that stuff on the grill right?”
“I suppose so honey-cakes, there ain't a whole lot that can't be cooked on a grill.”
“Well there ya go Puddin' Pop,” I teased my mother. That's dad's little nick-name for her, but she knew I was tryin' to chastise her with it, and so didn't seem none too pleased with my snarky lil comment. But I just sailed right on by her “you better watch it girl” look and reminded her of her brilliant idea.
“We can throw all this stuff together easy Mom. I'll do it. Dad will grill, and it'll just be your brilliant idea. I'll call Kevin and Rachel, I'm sure they'd help tell folks around here. And once they get a hint of dad's BBQ on the grill, if we're out front they'll come from miles anyway. It'll be a big hit, I swear. A good ole' fashioned block party.”
“A block party?” my mother queried rhetorically to herself. As she mused over the idea, I could see her face transform as though a light bulb had gone off.
“Yeah, we can even go over to the hex and let the old-timers know there will be a free hot meal today,” I suggested. The “hex” was basically a hexagonal corner on the wrong side of town where a number of streets and railroad crossings met, and was where most of the homeless in town called home.
Light-bulb off.
“I don't know that the neighbors will like that Jeaux.”
“Well, the neighbors aren't the ones with a truckload of food to cook and give away for free. Why not at least offer it to the people who really need it?”
“This is a nice neighborhood Jeaux. And we're still fairly new here. What will people think if I've got every beggar in town lunching in my front lawn?”
“Umm...I dunno Mom...like you're a damn fine Christian woman?”
That shut her up.
And made my dad grin ear to ear. I tell ya, I think he actually likes my new-found forthright way of speakin' to my mother...it tickles him. I'm pretty sure within the first year after my condition took hold I expressly released upon her a wave of information I'm sure he'd been dyin' to say for years.
“Okay, but let me at least call some of the girl's from the church over. Maybe they'd like to help.”
Yeah, help you keep up appearances, I thought, but somehow managed not to say.
“Call everybody Mom. We're havin' a party!”
So, I called Rachel and Kevin over to help. Kevin thought it was a brilliant idea. Rachel not so much.
“You mean you're not going to charge people anything? I bet you could get $5 a plate for your dad's BBQ.”
“Why? We already paid for the food with the intention of eatin' it ourselves. What's the point.”
“I dunno, you could at least make your money back.”
I took one look at our lavish house and rolled my eyes. “Because we so need it and all.”
“Well, I think it's a great idea,” Kevin chimed in. “We used to have block parties for 4th of July all the time when I was a kid. I don't know why we ever stopped.”
Rachel looked at him like he'd gone crazy. “Umm, because you're forced to schmooze with a bunch of people you spend the better part of the year trying to avoid?”
“But why do we do that?” I asked.
“We're busy. We don't want to be stuck in the yard talking for hours bitching about the new chairman for the housing authority. Or being reminded of that time we borrowed this, or forgot to remove that, or parked on the curb, or forgot to wear underwear to check the mailbox on a rather windy day...I could keep going.”
“No I think I get your point,” I laughed.
“Well we don't have to be that way. Maybe if we were all more like friends we wouldn't have to avoid each other all the time. Maybe then the conversation wouldn't be so mind-numbingly dull that we'd rather gouge our eyes out with a spork than sit through ten minutes of it. Maybe then, instead of the trashcan being forgotten in the street to get ran over, they'd just bring it on up for us like a friend would,” Kevin asserted.
“Okay, whatever. All I heard was party anyways,” Rachel smiled, “Where do I get to start?”
“Umm, wherever you want I guess. We're just gonna cook up the food and spread the word. You wanna come with me to knock on some doors?”
“Yeah. Probably not.”
Kevin laughed. He could have answered that for Rachel easy.
“What's the theme?”
“Theme? No theme,” I answered simply shruggin' my shoulders. “Spread the wealth,” I offered smilin'.
“Spread the wealth?” Rachel asked sneering. “What do you want me to do – put Monopoly money in the trees? No. No that won't work. I'm sure there are plenty of pumpkins left at the store they'd love to get rid of. We'll just do a fall theme. Quick. Easy. Fast clean-up.”
“Oh my mom has tons of Thanksgiving decorations and stuff, just ask her, I'm sure she'll load you up.”
“Perfect!” Rachel squealed, obviously pleased.
“So, you're with me then?” I asked Kevin.
“Looks like it doll,” he said flashin' his best make-me-melt smile.
I couldn't help it, but to reach up and kiss his face. I got the eye-roll from Rachel, but I didn't care. The dynamic between the three of us in that regard was beyond my realm of comprehension. If it weren't for the fact that I could never truly commit myself to Kevin, and that she and he knew (no matter how powerful their physical connection) that they would never really work, it would be a regular cat fight between the two of us, I'm sure.
Kevin and I decided to walk to the end of the street and start there, then work our way back.
It was nice. It had been a long time, I realized, since Kevin and I had been alone. But, just like “old times” Kevin grabbed my hand. We walked in superb silence the 5 blocks to the end of the street.
Mrs. Sputterworth (though we all called her Mrs. Buttersworth behind her back, because she no kiddin' looked like the real deal as though she'd stepped straight from the bottle) was out front already prunin' her lawn. Every blade of grass had been tediously manicured to the finest detail. Her apron ballooned in front of her with the trimmings of Bermuda and leaves she'd picked.
Kevin was a favorite of hers, so I let him give the invitation. Her already flushed cheeks, turned even rosier as she fussed, “Oh my goodness, a block party? Well I haven't even done my hair.”
“You look marvelous as always just as you are Mrs. Sputterworth. Please join us. We won't be ready for a few hours yet, so there's no rush,” Kevin said. I swear, one look from Kevin could make a real-life troll feel beautiful. Mrs. Sputterworth smiled and her eyes brightened, and alongside her reddenin' cheeks, she looked much like a blushin' school-girl gettin' asked to her first dance.
“Of course. Of course. Jeaux, you tell your Mother I'll be right along. And I'll bring some of my German Chocolate Rum Cake, I hear she loved it at ya'll's house warmin'.”
“That she did ma'am,” I replied. My knees started to bend in a small curtsy, but Kevin kindly knocked me to the side with his hip before I could unwittingly insult the poor old woman. She may have been an easy laugh but she really was a nice lady. I picked up a blade or two of grass, shovin' them in my pocket, mumblin' "missed one" to try and assist in my cover-up.
“Well then I'll see ya'll in a few hours,” she said turnin' to go, and squealin', “Oh what will I wear?”
“I think she's happy,” I said smilin' as we left her driveway.
“I doubt she gets invited to many parties these days.”
“I bet you're right,” I replied, turnin' to see Mrs. Sputterworth practically skippin' to her front door.
At the next house, Kevin quickly relinquished the reins, sayin' “Your turn.”
Of course. Nobody wanted to talk to Mr. Mason. He may as well have been related directly to the mass-murderer himself for all the neighbors liked him. The kids didn't even attempt to venture near his porch durin' Halloween lest it was to fire a rotten-egg missile at the front door.
But we couldn't possibly, in good conscience, throw a block party without at least tellin' him it was happenin'.
He opened the door in his same gruff, “Go away, I don't want any” fashion, to see me. I had had something else entirely in mind, but when he cracked open the door, I saw the faint letters across his worn t-shirt, M-A-R-I-N-E.
Holy shit, I thought, it's Veterans Day.
Before I could stop myself, I burst into song. His very own personal singin' telegram, I even threw in a little choreography wavin' my arms like a flag in true patriotic fashion as I began to sing:
“I'm proud to be an American
Where at least I know I'm free.
And I won't forget,
the men who died,
And gave that right to me!
And I proudly stand Up
Here today
to invite you
To a partyyyyy,
Because there ain't no doubt
I love this land
God bless
your service to
the countryyyyyy.”
Cheesy? Yes. Incorrect lyrics? For sure. Poor poor dancing. No question.
But he smiled. And he swung the door wide open.
And I swear he actually chuckled as he asked, “Now what's this all about?”
“We're havin' a block party down the street Mr. Mason. We would be honored if you could join us. Food'll be ready in a few hours.”
“Short notice hmm?”
“Yes sir, for us too. Just thought of it today.”
“And that little jig you just did there. Just think of that today too?”
“Just this instant actually,” I answered honestly, hopin' it didn't spoil any meanin' he may have gained by my words. Impulsive they may have been, but I realized lies, they were not. I really did want him to join us.
“Well...” he paused, lookin' from me to Kevin (who I think was still tryin' to digest what was currently takin' place - findin' it all even more unexpected than usual – Mr. Mason did smile after all). “How could I say no after a show like that? I may be a crotchety old bastard, but I have to hand it to you hunny, you know how to deliver a cordial invitation. See you two later on. Now git, before every solicitor in town thinks I've had a sudden change of heart.”
And with that, the door was shut in our faces and we were off to the next house.
Door to door, it became kind of a game to see who could come up with the most personalized and invitin' way of encouragin' our neighbors to our party.
I won.
Duh.
By the time we made our way back to the house, the grill was already smokin' and the decorations were bein' put into place. Between my mother and Rachel, the lawn looked like the perfect picture of the first Thanksgiving. All we needed were a few pilgrims to adorn the picnic tables with.
It was a hit.
Women from my mother's church arrived early and started makin' plates. Word had been sent to the hex that there would be a free meal, and those in need started to filter in among the rest. Though I felt bad for them - that they felt the need to quickly remove themselves once their food was in hand - I was glad that there didn't seem to be any misgivings about their attendance from the rest.
As I watched them walk with their paper plates in hand, I couldn't help but wonder why I didn't do this more often. The kids were laughin' and playin' together. The adults were split-off into odd little groups, some minglin', others entrenched in conversation they probably found unexpectedly interestin'. It was good.
Even Mr. Mason actually showed up. A hush came over the crowd in our front lawn when he walked through the gates. But Kevin, always knowin' the thing to do, quickly removed everyone's concerns that perhaps Mr. Mason was there to break up the party.
“Can we have a round of applause for our very own WWII veteran, Mr. Alex Mason. Thank you for your service Mr. Mason!”
A hearty round of applause erupted from our small crowd, and a few even belted a couple verses to “He's a Jolly Good Fellow.” People were feelin' better than I'd even imagined.
We were a small community. It didn't even take a lot of effort. And the benefits of our new-found camaraderie, even if only temporary, would surely have some sort of lastin' effect. I had to hope.
Let's be honest, some days (especially after days like last week had to offer), I just need to know that I can be good for somethin'. Seein' all the smilin' faces of our neighbors – well, I feel like I helped save more than just the food from goin' to waste.
If the checkers at the store don't already know me and hate me, they soon will. Of that I'm sure. If I don't have so much stuff that it requires them assistin' me to the car, (and there's just not a lot of them to go around, it's a small place, I get that) then I end up with so much stuff my card gets declined. My mom learned real quick-like that givin' me the debit card was pretty much insane, and so opted for the new cash cards which she could fill to her fancy.
Either way, I still manage to stock our house with a sturdy supply of groceries – enough really to feed a small army at any given time. So, it wasn't the first time, nor was it a surprise to once again hear my mother's shrill voice yell up to me this mornin' that I'd “done it once again.”
“This food is all about to go bad Jeaux! Why do you buy so much? You know we could never eat all of this! Just trash. It's all going to go to waste. Money right down the drain.”
Still wipin' the sleep from my eyes, I sauntered down the stairs to better hear what I wished I could not. Maybe if I were closer, at least she'd stop yellin'. Her voice couldn't help but rise a solid 3 octaves when she tried to yell...our shout...or cry...or was really really happy....you get my drift.
“Mom. Stop. Yellin'. You know I don't mean to.”
“Leave the girl alone,” my father said suddenly comin' to my rescue. “You're the one who didn't want to have to reorganize the freezer to make room for half of that.”
