I Do This I Do That- Chapter 9

IX. Bombs

As the sun set it was replaced by an amaranthine of city lights, brightest in the blocks surrounding us, and gradually dwindling in every direction. We'd finished the tapas and every last crumb of the warm bread. The sangria pitcher had been replenished and replenished again, making my skin warm and my limbs light. The patio was busy. Around us various other tables had been resat with new groups. My legs felt sticky with hours of immobility and were deeply ingrained with the winding brass patterns of the chair.

We made an agreement to not discuss anything work related, which Lindy believed would dodge the pending stress I'd conjured. Faking stress was consequently the perfect device to avoid being trapped in my lie.

"Let's not even talk about it," she said, "No work talk on sister night."
"Deal."

Instead, we spent the momentous hours rekindling our parallel sense of humor. We laughed mostly about embarrassing childhood stories. Some were outlandish, and we lowered our voices less and less as the hours progressed. Our choice phrases bounced between the patio walls and Lindy, who was at first somewhat restrained by her civil nature, seemed quite uninhibited as the sangria settled. I had never really seen that side of her. It was like she was suddenly a real person, according to my definition at least.

We made a joint decision to settle the bill and move on to bigger and louder establishments. We both hugged the waiter when we left, who laughed kindly at our antics.

The streets were further intoxicating. A humid fog lingered around stories above us like hovering smoke, and we walked arm and arm down the block, embracing the city and whatever impromptu acts we'd commit. On a bright street, comparably uglier than most, red velvet ropes separated dark vibrating walls from early crowds trickling inside.

"Here?" said Lindy, pointing to one of the quieter basement bars. The bouncer was smiling.
"Sure. He's friendly."

We went downstairs and the horseshoe shaped bar was adorned with a few unattractive lesbian couples, some seething old grease balls, and a young boisterous group taking shots. Mirrors were everywhere, and the portly DJ seemed genuinely proud of his artistry.

"I'm so glad I'm here," said Lindy, who was smiling as though she couldn't stop.
"In this bar?"
"No, just with you!" she said, "I never see you." She hugged me. I felt a little guilty because I hadn't really wanted her there in the first place.
"Well we should talk more," I said. And that I meant.
"We will...Let's take shots!" The words were oxymoronic out of her clean and smart face.

The grease balls near us had been watching us over their glasses the whole time we'd been there. One of them, balding, and in dim light to a drunk mind still greasy, positioned himself in our direction on his stool.
"Ladies.... Interested in taking some shots?" he said. He had large facial features and lips that grossed me out. They were too big or too red, too something... They were on his face and he was using them to hit on my sister. They were sick.
"Yes!" said Lindy.
He ordered some. They were bomb something or others, and drinking it was an act which commenced a dizzying slope which would not subside until the following morning.

The bar filled with groups like a sinking boat with water. Soon it was too crowded to move freely and the mass of uncategorizable sorts became faceless blobs as my binge persisted. Lindy had stopped drinking after the bomb from the grease balls. She climbed towards sobriety while in the meantime I plummeted into black. She sat still while I flitted around the bar witlessly.

"You almost ready to go home Laur?" she said. I was talking to one of the grease balls. I wasn't ready to go, and was actually quite set on the idea that we weren't going home anytime soon.

Another half hour of watching me oaf around with the seething brutes depleted Lindy's patience, and she led me up to the street, somewhat forcefully. I was stumbling around and bitter now, about nothing but nonsense, but in my muddled mind it was monumental. I didn't have to say anything. It was palpable how groundlessly pissed I was.

"And why exactly are you mad at me?" asked Lindy, while we stood by the street waiting for a cab.
"Because this is just so like you."
"I knew this was going to happen."
"You knew you were going to be a bitch tonight?" I said. It catapulted a garrulous street fight, composed of verbal garbage. We forgot about wanting a cab and found ourselves lost in the upturned muck.

"You know, I just realized.. you're not a good person. you're ridiculous," she said. Her voice had remained relatively calm throughout.
"You don't know anything about me!"
"I know probably as much as you know about yourself."
"What do you want me to do?"
She said nothing.

It began to sprinkle and the silence indicated that the heated moment between us had passed. With the same unpredictability that brought on a torrent of anger in me, brought on sudden guilt. I began apologizing for the things I'd said.

"What can I do to make it up to you? I want this to be a good night still."
"Let's just go home and go to bed. We'll talk about it tomorrow." It was more reconciliation than I deserved, but my illogicality of the moment caused me to be even more difficult.

Amongst the passing cars and cabs, an excursion limousine approached us. It was halted in traffic and I went into the street and jumped on the hood. The limo driver got out.

"How much for a ride in the city and then back to my apartment uptown?"
"$100 for a half hour."
"Lindy get in." I opened the door for her.
She was reluctant. The traffic honked angrily at us while we debated, and eventually she got in.

It looked bigger inside than I had anticipated, and we sat in the back on a creme leather seat. There was a display of multicolored lights on the mirrored ceiling and a touch screen stereo behind the drivers' tinted divider. A bar in the middle of the limo was fully stocked with beer, soda, and mini flasks of vodka and scotch. I turned up the radio and opened a flask.
"Let's have a drink."
"I'm done drinking." said Lindy. She sat in the seat with her arms crossed.
"Why can't you get over it? I just got us a limo..."

It was evident that she wasn't over the street fight, but I was. Her demeanor was irritating, and again, just as fast as anger turned into guilt, guilt turned back into anger. We drove around the city for about ten silent minutes. She looked out the window at the passing sky scrapers and the nearly empty blocks beneath them. I watched her. I took gulps from the flask.

'She should just get over it... She's just sitting there...We're in a limousine, why can't she just relax? She won't even look at me... This is fucking ridiculous. I don't even want her to be in here anymore. She can't be in here anymore...'

"If you're just going to ignore me I don't even want you to be here," I said.
"Fine. I'll leave."
"No seriously. Get the fuck out if you're going to act like this."
"Are you kidding me?"
I tapped on the divided to the driver.
"Hey, pull over. She's getting out."
He didn't stop.
"I'm the one paying you. Pull over!"

The limo stopped. We were on Lakeshore Drive by Grant Park, miles south of my apartment. Miles south of Sam's. I got out and opened the door. Lindy was screaming indiscernible things at me. Indiscernible because I wasn't listening at all. I got back into the limo and locked the door. We drove away and I could see her standing on the side of the road. It didn't matter to me. I didn't care. I was so angry with her at that moment and nothing could convince me otherwise.

I told the limo driver to go to a building about a quarter mile north of my apartment. He stopped in front of a neighborhood of homes, homes that seemed to have actual residents instead of renters. He stepped out of his door to open mine. Right as he stepped out, I ran out of the limo from the opposite side.

I didn't have $100 with me. I hadn't thought of an actual plan to pay him. He screamed at me as I ran away, and I zigzagged down blocks to lose him. I could hear his tires screech as he jumped in the limo to chase me. I went in the ally of El Ranchero Taco, and climbed behind the fence and waited for silence.

Finally I crept to the front of the building and went inside. The apartment was dark and empty, and I could tell from the state of things that Cait wasn't home. I laid down in empty corner.
The carpet was rough and my mind spun when I closed my eyes.

