Random Thoughts #1: Cuff

Last night I lay spread-eagled across my king-size bed.  We all toss in our sleep, I think, but a single person in a king-size bed defines the art of tossing.  I cuffed my body pillow under my leg, remembering the cuffing under a man.  I've come to see that in my 30s one of two things can be expected.  Either things happen or they don't.  People get married.  People have kids.  Careers take off.  That flashlight flicks on in your brain and realize that your old ways just don't suffice anymore.  You're wiser.  And for single women with no kids, that clock starts to tick. You want someone to cuff in slumber.  But, how laboring it is to find someone at this age?!  You're burned out on the club scene.  Plus, you've been told that a man at the club isn't the man you want.  You find yourself planted in front of the television knowing damn well that the man of your dreams isn't going to just walk through your door.  You consider online dating but after the man with the glass eye, the stalker and the pathological liar, you reconsider.  So you just pray and wait.  But, for now, here you are, tossing in your bed, cuffing that body pillow waiting for a warm body to cuff or, better yet, spoon.

Woman Lover

        Jordan texted to invite me to dinner.  She wanted to patch up what she’d ruined. But as I closed my eyes, I imagined a rocket blasting off—smoke gushing from its tail.  When the rocket disappeared, I watched the formation of the smoke.  It spelled you’re a woman lover.  I pressed the pillow over my head, attempting to squash the thoughts out of my mind.  You’re a woman lover.

            My grandmother asked me that.  Instead of a hey-baby-how-are-you, I got a hey-baby-you-a-woman-lover? Those words clamped down on my secrecy like forceps, piercing it wide open.  I despise rainbows because they follow rain.  I didn’t vote to legalize same-sex marriages because I didn’t care.  I just liked a girl. 

            I chalked it up as a phase. But, if a phase is revealed to the world it becomes a reality.  Jordan shaped that reality. During small talk, my grandmother asked her.  Jordan just blurted it out.  Painlessly.  Matter-of-factly.  After the ritualistic question my grandmother always asked me—baby, you got a boyfriend yet? She asked her. So, Jordan told.   Just used up all of her loyalty like the dried up wax of a burnt candle—and told her.

            Jordan perplexes me. Drives me into a dark room, lit by flashlights. We shadow-puppetted.  We wound our hands up in acrobatic shapes, giggling at the shadow moths we created.  Then, we interlaced our fingers to create an insanely, gigantic butterfly.  We flicked on the lights and flicked off the flashlights.  We practiced spiders and lizards and rabbit puppets.  We played house.  She the husband and I the wife.  We kissed like little bunnies.  Messy.  Experimental.  We were kids then. 

            Nobody knew about my secret but Jordan.  She cooked turkey necks and rice on the day I told her.  She slid a saucer across the table, inviting me to have some—when I told her.  She offered me a glass of cognac on the rocks when she studied the creases on my forehead.  I have a girlfriend, I said.  She’s cool—you should meet her.  No confusion.  No questions. No repulsion.   As long as you’re happy—she told me.

           

            I slipped on my black spaghetti-strapped dress and texted her yes.

Skunk Frisbee

            I hurled the skunk in the air and watched Fritz leap. Over the coffee table. Scooping the skunk up with his nose and gripping it in his mouth. The skunk squeaked. It had six squeaks when I bought it. Now—only four because he’d maneuvered two out. I bought the toy skunk with no stuffing for a reason.  In a matter of minutes, stuffed toys would transform my living room into clouds. I’d find myself on all fours, crawling around to pick it up while Fritz hopped on my back, pushing me, face first, into stuffing, claiming his authority since I’d stooped to his level. But not today. Today, I initiated a game of Skunk Frisbee.

            I tossed the skunk in the air and observed Fritz. He lost sight of the skunk and pranced in circles, searching. He found it in the corner and ran at full speed, bouncing off the corner of the couch, clinching it in his teeth. When I reached for it, he pulled away. A game of come-and-get-it. I leaned over, yanked it from his clinch and started the Skunk Frisbee all over.