My mother has a very specific order in which she likes to keep all her fruits, vegetables, meat, canned items...well again, you get my drift. And then there's me, like a two-year old right behind her, constantly puttin' it all in disarray.
“Well what do you propose we do with all this food then? Just let it go to waste? Look at these vegetables – they're already showing signs of rot! And I'd hardly give that meat another two days. I can't put together a dinner party that fast, even if I did want to feed the whole neighborhood.”
I don't know when my mother got so tired. I remember a time, a long time ago, but I do remember a time, when I think that's exactly what she would have done.
“That's a great idea Mom.”
“What's a great idea?” she asked lookin' confused.
“We should feed the neighborhood.”
Her face didn't seem to register my suggestion. Well, her suggestion really. So, I turned to my dad.
“Dad, you can throw most of that stuff on the grill right?”
“I suppose so honey-cakes, there ain't a whole lot that can't be cooked on a grill.”
“Well there ya go Puddin' Pop,” I teased my mother. That's dad's little nick-name for her, but she knew I was tryin' to chastise her with it, and so didn't seem none too pleased with my snarky lil comment. But I just sailed right on by her “you better watch it girl” look and reminded her of her brilliant idea.
“We can throw all this stuff together easy Mom. I'll do it. Dad will grill, and it'll just be your brilliant idea. I'll call Kevin and Rachel, I'm sure they'd help tell folks around here. And once they get a hint of dad's BBQ on the grill, if we're out front they'll come from miles anyway. It'll be a big hit, I swear. A good ole' fashioned block party.”
“A block party?” my mother queried rhetorically to herself. As she mused over the idea, I could see her face transform as though a light bulb had gone off.
“Yeah, we can even go over to the hex and let the old-timers know there will be a free hot meal today,” I suggested. The “hex” was basically a hexagonal corner on the wrong side of town where a number of streets and railroad crossings met, and was where most of the homeless in town called home.
Light-bulb off.
“I don't know that the neighbors will like that Jeaux.”
“Well, the neighbors aren't the ones with a truckload of food to cook and give away for free. Why not at least offer it to the people who really need it?”
“This is a nice neighborhood Jeaux. And we're still fairly new here. What will people think if I've got every beggar in town lunching in my front lawn?”
“Umm...I dunno Mom...like you're a damn fine Christian woman?”
That shut her up.
And made my dad grin ear to ear. I tell ya, I think he actually likes my new-found forthright way of speakin' to my mother...it tickles him. I'm pretty sure within the first year after my condition took hold I expressly released upon her a wave of information I'm sure he'd been dyin' to say for years.
“Okay, but let me at least call some of the girl's from the church over. Maybe they'd like to help.”
Yeah, help you keep up appearances, I thought, but somehow managed not to say.
“Call everybody Mom. We're havin' a party!”
So, I called Rachel and Kevin over to help. Kevin thought it was a brilliant idea. Rachel not so much.
“You mean you're not going to charge people anything? I bet you could get $5 a plate for your dad's BBQ.”
“Why? We already paid for the food with the intention of eatin' it ourselves. What's the point.”
“I dunno, you could at least make your money back.”
I took one look at our lavish house and rolled my eyes. “Because we so need it and all.”
“Well, I think it's a great idea,” Kevin chimed in. “We used to have block parties for 4th of July all the time when I was a kid. I don't know why we ever stopped.”
Rachel looked at him like he'd gone crazy. “Umm, because you're forced to schmooze with a bunch of people you spend the better part of the year trying to avoid?”
“But why do we do that?” I asked.
“We're busy. We don't want to be stuck in the yard talking for hours bitching about the new chairman for the housing authority. Or being reminded of that time we borrowed this, or forgot to remove that, or parked on the curb, or forgot to wear underwear to check the mailbox on a rather windy day...I could keep going.”
“No I think I get your point,” I laughed.
“Well we don't have to be that way. Maybe if we were all more like friends we wouldn't have to avoid each other all the time. Maybe then the conversation wouldn't be so mind-numbingly dull that we'd rather gouge our eyes out with a spork than sit through ten minutes of it. Maybe then, instead of the trashcan being forgotten in the street to get ran over, they'd just bring it on up for us like a friend would,” Kevin asserted.
“Okay, whatever. All I heard was party anyways,” Rachel smiled, “Where do I get to start?”
“Umm, wherever you want I guess. We're just gonna cook up the food and spread the word. You wanna come with me to knock on some doors?”
“Yeah. Probably not.”
Kevin laughed. He could have answered that for Rachel easy.
“What's the theme?”
“Theme? No theme,” I answered simply shruggin' my shoulders. “Spread the wealth,” I offered smilin'.
“Spread the wealth?” Rachel asked sneering. “What do you want me to do – put Monopoly money in the trees? No. No that won't work. I'm sure there are plenty of pumpkins left at the store they'd love to get rid of. We'll just do a fall theme. Quick. Easy. Fast clean-up.”
“Oh my mom has tons of Thanksgiving decorations and stuff, just ask her, I'm sure she'll load you up.”
“Perfect!” Rachel squealed, obviously pleased.
“So, you're with me then?” I asked Kevin.
“Looks like it doll,” he said flashin' his best make-me-melt smile.
I couldn't help it, but to reach up and kiss his face. I got the eye-roll from Rachel, but I didn't care. The dynamic between the three of us in that regard was beyond my realm of comprehension. If it weren't for the fact that I could never truly commit myself to Kevin, and that she and he knew (no matter how powerful their physical connection) that they would never really work, it would be a regular cat fight between the two of us, I'm sure.
Kevin and I decided to walk to the end of the street and start there, then work our way back.
It was nice. It had been a long time, I realized, since Kevin and I had been alone. But, just like “old times” Kevin grabbed my hand. We walked in superb silence the 5 blocks to the end of the street.
Mrs. Sputterworth (though we all called her Mrs. Buttersworth behind her back, because she no kiddin' looked like the real deal as though she'd stepped straight from the bottle) was out front already prunin' her lawn. Every blade of grass had been tediously manicured to the finest detail. Her apron ballooned in front of her with the trimmings of Bermuda and leaves she'd picked.
Kevin was a favorite of hers, so I let him give the invitation. Her already flushed cheeks, turned even rosier as she fussed, “Oh my goodness, a block party? Well I haven't even done my hair.”
“You look marvelous as always just as you are Mrs. Sputterworth. Please join us. We won't be ready for a few hours yet, so there's no rush,” Kevin said. I swear, one look from Kevin could make a real-life troll feel beautiful. Mrs. Sputterworth smiled and her eyes brightened, and alongside her reddenin' cheeks, she looked much like a blushin' school-girl gettin' asked to her first dance.
“Of course. Of course. Jeaux, you tell your Mother I'll be right along. And I'll bring some of my German Chocolate Rum Cake, I hear she loved it at ya'll's house warmin'.”
“That she did ma'am,” I replied. My knees started to bend in a small curtsy, but Kevin kindly knocked me to the side with his hip before I could unwittingly insult the poor old woman. She may have been an easy laugh but she really was a nice lady. I picked up a blade or two of grass, shovin' them in my pocket, mumblin' "missed one" to try and assist in my cover-up.
“Well then I'll see ya'll in a few hours,” she said turnin' to go, and squealin', “Oh what will I wear?”
“I think she's happy,” I said smilin' as we left her driveway.
“I doubt she gets invited to many parties these days.”
“I bet you're right,” I replied, turnin' to see Mrs. Sputterworth practically skippin' to her front door.
At the next house, Kevin quickly relinquished the reins, sayin' “Your turn.”
Of course. Nobody wanted to talk to Mr. Mason. He may as well have been related directly to the mass-murderer himself for all the neighbors liked him. The kids didn't even attempt to venture near his porch durin' Halloween lest it was to fire a rotten-egg missile at the front door.
But we couldn't possibly, in good conscience, throw a block party without at least tellin' him it was happenin'.
He opened the door in his same gruff, “Go away, I don't want any” fashion, to see me. I had had something else entirely in mind, but when he cracked open the door, I saw the faint letters across his worn t-shirt, M-A-R-I-N-E.
Holy shit, I thought, it's Veterans Day.
Before I could stop myself, I burst into song. His very own personal singin' telegram, I even threw in a little choreography wavin' my arms like a flag in true patriotic fashion as I began to sing:
“I'm proud to be an American
Where at least I know I'm free.
And I won't forget,
the men who died,
And gave that right to me!
And I proudly stand Up
Here today
to invite you
To a partyyyyy,
Because there ain't no doubt
I love this land
God bless
your service to
the countryyyyyy.”
Cheesy? Yes. Incorrect lyrics? For sure. Poor poor dancing. No question.
But he smiled. And he swung the door wide open.
And I swear he actually chuckled as he asked, “Now what's this all about?”
“We're havin' a block party down the street Mr. Mason. We would be honored if you could join us. Food'll be ready in a few hours.”
“Short notice hmm?”
“Yes sir, for us too. Just thought of it today.”
“And that little jig you just did there. Just think of that today too?”
“Just this instant actually,” I answered honestly, hopin' it didn't spoil any meanin' he may have gained by my words. Impulsive they may have been, but I realized lies, they were not. I really did want him to join us.
“Well...” he paused, lookin' from me to Kevin (who I think was still tryin' to digest what was currently takin' place - findin' it all even more unexpected than usual – Mr. Mason did smile after all). “How could I say no after a show like that? I may be a crotchety old bastard, but I have to hand it to you hunny, you know how to deliver a cordial invitation. See you two later on. Now git, before every solicitor in town thinks I've had a sudden change of heart.”
And with that, the door was shut in our faces and we were off to the next house.
Door to door, it became kind of a game to see who could come up with the most personalized and invitin' way of encouragin' our neighbors to our party.
I won.
Duh.
By the time we made our way back to the house, the grill was already smokin' and the decorations were bein' put into place. Between my mother and Rachel, the lawn looked like the perfect picture of the first Thanksgiving. All we needed were a few pilgrims to adorn the picnic tables with.
It was a hit.
Women from my mother's church arrived early and started makin' plates. Word had been sent to the hex that there would be a free meal, and those in need started to filter in among the rest. Though I felt bad for them - that they felt the need to quickly remove themselves once their food was in hand - I was glad that there didn't seem to be any misgivings about their attendance from the rest.
As I watched them walk with their paper plates in hand, I couldn't help but wonder why I didn't do this more often. The kids were laughin' and playin' together. The adults were split-off into odd little groups, some minglin', others entrenched in conversation they probably found unexpectedly interestin'. It was good.
Even Mr. Mason actually showed up. A hush came over the crowd in our front lawn when he walked through the gates. But Kevin, always knowin' the thing to do, quickly removed everyone's concerns that perhaps Mr. Mason was there to break up the party.
“Can we have a round of applause for our very own WWII veteran, Mr. Alex Mason. Thank you for your service Mr. Mason!”
A hearty round of applause erupted from our small crowd, and a few even belted a couple verses to “He's a Jolly Good Fellow.” People were feelin' better than I'd even imagined.
We were a small community. It didn't even take a lot of effort. And the benefits of our new-found camaraderie, even if only temporary, would surely have some sort of lastin' effect. I had to hope.
Let's be honest, some days (especially after days like last week had to offer), I just need to know that I can be good for somethin'. Seein' all the smilin' faces of our neighbors – well, I feel like I helped save more than just the food from goin' to waste.
8.11.11
Dumpster Diving
Okay, so I get that this whole Impulse Girl thing may seem cool – tantalizin'/excitin'/intriguin'/or whatever adjective blows your skirt up.
But sittin' here...
In the bottom of a dumpster...
Covered in moldy coffee grounds, strangers' snot rags, and food scraps...
