It is the morning after Thanksgiving and I wake up in a strange bed, tangled in children.
There is a definite smell of coffee in the air, so I follow it.
She is there, her long red hair spilling over her shoulders.
We drink coffee with fat-free Coffee Mate and splenda, picking at left over apple pie and rice kripy treats.
I hug my coffee to my chest, staring out the screen at birds and boats.
She's working on a crossword puzzle.
After a few minutes, she tosses it to me.
Fix this, she commands. Something is wrong in the bottom corner.
I can't do this! These things are just mean!
She shrugs. She's the Captain. (Remember her?)
After a few minutes, I figure the problem (it was "range" not "ranch") and wave the newspaper like a flag of triumph.
She smiles, then tosses a whole book of word games at me.
Oh hell no, I tell her. Hell no.
It's easy, she says. Here is the clue for the word. See the numbers under the word? Then you fill them in the puzzle below. So word A, letter 43, goes in this box.
This is torture, I whine, pen in hand. You BOUGHT this? You really spent MONEY on things to torture yourself? Don't you have cable? The internet? A vibrator?
She smiles. The woman is tougher than nails, mentally and otherwise.
I have something to learn from her, clearly.
I follow the instructions, fill in the letters, then rebel. Is this what real complete total sobriety is like? You get THIS bored?
She doesn't answer my question, but is kind enough to not comment when I pull out my fat history book and slide back into the chair, unpuzzled and free.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Story
It is well past dark, and I am tired of talking and thinking.
I reach into my purse and pull out a rare pack of gum which I'd bought earlier in the afternoon -- a lifetime ago -- at Target, along with glitter glue and other odds and ends for Zoe's project.
Now I was with strangers, offering them gum.
Their chatter has hushed down, the silence vascillating between awkward, tortured and numb.
There is no cellphone reception in the Emergency Room, so we take turns slipping out to the parking garage, pacing and speaking in whispered tones.
I've talked to her family; I don't know who they've talked to or what they've said.
"This is not your story to tell," I blurt out. "I mean, seriously, I know you probably want to process this whole thing with people and you're shaken and you need support... but it's not time to tell everyone you know. This is her story to tell, not yours, not mine. Not that there's anything to hide, it's just.... respecting her privacy about who to tell and how and when.... you know? "
They shake their heads, glumly.
I swallow hard and stare at the floor, listening hard to my own words.
I reach into my purse and pull out a rare pack of gum which I'd bought earlier in the afternoon -- a lifetime ago -- at Target, along with glitter glue and other odds and ends for Zoe's project.
Now I was with strangers, offering them gum.
Their chatter has hushed down, the silence vascillating between awkward, tortured and numb.
There is no cellphone reception in the Emergency Room, so we take turns slipping out to the parking garage, pacing and speaking in whispered tones.
I've talked to her family; I don't know who they've talked to or what they've said.
"This is not your story to tell," I blurt out. "I mean, seriously, I know you probably want to process this whole thing with people and you're shaken and you need support... but it's not time to tell everyone you know. This is her story to tell, not yours, not mine. Not that there's anything to hide, it's just.... respecting her privacy about who to tell and how and when.... you know? "
They shake their heads, glumly.
I swallow hard and stare at the floor, listening hard to my own words.
Christmas Play
The boxes full of odds and ends are strewn across the living room, and even though there are no Christmas lights, the children have decorated the Charlie Brown tree with homework, flowers and candy canes.
Zoe leaves for a minute, returning with her Cleopatra Halloween costume, slips by me and reappears wearing my silky peach robe.
Zack is wearing a red Santa hat.
They unite in the middle of the living room, improvising a joyful Christmas dance.
"You be Santa, I'll be Jesus," Zack commands his sister.
I sit on the sofa, curled up, laughing, reminding myself to tell them some different stories this year.
Zoe leaves for a minute, returning with her Cleopatra Halloween costume, slips by me and reappears wearing my silky peach robe.
Zack is wearing a red Santa hat.
They unite in the middle of the living room, improvising a joyful Christmas dance.
"You be Santa, I'll be Jesus," Zack commands his sister.
I sit on the sofa, curled up, laughing, reminding myself to tell them some different stories this year.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
True Companion
Does it really matter how he got arrested in New Orleans?
I got him out.
And I handled his very stressed out uncle and aunt who were bailing out his also-arrested cousin.
What a long, crazy night that was. September 24, 1994.
I’m pretty sure that was the night that we started making references to getting married.
If I was serious enough for him to bring all the way to Mandeville, I must be important.
It was about a week after that trip that we picked out the ring.
An emerald cut emerald, diamonds on the side.
Green has always felt like love to me.
When he said he might not be able to afford it right away, I suggested he get a credit card there. I guess he did.
It wasn’t too late in the evening when he came to my townhouse to pick me up for dinner.
I was watching Home Alone, which I’d never seen. I still haven’t. He walked right to the TV and turned it off.
Hello?? What the f**?
He fumbled with my CD player and put a song in, one I’d never heard. Then he got down on one knee and said something.
I’m not sure what, because I was totally distracted by his blue gum.
After he spit it out, he asked me to marry him.
The song was “True Companion” by Marc Cohn. I’d never heard it before, but he said it was the song he’d always wanted to play when he proposed marriage.
So, I’m glad it worked out for him.
We went to Olive Garden, but didn’t each nearly as much as we ordered.
Then we saw Pulp Fiction.
All and all, a memorable night.
That was when I started to let go of my need to be hungry all the time.
His love felt like a gentle breeze in my life.
Unexpected, but not unwelcome.
I got him out.
