"Sweet Dreams" -- Eurythmics

So I’ve been thinking of Halloween. This year I bought the girls outfits, but made something for myself. When recalling childhood Halloweens I remember that I was always a clown. Not like once, twice, three times. Always. So much so that Mom made me this outfit with this material that was supposed to look clownish but what looked like polka dots all over, upon closer inspection were actually tiny blue circles with red and white sailboats.  Anyway, it had these folded cuffs with yellow triangle embellishments. I wore it all the time. We had a poofy rainbow wig at one time, and sometimes I would wear Dad’s shoes. It was always a good time. And then there was the candy.

Last year I made Snow White outfits for the older girls, and Amy contributed a skunk costume for Arabella.

And still there’s the candy. For me it means waking up to the crinkling sound of candy wrappers. Way too early in the morning for candy.

Dad says it’s not unheard of to “throw that shit away.” Right. Seems like such a waste, though. He remembered finding it stashed under our beds and throwing it away.

And here we were prowling the endcaps in Target for clearance items when we stumble upon the left over Halloween candy. And people are like swarming over all this candy. Everywhere I looked carts rolled by with five or so bags of candy.

Halloween is fun and everything, but maybe we should tone down the candy.

I can’t believe I just wrote that.

Candy’s good. In a Blizzard.

That’s all I’ve got to say about that, now. 

"Can't Stop" -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

As people of intelligence, do we not have the ethical obligation to intercede when viewing impending disaster? Perhaps, rather than a question of morals, then, we should consider it a question of etiquette.

For example, just today, in a discussion with talk2jme, it was revealed, as a humorous story that advice given to one of his friends concerning marriage was immediately taken. Knowing the friend, and a certain depth of common sense which he lacked, I was appalled at the possibility of him expediting such advice so quickly. Who had given him this advice? Shouldn’t they feel a little responsible for giving such advice if the events that have transpired since unravel in quite an unpleasant way? Or perhaps they intend to take credit for having inspired an agreeable match to take the next step in life together? What is the intention of the advisor and advisee in this conversation?

I think I shall stop giving advice. It is often requested, but hardly ever taken. Instead, I think I shall turn to Emily Post. I have always had an interest in etiquette and took the opportunity given me in the required public speaking course for undergraduates to instruct my class in etiquette. I gave a short presentation regarding everyday faux pas as well as explanations of lesser-known faux pas regarded by the different cultures within our global community.

Sounds like an exciting presentation, right? Well, I tried to substitute the dry subject matter with attention-grabbing theatrics and interesting facts. ‘Theatrics!’ you say. Actually I just pretended to answer my phone at the beginning of the speech and commented how I wasn’t busy, not at all. That’s the extent of my theatrics. I’m not sure how much of the information was absorbed by my classmates, but I gave it shot anyhow.

So now, I turn to you, my small yet faithful, audience, and ask: What would you do if asked for advice? Do you often give solicited advice only to be rebuffed? Do you often give unsolicited advice?

Maybe I can fix that. I think that I will entertain you with some Beth-style lessons in etiquette:

Etiquette on Advice: A Five Part Lesson

1: Never purposely, jokingly, give people bad advice assuming that they will have the intelligence to work through the other possibilities themselves. In doing so you may be giving people too much credit, and this could come back to bite you both in your asses.

2: Don’t give unsolicited advice. Just don’t. Stop yourself mid-sentence if you have to, turn and walk the other way, pretend to choke violently on something, or ‘accidentally’ spill something. Instant change-of-subject is necessary.

3: In the event that someone solicits your advice, don’t do it. Tell them that you will respect whatever decision that they make (if they are friends or family members), but firmly state that their decision must be their own. Refer back to lesson two, if necessary, to prevent further conversation on the subject.

4: Refrain from interfering in any conversations about advice. If you overhear someone giving bad advice, just try to ignore it. If you overhear someone about to execute a plan based on bad advice, say nothing. If you interfere, then you may be obligated to give your own opinion, which may point out how poor the decisions and advice are of those involved.

5. This one is most important: If you are in a predicament in which you must give advice just remember that the best advice is the vaguest. Advice should be like horoscopes, people just read into it what they want, coming to the decision by themselves.

Well, I said I wasn’t going to give advice anymore and here I am making a lesson on the subject. I just Can’t Stop. 