Well, lets just say it ain't all peaches 'n fuckin' crème topped with the cherry of the day's delight.
Yeah – that's right. You pick up your hand to remove the slimy banana peel from your hair, only to find some egg-white-like goo drippin' from your fingers, bein' of course, oh-so-much scarier than the banana peel could ever hope to be, and tell me how you like it.
Yeah – you try it. Sounds like fun right?
I get, that the box most survive in gets claustrophobic, and the open spaces I live in can make others envious at times. But there's somethin' to be said for the stability of the walls of the box. Predictability? The promise of a plan?
Whatever it is, I bet it's not covered in trash.
But let's go back...
Rachel, the social butterfly that she is, had managed to get us all on the guest list for a new exhibit at the upscale new gallery in the next town. So, we had driven into the big city to attend her not-so-starving-artist-friend's show.
I tried to tell her I shouldn't go. I could see the writin' on the wall, and it didn't look good. But both she and Kevin were so excited, they would hear nothin' of it, and assured me I'd be well looked after. (I wonder sometimes if I should be payin' my friend's for their services.)
I had never been much interested in the soberin' hallways of a quiet museum or gallery. Generally, you're expected to be calm and quiet, inquisitively conjecturin' over the nuances of the art, searchin' for meanin' in hushed whispers or a humblin' silence. Well, I guess I just don't have that kind of class. Or character. Or whatever it is. The last time I had been dragged to one of these things, I had been quickly dragged back out as I couldn't help but continue to test the echo in every corner of the gallery.
Even in consideration of all of this, I went. And I have to be honest, I was impressed. The show was not like that of any kind I had ever seen before. Posters and prints of all sizes hung from panels adorned with bright lights that were constructed into a maze in the center of the showcase. Standing amidst the pop-art and flashing lights, it felt more like being in the center of a busy New York City block, rather than a stuffy, fancy-schmancy gallery.
But, I was still at a loss for conversation past the odd “wow” or “look at that” and soon found myself feelin' more and more like the 3rd wheel as Kevin and Rachel became enmeshed in dialogue much to deep for even my mountin' level of interest.
I had the urge to wander, escape the discussion that was makin' me feel more and more unfit to be there with every philosophical conjecture as to the tone, contrasts, meanin', bla bla de bla bla. I don't even think they noticed at first when I had gone.
Takin' my leave, I managed, with all my good luck and everything, to bump into the artist himself. I couldn't just tell the man I liked his work and be done with it. Oh no.
It wasnt until I was thoroughly embarrassin' myself tryin' to say something oh-so insightful when he finally let me off the hook. Laughin', he stopped me, “It's okay. Really, I just come to these things to support my brother,” and then added (seein' my confused expression) “Oh, sorry, it's easier sometimes to just accept the praise and move on. I'm not the mastermind of this exhibit. Just the meager little brother.”
“Oh I'm sorry!” I laughed too, but mostly in relief. “You look so similar!”
“Well, he's only an hour older than me, but he likes to hold it over my head. We're twins. I'm Charles,” he explained.
“Jeaux. Nice to meet you,” I said extendin' my hand.
He had dark hair, cut short like a marine, with a strong jaw and close-cut goatee.
But his eyes were what I couldn't look away from. They were hypnotizin'.
Like some girls – I've gathered – have that uncanny ability to control guys with the flick of their finger, there are those guys of a similar breed with those eyes. Given a chance, one look can hold you captive and make a slave of you. Those eyes that seem to undress you with every blink, intense and broodin' – no matter the color. Why dear why was I always meetin' men with those eyes?
His hand was warm in my own, soft and lingered a tad longer than was probably necessary.
When he asked if I'd like to join him at the bar for a drink, I only needed to take one look in the direcion of my baby-sitters to see they were still enthralled in conversation. Not missin' me. Of all the things I loved about the new addition to our growin' little gang, the feelin' I had at that moment was not one of them.
“I'd love a drink,” I told him, flashin' one of my best win-em-over smiles.
It wasn't long before Charles and I were gigglin' and flirtin' like a couple of high-schoolers. My fresh buzz seemed to be puttin' a new kind of slant on the exhibit, and I jumped from my seat in search of a better angle. Maybe I could find a deeper appreciation here after all, I thought.
Grabbin' Charles' hand we made our way back into the labyrinth of black and white prints. It wasn't longer before the shy, almost too soft to feel brushes of the skin, turned into earnest gropes in the guise of the shadows.
Finally, lettin' impulse – or lust one – win, I found myself wrapped in his arms. Unlike most of the men I find myself spontaneously lockin' lips with from time to time, with Charles, it was different. He took his time to make sure my attention was solely on him, his eyes controllin' mine. Slowly sweepin' a lock of my hair away from my forehead, he lifted my chin with his knuckle and pausin' only a moment, he leaned in to place his warm, soft lips on my own. I hadn't expected him to be so gentle.
I could only hope he didn't realize the tight hold I kept on his neck was in part due to the jello-mush that were my knee-caps. If I let go, I would most assuredly have fallen down.
Soon, our lust-filled flurry had us tossin' from side to side along the panels. I could feel the give behind me and I swear I was tryin' to keep myself from goin' limp and leanin' on them with all my weight.
But it was hard.
Ahem- if you get my drift.
And the moment I realized that, I was putty in his arms. Pressin' against me, I forgot to stand firm and leaned back into the wall. Problem was, it wasn't really a wall. Just a panel. A hangin' partition. No stability what-so-ever as it turns out.
First it was just a clatter. Then a crash. Then a collosol fuckin' mess!
Behind me, Charles whispered, “Oh my God,” as we watched for a second as his brother's masterpiece fell in on itself like a sinkhole had just opened in the center of the gallery floor.
The only tiny reprieve I had at that moment was the fact that most of the lighting had been a part of the exhibit, and seein' how most of that was now crashin' to the ground, Charles and I were cloaked in the shadows.
Divin' back further into a darker corner, I suddenly felt Charles tug on my waist as he pulled me back through a door in the nearby hall.
But not before I caught a glimpse of Kevin and Rachel's horrified expressions as they watched the exhibit fall.
Flippin' on the switch as he quickly shut the door, I realized we were in the men's restroom.
As the shock wore off outside, I could soon hear the gasps and cries of the work wasted and the questions of the how and the who was responsible.
Charles looked half-concerned and half-giddy. I think he may have been enjoyin' his brother's sufferin' just a tad too much.
I must have looked at him like he was a callous jerk or something, because he quickly defended the slight upturn of the corner of his mouth. “I know! It's horrible. It really is. But...oh my God,” he said, startin' to laugh, “Did you see the look on his face? He's been up-staging me since we were in the womb! It's about damn time,” he said laughin' again.
“Well I don't think it's that funny at all!” I protested. “I mean come on! I totally wrecked your brother's show! And I know my friends won't think it's funny at all. I'm sure they already think it was me. Know...it was me.”
I could feel myself being swallowed by a sense of panic. I had to get out of there. I couldn't face them. It was just too humiliatin'. I searched the room for an exit, but there was only one small window.
While Charles was findin' it all too amusin', my head was swimmin' with personal condemnations of disgust and assurances of more bridges to be burned.
How had they put up with me this far? How were they still my friends? I was of little or no character, it was plain to see. I either fucked things out-right, or up. Whichever, it was all fucked.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I had to get out of there!!!
Runnin' over to the window I was more than relieved to find it was unlocked. And even though we were on the second floor, there was a large dumpster just beneath the window. One of the lids was open, the other closed. If I jumped just right, I thought, I bet I could make it.
Charles was eyin' me curiously, seein' that I was devisin' a plan of escape. “I don't know that that's a good idea kid,” he said.
“I'm not a fucking kid okay!” I yelled.
“Jeaux! Jeaux are you in there?”
It was Kevin. Of course. If he didn't see me disappear through the door, as I'd hoped, had he simply guessed that I'd ended up in the men's restroom?
I couldn't face him.
So I jumped.
And that my friends, was the fuckin' straw that broke that god-damned camel's stupid back.
Impulses be what they were up to that point, I had already managed to get myself into quite a mess. But really? Really? I couldn't even manage to control myself long enough to even attempt to plan my leap from a two-story window?
Really?
So...we come full circle. Me, in the dumpster, not on it. At first, glad to have the lumpy garbage bags within to break my fall...but then, as the cheap plastic tore after impact, and I found myself sloshin' in the filth of lord-knew-who, not so glad at all. Not at all.
Slime on my fingers. Bananas in my hair. Tears on my face. And, what felt like, the last shred of my dignity lost in the dark.
Then, to make matters worse, I was suddenly blinded by a light. I was sure it was a cop about to cite me for dumpster divin'...just add that to the ole rap-sheet...but no...
No it was Kevin. And even though I could tell he was mad, he was also havin' a hell of a time not laughin' at me.
“So...I take it we could go without the lecture?”
But sittin' here...
In the bottom of a dumpster...
Covered in moldy coffee grounds, strangers' snot rags, and food scraps...
Well, lets just say it ain't all peaches 'n fuckin' crème topped with the cherry of the day's delight.
Yeah – that's right. You pick up your hand to remove the slimy banana peel from your hair, only to find some egg-white-like goo drippin' from your fingers, bein' of course, oh-so-much scarier than the banana peel could ever hope to be, and tell me how you like it.
Yeah – you try it. Sounds like fun right?
I get, that the box most survive in gets claustrophobic, and the open spaces I live in can make others envious at times. But there's somethin' to be said for the stability of the walls of the box. Predictability? The promise of a plan?
Whatever it is, I bet it's not covered in trash.
But let's go back...
Rachel, the social butterfly that she is, had managed to get us all on the guest list for a new exhibit at the upscale new gallery in the next town. So, we had driven into the big city to attend her not-so-starving-artist-friend's show.
I tried to tell her I shouldn't go. I could see the writin' on the wall, and it didn't look good. But both she and Kevin were so excited, they would hear nothin' of it, and assured me I'd be well looked after. (I wonder sometimes if I should be payin' my friend's for their services.)
I had never been much interested in the soberin' hallways of a quiet museum or gallery. Generally, you're expected to be calm and quiet, inquisitively conjecturin' over the nuances of the art, searchin' for meanin' in hushed whispers or a humblin' silence. Well, I guess I just don't have that kind of class. Or character. Or whatever it is. The last time I had been dragged to one of these things, I had been quickly dragged back out as I couldn't help but continue to test the echo in every corner of the gallery.
Even in consideration of all of this, I went. And I have to be honest, I was impressed. The show was not like that of any kind I had ever seen before. Posters and prints of all sizes hung from panels adorned with bright lights that were constructed into a maze in the center of the showcase. Standing amidst the pop-art and flashing lights, it felt more like being in the center of a busy New York City block, rather than a stuffy, fancy-schmancy gallery.
But, I was still at a loss for conversation past the odd “wow” or “look at that” and soon found myself feelin' more and more like the 3rd wheel as Kevin and Rachel became enmeshed in dialogue much to deep for even my mountin' level of interest.
I had the urge to wander, escape the discussion that was makin' me feel more and more unfit to be there with every philosophical conjecture as to the tone, contrasts, meanin', bla bla de bla bla. I don't even think they noticed at first when I had gone.
Takin' my leave, I managed, with all my good luck and everything, to bump into the artist himself. I couldn't just tell the man I liked his work and be done with it. Oh no.
It wasnt until I was thoroughly embarrassin' myself tryin' to say something oh-so insightful when he finally let me off the hook. Laughin', he stopped me, “It's okay. Really, I just come to these things to support my brother,” and then added (seein' my confused expression) “Oh, sorry, it's easier sometimes to just accept the praise and move on. I'm not the mastermind of this exhibit. Just the meager little brother.”
“Oh I'm sorry!” I laughed too, but mostly in relief. “You look so similar!”
