"Where am I?"
I look around me and I see walls of glass. Yet beyond the glass is nothingness-white. It scares me and chills me to the bone. I'm afraid to move. The icy fingers of fear frostbiting my toes, slowing my breath.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Nothing but my echoes and the madness of my mind.
"You know, you might want to try scaling the wall."
I spin around. Who said that? And I see straight in front of me, a white rabbit. Pink eyes, long ears, and strong hind legs ready to pounce.
His pink eyes look up. "See. There's a hole up there."
I gawk as the realization of a talking rabbit soaks into my brain but I am not troubled by him for some reason. The presence of another...anything..was comforting. I look up and then back down. Yes, there was a hole up there. The glass walls....the funneling of the room to the top hole in the ceiling. I was in a bottle. A glass bottle.
"Who are you? Where am I?" Was I really talking to a rabbit?
The rabbit bounces around which causes its thumbing to echo throughout the bottle. "This is a milk bottle. And I am a rabbit named......Maurice." He smiles at the made-up name. "But those aren't the questions that are important now because you already knew that." He smiles and his teeth are sharp.
This sight frightens me and I cross my arms, puff out my chest in a futile attempt to seem in control. "I can't scale the walls. The walls are too smooth. Its glass." I palm my way up but my toes don't leave the ground. "If I were you, I would try to hop out, I suppose."
"But you assume that I am here to escape. But I am not. " He smiles again, the sharp teeth are still there.
I smile back. More of a timid grimace. I think. I think hard. What was I doing last. Where was I before I woke up here?
Mother.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I spin around because it wasn't me nor the rabbit who knocked on the glass wall. I see my mother. But she's on the other side of the wall, outside of the bottle. She's trying to tell me something. I run up to where she is and wish to hug her, hold her, feel her safety.
I cannot hear her. I cannot make out her silent wailings. She keeps knocking and it echoes throughout the bottle. It makes my head hurt.
"STOP, MOM. I CAN'T HEAR YOU. STOP IT" But she continues until I close my eyes hard and wish her to stop. I open my eyes again and she's gone. The silent screams gone. The knocking gone.
"Where'd she go?" I turn toward the rabbit who is licking his paw.
He's startled as if he didn't realize it was his turn to speak in a school play. He listens to the empty space as if someone from off stage feeding him his lines.
"Are you sure that was your mother? Or is that just what you wanted to see?" He continues licking his paw.
My mind races. My eyes burn with salty tears of fear and frustration.
"GET ME OUT OF HERE!!!!"
I grab the rabbit by its foot and swing it around around around around around until my steps feel heavy and my head it light with dizziness. I hurl the rabbit against the glass wall over over over over over over. Until there's blood on his white fur. Cracked skull against the clear walls.
Finally one last crash of his head against the wall brings the whole bottle crashing down around me and I'm left with, blood in my hair, shards in my skin and a rabbit foot in my hand.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Mr. Goodbar
Maggie looked at her eyes and winced at her reflection. There were puffy bags under them and she didn't like that tired look on her face. It made her look 10 years older and the guy at the counter hadn't even asked her for her ID when she was buying her morning pack of cigarettes earlier. What an asshole. But, now, as she looked at her eyes, she forgave him.
She had already had two cigarettes from her way back from the corner store and now she had to take a shit. Because that what cigarettes, along with many other things make you do sometimes--have to take a shit.
She sighed and splashed water on her face.
*************
The day was hot and the sun beat down hard. Maggie wondered where all her neighbors were. She lived on the second floor of a dingy apartment complex and still considered it a temporary abode even though she'd been there 5 years already. She leaned over the railing and exhaled. The cigarette shone in the glare of the sun.
Maggie looked left.
#213 usually left their door open and whenever she'd pass she'd see a 300 pound (in reality, probably 400 pound but who was weighing?) woman seated on the floor watching Jerry Springer with a banana in one hand and a candy bar (usually a Mr. Goodbar) in the other. But the door was closed today and you couldn't hear any wailings from the television.
Maggie looked right.
Benson and his current gay lover, Morad, was not to be seen either. Benson was from El Salvador and was teaching Maggie some Spanish. But since Morad had come into the picture, the lessons had become fewer and far between. One afternon Maggie had seen Morad knocking on Benson's door.
She'd said, "Que paso, hombre?" trying to be polite.
But Morad rolled his eyes and spitted, "Don't talk that broken Spanish with me, sister. You don't even know me." Benson opened the door, looked Maggie up and down and didn't say a word. He pulled Morad inside by the collar and Maggie listened to their sexual escapades through the thin walls for the rest of the night. How could she sleep with all that wall banging anyhow. Benson was probably coked up which reminded Maggie to ask him for another hit next time around.
******************
Maggie sat on the spinny bar stool and sipped her beer. Three guys had tried to hit on her.
#1: Hey beautiful. Want another drink cause I can't wait to see you hammered.
Maggie gave a polite smile and moved to the other side of the bar.
#2: Are you here alone...cause um..I'm here alone too. And since we're both alone why should two alone people be alone...
He continued on like this for another five minutes and he was just so pathetic Maggie couldn't cut him off in mid-depression. For a moment she thought he would break into sobs. She smiled and excused herself to the bathroom and found a booth in the corner.
#3: Wana dance? You look like a dancer? Do you play sports cause you have the biggest thighs I've ever seen.
Maggie decided to call it a night after that. When she got home she did an hour worth of squats and vowed to go on a diet.
**********************
It was a Sunday morning and Maggie was outside smoking. #213 had her door open and Maggie could see a big fat foot with five big fat digits wiggling whenever Jerry Springer introduced the next transvestite.
Maggie contemplated having another cig when she saw Mr. Goodbar wrappers being thrown from #213.
She heard a deep throaty androgynous voice. "Hey."
Three more wrappers tumbled through the threshold followed by more yelps.
Maggie walked closer and peered in. She waved at the mass on the floor and thought that #213 would make a killer Java the Hut for Halloween.
The mass spoke to her. "Hey I need more Mr. Goodbars, but my sister hasn't got back yet. Can you go buy me some from the corner store. I'll pay you."
Maggie contemplated and thought what a sad existence to live for Mr. Goodbars and talkshows. How could she say no. She nodded. #213 pointed to a jar of nickels on the television.
#213: Take that. It should buy you alot of them.
Maggie walked down the steps slowly with the heavy glass jar of nickels. People that passed her probably thought she was crazy. How embarassing.
******************
It was a big decision looking down at the box of Mr. Goodbars and wondering how many she should get. For one, she wanted to do a good job since #213 had put her trust in her to go on this independent mission. But on the other hand, she wondered how many more candy bars it was going to take for #213's heart to stop. Maybe she should just buy her some peanuts. That's like a Mr. Goodbar...but without the "good", she supposed. If she were a bad person, Maggie would have bought one candy bar and spent the rest of the money on cigarettes and lottery tickets. But she decided on 5 Mr. Goodbars, a lighter, and one $2 lottery ticket instead.
******************
She got back and #213 had dozed off but when Maggie set the half empty (or half-full) jar of nickels back ontop of the tv, the mass awoke.
"Thanks." She wiped her eye crusties away and proceeded to devour two candy bars at once.
Maggie handed her the scratch-off. "Here I bought you this too. Maybe you'll have some luck." She turned to leave.
