tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55181522021631775392024-02-20T17:29:09.476-08:00The Hot One.Short stories. To read.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5518152202163177539.post-10886425912203697892014-05-18T17:06:00.000-07:002014-06-21T18:32:59.329-07:00The Iguana. An email to my friends.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
2012. Circa.<br />
<br />
Yeah, sooooo... I'm house sitting and in charge of feeding my friend's pets
while they are in Hawaii.<br />
<br />
Today, which is only my second day of feeding, I arrive at the compound to
hear the loud cluck, cluck, clucking of the chicken who is very much trapped
and hungry in his little red hutch. His hutch smells like farm crap as I
release the latch to throw in a handful of feed, as though I am Laura Ingalls.
Gross. He begins pecking immediately... as he is starved, I imagine. While
he's pecking about, I have to forage around in the hutch underneath him
for the two tan, speckled (might I add ORGANIC) eggs which are laying in
waiting. Eggs in hand, I maneuver out his plastic watering contraption,
which I discover is a tad fetid and smells like shit...so I have to be careful
not to spill it on my heels as I walk ahead to find the water spigget. I set
the eggs down, they will go in the fridge with the other dozen collecting
there. While I go to the water, I realize I've forgotten to latch the
hutch, so as I return with his water, I see the chicken happily hopping
about yelling, "I'm freeeee! I'm freeee!" I run after it, heels and
all, and grab it's fat body and throw it back in the coop. I'm in heels because
I have to go be a book keeper in 30 minutes at my freelance job in Culver City.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
I continue on the side pathway of the compound to tend to the separately caged
rabbit and two guinea pigs. Rabbit is jumpin' up on the cage like, "Yo,
son, Where you beeeeen?" I quickly throw some hay his way and he is chill.
The Guinea's on the other hand are so freaking parched because their water
bottle is MacGyver-rigged and it has fallen down. It has been one day
since I've visited, so about 36 hours with no water. The black and white
one's mouth is moving so fast as he tries to clamp on the silver watering tube,
I have to say, "Whoa, Charlie [not his name] slow your roll." But he
doesn't slow, nor does he move aside so Brown and White can get a grip on the
water, too. Fighting ensues. Brown and White whines, "Can a brother get a
drink of water..????!?!" Black and White, not letting
go "No". So Brown and White snaps and chest bumps 'til Black
and White finally moves. He then just runs around to cage like a crazy
person (guinea) til the other finally moves.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
I head inside to feed the cat. All is well there. She is meowing like crazy. So
lonely. She nuzzles me so many times, I feel I am being molested a
bit. I can only pet her so many times; I do have to get to work after all.<br />
<br />
Time for the Iguana. In the bathroom. In the back. I place the organic eggs in
the fridge and grab some kale and carrots and head on my way across the stone
floor. Kitty is trailing me, weaving between my legs, tripping me up. I've
taken off my heels as so not to track dirt in the house from the farm.<br />
<br />
I get to the bathroom and approach the very large cage which is
behind the sink near the window. I'm peering through my glasses, cocking my
head, standing on tip toe, looking, looking, looking for the
multi-colored, mostly green scaly Igster amongst the foliage and wood in
the cage. Igster is at least 4 feet long. Distinctive mohawk. Little hard
to hide. Hmmm.<br />
<br />
"Where's the Iguana?" I say out loud to Kitty. She looks at me,
"I dunno." I look at the cage again, and there, low and
behold, the little door is wide open. Igster has escaped.<br />
<br />
I start frantically looking around, kale and carrot still in hand..."Kitty,
where ...is...the Iguana...?!!!" Her gray round face has no answers for
me, even though I KNOW she knows.<br />
<br />
Now, I'm scared and late for work. I imagine Igster is staring at me from under
a bed or something. I have no shoes on, I'm half waiting for him to slither
across my toes and scrape me with his Iguana claws. I'm
scared. There are so many closets, and doors and beds and this and that,
Igster can be anywhere. I run back out to my car for my cell, because I now
have to send an alert text to Hawaii: "There's a problem. No Iguana".