“Well, he's only an hour older than me, but he likes to hold it over my head. We're twins. I'm Charles,” he explained.
“Jeaux. Nice to meet you,” I said extendin' my hand.
He had dark hair, cut short like a marine, with a strong jaw and close-cut goatee.
But his eyes were what I couldn't look away from. They were hypnotizin'.
Like some girls – I've gathered – have that uncanny ability to control guys with the flick of their finger, there are those guys of a similar breed with those eyes. Given a chance, one look can hold you captive and make a slave of you. Those eyes that seem to undress you with every blink, intense and broodin' – no matter the color. Why dear why was I always meetin' men with those eyes?
His hand was warm in my own, soft and lingered a tad longer than was probably necessary.
When he asked if I'd like to join him at the bar for a drink, I only needed to take one look in the direcion of my baby-sitters to see they were still enthralled in conversation. Not missin' me. Of all the things I loved about the new addition to our growin' little gang, the feelin' I had at that moment was not one of them.
“I'd love a drink,” I told him, flashin' one of my best win-em-over smiles.
It wasn't long before Charles and I were gigglin' and flirtin' like a couple of high-schoolers. My fresh buzz seemed to be puttin' a new kind of slant on the exhibit, and I jumped from my seat in search of a better angle. Maybe I could find a deeper appreciation here after all, I thought.
Grabbin' Charles' hand we made our way back into the labyrinth of black and white prints. It wasn't longer before the shy, almost too soft to feel brushes of the skin, turned into earnest gropes in the guise of the shadows.
Finally, lettin' impulse – or lust one – win, I found myself wrapped in his arms. Unlike most of the men I find myself spontaneously lockin' lips with from time to time, with Charles, it was different. He took his time to make sure my attention was solely on him, his eyes controllin' mine. Slowly sweepin' a lock of my hair away from my forehead, he lifted my chin with his knuckle and pausin' only a moment, he leaned in to place his warm, soft lips on my own. I hadn't expected him to be so gentle.
I could only hope he didn't realize the tight hold I kept on his neck was in part due to the jello-mush that were my knee-caps. If I let go, I would most assuredly have fallen down.
Soon, our lust-filled flurry had us tossin' from side to side along the panels. I could feel the give behind me and I swear I was tryin' to keep myself from goin' limp and leanin' on them with all my weight.
But it was hard.
Ahem- if you get my drift.
And the moment I realized that, I was putty in his arms. Pressin' against me, I forgot to stand firm and leaned back into the wall. Problem was, it wasn't really a wall. Just a panel. A hangin' partition. No stability what-so-ever as it turns out.
First it was just a clatter. Then a crash. Then a collosol fuckin' mess!
Behind me, Charles whispered, “Oh my God,” as we watched for a second as his brother's masterpiece fell in on itself like a sinkhole had just opened in the center of the gallery floor.
The only tiny reprieve I had at that moment was the fact that most of the lighting had been a part of the exhibit, and seein' how most of that was now crashin' to the ground, Charles and I were cloaked in the shadows.
Divin' back further into a darker corner, I suddenly felt Charles tug on my waist as he pulled me back through a door in the nearby hall.
But not before I caught a glimpse of Kevin and Rachel's horrified expressions as they watched the exhibit fall.
Flippin' on the switch as he quickly shut the door, I realized we were in the men's restroom.
As the shock wore off outside, I could soon hear the gasps and cries of the work wasted and the questions of the how and the who was responsible.
Charles looked half-concerned and half-giddy. I think he may have been enjoyin' his brother's sufferin' just a tad too much.
I must have looked at him like he was a callous jerk or something, because he quickly defended the slight upturn of the corner of his mouth. “I know! It's horrible. It really is. But...oh my God,” he said, startin' to laugh, “Did you see the look on his face? He's been up-staging me since we were in the womb! It's about damn time,” he said laughin' again.
“Well I don't think it's that funny at all!” I protested. “I mean come on! I totally wrecked your brother's show! And I know my friends won't think it's funny at all. I'm sure they already think it was me. Know...it was me.”
I could feel myself being swallowed by a sense of panic. I had to get out of there. I couldn't face them. It was just too humiliatin'. I searched the room for an exit, but there was only one small window.
While Charles was findin' it all too amusin', my head was swimmin' with personal condemnations of disgust and assurances of more bridges to be burned.
How had they put up with me this far? How were they still my friends? I was of little or no character, it was plain to see. I either fucked things out-right, or up. Whichever, it was all fucked.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I had to get out of there!!!
Runnin' over to the window I was more than relieved to find it was unlocked. And even though we were on the second floor, there was a large dumpster just beneath the window. One of the lids was open, the other closed. If I jumped just right, I thought, I bet I could make it.
Charles was eyin' me curiously, seein' that I was devisin' a plan of escape. “I don't know that that's a good idea kid,” he said.
“I'm not a fucking kid okay!” I yelled.
“Jeaux! Jeaux are you in there?”
It was Kevin. Of course. If he didn't see me disappear through the door, as I'd hoped, had he simply guessed that I'd ended up in the men's restroom?
I couldn't face him.
So I jumped.
And that my friends, was the fuckin' straw that broke that god-damned camel's stupid back.
Impulses be what they were up to that point, I had already managed to get myself into quite a mess. But really? Really? I couldn't even manage to control myself long enough to even attempt to plan my leap from a two-story window?
Really?
So...we come full circle. Me, in the dumpster, not on it. At first, glad to have the lumpy garbage bags within to break my fall...but then, as the cheap plastic tore after impact, and I found myself sloshin' in the filth of lord-knew-who, not so glad at all. Not at all.
Slime on my fingers. Bananas in my hair. Tears on my face. And, what felt like, the last shred of my dignity lost in the dark.
Then, to make matters worse, I was suddenly blinded by a light. I was sure it was a cop about to cite me for dumpster divin'...just add that to the ole rap-sheet...but no...
No it was Kevin. And even though I could tell he was mad, he was also havin' a hell of a time not laughin' at me.
“So...I take it we could go without the lecture?”
31.10.11
Trick or Treat
It's amazin' to me, how a girl who stays in impulse mode can still manage to be the worst kind of procrastinator. But that's me.
Last minute, shop of horrors, and I don't mean the sign on the store.
Wadin' through real life screamin' terrors, covered in not-so-artifical green slime, I was reminded why I never go to malls anymore.
After I dutifully reprimanded one mother who's little devil had decided that not only was my bag his, but that he was willing to lick it to prove his ownership, and then felt the need to scream back into the face of another goblin who had never known there to be any other way to communicate apparently, I was most especially certain that I needed to get out of there!
I don't know how I let Rachel drag me there, but she insisted I needed a “proper” costume. With my new “sexy” kitten outfit already mockin' me from the bottom of my bag, and Rachel's coveted Lady Gaga costume in hand, it was all I could do not to run for the door.
If a haunted house was in my future, I would be well prepared, there couldn't by another place any scarier I was sure.
I could see the light shinin' through the glass doors at the end of the large hall and I swear I heard angels.
And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse...I was more-than-pleasantly surprised.
Thriller!!!!!
That all too familiar beat of MJ's pop-o-licious theme song for all things Halloween, blared though the cross-roads of the mall.
Rachel and I both stopped to turn around and see what was goin' on. People from every direction, dropped coats and bags and converged together.
“What's goin' on?” I asked Rachel.
“Flash mob,” she grinned, “Damn I've always wanted to do that.”
“What's a flash mob? What're they gonna do?” I asked again.
Rachel looked at me as though I had suddenly turned green and sprouted horns and warts from my head.
“Wow, I forget you don't do the “techy” stuff,” Rachel said mockin'ly, utilizin' the word I so often chose to describe the bane of my existence that is technological devices.
“They're going to dance – you know, Thriller,” she explained further, “They all planned and probably practiced together. A lot of these go viral,” she stopped, rollin' her eyes, knowin' I'd also require an explanation of what “goin' viral” meant.
So I skipped it, and latched onto the very thing that had intrigued me most. “I know the Thriller dance,” I grinned.
I didn't even need the little nudge of added support from Rachel before I was skippin' forward to find my place in line.
So, whoever thought of the whole "flash mob" thing is a freakin' genius! For somebody that loves a good impulse, that was awesome! Best shit ever!
They were well prepared and even with an unexpected guest, we finished the song without a glitch. I hadn't done the whole dance in years! But, much like ridin' a bike, it came back to me with zero difficulty. Tryin' to maintain a “zombie face” through my cheek-to-cheek grin was useless though.
A really big crowd circled us, all takin' pictures and video clips with their phones (which really deserve a better name I think, seein as how the phone is the tiniest part of their capabilities).
After so many flashes, however, I thought I'd go blind. I still managed to fumble my way back to Rachel, laughin' and smilin' so hard my cheeks hurt.
“That was epic,” Rachel said smilin', even though I think she mighta been a tad jealous.
“That was fuckin' awesome!” I exclaimed in total agreement.
We grabbed our stuff and headed for the door. Only when we had gone through the doors onto the top floor of the parkin' garage did we realize that we in fact needed to be on the bottom floor.
We walked to the elevator, but a big “Out of Order” sign was posted on the door.
“Stairs it is then,” Rachel said.
I shuddered and followed behind her to the door of the stairwell. “I hate parkin' garages. But I hate stair-wells more.”
“Oh don't be such a scaredy-cat. You've seen too many movies.”
But still sensin' my hesitancy she couldn't resist the urge to turn shoutin' “BOO” every once in a while.
However ridiculous and juvenile, it still made me jump...every time.
Finally on the first floor, I burst through the door in search of air as though the stairwell had lacked oxygen.
Rachel laughed behind me, but I didn't care. I don't care who you are, parking' garages are creepy.
But then, I had to bend to see under the car once we had neared the vehicle – just to make sure some Achilles-tendon-slasher wasn't lurkin' beneath.
“You are something else!” Rachel laughed at me again. “You'll jump from a cliff with no fear, but an empty parking garage has you completely undone. That's hilarious.”
She could see the not-so-hilarious expression on my face, as I grew irritated with her teasin' me. She tried to soothe my scorn, sayin' sweetly, “There's nothing to be scared of okay? Nobody's here.”
Yeah...timin' right?
It was like a horror movie, and somebody just said “Be right back.”
I heard a scream.
I grabbed Rachel's arm, my eyes widenin'.
“Oh get off it girl! It's Halloween. Just some kids goofin' off.”
Then we heard a thud, and the crash of glass, and another blood-curdlin' scream.
“That's no joke Rachel!”
Runnin' in the direction of the screamin', Rachel raced behind me, catchin' me at the end of the cement partition.
Whatever is was had sounded like it was just around the corner.
“Stop! You wanna get yourself killled?”
Why was everyone always askin' me that?
“I thought you said it was just a prank anyway, and if I'm gonna get myself hurt, then call the cops! Because somebody else already is!”
“No cops, I'm sure it's just a joke. Just let me check it out. At least I can choose to run-away if need be.”
It made a reasonable amount of sense, so she took the lead.
Peerin' around the corner, she whispered back, “I don't see anything. Just some kids I bet...see?”
A clatter of keys caught her attention, but made me wish I could melt into the stone behind me.
“What's that?” she muttered lookin' more curious.
Tentatively, she signaled for me to “stay” (yeah, like that'd be a problem) and took a few more steps around to the other side of the wall.
“See anything?” I finally whispered suddenly feelin' the undeniably strong urge to pee – the guaranteed spoiler of a good game of Hide and Seek.
“No...wait...hold on,” she said trailin' off.
Just when I was goin' to hop around and tell her I had to find a bathroom, cowardice be damned, I heard another scream. And just when I was more than happy to believe it to be good-natured Halloween fun, the scream took on a whole new horrible connotation.
It was Rachel.
It was like a dream. I couldn't make my legs move fast enough.