"Thanks. Wait. Lemme scratch it and we can split it if I win." She dug her chocolaty nails into the ticket playing area. "Hey, I won $2 bucks. That's three Mr. Goodbars."
Maggie smiled. "Yea, hey keep it."
#213 smiled. "Come by whenever you want."
"Ok." Maggie decided to have another cigarette. She sat on the threshold of #213's door and listened to the chomping of candy and television, strangely taking comfort in the sound.
She had already had two cigarettes from her way back from the corner store and now she had to take a shit. Because that what cigarettes, along with many other things make you do sometimes--have to take a shit.
She sighed and splashed water on her face.
*************
The day was hot and the sun beat down hard. Maggie wondered where all her neighbors were. She lived on the second floor of a dingy apartment complex and still considered it a temporary abode even though she'd been there 5 years already. She leaned over the railing and exhaled. The cigarette shone in the glare of the sun.
Maggie looked left.
#213 usually left their door open and whenever she'd pass she'd see a 300 pound (in reality, probably 400 pound but who was weighing?) woman seated on the floor watching Jerry Springer with a banana in one hand and a candy bar (usually a Mr. Goodbar) in the other. But the door was closed today and you couldn't hear any wailings from the television.
Maggie looked right.
Benson and his current gay lover, Morad, was not to be seen either. Benson was from El Salvador and was teaching Maggie some Spanish. But since Morad had come into the picture, the lessons had become fewer and far between. One afternon Maggie had seen Morad knocking on Benson's door.
She'd said, "Que paso, hombre?" trying to be polite.
But Morad rolled his eyes and spitted, "Don't talk that broken Spanish with me, sister. You don't even know me." Benson opened the door, looked Maggie up and down and didn't say a word. He pulled Morad inside by the collar and Maggie listened to their sexual escapades through the thin walls for the rest of the night. How could she sleep with all that wall banging anyhow. Benson was probably coked up which reminded Maggie to ask him for another hit next time around.
******************
Maggie sat on the spinny bar stool and sipped her beer. Three guys had tried to hit on her.
#1: Hey beautiful. Want another drink cause I can't wait to see you hammered.
Maggie gave a polite smile and moved to the other side of the bar.
#2: Are you here alone...cause um..I'm here alone too. And since we're both alone why should two alone people be alone...
He continued on like this for another five minutes and he was just so pathetic Maggie couldn't cut him off in mid-depression. For a moment she thought he would break into sobs. She smiled and excused herself to the bathroom and found a booth in the corner.
#3: Wana dance? You look like a dancer? Do you play sports cause you have the biggest thighs I've ever seen.
Maggie decided to call it a night after that. When she got home she did an hour worth of squats and vowed to go on a diet.
**********************
It was a Sunday morning and Maggie was outside smoking. #213 had her door open and Maggie could see a big fat foot with five big fat digits wiggling whenever Jerry Springer introduced the next transvestite.
Maggie contemplated having another cig when she saw Mr. Goodbar wrappers being thrown from #213.
She heard a deep throaty androgynous voice. "Hey."
Three more wrappers tumbled through the threshold followed by more yelps.
Maggie walked closer and peered in. She waved at the mass on the floor and thought that #213 would make a killer Java the Hut for Halloween.
The mass spoke to her. "Hey I need more Mr. Goodbars, but my sister hasn't got back yet. Can you go buy me some from the corner store. I'll pay you."
Maggie contemplated and thought what a sad existence to live for Mr. Goodbars and talkshows. How could she say no. She nodded. #213 pointed to a jar of nickels on the television.
#213: Take that. It should buy you alot of them.
Maggie walked down the steps slowly with the heavy glass jar of nickels. People that passed her probably thought she was crazy. How embarassing.
******************
It was a big decision looking down at the box of Mr. Goodbars and wondering how many she should get. For one, she wanted to do a good job since #213 had put her trust in her to go on this independent mission. But on the other hand, she wondered how many more candy bars it was going to take for #213's heart to stop. Maybe she should just buy her some peanuts. That's like a Mr. Goodbar...but without the "good", she supposed. If she were a bad person, Maggie would have bought one candy bar and spent the rest of the money on cigarettes and lottery tickets. But she decided on 5 Mr. Goodbars, a lighter, and one $2 lottery ticket instead.
******************
She got back and #213 had dozed off but when Maggie set the half empty (or half-full) jar of nickels back ontop of the tv, the mass awoke.
"Thanks." She wiped her eye crusties away and proceeded to devour two candy bars at once.
Maggie handed her the scratch-off. "Here I bought you this too. Maybe you'll have some luck." She turned to leave.
"Thanks. Wait. Lemme scratch it and we can split it if I win." She dug her chocolaty nails into the ticket playing area. "Hey, I won $2 bucks. That's three Mr. Goodbars."
Maggie smiled. "Yea, hey keep it."
#213 smiled. "Come by whenever you want."
"Ok." Maggie decided to have another cigarette. She sat on the threshold of #213's door and listened to the chomping of candy and television, strangely taking comfort in the sound.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Another Casual Thought
I sit atop my pedestal as I read another novel;
And listen as red and blue sirens pass the storefront.
An ambulance going to pick up a victim,
Or perform CPR,
Or rescue a cat from a tree.
And I wonder about whether the next door
Funeral home director is sitting in her chair,
Her gelatinous proportions too large for the
Mere man-made chair she's squeezed into.
Listening to those sirens;
An orgasmic chill runs down her plotting spine
And evily taps her fingers
And looks up at the ceiling and gives a
Slow smile.
And listen as red and blue sirens pass the storefront.
An ambulance going to pick up a victim,
Or perform CPR,
Or rescue a cat from a tree.
And I wonder about whether the next door
Funeral home director is sitting in her chair,
Her gelatinous proportions too large for the
Mere man-made chair she's squeezed into.
Listening to those sirens;
An orgasmic chill runs down her plotting spine
And evily taps her fingers
And looks up at the ceiling and gives a
Slow smile.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Mouth
What's the matter with
Solitary coffeeshop visits and
Reading books in the corner?
Is it taboo to take a few seconds
To gaze a little longer or
Smile a little brighter?
What's wrong with loving
and then leaving
and loving back again?
Why can't you feel the person's
presence, but not say a word
Afraid you'll scare them away?
We all have those days, where
we had no idea, our foot could
fit so perfectly in our mouth.
Solitary coffeeshop visits and
Reading books in the corner?
Is it taboo to take a few seconds
To gaze a little longer or
Smile a little brighter?
What's wrong with loving
and then leaving
and loving back again?
Why can't you feel the person's
presence, but not say a word
Afraid you'll scare them away?
We all have those days, where
we had no idea, our foot could
fit so perfectly in our mouth.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Being the Rhinoceros
I woke up today with a scratchy throat. And watery eyes. What is this? This is weird.
While taking a shower, I sneezed. Three times consecutively which on any other occasion would be a novelty to me because I still believe the superstition that that indicates someone is thinking about me. But I was overcome with lightheadedness and the sheer force of the triplet sneezes made my nose a bit red and swollen, I couldn't even take pleasure in the thought of it. I couldn't even finish washing the conditioner out of my hair because I began getting the chills, I had to step out of the shower immediately. Great, I thought, now I'll have flat hair all day. Geez.