And I handled his very stressed out uncle and aunt who were bailing out his also-arrested cousin.
What a long, crazy night that was. September 24, 1994.
I’m pretty sure that was the night that we started making references to getting married.
If I was serious enough for him to bring all the way to Mandeville, I must be important.
It was about a week after that trip that we picked out the ring.
An emerald cut emerald, diamonds on the side.
Green has always felt like love to me.
When he said he might not be able to afford it right away, I suggested he get a credit card there. I guess he did.
It wasn’t too late in the evening when he came to my townhouse to pick me up for dinner.
I was watching Home Alone, which I’d never seen. I still haven’t. He walked right to the TV and turned it off.
Hello?? What the f**?
He fumbled with my CD player and put a song in, one I’d never heard. Then he got down on one knee and said something.
I’m not sure what, because I was totally distracted by his blue gum.
After he spit it out, he asked me to marry him.
The song was “True Companion” by Marc Cohn. I’d never heard it before, but he said it was the song he’d always wanted to play when he proposed marriage.
So, I’m glad it worked out for him.
We went to Olive Garden, but didn’t each nearly as much as we ordered.
Then we saw Pulp Fiction.
All and all, a memorable night.
That was when I started to let go of my need to be hungry all the time.
His love felt like a gentle breeze in my life.
Unexpected, but not unwelcome.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Goodnight Abuelo
I turn off the reading light, folding my thick book against my chest.Again, as the night before and the night before that, the two of us end our evening sitting in reclining chairs facing the TV.
Last night we watched a game show, then musicals.
Tonight we're watching M*A*S*H.
Soon enough, having finished his milk and cake, he falls asleep in the chair, dark blue slippers dangling from his black socked feet.
I turn the TV down, smooth the hair off his forehead and kiss him above his eyes.
He stirs, smiles, and calls me "Me vida," (my life), and I believe him.
Without turning back, I walk down the narrow hall to Abuela's room, book in hand, then sit in the silent darkness, thankful.
Last night we watched a game show, then musicals.
Tonight we're watching M*A*S*H.
Soon enough, having finished his milk and cake, he falls asleep in the chair, dark blue slippers dangling from his black socked feet.
I turn the TV down, smooth the hair off his forehead and kiss him above his eyes.
He stirs, smiles, and calls me "Me vida," (my life), and I believe him.
Without turning back, I walk down the narrow hall to Abuela's room, book in hand, then sit in the silent darkness, thankful.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Everywhere, now.
"Ay, Marta...." Abuelo mutters under his breath, sitting on his recliner surrounded by bottles of pills. He's just finished setting up his medicines for the next few weeks. Heart pills, stomach pills, I don't know what else, and I don't ask.
Usually his hands are in constant motion, writing letters, sorts stacks of paper, doing things always. Everything is done, for now. He is stuck unoccupied, and unwelcome thoughts slip into his mind.
"Ay, Marta..." he says again, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
I shut my book, finger holding my page in the thick book by an author who's last big novel came out in 1998, the year Abuelo had a heart attack on my birthday.
He changes the channel, puts on Lawrence Welk.
It is white people with big hair and stiff smiles singing about the old South. One African-American tap dances, alone, off stage. The audience looks stiff and uncomfortable.
Abuelo moves the pills to a shoebox and carries them to the counter where he sets them down. He gets his milk and cake, then settles back into his chair.
"Ay, Marta...." again he mutters, and this time, despite my harsh warnings otherwise, fat hot tears spill down my face.
She is here.
She is not here.
She is gone.
She is everywhere, now.
Usually his hands are in constant motion, writing letters, sorts stacks of paper, doing things always. Everything is done, for now. He is stuck unoccupied, and unwelcome thoughts slip into his mind.
"Ay, Marta..." he says again, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
I shut my book, finger holding my page in the thick book by an author who's last big novel came out in 1998, the year Abuelo had a heart attack on my birthday.
He changes the channel, puts on Lawrence Welk.
It is white people with big hair and stiff smiles singing about the old South. One African-American tap dances, alone, off stage. The audience looks stiff and uncomfortable.
Abuelo moves the pills to a shoebox and carries them to the counter where he sets them down. He gets his milk and cake, then settles back into his chair.
"Ay, Marta...." again he mutters, and this time, despite my harsh warnings otherwise, fat hot tears spill down my face.
She is here.
She is not here.
She is gone.
She is everywhere, now.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
11/12: Tallahassee to Atlanta to Fort Lauderdale
I leave the house early for my flight, anxious about car problems, anxious about nothing, anxious about something I can’t name.
Finally, at 2:40 when the gate agent announces my boarding zone, I relax because I am finally heading home. I don’t have to think, to fly, or to worry about a thing. I am on a mental vacation, I remind myself, as my eyes move along the row numbers, figuring out how close to the front of the plane my seat will be.
12D. Back row, window seat.
A man in a long sleeved blue shirt sits down in 12 C, and I point at my seat, smiling.
He gets up, makes room, and settles back in.
I grab my book (Savage Wars of Peace) and flip to Vietnam.
He grabs his book (something about a living biblically) and we read silently, each leaning away from the other because the armrest is up and our personal space is not clearly divided.
Finally I reach up and pulled it down, leaning on it immediately with my right elbow to claim it as my own. Small war, won quickly.
The stewardess announces that Atlanta airport is closed, and since there is no air conditioning on the plane, she’ll ask us to disembark and reload when Atlanta reopens.
I exhale, not thinking about the rows and rows of people in front of me, not thinking about being physically unable to escape this hot airless chamber.
“I’m claustrophobic, and I’m not going to freak out.”