All I saw when I rounded the corner was the shiny black heels on Rachel's listless legs bein' dragged between a row of cars.
“Rachel!” I screamed. “Rachel!”
Runnin' to where I saw her vanish, half-expectin' to find some predator slashin' my new friend into pieces, I found nothin'.
I stopped walkin' or breathin', tryin' my damnedest to hear somethin'...anything. But I couldn't hear anything outside of the poundin' in my ears. Where was she?
Finally, I heard a faint sloppin' sound, like someone was walkin' through mud, or stirrin' a chunky stew.
Carefully, I made my way towards the noise.
At the end of the row, I took a deep breath, before bracin' myself and peerin' around the rear of the last car.
All attempts at silence then vanished.
I didn't even know I could scream that loud.
There was a body on the ground, lyin' in a pool of its own blood, entrails strewn about as though its perpetrator had invented his own sadistic jig-saw game.
Then, there was Rachel. Unconscious, she lie limp in the lap of the lunatic.
“Get away from her!” I yelled.
As though I weren't even there, the masked man raised his knife above his head, plungin' it into Rachel's stomach. A river of blood surged from the wound, dribblin' down her side.
I think I screamed again.
He pulled the knife from her - another surge of blood fillin' her belly and findin' the floor - and then pushed her off of him.
My feet were as solid of lead weights. My eyes could not NOT see what was happenin' before me.
He rose slowly, but finally he spoke. “You're next sweetheart,” he said then, his voice garbled by somethin', soundin' like Darth Vader.
He took two steps forward before I reached down and grabbed my heel off my foot. I held it high, bein the only weapon I had. But the shiny blade of his knife, dulled by the blood drippin' from its tip, was certainly more anxiety provokin' than I'm sure my heel was.
He laughed. He laughed at me!
Wait...Wait a minute, I thought. I know that laugh. I know that laugh even with that stupid device attached to it!
Seein' that I'd registered his identity, the lunatic finally removed his mask.
Kevin.
“Kevin!” I yelled, raisin' my heel ready to rush him.
Then I heard Rachel laughin'.
Now they were both laughin' at me. And I was also now noticin' that the 4th person in our morbid little party was of the plastic variety.
“Happy Halloween!” they chimed together, Rachel lickin' the “blood” from her finger, and Kevin slappin' the disappearin' blade against his leg.
“I'm goin' to kill the both of you!”
“Not with that you're not,” Kevin chuckled, motionin' toward my “weapon.”
I was seethin'. And I was very near peein' my pants. And the whole thing reeked of Kevin.
“Was that you screamin'? They sounded so real!”
Grinnin', he replied, “There's an App for that.”
Lungin' at him with my shoe, ready to deliver a good sisterly beatin', I asked, “Oh yeah? Well is there an app that'll save you from me?”
Happy Halloween!
Last minute, shop of horrors, and I don't mean the sign on the store.
Wadin' through real life screamin' terrors, covered in not-so-artifical green slime, I was reminded why I never go to malls anymore.
After I dutifully reprimanded one mother who's little devil had decided that not only was my bag his, but that he was willing to lick it to prove his ownership, and then felt the need to scream back into the face of another goblin who had never known there to be any other way to communicate apparently, I was most especially certain that I needed to get out of there!
I don't know how I let Rachel drag me there, but she insisted I needed a “proper” costume. With my new “sexy” kitten outfit already mockin' me from the bottom of my bag, and Rachel's coveted Lady Gaga costume in hand, it was all I could do not to run for the door.
If a haunted house was in my future, I would be well prepared, there couldn't by another place any scarier I was sure.
I could see the light shinin' through the glass doors at the end of the large hall and I swear I heard angels.
And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse...I was more-than-pleasantly surprised.
Thriller!!!!!
That all too familiar beat of MJ's pop-o-licious theme song for all things Halloween, blared though the cross-roads of the mall.
Rachel and I both stopped to turn around and see what was goin' on. People from every direction, dropped coats and bags and converged together.
“What's goin' on?” I asked Rachel.
“Flash mob,” she grinned, “Damn I've always wanted to do that.”
“What's a flash mob? What're they gonna do?” I asked again.
Rachel looked at me as though I had suddenly turned green and sprouted horns and warts from my head.
“Wow, I forget you don't do the “techy” stuff,” Rachel said mockin'ly, utilizin' the word I so often chose to describe the bane of my existence that is technological devices.
“They're going to dance – you know, Thriller,” she explained further, “They all planned and probably practiced together. A lot of these go viral,” she stopped, rollin' her eyes, knowin' I'd also require an explanation of what “goin' viral” meant.
So I skipped it, and latched onto the very thing that had intrigued me most. “I know the Thriller dance,” I grinned.
I didn't even need the little nudge of added support from Rachel before I was skippin' forward to find my place in line.
So, whoever thought of the whole "flash mob" thing is a freakin' genius! For somebody that loves a good impulse, that was awesome! Best shit ever!
They were well prepared and even with an unexpected guest, we finished the song without a glitch. I hadn't done the whole dance in years! But, much like ridin' a bike, it came back to me with zero difficulty. Tryin' to maintain a “zombie face” through my cheek-to-cheek grin was useless though.
A really big crowd circled us, all takin' pictures and video clips with their phones (which really deserve a better name I think, seein as how the phone is the tiniest part of their capabilities).
After so many flashes, however, I thought I'd go blind. I still managed to fumble my way back to Rachel, laughin' and smilin' so hard my cheeks hurt.
“That was epic,” Rachel said smilin', even though I think she mighta been a tad jealous.
“That was fuckin' awesome!” I exclaimed in total agreement.
We grabbed our stuff and headed for the door. Only when we had gone through the doors onto the top floor of the parkin' garage did we realize that we in fact needed to be on the bottom floor.
We walked to the elevator, but a big “Out of Order” sign was posted on the door.
“Stairs it is then,” Rachel said.
I shuddered and followed behind her to the door of the stairwell. “I hate parkin' garages. But I hate stair-wells more.”
“Oh don't be such a scaredy-cat. You've seen too many movies.”
But still sensin' my hesitancy she couldn't resist the urge to turn shoutin' “BOO” every once in a while.
However ridiculous and juvenile, it still made me jump...every time.
Finally on the first floor, I burst through the door in search of air as though the stairwell had lacked oxygen.
Rachel laughed behind me, but I didn't care. I don't care who you are, parking' garages are creepy.
But then, I had to bend to see under the car once we had neared the vehicle – just to make sure some Achilles-tendon-slasher wasn't lurkin' beneath.
“You are something else!” Rachel laughed at me again. “You'll jump from a cliff with no fear, but an empty parking garage has you completely undone. That's hilarious.”
She could see the not-so-hilarious expression on my face, as I grew irritated with her teasin' me. She tried to soothe my scorn, sayin' sweetly, “There's nothing to be scared of okay? Nobody's here.”
Yeah...timin' right?
It was like a horror movie, and somebody just said “Be right back.”
I heard a scream.
I grabbed Rachel's arm, my eyes widenin'.
“Oh get off it girl! It's Halloween. Just some kids goofin' off.”
Then we heard a thud, and the crash of glass, and another blood-curdlin' scream.
“That's no joke Rachel!”
Runnin' in the direction of the screamin', Rachel raced behind me, catchin' me at the end of the cement partition.
Whatever is was had sounded like it was just around the corner.
“Stop! You wanna get yourself killled?”
Why was everyone always askin' me that?
“I thought you said it was just a prank anyway, and if I'm gonna get myself hurt, then call the cops! Because somebody else already is!”
“No cops, I'm sure it's just a joke. Just let me check it out. At least I can choose to run-away if need be.”
It made a reasonable amount of sense, so she took the lead.
Peerin' around the corner, she whispered back, “I don't see anything. Just some kids I bet...see?”
A clatter of keys caught her attention, but made me wish I could melt into the stone behind me.
“What's that?” she muttered lookin' more curious.
Tentatively, she signaled for me to “stay” (yeah, like that'd be a problem) and took a few more steps around to the other side of the wall.
“See anything?” I finally whispered suddenly feelin' the undeniably strong urge to pee – the guaranteed spoiler of a good game of Hide and Seek.
“No...wait...hold on,” she said trailin' off.
Just when I was goin' to hop around and tell her I had to find a bathroom, cowardice be damned, I heard another scream. And just when I was more than happy to believe it to be good-natured Halloween fun, the scream took on a whole new horrible connotation.
It was Rachel.
It was like a dream. I couldn't make my legs move fast enough.
All I saw when I rounded the corner was the shiny black heels on Rachel's listless legs bein' dragged between a row of cars.
“Rachel!” I screamed. “Rachel!”
Runnin' to where I saw her vanish, half-expectin' to find some predator slashin' my new friend into pieces, I found nothin'.
I stopped walkin' or breathin', tryin' my damnedest to hear somethin'...anything. But I couldn't hear anything outside of the poundin' in my ears. Where was she?
Finally, I heard a faint sloppin' sound, like someone was walkin' through mud, or stirrin' a chunky stew.
Carefully, I made my way towards the noise.
At the end of the row, I took a deep breath, before bracin' myself and peerin' around the rear of the last car.
All attempts at silence then vanished.
I didn't even know I could scream that loud.
There was a body on the ground, lyin' in a pool of its own blood, entrails strewn about as though its perpetrator had invented his own sadistic jig-saw game.
Then, there was Rachel. Unconscious, she lie limp in the lap of the lunatic.
“Get away from her!” I yelled.
As though I weren't even there, the masked man raised his knife above his head, plungin' it into Rachel's stomach. A river of blood surged from the wound, dribblin' down her side.
I think I screamed again.
He pulled the knife from her - another surge of blood fillin' her belly and findin' the floor - and then pushed her off of him.
My feet were as solid of lead weights. My eyes could not NOT see what was happenin' before me.
He rose slowly, but finally he spoke. “You're next sweetheart,” he said then, his voice garbled by somethin', soundin' like Darth Vader.
He took two steps forward before I reached down and grabbed my heel off my foot. I held it high, bein the only weapon I had. But the shiny blade of his knife, dulled by the blood drippin' from its tip, was certainly more anxiety provokin' than I'm sure my heel was.
He laughed. He laughed at me!
Wait...Wait a minute, I thought. I know that laugh. I know that laugh even with that stupid device attached to it!
Seein' that I'd registered his identity, the lunatic finally removed his mask.
Kevin.
“Kevin!” I yelled, raisin' my heel ready to rush him.
Then I heard Rachel laughin'.
Now they were both laughin' at me. And I was also now noticin' that the 4th person in our morbid little party was of the plastic variety.
“Happy Halloween!” they chimed together, Rachel lickin' the “blood” from her finger, and Kevin slappin' the disappearin' blade against his leg.
“I'm goin' to kill the both of you!”
“Not with that you're not,” Kevin chuckled, motionin' toward my “weapon.”
I was seethin'. And I was very near peein' my pants. And the whole thing reeked of Kevin.
“Was that you screamin'? They sounded so real!”
Grinnin', he replied, “There's an App for that.”
Lungin' at him with my shoe, ready to deliver a good sisterly beatin', I asked, “Oh yeah? Well is there an app that'll save you from me?”
Happy Halloween!
24.10.11
Is three a crowd?
I'll just go ahead and tell you now, that although you got a little peek into the small window of wisdom, I – yes, surprisingly – do have, this week's morsel isn't inlaid with one of those neat little gems. All pretty and shinin' and poignant. Nope, this week, was more of ....well...one “what the fuck” moment after another. Yep, that's pretty much the only thing that could describe it. Thank-you Mr. F-bomb for being increasingly versatile and still totally explicit.
