one perspective

I always leave my table when the single zero hits.  I figure double zero is a little lucky since there are two of em, but that other one stands alone so big and proud that I just don’t trust it.  No matter how up or down I am I always stack em up and cash out.  One day it hit on my first go at it. I had literally just cashed my paycheck thirty minutes before I saw that shitty white ball stop at the single zero. It should have stopped in 27, my red baby, but that day instead of hitting big on the first go it popped out of my winnings and into that lonely green devil. So, because I’m a man of my word, I asked that greasy kid dealer to cash me out.  I knew he thought I was crazy, but I’m okay with that. I wasn’t too proud to push over those dinky green chips.  I hate the green ones anyway, green like the zero and green like money, it’s all evil in a way.

The Dixie isn’t really a fancy joint. If it were a bar it’d be a dive that even the regulars are embarrassed about.  Me and about a hand full of other locals even remember when it was still called the Dixie.  Back then it was about fancy dinners and going out on the riverboat.  Whenever my mom’s relatives would come to town that’s what we’d do for fun and I just got a kick out of it.  Those great big ole stacks, to me, they were bigger than anything else. Even more impressive was the petal wheel at the back.  I liked to watch all that water splash and make our trail.  It was like in the winter time when you saw where your dog had already run around, but the only difference was out on the river the trail of where we’d come from was disappearing just as quickly as it was created.  Sort of like we’d never be there at all.  I really liked that. I knew we were supposed to be there eating dinner and visiting and enjoying ourselves, but I kept asking to go to the bathroom and instead would run out back to watch the wheel turn  and that trail appear and disappear; I liked it that much.

Now, it goes by Lucky Deuces. There is this huge brick red 2 lined with gold lights that puts the original little sign off the interstate to shame.  They built up this casino building with six floors and then that extra tower that they call the hotel.  But what’s really got the place looking terrible is that on the other side of the river is that private school.  I think it’s religious without being too fire and brimstone since a lot of the college crowd ends up here.  You can spot them at the entrance in their easter color polos and khakis like they came for tennis lessons or something.  I don’t mind them so much, I guess.

Usually the college kids come for shits and giggles and leave after a few hours, but every now and then when the boy is really trying to play house with a girl they get a room at the hotel.  Then they are here forever.  Sort of like that commercial that always comes on during the news, the one about a pill for depression or erectile dysfunction.  You are familiar with the them but never want to fully acknowledge them in public for fear of being associated with them. I like to keep my head down, play my numbers and be left alone.

There was this one couple, he seemed like his only schooling was to be a big shot and she had the thickest accent that no one dared asked her where she was from for fear of insulting the poor thing. Anyway, they must have been from small towns where after ten minutes of banter all of a sudden you’re lined up to speak at the wedding or something because they followed me around like hungry puppy dog that weekend and it was all because I happened to explain out loud that I was cashing out on account of my thing with the double zeros.  I came back the next day and there they were, she had her face painted up and her blond hair pulled back with a neat little red ribbon and he was looking as his watch the way business men do when waiting for an elevator or something.

You again, he said, trying to pretend they weren’t out there waiting for me all day.

I looked up and nodded and that little moment of eye contact was the only invitation that they needed.

If they told me their actual names I don’t remember.  He called her Babe and she called him But Honey.

I felt like a right perv for thinking this but she was as cute as a button. He sat in the seat next to me and she just stood behind him, telling him different numbers to bet on. She always leaned up on her tippy toes and pressed her palms into his shoulders just to watch that ball fall into a number.

If their number won she’d clap her hands and pull him back for a kiss. If they lost she’d say, But, Honey…, then she’d do this thing with her fingers where she’d sort of scratch the back of his head, but when she did it he sort of acted the way a dog does when you scratch the back of its ears.

At first they were doing all right.  Just picking numbers and doing like I was doing.  But instead of sticking with it, he started betting on the outside, taking all the fun out of the game.  Every time he’d lose I’d hear a loud, Dag-gum-it from him. With the last ten chips he said, Alright Babe, you pick this time then we’ll go.

We both ended up winning with 25, when I asked her why she picked it, she said it was because Jesus’ birthday.  Alice laughed like it was the first time she’d heard that.  She giggled.  All of her bets were like.  14 was the age of her sister. 22 was the number of years her parents were married.  32 was the number her boyfriend wore for the baseball team back at home.  27 was the football number of some other boy from back home, she whispered that to me when he went to the bathroom. Four was the one that shocked me, she told me it was the number of years they’d been together.  He smiled at her and squeezed her hand.  They were babies but they’d lasted longer than both of my marriages.

Single zero hit just in time for Charlie to get there so I was happy to go home. Charlie is this elderly man who plays the slots. He wears an oxygen mask and has a huge scar that runs across the back of his skull from ear to ear, the long way. The table that those kids chose was in direct view of Charlie and his Black Magic machine. I told them good-bye and they said they’d see me tomorrow.

As I left Charlie’s machine started dinging and blinking. I saw him take off the mask and smile at nobody in particular. That Aerosmith song from Armageddon was playing. I smelled like Turkish Royals, and I had just about broke even.

At home, I went for a walk. Checked my e-mails. Called my kids and my parents. Watched the local news, but it was about a local kid who was murdered so I put on a movie instead. About midway through I decided to go back to the Dixie.

The night crowd made me a little edgy, but sure enough those kids were still there. Something was different though, it was like before they were cuddly and happy to be there, but when I came back they let me sit in between them and that made me feel awkward.

She was betting on her own and he kept going back and forth to the ATM. While he was gone she’d talk to me a lot and ask me questions. I told her about the place and how it used to be a riverboat, I told her about my ex wives and my three sons. I told her about my sort of girlfriend, the woman from the credit union. She told me about her boyfriend and how he played baseball and that now he had this new betting system he created. She knew all the songs that came on and would sing along. She asked me if I remembered them like they were old or something. I guess to her, they were.

When he came back he told me about his system. It had something to do with betting on black and just doubling the bet if it turned out red. It didn’t sound like he’d win much. When I told him that he said that if you have enough money you can win anything. I told him that made sense, but it really didn’t.

I started betting where she was betting and soon I was up four hundred, not counting the money for earlier in the day. That sort of stuff never happens to me.

I was up a hundred if you didn’t count the money I had earlier in the day. He came back and sat on the other side of me.  He did like he said and bet on black.  It was 27.  She gave me a high five.

 

 

riverboat roulette

If they told me their actual names I don’t remember.  He called her Babe and she called him Matty.  Babe was as cute as a button, but I felt like a right perv thinking that so the moment I thought that I kept it to myself.  She was probably a cheerleader in high school.  She smiled like one and had really good posture.  He was too small for football though, Matty probably played baseball.  I bet his parents still have his trophies in a case above the bed he used to sleep in as a boy. They were probably high school sweethearts back in whatever town they came from.

They stopped at the first table, Alice was there in her black suit with fold trim.  But Babe and Matty didn’t know that Alice’s table had a view of Charlie.  Charlie is this old man who they have to move the chair away from the Black Magic slot machine so that his grandson can push his wheelchair in front of it.  Then they put his oxygen tank in the seat.  When the machine starts dinging like he’s just won something big he takes the mask off and smiles at nobody in particular.

