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.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
I Do This I Do That - Chapter 2
II. A Hard Time
A little boy in a faded red Spider-Man shirt sat across from the girls. He looked them all over, curiously, and swung his feet below the seat.
His mom was pale and tired looking. Her hair was in a greasy loose bun, and she looked at her watch anxiously. The name tag on her faded blue blouse read,"Irving". I thought about how awful it would be to wear a name tag. I'm sure the unacquainted strangers addressing her daily by name is habitually annoying for her. What an intrusive thing for me and every one else to just steal that intimate knowledge with a glance at her shirt. Maybe it was a family name. Maybe her parents chose it because it is distinct. She could never avoid being Irving, and I resolved in that moment I would rather do anything than wear a name tag.
The boy taps his finger on the window glass.
"You sit still!" she snaps.
"Be careful!" I yelled.
They wore themselves out and we walked back to their house, shoes squeaking and hair dripping wet. I was wearing white shorts, and my pink underwear surely glowed through the wet cotton fabric. I walked in front of them and Mady chanted, "I'm walking behind your pink behind! I'm walking behind your pink behind!" We laughed and it felt like happiness.
The sun warmed us and the girls were tired and teasing each other by the time we returned. I put their clothes in the laundry and changed mine. I'd kept an extra pair of shorts and a t-shirt there for days like this.
It rained the week before and the girls chose to walk Bella through mud puddles. A month earlier I made chocolate pudding, Madison's request, and the girls flicked spoonfuls of it all over my grey shirt. But the next day I had a $200 bonus. The shirt was only $10.
Throwing food on me was sort of like their inside joke, but I always made a point to leave the ruined garments in plain sight before my paycheck came.
"Oh those silly girls," Mrs. Lesnik would say, laughing about my cheese-whizzed tank top, or mud covered sweatshirt. I laughed too, when they reimbursed me in tenfold.
The girls declined my suggestion to watch The Lion King, and opted for an animate horror. They wore clean tutus and laid on the floor in the basement with popcorn, relatively calm and dozing. I napped on the couch upstairs, in celebration of their silence.
I awoke to Bella yelping outrageously. The front door unlocked and Mr. Lesnik walked in, turning off the beeping alarm. He watched me while he walked into the kitchen. I sat up lazily.
"Hey," he said.
He always looked slightly drunk to me. His eyes were a bit squinted and lazy, and he had an astutely audacious air about him that usually only emerges from muddled drunk confidence. He was wearing biking shorts and a t-shirt, and looked as though he has just begun working out again after a ten year lull. The skin of his belly was pressed against his dry fit shirt. His brows raised above his squinting eyes and he smiled coolly with closed lips. Perhaps he was sober, but his expression was permanently intoxicated, and he looked at me like I was a secret that only he understood.
"So how were they today?" He unpacked the things from his bag and placed them carefully on the kitchen counter.
"Oh, angelic," I said. I knew he did not pick up on my sarcasm.
"They didn't give you a... hard time?" He emphasized hard, oddly.
"Oh no. They're hilarious. We had a really good time ."
"That's terrific. You know Laura, they really do love you," he looked up and smiled, as though he's rehearsed the conversation and practiced his glances for the moment.
"Well they're great girls. I love them too," I say. I said this, but really I know they just love the ice cream and food fights, and really I just need the money. I liked spending time with them. But frankly, I could show up drunk, eat ice cream for lunch, and play mindless kid games. I'd hardly call it 'love'. I believe many people misconstrue 'love' for monetary exchanges. I'm not saying I have a better understanding of what love is, but I'm sure the Lesnik's don't either. They love jeans and vacations just as much as they love each other. Which is fine, I guess.
He folded a pair of jeans carefully and placed them on the counter.
"Eight-hundred dollar pair of jeans, and I shove them in my backpack," he says, shaking his head. It was an expression of pretentiousness, rather than frustration.
I spat out a noise, trying to laugh, "hahaheahea."
"You want you a beer?" he opened the fridge and gestured one towards me.
"Sure," I said, unsure.
His astute expression was fixed on me while I sipped the beer. I darted my eyes away from his gaze. I scanned the label on the beer. I studied the pattern of the tiled floor. I chugged the rest of the beer.
"If it's okay with you, I think I'll go," I said.
"Of course. If you'd like, Liz won't be here for an hour. I could drive you home then. That way you won't have to take the train."
"It's fine. I'm supposed to meet my friend. She's in this neighborhood so I can walk. But thanks though Mr. Lesnik," I said, setting my bottle on the counter.
"Call me Dave," he said, "Oh and here." He pulled out a wad of twenties from his wallet and touched my palm when he handed them to me.
"Always good to see you," he said.
Scores of blank faces from every race and demographic proportion waddled around the dwindling stoops on my block. It's a melting pot of faded denim and burkas. Javiers whistle against dirty brick buildings, baggy pants walk slowly, and dark sandy faces argue between gorging puffs on cigarettes.
People are numb in this city. Waving elicits the same null response as running through the street screaming. I remember there was a homeless woman downtown who used to chase people if they looked at her. Right down Michigan Avenue, she barreled through crowds, screaming, "Stop looking at me!" I was alarmed the first time I saw it, but after awhile she was just noise, like a horn honking.
There's such a strong sense of singularity in a neighbor-less neighborhood. The nature of temporary tenants turns neighbors into ghosts, and desensitizes me from the strange people and strange happenings around me. I could lay down on the sidewalk and people would just go around me.