The week before had weighed pretty heavily on all of us, and Kevin had been lost in retrospection for days. After draggin' him practically kickin' and screamin' to the bar (well, to the car, he had to drive of course – I don't think explanation is required for the many reasons as to which it's best I NOT operate a vehicle) he appeared to be shakin' his “funk.”
We had just finished our second round when a sudden outburst of shouts, applause, “hooraws,” and guffaws made me turn, wonderin' where the fight was.
Then, I heard an almost shrill voice sing-song, “She's ba-ack.”
The 3rd party reference to herself made Kevin whirl around in his bar stool, his interests now fully piqued, the voice more than familiar.
I tried to search the crowd where he searched, lookin' for a face to go with the voice, when the waves parted. And there she was, walkin' towards us, slapping asses, fivin' “hi's,” and kissin' cheeks the whole way. She had a guy in tow behind her, but he didn't look to be quite as happy to see everyone as she was.
She was absolutely beautiful, with chiseled cheekbones, large round eyes, and a magnanimous grin. I could practically see the light beamin' forth from her.
I think Kevin stopped breathin'. Seriously.
And if I'd thought she'd sounded shrill in her excited entrance before, I knew now that I was much to quick to define things. She squealed so high and so loud when she saw Kevin, I had to turn to make sure the liquor bottles linin' the bar didn't spontaneously combust.
Leavin' her “man” standin' behind her, she ran to Kevin, arms raised, and jumped into his, simultaneously wrappin' her legs around his waist. I think I'm pretty safe in definin' that as a bear-hug, if I ever saw one.
They clung to one another just long enough to make it totally awkward for the other guy and myself, obviously bein' placed on “standby” for the moment.
She was so close to his face, I thought she'd kiss him, but only gushed “Oh my God” and “Where've you been?” and then there was some little banter in a bad accent that was completely beyond me and obviously some kind of inside joke between the two of them.
Her legs were still wrapped around him as though that were the position in which all their conversations took place. I noticed her leather boots (immediately wantin' a pair), envied her muscular golden calfs and thighs, and....hmmm. What was that?
Brilliant colors swirled and peaked from the cuff of her shorts on the side of her thigh.
Well, you know me.
I reach on over and lifted her shorts a hair, so I could see the tattoo, then more, and more...a little more. Finally, I'm practically grabbin' her ass in order to get a better view.
It was a Phoenix in flight, and it almost looked to be on fire. The colors were so bright, and it looked as though the design around it covered the entirety of her hip. It was by far one of the prettiest tattoos I'd ever seen.
“That's amazing!” I blurted out, only then (I think) makin' her realize that it wasn't Kevin feelin' her up.
She turned to me, sliding off Kevin at the same time, but she didn't look mad, or surprised.
“Like what you see?” she asked, soundin' and lookin' more and more like a 3D version of Jessica Rabbit every second. I mean, really, slap a red-split dress on the girl, and we'd be done.
I didn't know if I was about to be hissed at or what when she leaned in closer. Maybe whisper a warnin' of ownership or some such thing as I myself had been prone to do? I guess that's what I was expectin'. I was not expectin' to suddenly feel her soft Angelina Jolie-ain't-got-nothin'-on-me lips press against mine.
It was quick – nothin' more than a peck really, and nothin' I hadn't impulsivley tried myself. But I coulnd't help the sudden reel of slide-show shots of circumstance run though my mind.
Obviously, Kevin and this girl had history. Kevin and I had, well, a newish history. And who was this girl? Pullin' a Jeaux-Jeaux? Tryin' to start a “history” with me? I was gettin' more and more confused by the minute.
Laughin', she pulled back, exclaimin' with a wink my way, “Well, Kevin, you finally got you an awful pretty one.”
“This is my friend,” he seemed to emphasize, “Jeaux.”
“I'm Rachel,” she said, “Kevin and me, we go way back.”
“I see that,” I said tryin' to sound polite, but totally drawin' a blank as to what to say. She just kissed me. Then kept lookin' at Kevin with that he's-the-one-who-got-away dreamy haze in her eyes. And I'll be honest, I did not like Kevin's slightly too quick reassurance that I was just a friend. Geez, he may as well have spelled it out for her. We're friends. Okay. We got it.
“Jeaux, Rachel here has a little something in common with you. Well, kind of,” he grinned teasingly at Rachel. “While you can't help yourself, Rachel here chooses to live in constant search of the shock factor. While you just tend to shock people as an after-effect of your intent, Rachel here goes in trying to make 'em squirm.”
“God, you make me sound like the devil Kevin! I'm not that bad!” she snapped.
And I did too. I snapped to the fact that, duh!, no wonder he'd been so acceptin' of me. He'd had a me before. I didn't quite like it.
“Really, I'm not that bad!” she insisted, turnin' her attentions on me. “But what's he talkin' about with you?”
“I don't have any impulse control. Brain injury. Doctor's don't really know exactly what to make of it," I practically yelled over the music, "I'm just, umm, impulsive.”
“And you can't control it? You think and you do? That kind of thing?” she asked, soundin' very intrigued.
“If it's at the fore-front of my mind...for the most part, yeah.”
“Ohhh, I gotta see this,” she cooed, a sly grin formin' on her face.
Kevin jumped in then, “Nooo. No. No. No. I already see those wicked little wheels turning.”
“What?” she gasped, as though he'd truly hurt her feelings.
“Nu-uh. No. You're not gonna use her as your little play-thing.”
Who said I would be used? I thought.
“Oh come on now! That's just not true. I am not that bad! I live to love baby and I just love to live!” she said, chucklin' again.
But I wasn't as amused. “You make me sound like I'm some kid Kevin,” I said, my irritation showin' all over my face I'm sure.
Rachel laughed a boomin' sound that shook her chest. Throwin' her arm around my shoulders, she exlcaimed, “Why I do believe I've just found my new best friend.”
I couldn't help it. Somethin' about her just made you want to be happy. Light. Fun. I smiled.
Kevin just shook his head at us. He looked to be lost somewhere between amused intrigue, and terrified concern.
“Where'd your guy go Rach?”
She turned barely lookin' and shrugged her shoulders, barely enunciatin', “I dunno.”
“I'm right here,” he growled, startlin' all of us. Buried in the camouflage of jackets at the bar, we hadn't seen him, and honestly, I'd forgotten all about him.
“Damn Rachel! I mean you said we were going somewhere cool. Fun. This place is neither of those things. A dirty fuckin' whole in the wall. I am done with this whole Texas-hillbilly-hippie thing. We are leaving. Now.”
Okay, I'll grant the guy the fact that he'd been totally ignored since he'd gotten there, but damn!
Before Rachel or I could even see it comin' the guy went from standin' beside the bar, to lyin' beneath it, totally unconscious. “Billy, can you haul this jackass outta here please? Thanks,” Kevin shouted to the bouncer at the door.
Kevin gave his fist a good shake, and then shook his head at Rachel, “Really Rach? This guy?”
She just shrugged her shoulders again, but I figured I knew exactly all he'd been good for.
As Kevin walked back to his bar-stool, he was still shakin' his head, and gruntin' about us “Damn broads.” But we both heard him mutter “Must be rubbing off on me.”
In perfect unison, Rachel and I chimed, “Good!”
I smiled again. Maybe we could be friends after all. I wasn't a baby. Kevin didn't need to look after me all the time. I don't need a care-taker.
Do I?
The week before had weighed pretty heavily on all of us, and Kevin had been lost in retrospection for days. After draggin' him practically kickin' and screamin' to the bar (well, to the car, he had to drive of course – I don't think explanation is required for the many reasons as to which it's best I NOT operate a vehicle) he appeared to be shakin' his “funk.”
We had just finished our second round when a sudden outburst of shouts, applause, “hooraws,” and guffaws made me turn, wonderin' where the fight was.
Then, I heard an almost shrill voice sing-song, “She's ba-ack.”
The 3rd party reference to herself made Kevin whirl around in his bar stool, his interests now fully piqued, the voice more than familiar.
I tried to search the crowd where he searched, lookin' for a face to go with the voice, when the waves parted. And there she was, walkin' towards us, slapping asses, fivin' “hi's,” and kissin' cheeks the whole way. She had a guy in tow behind her, but he didn't look to be quite as happy to see everyone as she was.
She was absolutely beautiful, with chiseled cheekbones, large round eyes, and a magnanimous grin. I could practically see the light beamin' forth from her.
I think Kevin stopped breathin'. Seriously.
And if I'd thought she'd sounded shrill in her excited entrance before, I knew now that I was much to quick to define things. She squealed so high and so loud when she saw Kevin, I had to turn to make sure the liquor bottles linin' the bar didn't spontaneously combust.
Leavin' her “man” standin' behind her, she ran to Kevin, arms raised, and jumped into his, simultaneously wrappin' her legs around his waist. I think I'm pretty safe in definin' that as a bear-hug, if I ever saw one.
They clung to one another just long enough to make it totally awkward for the other guy and myself, obviously bein' placed on “standby” for the moment.
She was so close to his face, I thought she'd kiss him, but only gushed “Oh my God” and “Where've you been?” and then there was some little banter in a bad accent that was completely beyond me and obviously some kind of inside joke between the two of them.
Her legs were still wrapped around him as though that were the position in which all their conversations took place. I noticed her leather boots (immediately wantin' a pair), envied her muscular golden calfs and thighs, and....hmmm. What was that?
Brilliant colors swirled and peaked from the cuff of her shorts on the side of her thigh.
Well, you know me.
I reach on over and lifted her shorts a hair, so I could see the tattoo, then more, and more...a little more. Finally, I'm practically grabbin' her ass in order to get a better view.
It was a Phoenix in flight, and it almost looked to be on fire. The colors were so bright, and it looked as though the design around it covered the entirety of her hip. It was by far one of the prettiest tattoos I'd ever seen.
“That's amazing!” I blurted out, only then (I think) makin' her realize that it wasn't Kevin feelin' her up.
She turned to me, sliding off Kevin at the same time, but she didn't look mad, or surprised.
“Like what you see?” she asked, soundin' and lookin' more and more like a 3D version of Jessica Rabbit every second. I mean, really, slap a red-split dress on the girl, and we'd be done.
I didn't know if I was about to be hissed at or what when she leaned in closer. Maybe whisper a warnin' of ownership or some such thing as I myself had been prone to do? I guess that's what I was expectin'. I was not expectin' to suddenly feel her soft Angelina Jolie-ain't-got-nothin'-on-me lips press against mine.
It was quick – nothin' more than a peck really, and nothin' I hadn't impulsivley tried myself. But I coulnd't help the sudden reel of slide-show shots of circumstance run though my mind.
Obviously, Kevin and this girl had history. Kevin and I had, well, a newish history. And who was this girl? Pullin' a Jeaux-Jeaux? Tryin' to start a “history” with me? I was gettin' more and more confused by the minute.
Laughin', she pulled back, exclaimin' with a wink my way, “Well, Kevin, you finally got you an awful pretty one.”
“This is my friend,” he seemed to emphasize, “Jeaux.”
“I'm Rachel,” she said, “Kevin and me, we go way back.”
“I see that,” I said tryin' to sound polite, but totally drawin' a blank as to what to say. She just kissed me. Then kept lookin' at Kevin with that he's-the-one-who-got-away dreamy haze in her eyes. And I'll be honest, I did not like Kevin's slightly too quick reassurance that I was just a friend. Geez, he may as well have spelled it out for her. We're friends. Okay. We got it.
“Jeaux, Rachel here has a little something in common with you. Well, kind of,” he grinned teasingly at Rachel. “While you can't help yourself, Rachel here chooses to live in constant search of the shock factor. While you just tend to shock people as an after-effect of your intent, Rachel here goes in trying to make 'em squirm.”
“God, you make me sound like the devil Kevin! I'm not that bad!” she snapped.
And I did too. I snapped to the fact that, duh!, no wonder he'd been so acceptin' of me. He'd had a me before. I didn't quite like it.
