Through Thick and Thin

I just started walking. What else could I do? One foot in front of the other; that doesn’t take any thought. You just do it. You walk.

My feet were transporting me up Main Street.

I don’t recall paying at the counter as I left the building, or coming out into the light of a day that was going to be different than all those that preceded it. Things would be different from here on out. I think I was calm and polite to the woman who handled the transaction and handed me the receipt, but it was all a blur now.

Shock and confusion were like a warm liquid seeping through my body, from the area right behind my eyes, down my neck and my back, through my extremities and right to my fingertips and toes. I was alone and numb. It’s a good thing my feet knew what to do. They walked…

Main Street was humming with cars and people scurrying about. It was a sunny day, and I enjoyed, as always, contemplating the flocks of birds that ricocheted across the sky between the brick buildings of downtown. What made them change direction so suddenly? And how did they all move in unison like that, maintaining their tight formation through abrupt movements? Was there one bird leading the others, redirecting the energetic mass of fluttering wings this way and that? Or were they merely dancing across some hidden currents of air rising up through the bricks and concrete?

Ah, yes, this is good. Distraction will get me home. One foot in front of the other…

But then what will I do?

I know. I’ll call my mom.

My mom… hmm. I smiled in spite of myself. My mother is an opinionated, thick-headed Irish woman, and if she’s had a glass of wine she can get downright belligerent on you.

Oh, and she is never wrong. Not a chance. She will argue a point until the cows come home, even if halfway through the dispute she realizes that her argument is complete folly.

And she must have the last word! It’s enough to make you need some wine of your own.

But let me tell you something, my mother is truly awesome.

I will never forget the day I made that call to her.

I was just beginning my senior year of college, a time when I was enjoying every minute of my life.

I had befriended an entire cast of strange and entertaining characters at the bar where I was a cocktail waitress four nights per week, and it seemed a new misfit joined our odd little play every night.

Other weeknights plus Saturdays and Sundays, I worked for the local newspaper in a cluttered, disorganized office that pulsed with energy as we raced against deadlines, worked into the night, and stole snippets of sleep here and there on the threadbare green couch in the middle of the studio.

By day I was absorbed in my classes, traversing the grounds of the university from one lecture hall to another, occasionally hitting the campus gym for a spin on the stationary bike, sometimes stopping in the food court for a snack to enjoy on the grassy hill outside.

I enjoyed my friends. Since it was senior year we were all living in apartments off-campus around town, most of us within walking distance of each other. The house I rented with two friends on Cleveland Avenue had a front porch and a cute fenced yard in the back. I used to lie on my belly on the lawn reading Ann Rice novels while my guinea pig “Wheatie” munched grass in a tight line around my perimeter. When he was done he would climb into the sleeve of my t-shirt and take a nap.

My life was good. And it was all about to change.

It wasn’t an easy call to make, that call to my mother. I’m sure she could hear the shakiness in my voice, the hesitance in my words.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Um… ah… I’m pregnant.”

I was thankful that I had someone I could turn to for help, or even just advice, because being the only one that knew, even for the hour that it took me to walk home from the clinic downtown, made me feel so alone.

There was a reason she was the first person I called. My mother has common-sense, and she’s level-headed and calm. And I knew that she would be there for me, without missing a beat.

I wasn’t wrong. She spoke very calmly as she laid my options out on the table. They were the options I’d already been mulling over in my head all the way up Main Street, down Grand Boulevard and over to Cleveland, but they became more tangible once she uttered the words. Hearing them spoken aloud made them more manageable somehow.

She said if I didn’t want to go through with it, she would help me. If I chose to welcome a new member to our family, she would help me. Of course there was adoption as well. She said the hardest part is making a decision, and once I made up my mind about what I wanted to do, we would take it from there.

Hearing her voice on the other end of the line, the voice that had quietly guided me my entire life, I felt brave, and strong, and capable. She had given all those qualities to me.

The most important thing my mother told me that day was that everything would be okay.

And she was right. Six months later, I gave birth to my baby girl, the light of my life.

Thanks, Mom, for being there for me during the biggest decision of my life, and for all the years after. A single mom needs a guardian angel, and you are mine.

A mother is the truest friend we have. – Washington Irving

Make That Money...

A cocktail tray makes an excellent Frisbee. If one is adept in the handling of a Frisbee, one can fire a cocktail tray at someone’s head with deadly precision and accuracy.