I walked fast through the sandy wind, quick between the loitering gutter bums and strollers pushed by long-nailed gum chewers. The train came and I ran onto it, just before the doors closed. It was crowded and I stayed in the corner by the door, bracing myself for the abrupt starts and stops.
A group of undergrads, presumably freshman, sat in the seats nearest to me. They wore multicolored back-of-the-head-hats atop of wind gusted, air dryed hair. In skinny jeans, and cropped jackets, each had on a different colored scarf. A few girls wore big dark sunglasses. They talk loudly over the EL rattles, ignorant to the eavesdropping riders.
"I know! And like, I heard she got kicked out of Barcelona for being too drunk. I hate her. And did you see what she wrote on Alex's facebook wall?"
There's such a strong sense of singularity in a neighbor-less neighborhood. The nature of temporary tenants turns neighbors into ghosts, and desensitizes me from the strange people and strange happenings around me. I could lay down on the sidewalk and people would just go around me.
I walked fast through the sandy wind, quick between the loitering gutter bums and strollers pushed by long-nailed gum chewers. The train came and I ran onto it, just before the doors closed. It was crowded and I stayed in the corner by the door, bracing myself for the abrupt starts and stops.
A group of undergrads, presumably freshman, sat in the seats nearest to me. They wore multicolored back-of-the-head-hats atop of wind gusted, air dryed hair. In skinny jeans, and cropped jackets, each had on a different colored scarf. A few girls wore big dark sunglasses. They talk loudly over the EL rattles, ignorant to the eavesdropping riders.
"I know! And like, I heard she got kicked out of Barcelona for being too drunk. I hate her. And did you see what she wrote on Alex's facebook wall?"
"Oh my gosh. I don't know why anyone even talks to her. She is one of the most annoying girls I've ever met," said scarf girl #2.
Everyone laughed.
Another girl interjected, bringing up music venues, studying abroad sophomore year, and zingers of heavy women on the passing platform.
Another girl interjected, bringing up music venues, studying abroad sophomore year, and zingers of heavy women on the passing platform.
A little boy in a faded red Spider-Man shirt sat across from the girls. He looked them all over, curiously, and swung his feet below the seat.
His mom was pale and tired looking. Her hair was in a greasy loose bun, and she looked at her watch anxiously. The name tag on her faded blue blouse read,"Irving". I thought about how awful it would be to wear a name tag. I'm sure the unacquainted strangers addressing her daily by name is habitually annoying for her. What an intrusive thing for me and every one else to just steal that intimate knowledge with a glance at her shirt. Maybe it was a family name. Maybe her parents chose it because it is distinct. She could never avoid being Irving, and I resolved in that moment I would rather do anything than wear a name tag.
The boy taps his finger on the window glass.
"You sit still!" she snaps.
He settled into his chair and puts his hands on his lap. A few minutes later, he taps his finger on the glass once again.
"Godammit! What did I say?"
She looked fried and heavy. The boy crossed his arms and looked down, swinging his dirty shoes slower.
The girls stood up as we neared the next stop.
They talked over each other and laugh outrageously while they exited, leaving the noisy train voiceless.
I could feel the taco grumble in my stomach while the train jolted around the track corners. My head throbbed erratically from hints of lingering intoxication.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. It's a text from Mrs. Lesnik, "Hey Laur. Had to go to work. The girls are downstairs playing. Please walk Bella immediately. David will be home at 5."
There were 9 un-played voice mails too, that I could not bear to hear. For weeks I'd been avoiding my family, and my mom stalked me with relentless inquisitiveness. The imaginary internship I'd created was keeping me busy full time, as far as she knew, but it was only a matter of time before the bullshit buried me.
I exited into a sea of walkers, who dispersed around me down the stairs into various directions in haste. The Lesnik's block is shaded by great canopying trees. It hums with mild traffic and city birds. I walked up the modern stoop and enter the house, locking the door and turning off the alarm behind me.
"Hi girls!" I yelled into the hall.
I heard them laughing and playing downstairs. The wooded floors were perfectly clean and swept, and the living room sparkled with glass tables and artistic fixtures on the freshly painted creme walls. Bella's yips echoed from the back foyer.
The Lesnik's had the little Yorkie dressed in a yellow polka dotted shirt and a brimmed hat. She looked ridiculous, and I walked her around the block feeling foolish. Her clean cotton shirt was probably just as expensive as mine. I refused to pick up her shit from the grass, regardless of how many rude looks I get. It is already enough that the bitch is better dressed than me.
Her crates were color coordinated and organized into seasonal outfits, with matching collars and bandannas. She is my 2 pound boss, and so are the five-year-old brats in the basement.
After the walk, Bella panted and trotted to her water dish. Downstairs the girls had built an elaborate fort with blankets and sheets. They wore pink tutus and crowns on their heads.
"Laaaura!" screamed Madison, running towards me and latching onto my leg like a leech. Morgan follows, latching onto the other and digging her nails into my oiled skin.
"My mom said your gonna get fired if you're late again!" said Madison, with a big smile on her face.
"Oh reeeeeeally," I answer. I swoop down and pick her up.
"She said we get ice cream today, too!" says Morgan, jumping up and down.
"She's the boss," I say.