I say this more to the window and the seat in front of me than to the man next to me, whose name I know happens to be Jeff because his friend keeps talking to him.
“Claustrophobic? Well then you’re in the wrong place.”
I look him dead in the eye.
He is mocking me.
I have made a new friend.
“Take a pill,” he suggests.
“Nope, not me. I just avoid airplanes.”
He tells me a story about a flight where someone on his row just freaked out and her mom offered her a pill. Instead, she left the plane.
“Just got up and left. Imagine that?” I imagine a tanned brunette with a fresh manicure and new dress chewing gum, skipping through songs on her iPod, trying to keep busy, until the sprout of fear became a tree and shadowed her other thoughts commanding her to move. In my mind, she leaves a wide-bodied plane, a bright and air-conditioned one, with a huge dark brown alligator skin purse thrown over her shoulder.
The people in front of me finally stand up as Jeff and his friend go back and forth about whether to get a drink or not.
I stay at the gate, asking what would happen if I miss my connection. The agent checks her watch. “If we land by 4:45 you should be able to make it from C36 to concourse A1 for the 5:05 plane. If that doesn’t work, there’s a 6:35, 8:35 and 9:35.” She turns her attention to the bald gentleman behind me, “DC, right? Flights every hour don’t worry about it.”
At 4:50, our plane has not even been cleared to land.
“I’m missing my connection, and I’m FINE with it,” I tell my new friend Jeff.
“Nothing we can do,” he repeats back, mocking me again. We laugh compare stories about our sons.
At 6:00 I am settled across two blue chairs in front of gate B1, the 17th person on stand-by for an already overbooked flight.
A short dark haired man with brown eyes man asks if the seat next to me is taken. I shake my head, and then go back to reading.
The maroon haired gate agent interrupts to announce, “We are offering meal coupons, $400 in Delta bucks and a seat on another flight to anyone willing to give their seats up….”
He looks up, our eyes meet.
He shakes his head, “Oh no,” he says to me in an accent that could’ve been either Brazilian or Russian. “I’m flying down for a family party and I can’t change my time. You?”
“Well, I’m on standby. I have nothing to give up.”
“Oh,” he says, and we sit quietly, watching zones 1 and 2 board right in front of us.
“What do you do?” he asks, pointing at my book. Women carrying war-titled books often have to offer explanations. I’m used to this.
“I’m a history professor. You?”
“A radiologist at the V.A.”
I know better than to tell him he doesn’t look old enough to be a doctor.
“Is it a good place to work?”
“Yes! I work 8:30 to 5, never on call, no emergencies, no weekends….”
“Me either… AND people call us DOCTOR! Aren’t you glad we gave our 20s up so that the rest of our years could be easy?”
He nods his head.
“Could you go back to school? If you had to?”
He cringes and we both shake our heads. Then darkness crosses his face. “I have to take Boards every 10 years. That’s a lot of studying.”
I put my wrist across my forehead like Scarlett O’Hara. “Every TEN years? EVERY ten years? How can you STAND the pressure?”
We laugh, shake hands, and they call his zone to board.
“Good luck getting on this plane.”
“Oh, don’t worry. My plane will come get me, when the time is right.”
He disappeared into the crowd, the gate closed, and I was number 10 on the standby list for the 8:35 flight.
By the time they called my name I had sipped one $8 glass of wine, bought the hardcover edition of the new Wally Lamb book and figured out how to check my email.
11a, I texted my mother, letting her know I was finally on a flight. Maybe first class?
Minutes later I was settled down next to a raspy voiced blonde who was deep in conversation with the woman across the aisle. “Pharmaceutical testing… yes… no, I had a partner, but I bought it outright…” the conversation turned to a divorce, then twins in college and grew quieter as the plan took off.
When the stewardess announced that she would be coming through the aisles with beverages, my neighbor put her hand on mine. “Put your money away, this one is on me. I’ve got stacks of these vouchers from my ex.”
We sipped our free drinks --- my wine, her beer – while shaking our heads and watching Sarah Palin’s interviews on the seatback displays.
It is 10:45pm when my parents meet me at the airport.
An hour later, I am in my Abuela’s empty bed, and – for once -- no tears come.
I talk to her silently.
I had a good day, Abuela. I miss you, and I’ll see what I can do to make things better down here, OK? I'm here now. I'm here, and I know you're not in that box in Abuelo's room. You know I know that, right?
Before she can answer, a tidal wave of dreamless sleep washes over me.
Finally, at 2:40 when the gate agent announces my boarding zone, I relax because I am finally heading home. I don’t have to think, to fly, or to worry about a thing. I am on a mental vacation, I remind myself, as my eyes move along the row numbers, figuring out how close to the front of the plane my seat will be.
12D. Back row, window seat.
A man in a long sleeved blue shirt sits down in 12 C, and I point at my seat, smiling.
He gets up, makes room, and settles back in.
I grab my book (Savage Wars of Peace) and flip to Vietnam.
He grabs his book (something about a living biblically) and we read silently, each leaning away from the other because the armrest is up and our personal space is not clearly divided.
Finally I reach up and pulled it down, leaning on it immediately with my right elbow to claim it as my own. Small war, won quickly.
The stewardess announces that Atlanta airport is closed, and since there is no air conditioning on the plane, she’ll ask us to disembark and reload when Atlanta reopens.
I exhale, not thinking about the rows and rows of people in front of me, not thinking about being physically unable to escape this hot airless chamber.
“I’m claustrophobic, and I’m not going to freak out.”
I say this more to the window and the seat in front of me than to the man next to me, whose name I know happens to be Jeff because his friend keeps talking to him.