“Really, I'm not that bad!” she insisted, turnin' her attentions on me. “But what's he talkin' about with you?”
“I don't have any impulse control. Brain injury. Doctor's don't really know exactly what to make of it," I practically yelled over the music, "I'm just, umm, impulsive.”
“And you can't control it? You think and you do? That kind of thing?” she asked, soundin' very intrigued.
“If it's at the fore-front of my mind...for the most part, yeah.”
“Ohhh, I gotta see this,” she cooed, a sly grin formin' on her face.
Kevin jumped in then, “Nooo. No. No. No. I already see those wicked little wheels turning.”
“What?” she gasped, as though he'd truly hurt her feelings.
“Nu-uh. No. You're not gonna use her as your little play-thing.”
Who said I would be used? I thought.
“Oh come on now! That's just not true. I am not that bad! I live to love baby and I just love to live!” she said, chucklin' again.
But I wasn't as amused. “You make me sound like I'm some kid Kevin,” I said, my irritation showin' all over my face I'm sure.
Rachel laughed a boomin' sound that shook her chest. Throwin' her arm around my shoulders, she exlcaimed, “Why I do believe I've just found my new best friend.”
I couldn't help it. Somethin' about her just made you want to be happy. Light. Fun. I smiled.
Kevin just shook his head at us. He looked to be lost somewhere between amused intrigue, and terrified concern.
“Where'd your guy go Rach?”
She turned barely lookin' and shrugged her shoulders, barely enunciatin', “I dunno.”
“I'm right here,” he growled, startlin' all of us. Buried in the camouflage of jackets at the bar, we hadn't seen him, and honestly, I'd forgotten all about him.
“Damn Rachel! I mean you said we were going somewhere cool. Fun. This place is neither of those things. A dirty fuckin' whole in the wall. I am done with this whole Texas-hillbilly-hippie thing. We are leaving. Now.”
Okay, I'll grant the guy the fact that he'd been totally ignored since he'd gotten there, but damn!
Before Rachel or I could even see it comin' the guy went from standin' beside the bar, to lyin' beneath it, totally unconscious. “Billy, can you haul this jackass outta here please? Thanks,” Kevin shouted to the bouncer at the door.
Kevin gave his fist a good shake, and then shook his head at Rachel, “Really Rach? This guy?”
She just shrugged her shoulders again, but I figured I knew exactly all he'd been good for.
As Kevin walked back to his bar-stool, he was still shakin' his head, and gruntin' about us “Damn broads.” But we both heard him mutter “Must be rubbing off on me.”
In perfect unison, Rachel and I chimed, “Good!”
I smiled again. Maybe we could be friends after all. I wasn't a baby. Kevin didn't need to look after me all the time. I don't need a care-taker.
Do I?
17.10.11
Doin' Somethin' Right
Have you ever wanted to do or say somethin', but stopped yourself short – weighed your rationale on a pendulum of impulse vs. instinct?
It was only a few days ago that, had I the capacity, I would have stopped to ask myself such a question.
I had yet to explore the entirety of our small community and its even more rural out-lands, and convinced Kevin to take me on a hike. He had mentioned a spot that overlooked the water in the bay, where the waves crashed against walls of stone rather than the typical sandy shores of the more popular beaches.
Though the walk to the summit was fairly easy, I found myself breathless at its peak.
The view was unlike any other in the area that I had seen. Had I been wearin' a Victorian gown or some other flowy dress (rather than my hikin' boots and favorite pair of roughed-up jeans) I would have felt like the heroine from some Harlequin romance novel – pitchin' my woes to the wind atop the bluff as my hair and petticoat flowed around me.
But I was not that pithy character. My emotions, needs, wants, and means of execution whirled and changed as violently as the water churned below us.
Kevin knows me well enough by now. He says I get a look in my eyes when I'm about to do something impulsive (that is when it's not a completely knee-jerk reaction from my flip lip or need to touch some wonderfully decorative body art).
He started to growl before I even realized my feet movin' backward.
“Jeaux, don't.”
“Don't do what?” I asked innocently.
But before I could hear his response, my legs were pumpin' below me. Takin' one final leap at the edge, I flew off the cliff.
An instinctive scream sprang from my chest when my body felt that initial shock of free-fall. Straight like a pencil, I crossed my arms over my chest just as my feet sliced the water.
The warm Gulf enveloped my senses as I let the current bring me back to the surface.
“Whew!” I screamed throwin' my arms up in triumph (or maybe in defiance?), and searchin' for Kevin on the hill.
I expected to hear him chastisin' me from the cliff but when I finally saw him he wasn't even lookin' at me.
It all happened so fast.
I heard the squeal of tires behind me; then the first crash. Spinnin' around in the water, I saw what Kevin's eyes were locked on. A small SUV-type car was careenin' along the side-rail of the coastal highway on the adjacent side of the bay.
Stunned, I watched as the car jerked again, only to pitch and grind as it came hurling off the pavement to somersault to a stop a few hundred yards away.
I could see Kevin runnin' as my instincts followed suit, my arms propellin' at my sides through the waves with all the fury I could muster.
By the time I made it to the other side of the small enclave, Kevin had made his way around as well, but was still a few paces behind me when I came runnin' out and onto the beach. We came upon the smashed car before its wheels had stopped spinnin' in the air.
I don't know if the people saw us runnin' or managed to see the wreck from their vantage, but there were a few makin' their way towards us from the beach. Kevin paused to yell for one of them to call 911.
That's when I smelled it. Gas.
“Kevin!” I screamed, interruptin' him. “Kevin! Gas!”
He stopped then, liftin' his nose to inhale the distinct odor.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his eyes scowlin'. “Jeaux, the police will be here soon. They'll probably need the jaws-of-life to get them out anyways. Let's just wait a minute, okay, it's too dangerous!” he implored, holdin' my bicep as though to keep me in place.
But I wasn't listenin'.
.
A cry. All I could hear was a baby's cry.
And there was only one place it could be comin' from. I jerked away from Kevin and went runnin' for the car. Even given his dissent, I knew he was right behind me.
The side doors of the car were inaccessible being smashed on one side and buried on the other. The back window, however, was clear of obstructions, and the window itself was already shattered.
I hadn't even noticed the added weight of my soggy clothes until I lifted my boot to kick-out the sheet of shatter-proof glass. Kevin, was of course, right by my side, quickly helpin' me to move it out of the way.
I took quick stock of the passengers. It looked to be a typical family of four: Dad in the driver seat and Mom in the passenger side; the man looked to be totally unconscious, but his wife was on the brink, moaning and muttering incoherently; (I was much more concerned about the kids in the back) the toddler, who's crying had turned to incessant screams was nearly completely upside down, but still locked-in tight to his car-seat; his brother, whom I assumed to be somewhere around 10, was unconscious and hung from his seat-belt – his arms danglin' limply in front of him.
Squeezin' my upper half through the opening, I carefully undid the buckles of the car-seat, trying desperately not to drop the baby on his head in my awkward position.
From the inside of the vehicle, the fumes were worse than ever.
Once I had the tearful toddler in my arms, I pulled him free from the car, handin' him over to Kevin. Like an assembly line, the campers filed behind Kevin; a woman at the end takin' the baby away from the scene and noxious fumes.
Next, the older child. The mother was moanin' somethin' (I think for her babies) and I did my best to soothe her with hushed promises of their rescue.
The boy was too big and the sayin' “dead weight” brought with it a whole new morbid and practical meanin'. It was all I could do to lift the boy's limp frame through the window to Kevin's more able arms. Again, he too was hefted along to the next person in line who took him to safety.
“Jeaux,” Kevin commanded, “Jeaux, that's enough. You're going to get yourself killed! We've done all we can do.”
“No!” I shouted, “You've done all you will do! Not can! I'm not going to save those babies' lives just to rip away their only meanin' at the same time!”
“Jeaux, you haven't done anything but rescue those kids! Don't be stupid!”
But the smell of the gas was growin' stronger. And I could hear no sirens.
I heard the mom moan again then, and jerked away from Kevin once more, back into the wreckage.
She didn't seem to be stuck, but I couldn't get the god-damned seat-belt undone.
“I need your knife Kevin!” I shouted, knowin' he always kept one on him.
“Jeaux!” He yelled back rebukingly.
“Your fucking knife Kevin! Now!”
When I'd finally sawed through the cloth, she was at least lucid enough to obey my commands.
Painstakin'ly, I managed to lean her against me long enough to heave her body into the back-seat where Kevin and the last camper (the man who'd dialed 911) helped to hoist her out of the window.
When they tried to half-walk, half-carry the woman from the wreck, she turned back to see the car and would have fallen to her knees were it not for the man by her side.
I could only assume seein' the twisted heap of metal where her husband was still pinned was what haunted her as she cried out his name.
Impulse? Instinct? At some point, the lines become mottled.
I could hear Kevin cursin' me and shoutin' for me to get out of the “god-damned car.”
Tryin' to find a secure position for my feet, I quickly assessed the situation and soon growled my indignation. There was no fuckin' way I could get him out. The steerin' wheel had him pinned too tight.
Stickin' my head out the window, I glared past the sun into Kevin's very unamused eyes.
Quickly explainin' my dilemma to him, he shouted, “Get out of there now!”
“No! I can't just leave him!”
“Do you want to get yourself blown up? Are you going to let this thing kill you?”
My thing, being my impulse control, just to be clear.
“This thing,” I sneered, “Has done nothing but ruin lives and break hearts Kevin! What is the fucking point if I can't do something right with it? Somethin' good? Don't you get that? My life means nothin'! And his means everything to them!” I yelled back, pointin' at the man's family.
“The seat,” Kevin blurted, “See if the seat will recline.”
If I hadn't been in such an awkward position I would've kicked myself in the ass for not already havin' thought of that one.
But, even with the seat belt detached and the chair reclined, Kevin still had to lean over the edge of the window - trying to avoid the shards of glass - to help me lift the man from the seat. It took Kevin, the other helper guy (who's name I learned was Jeff) pullin' and me pushin' at the man's waist to get him out of the car.
It was one of the few times in my life I've prayed. I prayed for his family. I prayed that I wasn't actively paralyzin' the man by moving him without a brace. And I prayed that we didn't all blow-up.
The fumes had poisoned my head with a poundin' heachache by then, but the pain dulled in comparison to my resolve.
With the man draped between Kevin and Jeff, they managed to lug him away from the car. We had barely gotten 30 yards away before a fire-red convertible came flyin' around the curvy road.
I don't know if it was the heat, or a spark from the gravel being flung behind the speedster's tires, but it was that second that the car chose to blow.
If I had thought my head was pounding before, from then on I would only appreciate that tiny headache as a welcome reprieve to what real pain could mean.
My ears were ringin'. My eyes were waterin'. My head was screamin'.
We were all on the ground coverin' our heads – letting the blast settle before turnin' to see the black smoke and white-hot flames roilin' off the charred finish of what had once been a family automobile.
It wasn't long after that that every ambulance, cop car, and fire truck the city had to offer were swarmin' around us.
As the EMT tried to clean blood (I kept insistin' wasn't mine) from wounds (I insisted I didn't possess) Kevin only continued to shake his head at me.
“You could've gotten yourself killed.”
Lookin' past him to a nearby ambulance where the family was bein' safely loaded, I smiled, “But look at what we saved.”
We followed the family to the hospital and stayed until we heard word that they were all okay. I'll be honest, even given the fact that the car had blown-up, I was still terrified I'd paralyzed the man havin' no idea whether he'd suffered neck or spine trauma. Turned out, everybody except the dad only suffered minor scrapes and bruises; the mom and older boy had concussions, and the dad had broken his clavicle and pelvic bones (no fault of my own).
The mom even asked to see me.