Letting the girls do whatever they wanted was the only way to ensure I wouldn't be fired. They were completely out of control, but if they wanted pickle juice and sugar cubes for dinner, so was it. As long as the girls were relatively safe and happy, I'd keep my job. Both Mr. and Mrs. Lesnik were slaves to work and play, and Madison and Morgan were just another commodity to their success. Just like Bella. The girls went to a top private school, and their kiddie designer clothes and rooms of toys were accumulated bribes for good behavior.
I had just recently become their 3 day a week nanny, but the Lesnik's had others employed for their nightly festivities and sporadic weeks at spas or abroad.
We walked to the beach after getting ice cream. The girls wore tutus still, held wands in their hands and wore tall princess tiaras on their heads. The sun melted streaks of chocolate ice cream down Morgan's hand. Mady had already finished her cone, and her mouth was covered in chocolate and waffle crumbs.
The beach was relatively quiet, and tanners and readers sporadically covered the sand. A tall man in a plaid shirt threw a Frisbee to his lean black lab. He waved, and I figured that he was from a small town where people are friendly. The girls ran through a beach volleyball game towards the water. The waves were low and constant, and they set their wands in the sand and walked into the shallow lake.
"Laura! Come in with us!" Mady yelled towards me.
I left my shoes in the sand and met them in the cool water.
Just a few days before this, Mrs. Lesnik told me I was the girl's favorite babysitter. "Mady and Morgan just love you, Laur. Whenever I ask who they want to sit for them they always say you. I wonder why that is," she'd said.
This was why. I let them do anything (truly anything) they wanted, as long as I was fairly positive they couldn't be hurt.
The two of them splashed me with full might when I waded towards them. Mady dove into the water in her tutu, and Morgan ran into me, jumping up and sending us over into the waves. The water was cold, and I walked out and sat on the sand, watching them splash and screech wildly.
The girls stood up as we neared the next stop.
They talked over each other and laugh outrageously while they exited, leaving the noisy train voiceless.
I could feel the taco grumble in my stomach while the train jolted around the track corners. My head throbbed erratically from hints of lingering intoxication.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. It's a text from Mrs. Lesnik, "Hey Laur. Had to go to work. The girls are downstairs playing. Please walk Bella immediately. David will be home at 5."
There were 9 un-played voice mails too, that I could not bear to hear. For weeks I'd been avoiding my family, and my mom stalked me with relentless inquisitiveness. The imaginary internship I'd created was keeping me busy full time, as far as she knew, but it was only a matter of time before the bullshit buried me.
I exited into a sea of walkers, who dispersed around me down the stairs into various directions in haste. The Lesnik's block is shaded by great canopying trees. It hums with mild traffic and city birds. I walked up the modern stoop and enter the house, locking the door and turning off the alarm behind me.
"Hi girls!" I yelled into the hall.
I heard them laughing and playing downstairs. The wooded floors were perfectly clean and swept, and the living room sparkled with glass tables and artistic fixtures on the freshly painted creme walls. Bella's yips echoed from the back foyer.
The Lesnik's had the little Yorkie dressed in a yellow polka dotted shirt and a brimmed hat. She looked ridiculous, and I walked her around the block feeling foolish. Her clean cotton shirt was probably just as expensive as mine. I refused to pick up her shit from the grass, regardless of how many rude looks I get. It is already enough that the bitch is better dressed than me.
Her crates were color coordinated and organized into seasonal outfits, with matching collars and bandannas. She is my 2 pound boss, and so are the five-year-old brats in the basement.
After the walk, Bella panted and trotted to her water dish. Downstairs the girls had built an elaborate fort with blankets and sheets. They wore pink tutus and crowns on their heads.
"Laaaura!" screamed Madison, running towards me and latching onto my leg like a leech. Morgan follows, latching onto the other and digging her nails into my oiled skin.
"My mom said your gonna get fired if you're late again!" said Madison, with a big smile on her face.
"Oh reeeeeeally," I answer. I swoop down and pick her up.
"She said we get ice cream today, too!" says Morgan, jumping up and down.
"She's the boss," I say.
Letting the girls do whatever they wanted was the only way to ensure I wouldn't be fired. They were completely out of control, but if they wanted pickle juice and sugar cubes for dinner, so was it. As long as the girls were relatively safe and happy, I'd keep my job. Both Mr. and Mrs. Lesnik were slaves to work and play, and Madison and Morgan were just another commodity to their success. Just like Bella. The girls went to a top private school, and their kiddie designer clothes and rooms of toys were accumulated bribes for good behavior.
I had just recently become their 3 day a week nanny, but the Lesnik's had others employed for their nightly festivities and sporadic weeks at spas or abroad.
We walked to the beach after getting ice cream. The girls wore tutus still, held wands in their hands and wore tall princess tiaras on their heads. The sun melted streaks of chocolate ice cream down Morgan's hand. Mady had already finished her cone, and her mouth was covered in chocolate and waffle crumbs.
The beach was relatively quiet, and tanners and readers sporadically covered the sand. A tall man in a plaid shirt threw a Frisbee to his lean black lab. He waved, and I figured that he was from a small town where people are friendly. The girls ran through a beach volleyball game towards the water. The waves were low and constant, and they set their wands in the sand and walked into the shallow lake.
"Laura! Come in with us!" Mady yelled towards me.
I left my shoes in the sand and met them in the cool water.