Babe and Matty didn’t really notice Charlie. Matty sat in the seat beside me, right in front of the middle 12. I was at the top, by the wheel.  Babe was right behind Matty and when they’d win she’d lean up on her tippy toes and press her palms into his shoulders just to watch that ball fall into a number. I played with orange chips and they got pink.

At first they were doing all right.  Just picking numbers and doing like I was doing.  But instead of sticking with it, he started betting on the outside, taking all the fun out of the game.  Every time he’d lose I’d hear a loud, Dag-gum-it from him. With the last ten chips he said, Alright Babe, you pick this time then we’ll go.

We both ended up winning with 25, when I asked Babe why she picked it, she said it was because Jesus’ birthday.  Alice laughed like it was the first time she’d heard that.  Babe giggled.  All of her bets were like.  14 was the age of her sister. 22 was the number of years her parents were married.  32 was the number Matty wore for the baseball team back at home.  27 was the football number of some other boy from back home, she whispered that to me when he went to the bathroom. Six was the one that shocked me, Matty told me it was the number of years they’d been together.  He smiled at her and squeezed her hand.  They were babies but they’d lasted longer than both of my marriages.

If their number won she’d clap her hands and pull him back for a kiss. If they lost she’d say, Aww, Matty, then she’d do this thing with her fingers where she’d sort of scratch the back of his head, but when she did it Matty sort of acted the way a dog does when you scratch the back of its ears.

It was just a $10 minimum bet table and after a couple hours they still hadn’t run out of chips.  Matty wanted to play black jack as soon as he realized that Babe was betting on that other boy’s number.  They played until there were

When they left the music started to sound like those love requests with Delilah, right after that Aerosmith song from Armageddon came on the single zero hit so I went home.  I smelled like Turkish Royal cigarettes, but I had just about broke even.

I microwaved a TV dinner and stayed in for a couple hours, but there was nothing else to do so I ended up back at the Dixie.  I was just about out of the money I had intended on spending to play the game when Babe and Matty showed up again.  This time it was Babe that took a seat beside me.  He had a look that said he’d been saying a lot of Dag-gum-its recently.

Babe was doing real good, way better than myself. So I started to follow her bets and it worked.  I asked her about the numbers she was picking, but this time there were no funny stories, it was just, Oh, I’m just doing whatever feels right.

Then Matty told her he had figured it all out.  He knew how to beat the system.  I thought that he was talking about card counting or black jack or poker or something that has a system, but he meant roulette.

You see, Babe, you gotta bet on the outside, like ten on black and then if you don’t win, if it’s red, then you just double your bet and win it the next time.

So then what do you do if you its red again the second time?

You double again.

So ten bucks then twenty bucks then forty bucks?

Yeah.

She paused to do the math.  Meanwhile it landed on 26 and no one won anything.  Three people at the table cashed out and left.  I could still see Charlie and his oxygen tank at the slots. The craps tables were cheering so loud I couldn’t hear what they said but all of a sudden Matty was gone and Babe wasn’t smiling.

I was up a hundred if you didn’t count the money I had earlier in the day. Matty came back and sat on the other side of me.  He did like he said and bet on black.  It was 27.  Babe gave me a high five.

games and the people who play them

I always leave my table when the single zero hits.  I figure double zero is a little lucky since there are two of em, but that other one stands alone so big and proud that I just don’t trust it.  No matter how up or down I am I always stack em up and cash out.  One day it hit on my first go at it. I had literally just cashed my paycheck thirty minutes before, just so you know I always put enough of it away so that I can make rent later, I’m not one of those gamblers, so don’t you get started with me.  I saw that shitty white ball, it was getting warped too, they don’t change ‘em out at Dixie, which I don’t bicker too much about because usually it’s in my favor, but on that day, nope.  It should have stopped in 27, my red baby, but that day instead of hitting big on the first go it popped out of my winnings and into that lonely green devil. So, because I’m a man of my word, I asked that greasy kid dealer to cash out.  I knew he thought I was crazy, but I’m okay with that. I wasn’t too proud to push over those dinky green chips.  I hate the green ones anyway, green like the zero and green like money, it’s all evil in a way.

The Dixie isn’t really a fancy joint. If it were a bar it’d be a dive that even the regulars are embarrassed about.  Me and about a hand full of other locals even remember when it was still called the Dixie.  Back then it was about fancy dinners and going out on the riverboat.  Whenever my mom’s relatives would come to town that’s what we’d do for fun and I just got a kick out of it.  Those great big ole stacks, to me, they were bigger than anything else. Even more impressive was the petal wheel at the back.  I liked to watch all that water splash and make our trail.  It was like in the winter time when you saw where your dog had already run around, but the only difference was out on the river the trail of where we’d come from was dissappearing just as quickly as it was created.  Sort of like we’d never be there at all.  I really liked that. I knew we were supposed to be there eating dinner and visiting and enjoying ourselves, but I kept asking to go to the bathroom and insteda would run out back to watch the wheel turn  and that trail appear and disappear; I liked it that much.

Now, it goes by Lucky Deuces. There is this huge brick red 2 lined with gold lights that puts the original little sign off the interstate to shame.  They built up this casino building with six floors and then that extra tower that they call the hotel.  But what’s really got the place looking terrible is that on the other side of the river is that private school.  I think it’s religious without being too fire and brimstone since a lot of the college crowd ends up here.  You can spot them at the enterance in their easter color polos and khakis like they came for tennis lessons or something.  I don’t mind them so much, I guess.

Usually the college kids come for shits and giggles and leave after a few hours, but every now and then when the boy is really trying to play house with a girl they get a room at the hotel.  Then they are here forever.  Sort of like that commercial that always comes on during the news, the one about a pill for depression or erectial dysfunction.  You are familiar with the them but never want to fully acknowledge them in public for fear of being associated with them. I like to keep my head down, play my numbers and be left alone.

There was this one couple, he seemed like his only schooling was to be a big shot and she had the thickest accent that no one dared asked her where she was from for fear of insulting the poor thing. Anyway, they must have been from small towns where after ten minutes of banter all of a sudden you’re lined up to speak at the wedding or something because they followed me around like hungry puppy dog that weekend and it was all because I happened to explain outloud that I was cashing out on account of my thing with the double zeros.  I came back the next day and there they were, she had her face painted up and her blonde hair pulled back with a neat little red ribbon and he was looking as his watch the way buisness men do when waiting for an elevator or something.

You again, he said, trying to pretend they weren’t out there waiting for me all day.

I looked up and nodded and that little moment of eye contact was the only invitation that they needed.

Self-Sufficent Fish

All I knew was that I was supposed to be watching the story of my life.  The post it note on the screen said so.  When I pressed play, a fish appeared. Even though it took up the whole screen, I could tell it was small.  It just swam to the left, then turned and swam to the right and the camera followed it.  Back and forth.

I had the urge to look over at another screen and it made me feel like I was back in first grade, cheating on the Friday spelling test.  Whatever the guy with the tight jeans was watching made his face red, which sort of frightened me for a second.  Right when I saw bright colors reflecting on Knitting-Cat-lady’s face, I got caught.  Z spotted me and pressed her hot pink acrylic nailed finger to her lips and Shhed me. She smiled and then the thick finger tip directed me back to the fish.