            I pitched the skunk in the air, as Fritz snatched it up and ran back to me. I got a good grip on it, tugging. I tugged once and Fritz jerked his head from side-to-side. I tugged twice and he pushed his claws into my wrist. I lost my grip. He ran away at full speed through the house, hiding the skunk in the corner, barking that intruder bark. He growled to teach me a lesson and retrieved the skunk from the corner.

            When Fritz approached, I snatched the skunk and pretended to sling it in the air, tucking it behind my back. But, he caught on to my trick and dug his teeth into my arm. My shrieks scared him away. I motioned for him to come back. Then, snatched his paw and dug my teeth into it. He yelped and hid under the coffee table.

            Commercials flashed on the television. One, in particular, about animal brutality. I raked my eyes at Fritz, still whining—eyes hung low to the floor. Remembering when I’d eaten a hamburger after

The Boy Who Cried Ailment

            Google obliterated Stewart.  His work stacked on his desk, untouched, while he surfed a search engine, packed with answers and remedies and explanations. So, they told him that they no longer required his services and he left. 

            Stewart blamed the economy for the job market, entertaining his boredom with ailments.  When he awoke from awkwardly-positioned slumber, he convinced himself that his leg pain resulted from prolonged sitting in front of his computer.  Per Google, it’s a case of deep venous thrombosis and, if ignored, the blood clot would spread throughout his body, poisoning his system and killing him instantly.  He informed his roommate, Dave, about his upcoming demise.  Dave asked if he was kidding.

           

            The next day, while he and Dave puffed on a joint, Stewart noticed a cluster of tiny moles on his arm.  He retreated to the computer and checked with Google. It was Melanoma—the only explanation for nodding on the lawn chair in the 90-degree sun.  The computer screen sectioned off into dots—then, faded away.  Craig awoke to a paramedic hovering over his face, calling his name.  Dave’s voice echoed a dude-is-he-okay? in the background.  After testing his vitals, the paramedics deemed him healthy and left.  Dave asked if he was insane.

           

            The following day, Craig searched Google for remedies.  To get rid of the deep venous thrombosis and melanoma, so treacherous, so microscopic, that nobody could detect it.  Google directed him to a holistic healing camp called Blue Deer in New York—where he’d learn that the medicine of old culture could exert a powerful effect.  So, he packed his bags and left.

           

            Craig arrived back home 3 weeks later, refreshed, reinvigorated, full of life—convinced that he’d healed himself of his deadly ailments.   As he unpacked his bags, Dave joked about his camp, calling him Amish.   Craig dismissed his insult and went back to unpacking.  His arm tingled.  Chest pressure forced him to the floor.  Dave ran back into the room, finding Craig crouched down, holding his chest.  He shook his head and walked back into the living room.  When Dave didn’t hear him get back up, he decided to contact the paramedics.

           

            Craig lay in the hospital, attached to heart monitors.  His mother flew into town after hearing about the heart attack.  He told her that he’d been proactive about his health.  He wondered why Dave didn’t believe him and she simply told him that nobody believes a liar—even when he is telling the truth.

Untitled- Character Sketches

     Mary Ellen tugged at her shirt, perfectly aligning the bottom with her waistline and the waistline with pant line, carefully placing her necklace perpendicular to her belt.  She gazed at her mirror, laid precisely parallel to her face, checking the makeup she’d taken 30 minutes each morning to apply.  Always.  Foundation below the eyes.  Right cheek.  Left cheek.  Pale pink lipstick.  Blot it twice.  She frowned at her pale skin, a result of unsuccessful tanning, and noticed the crow’s feet that beamed from her eyes like sun rays in suffocating heat.  Her age showed.  And as much as she resisted her employer’s daily selection of danishes and scones and donuts and bagels---and jogged on treadmills until her vision exposed dot pixels, she couldn’t escape that fact that she was 40.  An astute 40 though.  With habits of uncontrollable slumber at 8pm daily.  Hurried like the Alice In Wonderland rabbit in times of punctuality. Everything always in order.  And precise.  And able to breath easily when things flowed just so.  And just like her parents who’d instilled in her essential advice during her adolescence.  “Stand up straight—2^nd place isn’t winning—If they’re not in our class, they aren’t worth your respect.”