While pulling on my jeans and Rolling Stones t-shirt, I pondered my predicament. It's the middle of spring. I suppose allergies could be the culprit--but, I don't get allergies, stupid. Is it normal to just get it all of a sudden? And does it really make you have a sore throat and chills (and paranoia to the point of me talking nonstop in my head)? Questionable.
While searching the web for various sites on the topic, and spending a good thirty minutes reading related articles on WebMD, I diagnosed myself as having allergic rhinitis or more commonly coined as hay fever. But I prefer the more formal name--it makes me sorta think that I am a rhinoceros. Hay fever just makes me feel like I got hay stuck up my nose which is not as fascinating. For a second I thought I had the West Nile Fever stuff that's been freaking everyone out ever since allergy season started. But I rationalized I wasn't fortunate enough to get something that drastic.
So anyhow, I muster up the courage to go to work. It ends up being a normal day other than the incessant sneezing and coughing. I feel guilty everytime I have to hand people their change wondering how many diseases I've transferred to them. I'm a big ball of germs. I play with the idea of maybe wearing latex gloves but I don't like how my fingers feel floury in them. Or maybe wearing a sign around my neck that says "DON'T TOUCH ME." Or using tongs to give them their change back and tweezers for the smaller coins. Would that be too weird? Think about it for a second and imagine how much cleaner us humans would be if we did that...come on...admit that you sorta like the idea.
Half of the day is almost over and I'm enjoying a cup of tea when a frazzled looking customer walks through the plexi-glass doors. I can tell he's not going to buy anything. He's about middle-aged, white with dusty blonde hair that hasn't been washed in days. I wondered what bridge he must have slept under last night.
"I'm sorry to bother you but my car is stalled out there and I need some gas, can you spare any money?"
I hated these types. Losers who think just because you work at a store you have a bronze pot of money under your seat that says "In case of losers who need gas money."
I looked out the door and saw no car. And he had no keys on him.
I stared at him blankly and twitched my nose. If I had hidden witch powers, this would be a great time for them to be realized. I would like to turn this bum into a cockaroach or maybe a dust bunny.
"Sorry, I can't do that." I take a sip of my tea and wait for his reply.
"Come on, just a couple of bucks. I have to get home to my wife and kids. They're waiting on me. I really need your help."
I grimaced at the statement of him having a family. This guy had no wedding ring. And if he really was a father, I felt sorry for the bad fortune of having such a loser as a father. If he had said, "Come on, I need money to get hopped up on heroine and then crash out on a matress covered with empty beer bottles..." I would have beleived that and maybe have given him a quarter. But then again, it was hard beleiving anything coming out of his mouth because of his dirty cut-off shorts, long ape-ish leg hairs contrasting against his pasty calves, and his pungent stench of slim jims.
I got off of my stool irritated and tired. This conversationw as draining me. I looked at him face to face and said, "Sir, I--I--I--ACHOOOO"
And there it was.
My sneeze all over his face.
It was quite disgusting but so entertaining. I watched his face contort into a twisted ball of shock. As the realization seeped into him, he shivered and slowly began to walk away. I watched as he walked out the door, paused, wiped his face on his already dirty shirt and walk off into the distance.
Well, that took care of that.
Having allergic rhinitis sure comes in handy when you need it to, I tell ya what.
While taking a shower, I sneezed. Three times consecutively which on any other occasion would be a novelty to me because I still believe the superstition that that indicates someone is thinking about me. But I was overcome with lightheadedness and the sheer force of the triplet sneezes made my nose a bit red and swollen, I couldn't even take pleasure in the thought of it. I couldn't even finish washing the conditioner out of my hair because I began getting the chills, I had to step out of the shower immediately. Great, I thought, now I'll have flat hair all day. Geez.
While pulling on my jeans and Rolling Stones t-shirt, I pondered my predicament. It's the middle of spring. I suppose allergies could be the culprit--but, I don't get allergies, stupid. Is it normal to just get it all of a sudden? And does it really make you have a sore throat and chills (and paranoia to the point of me talking nonstop in my head)? Questionable.
While searching the web for various sites on the topic, and spending a good thirty minutes reading related articles on WebMD, I diagnosed myself as having allergic rhinitis or more commonly coined as hay fever. But I prefer the more formal name--it makes me sorta think that I am a rhinoceros. Hay fever just makes me feel like I got hay stuck up my nose which is not as fascinating. For a second I thought I had the West Nile Fever stuff that's been freaking everyone out ever since allergy season started. But I rationalized I wasn't fortunate enough to get something that drastic.
So anyhow, I muster up the courage to go to work. It ends up being a normal day other than the incessant sneezing and coughing. I feel guilty everytime I have to hand people their change wondering how many diseases I've transferred to them. I'm a big ball of germs. I play with the idea of maybe wearing latex gloves but I don't like how my fingers feel floury in them. Or maybe wearing a sign around my neck that says "DON'T TOUCH ME." Or using tongs to give them their change back and tweezers for the smaller coins. Would that be too weird? Think about it for a second and imagine how much cleaner us humans would be if we did that...come on...admit that you sorta like the idea.
Half of the day is almost over and I'm enjoying a cup of tea when a frazzled looking customer walks through the plexi-glass doors. I can tell he's not going to buy anything. He's about middle-aged, white with dusty blonde hair that hasn't been washed in days. I wondered what bridge he must have slept under last night.
"I'm sorry to bother you but my car is stalled out there and I need some gas, can you spare any money?"
I hated these types. Losers who think just because you work at a store you have a bronze pot of money under your seat that says "In case of losers who need gas money."
I looked out the door and saw no car. And he had no keys on him.
I stared at him blankly and twitched my nose. If I had hidden witch powers, this would be a great time for them to be realized. I would like to turn this bum into a cockaroach or maybe a dust bunny.
"Sorry, I can't do that." I take a sip of my tea and wait for his reply.
"Come on, just a couple of bucks. I have to get home to my wife and kids. They're waiting on me. I really need your help."
I grimaced at the statement of him having a family. This guy had no wedding ring. And if he really was a father, I felt sorry for the bad fortune of having such a loser as a father. If he had said, "Come on, I need money to get hopped up on heroine and then crash out on a matress covered with empty beer bottles..." I would have beleived that and maybe have given him a quarter. But then again, it was hard beleiving anything coming out of his mouth because of his dirty cut-off shorts, long ape-ish leg hairs contrasting against his pasty calves, and his pungent stench of slim jims.
I got off of my stool irritated and tired. This conversationw as draining me. I looked at him face to face and said, "Sir, I--I--I--ACHOOOO"
And there it was.
My sneeze all over his face.
It was quite disgusting but so entertaining. I watched his face contort into a twisted ball of shock. As the realization seeped into him, he shivered and slowly began to walk away. I watched as he walked out the door, paused, wiped his face on his already dirty shirt and walk off into the distance.
Well, that took care of that.
Having allergic rhinitis sure comes in handy when you need it to, I tell ya what.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Daddy's Little Girl
My father thinks that I'm a lesbian....but I can't be quite sure.
I'm not though. I'm not, though? (Raised eyebrow...) Confused, I guess...no..no Questionable...curious....but anyhow...
We haven't talked about it face to face. Just little hints and vibes I get from him. Like curious sideways glances as if trying to probe my psyche or quick headshakes of frustration...