“Claustrophobic? Well then you’re in the wrong place.”
I look him dead in the eye.
He is mocking me.
I have made a new friend.
“Take a pill,” he suggests.
“Nope, not me. I just avoid airplanes.”
He tells me a story about a flight where someone on his row just freaked out and her mom offered her a pill. Instead, she left the plane.
“Just got up and left. Imagine that?” I imagine a tanned brunette with a fresh manicure and new dress chewing gum, skipping through songs on her iPod, trying to keep busy, until the sprout of fear became a tree and shadowed her other thoughts commanding her to move. In my mind, she leaves a wide-bodied plane, a bright and air-conditioned one, with a huge dark brown alligator skin purse thrown over her shoulder.
The people in front of me finally stand up as Jeff and his friend go back and forth about whether to get a drink or not.
I stay at the gate, asking what would happen if I miss my connection. The agent checks her watch. “If we land by 4:45 you should be able to make it from C36 to concourse A1 for the 5:05 plane. If that doesn’t work, there’s a 6:35, 8:35 and 9:35.” She turns her attention to the bald gentleman behind me, “DC, right? Flights every hour don’t worry about it.”
At 4:50, our plane has not even been cleared to land.
“I’m missing my connection, and I’m FINE with it,” I tell my new friend Jeff.
“Nothing we can do,” he repeats back, mocking me again. We laugh compare stories about our sons.
At 6:00 I am settled across two blue chairs in front of gate B1, the 17th person on stand-by for an already overbooked flight.
A short dark haired man with brown eyes man asks if the seat next to me is taken. I shake my head, and then go back to reading.
The maroon haired gate agent interrupts to announce, “We are offering meal coupons, $400 in Delta bucks and a seat on another flight to anyone willing to give their seats up….”
He looks up, our eyes meet.
He shakes his head, “Oh no,” he says to me in an accent that could’ve been either Brazilian or Russian. “I’m flying down for a family party and I can’t change my time. You?”
“Well, I’m on standby. I have nothing to give up.”
“Oh,” he says, and we sit quietly, watching zones 1 and 2 board right in front of us.
“What do you do?” he asks, pointing at my book. Women carrying war-titled books often have to offer explanations. I’m used to this.
“I’m a history professor. You?”
“A radiologist at the V.A.”
I know better than to tell him he doesn’t look old enough to be a doctor.
“Is it a good place to work?”
“Yes! I work 8:30 to 5, never on call, no emergencies, no weekends….”
“Me either… AND people call us DOCTOR! Aren’t you glad we gave our 20s up so that the rest of our years could be easy?”
He nods his head.
“Could you go back to school? If you had to?”
He cringes and we both shake our heads. Then darkness crosses his face. “I have to take Boards every 10 years. That’s a lot of studying.”
I put my wrist across my forehead like Scarlett O’Hara. “Every TEN years? EVERY ten years? How can you STAND the pressure?”
We laugh, shake hands, and they call his zone to board.
“Good luck getting on this plane.”
“Oh, don’t worry. My plane will come get me, when the time is right.”
He disappeared into the crowd, the gate closed, and I was number 10 on the standby list for the 8:35 flight.
By the time they called my name I had sipped one $8 glass of wine, bought the hardcover edition of the new Wally Lamb book and figured out how to check my email.
11a, I texted my mother, letting her know I was finally on a flight. Maybe first class?
Minutes later I was settled down next to a raspy voiced blonde who was deep in conversation with the woman across the aisle. “Pharmaceutical testing… yes… no, I had a partner, but I bought it outright…” the conversation turned to a divorce, then twins in college and grew quieter as the plan took off.
When the stewardess announced that she would be coming through the aisles with beverages, my neighbor put her hand on mine. “Put your money away, this one is on me. I’ve got stacks of these vouchers from my ex.”
We sipped our free drinks --- my wine, her beer – while shaking our heads and watching Sarah Palin’s interviews on the seatback displays.
It is 10:45pm when my parents meet me at the airport.
An hour later, I am in my Abuela’s empty bed, and – for once -- no tears come.
I talk to her silently.
I had a good day, Abuela. I miss you, and I’ll see what I can do to make things better down here, OK? I'm here now. I'm here, and I know you're not in that box in Abuelo's room. You know I know that, right?
Before she can answer, a tidal wave of dreamless sleep washes over me.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Secret Surprise Birthday Lunch
He didn't know I was coming, and neither did she, but through my secret connections I found out they already had plans to have lunch together and orchestrated an invitation.
She calls me while I am at my annual shopping trip, her French accent sprinkled with warmth and laughter. "We will meet at noon, at...."
Her voice sounds rumply and far away.
"Oh! Wait! Say that again, I'm in the middle of shopping. I've found 6 dresses for less than $200. And boots and shoes.... now let me get a pen… where are we meeting? "
She repeats the address and I write it in my journal.
Even though lunch is an hour away, I slip on a new dress, leave the store and start working my way downtown.
I am the first to arrive, and wait in the lobby, only slightly wishing my new swingy size 8 aubergine dress was long enough to cover my kneecaps.
Three men in suits and ties sit slightly bent over at barstools a few feet in front of me. Instead of returning their smiles, I push my hands into the low pockets and look out to the street, above eye level.
Exactly at noon, he turns the corner from the elevator which brought him from his tower office to the lobby. Everyone else - the people who work for him, I mean - wears suits, dresses, ties. He has a polo shirt on, but I know he's the boss.
“There you are,” he exclaims as we bang into each other in a public bear hug. "What a nice surprise, I didn't know I'd see you. You should really let me know when you’re coming next time."