Just a few days before this, Mrs. Lesnik told me I was the girl's favorite babysitter. "Mady and Morgan just love you, Laur. Whenever I ask who they want to sit for them they always say you. I wonder why that is," she'd said.
This was why. I let them do anything (truly anything) they wanted, as long as I was fairly positive they couldn't be hurt.
The two of them splashed me with full might when I waded towards them. Mady dove into the water in her tutu, and Morgan ran into me, jumping up and sending us over into the waves. The water was cold, and I walked out and sat on the sand, watching them splash and screech wildly.
"Be careful!" I yelled.
They wore themselves out and we walked back to their house, shoes squeaking and hair dripping wet. I was wearing white shorts, and my pink underwear surely glowed through the wet cotton fabric. I walked in front of them and Mady chanted, "I'm walking behind your pink behind! I'm walking behind your pink behind!" We laughed and it felt like happiness.
The sun warmed us and the girls were tired and teasing each other by the time we returned. I put their clothes in the laundry and changed mine. I'd kept an extra pair of shorts and a t-shirt there for days like this.
It rained the week before and the girls chose to walk Bella through mud puddles. A month earlier I made chocolate pudding, Madison's request, and the girls flicked spoonfuls of it all over my grey shirt. But the next day I had a $200 bonus. The shirt was only $10.
Throwing food on me was sort of like their inside joke, but I always made a point to leave the ruined garments in plain sight before my paycheck came.
"Oh those silly girls," Mrs. Lesnik would say, laughing about my cheese-whizzed tank top, or mud covered sweatshirt. I laughed too, when they reimbursed me in tenfold.
The girls declined my suggestion to watch The Lion King, and opted for an animate horror. They wore clean tutus and laid on the floor in the basement with popcorn, relatively calm and dozing. I napped on the couch upstairs, in celebration of their silence.
I awoke to Bella yelping outrageously. The front door unlocked and Mr. Lesnik walked in, turning off the beeping alarm. He watched me while he walked into the kitchen. I sat up lazily.
"Hey," he said.
He always looked slightly drunk to me. His eyes were a bit squinted and lazy, and he had an astutely audacious air about him that usually only emerges from muddled drunk confidence. He was wearing biking shorts and a t-shirt, and looked as though he has just begun working out again after a ten year lull. The skin of his belly was pressed against his dry fit shirt. His brows raised above his squinting eyes and he smiled coolly with closed lips. Perhaps he was sober, but his expression was permanently intoxicated, and he looked at me like I was a secret that only he understood.
"So how were they today?" He unpacked the things from his bag and placed them carefully on the kitchen counter.
"Oh, angelic," I said. I knew he did not pick up on my sarcasm.
"They didn't give you a... hard time?" He emphasized hard, oddly.
"Oh no. They're hilarious. We had a really good time ."
"That's terrific. You know Laura, they really do love you," he looked up and smiled, as though he's rehearsed the conversation and practiced his glances for the moment.
"Well they're great girls. I love them too," I say. I said this, but really I know they just love the ice cream and food fights, and really I just need the money. I liked spending time with them. But frankly, I could show up drunk, eat ice cream for lunch, and play mindless kid games. I'd hardly call it 'love'. I believe many people misconstrue 'love' for monetary exchanges. I'm not saying I have a better understanding of what love is, but I'm sure the Lesnik's don't either. They love jeans and vacations just as much as they love each other. Which is fine, I guess.
He folded a pair of jeans carefully and placed them on the counter.
"Eight-hundred dollar pair of jeans, and I shove them in my backpack," he says, shaking his head. It was an expression of pretentiousness, rather than frustration.
I spat out a noise, trying to laugh, "hahaheahea."
"You want you a beer?" he opened the fridge and gestured one towards me.
"Sure," I said, unsure.
His astute expression was fixed on me while I sipped the beer. I darted my eyes away from his gaze. I scanned the label on the beer. I studied the pattern of the tiled floor. I chugged the rest of the beer.
"If it's okay with you, I think I'll go," I said.
"Of course. If you'd like, Liz won't be here for an hour. I could drive you home then. That way you won't have to take the train."
"It's fine. I'm supposed to meet my friend. She's in this neighborhood so I can walk. But thanks though Mr. Lesnik," I said, setting my bottle on the counter.
"Call me Dave," he said, "Oh and here." He pulled out a wad of twenties from his wallet and touched my palm when he handed them to me.
"Always good to see you," he said.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
I Do This I Do That- Chapter 1
I. Shame Shaker
I'd like to say that waking up on a boat in the middle of an unknown harbor was the day that I decided to quit drinking, but it wasn't. Aside from being a bit seasick, nothing adverse happened on the boat. I considered the situation to be a funny coincidence rather than a consequence of my precarious hedonism. I had nothing in my life to deter me from being free in an almost dizzying manner. The feeling of waking in an addled sense of mind was nothing new to me. The circumstances changed, but the taste of dirt in my mouth and clouds in my brain were as routine as my morning coffee.
The boat was a brilliant shock. Granite floors and marble counter tops glistened from the window sun. I was underneath what appeared to be a table, and something on top of it moved in a slow scratch with the aqueous motion.
I could smell the man who brought me here. The pungent stale sleep and flavored vodka moved from the height of his gold bed spread and radiated the room. The aroma pasted the air and a dream-like pattern of events was formed.