I wait for a response. It comes: "That's a problem".<br />
<br />
I text, "Will he bite me when I find him?"<br />
<br />
Text response, "If you find him, cover with a towel. His tail whips. You
need an extra set of hands if possible."<br />
<br />
So....<br />
<br />
Who wants to go hunt an Iguana with me tomorrow? :)<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5518152202163177539.post-63500052000810357942014-05-06T14:17:00.000-07:002014-05-07T09:01:44.493-07:00Time.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The California morning sun blazed on my shoulders as I sipped my hot green tea in my office.<br />
<br />
My office, which is actually my back porch, is my special place in the morning. My cat arrives to the office before I do, and sits on her chair like a time clock, alerting and reminding me that the sun will only be in the right position from 8:00 am to 9:30 am, and I'd better hurry and punch in if I want enjoy this part of the morning. This is the time we both like. She yawns and settles into the chair, the sun covering her like a blanket as she curls into a little black ball; and I sit opposite her while the sun massages my shoulders and rubs my temples and sometimes even holds my hand while I contemplate life, bills, freelancing, family, more bills, global warming and other things.<br />
<br />
I click, point and skim through the headlines of the day on my lap top; I should be spending my time otherwise.<br />
<br />
I was reading of other's triumphs and trials and bizarro-ness all while purposefully avoiding my own life when I heard a buzzing above my head. My porch is enclosed by a clear plastic covering with grooves, which if painted blue, might resemble the type of rippled waves of the ocean caused by a passing motor boat that are choppy and tiny by the time they reach your feet. There, in one of the plastic grooves was a honey bee. It was flitting about; its fuzzy black and yellow body hopping from one buzzing wing to another as though it were on a hot griddle. I rose, and peering under it through the plastic roof, I could see its tiny feelers frantically waving up and down in distress.<br />
<br />
I could tell it was dying. I've skimmed enough headlines to know.<br />
<br />
I felt helpless as its legs slowly started to curl underneath itself in that awkward triangular way. I reached up to gingerly touch the bee through the hard plastic, hoping I was offering some sort of comfort as its head dipped forward into a ball.<br />
<br />
I held my grandma's hand as she lay dying in the hospital of ovarian cancer. I wasn't there for her final breath, but I was there while she withered away with each passing breath that eventually lead her to the final one.<br />
<br />
The bee stopped moving so quickly. The buzzing grew quiet. I kept my fingers there. Hoping. But like the precious time with grandma, where I hoped something else would happen other than what was inevitable and beyond my control, it expired.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5518152202163177539.post-10802968960450457922014-02-20T09:15:00.001-08:002014-02-20T10:14:26.050-08:00Cherub Chasing.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The little boy roared. His arms were raised, hands spread, like the hands of a monster. His round caramel face was that of a cherub even when trying to frighten the children he was running after on the McDonald's play land. As he ran, his little feet, stuffed in socks and rugged gladiator sandals, pattered about on tiptoe which made his actions that much more amusing to watch.<br />
<br />
He was having so much fun.<br />
<br />
I sipped my black coffee as I watched them through the glass, unable to hear the shrieks of the three long-haired, blond brothers my little cherub was chasing.<br />
<br />
But he wasn't my cherub at all. He belonged to the man whom he ran to for a hug when he tripped over his own stomping sandals. He belonged to his baby brother who he kissed clumsily before returning to play and left to rest peacefully in his stroller next to the dad. He belonged to a momma who wasn't there. He didn't belong to me.<br />
<br />
Still, I watched him and thought about what if he had.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5518152202163177539.post-60909779918111036112014-02-04T10:07:00.002-08:002014-02-20T09:20:04.315-08:00Love Hunger.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's feast or famine<br />
When I examine<br />
How<br />
I love.<br />
<br />
She thought about tattooing that to her arm today. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5518152202163177539.post-68202825375283045602013-09-23T19:14:00.001-07:002013-09-23T19:18:14.921-07:00On Gray Days.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On gray days, like today, she wondered where the sun went.