The thought of it sorta makes me laugh and want to help the charade along by maybe buying more guy shirts and cutting my hair shorter than it already is. Or maybe putting K.D. Lang's picture as my desktop. (Genius!) But then I don't want him to have a heart attack...or a broken one at that.
It started when I began working at our family store. My days were perfectly scheduled to make time go by faster and just be more efficient. Get in at 10:30 A.M. Restock the scratch-off tickets, put out the latest results, change the lotto jackpot sign. 11:00A.M. stock the soda machines and chip racks. 12:00-1:30 p.m. take care of the lunch rush and Pick 3 rush. 1:30 p.m.-3 p.m. miscellaneous dusting and stocking.
And then the time of day when the sun seems to shine a bit brighter....3 p.M. watch the Ellen Degeneres Show. She's funny and it makes me smile. My dad noticed my little afternoon pick-me-up and even began watching it with me. He thinks she's amusing in a weird androgynous sorta way, i guess. Whenever the signal would fade on and off for that channel, he'd hurry to the roof to correct the fuzziness. He's a sweetheart and it was good doing something we both could share and enjoy.
But then word got out about her homosexuality somehow. The cat was out of the bag. I dunno...maybe he was watching news or something and a blip about her new mistress bubbled up to the headlines. Or one day while standing in the grocery line he saw a tabloid headline...something about how Ellen prefers smaller chested women with blonde hair over a slim waist and big feet...those darn tabloids..! Or the article about how curiously similar Ellen and Owen Wilson look...that darn Owen Wilson...god bless 'em. Anyhow, Dad was talking to my little sister and my little sister reported back to me, "Annie, Dad says Ellen is nasty because she likes girls."
He never joined me in watching Ellen's show ever again.
Which was fine. I could be a solitary spectator. But I had to admit--I missed him.
But then there was the night I was online and I just so happened to be in the market for some new undergarments and was perusing through the Victoria Secret website (which is a horribly, non-user friendly site) and I didn't notice my father behind me watching television while simultaneously glancing in my direction with a confused look on his face wondering why his daughter was so staunchly concentrated at looking at the skimpily clad models on my screen.
That night I heard my father's exasperated voice question to my mother, "Do lesbians run on your side of the family?"
I'm not though. I'm not, though? (Raised eyebrow...) Confused, I guess...no..no Questionable...curious....but anyhow...
We haven't talked about it face to face. Just little hints and vibes I get from him. Like curious sideways glances as if trying to probe my psyche or quick headshakes of frustration...
The thought of it sorta makes me laugh and want to help the charade along by maybe buying more guy shirts and cutting my hair shorter than it already is. Or maybe putting K.D. Lang's picture as my desktop. (Genius!) But then I don't want him to have a heart attack...or a broken one at that.
It started when I began working at our family store. My days were perfectly scheduled to make time go by faster and just be more efficient. Get in at 10:30 A.M. Restock the scratch-off tickets, put out the latest results, change the lotto jackpot sign. 11:00A.M. stock the soda machines and chip racks. 12:00-1:30 p.m. take care of the lunch rush and Pick 3 rush. 1:30 p.m.-3 p.m. miscellaneous dusting and stocking.
And then the time of day when the sun seems to shine a bit brighter....3 p.M. watch the Ellen Degeneres Show. She's funny and it makes me smile. My dad noticed my little afternoon pick-me-up and even began watching it with me. He thinks she's amusing in a weird androgynous sorta way, i guess. Whenever the signal would fade on and off for that channel, he'd hurry to the roof to correct the fuzziness. He's a sweetheart and it was good doing something we both could share and enjoy.
But then word got out about her homosexuality somehow. The cat was out of the bag. I dunno...maybe he was watching news or something and a blip about her new mistress bubbled up to the headlines. Or one day while standing in the grocery line he saw a tabloid headline...something about how Ellen prefers smaller chested women with blonde hair over a slim waist and big feet...those darn tabloids..! Or the article about how curiously similar Ellen and Owen Wilson look...that darn Owen Wilson...god bless 'em. Anyhow, Dad was talking to my little sister and my little sister reported back to me, "Annie, Dad says Ellen is nasty because she likes girls."
He never joined me in watching Ellen's show ever again.
Which was fine. I could be a solitary spectator. But I had to admit--I missed him.
But then there was the night I was online and I just so happened to be in the market for some new undergarments and was perusing through the Victoria Secret website (which is a horribly, non-user friendly site) and I didn't notice my father behind me watching television while simultaneously glancing in my direction with a confused look on his face wondering why his daughter was so staunchly concentrated at looking at the skimpily clad models on my screen.
That night I heard my father's exasperated voice question to my mother, "Do lesbians run on your side of the family?"
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Chocolate Eyeballs
Another day behind the cash register and I was bored. Usually I would be hungrily stocking the shelves trying to make every single label perfectly perpendicular to the flat surface shelf so each would be beaming its bright label at the next unsuspecting customer. Buy me! Buy me! That's what people are unknowingly bombarded with as they walk through the aisles with perfectly aligned products--subconscience verbal abuse by inanimate objects. It's a science, really. But today, all the shelves were fully stocked, every label face-out, every object dusted to perfection.
I could reorganize the lottery tickets. As fun as that would be, it would confuse people too much because they'd already gotten used to this schema that I'd put in place a week ago. All containers were full and each ticket name shone brightly through the plexiglass cubicles. I spent extra careful time to cut bright, fluorescent labels to show what the new tickets were and their costs. It was a beautiful sight. I pondered where the new tickets that would be coming out next week would be placed. Maybe above the $1 Money Jars, or the $5 Gold Mines, or the $3 Cashword, or the $2 Pure Gold or the coveted spot above the best selling $5 ticket--Break the Bank. If the tickets were personified they would all be in a flutter and discussing who deserved to be above the Break the Bank ticket.
$1 Money Jar: Well, I should be placed there because people love $1 tickets and I should obviously be above the best selling ticket overall. And come on...my name alone..."Money Jar" implies my associated nature with "banks" and the eminent "breaking" of them. People break their money jars all the time...
$2 Pure Gold: Come on. I'm pure gold. Ya put that in banks. Yadayadayada. I deserve to be above there. Someone...anyone...throw me a gold nugget...please!
I was snapped out of my lottery ticket daydream by the ding of the opening door. I saw a little boy run inside followed by his father--Edward.
Edward had been coming into the store for who knows how long and we had never really gotten past the conventional "How ya doing?'s" and stuff like that which was disappointing. He was gorgeous and so sweet and nice. Sometimes I just wanted to pounce on him--eat him up--show him things he never thought possible...
A few months ago, it was revealed to me that he had two children but he had no wedding ring on so that was a sign right? Or was he getting it cleaned for some reason?? Maybe he was recently separated? No matter, we had casually developed this air of flirtation and the tension between us was suffocating. There was an obvious attraction there. It was as if we were characters in a sitcom and we were the two that belonged together and everyone knew it except for the two characters and they just seemed so oblivious and----
"Hey, how's it going?" Edward coyly asked me. He leaned against the counter and it gave a squeak. He had these amazing chocolate brown eyes that held their gaze on me and it was intoxicating.
"Hey, Edward. Nothin much. Just the same ol' stuff."
"That's cool. Hurry up, Josh. We gotta go." His son scurried left and then right overwhelmed by our wide selection of candies and sweets.
