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?”