There it was again, its eyes were real far apart, like one of those dogs that runs into things all the time.  I was waiting for the fish to run into the wall of its tank, but it never did.   It was sort of like a goldfish, but bigger and gray.  I guess it was only like a goldfish because it’s the only type of fish I know.

The ad at Starbucks said This is the Day You’re Life Will Surely Change.  Then it had Zariah’s number and in her handwriting, “Mirah Carry, but with a Z!  Or just call me Z!” I only called because it was the weekend and I had free minutes. I wanted to tell her about her type-o, but she sounded nice, so I didn’t.

She started talking to me like I had known her all my life, so I told myself I’d show up to the first session of her class to be nice.  Then I realized there were only three of us, so I had to keep going.  I also liked the way she said my name.  In her accent all of a sudden Claudia sounded exotic, sometimes she shortened it to Cloud.  Anyone else who called me Cloud would make me feel frumpy, but she said it like I was about to pole dance, or something.

I ended up telling her and the rest of the class my life story, well just starting at the spot when I became convinced that Charlie was cheating on me and started leaving the shower curtain open. Saying that out loud finally made me realize how crazy I’d become.

I paid her the Donation money every week to listen to her give advice about positive affirmations while I got a headache from all the incense and sage smells that were probably just masking the smell of pot.  After five weeks, my life still hadn’t changed and there I was stuck in this smoky basement, trying to relate to a fish.  It probably never had to worry about its lover’s lover hiding in the shower.

Back and forth.  It stared at me, like I should know what to make of it all. I tried to keep my mind opened the way Z had taught me over the last few weeks.  I concentrated on turning off my thoughts.  No more Starbucks.  No more Charlie.  No more fish. No more back and forth. No more Knitting-Cat lady, no more tight jeans guy, no more Z, no more me.

When I lifted my head and began to look around for Z.  All of a sudden she had one hand on my shoulder and the other on flattening my hair.  She closed her eyes like she was doing one of her energy healing techniques on me. That happened a lot in her classes.

I tried to stay as still as a statue in someone’s yard, starring down at her platform flip flops with black jewels on the plastic part.  Her toes were painted green.  Up close, she smelled like baby powder.  When she dropped her hands, she leaned over so that her cleavage was right in my face and then in her sultry accent, she told me, You’ve been dead a long time.

I took a deep breath and watched her walk away like nothing happened.  The fish was still swimming.  Left and then right.  Back and forth.  Knitting-Cat lady still had bright colors in her face.  Tight pants dude was still seeing red stuff. The basement still smelled like a head shop.  And I was still stuck watching this ugly fish swim, only now I had been informed that I died, or something.

The fish video went from the quality of a 90’s America’s Funniest Home Videos to someone recording a TV show with hand held camera, then putting it on YouTube. I thought it was going to cut out and turn to static and it almost did, but right before I raised my hand to get a new story of my life going, it cut to a porno.  And for about three seconds I saw a huge penis and someone’s really long tongue. It happened so quick I didn’t even have a chance to look for a power button to switch it off.  Then the fish came back.

It had been a long time since I saw porn.  But as soon as I accepted that it did really happen, that I hadn’t been delirious, it happened again.  This time it was a tongue and a woman’s body, she had lingerie that was slipping off very quickly.  Then the fish came back, stared at me, then swam some more.

By the fifth time the porno came back, I had stopped worrying about if someone else was going to see that the story of my life had become a porno.  I was actually more concerned that I was sort of getting turned on. I felt a little tingle down at that part of my jeans where there was a little bump from all the seams meeting. I felt like I used to feel after a glass of white wine while on a date with a guy I knew I was going to go home with.

Every time the fish was about to turn around and start swimming back to the left or back to the right it would cut to the porno.  For a long time it was just the woman’s hand, she was pleasuring herself.  I could tell because her hands were more delicate.  They were painted too, French Tips, but real, not thick like Z’s.  She was moving two fingers together like waves, and then they got lost in her and the fish would come back.

When the fish was on the screen I would look around at everyone else.  Z was meditating in front of us with her eye’s closed.  That guy with the tight pants was sleeping.  His arms were on the desk and knuckles made a pillow for his chin.  Knitting-Cat lady had her head tilted to the side like she was really concentrating.  When I saw flesh again, my head jerked back so quick I was sure that someone would notice.

She started arching her back.  It was still a close shot, just her hip bones and part of her inner thighs, but I could tell she was rising because her arm and hand were reaching.  She was really getting into it.  Then the camera started to zoom out a little and I could see the penis again. Right when she was getting closer the fish came back.  After two more swims, I could tell she was about to orgasm and right then she arched so to invite him in, but the lights went on the the fish came back. I looked up and Z was smiling and asked us all, So, did your life change?

The next day, I was sore.  I was sore in different places in my back and on my right forearm. I never saw Z again.  I did run into Knitting-Cat lady sometimes at Starbucks, but I don’t know what happened to Z or the guy with tight jeans.  I stopped leaving the shower curtain open.  In fact, I left that guy and got a place with just a bathtub.  One of those big fancy ones with legs.

the moth

It was more of a butterfly than a moth. The wings were white with sky blue, very delicate, resembling the sort of lace that grandmother’s use to decorate the extra bedroom when a special guest is visiting. But, it’s body still looked like an elderly fuzzy thing that was left out in the snow. When it landed on Matilda’s second toe she treated it like a new friend. If her toe was the creature’s new home then she’d ensure it was comfortable, she kept as steady as her toddler body could handle.

2010: The Tomek Virus

2010

Brenda Joplin, aeronautical engineer and mother of three teenagers returned home from work to suddenly find all three of her precious children all infected. “They were just lying on the ground, the laughter had taken over and there were tears and smiles and I just didn’t know what to do.”

“Like other mothers, she was concerned about her children being infected at school or from their peers, but so far there were no other infected students at their high school, so she didn’t feel the need to worry too much or take any precautions,”states Charlie, the interviewer, a fresh out of college kid, eager about this breakthrough 5 o clock news slot.

“At first I thought they were high or something, and then after I tried to go to my room and maybe it would all be over around dinnertime, but no, my two daughters had mascara running down their cheeks and my son didn’t care that his face was streaked with tear lines, something that I know his football team would have mocked him for, something he would have done alone in his room, but now he just didn’t seem to care.”

“And what has your household been like since that day?”, asked Charlie, obviously too eager about adding this interview to his resume to remember to put on his sympathetic face.

“I can’t get them to go to school in the mornings. Instead, my son has been going to the library and reading poetry all day. And the girls, well, together they have some idea about creating a duet where they sing and tap dance. It’s all nonsense. They’re ruinning their lives and I’m trying to help them, but since they’re infected, they just…” She starts crying and Charlie hands her a tissue.

They interview cuts to commentary from Charlie’s boss. “Don’t end up like Brenda’s family, please visit your local pharmacy for you over the counter, emergency prescription of EgoSaver3, the new grape flavor.”