I remembered multi-colored lights painting a dark ceiling red and green and blue. I could see the man's sly and strange mouth moving, but the words were shadowed behind pangs of music. I recalled drinking a glowing blue beverage in a heavy martini glass. The blue carbonation had now moved from my stomach to my brain, and it pounded now in rhythmic stings. I could taste the blue pain in my mouth, and imagined my brain blue and swollen and bursting at the seams towards my ear holes. The smell oozed out of every pore in my body.
Sunlight from the open window felt as though it burnt off the skin on my cheek. I crawled out from beneath the table and quietly stood in the narrow vessel. The man laid in the bed, snoring in cadence with his arms spread out forming a 'T'. He was above average looking, with a strong square face and light brown hair that seemed to be dyed by the summer.
The intensity of the sun and the lingering unpredictability of booze made me feel an urgency to leave. I swallowed the dry stale air and gagged, nearly throwing up. I picked up a plastic cup from beside me and threw it at the man. He struggled out of his snore and sat straight up.
He looked at me wide-eyed.
"Whoa! Forgot you were here."
He made fluid chomps with his mouth, like he was eating paste, and brushed his sandy hair from his forehead. "Did you throw a cup at me?"
"Yeah. Sorry about that." My profuse sweating was making me nauseous and dizzy. I felt like I'd been buried alive. I breathed in bits of lingering dust from the arid cabin and coughed as though I'd smoked for the very first time.
"How did I end up on the floor?"
"You passed out there. We were up top drinking, and you came down here to use the bathroom. You yelled and asked me where the light was. I told you it was on the wall and you must have gotten tired of looking. I came down here and you were in a ball on the floor," he put his fingers through his hair and yawned. His voice sounded harsh from the morning, and he cleared his throat repeatedly to break the stress.
"Did you pee yourself?"
"No, no I didn't."
"Good deal." He stretched his arms and yawned. He picked up a bottled water from the bedside and drank it in one breath.
"Here," he tossed me a bottle too.
Silence ensued. He belted out a series of tired sounding gargles, shuffled between bed sides three or four times, then stood.
"So...do you want me to drive you home or something?"
"Yeah. If you could?"
He looked at me everywhere for a few lengthy moments which made me slightly uncomfortable. We sat looking around for a few minutes, unsure of what to say.
"You want to, maybe...give me a blow job first?"
"No, Not right now," I said.
"Okay, okay just a thought, juuuust a thought. No harm done."
I said nothing.
"Ready?" He asked rhetorically while grabbing his keys and a shirt.
Outside the wind was warm and heavy and the sun reflected in specs on the steady blue waves. It occurred to me suddenly I was emerging from a boat in Navy Pier. The pier Ferris Wheel moved slowly in the distance. Walkers, runners, tourists, families, and bikers made the shoreline sidewalks and grass alive with movement. The yacht was amongst dozens of others, whose various owners relaxed on the docks or polished the sides of their glorious boats.
A man stood with bags of groceries and beer by "The Slippery Willy," and nodded at us coolly. A woman in cargo shorts and a Cubs hat watched my feet as my heels clanked passed her. I felt momentarily apart of this exclusive boat world. The elite recreation was something I had only observed from a passing cab. As we ascended from the dock I imagined myself truly belonging here. The ease and whimsicality of the yacht world seemed greatly divided from life that I knew. How nice it would be to have no drive home from this harbor. How delightful it would be to float away.
We crossed the underpass at Lake Shore Drive to the Navy Pier parking lot. If I'd known or cared about cars, I could have appreciated the moment, but the man's car, as far as my knowledge allotted, was 'nice'. Any car was nice to me with leather interior and clean empty floors.
We drove in palpable silence. The man played with the radio, scanning for an ease in our strange tension.
"Man I love this song," said man, turning up the dial. It was a horrible song. A radio requiem that I notably changed anytime it played.
"Me too," I said.
"So remember you broke that bottle of Grey Goose in the VIP section? You were dancing on that short table and it shattered!" said man.
The image was groggy to me, but sounded likely.
"That shit was hilarious."
I laughed forcefully.
"So this is fucked up, but I can't remember your name.. I feel like I remember most everything else besides that though, if it's any consolation," he said.
"What else is there?"
"I know you live off of Belmont. You're in law school at Marshall. You're a huge Black Hawks fan, and you're from Michigan, right?" He rolled down the windows, and the air was warm and loud while he switched lanes, exiting Lake Shore Drive at Belmont.
"Good Memory. Oh just take a right here and stop at the next light," I said. He pulled up next to a tall apartment building with a black gate and colored flowers in a small green courtyard. The car stopped abruptly, making my brain feel paddled against my skull.
"Uhhh."
"You okay?"
"Too many shots last night."
He laughed.
"Thanks for the ride."
I stepped out onto the shaded walk.
"No problem. So what's your name?"
"It's Scarlet." I closed the door.
"I'll call you." He smiled. "Oh, and sorry about that whole, blow job thing," he said, laughing and rolling up the window.
He wouldn't be calling me though, because I hadn't given him my number. And also my name wasn't Scarlet. And this wasn't my apartment.
I watched man drive out of view and I walked to the corner and hailed a cab. My real apartment was a few miles north.
On my treeless block the sun was unforgiving, and heat palpably lingered above the metal cars and business awnings. Pothole stews of garbage and dirt, fried food, and cigarette smells tangled with the hot wind, making me both nauseous and hungry at once. The door to my downstairs apartment, right passed "El Ranchero Taco," was propped open with a brick. I'd been propping it since I lost my keys...every week.