"Lyin' Eyes" -- Eagles

[otherwise titled Why I Hate Nathaniel Hawthorne]

Okay, well, maybe hate is too strong a word. I guess I don't hate Nathaniel Hawthorne. After all, I don't even know the dude. He's like totally dead. Has been for a while. Long enough so that his works have been revered and propagated throughout the world. I guess I don't exactly hate Nathaniel Hawthorne, but, rather, the fact that his works and their 'significance' have been shoved down our throats as students. Who's read The Scarlet Letter? Me. You. Your mom. Who's read Young Goodman Brown? Me. Maybe you. Possibly your mom. Who's read The House of Seven Gables? Okay, well, not me. I dropped that class like a hot freakin' potato. But that's not the point. The point is that Nathaniel Hawthorne's most propagated works, like The Scarlet Letter and Young Goodman Brown have bred the idea of symbolism. Now, now. Don't get your panties in a twist, I'm not completely dismissing the idea. But I am going to rail against it vehemently, so if you're going to get offended then stop reading now.

Why Symbolism Sucks My Ass


When I began writing my book, I nervously passed around copies of the first few chapters to my writing workshop classmates and teacher the first semester of grad school. During the class in which my text was reviewed and suggestions made, someone suggested that my use of light and dark in the descriptions within my story were great examples of symbolism.

I didn't know what to say. I try to refrain from cussing too much during class, so I took a moment to think of something other than, "Goddammit, Nathaniel Hawthorne!" to say.

"Well, I didn't intentionally try to use symbolism. Honestly, when I'm writing I just try to make it sound good. I try to get the images in my brain out onto the page," was what I said. What I wanted to say, besides the aforementioned denunciation, was, "I would never even think to do that kind of shit!"

So it got me to thinking. I'm pretty sure--and, mind you, this may be the direct result of forced-symbolism-learning practiced in our schools--that Nathaniel Hawthorne injected symbolism into every work that he produced. Light, dark, good, evil. Blah blah blah.

In freshmen English we read Lord of the Flies and were forced to explain the symbolism found within that book, and its significance. I made the teacher explain the 'symbolism' 'found' in several parts--repeatedly. I began thinking, then, before years of college and grad level theory, that maybe we were reading too much into this shit. Why can't stories just be stories? Why must we always be looking for the message within the message within the message? Why can't it just be simple? Why can't I just read The Scarlet Letter and not search for the symbolism found within the scene where Hester's daughter plays at the edge of the forest, within the shifting light and shade of the trees? Why can't I just read the damn book? Why do I have to pick it apart like a vulture on a carcass? And, for that matter, why the fuck can't the kids in Lord of the Flies just be fucking crazy and weird rather than opposing symbols of good and evil, hunter and hunted, weak and strong, et cetera? Why can't I just read things and take from them the things that mean something to me.

Well, I'll tell you why. Because if we all just did that, half the teachers in the country would be out of a job. We've gotta teach 'em something, even if it's bullshit. And before you start cluttering my comment box with threats and outraged messages, just think about this: why did Reverend Dimmesdale beat the shit out of himself for being the illegitimate father of Hester's daughter? 'Cause he's just like everybody else. Some people beat up on themselves on the inside. Some people pull their hair, some people pick their skin, some people cut themselves. We all have different ways of dealing with stress, depression, and guilt. If the story were happening today, we'd give him some anti-depressants and send him to a therapist. We'd encourage him to address his goddamn heart condition in a responsible medical manner. We'd tell Hester not to worry about her adultery, and let Pearl play with our kids.Most of us would, anyway.

But, then again, there are some of us who would claim moral superiority by quoting scripture and pointing fingers. So why all the symbols? Why pick it apart? Isn't the story good enough without dissecting it? What would Nathaniel Hawthorne say to all this? I don't really know. But I do know that reading too much into literature, art, music, personal interaction, messages, and the like will only result in confusion and irritation. But that's just me. Maybe you want to know all the symbols contained within these things. You go right ahead. But I'm going to sit over here and write my book sans symbolism and laugh at you when you try to dissect it. I'm going to finish my Master's Degree despite my terrible run-in with symbolism and theory, and when I cross that stage and flick my tassel over, I'll be thinking about how much I fucking hate Nathaniel Hawthorne.