It cuts to a commercial of the medicine. And then a commercial for a bank, pleading with the public to not lose hope on money, they would overcome the infection. And then a commercial for a lawyer, hoping to help you help sue whoever infected you. And then one for a support group, in case you needed support to help you get through letting go of your loved ones who were infected. Another one followed for an interventionist who would help you help loved ones who refused to take their precautionary medicine. And then one advertising the cheap price of a commercial, since even the news was having trouble finding advertisers these days.

The Tomek virus had infected just about every industry and no one could predict just how long this would go on. There were rumors about Tomek, how he was a lunatic. Or a cult leader. Or a practicing Buddist. Or perhaps just had read a little too many self help books. He’d never bothered with the journalists who offered huge sums of money for his story. Those still in angry and fearful of the virus vowed to harm him for spreading this ludicrous infection, but the police couldn’t actually do anything about it. No one could prove he was the culprit, he’s just the only one to come forward about being infected.

It all started at the beginning of 2010, in Valley Village, if you believe that Tomek was the beginning of this epidemic. His friends were never concerned about the laughing. “He always found something funny about the ordinary stuff,” his friends said.

For one week straight, he just laughed. He still went to work as a server at a high end restaurant. “As long as the customers were happy, I really couldn’t be mad with him. Besides, that week when he was in his laughing phase, the place filled up. It was the most money we’d made in a long time, so there was really no need to be alarmed.”

He’d been working on his second album and his recording crew noticed the laughing, but since he was fronting the money, they just went with it. “Well, he said for me to trust him, this would be a hit. So he sang through the laughter and even though I really didn’t believe him, to me it still sounded like Dracula in drag, now I couldn’t be happier, I recorded a number one hit!” says Richard Drew, now also infected, continues to record music, but is now traveling through Europe.

Little by little, it began spreading. First to his friends, and then their friends. And since so many of his friends were also artists, it began spreading rapidly. His album was picked up by a few Capitalists who knew that as the virus spread, if his name was attached, it would sell just as fast as it took the virus to spread. And it did. Then, his artist friends began gaining popularity too. Close friend, Mister Medley, now the popular DJ taking over foreign dance floors, but still a little Taboo at home, used to be in marketing, but after the laughter phase he quit his job, and worked on music.

All of Tomek’s close friends suffered similar fates. All stopped caring about work and their usual routines and instead put al their efforts into these silly hobbies. Even though most all of them are successful now, it just proves how drastic this epidemic has become, especially for those uninfected, those left behind, those healthy enough to realize how truly selfish and apathetic that those infected with the Tomek virus have become.

Since the virus spread, first in the Los Angeles area, the marriage and divorce rates fluctuated constantly before they stopped completely. One day those infected finally stopped caring about their spouses and the divorce papers were filed by the healthy one. An infected husband or wife was not the burden of those remaining healthy. Also, the media warned the public to keep distance from those infected. “When the laughter phase begins, avoid that person. There is no turning back, the Tomek Virus has already set in.” Then a ton of marriages were filed, but by the time the ceremonies were set to take place, those who chose to marry had a sudden case of cold feet, but not the type that was common for newlyweds, instead like soon to be Mr. and Mrs. Breedlove stated, “We were infected in January and after the laughter phase ended we thought, fuck it, let’s just get married, who cares if no one will support our decision, we’ve loved each other all these years, let’s do it! But when it came time to sign the papers and put on our wedding costumes, we reverted back to our laughter phase. How silly. We don’t need a ceremony or a piece of paper to declare our love!”  Later, Debbie Green added, “Beside, George fell in love with Debbie Green, I don’t have to become Debbie Breedlove to keep him by my side.”

The justice system was also at a stand still. Civil lawsuits that were tied up in litigation for weeks suddenly were canceled. Infected people didn’t care about who ran over their foot five years ago. Infected lawyers stopped defended their guilty, greedy clients, instead they walked straight up to the Judge and said things like, “Judge, because I’m paid a lot of money, I am supposed to pretend that my client was deeply hurt by that woman in the green dress, but really he is just mad because she used an idea that they came up with together to her advantage and actually got recognition, but because she’s a woman and he’s a man, he wanted full credit instead of just partial. As you can see he’s a misogynist and on a power trip. Also, he tried to sleep with her, but she declined. That really hurt his ego and is probably the episode that caused him to hire me to create this silly lawsuit in the first place.”

the escape artist

There are few things I miss about living in Oklahoma. One is Braum’s. It was the best ice cream in the world. Even if you came in for just a milkshake and left stinking of greasy burgers and fries, it was worth it. I don’t know why they bothered with food. I guess because everyone else was doing it and Oklahoma was the kind of place that valued what everyone else was doing, even if it took Oklahoma years to catch on, they’d stock up and pretend that’s the way it’s always been. They were wearing flannels and Doc Martin’s and acting depressed at youth group years after Kurt Cobain shot himself. No wonder people on planes asked if we had Television yet. It’s obvious we don’t catch on too quickly to trends. But Braum’s always smelled bad, especially the one I grew up by. Post Road. It was so tiny that even if you just ran in to buy milk, the car still running outside, your dollar fifty in your hand ready to be rung up, your clothes instantly saturated that greasy food smell. It was inevitable.

Everyone talks about getting out, but no one actively tries. Even the ones who get out for a little while, maybe a few years for college or the military takes them far and away, they always wind up back where they started from. Typically just a few blocks away from where they started from actually. That way when the grandkids start coming, grandma and grandpa are close by to help out. That’s the cycle. You were taken care of by dear ol gran and gramps, then your mom and dad feed you and cloth you and send you to a school where everything seems safe because everything outside of this state must be treacherous and gloomy. That’s what Charlie said when he went to Atlanta for those six months. Pure Hell. And Cindy met that rich doctor in Charlottesville who turned out to be nuts and ruined her credit. No one comes back with tales of honor and excitement. Those people know how fucking warped it is. They never come back. In their mind, Oklahoma was a black hole and sucked itself up. Every time there’s a map that must be a panhandled patch stuck on so that new maps didn’t have to be reordered and distributed for the rest of the country. That’s what I told myself anyway.

I knew if I was going to get out and stay out, I’d have to be clever. Working seemed pointless, I knew women never rise up to the level of a man without sucking a few cocks and that just wasn’t what I wanted my future to be. I knew college wasn’t an option, I couldn’t even afford a bus ticket. I knew there had to be a way, I just waited patiently until it came to me.

At the start of sophomore year, I ended up sitting next to our German foreign exchange student. I copied his geometry homework and he needed help writing essays about all senior required reading.  Everyone else watched the movies anyway, but I liked reading back then, so I didn’t mind, and I figured I’d have to do all that work in a couple years anyway, so I might as well get it out of the way now.  We weren’t good friends. I never sat with him at lunch and he never invited me to come to his host mother’s house to go swimming. If we saw each other at the football games we smiled and that was that. I needed geometry and he needed essays and there was no need to complicate that partnership, so we didn’t.

Then a couple years later he shows up. I had heard that he was in town because everyone talks, but I didn’t believe that rumor.  Then I saw him in the flesh.  I knew he said he would miss the free refills, but I didn’t think that it would be enough to make him come back, so I was really surprised when I saw him pumping gas into this red Camry. He had just cleaned the windshield, but there were still a lot of bug guts all over the front headlights.

What the hell are you doing here?

