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.
28.11.11
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?”
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