********
I had to work my way through college. I had three jobs.

The first was ad designer for the school newspaper. I put in some very long hours over there, but the atmosphere was enjoyable and the staff was totally cool. It was actually one of the highest paying “campus jobs” available. That wasn’t saying much though.

The second was babysitting. In one of my art classes there was a young mother. She used to talk about her two-year-old son all the time. Then one day she mentioned that she couldn’t wait to see him.

“Where is he?”

“He stays with my parents while I go to school.”

“Do they live nearby?”

“About three hours away.”

“So how often do you see your baby???”

“Every other weekend.”

Turns out the problem was her 8:30am classes. She couldn’t get anyone to watch him during that time. Oh, and the other problem was she had hardly any money. So I offered to watch him in the mornings. She paid me $1 per hour. It was worth it.

My third job was cocktail waitressing at one of the local hotspots. Now that was a fun job! I got to meet a lot of people, I made great tips, and I didn’t spend money going out and drinking like everyone else I knew. My friends would come in and hang out with me sometimes, and if it wasn’t too busy I would be dancing or chatting with my usual customers.

We wore cute little outfits too: white tuxedo shirts with red bow ties and cummerbunds, and little tuxedo shorts. I could often be seen running down our street in this outfit, trying to catch the bus to work. My roommate joked that I was known on our block as The Running Girl.

At the end of the night, the club owner would give $200 to the staff so everyone could go out to the diner and get breakfast. We were like family.

And after that I’d sleep for an hour or two, and then take the 7am bus to go babysitting for little Najee.

Somehow I was able to squeeze my classes in there too.

Well one night when I showed up for work at the bar, there was a meeting in progress. We had a new owner, Alex, a man who had been one of my frequent customers and always kind of gave me the creeps.

At the meeting, Alex let us know that he wanted to keep the current staff intact. Well that was a relief. He also handed out, to the cocktail waitresses only, a new piece of uniform. Instead of wearing the tuxedo shirt, he wanted us to wear these sleeveless, backless tuxedo shirts with our red bowties and cummerbunds.

I looked at this thing in disbelief. There was very little material.

“I’d like you to wear these for our grand reopening this Friday night."

“Where’s the rest of it?” I asked.

“Oh, you’re going to look very nice in this. You’ll make a lot of tips.”

“I can’t walk through a crowded bar wearing this. All that skin showing is an invitation to the drunks to touch me.”

“You’ll be fine. That’s what bouncers are for.”

“Can’t I just wear my regular shirt?”

“Just try it. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to wear it again.”

So I tried it. Begrudgingly.

It used to be a pretty classy place, but I could see that it was going to go downhill pretty quickly under his reign. Alex had advertised a wet t-shirt contest. The place was a mob scene.

Just as I had expected, as I worked my way through the crowd taking drink orders, I often felt a hand across my back. And guys put their hands on my back while they were talking to me. I was constantly being touched, and it was freaking me out.

Then, while taking orders up near the stage, amongst the patrons who were shouting “Skin to win!” to the contest participants, a hand grabbed hold of my cheek. No, not the one on my face.

I didn’t even see who it was. I just seized the hand and lead it out of the crowd, through the tables, over to the other end of the bar near the stairs. I gave the hand to Colin, our 6’7” bouncer.

“I found this where it doesn’t belong. Please throw this idiot out.”

Then I marched into the back room, absolutely fuming, and starting cashing out my tip jar. I was going home.

Alex came rushing in moments later to try to smooth things over. I think my enraged expression, no doubt reminiscent of the Exorcist, told him everything he needed to know. He kept a safe distance.

Or so he thought.

“Okay, I know, you don’t have to wear the shirt anymore…”

“I told you I didn’t want to wear this thing!”

“But you look so nice!”

A cocktail tray makes an excellent Frisbee. If one is adept in the handling of a Frisbee, one can fire a cocktail tray at someone’s head with deadly precision and accuracy.

Unfortunately, some people have outstanding reflexes. Alex ducked out of the way in time, and the tray crashed into the rack of pots behind him.

“I’m going home,” I said. He didn’t argue.

I was back at work the following night, wearing the old tuxedo shirt. So were all the other girls.



Needless to say, I’ve already started a college fund for Mandy.

Accidental Junk

Okay, how shall I explain this… When you want to see it, it looks amazing! Like Excaliber! Full of power and strength, not to mention the glistening promise of coital bliss to come.