{This one is for my sister, Hester, who doesn't give a fuck. Read it, britches!}

"Ode To My Family" -- The Cranberries

I waited nineteen years to be someone's boss. And what did that get me? The mother's curse, of course.

When we were young we used to beg Dad to listen to something other than NPR while we were in the car. He would tell us that when we were old enough to drive, and have our own cars, then we could listen to whatever the hell we wanted to. Oh how fun it was to tell Anna-Lee such! I even turned up Ellie Goulding to drown out her, "that's not fair"s. Addison tries to be sneaky sneaky about it. Tiptoeing over to the stereo to turn the volume dial down and down as I blast Red Hot Chili Peppers or Tool. It's also funny to put on Led Zeppelin and turn the volume up as loud as I can stand it. But not for the same reasons. When we were too young to understand the lyrics to The Lemon Song, Dad would be blasting the tall boys with Mom begging him to just turn it off.

"But, Mom, we like it!" we would say, staunchly defending Dad's choice of Saturday morning cleaning music.

Little did we realize that ten plus years later we would be blasting Brittany Spears and hoping that the kids wouldn't understand the lyrics.

I think we turned out awesome. Crank it up, Dad!

Sorry, Anna-Lee. One day you will be able to tell your kids that your Mom drove you bat-shit-crazy with weird music. So, when their tinny little voices can be heard in the music's pause, just laugh and say, "Now it's your turn."

"Minor Thing" -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

Okay, so funny story, and true, too:

As I was fishing a Kidney Crusher (otherwise known as Mountain Dew) out of a cooler on the front porch at my grandpa's house, some guy that I am faintly acquainted with spoke up.

"Where's your boss at?" I wasn't quite sure if the question was directed at me, since I don't have a job, per se, and gave the who me? response.

Smiling wickedly as I straightened and turned, "Um, my Mom's dead. I don't have a boss."

There were a few moments in which, if it had been a little later in the day, the crickets would have been chirping. The guy, we'll call him Pete, didn't know what to say. My dad and the neighbor didn't offer a response, either.

Pete tried again, "Well, where's your old man, then?"

I never really liked that term; I don't think it's a proper term for endearment.

"He's at his friend's house, with his son. They're playing guitar, I guess," I replied and made my exit, still chuckling to myself. 

I thought it was funny. My husband later told me that Pete was a softy, and had been upset when my mother, and then her father, had passed.

Oops. My bad. Sometimes I don't really know that I'm twisting the knife in the wound, there, Pete. Sometimes I don't even really understand that there is a wound. I guess I just don't understand that more than just me and my blood and our families were hurt by her demise. 

But, sometimes, mostly in reflection, I just don't care that I've shoved the knife deeper and twisted it, making the pain fresh all over again. 

Maybe I don't want you to be upset that my Mother is dead. 

Maybe I don't want to think of you as having any claim to this grief that is sucking us under. And by us I don't mean you. I mean me. I mean my father, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, and our children.

Sometimes I just wish that people like Pete would just not be pained by the death of MY MOTHER. I guess that's selfish of me.

It’s just a minor thing, that one broken branch of our family tree. On the outside you may see a whole shitload of other branches. But, really, that one branch was crucial to the beautiful, safe shade that the tree provides. Sometimes you want me to tell you that everything will be all right. Well, I could say that, but I would be lying. So, instead, I 

will just say: Everything will be all right, but nothing will ever be the same again.

"Save Yourself" -- Stabbing Westward

"...I am just as fucked as you..."

So I've been having these nightmares, which (just in case you were wondering) are a side effect of the new meds I'm on. Really, just the same old things. Last night something was on the bed with me and Arabella, stomping hard enough to wake me up. I kept trying to scream, "Jamie! Help!" because whatever it was was trying to get me. It was fucking weird. And I couldn't move or scream or anything. It was like I knew I had to move, knew I had to scream for help, but no sound would come out of my mouth, and my arms wouldn't do what I was telling them to do. I was so scared it woke me up.

After sitting on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, praying, in fact, to Jesus to cleanse and consecrate us (idk, but it made me feel better, sort of like combining the Power of Jesus and your basic cleansing spell!), I got up and wandered around the house checking on the girls.

Arabella, check. Addison, check. Anna-Lee... Anna-Lee! What the fuck! Whatever didn't get me got Anna-Lee! Oh. My. Fucking. God.