Wondered if it went on hiatus as had her own will to create joy. Wondered if it
was secluded in a cozy café drinking the cup of coffee she’d given up, worried
that too much caffeine was the cause of all her troubles, as the magazines told
her. Wondered if it had just …given up. She twisted her brown hair wistfully between
her long fingers while sipping her Ginger tea from a white mug with a red heart
on it and staring out her bay window at the gray that enveloped the cars and people and trucks and
dogs and trees and flowers as they carried on without the sunshine. As she
stared, she decided, with an encouraging smile that grazed her lips briefly, “…If
they can do it, shouldn’t I…?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She sipped the herbal, now at least thirty minutes old and
still trying to hold on to some warmth like a grandma does her memories of
youth. The tea wasn’t bad. It was certainly no Intelligentsia, but it wasn’t
bad. She figured she could learn to like it. Like liver. Or like now. Learning
to like the gray that was doing nothing wrong, but merely existing and clouding
her thoughts with ideas on where the sun had gone. She wondered why she focused
on the one day, out of at least twenty-five or more, where there was no sun,
rather than focusing on all those others when it did exist. She felt
ungrateful; “Sorry,” she said, to no one. She was alone, as was often the case,
these days. She wiggled her toes in her rainbow-striped socks as she sat at her
butcher-block kitchen table; the whir of the fridge keeping her company. She looked
at its beige-ness. Beige. It had come
with the apartment. She relished the day she would be able to buy her own
spankin’ new refrigerator. (Would she pick stainless steel? A shiny lacquered
Red one? A vintage, 1970s yellow number…?) That day felt far away, but she knew
it would come. It would come and she wouldn’t be alone. The kitchen would be
filled with the voices she’d been dreaming of; big ones and little ones
belonging to those who would fulfill her life and not give her the luxury to
sit and lament about the color of the sky. Until then, she was at one with
beige. She looked at a yellow sticky note trapped under a blue magnet with a
motivational motivator: “In twenty years, you’ll regret what you didn’t do
today…” or something like that. She’d read it so many times over the years in
the rented kitchen, that she stopped reading what it actually said and chose to
remember what she thought it said. She sighed, “Same difference.” She turned
from the fridge, back to the window and the life outside it, because she
remembered that the months’ old note under the magnet shouted, “BUY FRIDGE
LIGHT!!!” The little bulb inside the refrigerator had given up. She’d been meaning to get another one. Although
it was dark in the fridge, somehow she stopped caring that she couldn’t see the
orange juice when she tiptoed at night in her PJs to swig from it. But, maybe it was time she did. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She rose, swallowed the last of her tea and
stretched as she placed the cup in the porcelain sink. She grabbed the sticky
note and threw it in the trash bin under the sink. She repositioned the magnet and
smiled as she read it again because she hoped that when the voices finally came,
one by one as they only could come, the ones that would color her life, that
the magnet would be right and that she’d have no regrets. Even on gray days.</span></span></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5518152202163177539.post-17268684154486021302013-02-26T13:59:00.002-08:002013-02-26T14:02:21.784-08:00Trans-Fixed.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I’ll admit I have a curious nature about myself. If there is a shiny, silver nickel in the gutter, I’ll wonder how it got there and to whom it belonged. If there is a discarded leather chair on the side of the road, I’ll first wonder if there are bed bugs in it and if so, if that is the reason it has been chucked from the warmth of its former home…and then I will wonder who sat in it, when they sat in it, and if the sitter was anything like Archie Bunker.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don’t let my curiosity get the best of me…I’m good about it only leading me so far. I have no desire to be killed (like a cat). That is why one late night when I saw two pair of empty shoes (Chuck Taylor’s and women’s ballerina flats) abandoned in front of an ATM on Magnolia in North Hollywood, I let it alone, because clearly they had either been abducted by aliens while trying to get cash from the SAG/AFTRA ATM…or worse. There was an empty parking lot nearby and I could only imagine that some mean guy had carted them off into the darkness after forcing not only their pin number from them, but also from out of their shoes.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have this same curiosity about the Transvestites that work on Santa Monica Boulevard and Highland in Hollywood.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
If you live in Los Angeles, or visited, you’ve seen these ladies working their stuff up and down Santa Monica and/or congregating at the Donut Shop on the north east corner. You’ve watched with awe and sometimes shock at the outfits, at the hair, at the sashaying, at the chatty-Kathy coffee-clutch gaggle of them as they sit at the bus stop jawing about God knows what. (And you know I want to know!)</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The other day, I’d just finished a great breakfast meeting with a friend at the Hollywood Corner restaurant which is on Highland and Lexington, just a few blocks South of Santa Monica. I sat in my car as I planned the rest of my day via my smartphone. I looked up in thought and from my driver’s side window, I noticed a shiny silver purse and a shirt thrown on top of a garage across the street. “Arrrrguuu-ment” I thought as I imagined a hissy fit that involved Tranny 1 mad at Tranny 2 for steppin’ in on her man. I’d hoped there was nothing valuable in the purse and that they’d made up by now.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