"I know, I know. But I had no doubt I'd see you. Things always work out perfectly. Always." I whisper as the hostess leads us to our table.
As we pass them, the three men at the bar nod at him, then turn back towards their drinks and each other.
When we take our table, I ask for the chair facing the wall, he sits facing outward and we save the corner chair for her.
He shakes his head. "I own a piece of this place, you know...."
"Yes, yes, I've heard, you run with the big dogs, Mister."
I am tempted to ask him if I am taller or bustier or skinnier or prettier or even just livelier than Sarah Palin, but I don't. He invested so much of his life and time into the past election, there's no need to even bring the subject up.
He looks down and shakes his head. "It's been quite a year."
"I know. I know. I miss her too. When I was circling for a parking spot, I remembered picking her up for a training. She gave the best directions, you know?"
"She did," he concurs.
I ask to go upstairs and see her office, but I can't because he's given it to a partner. That's a good sign, because last time I talked to him he'd decided to leave it as it was the day she left work, went to Publix and then had the breath twisted out of her body. We both know that if she were here, she'd be at lunch with us today. There is an empty seat and I imagine her with us, wearing something pink. Her purse and shoes would match.
He orders iced tea, and I ask for water. and huddle down for a serious talk about the election, the world, and the organizations which he and I both worked for.
Minutes later, she joins us.
We all stand, exchange hugs.
Because she is so perfectly thin, gorgeous and healthy, I order exactly what she orders
“So Melissa… How does the wedding dress look?”
He raises his eyebrows and takes a sip of his tea.
“Melissa never had a wedding dress,“ she confides, “and I didn’t know what to do with mine.. after all that.... . It looks fabulous on her.”
I’m not the bridal type, and I’ve never even tried on another wedding dress, but last May after a long lunch and a nice bottle of white wine, she offered me hers and I took her up on it.
Some women guiltily hide stacks clothes in their closet that are too small, too expensive, maybe will fit one day. I have a thin-strapped narrow waisted, ivory beaded wedding dress I will never wear in public. Every time I pass it in the closet, it makes me smile.
“It wasn’t really a marriage, it was a DRILL. Really. And look how much you learned!”
She shakes her head, laughing at the idea. "Amazing, isn't it? I never sold my house, and I still had so much..... and oh! He’s getting married again!”
We both sit silenced.
“To your FRIEND? Or the crazy one he cheated on you with? ”
“Not the crazy one…” she explains, and within minutes he and I realize we know her.
I pull out my notebook and jot down “He’s getting married again.”
“Melissa! You aren’t going to write all of this, are you?”
I shake my head. “No. Of course not. I can’t, because first of all, no one knows I’m here, so this lunch isn’t happening. And also, I really should be writing my book instead of blogging.”
They both frown at me.
“What? I want to write what I want to write, when I want to write it. It’s weird to save stories up. And besides that, I like giving it away for free. I don’t know. I just…. I am OK with where I am now, you know? ”
He shakes his head, and I can see him slip his attorney hat on. “Get the money. It’ll save you a lot of worries, and problems and issues you’re dealing with.”
“Yes, get the money, you’ll have so much more freedom. You can travel, and shop, and have nothing to worry about.”
“But I’m free, now. And I don’t worry about anything anyway.”
They know this is true, so the conversation turns to a recent school shooting.
“It’s a shame,” she proclaims.
“Guns are too easy to get,” I reply. “Why is it easier to buy guns than pot? Why are bullets cheaper than medicine?”
“2nd Amendment,” he adds.
‘I knew that…. I know my amendments…” and giggle as I take a sip of water.
“Not that I’ve ever shot a gun,” he continues. “But I do have picture of me and my partner holding guns. We send it to clients who are 60 days past due.”
I pull my notebook back out. “Can I write that?”
“Finish writing your books,” he commands.
“Finish them! I want to read them!” she adds, just as the waitress rounds the corner with my birthday cake.
Instead of candles, this cake is topped with a huge sparkler.
“Make a wish, make a BIG wish,” they command.
As I blew out the sparkler, I sat back and crossed my arms, having wished only for one thing – a life full of stories worth writing about.
She calls me while I am at my annual shopping trip, her French accent sprinkled with warmth and laughter. "We will meet at noon, at...."
Her voice sounds rumply and far away.
"Oh! Wait! Say that again, I'm in the middle of shopping. I've found 6 dresses for less than $200. And boots and shoes.... now let me get a pen… where are we meeting? "
She repeats the address and I write it in my journal.
Even though lunch is an hour away, I slip on a new dress, leave the store and start working my way downtown.
I am the first to arrive, and wait in the lobby, only slightly wishing my new swingy size 8 aubergine dress was long enough to cover my kneecaps.
Three men in suits and ties sit slightly bent over at barstools a few feet in front of me. Instead of returning their smiles, I push my hands into the low pockets and look out to the street, above eye level.
Exactly at noon, he turns the corner from the elevator which brought him from his tower office to the lobby. Everyone else - the people who work for him, I mean - wears suits, dresses, ties. He has a polo shirt on, but I know he's the boss.
“There you are,” he exclaims as we bang into each other in a public bear hug. "What a nice surprise, I didn't know I'd see you. You should really let me know when you’re coming next time."
"I know, I know. But I had no doubt I'd see you. Things always work out perfectly. Always." I whisper as the hostess leads us to our table.
As we pass them, the three men at the bar nod at him, then turn back towards their drinks and each other.
When we take our table, I ask for the chair facing the wall, he sits facing outward and we save the corner chair for her.
He shakes his head. "I own a piece of this place, you know...."