"So...uh...do you go to the movies and stuff?" Ed asked very nervously and uncomfortably. This was a guy with two children. Surely, he had smoother lines than this.
I smiled. "Yea, I go the movies all the time. How about you?"
"Yea, yea, I like a good movie here and there. What was the last movie you just saw?"
"Hmm...I saw that new kung-fu movie that came out last weekend. It was surprisingly good."
"Oh, yea, you saw that already? Man, I wana go see that." There was a pause as we locked gazes and then we both turned away at the exact moment. "Hurry, up Josh. They got ice cream too. Here look vanilla."
"Vanilla is the best." I say. Geezus, I'm such a dork. Vanilla retard. Vanilla groupie. Vanilla whore.
"So did you go see that movie with your boyfriend?"
I paused. He was trying to dig for info and it was so cute and endearing. I looked into his creamy chocholate eyes and was lost in them. "Nope. Just went with a friend."
There was a nod and a smile. I couldn't take my eyes away from his eyes. I wanted to fall deeply into them. Swim in the pool of his irises. Sleep in the folds of his eyelids. Run through the fields of his eyelashes.
There was a crash as a jar of lollipops fell to the floor. Suddenly Josh was running around in a hyper, 5-year old frenzy.
"JOSH! STOP THAT!"
But all I could do was look at Edward's eyes (though wrought with frustration with this son).
"JOSH! HURRY UP!"
His delicious chocolate eyes....
"DON'T DO THAT!"
His gorgeous chocolate eyes...
"YOU ARE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE!."
His completely edible, made-for me, creamy, dark, come-hither and be my love-slave, chocolate eyes.....
"Sorry, he gets hyper like this all the time. JOSH!"
I smiled. "It's ok. I want to eat your eyeballs."
My body froze and I felt like I was paralyzed. No way. Did I really say what I think I just said...OUT LOUD???
There was a mind-numbing silence. Josh had tired down and was sitting on the floor now, his hand on his father's leg. Edward looked down at his son and then back at me and now his eyes questioned whether he heard what he thought he heard.
"Gumballs! We have gumballs. Did he want some gumballs?" I motioned to our colorful gum section and gave a sigh of relief when Edward merely shook his head and let the strange (Twilight-esque) moment melt away behind us. Thank the heavens for gumballs.
Finally, they decided on a pack of green apple gumballs and a pint of vanilla ice cream.
There was a pause as I gave him his change.
A question in his eyes and a patient reply waiting on my lips.
But then he began to walk away. I wanted to scream COME BACK COME BACK ASK ME ASK ME ANYTHING AND I'LL DO IT!!!
He looked back at me and I looked at him and we both smiled. I watched as the glass door shut behind him. He started up his car and drove away.
I couldn't wait till the next time he came into the store.
I could reorganize the lottery tickets. As fun as that would be, it would confuse people too much because they'd already gotten used to this schema that I'd put in place a week ago. All containers were full and each ticket name shone brightly through the plexiglass cubicles. I spent extra careful time to cut bright, fluorescent labels to show what the new tickets were and their costs. It was a beautiful sight. I pondered where the new tickets that would be coming out next week would be placed. Maybe above the $1 Money Jars, or the $5 Gold Mines, or the $3 Cashword, or the $2 Pure Gold or the coveted spot above the best selling $5 ticket--Break the Bank. If the tickets were personified they would all be in a flutter and discussing who deserved to be above the Break the Bank ticket.
$1 Money Jar: Well, I should be placed there because people love $1 tickets and I should obviously be above the best selling ticket overall. And come on...my name alone..."Money Jar" implies my associated nature with "banks" and the eminent "breaking" of them. People break their money jars all the time...
$2 Pure Gold: Come on. I'm pure gold. Ya put that in banks. Yadayadayada. I deserve to be above there. Someone...anyone...throw me a gold nugget...please!
I was snapped out of my lottery ticket daydream by the ding of the opening door. I saw a little boy run inside followed by his father--Edward.
Edward had been coming into the store for who knows how long and we had never really gotten past the conventional "How ya doing?'s" and stuff like that which was disappointing. He was gorgeous and so sweet and nice. Sometimes I just wanted to pounce on him--eat him up--show him things he never thought possible...
A few months ago, it was revealed to me that he had two children but he had no wedding ring on so that was a sign right? Or was he getting it cleaned for some reason?? Maybe he was recently separated? No matter, we had casually developed this air of flirtation and the tension between us was suffocating. There was an obvious attraction there. It was as if we were characters in a sitcom and we were the two that belonged together and everyone knew it except for the two characters and they just seemed so oblivious and----
"Hey, how's it going?" Edward coyly asked me. He leaned against the counter and it gave a squeak. He had these amazing chocolate brown eyes that held their gaze on me and it was intoxicating.
"Hey, Edward. Nothin much. Just the same ol' stuff."
"That's cool. Hurry up, Josh. We gotta go." His son scurried left and then right overwhelmed by our wide selection of candies and sweets.
"So...uh...do you go to the movies and stuff?" Ed asked very nervously and uncomfortably. This was a guy with two children. Surely, he had smoother lines than this.
I smiled. "Yea, I go the movies all the time. How about you?"
"Yea, yea, I like a good movie here and there. What was the last movie you just saw?"
"Hmm...I saw that new kung-fu movie that came out last weekend. It was surprisingly good."
"Oh, yea, you saw that already? Man, I wana go see that." There was a pause as we locked gazes and then we both turned away at the exact moment. "Hurry, up Josh. They got ice cream too. Here look vanilla."
"Vanilla is the best." I say. Geezus, I'm such a dork. Vanilla retard. Vanilla groupie. Vanilla whore.
"So did you go see that movie with your boyfriend?"
I paused. He was trying to dig for info and it was so cute and endearing. I looked into his creamy chocholate eyes and was lost in them. "Nope. Just went with a friend."
There was a nod and a smile. I couldn't take my eyes away from his eyes. I wanted to fall deeply into them. Swim in the pool of his irises. Sleep in the folds of his eyelids. Run through the fields of his eyelashes.
There was a crash as a jar of lollipops fell to the floor. Suddenly Josh was running around in a hyper, 5-year old frenzy.
"JOSH! STOP THAT!"
But all I could do was look at Edward's eyes (though wrought with frustration with this son).
"JOSH! HURRY UP!"
His delicious chocolate eyes....
"DON'T DO THAT!"
His gorgeous chocolate eyes...
"YOU ARE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE!."
His completely edible, made-for me, creamy, dark, come-hither and be my love-slave, chocolate eyes.....
"Sorry, he gets hyper like this all the time. JOSH!"
I smiled. "It's ok. I want to eat your eyeballs."
My body froze and I felt like I was paralyzed. No way. Did I really say what I think I just said...OUT LOUD???
There was a mind-numbing silence. Josh had tired down and was sitting on the floor now, his hand on his father's leg. Edward looked down at his son and then back at me and now his eyes questioned whether he heard what he thought he heard.
"Gumballs! We have gumballs. Did he want some gumballs?" I motioned to our colorful gum section and gave a sigh of relief when Edward merely shook his head and let the strange (Twilight-esque) moment melt away behind us. Thank the heavens for gumballs.
Finally, they decided on a pack of green apple gumballs and a pint of vanilla ice cream.
There was a pause as I gave him his change.