As I stared at the purse, a lovely lady with flowing Britney-blond hair and Marie-Antoinette pale skin came into view as the street light changed at the corner. He was pedaling like Mary Poppins on a very cute bicycle, with not a Mary Poppin’s worry about him. I wondered if he was headed home or if he was roaming the block looking for work...? He wore a cap, black fitted tank top, black thigh-high boots and short-shorts as he strolled by. As he neared, I felt he was going for Liza Minnelli in “Cabaret”, but quite expired for the outfit as he may have been about 60 years old. He reminded me of (perhaps) the only Transvestite in Kenosha, Wisconsin. She would come into the McDonald’s where I worked in high school. I always thought of the courage she had, walking into McD’s with the wig and the matted fur coat; full blue and green make up at 7am on a Sunday; the bad nude Walgreen’s hose and the sensible size 11 heels. I wondered if she was lonely…what is life like as you become an aging Transvestite? I always smiled my best smile as I handed her her morning coffee, and she would smile back just as warmly through her bright pink lipstick.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Blond Liza sailed by my driver’s side and I was alone with my smartphone. But, not for long! I was next visited by someone I'll call, Brown Roxie. I saw her legs first as she Tyra Banked across the cross walk in front of me. She had very, very nice legs -- quite toned. I was almost jealous until she turned her torso to address some incessant honking; it was then I saw way too much ass. Roxie was wearing extra-small bikini-cut bootie shorts circa Xanadu. She wore army boots, and a tank. Her very short, low fade looked fantastic. (I wondered if she was working yet because she didn't have a weave...but, then, there is a huge trend towards being natural these days, so...). Roxie walked past me and I couldn't help but stare at her sashaying butt in my rear-view mirror and she caught me, which was highly embarrassing. She stopped as she looked at me through the window; confused or maybe annoyed with me. I looked down. I was intruding. Still, I wondered. Was Brown Roxie going home, too? Was this the outfit she wore to go get milk at 7-eleven? I wonder so many things because I don’t know. If I asked, would Brown Roxie have coffee with me at Hollywood Corner and let me ask any question I wanted??</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Brown Roxie’s firm butt bounced about in my brain as crazy Trixie rounded the corner and ended up on the sidewalk near my car on the passenger side. She was in a trendy army coat; rocked ripped, cute black leggings and was wearing ear bud headphones...now Trixie was rocking her brown weave, to and fro; fro and to as she started doing pivot turns on the block. Her long, square-cut French manicure fingernails caressed a wooden telephone while she sauntered around it and drew on a cigarette. She seemed bored, or preoccupied. But, she started dancing. And singing. And twerking. Was there music in the earphones? Who knows. Do working-girl Tranny’s go for anyone who is interested, including women? I mean, for all she knows, I was lurking in my car trying to score or something. I have to think that that is why I was getting Beyonce’s half-hearted half-time show that took place in the space of two sidewalk squares.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I’m not any closer to understanding the world of these ladies than when I moved to LA or when I served my friend at McDonald’s. But, I hope one day to get over my curiosity and just ask.</div>
</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5518152202163177539.post-31299277727119061062012-10-23T13:08:00.001-07:002012-10-23T13:12:42.648-07:00Uncertainty.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">In Los Angeles, there are plenty of things to do when you feel
anxious that your life is going nowhere and you don’t know where to turn. You
can drink crappy wine out of a sippy cup while curled up in your bed watching
“Scandal” via Netflix on your smartphone; you can sit on your coffee table and
stare at your front door for hours while you talk yourself in and out of what
to do and where to go should you decide to put your hand on the door knob and
make it do something, or…you can go to the beach.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I live in the Valley which is about forty-five minutes from
Venice Beach -- without traffic. It took some effort to get myself in my car
and drive to what many people pay several hundred dollars in vacation money to
experience. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">As I walked through the bronzed sand towards the pier, the sun
smiled a warm, ”Welcome!” and a gentle breeze hugged me as if to say, “We’ve
missed you.” I took off my hoody and allowed them to usher me in and make
myself comfortable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I found myself at the end of the pier where I leaned against the
metal railing more for comfort than safety, and watched not the people so much,
but the pelicans. They were yawning. Didn’t know they could do that. There was
something soothing about watching those prehistoric-looking birds open their
huge beaks for the sole purpose of …relaxing. As though an appetizer to
nature’s four-course meal to come, I enjoyed that moment and felt ready for
whatever was coming next. I turned my attention to the guys fishing. Among the
dozen or so, there was one who caught my attention. He was younger than “the
regulars”…the retired Hispanic, Armenian and maybe Russian grandpas with years
of experience etched in their foreheads as they sat near their white buckets of
water ready to hold their catch of the day. This guy was 20-ish, full of
enthusiasm and brown, like me. He caught me looking at him and jubilantly waved
me over. Naturally, like a spoon to soup, I dipped over to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">He was a nice guy. Twenty-seven. Ja-MAY-can. No dreads. His name