I remembered a time when things were simple between Lindy and I. We were sitting in the back seat outside of a grocery store in our school uniforms. Our parents were shopping inside and the time alone in the car felt like eternal freedom. We had the windows down and we screamed riotously at people in the parking lot.
"You're ugly!" I'd scream. Lindy laughed.
"I just farted!" She yelled. The people in the parking lot would get angry. Some wouldn't respond at all. We feared and hoped for their reactions. It was the most outrageous thing we could imagine getting away with at the time. Nothing could have been funnier. Nothing could have felt more rebellious.

I Do This I Do That- Chapter 8

VIII. Stray Cats

I waited in the courtyard while Lindy finished getting ready. I told her the whole pee production was just deliriousness from working so much, and the fresh air would be medicinal. She was obviously skeptical but left in peace to primp.

I laid in the grass facing the sun. The narrow spot between two sectors of garden wasn't exactly conducive to sunbathing, but I squeezed between the flower barriers regardless.

I heard the sporadic sound of the fence opening then shaking closed, and shoes tapping on the gravel walkway. People entering and exiting the complex likely noted the oddity of my presence, but said nothing.

In any small town this scenario would have caused some sort of raucous. Either the residents would chase me away with a broom, or scoop me from the garden and invite me in for meatloaf and beer. This was the city though. Wanderers fell asleep in courtyard gardens sometimes. No big deal.

It was less than twenty minutes until Lindy walked out of the apartment.
"You ready to go Laur?" she said from the stoop. I sat up a bit startled from my garden bed, leaving a Laura-size imprint in the patchy grass. I walked over to her.

She was wearing clean looking casual jeans and a gray v-neck t shirt. Her light brown hair sat on her shoulders, still slightly wet, but it air dried in a way that others may spend hours with products and electronics to achieve. She wore thick framed black glasses and her face looked subtly sunburned from the race.

We took a cab to a tapas restaurant downtown, a few blocks northwest of the Magnificent Mile. Beyond us clusters of credit card traffic and congregating tourists were awing all day and everyday over the idyllic window displays.

We sat outside underneath a big red umbrella, and the sounds of angry horns and cars accelerating with the stop and go traffic resonated on the patio. Lindy ordered a water with lemon, after debating for minutes about whether or not to get sangria.

"It's really good here," I said.
"In a bit perhaps," she squeezed the lemon into her water.
We ordered the waiter's recommendations; marinated artichokes, Spanish potatoes, smoked salmon fillet and Galician grilled octopus sauteed with paprika.
"Lovely. Thank you," said Lindy, as the waiter set down a basket of warm bread.

I felt out of it. I was sitting low in the chair craving some ice cold hose water. I looked at my glass disappointingly.

"You look so tired," said Lindy.
"I am tired. It's more of a state of being than a state of mind though," I said.
"So you're always like this?"
"No. I was kidding. I just didn't sleep last night."
"What were you doing?"
"Nothing really...relaxing. I just can't sleep sometimes, that's all," I said.
"Did you go out?" she asked, not to be patronizing, but she seemed to be just curious in general.
"I mean, sort of. With Cait. Nothing exciting though."
"Oh, with Cait," she said, this time the statement was loaded.

"What does that mean?"
"Nothing. Mom just told me about her that's all." She dipped her bread in olive oil and ate small bites.
"What did she say about her?" I was defensive a bit but couldn't help it.
"She just said it was a weird experience meeting her, and that it was random that you two lived together.. She just worries about you, you know."
"Okay well mom and dad just showed up at my door before graduation without telling me. Cait didn't know they were coming. They didn't even call me or knock!" I said.
"Laur, she was passed out naked in a corner of bottles, and there were stray cats all over your apartment. It wasn't the best of impressions." Her tone was light but I could tell she was actually quite serious.
"We were cat sitting!" I said.

Actually, we weren't cat sitting, but we'd left the front door open all night. Cait had made homemade tuna sushimi and saki earlier that day, a recipe she saw on Martha. She was skeptical of the sushimi, but drank every last drop of the saki. Three stray cats had wandered into the apartment and were feasting on the food left on the counter. Cait passed out in 'empty corner' and woke to my parents, whom she'd never met, standing in the filthy living room.

"Well why on earth was she naked in the corner?" said Lindy, just as the waiter set down the plate of artichokes. He laughed a little at our conversation.
"Oh I'm so sorry," said Lindy, "I think we'll be taking that sangria now!
"Good idea!" he said.

I really didn't know why she was naked. It was just another part of her ridiculousness that couldn't be explained.
"She has narcolepsy," I said.
"I notice you always say what you think I want to hear."
"That's not true."
"Again, that'd be the appropriate thing to say," she said.
"Well if it makes you feel better I do it to everyone."
"Scary."
I put an artichoke on her plate.
"Eat this, it's delicious."
The waiter came back and set down the white sangria with assorted fruit in the bottom of the large bowl glasses. It was imperceptibly strong.

"But really Laur, about your friend Cait..." said Lindy.
"Can we just get off this topic already?"
"Okay just one last thing. They're only worried about you because they don't want you to be distracted by anything that would jeopardize your job."
"They have nothing to worry about, she's been a good friend to me."
"You met her at a bus stop, Laur."
"So? We graduated from the same school. Is there a list of approved meeting places that I'm not aware of? Why does that matter?"
"It matters."
"Fine. We met in class. Does that make you feel better? Either way she's my friend."
"You can't just make up stories. It doesn't change things." It was an ironic thing to say. She kept alluding to surface subjects, unaware of how much more complicated they were to me.

"Well... pointing out my failures doesn't change the fact that they've happened," I said.
"Woa. Let's not over dramatize. The point is, you should get some more sleep."
"You could have just said that."
The waiter came over to us and set down the Spanish potatoes, salmon and octopus dishes.
"We're gonna need a pitcher of this," said Lindy, holding up her half finished glass.

I Do This I Do That- Chapter 7

VII. Pee In the Courtyard

Runner enthusiasts lined Marine Drive and I hurried through the anxious crowd towards the start. People in visors and bright colored shirts were shoulder to shoulder by the road, and I sweat from speed walking and the ne plus ultra caffeinated iced coffee I drank. I scanned the road for Lindy. Runners jogged around me in every direction, warming up, and several congregated in the shade of the branched awnings.

"Runners! 5 minutes! 5 minutes till the start!" yelled the race official.

I could see Lindy amongst the crowd, doing quick and graceful strides down and back from the line.

"Lind!" I yelled.

She heard me and smiled, big and genuinely. She jogged over.

"HI!" she said, "Sorry I'm sweaty!" she hugged me and her arms left puddles on my shirt.
"It's okay I don't care! I'm sweating too," I said, "Is Sam running with you?"
"Yeah, she's doing strides."

Sam was her friend who she ran with in college. She'd moved to Chicago after they graduated a few years ago. Lindy drove into the city from Michigan to run a road race with her at least once a year.

"I'll see you at the finish?" she said.
"Yeah good luck!"
"Oh I'm out of shape. We're gonna do a nice little talking pace I think," she laughed.
"Whatever you'll probably win."
"We'll see."

She ran back to the start. She didn't look a bit out of shape. Being out of shape in runners' translation meant performing anything less than personal optimum. 'Out of shape' for Lindy and Sam was infinitely more in shape than the average person, myself included. I'd accumulated side breaking cramps just ascending the EL stairs. I ran a mile in January, which only took place because of a New Year's resolution I'd made to workout. I reevaluated my resolution after the mile, and decided to change it to a commitment to think more positively. That too lasted just a few hours.