But when you don’t want to see it, or it catches you unawares, dear God! It looks like a big ol’ mess. A big ol’ scary, ugly mess. Sometimes it even looks quite frightening, especially if the area in question is not well-groomed.

Let me give you an example.

I’m in college. My housemate Tracy and I are on our way back from the park, where we’ve spent the afternoon playing Frisbee. Naturally, the Frisbee is just the bait. What we really want is for the cute boys to come over and ask if they can join in.

And if they don’t make the first move, well, they might find a Frisbee on their laps, or in the middle of their baseball game, or in the spokes of their mountain bikes (hopefully causing only minimal injuries). All completely unintentional, of course. Yes, the Frisbee is our ticket to Cute Boy Conversation, and we’ve mastered its potent use.

There’s no shame in our game.

Not that the boys don’t have their own little games. Of course they do. That’s why they all go out and get puppies and tie little red bandanas around their necks and parade them through the park. Oh believe me, this works like a charm. Gets me every time.

So our shameless flirting session is over. Phone numbers have been exchanged. We throw one last giggle and toss our hair, and we’re on our way back from the park.

Two blocks away from our apartment, there’s a man (we’ll call him Dick) sitting on the stoop in front of his house. For those of you not from New York, stoop is a regional term meaning “a small porch, platform, or staircase leading to the entrance of a house or building” (thanks thefreedictionary.com). Not to be confused with schtup.

So basically, Dick is sitting on his front steps in his yellow 70’s shorts with white piping and a stained Home Depot t-shirt.

But this was really more of a stoop. There are nuances.

Anyway, Dick is holding up a baby boy who’s about 9 months old (we’ll call him Baby). Baby is unsteadily standing there in his little diapey and t-shirt (it was a hot day), facing the sidewalk. Dick is holding onto Baby’s torso as Baby bounces around and flaps his arms, squealing at the passing cars.

Baby is adorable, so Tracy and I stop to say hello.

Both Baby and Dick are quite receptive to our little visit. They both have big smiles on their faces. Baby is flapping his arms quite wildly now as we coo at him and tickle his little belly.

“Hi Baby! Hi Baby! Aren’t you a little cutie pie? Yes you are! Yes you are!”

Suddenly and without notice, I straighten up and begin marching hastily toward the apartment. I’ve got to get as much distance between me and The Situation as I possibly can before any sound escapes my lips. If anything audible were to let loose, it might sound like a cross between a wounded buffalo and a yelping dog.

I’ve got to be quick. I can’t hold it back much longer.

I’ve left Tracy behind, abandoned and completely ignorant of what lies just behind Baby, not 3 inches from Tracy’s cooing, open mouth.

It’s… it’s…

It’s Dick.

Unauthorized Dick.

Not quite sure if it’s actual frank or just beans. But there’s a big ol’ mess hanging out the side of Dick’s little yellow short-shorts.

“Hi Baby! Hi Good Boy! Who’s a good little boy today? Who’s a…”

The cooing stops abruptly. I hear the footsteps gaining on me.

And now that Tracy has caught up to me, we are running. Running and screaming like two scaredy-cat girls being pursued across the playground by a dreadful boy holding a big, ugly worm.

Actually, it’s almost exactly like that.

We do not stop running until we are safe inside our apartment, doors locked.

“Ewwwwww! Ewy-ewy-ewy-ewy!”

But now I wonder, was this just an honest slip?

Or did Dick know he was hanging out of his shorts? Imagine that. I bet he was using Baby to lure the girls in to see his naughty bits and pieces. A shock and awe campaign like no other.

Pretty ballsy, too.

The Worst Thing I've Ever Done

Okay, we all do stupid things in our lives. Especially in our relationships. I’m sure everyone can look back on some wrong committed in a relationship and shudder. And then you file it in the back of your brain and leave it there, hoping it will get lost and fade away.

Well screw it. I’m pulling out my shameful file and posting it. Let me tell you about the worst thing I’ve ever done…

It was a relationship I had during college with a guy named Chris, who would eventually become one of my stalkers. But that’s another story.

Chris and I are dating for a few months, and we become attached pretty quickly. Scarily, obsessively attached. Well, he is anyway. I’m just enthusiastic because he’s a nice dresser and he knows how to dance.

We are having a little spat. I can’t recall what it’s about. All I know is that it starts to become irrational. There is no sense in continuing an argument with an irrational person. You just have to walk away and resume the discussion when both parties are calm and in a better frame of mind.

That’s my way of thinking anyway.

So I declare, “That’s it. I’m going home. I’ll call you later.”