And, after a few panicked moments of tearing away covers and tossing about pillows like the madwoman I am, I began to search the house. She wasn't in my bed. Or in her bed. Or in Addison's bed, or on her sofa.

Alas, it was only a dream. I found her on the couch in the living room, her neck bent at this really uncomfortable angle on the recliner. So I picked her up and attempted to carry her to bed. But she's so heavy! I plopped her down on her feet and sent her off to bed, blinking and rubbing her tired eyes. I was relieved that it had only been a dream, after all.

That one was scary. But it wasn't as bad as the one I had at Dad's house over the Labor Day weekend. For some reason I always wake up, my heart clamoring to get out of my chest, my breath catching in my throat, choking on the screams that won't escape my lips inside those dreams. No, last night's wasn't so bad compared to that one. I dreamed that Jamie left me and I had to work at...wait for it...

Sears!

I am not joking. Though, in retrospect, it is fucking hilarious. My nightmare of all nightmares is that my Jamie will leave me and I will have to go back to work at Sears.

"At Last" -- Etta James

[This one’s for you, Laurell K. Hamilton]

Yesterday my husband came home to a sink full of dirty dishes and a basket of clean, but not-yet-folded laundry. It doesn’t sound like much, but on top of the disaster area that is our home, it was just too much. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I had been whining about being sick for two days and used that as my excuse for lying on the couch and reading all day.

“I’m trying to finish this book,” I told him when he asked.

“You mean you’re trying to finish reading that book instead of finishing writing your own?” he retorted, stuffing another dish in the already over-flowing dishwasher.

What could I say? I didn’t say anything. Sometimes you just have to know when not to say anything. I closed Skin Trade and set it aside. Those last ten or so pages would just have to wait. 

As soon as he was gone, tucked away into bed sound asleep, I tore through those last few pages and debated taking Bullet from its place on top of the ginormous television, out of the reach of sticky toddler fingers. But I didn’t. I sulked and edited my own book, printing endless sheets of paper to take to campus today. And as soon as my errands were finished this afternoon, I took down Bullet and began to read, promising myself just a few pages… 

"Believe" -- The Bravery

[I thought, briefly, about un-friending Mom today.


Seriously, Mom, you never chat with me anymore and your status updates are so boring!


No. What kind of person un-friends her own mother?

But it is seriously depressing to see her picture pop up in my friend list, or when I mention 'Mom.' 


Let's all try avoidance--turns out it's not the best way to deal with things. Change of subject then?


Come on, Beth! Don't write this shit on you blog! They will really think you're crazy then. 


No, I'm not crazy. My psychiatrist told me so.]



You want me to tell you a story, don't you? I knew it was coming. There would be that day when all you had to do was look at me, you didn't even have to ask, and the story would spill forth, stumbling upon my nervous lips and tugging at your heartstrings. If only it were that simple this time.

The day was cold. Maybe brisk is a better word. It doesn't matter, really. It was a shitty day. It started like all the rest, me pulling back the curtains to see the damp windowpane, feel the coldness of the glass. Like always, the radio was on, NPR news rambling on in the distant kitchen. But that day it mattered. I moved from the window, choosing a particularly soft sweater, pressing the cashmere to my cheek, turning the blue fabric to my nose as if searching for a scent. It smelled like me, me and my perfume, no one and nothing else. Odd how that one missing scent in your laundry makes this small sweater ritual so difficult.

Once out in the frigid air, I hurried to the car, only to find it caked with frost. I seemed to have forgotten my gloves. There was, nearly a month ago, a gloved scraper in the car. But one day it disappeared. I used an old flip-flop to scrape most of the frost from the windshield and climbed onto the cold leather of the front seat. Please please please start, I thought, turning the key in the ignition. The car started on the third try, and I glanced around to see if there was any traffic. It was early, so early that the sky was just beginning to lighten. I started to back out of the driveway and remembered the radio. I turned the knob as I backed out, increased the volume until I could hear the smooth baritone of the newscaster's voice.