The gun went off and Lindy and Sam got out towards the front of the pack. Lindy was elegant. She looked like a fawn amongst the various other runners. It was sort of laughable how fawn-like she really looked. In the beginning of a race everyone looks so determined. By the end most people have the most gruesome expressions on their faces, which aside from racing, could only be recapitulated by contortion. Some of the runners behind Sam and Lindy held their arms out far away from their sides. Some scooted low to the ground with short ugly strides. Some looked tired and stiff, even from the start. Lindy was relaxed and graceful though.

I remember once after she had a bad race in high school, my mom told her, "Well at least you were the prettiest runner in the race!" It used to annoy me listening to her tell all of our relatives, "and Lindy has just the most beautiful stride..." After a few times of hearing her say it, I started some internal back talk. "We know mom! Dammit, she has a nice stride!" I'd think to myself. In real life though all I'd say was, "Yeah she does."

The spectators clapped and cheered as they ran passed. Some cowbells clanked. I remember Lindy hated the cowbells. Personally they didn't bother me, although I couldn't understand how cowbells got all mixed up into sport spectating.

A husky woman with bright blond hair cheered, "Go Tom! Go Tom Go!" Each time 'Tom' ran passed, whoever he was. This made me laugh. Of course Tom's going to 'go'. It's a race! Spectators always seem to tell the runners to go. As though they don't understand that that is the premise of the sport. Someone sometime in running history must have been dense to the idea that moving is the essence of racing. He must have needed the constant reminder to 'go'. I've never told Lindy to 'go'. I tell her to 'go faster'. I think that's a better piece of advice.

I followed the bright herds from block to block. We walked fast across the city park, and each time the runners went by I was just a moment too late to cheer for Lindy. I could see her and Sam out in front though, behind a half dozen men, but leading the serious looking women.

The race ended and Sam and Lindy were the top finishing women. They talked with other runners in the shoot, drinking small green cups of water and recollecting mile splits, and the accuracy of the K markers. I said good job, and stood near them, all too aware of how awkward my limbs were.

Whenever I feel awkward I feel bizarrely aware of my arms. Should I put a hand on my waist? Should I cross them? No, that looks impatient. I settled with putting both hands in my pockets, nice and relaxed looking.

"So I thought we could walk to Sam's apartment so I can shower, then we can do...whatever it is you want to do. Is that okay?" said Lindy. Her voice, even after running a race, was soft and calm, like I could be a baby or a puppy or elderly or dumb. She didn't speak that way to be patronizing, she was just meek.

"That's fine with me," I said.

Sam's apartment was a pretty place. It was distinguished with an expensive looking black gate and flowers planted in a shaded courtyard. It was a place that I would most definitely pretend to live in.

"I won't be long," said Lindy, grabbing her backpack and walking into the bathroom.

Sam opened the double doors to her courtyard facing balcony. They were French doors and I laughed to myself a bit, remembering the puzzled waitress, "That's all the French we got!"

The old wooden floors were slightly molding, but I liked them like that. Below the coffee table was a pink rug with a green bamboo branch etched on it. There wasn't a TV in the room, but a record player sat in the corner with a stack of seemingly organized records. The walls were cool yellow and scattered photography was hung behind the couch. A black and white picture of a swing set was hung nonparallel to a picture of a crooked fence.

Sam got me a glass of water and walked onto the balcony as she talked on the phone.

"We ran about 6:15 pace. Yeah, it wasn't bad. I remember when it was easier though... I know. Yeah she's gonna stay with her sister I think... Um, I think she's interning downtown some place. I'm not sure where..."

Oh no. She was referring to me, and the moment she ended her phone call I would be forced to regurgitate the details to my unsorted lie. I didn't even know what street Edelman was on. The location and details were of no importance to my parents, who didn't understand anyways, but Sam would know. She seemed privy to Chicago's professional world, and would surely see through any attempt I'd make to bullshit.

After I graduated I needed to give my family some tangible evidence that my four years in undergrad had amounted to more than just debt and weight gain. I literally Googled "Chicago PR Firms", and Edelman Firm popped up first. My mom pronounced it 'Eatleman' and believed I did marketing of some kind. That was all false, but the details were unimportant to her. She was assured believing that I had a degree required job, of any kind.

Sam was the type of city newbie who had taken a personal interest in knowing the exact location of everything south of Lawrence. I could imagine her in random conversation, "Oh that's off of Wacker right? Yeah I know exactly where that is." Which I'm sure she did. I'd lived in the city for five years and still got lost on a weekly basis. Why wouldn't I? It's a big place.

The spot in my brain which is capable of absorbing the frivolities of intersections and locations of boutiques was occupied by other things. Insubstantial things, I'll admit, but more entertaining at least. I knew which used bookstore left free paperbacks in a box on the street every Thursday. I knew where to get a good pancake past 2 a.m. I knew which uptown bar had a dog who retrieved tips from customers. My accumulated knowledge was of incalculable value to me, but Sam and my sister measured worth by numbers... 'How much money are you making? How long did it take to run that race? How many hours did you work? How many months have you been dating? etc.' Countable things.

I doubted telling them that I'd accumulated more than 30 free paperbacks from the Thursday giveaways would fulfill an impression of numerical value. It wasn't exactly measurable, but those little things did matter to me. All of the novels, some brilliant, some crap, had shaped me in one way or another. 'Much Ado About Nothing', some trash Danielle Steel, a few cliche murder mysteries, they were all there racked up in my brain somewhere. I may have not produced a W2 or celebrated a 6 month anniversary, but I'd had good moments. Nothing in the past year was experienced to appease the expectations of someone else. I did what I felt like doing. I was virtually route-less. That feeling I used to get after doing something I was supposed to do, like volunteer work or completing midterms, it wasn't happiness. I don't know what it was.

Overall it became palpably difficult to discuss anything professional or wholesome. My brain was a sponge full of fireworks I'd seen at the pier on Saturdays, and stiff blue drinks I'd gotten from strangers on Thursday nights. I couldn't exactly have clean banter about my living arrangement, or the quality time Cait and I spent together. Being aware of it all made me noticeably deflated.

I had also acquired a heightened sense of paranoia since the lie began. Whenever someone asked me what I'd been up to or where I was working, I felt like a guilty criminal in one of the murder mysteries I'd read. I became tense. Sam walked off the balcony and organized some papers on the kitchen counter.

"So how have you been?" she said.
"Who do you know! What have you heard?" I thought to myself. I knew she was asking because of courtesy small talk, not interrogation, but when you're guilty of something it seems that everyone else is aware of it.

On an afternoon a few months earlier, I was relaxing in the park with Cait. My mom called and I walked across the grass and answered my phone.

"Oh I'm just on my lunch break right now. Yeah, I packed a sandwich. I've been busy.. I know. Love you too," I'd told her. A squirrel had come quite close to me as I talked, and when I hung up the phone it was up on its' back legs a few feet away. "What are you looking at," I said to it. I clapped my hands and it ran away.

"I've been good. Really great," I finally said, after a bumbling moment of ponder.
"How about you?" It sounded fake. I was trying too hard, I thought. I should have stopped at 'good'.

"Oh I've been really great too," she said, "just busy working. I feel like I don't have a life."

I couldn't relate. All I had lately was life. People always say they don't have a life when they don't have time to be irresponsible. I had so much life I didn't quite know what to do with it all.

"Yeah me too. So busy," I said. The nerves had crawled from my stomach and metastasized into a knot in my throat.

"I really have to pee. I hope Lindy's done soon." I was trying to change the subject. Bad topic choice, but I was desperate for any diversion.

"I think I just heard the shower stop. She'll be out soon. So where are you interning again?"