She was still a little loopy and seemed to be sufferin' time lapses given her concussion, but she still managed to thank Kevin and I relentlessly for savin' their lives.
There was a little nugget I wasn't expectin'. Somewhere between her thanks and mindless rants, she said her husband had been distracted when he saw a girl jump from the cliff, and had wrecked over-correctin' himself. “She had all her clothes on,” she kept sayin'.
I don't know if she knew I was that girl. I don't know if the dad had just been surprised seein' me, or thought I was plummetin' to my death. I did know, that I had been responsible.
Sometimes we do things that unexpectedly effect others. We hope it's a good affect, but not always is this the case, I'm quickly learnin'. The only answer I've yet to find, is in how I respond.
When Kevin finally dropped me off at home late that night, I had been surprised to find he was uncommonly quiet. Always fearful of vexin' him, (a fear I needn't worry over, he assured me as usual) I opened the door with a simple “bye” readyin' myself for a few days of the silent treatment.
“Jeaux,” Kevin said softly.
“Yeah?” I stopped, my heart givin' me a small leap.
“You were wrong before, ya know... Your life does mean something. It's everything to me.”
There were no words. At least none I could find anyhow.
Smilin', he added, “Goodnight Jeaux. Sweet dreams.”
I was still standin' on the sidewalk smilin' stupidly when he pulled away from the curb.
“Goodnight Kevin,” I finally whispered, only movin' when I could see his taillights no more.
Lesson learned: our impulses aren't always right, but our instincts are rarely wrong.
It was only a few days ago that, had I the capacity, I would have stopped to ask myself such a question.
I had yet to explore the entirety of our small community and its even more rural out-lands, and convinced Kevin to take me on a hike. He had mentioned a spot that overlooked the water in the bay, where the waves crashed against walls of stone rather than the typical sandy shores of the more popular beaches.
Though the walk to the summit was fairly easy, I found myself breathless at its peak.
The view was unlike any other in the area that I had seen. Had I been wearin' a Victorian gown or some other flowy dress (rather than my hikin' boots and favorite pair of roughed-up jeans) I would have felt like the heroine from some Harlequin romance novel – pitchin' my woes to the wind atop the bluff as my hair and petticoat flowed around me.
But I was not that pithy character. My emotions, needs, wants, and means of execution whirled and changed as violently as the water churned below us.
Kevin knows me well enough by now. He says I get a look in my eyes when I'm about to do something impulsive (that is when it's not a completely knee-jerk reaction from my flip lip or need to touch some wonderfully decorative body art).
He started to growl before I even realized my feet movin' backward.
“Jeaux, don't.”
“Don't do what?” I asked innocently.
But before I could hear his response, my legs were pumpin' below me. Takin' one final leap at the edge, I flew off the cliff.
An instinctive scream sprang from my chest when my body felt that initial shock of free-fall. Straight like a pencil, I crossed my arms over my chest just as my feet sliced the water.
The warm Gulf enveloped my senses as I let the current bring me back to the surface.
“Whew!” I screamed throwin' my arms up in triumph (or maybe in defiance?), and searchin' for Kevin on the hill.
I expected to hear him chastisin' me from the cliff but when I finally saw him he wasn't even lookin' at me.
It all happened so fast.
I heard the squeal of tires behind me; then the first crash. Spinnin' around in the water, I saw what Kevin's eyes were locked on. A small SUV-type car was careenin' along the side-rail of the coastal highway on the adjacent side of the bay.
Stunned, I watched as the car jerked again, only to pitch and grind as it came hurling off the pavement to somersault to a stop a few hundred yards away.
I could see Kevin runnin' as my instincts followed suit, my arms propellin' at my sides through the waves with all the fury I could muster.
By the time I made it to the other side of the small enclave, Kevin had made his way around as well, but was still a few paces behind me when I came runnin' out and onto the beach. We came upon the smashed car before its wheels had stopped spinnin' in the air.
I don't know if the people saw us runnin' or managed to see the wreck from their vantage, but there were a few makin' their way towards us from the beach. Kevin paused to yell for one of them to call 911.
That's when I smelled it. Gas.
“Kevin!” I screamed, interruptin' him. “Kevin! Gas!”
He stopped then, liftin' his nose to inhale the distinct odor.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his eyes scowlin'. “Jeaux, the police will be here soon. They'll probably need the jaws-of-life to get them out anyways. Let's just wait a minute, okay, it's too dangerous!” he implored, holdin' my bicep as though to keep me in place.
But I wasn't listenin'.
.
A cry. All I could hear was a baby's cry.
And there was only one place it could be comin' from. I jerked away from Kevin and went runnin' for the car. Even given his dissent, I knew he was right behind me.
The side doors of the car were inaccessible being smashed on one side and buried on the other. The back window, however, was clear of obstructions, and the window itself was already shattered.
I hadn't even noticed the added weight of my soggy clothes until I lifted my boot to kick-out the sheet of shatter-proof glass. Kevin, was of course, right by my side, quickly helpin' me to move it out of the way.
I took quick stock of the passengers. It looked to be a typical family of four: Dad in the driver seat and Mom in the passenger side; the man looked to be totally unconscious, but his wife was on the brink, moaning and muttering incoherently; (I was much more concerned about the kids in the back) the toddler, who's crying had turned to incessant screams was nearly completely upside down, but still locked-in tight to his car-seat; his brother, whom I assumed to be somewhere around 10, was unconscious and hung from his seat-belt – his arms danglin' limply in front of him.
Squeezin' my upper half through the opening, I carefully undid the buckles of the car-seat, trying desperately not to drop the baby on his head in my awkward position.
From the inside of the vehicle, the fumes were worse than ever.
Once I had the tearful toddler in my arms, I pulled him free from the car, handin' him over to Kevin. Like an assembly line, the campers filed behind Kevin; a woman at the end takin' the baby away from the scene and noxious fumes.
Next, the older child. The mother was moanin' somethin' (I think for her babies) and I did my best to soothe her with hushed promises of their rescue.
The boy was too big and the sayin' “dead weight” brought with it a whole new morbid and practical meanin'. It was all I could do to lift the boy's limp frame through the window to Kevin's more able arms. Again, he too was hefted along to the next person in line who took him to safety.
“Jeaux,” Kevin commanded, “Jeaux, that's enough. You're going to get yourself killed! We've done all we can do.”
“No!” I shouted, “You've done all you will do! Not can! I'm not going to save those babies' lives just to rip away their only meanin' at the same time!”
“Jeaux, you haven't done anything but rescue those kids! Don't be stupid!”
But the smell of the gas was growin' stronger. And I could hear no sirens.
I heard the mom moan again then, and jerked away from Kevin once more, back into the wreckage.
She didn't seem to be stuck, but I couldn't get the god-damned seat-belt undone.
“I need your knife Kevin!” I shouted, knowin' he always kept one on him.
“Jeaux!” He yelled back rebukingly.
“Your fucking knife Kevin! Now!”
When I'd finally sawed through the cloth, she was at least lucid enough to obey my commands.
Painstakin'ly, I managed to lean her against me long enough to heave her body into the back-seat where Kevin and the last camper (the man who'd dialed 911) helped to hoist her out of the window.
When they tried to half-walk, half-carry the woman from the wreck, she turned back to see the car and would have fallen to her knees were it not for the man by her side.
I could only assume seein' the twisted heap of metal where her husband was still pinned was what haunted her as she cried out his name.
Impulse? Instinct? At some point, the lines become mottled.
I could hear Kevin cursin' me and shoutin' for me to get out of the “god-damned car.”
Tryin' to find a secure position for my feet, I quickly assessed the situation and soon growled my indignation. There was no fuckin' way I could get him out. The steerin' wheel had him pinned too tight.
Stickin' my head out the window, I glared past the sun into Kevin's very unamused eyes.
Quickly explainin' my dilemma to him, he shouted, “Get out of there now!”
“No! I can't just leave him!”
“Do you want to get yourself blown up? Are you going to let this thing kill you?”
My thing, being my impulse control, just to be clear.
“This thing,” I sneered, “Has done nothing but ruin lives and break hearts Kevin! What is the fucking point if I can't do something right with it? Somethin' good? Don't you get that? My life means nothin'! And his means everything to them!” I yelled back, pointin' at the man's family.
“The seat,” Kevin blurted, “See if the seat will recline.”
If I hadn't been in such an awkward position I would've kicked myself in the ass for not already havin' thought of that one.
But, even with the seat belt detached and the chair reclined, Kevin still had to lean over the edge of the window - trying to avoid the shards of glass - to help me lift the man from the seat. It took Kevin, the other helper guy (who's name I learned was Jeff) pullin' and me pushin' at the man's waist to get him out of the car.
It was one of the few times in my life I've prayed. I prayed for his family. I prayed that I wasn't actively paralyzin' the man by moving him without a brace. And I prayed that we didn't all blow-up.
The fumes had poisoned my head with a poundin' heachache by then, but the pain dulled in comparison to my resolve.
With the man draped between Kevin and Jeff, they managed to lug him away from the car. We had barely gotten 30 yards away before a fire-red convertible came flyin' around the curvy road.
I don't know if it was the heat, or a spark from the gravel being flung behind the speedster's tires, but it was that second that the car chose to blow.
If I had thought my head was pounding before, from then on I would only appreciate that tiny headache as a welcome reprieve to what real pain could mean.
My ears were ringin'. My eyes were waterin'. My head was screamin'.
We were all on the ground coverin' our heads – letting the blast settle before turnin' to see the black smoke and white-hot flames roilin' off the charred finish of what had once been a family automobile.
It wasn't long after that that every ambulance, cop car, and fire truck the city had to offer were swarmin' around us.
As the EMT tried to clean blood (I kept insistin' wasn't mine) from wounds (I insisted I didn't possess) Kevin only continued to shake his head at me.
“You could've gotten yourself killed.”
Lookin' past him to a nearby ambulance where the family was bein' safely loaded, I smiled, “But look at what we saved.”
We followed the family to the hospital and stayed until we heard word that they were all okay. I'll be honest, even given the fact that the car had blown-up, I was still terrified I'd paralyzed the man havin' no idea whether he'd suffered neck or spine trauma. Turned out, everybody except the dad only suffered minor scrapes and bruises; the mom and older boy had concussions, and the dad had broken his clavicle and pelvic bones (no fault of my own).
The mom even asked to see me.
She was still a little loopy and seemed to be sufferin' time lapses given her concussion, but she still managed to thank Kevin and I relentlessly for savin' their lives.
There was a little nugget I wasn't expectin'. Somewhere between her thanks and mindless rants, she said her husband had been distracted when he saw a girl jump from the cliff, and had wrecked over-correctin' himself. “She had all her clothes on,” she kept sayin'.
I don't know if she knew I was that girl. I don't know if the dad had just been surprised seein' me, or thought I was plummetin' to my death. I did know, that I had been responsible.
Sometimes we do things that unexpectedly effect others. We hope it's a good affect, but not always is this the case, I'm quickly learnin'. The only answer I've yet to find, is in how I respond.
When Kevin finally dropped me off at home late that night, I had been surprised to find he was uncommonly quiet. Always fearful of vexin' him, (a fear I needn't worry over, he assured me as usual) I opened the door with a simple “bye” readyin' myself for a few days of the silent treatment.
“Jeaux,” Kevin said softly.
“Yeah?” I stopped, my heart givin' me a small leap.
“You were wrong before, ya know... Your life does mean something. It's everything to me.”
There were no words. At least none I could find anyhow.
Smilin', he added, “Goodnight Jeaux. Sweet dreams.”
I was still standin' on the sidewalk smilin' stupidly when he pulled away from the curb.
“Goodnight Kevin,” I finally whispered, only movin' when I could see his taillights no more.
Lesson learned: our impulses aren't always right, but our instincts are rarely wrong.
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