was Prince or George. I called him <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Prince
George</st1:place></st1:city>. He did construction but was a chef back home. Which me missed terribly. He told me how he prepares the Halibut or Lobster he might catch. Yummy. I
found that intriguing. Intriguing enough to sit and watch and chat about water,
fish, life and such. Three hours later he invited me to go get a chili corn
dog…we walked to the boardwalk and ordered our grub. I had a burger, no dogs
for me…but quite possibly when of the best worst burgers I’d had in a while. As
we wiped our mouths and fed remaining French fries to the Seagulls who’d become
our guests, I quietly asked if I could fish too since he had two poles. He
said, “Yes!” I smiled politely, but inside, yodeled, “Yee-hah!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">There were more and new people in the space we left. I parked
myself between Kevin (a film lighting guy) and a 10-year-old girl with long
dark hair and big eyes…she was so cute and a pro. Her madre sold tamales to the
fishermen. She smiled at me with encouragement; I do believe she could tell I
hadn’t really been fishing since I was about her age. I cast my line out over
the railing and into the vast ocean with gusto. I watched my line ebb and flow
in the depths of the dark blue-green water. I couldn’t help but feel like the
bait on my hook: an entity cast into a world of unknown harnessed with a
purpose that was non-specifically specific. I’m a writer/actor/producer who
lives a life of uncertainty. Uncertainty, no matter what your profession, is
unsettling, like the ocean...but, like the ocean, can also offer such reward.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While
pondering this, I felt my line tug…the little girl smiled at me and motioned
for me to pull out the line as I jumped with excitement that something was <i>happening</i>! I pulled out my line and saw
my prize: a little, tiny Smelt. It was my Smelt and I was happy for the
success. The girl and Prince George helped me get him safely off the line and
we threw him back in. I waved as I saw him swim back to his family. I quickly
got new bait and went at it again! I caught two more Smelt, some
“Croakers”/King Fish and a baby Perch. By then, dusk was skimming the horizon; the
little girl had left with her mother; and Prince George had retreated to the
benches and was listening to his headphones. He was bored whereas I was still
havin’ a smashing time. Then it happened. I felt my rod jerk again – but this
time, whatever was there was heavier than anything I’d caught so far. Oh God.
What if I’d caught Jaws or a 25lb catfish or a baby sea monster? I started to
pull him in, but was having trouble. Yikes. Yikes. YIKES! I keep turning to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Prince George</st1:place></st1:city>… “Help
George! HELP!”…but he couldn’t hear me ‘cause he was rhymin’ way out-loud along
with 50 Cent. Finally, one of the Hispanic fisher grandpas who’d caught and
already filleted a four-foot “Guitar” shark moseyed over to Prince George and
nudged him. Fisher ‘Pa said nothing, just nodded his head toward me, the
wide-eyed damsel in distress. Prince George jumped up and rescued me. We pulled
in the line, well, <i>he</i> pulled in the
line, and there flopping on the end was not Jaws or a monster, but a medium-sized
Bass!! I was thrilled! Once again, we removed the hook and threw him back, just
like all the others. I finally bid adieu to Prince George, and I beamed as I
walked down the pier and zipped my hoody. I felt nourished and successful and
knew with certainty, that there is happiness in the uncertain.</span><span style="font-family: Courier New; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5518152202163177539.post-19704074037476130182011-09-22T11:10:00.000-07:002011-09-22T11:10:05.930-07:00The Gum Smacker.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">It was silent, except for the constant smish-smash smacking sound of the gum being brutalized and manipulated between the molars of the man’s mouth. When his teeth weren’t man-handling the Wrigley’s that she imagined had been in his mouth since the day before, his tongue maneuvered around to do the rest. (She hypothesized that he was a terrible, terrible French kisser.) His lips were drawn tightly against his teeth as his jaw jumped up and down like a jack hammer on the loose. The longer he chewed the gum, she swore the sound became more amplified…like there was a microphone right underneath his chin and the speaker was wired directly into her head.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">She wanted to punch him to get him to stop. And she was a petite girl. She wanted to jump on all fours across the room and straddle his body as though she were a werewolf in heat and them pummel his head with her fists until that damn wad of grey gum he was slurping was released from the slimy captivity of his mouth. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">She knew the more humane thing to do would be to politely ask him to chew with his mouth closed. Or maybe ask him something funny like, “How’s that gum tasting?” Or, “Do you have any more gum because you’re sure making that piece SOUND really good.” But, she knew she didn’t have the balls to say anything. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Instead she sat there and got more and more heated as she turned the pages of her magazine harder and faster and huffed and puffed louder and harder…hoping this subliminal message would get him to shut the fuck up.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">But then a miracle happened. His name was called and he left. He took his mouth with him. The speaker in her head melted into nothingingness. Her shoulders relaxed. The lines on her forehead relaxed. A smile returned to her lips. She was thankful. All was right with the world.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5518152202163177539.post-37180558614185432062011-09-15T17:16:00.000-07:002011-09-15T17:16:06.775-07:00Missing The Point.