The dreaded question. All of my mental scans about semantics and how to fold my arms had volcanically erupted and I needed to leave, immediately.

"Edelman," I said. I jumped to my feet in an absurd spout of panic.
"I'm gonna have to just go outside. I can't hold it!" I said, heading towards the door.
"What? Laura you can't pee outside! She's almost done. Just wait a second!"
"It's either that or in my pants!" I ran out the door and slammed it behind me. I didn't have to go literally, but I did have to go.

I felt like she was about to be the questioning officer in a heated interrogation room. In an old film she'd be wearing a fedora hat and pull my arm mercilessly into a black car.
"We're taking you downtown," she'd say. The room would be dark, except for a blinding overhead light. She'd move it over me when she talked, after pacing back and forth intimidatingly.
"Why are you lying about your job!" She'd say.
"I'm innocent!" I would yell back.
"You went to college. You're supposed to get a job!"
"Why!" I'd probably cry.

Lindy walked outside, her hair dripping wet. I was standing in the middle of the courtyard under the sun.
"Did you seriously just pee in the courtyard?" she said.
"No no. I didn't."
"Sam said you ran out here because you were about to pee!"
"Oh yeah. I did.. It went away." I said.

I Do This I Do That- Chapter 6

VI. Closet Baby

I awoke face first on top of a pile of clothes and miscellaneous garbage on my bed. I was still wearing my now filthy shorts and flip flops, and had sometime in the morning used a piece of paper as a facial mask to block the trickling sunlight from disturbing my sleep.

I was somewhat panicked at the exact moment I transcended from dream to day, because in my vivid dream, I was trapped on a cruise ship of inmates and I could pull out individual teeth with little to no effort. By the end of my dream only one tooth remained. I felt my mouth. All teeth were intact, albeit vile tasting.

It seemed sunny outside. It's hard to tell from my basement bedroom window, as half the glass is bordered by dirt and grass, and the upper half above pavement is just a six inch space for light to creep in. The previous tenant had painted my little room dark purple. I had planned on painting over it, but never got around to it. The dismal individual ray of sunlight is like a crack into an underground cave.

In my bedroom at home I had a wall of windows, and outside alpine trees towered into the sky for miles. With half-closed morning eyes the image is just a scene of green and blue contrast; the beauty is emphasized by birds singing, rather than horns honking and crazies screaming obscenities at dusk. Sometimes before I open my eyes in my apartment bed, I forget that I'm not about to ingest that image of soaring green branches. Instead I find the view of the purple ceiling in my hot little bedroom box. It always makes me hunger, but for what I cannot entirely grasp.

I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. The apartment was dark and torrid and the open bulb track lighting blinded me when I flicked it on. I appreciated the strength of the connection between my teeth and my gums as I brushed. The amount of synthetic emotion that my sleeping brain conjures amazes me. Sometimes I dream so vividly that the lingering trauma takes days to resolve. Even if the dream is pleasant, I find myself sad grappling with it's artificiality.

The cold water ran and I stuck my mouth beneath it and drank from the faucet. It truly was more refreshing than drinking from a glass. A hose seemed to be a good investment at that moment, and I made a mental note to get advice from Steve about the matter. It may have not been the most civilized way to hydrate, but I tend to care less and less about being civil. I can remember a time when I drank bottled water because I was afraid of the tap. These days I'd probably drink from a dirty river if I was thirsty enough.

It was 9 a.m, and my sister was running a 5k in Lincoln Park at noon. We'd Facebook messaged about meeting afterward, and I'd promised to watch her race. Caitlin and Lanky were now standing in the kitchen. He was leaning against the counter in her red terrycloth robe, and she was digging through the freezer in white briefs, presumably his, and a cutoff t-shirt.

"Look who's conscious." she said. Lanky laughed.
"Zing!" He said. His teeth looked so white to me.
"I fell asleep in the cab, didn't I."
"More like passed out. Abebe had to carry you in. You were like a limp noodle," said Cait. She was opening steaks and putting them on the stove skillet.
"Who the hell is Abebe?"
"That'd be me," said Lanky.
"Oh. Sorry." I liked my nickname better for him. Even in the thick terrycloth he looked as though he was raised in a closet and fed scraps occasionally. It's sad that those closet kids actually exist. Maybe he was raised in a closet and just never fully developed. It would make his break dancing skills a real heroic triumph, rather than some after school hobby he'd picked up in the suburbs, which was far more likely.

"Steaks for breakfast, huh?" I said.
"Well, I figure we had breakfast for dinner. Might as well have dinner for breakfast," she said, scrambling through the nearly empty cupboards for canned vegetables.
"Abebe, can you peel potatoes?" She handed him a bag of them.
"Anything for my lady," he said.
She had her back to him and she looked at me like, "hmm!", her lips down and eyebrows up. I swallowed a laugh.

I kept subconsciously holding my jaw and chomping my teeth, still reveling over my dream.

"What's the matter. You have a toothache or something?" said Cait.
"No. It's just this dream I had. All of my teeth fell out of my mouth. They just kept pulling out like flowers out of the ground. It really freaked me out," I said, still holding my jaw.
"You know what that means, don't you?" She stopped what she was doing and stared at me.
"Oh here we go..." I said, rolling my eyes.
"What?" Said Lanky.
"Don't listen to her. Caitlin took one psychology class and now she thinks she's a Freudian expert. She's always analyzing me."
"I took two classes first of all, and much independent research!" She said defensively.
"Yeah, on Wikipedia," I said.
"Regardless. If your teeth fall out during a dream it means that you feel you have no control over yourself or your life," she talked with her hands, scholastic in tone.
"Whatever."
"No seriously! Is that really how you feel?" She put her hand on my shoulder and stroked her chin with her thumb and pointer finger like a contemplative detective.
"You're fucking crazy. That's how I feel," I said.

"Wanna hear my dream? I dreamt I was in an auditorium full of Styrofoam and I kept throwing up, but it wasn't puke, it was gummy worms. I really didn't like the way the Styrofoam felt on me. There were a few other people in there and they all had mustaches..." she looked at the ceiling in thought.
"Freudian me that!" she said.
"It means what I just told you. You're fucking crazy."
"No. You're just a predictable brain and my imagination is genius," she said, seasoning the steaks and adjusting the stove top heat.
"Want to hear my dream?" said Lanky.
"No! Don't tell her Abebe, she'll never stop analyzing you. Hopefully you're not a mommas boy because she'll accuse you of having an Oedipus complex!" I said.
Caitlin froze and looked at him.
"You're not, are you?" she said.
"My dad raised me," he said.
"Good. That shit's gross."

I thought I may caution her later to steer clear of the childhood questions, just in case he was a closet baby.

The steaks sizzled in the skillet and Abebe's peeled potatoes were sorry and nicked. Caitlin sliced them and placed them in boiling water.
"Who wants milk?" she said.
"I'm not eating. But this is important. My sister's in town tonight, and I need to make sure you know the rules of my family.
"I know, I know. No naked struts, especially bottomless. No conspicuous one night stands," she looked towards Abebe, "no offense to you," she said.
"It's cool," said Abebe.
"And no repeating any stories about you, good or bad, past, present, or future." she turned the steaks over.

"And what have I been doing this past year?" I said.
"You've been interning downtown at Edelman. You're the most important of the coffee runners and you've started to like the 6 a.m commute and the view from your cubicle." Her voice was trite and mocking me.