Chris subscribes to a different approach, called Never Leave Until It’s Settled.

So he says, “Oh no you don’t! You’re not going anywhere until we work this out!”

“Uh, this isn’t going to be worked out right now, because you are a crazed lunatic and I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not!” he says.

“Yes I am!” I am grabbing my purse and heading out of his bedroom.

He leaps from the couch and positions himself in the doorframe like Vitruvian Man. This is supposed to block my exit. I duck under his arm and head for the stairs. Again, he dives in front of me and tries to block my escape. Again, I duck under his arm.

I run up the stairs like a gazelle being pursued across the veldt. He is chasing me, yelling, “No! You can’t leave! We have to work this out!”

But by now I’m out the front door and in my car. I’m locking the door and rolling up the window as fast as I can. And then immediately doing the same on the other side of the car as he tries desperately to get in.

“Open the door!”

“No!”

“You can’t leave!”

“I have to get the hell away from you!”

Now he’s standing in front of my orange Vega hatchback. He’s blocking the driveway. I start the car.

“I’m not moving. You have to stay and finish this.”

“I’m already finished with this.”

“I’m not letting you go.”

I shift the car into drive and I slowly roll up to where he is. I’m not even applying the gas; I’ve merely removed my foot from the brake and I’m rolling.

He adjusts his stance as he attempts the Herculean feat of holding back my car. I continue rolling forward.

“Get out of my way.”

“No! I’m not letting you go!”

He is backing up as he tries to halt the car. I can see the veins popping out of his head as he strains to keep me from moving. I do not stop.

Since the driveway is a steep hill, I have to gently apply the gas to continue. It is taking every ounce of patience in my body not to mow him down. I think I hate him.

He is shuffling backwards faster now as I begin to accelerate, but he’s still attempting to keep me there through the sheer force of his manly power. Finally, he gives up and does the only thing he can do.

He jumps up on my hood.

“Get off!”

“No!”

“Well I’m not stopping!”

I continue driving up the hill to the road. It’s about 11:30 at night now, and there’s no traffic on Jean Drive.

Good thing, because now I’m driving down this winding back road with a man on the hood of my car.

I decide to stop and give him one more chance. I feel that I am dangerously close to blowing an O ring if I can’t get the hell away from this idiot.

“Chris, listen to me. Get off of my car. I hate you and I’m going home.”

“No! You have to stay and talk to me!”

“Get off!”

“NO!”

I floor it. He is gripping onto the hood for dear life. I’ve seen spiders do this quite well, little bodies blowing in the ever-increasing wind as little spider feet (do spiders have feet?) stay firmly planted on the windshield. But I've never had the pleasure of seeing this act performed by a dumb-ass soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend.

I feel like I’m going to go insane if I can’t get away from deranged human being.

I’ve got the car up to about 40 mph now. And I do the only thing I can do: I slam on the brakes. This sends him careening onto the roadway. But Spiderman doesn't even need a stunt-double. He executes perfect tuck-and-roll form!

Then he grabs his leg and starts writhing in pain. “Help me! Help me! I think it’s broken!”

I know he’s faking. I drive around him and go home.

I know I probably sound like a callous bitch at this point, but hold tight. That’s not even the end of the story.

I live across town. 45 minutes later, the doorbell rings. I turn on the light to see who’s out there. It’s Chris.

“Hon, I ran all the way over here. We have to talk.”

“We are not talking tonight. Leave or I will call the police.”

“Can you at least give me a ride home?”

Yeah right. All that work to get away from him, and he wants me to drive him back home. Not a chance.

“Go away.”

I turn off the light and go to bed.

NOW maybe I’m a callous bitch.

He’s probably still in love with me.

The Man at the Shortline Bus Terminal

The silence and emptiness were unbearable. It was my first semester at school, and I was scheduled for one of the last final exams of the year, just 3 days before Christmas. My roommates, and most of the students in my dorm, had left over a week ago.

I was out of money except for half a roll of laundry quarters, so I spent 8 miserable days living on 50-cent vending machine brownies because they were the cheapest things I could buy. I was so incredibly lonely and homesick, with nothing to do but study Calculus and eat brownies in eerily quiet solitary confinement.

After I had finally taken my test, I dashed across campus to my room and franticly crammed everything into my duffle - Champion sweatshirts and jeans and boots – with the urgency of a fleeing criminal. I phoned the cab that would transport me from hell to the bus station. I couldn’t wait to be home.