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">She turned up the radio as she placed her elbow on the warm driver’s side window. Traffic was going no where in a hurry and she was late to work, again. Her opportunity to avoid being late had been consumed earlier that morning. She’d spent fifteen minutes standing in her mismatched underwear in front of her closet. She had stared longingly at the cute clothes she wanted to put on: a tank top, some cut-off jean shorts, a cute vintage vest. But it was Ugly Monday, a day that wouldn’t allow such things. In those fifteen minutes, she’d used every bit of rationing she could to get herself to push some clothes aside and find a skirt and jacket, suitable “Monday Gear”, to then get her to the next phase of the morning: hair and make up. She pushed. Pushed again. And pushed one more time until she found a skirt she felt she could manage living in for eight hours. She reached for the skirt’s wire hanger, but the hanger had turned into an unruly four-year old who’d just been told it was time to leave the playground. The hanger didn’t scream, of course, but it hung onto another hanger like a kid with a strong hold on the jungle gym. She tugged. She wrestled. She cursed. She negotiated. She gave up. Kinda. Angry, she stomped her un-manicured foot and she started to rearrange her closet so that this would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never happen again</i>! How dare her closet make her late? Bad closet, BAD! She rearranged for a gooood seventeen minutes. Still in her underwear. Still nowhere near hair and make up. Still just not anywhere near close to leaving for work. (This sorta thing happened often her life. She was working on it. Just not today.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once she was satisfied with the tidy effects of her scolding, she had jumped into her gear, ran across her parking lot in bare feet with heels in hand and jumped into the car thinking somehow she had won. …</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Through her amber-tinted shades, she glanced up at shadowed palm trees towering in the hazy morning sun. She leaned her head back and tried to allow the sun’s warm fingers to massage her temples as she sang along with Christina Aguilera: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I am beautiful…in every single way…”</i> A tear slid down her face. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel beautiful; she knew that she was, just not all the time. Like right now. She didn’t bother to wipe the tear away. Instead, she lifted her head from its comforting place and reached for her make-up bag on her lap. She slid on a smooth glide of lip gloss. She didn’t need a mirror. She’d had years of practice of getting beautiful in the car. But, to make sure she didn’t look like Jennifer Coolidge in “Best in Show”, she took a glance. As she made eye contact with herself, she knew she shoulda promised herself something else, something remotely encouraging, but instead she promised herself, “No more wire hangers!”.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5518152202163177539.post-57499858301841268562011-09-01T15:10:00.000-07:002011-09-01T15:14:23.534-07:00Mirror Image.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I saw her before she saw me. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Her walk was clear. Deliberate. Like a college student after acing one final exam heading to the next. She was younger and shorter than I, and thinner. Petite. Her hair was pulled back into a long sleek pony. She was conservative. Her dress and shoes were not.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I wondered if she was a hooker. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Even in the shade of night punctuated by steel grey street lamps and Sunset Boulevard-inspired headlights, her cherry-bomb red dress signaled like a beacon. Its full skirt swung at her knees as she walked. The halter had a navel-plunging V-neck like those weird-o swimsuits that became popular a few years ago that certain girls wore with jeans. In a different time and place, the dress was demure and fashionable. Something Marilyn Monroe might have rocked. But <city><place>Hollywood</place></city> and bad knock-off designers had gotten to it and now, here it was. Serving some kind of purpose.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">We were within a few yards of each other. Our heels tick-tocking on the pavement in unrealized time. Her heels were stilettos and Gladiator in style while mine were Jessica Simpson 1940s faux-crocodile replicas. I too wore a full-skirted dress. Something Marilyn Monroe would have rocked. Mine was longer. Black. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">To the naked eye, we could have been the same. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The gap separating us diminished. She wore black square rimmed glasses. And no make up. Maybe she was a college student. And a hooker. But what hooker doesn’t wear make up? As we passed each other, she discretely pulled the top of her dress closed a bit. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I thought I said hello. If I did, she didn’t return the greeting.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">It was <time hour="2" minute="0">2:00 am</time>. The traffic around us continued to thrive as though we didn’t. As though we were just two ordinary women walking the street. Alone. At night. At <time hour="2" minute="0">2:00am</time>. On Sunset Boulevard. Wearing dresses. As we passed each other, I turned back to see if she was thinking the same. If she was, I’ll never know.