"I'll kill you if you say that."
"Maybe I'll say it then I'll just kill you first. I'll be doing you a favor. This charade is fucking nuts," she said.
"Yeah so, why exactly are you lying to your family?" said Lanky.
"It sounds so much worse when you say it like that." I said, scrambling to clean up Caitlin's mess as she made it.

"Laura has to lie because she's out of control and her fam is judgmental," said Cait.
"Actually you're the out of control one. And you're in my life so I'm responsible for you." I said jokingly.

"Fuck control. There's no such thing as control," said Cait, "All we can control is when not to press the snooze on the alarm clock, and how often we fold our fucking laundry. You want to have people in your life who never press snooze? I don't. You should let me get naked. You should tell your sis you work for a dog and a pervert. Let her judge you!" Her tone was heightened with intensity. She got like that sometimes when some idea inflated her with passion.
"I didn't say she's judgmental. I wouldn't know if my family is or isn't. I don't want to find out though," I said.
"You don't know your family? I don't know my family. You talk to yours weekly."
"I know what their voices sound like. That's about it," I said.
"My dad and I are really close," said Lanky, who was obviously getting uncomfortable from being shunned from the conversation.
"Now that's the second time you've mentioned your dad," said Cait, mashing the potatoes. "How close are you two, cause I'm gettin' a weird vibe..." she said.
I looked at his skeletal legs, which were crossed quite ladylike in the terry robe. 'Closet baby!' I thought to myself.
"Ignore her Abebe," I said.

Caitlin moved gracelessly around the kitchen, slamming cupboards and dropping things on the floor. She was like a human tornado and would surely cause any OCD person to have a mild stroke. She bent down savagely to reach a cupboard below the counter, spread eagle with her knees bent. She would have retrieved something from the floor in the same manner even if she were naked. There was something perceptibly foul about her mannerisms, but at the same time it was all excusable. That was just Caitlin.

"It's almost ready Abebe," she said.

I scrambled around the living room with two garbage bags, one for actual garbage and one for miscellaneous knickknacks that needed to be stowed away for sister night.

There was a half eaten sandwich doused in mustard sitting on the coffee table. Empty bags of takeout and half full boxes of stale cereal were scattered around the room. The corner by the foyer closet was lined with discarded bottles, an area Caitlin had deemed, 'empty corner'. I threw them all away, and stowed her stacks of magazines and posters of nearly naked boys in the knickknack bag.

We'd also retrieved several posters and street signs from Caitlin's city expeditions, all which I set in her room. She'd stolen a life size cut out of George Bush from a party store and we'd used it as hat rack. She dressed it up sometimes, and now he was wearing a cardigan sweater and a sun hat. I started moving it into her room.

"Oh leave Bushy out!" said Cait, "It could earn you points if your sis is conservative."
"Fine. But these are going in your room," I said, holding up an assortment of banners. One said "Circus This Way!", with a large arrow pointing left. One said "Have You Been Saved?", with the image of Christ's face below bold black font.

"Again. I can't see how those things won't make the two of you anything but closer," said Cait.

I folded the blankets on the sofa and accepted the state of the room. It was clean enough, in every sense of the word. Caitlin and Abebe moved onto the couch with their steak plates, and she put in a Martha Stewart DVD. She recorded every episode, and the collection was the only thing she was meticulous about. She categorized them by date and kept them in her room away from 'randoms and street bums', according to her.

"What the fuck is this?" said Abebe.
"Don't talk when Martha is speaking!" said Cait, turning up the volume.
"How can you watch this?"
"Listen 'Bebe. Did I not just cook you the breakfast of a lifetime? Don't diss Martha."
"What's so great about her?"
"The woman is an ex con who can turn a box of crayons into a birdhouse with a tasty, yet nutritious, snack on the side. What more can I say." she said.
"I mean, there's just better people to look up to. She's just.. boring."
"Who's better?" said Cait.

I was now listening from the kitchen while I cleaned.

"Don't do it Cait! Don't start on that tangent about Martha being God!" I yelled over the hot running water.
"Whaaat now?" said Abebe.
"I didn't say she's God. I said she's like God," said Cait heatedly. "The woman can literally turn a pile of shit into a centerpiece. She's an artist. And she's gotten even more powerful since she got out of jail...You know who that reminds me of?" she said.
"Don't say God!" I yelled.
"Jesus." she sounded so convinced, and I'd guessed she was leaning forward in her seat as she talked.
"I'm just gonna eat my steak now," said Abebe.
"You do that. And remember it was made with Martha's cowboy skillet recipe!" she said.

Martha being her heroine was so ironic to me. Cait lacked any intuition of a homemaker. She tried Martha's recipes and projects constantly, which usually amounted to bread dough on the ceiling, or piles of glued Popsicle sticks on the living room floor. Sometimes she referred to Martha as "Mother". I'd ask her about her day, and she'd say something like, "It was good. I watched Mother make crepes and then I got drunk and spent $20.00 on tacos." I was used to the references, and it was humorous to see other peoples' reaction to her Mother Martha obsession.

The morning dwindled and I took a shower and dressed in a clean looking outfit. The khaki shorts and blue t-shirt said, "I'm responsible, but I can be casual too," which was what I was going for. I shoved anything unusual and out of place into my closet and straightened the hapless papers on my desk. I put the dead roses in Caits' room, in case she wanted to make potpourri like Martha.

"I'm out of here. My sister's racing in an hour, then I have no clue what we'll do," I said, standing by the door ready to leave.
"Some good clean fun I take it?" said Cait.
"Fresh out of the shower clean," I said.
"Which you've done I see. Bravo. It'd been some days since you last bathed..." she said.
"Zing!" said Lanky, looking a bit disgusted.
"She's joking," I said, "But seriously. Can you keep everything clean? Like no additions to empty corner, and no condom wrappers on the floor?"
"Not to worry, no way in hell is that happening," she looked at Lanky, "Again, no offense to you," she said.
"It's cool," he said, but really he looked a bit disappointed.

I walked up the stairs and it was like I was emerging from a red eye flight into a new world. Since moving into the basement, days had never been so bright. I waved inside "El Rachero Taco" to Javier and walked west, squinting into the day.

I Do This I Do That- Chapter 5

V. Paigebrook

Caitlin lit a cigarette as we stood on the east side of the street at the furthest bar south on the Wrigleyville stretch. Behind our backs, pizza and burger joints were dark inside, with freshly mopped floors and sleeping lamps. Outside them the sidewalks were nearly barren and still, and busboys and hosts congregated in the ally behind, tired and greasy, shifting weight in worn shoes and venting about management and stingy tippers.

Before us the sidewalks were alive with movers, gallivanting from bar to bar. Girls in calculated outfits debuted summer scants and boys in white and light blue button-up shirts marveled at the mass of bare legs and side swept bangs.

We walked north through streams of perfume and heavy cologne. Caitlin led us, and I felt like a midget in my flip flops amongst the swarms of tall gentlemen and girls in high wedges and booties. Most of the bars had open windows or street side drinking gardens. Those in baseball caps and t-shirts waited in a short line outside the bright bar with classic rock blaring. Those in shirt dresses and graphic black tees waited in a long line outside the bar with techno and house music inside.

Some girls with ugly features perfected over by expensive makeup and quality hair extensions looked at Caitlin like she was a stain. She did look rather silly amongst them in her basketball shorts and belly showing tee, but she was unaffected by their judgments.

"Nice to see ya, how's it goin'. Hi there," she said patronizingly, as we squeezed through the pretty drunks.