I made too much party back home. Needed to get out before my brain was no more and this place was a place with not so much party so I came back.

That’s retarded.

I know of this now.

Moritz was living in the same apartment complex that his host mother lived in. They did not talk to him though. Even though she came over when he moved in and she said if you ever need a cup of sugar or some meatloaf, please stop by.

I Look Good in Charcoal

The only robe that I had was silky with some sort of  flower design stitched on the upper left side. It reminded me of a geisha.  I bought it months before the summer, back when my bank account still had money in it.  I was an impulse shopper and picked it up from H&M, the only place where I could afford impulse shopping on a college budget.  It was a pale green color and I must have really liked pale green back then.  That or it felt sexy and at that point I was getting about as much action as a girl at an almost all girl’s school can get.  The robe obviously didn’t help me get laid since the tags were still on it.

Either way, I bought it and it sat in my closet unused until that summer when I brought it to this friendly British lady’s house where she held art classes.  It was actually only a couple blocks away from my parents house, where I was living during the summer break.  I’m pretty sure that I told them I had a babysitting gig.  They couldn’t handle the truth. 

When I ripped off the tags, and the only reason I  remember this was because I was completely broke at that point, undressing in that nice British lady’s downstairs bathroom that had a matching towel set and I had a huge realization and it was that I could not believe that just a few months ago I actually spent $18.95 on a stupid fucking silky robe.  I folded my clothes, put on the see-through robe, and stepped into that nice British lady’s cold garage.  Day one of taking my clothes of for money and art: Check.

 

My first day was scary, but it got easier every time. I’d slip off my robe when directed to and change poses when it was time. The students were an assortment of teenagers whose parents sent them here to keep them off of drugs and a group of middle aged women who were convinced their kids were on drugs.  I predicted the entire class had some sort of prescription bottle in their bags. 

They were all female, except one day, there was a nervous teen aged boy.  I could tell when he was looking at me and it wasn’t often.  He was too shy to stare at the parts that should be covered up with clothing.  His drawings made me feel like a character of the Simpson’s.  He only showed up to a couple classes.

All the students sat those desks that had small desktops attached to the chair, with a short armrest that did not cater to left handers.  They were small, especially compared to the size of some of the artist’s and the size of the other’s sketchbooks. 

My favorite student was a forty something woman who liked to talk.  She talked when she was nervous and when she wasn’t.  She even talked when she had nothing to say, in fact, I heard her say multiple times that she was speechless, or couldn’t find the words, or the quick, well, I just don’t know what to say.  I found it cute. 

I learned more about her from class to class.  She used to study fashion in New York but ended up with a family instead.  She didn’t seem to resent her family, but was ready to take charge with her own hobbies.  She also seemed actually interested in me as a person, well, as interested as she could be seeing our situation.  Most of her interests and assumptions has to do with my body parts, like, I noticed you have very defined calves, they’re just beautiful! Do you play sports?  Or, your tan lines are very distinct, do you go to the beach everyday?  Even once, I notice you don’t have any tattoos, you must come from a close family.  My responses would always disappoint her.  No, I used to play soccer but wasn’t good enough for this town.  I like to read my book in my bikini in the backyard when no one is home.  If I was close to my family I wouldn’t have to lie and say I was babysitting right now instead of taking my clothes off for you, so no, not really.  I liked her anyway.  She was my favorite. 

The class usually started with five quick poses.  I’d have to think of something new to do with my body after three minutes.  I liked to to put my arms in the air above my head.  I felt it made my boobs less saggy.  I also liked to stretch and bend so that it felt like I had a flat stomach.  But after stretching and bending and raising my arms my muscles were sore, so I had to do something lazy for the twenty minute pose. I liked to pretend I was Kate Winslet in Titanic.  All those eyes were really part of some romantic movie and I had the lead role.  Leo was waiting for me somewhere.  Another time I had my arms propped behind me and at the end of the twenty minutes my arms were so shaky that they began to notice.   Oops. I was an amateur.

After posing, I could return to a nearly naked, robed-self and walk around the desks to look at the drawings.  Although it was an art class taught in lovely British lady’s garage, some of these artists had enough talent as most MFA holders.  Others, well, it was obvious that art was simply a hobby at trial, a reason to get out of the house on an otherwise boring Tuesday afternoon.

My favorite lady always drew me best, maybe that was why she was my favorite.  I wish that I could see that body every time that I looked in the mirror, in fact, I wish just once I would be able to have that sort of perspective of my body.  All of a sudden my ego swelled up.  I was Barbie in black and white.  I looked good in charcoal.  The thin lines that framed my breasts, the thicker ones that formed my legs, little dusty ones that showed my curves, and even that dark dot that made my bellybutton was beautiful.  

Who were you drawing? I’d ask. 

You’re gorgeous, honey! She’d say before rambling on and on about her talent.  Apparently she has studied fashion years ago, back when New York didn’t have to advertise their importance in the fashion world through reality television.  Back before she was married, before she had kids, back when, she said, she had a body like mine.

I wanted to steal her sketchbook, but I never did. Instead, after the two hours were up, I’d return to that bathroom. My feet would be purpleish from a combination of poor blood circulation and the draft from that open window in the garage.  I’d put on some socks to warm them up.  Dress in my non matching, granny panties and basic comfortable 34 C.  I’d pull up my jeans that were too tight and caused me to think I was fat.  I’d cover up my curves and feminine attributes with my shirt and hoodie.  I’d looked in the mirror and couldn’t see the drawing version of me any longer, so  I’d shove the transparent robe back into my handbag and make my exit.  Nice British lady would hand me two twenties after everyone had left, but first she’d always say: people look so different when they’ve got clothes on. 

Bye. See you next week.

Arcata: The Square

Well, I want to keep it all legal cause he’s gonna be a bear.—No, he’s not rational at all. Like yesterday, he was out in the yard yampering and I said, Look, Ron and he just yelled at me, screaming, You stepped on a tomato plant which I didn’t, Carla, I did not step on that thing. So instead of yelling and scream back at ‘em, I just turned around and walked into the house.

As the lawn mower passes behind his bench, the man stops talking and presses his red cell phone closer to his ear and sticks his other palm onto his open ear. He stares off into the concrete pathway of the town square.

Well, he’s already accused me of telling the whole town.

A man started strumming his guitar and soon began singing along so that phone conversation was muted by the sound. He was sitting in a circle of friends, all of them had clothes that looked like they hadn’t been washed. Greasy hair or dusty dreads. Some were girls. A few older men. One that looks like a boy, but was probably on the cusp of manhood. They listened to the man singing his song. A John Denver cover that became the Beatle’s Blackbird. There was some low laughter, then back to quiet banter.

He actually told me You’re getting to be a real bitch,—so I told him, Well it takes one to know one.

In the center of this square there is a hot dog stand. On the side of the square, well, actually, the road from the center of the square leads to the middle of all the sides of the square and on that one side, next to the circle of friends, there is a food cart that looks like a hot dog stand. It’s called Sublime Swine: Underground Barbecue. The man in charge is wearing a blue apron, the shade of a cerulean. Sticking out of the back of his faded black cowboy hat is a yellow daisy, a real one, as fresh as if he picked it from the ground this morning before setting up his food cart. There is a short table and four chairs making it almost like an outdoor cafe since he also set up a umbrella sort of tent offering shades as well as seating.