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5518152202163177539.post-19120257739496076232011-08-25T16:43:00.000-07:002011-08-25T16:46:06.430-07:00Delay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">She barely bothered to look up from her library book as the drone of a conductor announced over the crackly intercom that there would be a delay in service. There was always a delay in service. Just like her life. Delay. Delay. Delay….Delay. She closed her book and placed it squarely on her lap as the train slowed and she thought about her destination. She was headed to a Sperm-a-rama in <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Chelsea</place></city>. A donation clinic. Yes. It had come to this. She hadn’t had the fairy-tale romance with the cute Biology nerd in high school who would have turned into her Prince Kinda Charming. Instead, she’d had decades of non-relationship relationships that turned both her psyche and her romantic notion of futuristic nuptials into a confusing heap of nothingness. (At least that’s how she’d recently described it to her therapist.) And it didn’t help that the first boy she’d brought home in ninth grade was thoroughly rejected by her parents. Yes, he’d been to a correctional facility, but wasn’t the key word “correctional”? She’d long ago learned not to trust herself.</div><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_mqljut="102" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">But, she was trying to change all that. She didn’t necessarily long for that Kodak moment where the coolest most trendiest photographer captured her blissful day of bountiful red roses and that magical kiss at twilight on the white sands of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kauai. Yeah, she no longer longed for that. She now longed for her future…one that didn’t involve only herself, a pilled yellow blanket and her cat. She felt she owed herself more than that. She owed herself a family. Whatever it looked like, and however it came about, it would still fall under that definition. And she wanted that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">She looked up. There was something different about this delay on the N train. People were whispering; actually talking to each other in tones that didn’t resemble crazy shouting. She wondered what all the whispering was about.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What’s good, yo?” (She didn’t really say this. Being in <state w:st="on"><place w:st="on">New York</place></state> made her want to be cool like the <place w:st="on">Brooklyn</place> boys, but she just was not.) What she did say was, “Hey, what’s going on?” She said to her neighbor whom she had gently nudged off her shoulder twenty minutes earlier around 96<sup>th</sup> street. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Suicide,” the lady slithered. She was missing a few teeth. (Other than that, and having fallen asleep on her shoulder, she was all good.) “Someone jumped on the tracks, dearie.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_mr7bk0="125" style="margin: 12pt 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Suicide?” She discretely swiped the lady’s slithered spit from her cheek as she looked around the somewhat crowded train. The shock and horror was registering on the brown, white, blue (yes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">blue</i>), yellow and beige faces around her slowly like a gentle wave on the <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Hudson</place></city>. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Gross,” she thought. The train had slowed to a snail’s pace. Maybe slower. The roar of them tunneling through <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Manhattan</place></city> had subsided to the whir of a spin cycle on a new <place w:st="on">Kenmore</place>. Some passengers had risen from their plastic gum-n-graffiti stained orange seats to peer out the scratched window of the caboose. Apparently, their car was the one that did him in. At first, she thought bad things about those crass people running to the window to see a potentially dead body on the tracks. Then, honestly, she thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Why should they have all the fun??”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">She hoisted herself up from her seat, careful not to drop her book on the scummy floor. She took several slow paces down the aisle toward the window and nudged herself between a Wall Street guy and a <place w:st="on">Bronx</place> babe. Like a true transplanted New Yorker, she fit in where she didn’t fit in. She leaned in to the cloudy bullet-proof glass and peered into the darkness of the tracks. And there it was. Her first dead body.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">It was slumped over backwards like a wonton. She could really only see blue jeans. The upper torso was hidden. By the large size of the legs, she assumed them to belong to a man. He looked lonely. The shrouded subway tunnel had lent itself nicely to his situation. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_mr7bk0="124" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Yes, she wondered why he jumped, but her concern centered more on why he didn’t want to live. She knew she’d never know. Even if she scoured the Post and The Times and watched NY1 every morning for a week, no bits of sensational news would ever give her the insight she needed from this stranger that could only have been obtained by having walked with him and held his hand on the 57th Street platform right before he jumped.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Life is so fragile, she thought. Especially when you are hit by the N train. Still glued to the window, she thought twice (actually one hundred and twice) about what she was on her path to do before this guy had derailed it. Maybe he’d saved her from a big mistake. Maybe this was the one delay she’d ever needed in her life, because suddenly, spending $4000.00 on several vials of some stranger’s volatile sperm to create a kid that may end up not alive on the tracks of the N train seemed like a total….waste.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5518152202163177539.post-57369868717993513952011-08-09T09:34:00.000-07:002011-08-09T09:34:45.027-07:00Cracked.