I walked into "El Ranchero Taco," my heels loud on the tiled floor. It was hot in the square room, and a large white fan blew in the street heat.
"Hola vesina," said Javier. He stood behind the counter, his arms folded across his chest, and his leg propped on the cooler.
"Hola vesino. Tienes un taco libre for me?" I said.
"Not when you speak spanglish," he smiled.
"Por favor? Javier, I'm sick." I laid my head and arms on the counter.
"I'll give you a free taco... if you give me your roommates' number." He laughed and it echoed across the room.
"Vesino sucio.."
"Kidding! Aqui vesina. Go sleep off your hangover," he handed me a taco.
"Ah. Te amo. See how good my Spanish is getting?"
Downstairs in my apartment the lights were all on, and the red windowless walls were illuminated from high lamps. I could hear Caitlin cooking in the kitchen. The couch was disheveled with upheaved cushions and tousled blankets. A condom wrapper sat on the floor by the coffee table. "The Lion King" was blaring from the television.
"Well hello my little shame shaker," said Caitlin, standing in the kitchen doorway. She held a spatula in her hand and wore an American flag swimsuit top, a headband with protruding multi-colored stars, and a diaper. Her dark brown hair was wild and curling about the headband. She had a growing belly, from late night bars and daily trips to "El Ranchero Taco", and she was unapologetic about it.
"Don't you look nice. What's the occasion?"
"I'm going to a Flag Day barbecue."
"Ah ha. What's with the diaper?"
"Two reasons. One, flags aren't funny, and neither are these friends of mine hosting the party. I needed a humor boost. Two, I'm already buzzed and its 10:30. I figure by 4 I may need it."
"Brilliant."
"I baked cupcakes, if you want one," she said, placing the finished cakes into Tupperware.
"What do they say?" I leaned over her shoulder, reading the red frosted lettering. "Susan B. Anthony. You clever cookie," I said.
"Want one? They're drug free!"
"I'm all set with my taco. Oh, Javier says 'hi'," I took the last bite.
"He wants me."
"Si indeed."
"I'm going, but call me if you want to come. I'll be there all day. Lots of free food and beer." She sat at the table, pulling up high white socks and slipping on white sneakers with drawn on blue stars.
"I'll call you."
She left. 'Hakuna Matata' blared in the living room.
In my bedroom, heaps of clothes covered my floor and bed. Books and notebooks, some open, some ripped, piled atop my desk. A dozen dead roses bent sadly on my dresser. Four empty coffee cups lined my nightstand. I changed my clothes. I braided my hair. My skin smelled like sand carpet, but there was no time to worry.
I was already late, even in advance, because leaving early could not defy the fate of my perpetual tardiness. A gust of the wind could set me back an hour. I'd forget pants. I would get lost in my own neighborhood. It didn't matter if I left an hour early or four hours early. I would be late, inevitably.
Being late perpetually hadn't gotten me fired yet, and rushing to be prompt was just another effort I had retired months ago. I tied my shoes and left, looking as 'I-didn't-wake-up-on-a-boat' as could be. I grabbed The Lion King on the way out, propping the brick in the door behind me.
I'd like to say that waking up on a boat in the middle of an unknown harbor was the day that I decided to quit drinking, but it wasn't. Aside from being a bit seasick, nothing adverse happened on the boat. I considered the situation to be a funny coincidence rather than a consequence of my precarious hedonism. I had nothing in my life to deter me from being free in an almost dizzying manner. The feeling of waking in an addled sense of mind was nothing new to me. The circumstances changed, but the taste of dirt in my mouth and clouds in my brain were as routine as my morning coffee.
The boat was a brilliant shock. Granite floors and marble counter tops glistened from the window sun. I was underneath what appeared to be a table, and something on top of it moved in a slow scratch with the aqueous motion.
I could smell the man who brought me here. The pungent stale sleep and flavored vodka moved from the height of his gold bed spread and radiated the room. The aroma pasted the air and a dream-like pattern of events was formed.
I remembered multi-colored lights painting a dark ceiling red and green and blue. I could see the man's sly and strange mouth moving, but the words were shadowed behind pangs of music. I recalled drinking a glowing blue beverage in a heavy martini glass. The blue carbonation had now moved from my stomach to my brain, and it pounded now in rhythmic stings. I could taste the blue pain in my mouth, and imagined my brain blue and swollen and bursting at the seams towards my ear holes. The smell oozed out of every pore in my body.
Sunlight from the open window felt as though it burnt off the skin on my cheek. I crawled out from beneath the table and quietly stood in the narrow vessel. The man laid in the bed, snoring in cadence with his arms spread out forming a 'T'. He was above average looking, with a strong square face and light brown hair that seemed to be dyed by the summer.
The intensity of the sun and the lingering unpredictability of booze made me feel an urgency to leave. I swallowed the dry stale air and gagged, nearly throwing up. I picked up a plastic cup from beside me and threw it at the man. He struggled out of his snore and sat straight up.
He looked at me wide-eyed.
"Whoa! Forgot you were here."
He made fluid chomps with his mouth, like he was eating paste, and brushed his sandy hair from his forehead. "Did you throw a cup at me?"
"Yeah. Sorry about that." My profuse sweating was making me nauseous and dizzy. I felt like I'd been buried alive. I breathed in bits of lingering dust from the arid cabin and coughed as though I'd smoked for the very first time.