"Yes, yes, I've heard, you run with the big dogs, Mister."
I am tempted to ask him if I am taller or bustier or skinnier or prettier or even just livelier than Sarah Palin, but I don't. He invested so much of his life and time into the past election, there's no need to even bring the subject up.
He looks down and shakes his head. "It's been quite a year."
"I know. I know. I miss her too. When I was circling for a parking spot, I remembered picking her up for a training. She gave the best directions, you know?"
"She did," he concurs.
I ask to go upstairs and see her office, but I can't because he's given it to a partner. That's a good sign, because last time I talked to him he'd decided to leave it as it was the day she left work, went to Publix and then had the breath twisted out of her body. We both know that if she were here, she'd be at lunch with us today. There is an empty seat and I imagine her with us, wearing something pink. Her purse and shoes would match.
He orders iced tea, and I ask for water. and huddle down for a serious talk about the election, the world, and the organizations which he and I both worked for.
Minutes later, she joins us.
We all stand, exchange hugs.
Because she is so perfectly thin, gorgeous and healthy, I order exactly what she orders
“So Melissa… How does the wedding dress look?”
He raises his eyebrows and takes a sip of his tea.
“Melissa never had a wedding dress,“ she confides, “and I didn’t know what to do with mine.. after all that.... . It looks fabulous on her.”
I’m not the bridal type, and I’ve never even tried on another wedding dress, but last May after a long lunch and a nice bottle of white wine, she offered me hers and I took her up on it.
Some women guiltily hide stacks clothes in their closet that are too small, too expensive, maybe will fit one day. I have a thin-strapped narrow waisted, ivory beaded wedding dress I will never wear in public. Every time I pass it in the closet, it makes me smile.
“It wasn’t really a marriage, it was a DRILL. Really. And look how much you learned!”
She shakes her head, laughing at the idea. "Amazing, isn't it? I never sold my house, and I still had so much..... and oh! He’s getting married again!”
We both sit silenced.
“To your FRIEND? Or the crazy one he cheated on you with? ”
“Not the crazy one…” she explains, and within minutes he and I realize we know her.
I pull out my notebook and jot down “He’s getting married again.”
“Melissa! You aren’t going to write all of this, are you?”
I shake my head. “No. Of course not. I can’t, because first of all, no one knows I’m here, so this lunch isn’t happening. And also, I really should be writing my book instead of blogging.”
They both frown at me.
“What? I want to write what I want to write, when I want to write it. It’s weird to save stories up. And besides that, I like giving it away for free. I don’t know. I just…. I am OK with where I am now, you know? ”
He shakes his head, and I can see him slip his attorney hat on. “Get the money. It’ll save you a lot of worries, and problems and issues you’re dealing with.”
“Yes, get the money, you’ll have so much more freedom. You can travel, and shop, and have nothing to worry about.”
“But I’m free, now. And I don’t worry about anything anyway.”
They know this is true, so the conversation turns to a recent school shooting.
“It’s a shame,” she proclaims.
“Guns are too easy to get,” I reply. “Why is it easier to buy guns than pot? Why are bullets cheaper than medicine?”
“2nd Amendment,” he adds.
‘I knew that…. I know my amendments…” and giggle as I take a sip of water.
“Not that I’ve ever shot a gun,” he continues. “But I do have picture of me and my partner holding guns. We send it to clients who are 60 days past due.”
I pull my notebook back out. “Can I write that?”
“Finish writing your books,” he commands.
“Finish them! I want to read them!” she adds, just as the waitress rounds the corner with my birthday cake.
Instead of candles, this cake is topped with a huge sparkler.
“Make a wish, make a BIG wish,” they command.
As I blew out the sparkler, I sat back and crossed my arms, having wished only for one thing – a life full of stories worth writing about.
Labels:
Laughing,
Professor Diaries
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
October 29, 4:20am
It’s too cold to run, so I stare out the window by my writing chair, holding a cup of Cuban coffee, letting my mind empty itself.
Thoughts present themselves in a firing squad once I allow them to have their say.
You’ll never have enough time to make publishing deadlines while teaching college, grading papers, being a mother, doing laundry, visiting Costco…
I laugh as the fear runs out of steam and evaporates.
What you wrote was private. You wrote it to yourself, and sharing it betrays what an mess you were. We’ve been rehabilitating that image for years – with and without your help, thank you -- and now you want to just destroy our work? Don’t look back, don’t read those journals. We can’t let you do that. Hold the line. Any quick moves and you’ll fall off your precarious courage, wisdom, and sanity and land back on your ass.
I know better than to resist fear. Worry is fear’s favorite food, so I starve it.
Alright, I agree, I *don’t* have to read those journals. Thank you for your words.
The thought leaves a shadow of surprise as it falls back as if into a black hole.
The next thought arrives.
Write what you want to write. And what you want to read. That’s all. Just follow that. It’ll be fun.
Fun, I wonder, taking a sip of my coffee. I shake my head imagining the pain of reading my multi-volume documentary of my descent to misery.
STOP THAT the thought shouts.
I swallow and take another sip of Cafe Cubano, still practicing the art of observing my thoughts.
I don’t have to read those journals, I don’t have to walk back through that stuff, not if I don’t want to. It’s not that I’m not going to do it, it’s that I don’t have to do it. I’ll only do it if I feel like doing it. I don’t have to write.
All I have to do is sit in this chair, I tell myself.
Be in the present, I remind myself. Live breath to breath.
Seconds later, I am standing up, searching for a notebook and a pen.
Thoughts present themselves in a firing squad once I allow them to have their say.