Sublime Swine is situated right across from the Alibi. The sign consists of a martini glass that was once painted red with The Alibi across in what was once painted white. Even though it looks sophisticated with a toothpick and two olives, it’s hard to imagine anyone actually walking in and ordering any sort of cocktail. There are two other bars on this section of the square. T.J.’s and Everert’s. Both are similar in mountain man décor, the type that lures in those who are ready to order a Pab’s.

And thanks for calling Carla. I was gonna call you.—Yeah, I’ve got some sand for those stones, I just haven’t got around to it yet with all this stuff.—No, next Tuesday doesn’t work, my niece is visiting.—Yeah, okay.—You betcha.—You take care now.—Alright.

The red cell phone closes and the man gets up. He looks at the Support your Local Economy bumper sticker and nods a hello to the man with the daisy in his hat.

Closer to the inside of the square a lady sunbathes. Her jeans are rolled up to her knees and her thin polyester blouse is folded up. She is already tanner than most. Her ribs poke out enough to show that she is skinny, her hips protrude enough to show that she is hungry. Her hair is mostly black, with faded fushia streaks and bits of gray strands. Although her skin could pass for young along her midriff, the wrinkles in her hands and add several years. Her Bono shades hide crows feet and bags that all the commercials for beauty products claim to help everyone else avoid. The nail polish on her toes, something that could be called Agent Orange or Orangeatange, matches the flowers in her top, which also compliments her hair color. She uses a black backpack as a pillow and a soft, thick stripped blanket stretched over the grass as a mattress. Her slumber is disturbed when the lawn mower ventures closer to her section of the square. As she rises, a large bottle of mouthwash is suddenly exposed. Through the motor and blades, she focuses on the scent of grass and thinks back to her childhood and she quickly hopes that these fond thoughts will turn into sweet dreams as she rests again under the sun.

Two could-be students sit down on one of the benches between the hot dog stand and Sublime Swine. They examine everyone in the square, then look to their laps and concentrate on pinching tobacco from the blue DRUM bag. Their thumbs and fingers spread out the toxins evenly in the thin white paper and then they roll with such precision that two small cigarettes are quickly produced. A second later they are lit and minutes after they disappear like they never existed. Except the ends.

One man, all of his hair is thin and white, but longer than most men his age, walks the square and makes complete 90 degree angles at each corner. Nothing gets in his way. He has old khaki pants and boots and smells musty. At nights, he likes to drink, like most men his age probably would like to, but since he lives here and it gets cold outside at night and the bars are the only place it’s warm and he sometimes has enough for a drink, he goes inside. He sits down next to anyone until they get awkward and get up to leave. He tells anyone about his dad and the shotgun and being a boy and thinking it was his fault and then going to that country and when they told him it was okay to kill people. Then he’ll look anyone straight in the eye and say, just like a child, But it’s not. Not Ever.

The woman with faded fushia hair walks over to the circle of friends. The man with the guitar hands her some money. It looks crisp in her hand, like it just left the printing press. It’s just one. She holds it tight as she walks across the lawn. Back at her blanket she puts on some faded khaki boots that go up to just the spot that her jeans were rolled up to, she zips them. They are loose on her calves. She doesn’t wear socks. Right when she gets passed the grass she turns around and comes back for a black sweater with a hood. After she zips it, she clutches her leopard purse and money in the same hand, letting the other fall down to her side, swaying as she marches away.

The could-be students on the bench finished with their smokes walk toward the center to throw out the butts. Hey. They ask a man and his bags if he knows where they can find some pot. His dog barks at them. George will be around later, he tells them.

The guy with a daisy in his hat hands over a paper rectangular bowl-like plates, the kind they use to serve nachos at high school football games. He asks his client, And where do you call home?

A teenage couple approaches the center of the square. They are wearing ponchos, they are warmer than necessary on this sunny day, but they are matching in earth tone hues. He is smaller than her. They might be sixteen, but they talk like they are thirty. Suddenly she spots the water fountain and sounds like she’s a kid again, Look water! We better get some now. We should stop here. Another girl hears her excitement. She looks behind her shoulder past her trendy shirt sleeve, the shirt that everyone from all the big cities is wearing. It’s popular because it’s meant to look worn and almost vintage, but cost a lot more than thirft store shirts that are actually worn and actually vintage. She stretches her gaze at the couple. Hey. Hello! He waves as his girlfriend fiddles with the button for water. She smiles and says hi and then looks back to her book. The water fountain doesn’t work. They leave the square.
On their way out, the poncho couple walks past a guy who has strapped up a makeshift tightrope between a tightrope and a fir tree at one side of the square. They cheer him on for a second. He already has a small audience of his friends. He practices often and his friends are no longer interested. It’s gotten old.

The driver of a forest green VW van from the hippy days shouts out HEY! Everyone looks, but no one knows who he is calling.

A maybe twenty-something with neat dreads that only barely graze his shoulders joins the circle of friends with the acoustic guitar. He is black and he’s wearing a faded tie dye tank top. The top is baggy on his thin body. He is the only one wearing shoes.

At the corner of the square is the Jitter Bean Coffee shop. It appears busy, but since the windows are tinted to the darkest shade possible there is no way to really tell how busy it is.

The girl with the expensive taste in tee shirts put on her iPod. She puts on an electro pop playlist. It drowns out not only the guitar circle, but a new singer on the other side of Sublime Swine. The new guy is young but tall. He plays harmonica and guitar and sings a little. A triple threat. The silver from the food cart blinds him so his audience can’t be the line of people waiting for barbecue. With his back to the food, he can still smell it and he plays on to the empty cars that are parked in front of him. No I don’t want to be treated this way.

Two men with bikes order up some vegan options at Sublime Swine. One has a helmet and the other doesn’t. So are you here all summer?, the one without a helmet asks. The man with a daisy in his hat smiles and informs everyone that he is indeed here to stay. And the one with a helmet asks right as he is about to shovel some lettuce into his mouth, What sort of license did you have to get to be able to set up shop here?

It really wasn’t that hard. Who’s next?

A woman brushes her shiny blonde hair as she walks through the center of the square while dragging a short wire crate push cart. She pauses and a few stare because her hair is so shiny that it looks like a shampoo commercial. Then she shoves her brush into the black trash bag that lines her wire cart. She picks up a small AM radio and holds it up in the air. She walks to everyone and asks for change. The girl with an iPod leaves before she gets too close. She the women who are jogging. Spare any change?—Are you sure?

The guitarist/singer/harmonica player opens his guitar case and starts a new song. Oh I wanna go there, Where water turns to wine, I’m going where that water tastes like wine.

The woman with faded fushia hair returns. The blonde woman approaches her, but she apologizes and hands her three nickels and some pennies. I spent the rest on this, and she holds up a short cup of coffee. She returns to her blanket, takes a sip, then lays back down. She has an hour before the lawn mower makes her relocate to the less sunny side of the square. She closes her eyes and breathes in the smell of grass.