"How did I end up on the floor?"
"You passed out there. We were up top drinking, and you came down here to use the bathroom. You yelled and asked me where the light was. I told you it was on the wall and you must have gotten tired of looking. I came down here and you were in a ball on the floor," he put his fingers through his hair and yawned. His voice sounded harsh from the morning, and he cleared his throat repeatedly to break the stress.
"Did you pee yourself?"
"No, no I didn't."
"Good deal." He stretched his arms and yawned. He picked up a bottled water from the bedside and drank it in one breath.
"Here," he tossed me a bottle too.
Silence ensued. He belted out a series of tired sounding gargles, shuffled between bed sides three or four times, then stood.
"So...do you want me to drive you home or something?"
"Yeah. If you could?"
He looked at me everywhere for a few lengthy moments which made me slightly uncomfortable. We sat looking around for a few minutes, unsure of what to say.
"You want to, maybe...give me a blow job first?"
"No, Not right now," I said.
"Okay, okay just a thought, juuuust a thought. No harm done."
I said nothing.
"Ready?" He asked rhetorically while grabbing his keys and a shirt.
Outside the wind was warm and heavy and the sun reflected in specs on the steady blue waves. It occurred to me suddenly I was emerging from a boat in Navy Pier. The pier Ferris Wheel moved slowly in the distance. Walkers, runners, tourists, families, and bikers made the shoreline sidewalks and grass alive with movement. The yacht was amongst dozens of others, whose various owners relaxed on the docks or polished the sides of their glorious boats.
A man stood with bags of groceries and beer by "The Slippery Willy," and nodded at us coolly. A woman in cargo shorts and a Cubs hat watched my feet as my heels clanked passed her. I felt momentarily apart of this exclusive boat world. The elite recreation was something I had only observed from a passing cab. As we ascended from the dock I imagined myself truly belonging here. The ease and whimsicality of the yacht world seemed greatly divided from life that I knew. How nice it would be to have no drive home from this harbor. How delightful it would be to float away.
We crossed the underpass at Lake Shore Drive to the Navy Pier parking lot. If I'd known or cared about cars, I could have appreciated the moment, but the man's car, as far as my knowledge allotted, was 'nice'. Any car was nice to me with leather interior and clean empty floors.
We drove in palpable silence. The man played with the radio, scanning for an ease in our strange tension.
"Man I love this song," said man, turning up the dial. It was a horrible song. A radio requiem that I notably changed anytime it played.
"Me too," I said.
"So remember you broke that bottle of Grey Goose in the VIP section? You were dancing on that short table and it shattered!" said man.
The image was groggy to me, but sounded likely.
"That shit was hilarious."
I laughed forcefully.
"So this is fucked up, but I can't remember your name.. I feel like I remember most everything else besides that though, if it's any consolation," he said.
"What else is there?"
"I know you live off of Belmont. You're in law school at Marshall. You're a huge Black Hawks fan, and you're from Michigan, right?" He rolled down the windows, and the air was warm and loud while he switched lanes, exiting Lake Shore Drive at Belmont.
"Good Memory. Oh just take a right here and stop at the next light," I said. He pulled up next to a tall apartment building with a black gate and colored flowers in a small green courtyard. The car stopped abruptly, making my brain feel paddled against my skull.
"Uhhh."
"You okay?"
"Too many shots last night."
He laughed.
"Thanks for the ride."
I stepped out onto the shaded walk.
"No problem. So what's your name?"
"It's Scarlet." I closed the door.
"I'll call you." He smiled. "Oh, and sorry about that whole, blow job thing," he said, laughing and rolling up the window.
He wouldn't be calling me though, because I hadn't given him my number. And also my name wasn't Scarlet. And this wasn't my apartment.
I watched man drive out of view and I walked to the corner and hailed a cab. My real apartment was a few miles north.
On my treeless block the sun was unforgiving, and heat palpably lingered above the metal cars and business awnings. Pothole stews of garbage and dirt, fried food, and cigarette smells tangled with the hot wind, making me both nauseous and hungry at once. The door to my downstairs apartment, right passed "El Ranchero Taco," was propped open with a brick. I'd been propping it since I lost my keys...every week.
I walked into "El Ranchero Taco," my heels loud on the tiled floor. It was hot in the square room, and a large white fan blew in the street heat.
"Hola vesina," said Javier. He stood behind the counter, his arms folded across his chest, and his leg propped on the cooler.
"Hola vesino. Tienes un taco libre for me?" I said.
"Not when you speak spanglish," he smiled.
"Por favor? Javier, I'm sick." I laid my head and arms on the counter.
"I'll give you a free taco... if you give me your roommates' number." He laughed and it echoed across the room.
"Vesino sucio.."
"Kidding! Aqui vesina. Go sleep off your hangover," he handed me a taco.
"Ah. Te amo. See how good my Spanish is getting?"
Downstairs in my apartment the lights were all on, and the red windowless walls were illuminated from high lamps. I could hear Caitlin cooking in the kitchen. The couch was disheveled with upheaved cushions and tousled blankets. A condom wrapper sat on the floor by the coffee table. "The Lion King" was blaring from the television.
"Well hello my little shame shaker," said Caitlin, standing in the kitchen doorway. She held a spatula in her hand and wore an American flag swimsuit top, a headband with protruding multi-colored stars, and a diaper. Her dark brown hair was wild and curling about the headband. She had a growing belly, from late night bars and daily trips to "El Ranchero Taco", and she was unapologetic about it.