You’ll never have enough time to make publishing deadlines while teaching college, grading papers, being a mother, doing laundry, visiting Costco…
I laugh as the fear runs out of steam and evaporates.
What you wrote was private. You wrote it to yourself, and sharing it betrays what an mess you were. We’ve been rehabilitating that image for years – with and without your help, thank you -- and now you want to just destroy our work? Don’t look back, don’t read those journals. We can’t let you do that. Hold the line. Any quick moves and you’ll fall off your precarious courage, wisdom, and sanity and land back on your ass.
I know better than to resist fear. Worry is fear’s favorite food, so I starve it.
Alright, I agree, I *don’t* have to read those journals. Thank you for your words.
The thought leaves a shadow of surprise as it falls back as if into a black hole.
The next thought arrives.
Write what you want to write. And what you want to read. That’s all. Just follow that. It’ll be fun.
Fun, I wonder, taking a sip of my coffee. I shake my head imagining the pain of reading my multi-volume documentary of my descent to misery.
STOP THAT the thought shouts.
I swallow and take another sip of Cafe Cubano, still practicing the art of observing my thoughts.
I don’t have to read those journals, I don’t have to walk back through that stuff, not if I don’t want to. It’s not that I’m not going to do it, it’s that I don’t have to do it. I’ll only do it if I feel like doing it. I don’t have to write.
All I have to do is sit in this chair, I tell myself.
Be in the present, I remind myself. Live breath to breath.
Seconds later, I am standing up, searching for a notebook and a pen.
October 28, 4:20
I am unapologetic about joining our conference call a little bit late.
We weave through lighter topics for a few minutes before she gets my consent to record the call. After that, the conversation stays on the book. She is a professional, and she has a hard question to ask.
But is there more?
More?
More things that you’ve written that haven’t been published in magazines or websites or your blog?
Yes, there are.
I list two specific essays I have promised myself I will write, then mentally count at least six others that are in limbo, scribbled in notebooks either in sharpie or dull pencil, my thoughts running so quickly my right hand can hardly keep up.
I imagine unpublished stories die in my journal, or lie in coma for years until I sneak back and harvest an organ of a punchline or a limb of insight. After dissecting it for inspiration, I toss the story carcus in it’s cheap spiral notebook on the kitchen table where a ring of coffee smudges the words and the lines of the paper into rainbows of blue, black and brown.
Besides stories, do you have old journals?
Oh. God. Yes. I have 20 years of them, lined up right here in my office.
20 years?
Yes. All the things I wrote from before I blogged. Now I don’t really journal anymore, I just jot story ideas in notebooks.
What’s in those journals?
My writing was different then. I didn’t write for fun, I used the power of my words to secretly hold a knife to my own throat.
Really? That would really add dimension the character.
I laugh, involuntarily. The character, in publishing talk, is me.
Or at least the pieces of me I’m willing to call, soldering pieces together then stringing them up like stained glass - sharp, smooth, opaque.
As our meeting ends, she rattles off all the topics we’ve covered, what she would like to see, what format it should be in, next steps on the other books, things to think about.
It is 5:20 when we hang up.
For once I leave my Mac at work. It has been a long and eventful day in my office, and I need to disconnect.
I get halfway to my car, then realize I’ve left my coat and cape in my office.
The sun feels so warm I can’t imagine being cold again in the morning.
Something tells me to go back, and I do.
When I get back in my office, the sunrays stream through my pear-shaped crystal hanging from the window, casting rainbows across my desk.
I sit back down in my chair for a minute, pull a tiny gold journal out from the stack.
I read one page, shaking my head the entire time.
Before I leave, I pull four other journals from my bookcase and lay them on the window shelf, letting rainbows of light push the shadows from their words.
Enough, I tell myself. Go home.
I lock my office door, then realize I’ve forgotten my coat, again.
On the drive home mind feels like a big tub of margarine, ideas slipping, sticking, melting.
We weave through lighter topics for a few minutes before she gets my consent to record the call. After that, the conversation stays on the book. She is a professional, and she has a hard question to ask.
But is there more?
More?
More things that you’ve written that haven’t been published in magazines or websites or your blog?
Yes, there are.
I list two specific essays I have promised myself I will write, then mentally count at least six others that are in limbo, scribbled in notebooks either in sharpie or dull pencil, my thoughts running so quickly my right hand can hardly keep up.
I imagine unpublished stories die in my journal, or lie in coma for years until I sneak back and harvest an organ of a punchline or a limb of insight. After dissecting it for inspiration, I toss the story carcus in it’s cheap spiral notebook on the kitchen table where a ring of coffee smudges the words and the lines of the paper into rainbows of blue, black and brown.
Besides stories, do you have old journals?
Oh. God. Yes. I have 20 years of them, lined up right here in my office.
20 years?
Yes. All the things I wrote from before I blogged. Now I don’t really journal anymore, I just jot story ideas in notebooks.
What’s in those journals?
My writing was different then. I didn’t write for fun, I used the power of my words to secretly hold a knife to my own throat.
Really? That would really add dimension the character.
I laugh, involuntarily. The character, in publishing talk, is me.
Or at least the pieces of me I’m willing to call, soldering pieces together then stringing them up like stained glass - sharp, smooth, opaque.
As our meeting ends, she rattles off all the topics we’ve covered, what she would like to see, what format it should be in, next steps on the other books, things to think about.
It is 5:20 when we hang up.
For once I leave my Mac at work. It has been a long and eventful day in my office, and I need to disconnect.
I get halfway to my car, then realize I’ve left my coat and cape in my office.
The sun feels so warm I can’t imagine being cold again in the morning.
Something tells me to go back, and I do.