But luck was not on my side… the cab was late, I missed the bus, and I had to wait for 3 ½ hours in the terminal for the next one.

The place was deserted - the entire town was deserted. And I was on the verge of tears, stranded in a vast sea of empty chairs.

I noticed him from across the rows of fallow seats and I was sure that he was headed straight for me - this old man, plodding slowly but deliberately in my direction. Why were people always so drawn to me? Why did old men and little girls and everyone in between always seek out my company and compassionate ear? It has happened all my life. I think sometimes my openness is a yellow banner, waving merrily for all to see.

But there’s no welcome mat laid out before me now, I thought, with my narrowed eyes and my miserable grimace.

And here he was, on his way to disturb my angry little cocoon. Oh, I was in a wretched mood. He had the nerve to ask me if anyone was sitting here, motioning to where my heavy duffle was perched beside me. The place was barren. There were hundreds of seats to choose from. But I got up and dragged my bag to the floor and slumped back down, not saying a word.

The old man, with his scraggly beard and dirty clothes, smelling like coffee and cigarettes, was undeterred. He sat down and started to talk to me.

With a toothless smile he told me about his 88th birthday, 10 months prior, when he decided that he hadn't seen enough of the country and yearned to do so before he died. So he sold his things, boarded a Shortline bus in his hometown of Phoenix, and started out on what would probably be the last great adventure of his life.

He was on his way to New York City, a place he had heard so much about but had never seen. He had run out of money a few states back, so he worked odd jobs to make the money to get to the next place on his list. Boyish excitement dancing in his old gray eyes, he told me stories of the places he had seen. I just had to know what kind of odd jobs an 88 year old would be hired for. I listened for hours.

We talked the whole three hours in the terminal, and we sat together on the bus and talked for two and a half more until I reached my stop. I wished I had some money to give him, but I did have a few spare 50-cent brownies from the vending machine. And he was so grateful to have them.

Turtlenecks

Turtlenecks. Oh, how I hate them!

I’ve never liked them. I feel so claustrophobic in them, like I’m being strangled. I get all hot and sweaty and nauseous. And who the hell wants to look like a turtle?

When I was in nursery school, I had to stay home for a week while I was getting over the measles. Soon afterwards my school was going on a trip, and we were going to take the train to get there. I don’t recall anything about the trip. The only thing I remember was that my mother said I had to wear a turtleneck that day.

I was already dressed for school, but she sent me back to my room to change into one of these torture devices. My dear mother said I couldn’t go on the trip unless I wore it. She had me under the impression that the turtleneck would prevent me from spreading my highly contagious disease to the other children. In retrospect, I wonder if I was really over the measles at all? Maybe she just didn’t want to miss the trip. She was the chaperone, after all.

I finally went to my room, to the bottom draw of the dresser (the one that always stuck and was hard to pull out), and there they were: two pristine (read: never worn) white turtlenecks. One had delicate little yellow flowers on it, and the other had precious little pink hearts. I hated them both. I cried on the train.

I loved the 80’s. We all stretched out the collars of our oversized sweatshirts or cut them right the heck off, a la Flashdance. I stretched all my t-shirts out too. Nothing touched my tender neck. Life was good.

In college I even broke up with a very handsome boy named Benjamin because of my neck phobia. He was a good kisser. Killer blue eyes too. I was in love. We were in my dorm room, lying on my bed, talking and chatting and getting to know each other. We both liked the new song by Janet Jackson - he would say “Miss you much” when we hung up the phone. He was hot.

He said he couldn’t have anything touch under his chin. “Really? Omigod! I can’t have anything touch right here, at the base of my neck. Freaks me out.”

“Like this?” And my big, handsome, square-jawed boyfriend, he pokes the VERY SPOT, with his great big pointer finger (yes, big hands too). When I regained consciousness, I told him to get the fuck out.

Fast forward a good decade later, when I was riding in the truck with my dad. We’re discussing crappy Christmas gifts, like ugly sweaters and such. I told him I hate those socks that have individual compartments for each toe. They make my feet itchy and clammy. Freak me out. “And turtlenecks,” I say. “Turtlenecks with candy canes on them and stuff like that. A turtleneck is horrid enough without putting stupid stuff all over it.”

“Uck,” he chimes in. “I can’t stand turtlenecks. I can’t have anything touching my neck.”

So apparently this shit’s hereditary. Don’t worry, I’ll never make my daughter wear one, even if she gets the measles.