"In here," she said, motioning to 'Nihil', a bar where flip-flops and high heels collide. The bouncer was fat and bald, which must be a job requirement because every bouncer on this block seemed to be an identical twin of the next. There wasn't a line and Cait pulled her ID out from inside her t-shirt.

"You can't bring those chips in here," said the bouncer, handing her back the ID. She handed me the two bags, one which wasn't opened yet.

"Here finish these," she said.
"There's no way I can eat two enormous bags of chips right now." I held them up to her, emphasizing what an impossible feat it would be.
"Put some in your pockets then."
"I don't want crumbs in my pockets!"
"God you're difficult!" she said. She poured a mouthful down her throat from one bag and tossed it onto the walk. She held the unopened Doritos out, offering them to random movers.

"Hey you want these chips? Hey take these chips." Passerbys walked off the sidewalk into the bike lane to avoid us standing there, likely assuming that Cait was crazy.
"Here we go here we go," she said, noticing a homeless man sitting on the corner down the block. He had a long gray beard and wore an old blue sports jacket, likely a prized find in a dumpster dive some years ago. He had a bucket in front of him with loose change inside. We walked over to him.

"Can you spare some change?" he said.
"Here!" she said, tossing him the bag of Doritos.
"I don't want your  goddamn chips..." He threw them onto the walk. We both looked down at the chips, puzzled.
"Sir. Foul move... Now I'm giving you a gift and I find it a little rude that you'd just throw it in the street like that," said Caitlin, picking up the chips and offering them back to him.
"You wanna give me a gift? Go get me a goddamn pint!" he said. He smiled and crackled a laugh, exposing some grimy brown teeth that seemed they may shatter with a gust of the wind.
"You'll starve with that attitude, you know!" screamed Cait.
"Scram!" He stuck out his tongue at us.
"Fine," she said. We walked back to Nihil and left the bag of chips in the road.

It was dark and loud inside, and a row of red booths and a long black bar was parted by a table-less walkway of loitering groups, drinking with few words in between, on account of the raucous of speakers nearby. We walked up to the higher level where dancing was happening, mostly by some sickly butt rubbing girls with tall men behind them, who held and glided the hips with their hands.

"Get it girl," said Caitlin, to a serious faced lone dancer in a yellow mini dress. Cait guided us to the bar behind the dancers and she coolly ordered two Jamesons on the rocks.
"Bye bye," she said, tapping her plastic cup to mine. We snagged two stools at the bar and she talked fervently about the hipsters and their lame music and their unpatriotic attitudes and the ungrateful homeless man and how much she wished she had that bag of Doritos right then.
"We can get food when we leave here," I said.
"Yeah yeah stellar idea. I'm coincidentally craving a meat sandwich now," she looked passed me deeply and I could really see how hungry she was.

Someone nudged me in my back with an elbow and a cold drink spilled down my shorts. My pink underwear would now glow against the cotton once again that day. I turned around and a fair skinned, short blonde boy was squeezing near me to reach the bar. His drink was empty.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry. Did I spill that on you?" he said. His eyes were dark brown and recognizably drunk, because the left one looked lazy in the same way my fathers' did when he drank.
"Yeah you did actually," I said, "My shorts are all wet."
"Sorry I got pushed. Did I ruin them? I'll get you a drink. What'll you have?" he talked fast and his teeth were big and bucked, and if I hadn't heard his midwestern voice I would have thought he might be British.
"Jameson, just on the rocks," I said.
His face turned suddenly adoring.
"Wow. Jameson huh? I think I love you," he said. He ordered two drinks and turned back to me.
"What was your name again?" he said.
I hesitated.
"It's Scarlett," I said, smiling.
"It can't be."
"Why can't it be?"
"You don't look like a Scarlett."
"People don't look like anything," I said.
"Sure they do," he scanned the room.
"That guy over there? His name's Ted," he pointed to a burly fellow with a pug nose and a brown bowl cut.
"And her? Her name's Ashley... or Sarah," he said, pointing to a girl in a purple tank top with a nose ring and dark jeans. She walked by us.
"Excuse me. What's your name?" he said to her.
She turned, "Kelsey," she said, "Why?"
"Never mind. I thought you were someone else. Carry on," he made a 'cheers' notion towards her and she kept walking.
"Close enough." He smiled and took a large gulp of his drink.
"So what do you think my name is then?" I said.
"Hmm... Something cute, like 'Paige' or 'Brooke'. Scarlett's too dramatic. You don't look dramatic."
"I think you think too much."
"No such thing," he said.
"You look like a Chris.. or a Matt."
"Oh yeah? Why's that."
"Because that's what everyones' name is," I said.
"Actually It's C.J, but my friends call me Wheeler. What about you? Do you have friends or are you just here by yourself?"
"I'm here with her," I pointed to Caitlin, who was now in somewhat of a dance off with a lanky black break dancer, who was beating her shamelessly, and only I could see that she was joking.

"That girl? Over there?"
"Yeah, that's my roommate." I was numb to her antics. The first time I met her she was dancing, and I'd seen her moves a thousand times since. She took any opportunity to put on a show. We watched her for a few songs and Wheeler burst into laughter from time to time.
"I'm meeting some friends but I'd love to take you to dim sum tomorrow. Have you gone? It's Chinese. We can go to dim sum and have yum cha. I'll pick you up," he said.
"I suppose..."
"Alright! Here, put your number in my phone." he handed it to me. I entered in the right digits, a rare act, and he drank the rest of his Jameson quickly before walking away.
"I'll call you tomorrow Paigebrook," he said.

I watched the crowd spilling past me towards drinks and more drinks, towards dancing and pursing one another. Songs carried on and Billy Idol wailed throughout the dense room. I started to feel drunk so I corralled Caitlin away from the dance off. She was resistant, like the crowd was expecting an encore performance and I was sabotaging it.

"Alright alright. Let's go," she finally said. We walked out of Nihil and crowds of staggering loiterers stood in the street waiting for cabs. Girls with messy hair and drink splattered dresses looked as though they may have once been presentable, prior to sweaty dances and inordinate shots. The lanky break dancer and two other dancers, less lanky and more black, trailed behind us.

"They're taking us for pancakes," said Cait.
"Where?" I said, "I don't really feel like pancakes."
"Then order French toast. It's right around the corner," she said. She walked forward fast as me and the lankys followed behind.

At the diner Cait ordered a stack of chocolate chip pancakes for her and the lighter lanky. The waitress looked at me, "What'll you have?" she said.
"She'll have whatever's French. Anything French that you've got, she'll take it," said Cait.
I confirmed with a shrug.

We sat in a booth, me in between the darker two, who didn't speak. In fact I questioned if they actually could because I hadn't heard a word. Not a mutter. Not a peep. Not even a yawn. They both smelled too, like sweaty shirts from a musty closet.

 I got a text from a number, which turned out to be Wheeler. He said, "Paigebrook: dim sum in the a.m, yum cha in the p.m." It seemed subliminal. All I said back was, "meow."

The waitress brought me French toast and French fries, and a bottle of Perrier to drink.
"That's all the French we got," she said, setting down the plates.
"Thank you thank you," said Cait, who was already putting syrup on the pancakes and sucking down the root beer she'd ordered. Her and the light lanky talked about beats and music, as she drummed with her fork on the retro table. I ate ravenously.

Lanky settled the bill and we hailed a cab towards our place.