The Birchwood Essays

      Most people forget about the parent-less population after the age of adulthood.  They assume we’ll work minimum wage jobs or else attempt education at community colleges, maybe even university levels.  Most of my childhood peers ended up with a lot of student loans and the minimum wage job.  I was lucky, I guess.

      Birchwood Academy was the start of my good fortune.  Public school just wasn’t working for me anymore and boarding school seemed perfect for my situation.  Although I was accepted freshman year, it wasn’t until sophomore year when the Bristo’s not only found me and funded my way through the prep school, but also gave a most generous graduation gift: four years of college tuition.  Well, it was really Elizabeth Bristo, the mother figure, who took charity on my case, but it became more than the money that paved my dirt road.  But I of course knew none of that when I learned that my tuition would be covered.  I didn’t even find out who the mysterious donor was until after my first year at Birchwood was completed.  It didn’t matter; I was out of the system, not exactly adopted, but practically.  What mattered was no one there knew where I came from.  I was brand new in a place where I had something in common, “accelerated intelligence,” or at least that’s what the brochure said. 

      I imagined a classroom where the students actually listened to the teacher, one where the teacher wasn’t corrected incorrectly by arrogant know-it-alls.  Ones where the last fifteen minutes of math we’re spent watching MTV.  A hallway that didn’t have lockers filled with liquor or entrances with metal detectors.  Where being in honors class didn’t label you a nerd, while you were still forced to sit next to a pretentious snot who by knowing more than the average student gave him the audacity to speak ignorant opinions on literature or philosophy out loud.  That was what my first year was like, a jungle of hormonal idiots trying to get the piece of paper at the end of four year roaming hallways lined with dingy lockers.  It was gym classes with nail painting as exercise and watching the History Channel for history credit.  Because of my grades in Junior High, and some silly test score, I was automatically a shoe-in for the academy, but after being accepted, there was nothing I could do about the tuition. 

      They did not have much in scholarships, besides sports, but lacrosse, crew, and field hockey were definitely not an option at the public school level.    I did send in an essay to the school for some sort of program.  It was the type of scholarship where they said, “We’ll think about it and get back to you,” the kind where the fake smile is heard through the brevity of the phone call.  The first year I applied, I thought I would write about Mama, a fabricated piece, an ordinary one, the short little inspirational one about a single mother, hero to all.  I wrote about having so little in order to gain more in monetary means, but of course I got no response.  The second year I thought about her again, but I wanted to tell the story they wouldn’t have wanted to hear, one I wouldn’t have written. All these things wouldn’t help me get a scholarship, so I decided to write about growing up alone instead, still hoping someone would take pity. I also almost wanted to shock them, if they read these things at all, maybe they would come find me, but I imagined it sat in a file, in a dusty cabinet, at the back of some hallway where people rarely passed through.

      The night I classified myself an academy failure I sank into my twin bed and looked at my small dresser with Mama’s pictures.  I had only a small collection of possessions, mostly books that were stacked between my pathetic attempts to frame the memories of Mama.  The night was filled with regret, I should have tried harder to get adopted when I still had a chance, or I should have ran away, lived more interestingly.   My pensive mind wandered further back, years ago, my first night in that bed, terrified with my solitude and hoping that I wouldn’t have to sleep there again, yet I was still there and my situation was irrevocable.

      Eventually, I got used to living at the orphanage.  What I mean is that I was content with the fact that no one wanted anything over the age of four.  It wasn’t that bad, I had a few friends, but they came and went as they moved through the system.  No one really kept in touch, it was an understanding we all had; you try to forget about the time spent here, well they did anyway.  They acted as if there was something else out there, something better that they couldn’t wait to begin, but I knew Mama was gone, so I didn’t look forward to what I was missing out there.

      I didn’t block everything out, but others had to, or else it would be too hard to wake up every morning.  I had heard some horrible stories.  Stories of such painful degree, the type that the files word as ill-treated or abused or molested, words that do not defy what really happen but only give a general label, an easier way to characterize individuals.  It made sense why they blocked it all out.  Not only did those things actually occur, but nothing being done after the fact, besides being recorded.  Once something like that was “official” it should be over, but the kids I knew would never forget any of it.   There was this darkness, like something inside departed, something that was essential.  It was as if there was nothing behind their face, just parts that were placed together.  This girl who slept in the bed next to mine for a while until she found a new family was like that.  Her real dad did horrible things to her.  She never told me exact details, but she would cry in her sleep and I could hear her plea for him to stop.  A few times, I woke up and she was in my bed.  I didn’t mind; it sort of reminded me of when Mama and I slept so close during the winter months.  During the daytime we never talked.  She was the one who taught me to be so quiet.  There wasn’t really much to talk about anyway.

      Most of the residents looked forward to getting out; I couldn’t understand that, it wasn’t that bad of a place.  Sure, it was lonely now and then, but it was better than those foster homes with their obvious ulterior motives.  They needed a babysitter, a tax break, a sober driver, and what was easier than to come help us: the homeless, family-less, hopeless youth.  We were expected to fill these holes, but sometimes gaps get bigger or close up all together.   In either case it meant we weren’t needed anymore.  It got annoying moving all the time, I grew bitter and who wants a bitter girl in their house.  After all, they were the ones doing a favor in the first place. 

      No normal couples would take in an assumed troublemaker or fuck-up. Especially when they check up on your file before making the final decision. After they find your past and forgett all their mistakes and mishaps, they throw the idea of adoption so far away it doesn’t even linger in the back of their minds.  That’s what usually happened in my case. 

      Mama had a bit of a habit, but she sobered up after my birth.  She used to say, “The moment you came out, I knew what happiness was, and it wasn’t ‘cause that lump on my belly was gone either! Seeing you was seeing bliss–they wanted to name you Baby Denton, but I knew that wouldn’t do.  And, when they took you away, I knew I could kick that habit, I knew there was a reason worth living again.  See sweet pea, that stuff was my pleasure poison, but you, you are my happiness… I was just confused that’s all.” 

      The story changed each time while she talked about the pain of child birth or the mean nurse that stole me, but each time I asked how she got me, she made sure to tell me that she worked hard to keep me.  Apparently, the easy part is the labor, and I think that goes for all parents. I knew plenty of girls from the academy whose parents didn’t work hard at all to keep their children, but had felt authority to keep them and treat them as a commodity, an accessory to their already well-polished lifestyle.  These girls knew they were sent to the school only for their mothers to have a topic at the cocktail party benefits, or for their fathers to mention at a board meeting.  “My oldest is finishing Grad school, and my youngest is now attending Birchwood,” then everyone would smile and wish they had so many accomplishments, never once distinguishing the offspring as an individual.  Or at least that’s how I imagined their parents to be.  I couldn’t imagine their parents giving such a simple lecture to them.   Most would talk about not drinking and driving or to have safe sex; all specific things Mama didn’t get a chance to warn me about.  It was like she covered all those gray areas with her theory of happiness; it was like our Golden rule, something that could pertain to everything.

      We would talk so casually, as if the pleasure were just eating too many cookies before dinner.  “You gotta be careful Bliss,” she would tell me, while I was still too young to understand what she was referring to, “you might get tricked some day too, it’s in our blood to be weak.  Remember, happiness is long term pleasure, so it’s for life, but the reason it’s so tricky is pleasure is instant happiness, but golly don’t it fade away quick.”  I was too young to realize there was evil in the world, Mama kept me in the shade, hidden away from our poverty and her past.  I had no idea the way other people lived; I was completely happy with our small home and summers without vacations.  I loved that it was just Mama and I. 