A question in his eyes and a patient reply waiting on my lips.
But then he began to walk away. I wanted to scream COME BACK COME BACK ASK ME ASK ME ANYTHING AND I'LL DO IT!!!
He looked back at me and I looked at him and we both smiled. I watched as the glass door shut behind him. He started up his car and drove away.
I couldn't wait till the next time he came into the store.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Wednesday Afternoon at New Amsterdam Coffeehaus
"So have you gotten to the point where you can't stand the stink of money yet?"
"Hmm...I don't think so. There are times when there are people who bring in really smelly money. And that's gross. But right now, I'm happy with the fact that I've been able to hold so much money in my own hands."
"Haha. Man, yea, I can't stand it though when people come into the store and they're looking for their money and finally they realize it's in their sock. And I'm watching in horror as they unlace their shoes and hand me a filthy bill smelling like goddamn feet."
"Geezus."
"And the women who put money in their bras? What's up with that?"
"So you think fat people stink because they can't reach everywhere cause their so fat?"
"That's my theory. They shower or whatever but there ain't no way they can scrub under every single fold of fat, right? That's why they smell. And its a common smell among fat people. I know, I've got my share of obese people who come through the store. It's all the same. I'm not makin fun...I'm tellin the facts."
"Yea, there are some stinky people who come into the bank and there's this one guy who just smells so bad, I just wana hurry up and count the money. He can't walk away fast enough for me."
"Hahaha, that's funny."
"Tell me about it.....hey, since when do you smoke cigars?"
"I dunno. Just when you said you wanted to smoke cigars. I have to say I've smoked more cigars then cigarettes lately. I guess that's a good way to stop smoking cigarettes. haha."
"We definitely need to go get some better cigars. These things just ain't cuttin' it."
"Yea. We need to find a good cigar shop. Did you know the cigs in the vending machine here are five bucks. That's bullshit."
"One time, me, **********, and *********** bought a cigar down in ********** and we all three were puffin at it for like an hour and we still weren't through with it before we couldn't take no more. That's a real cigar."
"That's cool. Hmm...I sure could go for some onion rings right about now."
"Hmm...I don't think so. There are times when there are people who bring in really smelly money. And that's gross. But right now, I'm happy with the fact that I've been able to hold so much money in my own hands."
"Haha. Man, yea, I can't stand it though when people come into the store and they're looking for their money and finally they realize it's in their sock. And I'm watching in horror as they unlace their shoes and hand me a filthy bill smelling like goddamn feet."
"Geezus."
"And the women who put money in their bras? What's up with that?"
"So you think fat people stink because they can't reach everywhere cause their so fat?"
"That's my theory. They shower or whatever but there ain't no way they can scrub under every single fold of fat, right? That's why they smell. And its a common smell among fat people. I know, I've got my share of obese people who come through the store. It's all the same. I'm not makin fun...I'm tellin the facts."
"Yea, there are some stinky people who come into the bank and there's this one guy who just smells so bad, I just wana hurry up and count the money. He can't walk away fast enough for me."
"Hahaha, that's funny."
"Tell me about it.....hey, since when do you smoke cigars?"
"I dunno. Just when you said you wanted to smoke cigars. I have to say I've smoked more cigars then cigarettes lately. I guess that's a good way to stop smoking cigarettes. haha."
"We definitely need to go get some better cigars. These things just ain't cuttin' it."
"Yea. We need to find a good cigar shop. Did you know the cigs in the vending machine here are five bucks. That's bullshit."
"One time, me, **********, and *********** bought a cigar down in ********** and we all three were puffin at it for like an hour and we still weren't through with it before we couldn't take no more. That's a real cigar."
"That's cool. Hmm...I sure could go for some onion rings right about now."
Naked and Bleeding
Peel off my shirt
Unbuckle your belt
Kick off our shoes
Keep your socks on.
Nothing to lose
Don't worry
We'll clean up later.
Pull me away.
Hold me close.
Fast forward...then rewind.
Lost and tangled
Suffocating (...breathe...)
Falling apart(...stay close...)
Keep your head on.
Now all I feel are
Your finger prints on me.
Don't worry...all bruises fade.
Are you there yet?
Let it wash over you.
And let me watch.
Keep the lights on.
Then you ask about my scars.
Don't if you can't take
The bleeding.
For now I'm sitting on
Your shoulder...
With white wings and red tail.
Existing somwhere between
a temporary fascination..
and a long-term complication.
Unbuckle your belt
Kick off our shoes
Keep your socks on.
Nothing to lose
Don't worry
We'll clean up later.
Pull me away.
Hold me close.
Fast forward...then rewind.
Lost and tangled
Suffocating (...breathe...)
Falling apart(...stay close...)
Keep your head on.
Now all I feel are
Your finger prints on me.
Don't worry...all bruises fade.
Are you there yet?
Let it wash over you.
And let me watch.
Keep the lights on.
Then you ask about my scars.
Don't if you can't take
The bleeding.
For now I'm sitting on
Your shoulder...
With white wings and red tail.
Existing somwhere between
a temporary fascination..
and a long-term complication.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Two lesbians walk in....
Two lesbians walk into the store in a very nonchalant manner. I recognize them immediately.
I could refer to them as many things--"The two chicks who buy lots of fruity chews and candy" or the "The shrimp fried rice with extra shrimp chick and the pepper steak chick"...you get the drift. But the "two lesbians" seems so much more appropriate as I watch them walk right past me with interlocked pinkies to the back of the store to order some food.
One of them is on the hefty side with tiny braids crisscrossing her scalp. The other is slimmer with sleek black hair and long, hanging "Mother of Africa" tits. They were gorgeous, really, in their own right (the two individuals as well as the tits).
I could refer to them as many things--"The two chicks who buy lots of fruity chews and candy" or the "The shrimp fried rice with extra shrimp chick and the pepper steak chick"...you get the drift. But the "two lesbians" seems so much more appropriate as I watch them walk right past me with interlocked pinkies to the back of the store to order some food.
One of them is on the hefty side with tiny braids crisscrossing her scalp. The other is slimmer with sleek black hair and long, hanging "Mother of Africa" tits. They were gorgeous, really, in their own right (the two individuals as well as the tits).
Monday, April 18, 2005
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Recognition
She stood there, still like an icicle
Cold and unwavering, holding her breath
As he passed by
She had recognized him from afar
Far back from the trenches of
The past
And she sighed. Seeing a tangible
Form of him that so casually trailed
Through her mind so many times
It was like a dream. Was it really him?
Yes. Of course it is.
But she knew he did not recognize her.
Clutching her purse in one hand.
Squeezing the basket full of groceries
in the other.
She waits and lets his presence wash over her.
See me? She silently screams. Let my face
fall into place in the puzzle of your mind
And recognize me. Take that instant and
Sigh with surrender, and smile.
Tell me how much you've missed me.
And then we'll walk through the dairy and
cereal aisle and realize we both like 1% and
Captain Crunch. Let's get married.
But no, my fear grips me. You're a bit ahead of me now
Looking at the grapes. You look over your shoulder.
And see a girl picking lemons.
You think, Hey that girl sorta looks like......what's her name?
Even pessimism creeps into my hopeful thoughts.
And that's all. You turn back to your goddamn grapes.