    I watched Mary Ellen as her fidgeting became my fidget.  A bundle of nerves if you asked me.  A case of undiagnosed bipolarity.  *Being overwhelmed caused emotional panic.  Tears flowed like streams that ran into rivers into waves into tsunamis.  Her voice octave raised like a lucky poker hand.  I would count down 5-4-3-2-1 in anticipation of her childlike outbursts, tucking in my uneasy giggles.  She amused me.  Always, the same outfit every week as though the labels were marked as Monday, Tuesday and so forth.  Always hoarding information that she liked to dish out to colleagues who already knew the answers.  As though she was important.  I watched her once while we were locked in our suite.  A guy came in to ask directions.  No tie.  Just a t-shirt and jeans asking for innocent directions.  Her face shriveled to the bone as though her life had been sucked out of her.  “Well I never!  How did you get in anyway?”  He just walked away—no gun in sight.

Perfect Speciman

Elise inhaled the intoxicating scent of Aphrodisiac incense.  She tucked them into her clear plastic bag, counting 50 incense for $10.00.  Then, she tossed a few bottles of scented oils into her arm basket.  Aromas calmed her.  They nurtured her when she had no mate to fulfill the duty. 

            As she drew the nurturing into her nose, she imagined him.  He’d accept her past—even though she once confused love with intimacy.  He’d have 0 to 1 child because ‘baby mamas’ conflict with the connection—especially multiple ones.  He must have his own car because she refused to run a taxi service, better credit than she had, be sensitive enough to appreciate love stories but manly enough to put her in her place when needed. He must love the arts.  Admire a Monet and know who he was.  Know that Angelou coined the phenomenal woman.   Be faithful, obedient, god-fearing, supportive, open-minded, non-materialistic. 

            He had to make her laugh that tear-jerking laugh.  And never sleep on an unresolved argument. Recognize and utilize his gifts.  Have a desire to travel to foreign countries and speak their language,  jagged and broken, without being embarrassed.  Look past her morning breath and pillow lines when telling her how beautiful she is.  Hover above her at 6’0 or taller so that she’d have to tippytoe her affection.  Put her first—above his mother or his friends or video games.  Aspire for success and push toward it.  Be a looker that liked to look at her. 

            No exceptions.  No compromises. She pulled a 20 dollar bill from her wallet, paying for her momentary nurturing.  It would appease her until he arrived.  And if he never did, she’d forever intoxicate herself with the possibilities.

Untitled

Noel could still see the bright flicker of light outside of her closed eyelids.   She rolled over, pushing her body into the hidden crevice of the couch.  Just as she’d pulled the plush comforter above her head and nestled in the perfect position, the phone rattled.  Noel jerked out of comfort, yanking the covers to her waist.  Her cell lit up with Keith’s name, beating to his designated ringtone, Whitney Houston—I Will Always Love You.  She twirled her feet around to the floor and sat upright, running her fingers through her hair.  Any conversation with him, whether verbal or in-person, required her to look her best.

            Hoarsely, she answered. “H-hello?”

            “Hey you...”

            “Hey.”

            “You sleep?”

            “No, I was just nodding off.  What’s up?”

            “Can I see you?”

            “When?”

            “Now.”

            “I don’t know, Keith.  I have to be at the salon at 8am tomorrow.  I have an early appointment coming in.”

            “Suit yourself.”  He began to press end on his phone.

            “Hey WAIT!”

            “Yeah.”

            “I’ll be ready in 15 minutes.”

            Noel recalled the final warning that the salon owner had given her.  One more tardy meant forfeiture her job. But Keith was an exception.  She’d waited on him to call for 3 weeks and, now that he had, she wouldn’t pass on the opportunity.

            He arrived with alcohol in hand and they, promptly, toasted to their reconnection.  To life.  To prosperity. To whatever warranted another drink.

            She heard the vibration of a plane, so close, as though it prepared to land on her roof.  Airport only 2 miles away from her home.  She lifted her head from the couch, head beating, studying the two shot glasses—one cloudy with leftover lip gloss and the other cloudy with large fingerprints.  She pressed her cell phone and read.  10am.