"Let's hope no one's in our apartment," said Cait.
"Why would someone be there?" asked Lanky.
"Because we don't lock the door." she said.

I rolled down the window in the front seat and rested my head on the door. The sun was rising and my eyes were heavy and exhausted. I could hear the waves of Lake Michigan, momentous and calm, nudging against the sand rhythmically. I made hills into the wind with my tired hand and my attention faded like the sunset. The conversation between Cait and Lanky in the backseat seemed serious.

"Are you close with your family?" he said.
"I left home when I was 18. I haven't spoken with them since." Her voice was vacuous.
"I'm sorry to hear that. How sad."
"No, it's okay. That's the best part of getting older, you get to choose which assholes you want to keep around," she said.

It made me remember that my sister would be in town the next day. She'd be expecting to see me. I would need to clean up all of my messes before her arrival, if possible.

The breeze was harsh on my face and I closed my eyes as they watered. I was falling asleep, and there was no way to stop me.

I Do This I Do That- Chapter 4

IV. Unpatriotic Dick Faces

The sun set and only a handful of staggering keg bugs remained on the patchy grass. Steve had filled a kiddie pool with the hose water and was now sitting in it clothed, with a red cup in one hand and the hose in the other.

Over the past few hours he had periodically doused himself with the water and was soaked completely. I'd pulled a foldable chair next to him and sat comfortably now, unnerved and audacious from the uncountable red cup refills, but by no means drunk. My tolerance for alcohol the day after a good blackout was of impressive caliber, so I drank carelessly to no avail.

Steve on the other hand was a sloppy display. A few hours back he'd begun to repeat tangents. Then he started to sweat profusely, hence the idea to retrieve the neighbor's kiddie pool and sit in it fully dressed. He did however pull the bottom of his beater through the neck's scoop, making it 'more like a bathing suit' according to Steve, and exposing a hairy little gut for all to see.

Someone had turned on a mix of indie rock, proto-electro punk, punk peppered pop, and alternative; categories designated by Steve who knew the words to most of the songs that came on. It played neither too soft nor too loud from speakers just inside the apartment's open windows.

Some people in hats sat in chairs a few feet away and talked about music. Two of them were dating perhaps, as they kissed passionately from time to time, in between sentences about last years' Lollapalooza and disagreements about Radiohead, who the hatted boy loved and the hatted girl hated. They kissed anyway though, despite the discord.

The sky positioned itself in a five minute window of pink and blue contrast, just on the brink of shading into black. The air was warm, and soft wind felt like bedsheets on my sticky skin, or tiny breathing particles swimming south. Now the allies and sidewalks resonated with clanking heels and elevated voices of clean careless movers heading towards the Wrigleyville bars.

It was crisp, and it felt like someone somewhere should be playing baseball. I don't understand the game, nor do I care about the rules or statistics or World Series results, but baseball games make me feel so American. The actual game is arbitrary to me, but the experience of going is like being connected to history or something.

Our generation doesn't have the same sense of zeal and duty that existed during World War II, or the same sense of activism that fused Americans together during the Civil Rights Movement. We do still have baseball though. The songs haven't changed. The chants haven't changed. All of the baseball snacks are the same. The uniforms even look the same. Baseball fans have a connectivity to their teams' past. 1908 or 1976, the year is relevant and remembered if your team won the series.

I suppose I should feel more American on Election or Veterans Day, rather than during baseball season, especially because I don't understand the game. I don't want to understand either. It's just the same way I feel about cars. I like cars that are nice but I don't care to know what elements make them distinct or fast. It's just a piece of machine. And baseball's just a game. I like watching it though, whatever the fuck is going on out there, it sure is American.

The cubs were away in LA tonight though, and the loud sidewalk movers were probably off to beer gardens on Clark to watch the game on big screens and buy pints of light beer for $8.00 a glass. Caitlin was inside the apartment, and I could hear her arguing with someone about the music.

"Why can't you play Flag Day music? I don't understand this hipster shit," she said, her voice reflective of how sloppily drunk she was at this point.
"What the fuck is Flag Day music?" answered a raspy male voice.

"You're a grand ol' flag, you're a high flying flag, and forever in peace may you waaave. You're the emblem of, the land I love, home of the free and the brave," she sang loud with a mock 1940's voice, low toned and accented, like Katherine Hepburn.

"Really? Is this girl serious?" said the raspy voice. Caitlin sang louder and the music amplified, drowning her out.

A new song played from the mix and Steve raised his hands up from the kiddie pool. It progressed and he sang intently with his eyes closed.

"I want it back, well yes I, want it back, I want you back... please.." he sang like he meant it. It was quite the performance and I stood up now, part curious, part startled by his intensity.
"You okay down there?" I said.
"I always cry a little when I hear The Kooks," he said, pouring more hose water on himself.
"We all do," said the hatted boy.
"I don't," I said.
"What moves you?" said the hatted girl.

She'd smoked earlier and was annoyingly high. She was stupid already anyways, as far as I could tell, and she hung on the hatted boys' shoulder as though she thought she needed to because I was a girl. It was like she was showing me that they were together. In reality she had nothing to worry about, and the strategic PDA was just obnoxious.

"Once I cried when The Black Eyed Peas were on Oprah. You know, when they blocked off Michigan Avenue and sang, "Today's Gonna be a Good Day"? I don't really like them though. I think I was about to get my period," I said. I was lying, but I figured the spiel would make her uncomfortable. Not because I mentioned my period, but because she was pretentious to mainstream things like Oprah and pop music. I was right, too.

"Interesting..." she said. One of her eyebrows was raised higher than the other. She looked at me intrusively, like I was vain for wearing mascara. She wasn't wearing any makeup at all. Or a bra. Her boobs were big and sloppy and I felt a little sick each time I noticed this.

Steve sang on, "So how did you do it angels, always you do it females, you always keep me on the run.."

"So real," whispered the hatted boy.

"So you watch Oprah daily?" said slop boobs.
"Oh yeah. I can't miss it. I read all the books she recommends too. And her magazine," I said. I felt my sarcasm was obvious but she declined the conspicuous joke.
"Huh," she said.

Truly I resent Oprah. She's jovial, and a good philanthropist, but she rules the world. She dictates popular culture, politics, and even empathy. Also it's sort of fucked up to me that she's on the cover of her own magazine every month.

Caitlin flailed out of the door, butt first, with bags of chips in her arms.

"Fuck you and your hipster bullshit, you unpatriotic dick faces! I'm takin' your chips!" She screamed and stumbled backwards a few steps. The diaper was now replaced by long basketball shorts, and she'd put a kids size t-shirt on top.
"Let's go Laur!" She ran.
"Steve, call me!" She yelled from outside the fence.
"It's been lovely," I said, exiting the conversation.

Steve constricted the hose and sprayed me when I walked away.

"LONG LIVE LUKE PRITCHARD!" he screamed.
"Easy man," I heard the hatted boy say.

The ally was damp and bright and I walked towards the busy street feeling elated now from the hours of drinks. A potato chip hit me in the face and Caitlin popped out from behind a dumpster on the right side.

"Hey hey hey, we gotta go we gotta go," she said. Chips were in her hair and crumbs were stuck to grease on her face. She was anxiously moving and her eyes were wide, nervously scanning the ally.