Look how my mind has wrapped and twisted
Your presence into a wave of yearning and expectation
Only to crash onto the fragile sands of my hope
There's probably a girlfriend or a wife waiting
For you to bring home the groceries for dinner
And doesn't appreciate the kisses you offer before bed
So long ago, so long ago, but was it that long?
How could my memory fade so easily in your head
While your face was always present for me, clear and crystal
Yearnings of a madwoman, yearnings of a stalker
Sigh. This is silly. If I were normal, I could just walk
Up to you and start a conversation, end with an invitation
But I am an icicle, cold and unwavering
Cold and unwavering, holding her breath
As he passed by
She had recognized him from afar
Far back from the trenches of
The past
And she sighed. Seeing a tangible
Form of him that so casually trailed
Through her mind so many times
It was like a dream. Was it really him?
Yes. Of course it is.
But she knew he did not recognize her.
Clutching her purse in one hand.
Squeezing the basket full of groceries
in the other.
She waits and lets his presence wash over her.
See me? She silently screams. Let my face
fall into place in the puzzle of your mind
And recognize me. Take that instant and
Sigh with surrender, and smile.
Tell me how much you've missed me.
And then we'll walk through the dairy and
cereal aisle and realize we both like 1% and
Captain Crunch. Let's get married.
But no, my fear grips me. You're a bit ahead of me now
Looking at the grapes. You look over your shoulder.
And see a girl picking lemons.
You think, Hey that girl sorta looks like......what's her name?
Even pessimism creeps into my hopeful thoughts.
And that's all. You turn back to your goddamn grapes.
Look how my mind has wrapped and twisted
Your presence into a wave of yearning and expectation
Only to crash onto the fragile sands of my hope
There's probably a girlfriend or a wife waiting
For you to bring home the groceries for dinner
And doesn't appreciate the kisses you offer before bed
So long ago, so long ago, but was it that long?
How could my memory fade so easily in your head
While your face was always present for me, clear and crystal
Yearnings of a madwoman, yearnings of a stalker
Sigh. This is silly. If I were normal, I could just walk
Up to you and start a conversation, end with an invitation
But I am an icicle, cold and unwavering
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Here I am
Hmm...I've been called alot of things before. And recently I was called a racist, a liar, as well as being referred to as ignorant of the Vietnamese culture all in one unsuspecting morning when all I wanted to do was eat my cereal in peace.
Oh, please, don't make me gag, Anonymous Poster. But to clear some things up, Am I any of those things you so vehemently tag me as?
Sure, why not? (Even though it was not my intention to do so.) If it's the persona I'm taking when writing than that's my right and it's your right to call me that but with such hostility? Did I possibly stub your toe in a past life...or maybe hit you in the face with a dodgeball when we were in gym class in elementary school? If so, I apologize, I just don't know my own strength...
And referring to your lung cancer comment. Oh, man, I wish. Do you know how many more presents and money packets would be sent my way if that were the case. I'd probably get a sweet settlement from the tobacco companies too....Geez...You have no idea.
Oh, please, don't make me gag, Anonymous Poster. But to clear some things up, Am I any of those things you so vehemently tag me as?
Sure, why not? (Even though it was not my intention to do so.) If it's the persona I'm taking when writing than that's my right and it's your right to call me that but with such hostility? Did I possibly stub your toe in a past life...or maybe hit you in the face with a dodgeball when we were in gym class in elementary school? If so, I apologize, I just don't know my own strength...
And referring to your lung cancer comment. Oh, man, I wish. Do you know how many more presents and money packets would be sent my way if that were the case. I'd probably get a sweet settlement from the tobacco companies too....Geez...You have no idea.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Bronze
Sometimes she reflects on herself and the things that have made impressions, footprints and scars on her life.
She reminisces about some theory she can't quite remember the name of or who thought of it...but that they had discussed in class one day about the theories of human psyche development...one in particular about how we are constantly changing and we are different people placed in one solitary body. How who we were ten minutes ago has undergone numerous changes and now ten minutes later you are a different being. This brings comfort to her mind...
The theory rings true to her as she lays by the pool and thinks of who she is in this moment. The girl in the fuschia bikini and swimming shorts lying on the plastic lawn chair bronzing in the beating sun and feeling the beads of sweat form on her smooth skin and the contact of the plastic lining on her body. She'll probably have imprints on her thighs and stomach. She revels in the weight of the cigarette smoke filling her lungs contrasted with the lightheaded dizziness in her head that puts her into an almost hypnotic state. But she isn't a chain smoker. She only does it on occasion when the situation deems fit and today in the deliciously lazy afternoon of nothingness, a few cigarettes aren't only a spontaneous pleasure, but a neccessity to raise the bar of relaxtion.
She turns over and continues reading her book which she is drinking in like an alcoholic to vodka because she had been on a literary hiatus for some weeks now for lack of time to go to the library. This novel was particulary enjoyable because the author had an uncanny style of writing similar to her own and she internally aspired to have her own thoughts binded in a tangible form like this and maybe somewhere along the road in the future, some stranger would be sitting in their lounge chair next to the fire with her book in hand thinking exactly what she was thinking at this moment...That's damn good writing. She couldn't discern which was more enticing--the thought of other people's praise as validation or a final conclusion to her own lost journey for value and self-worth?
The next few days of nothingness were like gold flecks in a watering pan. She took one glance at the passing clouds and closed her eyes and pushed all thoughts of the impending cease of all of this by the end of week when she would be tossed back into the mundane life in Dallas where she would be back behind the cash register where no one knew her name, but only her feigning smile.
She reminisces about some theory she can't quite remember the name of or who thought of it...but that they had discussed in class one day about the theories of human psyche development...one in particular about how we are constantly changing and we are different people placed in one solitary body. How who we were ten minutes ago has undergone numerous changes and now ten minutes later you are a different being. This brings comfort to her mind...
The theory rings true to her as she lays by the pool and thinks of who she is in this moment. The girl in the fuschia bikini and swimming shorts lying on the plastic lawn chair bronzing in the beating sun and feeling the beads of sweat form on her smooth skin and the contact of the plastic lining on her body. She'll probably have imprints on her thighs and stomach. She revels in the weight of the cigarette smoke filling her lungs contrasted with the lightheaded dizziness in her head that puts her into an almost hypnotic state. But she isn't a chain smoker. She only does it on occasion when the situation deems fit and today in the deliciously lazy afternoon of nothingness, a few cigarettes aren't only a spontaneous pleasure, but a neccessity to raise the bar of relaxtion.
She turns over and continues reading her book which she is drinking in like an alcoholic to vodka because she had been on a literary hiatus for some weeks now for lack of time to go to the library. This novel was particulary enjoyable because the author had an uncanny style of writing similar to her own and she internally aspired to have her own thoughts binded in a tangible form like this and maybe somewhere along the road in the future, some stranger would be sitting in their lounge chair next to the fire with her book in hand thinking exactly what she was thinking at this moment...That's damn good writing. She couldn't discern which was more enticing--the thought of other people's praise as validation or a final conclusion to her own lost journey for value and self-worth?
The next few days of nothingness were like gold flecks in a watering pan. She took one glance at the passing clouds and closed her eyes and pushed all thoughts of the impending cease of all of this by the end of week when she would be tossed back into the mundane life in Dallas where she would be back behind the cash register where no one knew her name, but only her feigning smile.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Meatball War
My father had been having a very tiresome morning.