When I get back in my office, the sunrays stream through my pear-shaped crystal hanging from the window, casting rainbows across my desk.
I sit back down in my chair for a minute, pull a tiny gold journal out from the stack.
I read one page, shaking my head the entire time.
Before I leave, I pull four other journals from my bookcase and lay them on the window shelf, letting rainbows of light push the shadows from their words.
Enough, I tell myself. Go home.
I lock my office door, then realize I’ve forgotten my coat, again.
On the drive home mind feels like a big tub of margarine, ideas slipping, sticking, melting.
Labels:
*My Favorites,
Laughing,
Professor Diaries
Madison, Sarah, Rachel, Maura, Jennifer, the other Madison and Amelia
Over the past 24 hours Zack had gone to Halloween parties, trick-or-treated, eaten chocolate until he puked, and rode a pony with his girlfriend Madison.
Now he is standing by the coffee table, arranging, rearranging and stacking piles of empty candy wrappers.
I am trying to watch the FSU game, while mentally folding clothes the stack of clothes piled next to me on the sofa.
"You and Dylan played so nicely at Family Fun Day. Did you have a good time?"
Zack's face fell, and he shook his head. "Ashton and Brock told me they're going to beat me up."
I sit up. Clearly, he has said the right thing to grab my attention.
"Sweetheart, no, they love you. They're your friends. They won't hurt you..."
He shakes his head, big green eyes filling with tears.
"They told me they want to beat me up because I have a girlfriend.".
I nod my head.
It's true, Zack has had a year-long steady easy relationship with a sweet brown eyed girl named Madison who has long brown hair hair and a quick laugh.
Just last week and a dance recital she tapped me on the thigh and asked if she can have a sleep over with Zack. I shrugged and said, "Maybe someday..." only half-kiddingly.
"Maybe the boys just say they want to beat you up because they miss you when you spend time with Madison. They want to play with you. You boys love each other and you have so much fun together." I cross my arms, smug and wise.
He shakes his head and looks down.
Then I remember the gossip other Mommies told me at Family Fun Day and proclaim, "But Brock has a girlfriend! That's what Amelia's Mom told me! See, Zackaroni, other boys have girlfriends... it's OK to like girls..." and then I remember more of what the other Mommies said and continue, "... and isn't Sarah your girlfriend too?"
He nods his head.
I am right.
The other boys are jealous because Zack has two girlfriends.
"You have two girlfriends. They're jealous!"
He shakes his head.
"You don't have two girlfriends? Just one? Only Madison?"
He shakes his head, solemnly.
"Not two? How many, then? Tell me!"
He holds up four fingers.
"FOUR? Who?"
He ticks off his fingers, "Maura, Rachel, Sarah and Madison."
"Four?!"
He shakes his head again, holding up more fingers, "Amelia, Jennifer and the other Madison, too...."
"SEVEN girlfriends? No WONDER they want to beat you up! I'm about to knock you around too, Mr. Gigolo! You're spreading yourself pretty thin...."
I pull him towards me in a bear hug, demanding over and over that he saves some of his love, just a little bit, for his Mommy.
He wrestles away, then settles on the floor, sorting the candy wrappers into piles and then lining them up like traincars.
I go back to watching the game, still not folding laundry.
Now he is standing by the coffee table, arranging, rearranging and stacking piles of empty candy wrappers.
I am trying to watch the FSU game, while mentally folding clothes the stack of clothes piled next to me on the sofa.
"You and Dylan played so nicely at Family Fun Day. Did you have a good time?"
Zack's face fell, and he shook his head. "Ashton and Brock told me they're going to beat me up."
I sit up. Clearly, he has said the right thing to grab my attention.
"Sweetheart, no, they love you. They're your friends. They won't hurt you..."
He shakes his head, big green eyes filling with tears.
"They told me they want to beat me up because I have a girlfriend.".
I nod my head.
It's true, Zack has had a year-long steady easy relationship with a sweet brown eyed girl named Madison who has long brown hair hair and a quick laugh.
Just last week and a dance recital she tapped me on the thigh and asked if she can have a sleep over with Zack. I shrugged and said, "Maybe someday..." only half-kiddingly.
"Maybe the boys just say they want to beat you up because they miss you when you spend time with Madison. They want to play with you. You boys love each other and you have so much fun together." I cross my arms, smug and wise.
He shakes his head and looks down.
Then I remember the gossip other Mommies told me at Family Fun Day and proclaim, "But Brock has a girlfriend! That's what Amelia's Mom told me! See, Zackaroni, other boys have girlfriends... it's OK to like girls..." and then I remember more of what the other Mommies said and continue, "... and isn't Sarah your girlfriend too?"
He nods his head.
I am right.
The other boys are jealous because Zack has two girlfriends.
"You have two girlfriends. They're jealous!"
He shakes his head.
"You don't have two girlfriends? Just one? Only Madison?"
He shakes his head, solemnly.
"Not two? How many, then? Tell me!"
He holds up four fingers.
"FOUR? Who?"
He ticks off his fingers, "Maura, Rachel, Sarah and Madison."
"Four?!"
He shakes his head again, holding up more fingers, "Amelia, Jennifer and the other Madison, too...."
"SEVEN girlfriends? No WONDER they want to beat you up! I'm about to knock you around too, Mr. Gigolo! You're spreading yourself pretty thin...."
I pull him towards me in a bear hug, demanding over and over that he saves some of his love, just a little bit, for his Mommy.
He wrestles away, then settles on the floor, sorting the candy wrappers into piles and then lining them up like traincars.
I go back to watching the game, still not folding laundry.
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