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_5jxmnz="116" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I stood in front of the old stove with one hand on my hip and the other shoved deep into the pocket of my fraying, quilted robe. My guilty fingers played with two stray brown buttons I’d hidden there. The bubbling water bouncing the boiled eggs I was hoping would sustain me broke the silence of the deathly quiet house. Once as beautiful as she had been and as trusting as I had been, the house was now a tomb that had been given to me by my grandmother after she’d been called to the Heavens. The flowered wallpaper was peeling in some places…not so much because of age, but because on some days I would pull back tiny sections of the paper where I’d hoped no one would notice. (But who was there to notice? No one was allowed here unless they were capable of telling the truth. One by one, everyone had failed to tell the whole truth and nothing but. So, they’d been banished.) </div><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_5jxmnz="116" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_5jxmnz="116" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I thought maybe the truth was in front of me, near me, around me, planted for me by my grandma…so, in my solitude, I was compelled to find it. I’d moved the couch once and crawled along the wooden baseboards like a mouse that I hate until I found an upended corner that, had I not been in my right mind, I would have thought was waving to me. I’d felt silly in this position, it wasn’t becoming: me on my hands and knees with my butt in the air, but I’d felt justified in my actions. The truth had to be discovered. There, I’d crouched on my knees and willed my fingers to carry out what one voice in my head was telling me not to do. I’d leaned deeper into the wall, near the paper and whispered “Hello” to the waving corner. The strength of my whisper swirled the cottony dust balls into a micro cyclone and tickled my nose. My nails were already dirty and uneven; perfect tools for the job at hand. I’d picked, picked, picked at the wall paper as I had the skin around my fingernails, and peeled back the tiniest section. I needed to know what was hiding underneath. Kind of like myself. What was the mystery, the history, the pain and please God, the potential joy hiding behind those layers of ancient fabric and dried amber glue? I was careful not to go crazy with the peeling as I had in the past because I was now consistently scolded by my grandmother’s 6ft-tall cuckoo clock which unwillingly covered the secret tear in the fabric behind it. I didn’t want the couch to get in on the action, too. (Who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">knew</i> what it was capable of doing.) I’d peeled the parchment back slowly, waiting for something to appear, hoping for the yumminess I could scoop and hold and rub into my skin like warmed body butter. I held my breath and there, there behind the paper, there it was again. Nothing. But wood. Wood? Even in the shitty depths of its grainy ancient dried out veins, it offered nothing. It was a dead end of hopelessness. Where were the layers of paper with patterns of the past which would foreshadow the behaviors of the current? Where were the different colors of paint underneath the foreshadowing layers of paper that could provide the color to my moods as absorbed and transmitted by occupants of eras gone by? Where were the glue and the sweat and tears and trickles of blood that held it all together for me to find it in this very moment of truth that would explain to me why I was the way that I was based on the way people had been? Where was it?!</div><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_5jxmnz="116" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_5jxmnz="116" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I wasn’t about to be fooled as I had been by the piece behind the cuckoo. I knew there was more to be uncovered, to be revealed, learned, explained, unleashed, freed, warranted, accepted, acknowledged, unearthed … seen. I’d kept tearing and tearing, searching until the bird in the clock warned me to stop. But it was too late. I’d gone too far. I’d stood. Brushed the clinging dust from my robe and gently pushed the couch back against the wall hoping not to wake it. I’d become embarrassed by the dirt under my nails as I’d stepped back. Bad move making that couch an accomplice. I’d secretly known this might happen when I’d first crouched into that unbecoming position. The couch sighed awake and grinned at me. The buttons, the two big brown round buttons in the centers of the swamp-green cushions were beady eyes. Eyes that bore into me with mirth and greed while its crooked mouth wanted to twist itself and say something really mean to me. I’d stepped forward and hastily rearranged the seat cushions, attempting to shut it up; but now it frowned. It frowned at me with disgust and contempt, as my grandmother would have done had she still been alive to see what I’d done – was doing – to her now-dying home. I’d kicked the couch. It kicked me back. I’d lunged at it; tearing its eyes out. I couldn’t have it taunting me like the clock was about to do in just a few minutes. I’d snatched the blanket from its back – it was the one she’d used to cover me with when I’d been a kid and all was right with the world. Like Zorro’s cape, I threw the blanket over the beast and shrouded my dirty deed with it. The couch had been silenced. Thankfully. Temporarily. I’d calmly swept away the spidery hairs clinging to my damp brow as I thought about the last time anyone but me had sat on that thing. It was the last time they’d all tried to tell me nothing was wrong. That everything was ok. And would be for all time to come. They had lied.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I squeezed the brown buttons in my pocket and thought about what I would do with them later. I laughed. But I wasn’t sure why, so I turned up the flame under the pot and reached for the handle and jiggled it a little. The eggs continued to bounce around. Suddenly, one cracked. Just like me.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1