It didn't help that my mother kept pestering him about things that were neither here nor there which made it just empty air transforming into lead weights dropping into his ears. And yet his bottomless well of patience helped him keep his hands steady on the steering wheel and his right foot not too heavy on the pedal.
"....and when are you going to clean out the back shed? And then the grass? I could probably feed all the cows in India with all the tall grass growing wild back there..."
"I'll get to it when I get to it."
I had been hearing their constant back and forth trivialities since I was young and it had become commonplace now. I'd learned to zone them out and tune into my internal radio or listen to the melodious voice of Joseph Fiennes as his perfect English accent falls from his lips.
"And I don't want you going over to George's anymore. All they ever do is talk you into playing cards and you don't even know how to play poker! Don't you know that's the only reason why they want you over there?-- To take all of our money!"
"Yes, dear, it's a conspiracy between George and his wife to see us on the streets because they have nothing else better to do." My father said this in his monotone voice, dripping with sarcasm.
My father was always a calm man, never really raising his voice with mom or any of us kids. But when he got upset you can tell with his eyes and his pensive silence that could crack concrete.
"Don't you get smart with me, mister. You're not going and that's that."
He always let my mother win even though he'd probably find a way to go to George's anyhow while conning my mother into making George a custard pie, too. He always had magic tricks.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Hong Kong Supermarket and my mother said she'd be over at the tofu shop and me and dad were supposed to go buy some bread at the bakery.
As we walked side by side, daughter and father, I could tell he was glad to be away from my mother even for just a few minutes. In the little strip of vendors, there was a bustle of people doing their Sunday shopping.
I asked dad, "Should we buy $1.00 or $2.00 worth of bread?" And realized he had wandered off to one of the neighboring vendors. I decided two bucks and quickly paid the baker and went to find my father.
His salt and pepper hair stuck out in the crowd in front of the Vietnamese fast food place. I realized that there was a sort of verbal argument going on. And it was being led by my father.
"All I want is one meatball! Why can't I buy what I want? You have plenty of meatballs there, just let me buy one for a $1.00!" I stared in a twisted ball of embarassment and shock, letting my eyes flick back and forth to see if anyone around looked familiar but luckily they were all strangers.
The old woman behind the counter had a stern face, small eyes, and powder white skin as if she'd pressed her face in a vat of flour. She might have been beautiful when she was younger but now she just looked like a bitter old hag who wouldn't sell a meatball to my father.
"We have a $2.00 purchase minimum. You have to buy two for two dollars."
My father huffed and I could see his eyes turn a red hue. He was pretty upset. But my embarassment seemed to have melted and I was enjoying watching my father's battle.
"$2.00! What if I was a hungry man on the street with just one dollar and needed something to eat?! Would you still make me buy two dollars worth. You old woman, you don't know anything! Where's the manager? I know you're not the manager. Tell the manager to come out here!!"
The old woman rolled her eyes and called out to the back for the manager who was a young man. Maybe her son?
Dad leaned on the counter and pointed to the pile of meatballs. "I want a meatball. Just one. N0t two. Not three. Not a half. One for a dollar! But this old hag won't sell me one. What kind of business are you running here?"
Hmm...does dad really like these meatballs this much? And I know he had three dollars in his hand, not just one. I stood placidly behind him wondering if people were wondering how embarassed I was feeling when in reality, I was happy my dad was doing this. I also didn't know how to speak Vietnamese so I coudln't chime in.
Finally the exasperated manager gave into my father's reasoning and packed up one meatball to go and took my father's crumpled dollar.
Even though he hadn't been in many confrontations in his life, he was walking away weary from this battle yet, my triumphant dad held his head high with his trophy meatball held tightly between his hands.
It didn't help that my mother kept pestering him about things that were neither here nor there which made it just empty air transforming into lead weights dropping into his ears. And yet his bottomless well of patience helped him keep his hands steady on the steering wheel and his right foot not too heavy on the pedal.
"....and when are you going to clean out the back shed? And then the grass? I could probably feed all the cows in India with all the tall grass growing wild back there..."
"I'll get to it when I get to it."
I had been hearing their constant back and forth trivialities since I was young and it had become commonplace now. I'd learned to zone them out and tune into my internal radio or listen to the melodious voice of Joseph Fiennes as his perfect English accent falls from his lips.
"And I don't want you going over to George's anymore. All they ever do is talk you into playing cards and you don't even know how to play poker! Don't you know that's the only reason why they want you over there?-- To take all of our money!"
"Yes, dear, it's a conspiracy between George and his wife to see us on the streets because they have nothing else better to do." My father said this in his monotone voice, dripping with sarcasm.
My father was always a calm man, never really raising his voice with mom or any of us kids. But when he got upset you can tell with his eyes and his pensive silence that could crack concrete.
"Don't you get smart with me, mister. You're not going and that's that."
He always let my mother win even though he'd probably find a way to go to George's anyhow while conning my mother into making George a custard pie, too. He always had magic tricks.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Hong Kong Supermarket and my mother said she'd be over at the tofu shop and me and dad were supposed to go buy some bread at the bakery.
As we walked side by side, daughter and father, I could tell he was glad to be away from my mother even for just a few minutes. In the little strip of vendors, there was a bustle of people doing their Sunday shopping.
I asked dad, "Should we buy $1.00 or $2.00 worth of bread?" And realized he had wandered off to one of the neighboring vendors. I decided two bucks and quickly paid the baker and went to find my father.
His salt and pepper hair stuck out in the crowd in front of the Vietnamese fast food place. I realized that there was a sort of verbal argument going on. And it was being led by my father.
"All I want is one meatball! Why can't I buy what I want? You have plenty of meatballs there, just let me buy one for a $1.00!" I stared in a twisted ball of embarassment and shock, letting my eyes flick back and forth to see if anyone around looked familiar but luckily they were all strangers.
The old woman behind the counter had a stern face, small eyes, and powder white skin as if she'd pressed her face in a vat of flour. She might have been beautiful when she was younger but now she just looked like a bitter old hag who wouldn't sell a meatball to my father.
"We have a $2.00 purchase minimum. You have to buy two for two dollars."
My father huffed and I could see his eyes turn a red hue. He was pretty upset. But my embarassment seemed to have melted and I was enjoying watching my father's battle.
"$2.00! What if I was a hungry man on the street with just one dollar and needed something to eat?! Would you still make me buy two dollars worth. You old woman, you don't know anything! Where's the manager? I know you're not the manager. Tell the manager to come out here!!"
The old woman rolled her eyes and called out to the back for the manager who was a young man. Maybe her son?
Dad leaned on the counter and pointed to the pile of meatballs. "I want a meatball. Just one. N0t two. Not three. Not a half. One for a dollar! But this old hag won't sell me one. What kind of business are you running here?"
Hmm...does dad really like these meatballs this much? And I know he had three dollars in his hand, not just one. I stood placidly behind him wondering if people were wondering how embarassed I was feeling when in reality, I was happy my dad was doing this. I also didn't know how to speak Vietnamese so I coudln't chime in.
Finally the exasperated manager gave into my father's reasoning and packed up one meatball to go and took my father's crumpled dollar.
Even though he hadn't been in many confrontations in his life, he was walking away weary from this battle yet, my triumphant dad held his head high with his trophy meatball held tightly between his hands.
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