"Cait it's fine. Those guys are idiots, just calm down," I reached into the bag and ate a chip.
'No you don't understand. I took a shit in that hipsters bed," she said. Her face lit up intensely. I paused in disbelief.
"No you didn't," I said.
"Did. We gotta hide. Let's just go out on Clark. Those guys aren't 21 so they won't be able to find us," she walked fast towards Clark street.
"Of course they're not 21," I said, "why would you do that?"
"Why wouldn't I do that Laur. Why wouldn't I. It's Flag Day and I hated that kid."
"You did call him an unpatriotic dick face."
"Stone cold truth," she said.

We walked through passing drunks. Cait held two more big bags of chips in her hand.
"Let's just take a cab," she said, opening another bag and discarding the empty into the trash.
"It's like 3 blocks."
"I'll pay. I keep money where the eyes can't see," she said, hailing a cab. She opened the front door and sat down. Before I even got into the back she'd jumped out of the cab already.
"Out! Laur lets get the next one!"
I closed the door and stepped back to the curb.

"It smelled like a meat sandwich in there," she said.
We hailed the next passing cab and she directed the driver to Clark. It was a meat-free car and Caitlin pressed the driver in the short trip about his American citizenship.
"Happy Flag Day, amigo," she said, paying and slamming the door behind her.

I Do This I Do That- Chapter 3

III. Hose Water

When I got to the barbecue the evening sun had settled in the west above the distant Chicago buildings. Warm shadows nuzzled the alleyways and lingering traffic shuffled slowly between the lights. It was a dusty fenced in backyard, just a block beyond the elevated train tracks. I heard Cait's voice from outside the fence and walked in.

It smelled like sizzling grease and stale beer, and the group in the yard was loose-hipped and boisterous. The keg was like a bug zapper and layers of sunned faces with red cups stood near it waiting.

Caitlin sauntered towards me with a cool and confident look on her face, a cigarette in each hand and her diaper fully intact. She hugged me abrasively.

"How was sitting on babies?" she said.
"I survived."
"Let's hope they did," she said, slapping my butt. Her dull brown hair was tousled and bright. The sun peaked now between the top of the apartment buildings, making her features dark in the golden contrast. Her skin looked burnt, and freckles had multiplied on her shoulders and cheeks. She stood hunched over with her hips protruding forward. I took a drag of one of her cigarettes.

"Hey now," she grabbed it back from me.
"If I smoke two at time I technically only smoke once an hour. It's a time saver." She put them both in her mouth and exhaled twice, one puff of smoke left and one right.
"You and your bright ideas."
"You need a beer," she said, putting her arm around my shoulder. We walked over to the keg. Her body weight on me made me feel like a cane.
"Steve, beer me," she motioned to a stocky bearded guy, with shaggy brown hair. He had a snug wife-beater on and his shoulders were burnt red. On the back of the beater he'd drawn a small blank flag on a pole.

He handed me two cups. Most people in the yard held two, which wasn't so much of a trend as it was a mission. Caitlin talked to a group behind me. Her voice resonated but the details were lost with the noise of a passing train.

She was a captivating spectacle with an unavoidable presence. She roamed from group to group like an over-accommodating host, or a starlet backstage after production, flitting from groups of fans to the next. Steve walked towards me.

"So you're Cait's infamous roommate," he said.
"Infamous huh?"
"That is the hearsay madame." He stood like a wide noodle, completely unnerved. His burnt skin was exaggerated by the white of his normal complexion. His cheeks were pink and his eyes were sea green. His frame wasn't necessarily fat, but round and soft looking, like a hard boiled egg. He spoke slowly, like each word had a designated moment that could not be rushed.
"You believe everything you hear?"
"More often than not."
"Good policy. Well then, I'm the opposite of infamous. I'm a theologian actually. A former aspiring nun." I finished drink one and stacked the cups. I looked at him now with my hand over my eyes as a visor.
He closed his eyes emphatically and snapped his fingers.
"I believe you," he said.
"Good." I looked around the yard. Cait was entertaining a group by the fence. She marched in place and made contorted faces, likely for some ficticious tangent. The group was laughing.

Steve walked over to the side of the house and picked up the hose from the ground and turned it on. The water flowed mildly. He poured some into his hand and splashed it on his face, then stuck his mouth below the flowing spout and drank ravenously. He walked back towards me, water splashed on his beater.

"Could have just used the sink for some water ya know," I said, jokingly.
"I really prefer the hose," he said. He wiped water off his beard.
"Why is that?"
"It reminds me of drinking fountains. You know, like in elementary school? And it's always cold. I splash my face with it and the water makes me thirsty, you know? And then it's like I'm back in first grade, skipping class for a cold drink," he peered off.
"So you always drink from the hose?"
"Where there's a hose, I'll drink from it," he said.
"What do you do at a restaurant?"
"I put my face under the faucet. I mean, I'll drink from a glass but it's just not the same. You should try it," he said, "It's a religious experience. Which you should really understand."
"Got it. I'm good with beer for now," I said. I tried to smile but really I would need a few more drinks to enjoy this garrulous conversation.
"You don't know what you're missing... So... did you graduate with Caitlin then?"
I began to feel irritated with the approaching small talk.
"So you like small talk," I said.
"I was just curious. I'm not gonna ask you your major or anything. I was just wondering if you were still in school. I'm a junior," he said, "Maybe we've had a class together."
"Yeah I graduated. I can't believe I'm older than you," I said.

Lately it seemed that everyone I met was younger than me. I was getting older but still going to the same places. The reality hadn't settled. Eventually I began to notice that most people my age were starting to do real adult things, like wash their hair daily and commute to work, with less and less time for Flag Day parties and blackout yacht excursions.

I had always been the youngest. I was youngest is my family and amongst my group of friends. Being young is an excuse in itself. It's almost cute to be forgetful or wrong, because everyone old projects the understanding that the young will someday learn. Technically when you turn 18 you're an adult, with the glorified baggage of responsibility, but in college there are always upperclassmen who know more. Now I was older than the upperclassman. After college the adults are pooled into the same category and the differences between them, other than age and levels of attractiveness, are really just a matter of economics; studio apartments versus condos.

Sure I graduated, but I didn't feel any different. There were no core class requirements to learn the basics of how to shift into reality. I knew about ethnocentrism and Kantian philosophy. I'd learned and lived the allegory of psychomachia. I knew all about cognitive dissonance and the rhyme scheme of Italian sonnets, but I couldn't understand how to conduct a grownup day. How do I wake up at 6 a.m and take the train? Nothing in my closet reflected business attire. None of my shoe purchases were generated towards professionalism.

One thing was evident though. The novelty of partying passes when you're the oldest one in the room. When you're a freshman and you get drunk and make a fool of yourself, people easily pardon the behavior. When you start to get a bit older, people start asking questions, like, "Isn't she 25? Why is she throwing up in the sink and wearing a toga?" Having more credits than Steve didn't make me feel any cooler or smarter. It made me feel like a loser. He may of had hose water dripping from his beard, but I envied him. I worked for a dog in a dress and got pudding thrown on me for bonuses. One hundred grand later, I had a bootless degree in liberal arts and the qualifications to be an entry level coffee runner.

"So what are you doin' now?" said Steve.
I didn't answer. After an awkward moment I walked over to the hose and splashed cold water on my face. It was a liquid slap and felt good on my warm skin.
"You're right, it does make you thirsty," I said.
"It's religious, right? Like baptism. You'll never drink water from a glass again."
I walked back over to him.
"I'll have to. I don't have a hose," I said.
"Obstacles." He grabbed my cups and walked over to the keg.

Caitlin ran passed me towards the apartment door, holding her diaper in place and laughing hysterically.

Looks like it came in handy, I thought.