"Don't you look nice. What's the occasion?"
"I'm going to a Flag Day barbecue."
"Ah ha. What's with the diaper?"
"Two reasons. One, flags aren't funny, and neither are these friends of mine hosting the party. I needed a humor boost. Two, I'm already buzzed and its 10:30. I figure by 4 I may need it."
"Brilliant."
"I baked cupcakes, if you want one," she said, placing the finished cakes into Tupperware.
"What do they say?" I leaned over her shoulder, reading the red frosted lettering. "Susan B. Anthony. You clever cookie," I said.
"Want one? They're drug free!"
"I'm all set with my taco. Oh, Javier says 'hi'," I took the last bite.
"He wants me."
"Si indeed."
"I'm going, but call me if you want to come. I'll be there all day. Lots of free food and beer." She sat at the table, pulling up high white socks and slipping on white sneakers with drawn on blue stars.
"I'll call you."
She left. 'Hakuna Matata' blared in the living room.
In my bedroom, heaps of clothes covered my floor and bed. Books and notebooks, some open, some ripped, piled atop my desk. A dozen dead roses bent sadly on my dresser. Four empty coffee cups lined my nightstand. I changed my clothes. I braided my hair. My skin smelled like sand carpet, but there was no time to worry.
I was already late, even in advance, because leaving early could not defy the fate of my perpetual tardiness. A gust of the wind could set me back an hour. I'd forget pants. I would get lost in my own neighborhood. It didn't matter if I left an hour early or four hours early. I would be late, inevitably.
Being late perpetually hadn't gotten me fired yet, and rushing to be prompt was just another effort I had retired months ago. I tied my shoes and left, looking as 'I-didn't-wake-up-on-a-boat' as could be. I grabbed The Lion King on the way out, propping the brick in the door behind me.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Cat's Cradle- Kurt Vonnegut
Chapter 36: MEOW
During my trip to Ilium and to points beyond-- a two week expedition bridging Christmas--I let a poor poet named Sherman Krebbs have my New York City apartment free. My second wife had left me on the grounds that I was too pessimistic for an optimist to live with.
Krebbs was a bearded man, a platinum blond Jesus with spaniel eyes. He was no close friend of mine. I had met him at a cocktail party where he presented himself as a National Chairman of Poets and Painters for Immediate Nuclear War. He begged for shelter, not necessarily bomb proof, and it happened that I had some.
When I returned to my apartment, still twanging with the puzzling spiritual implications of the unclaimed stone angel in Ilium, I found my apartment wrecked by a nihilistic debauch. Krebbs was gone; but, before leaving, he had run up three hundred dollars' worth of long-distance calls, set my couch on fire in five places, killed my cat and my avacado tree, and torn the door off my medicine cabinet.
He wrote this poem, in what proved to be excrement, on the yellow linoleum floor of my kitchen:
I have a kitchen.
But it is not a complete kitchen.
I will not be truly gay
Until I have a
Dispose-all.
There was another message, written in lipstick in a feminine hand on the wallpaper over my bed. It said: "no no no said Chicken-licken."
There was a sign hung around my dead cat's neck. It said, "Meow."
....
After I saw what Krebbs had done to my sweet cat, nihilism was not for me. Somebody or something did not wish me to be a nihilist. It was Krebb's mission, whether he knew it or not, to disenchant me with that philosophy. Well done, Mr. Krebbs, well done.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Consequences of Pavement
If I could comprehend the complexities of the intangible
I would have peers like Flintstone vitamins
and one proud exhale after another.
I have to drink evil to forget my heart,
but in moments of expected reciprocity
I find myself an insert-
like the occupant of a seat for just one flight.
If only the sky was blue above beautiful things
and cold and dark above the despicable.
Utilitarians and Kantians could call a truce
and Heathens would bundle above the smoking gutters
uninterrupted by tilting heads
who'd warm in blue sweaters and sip tea indoors.
there are a billion hells on the wet pavement,
hot and raining from the multitude of lazy seething eyes
stuck on something sad and perfect above them.
How much does the righteous laugh at the errors,
from their cloud carriages and billowy robes?
When the crowds in funny hats stumble into glass
and lose bits of intangible wholeness with each tripping blow.
There's so much swaying taking place
in the speed of that popular road.
I forget which way is east or west,
and the digression of that knowledge is ironically
so healthy.
Irony is a devious shadow,
I imagine it behind me in a hood
making obscene silent gestures
noticed only when moments
are rewound in my head.
Like, oh there, smirking,
holding red flares,
lighting the path behind me on fire,
but I become distracted by the speed of my feet forward
and the placement of puddles
and how great it is to splash mud on my calves.
I close my eyes and know the shade of gray on that sharp corner
and the dark barren trees lining the walk,
the branches like legs of acrobats mid flip.
I liked to believe there was no other image to mentally reside,
but the monsoons and the puke in the car
and the low gray blankets
and the blurry wind shields
from the unnatural steel placed by the water
would have killed me, I'm sure.
Irony is a Machiavellian
parading though Malta, poisoning all in a rampage
while the crowd watches noting the moments
they could have all been spared.
hiding behind the street lamps and allies,
industry rewound shows him burning ominously
while the steel hands spread higher and wider
like the accumulation of ash by Vesuvius.
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