      Since I was the silent type, it meant that I had issues, and who would want to take in someone who might become a serial killer or need extensive therapy.  I justified my silence through maturely labeling myself: an observer—when an observer speaks the scene sways.  I was not going to end up caged for their convenience, so instead I studied them.  On the weekends when potential parents came, most kids cleaned up their areas; displaying books or artwork that would make them appear desirable, like the newest fashion for interior decorating.  I was not going to make an object of myself.  I did nothing extraordinary. 

      Although I hated the idea of celebrating a future disappointment, I did not let my cynical attitude ruin those days entirely.  In fact, those days were my favorite, but for other reasons that are somewhat connected.  When others were invited, it was special, the food was extravagant, or at least in my naïve opinion.  There were trays of spaghetti and lasagna, but my theory was that the lasagna was just spaghetti in an organized fashion, with melted cheese to stabilize the edges.  To go with the Italian theme, there were also meaty sandwiches and huge helpings of Caesar salad, the fancy kind with fresh grated cheese.  They had hot dogs and hamburgers of course, with all the fixings as well as grilled cheese upon request, and that was just lunch.  Supper was splendid.  Meatloaf and cornbread or prime rib and dinner rolls, sometimes fatty steaks and French bread and always the simple mac and cheese option for the younger ones, but with all these the salad and soup bar was my favorite.  On ordinary days, they offered soup, but mostly vegetable or some kind of chowder.  On adoption days, tomato soup was guaranteed.  It was the last meal I had with my mom, although the taste and texture were technically better in the cafeteria, I would pretend it was the same as our last day. 

      It wasn’t until later when I understood that Mama was giving very important advice.  She was not an educated woman, but she had experience.   The way that she started telling me about life while I was still too young to realize that there was more beyond our complex, our town, our bedroom/dinning room/living room and attached bathroom.  It was like she knew she wouldn’t be around for that part of my life.  We used what time we had together and had fun watching our sitcoms with static and eating McDonald’s on family nights.  She kept the truth simple, enough for me to remember and be capable of translating later; she didn’t want me to be completely blind to everything once she left.

      Don’t get me wrong, she didn’t leave by choice.  I guess her body just wore out as everyone’s does eventually.  We were down to cottage cheese and apples from the neighbors.  They had an apple tree and the son worked at the local dairy farm.  Mama said they were a confused bunch.  I think she meant they were confused with the happiness and pleasure thing.  Looking back on it now, well I know they had late night guests and sometimes I saw the police lights come from down the road and they’d run out to the fields.  Then the officer would knock on the door and Mama would talk to them and get them to leave.  Once the cops took them all away, so we got to take care of their dog.  When they came back, Rocket didn’t want them anymore, and they said I could keep him.  Mama gave up smoking, and then we could afford the dog food.

      I remember tracing the ink on her arms, she never talked about where they came from and I didn’t know that other mom’s skin had simple mole and freckle mazes.  I thought Mama’s faded blue heart on her arm was pure luck.  In fact, I was jealous that I wasn’t born with any pictures.  Once in the bath I looked all over, examining my skin “Baby doll, what in the world are you doing?” she asked me.  When I told her that I was checking to see if I had grown any pictures, she laughed, “Those don’t come until later, sweetcheeks!”  When she got sick her arms got really skinny and the heart seemed to shrink, or get lost in the loose skin of her arm. 

      Mama taught me well, she gave me hope while I was in that hopeless place.  I knew if she got past all her pain, well I could get through the system, even on my failure night, I knew things would work themselves out, I just couldn’t imagine how.  I first noticed the severity in her health when she stopped working and stayed in bed a lot.  She couldn’t go to the doctors because she said they only took people who worked, and she couldn’t anymore.  I stopped going to school because I wanted to be with her, she was coughing all the time, it scared me.  That last day I walked up to the McDonald’s during her nap and filled my pockets with ketchup packets.  When I got back I set them all out on the table.  We had saved all the extras from before and kept them in the cookie jar, since we didn’t have any cookies it worked out perfect. 

      “What’s all this from?” she asked me when she woke up.

      “We’re out of food, so I walked up and got some more ketchup.  We can have tomato soup again tonight.”

      She had made that a lot for me, I’m not sure how she got it to taste decent, I mean it wasn’t Campbell’s, but it sure warmed me up during the winter.  It was good with toast too, but we were all out of bread.  I sat on the bed with Rocket, and watched her heat up the water in a pot.  I watched her squeeze every last drop of the watery red sauce.  “Bliss, this here is some fancy ketchup for you,” she said while she stirred it all together in the pot.  As the steam began to rise she looked at me and smiled.  Her eyes were tired, but that smile never changed.  It took a lot of energy to produce her smiles, and that night the energy was dwindling.

      After I finished the soup she was already sleeping, so I crawled up next to her.  Rocket was lying down by our feet.  She woke up and kissed my forehead.  “Good Night, I love you Bliss,” she whispered.

      “I love you too, Mama.”

      The next morning, I woke up because someone was knocking on the door.  Mama was still lying beside me; I got up and answered the door.

      “Hello. Sweetheart, is your Mommy home?” he asked. 

      I said nothing.  I starred at his attire.  His tie was turquoise and his suit looked like used charcoal; it matched the sky.  A breeze floated through the house and my makeshift nightgown, a worn-out T-shirt, the kind received after donating blood, fluttered along my knees.  He looked behind me and asked to come inside.  I thought she was still sleeping. “Mama’s sick, and, I can’t let strangers in.”  Then I shut the door, he kept knocking, and said something about it being a school day, but Rocket started barking and I couldn’t hear him anymore.  The man in the gray suit left.  I crawled up and tried to wake up Mama, but her eyes wouldn’t open.  “Mama, please…” I was begging her to wake up, but it was the first time she didn’t have a response for me.  Then, I saw the police cars come up the dusty road.  I saw the man’s turquoise tie through the window.  “Bliss, you have to let us in.  Darling, we’re here to help you.”  And then they took me away.

      The rest was a blur.  Somehow, I ended up at the orphanage.  I never found out what happened to Rocket.  I left all my stuff at home, and no one gave any of it back to me.  They gave me new clothes and a few stuffed animals, even though I had grown out of teddy bears and dolls a couple of years ago.  The only picture of Mama I had was one that was in the paper.  Since the man in the gray suit brought the police, they took in my neighbors for a history of drug offenses.  There were 6 warrants out for them.  All of our pictures were in the paper, in the local section.  I cut out Mama’s; it was an old one, the same as on her photo ID from work.  Later, when I got close to one of the social workers, she went to Mama’s work and took her picture from maid of the month.  They are the only two pictures I have, but I don’t really need pictures, I remember exactly what she looks like, still today.

      That was what I should have written about.  It would have gotten Mrs. Bristo’s attention sooner, but I didn’t know she was my salvation yet.  It was the story she had wanted to hear all along, but our connection wouldn’t be clear to until much later.