"In today's world news, the shortage of water for the survivors in the latest earthquake--"

The sound of the radio was replaced with the sound of crushing metal and I was suddenly unsure of the world. In that very moment, I became acutely aware of my body and the car, that we were tumbling through the air, and that the airbag was going to smash into my face. I moved unbelievably fast, not even thinking about it, really, turning my face to the side and throwing my arms up simultaneously. It didn't matter. My impossibly fast reflexes protected my face, but the car was rolling and crushing itself against the road. The windshield exploded, showering me with pellets of glass fractions of a moment before something struck my head. And that was it. My eyes wouldn't see right for a moment, everything was red. The car had stopped moving, grinding to a stop on the pavement, leaving me with the last few moments of consciousness, blinded by the blood pouring over my eyes but hearing the scrub of metal and the shrill screams of someone too far away...

[Want more of this story? Or something else? Tune in next time to see what crazy shit I write!]

"Water's Edge" -- Seven Mary Three

Maria was finally asleep, her strawberry blond head settling on the pillows as cartoons played quietly on the television. Her small body was snuggled up with her favorite bear, doughy little limbs entangled with the furry arms of the stuffed animal.

Erin finished her make-up in the mirror, finishing her bronzed skin with a dusting of thick glitter. She pulled her fiery hair into a high ponytail and secured it with bobby pins until it formed a neat bun. Sliding false glasses onto her nose she eyed the new lingerie one more time before pulling on the white button-up and short black skirt. She had finally decided on the red lace knee-highs with black peep-toe stilettos. The deep red color of her hair was fine with color treatment and stringy with product, evoking the hint of blood at the roots. Grabbing two bags by the door, she went outside and loaded them into the car.

Maria barely woke when her mother picked her up, but the comfort of her mother’s arms and the rocking motion of being carried had lulled her back to sleep. She woke again, feeling an unfamiliar hardness underneath her back, she had the briefest glimpse of her mother. Her mother’s pretty face was a blank mask, and then it changed, ever so slightly. Maria’s mother reached out to touch her face and before she could move or think or struggle the hand clamped over her mouth and nose and then she could no longer see her mothers face, twisted with strain as she pressed her hand there.

Erin strode into the club’s back entrance, hearing the thump of Lacy’s last dance. At least she wasn’t late. Tossing her purse into her locker, she jogged quickly toward the stage entrance and waited for her own music to start. Checking her eyeliner once again, she slid through a gap in the curtain and began writhing across the stage, thrusting bust or pelvis at everyone seated at the bar. She liked to think she was a good dancer, and was hoping she’d get lots of tips, especially since she’d gotten new lingerie.

Maria woke again. She smelled the acrid smell of the car store and attempted to vanquish the smell of it with her hand. But it wouldn’t move. In fact, she wasn’t sure she had hands at all. It was then, in the dark confusion that she tried to scream for her mommy, only to find thick, stiff tape on her face. She began to panic, crying and screaming against the tape. Maria began to move, finding her numb arms once again, connected painfully behind her back and somehow connected to her feet. Struggling against the tape to scream made her face hurt, and she quickly lost the strength to scream and toss about and simply cried pitiful, helpless, quiet tears.

Erin’s first dance of the night complete, she exited the stage, blotting at her body with a fresh towel. Her smokes were by the table near the door, and she threw open the alley door and into the cooling night.

“Hey, darlin’,” came a voice in the dark.

“Back off, I’m packin’,” she replied, lifting the edge of her jacket to reveal the butt of her gun. Flicking the cigarette away, she flung the door open and darted through. The fake gun thing worked sometimes, sometimes not. Fuck. I forgot to check on Maria.

Opening the door again, she glanced around to see if the man was still lurking in the shadows. When she didn’t see anything she slipped back outside and trotted toward her car. Opening the trunk slowly, she saw the frightened eyes of her daughter.

“It’s okay honey, I’m sorry you woke up. Here, Mommy will help you go back to sleep,” and again she grasped Maria’s face with the damp rag. When Maria finally went limp, she shut the trunk and returned to work.

            Maria awoke once more, to the same dark place, the same acrid smell of the trunk. It was all that she could smell, and for some reason she began to have trouble drawing in a breath. It was as if her body was rejecting the wretched air. She clawed at the twisted tape that held her hands, to no avail. She wanted to scream. She wanted to call for her mother, and for a moment she tried to gather enough air to do that, but something happened. Something bad. Maria’s eyes closed, and the last puff of air from her lungs pressed against the tape covering her mouth before seeping back to escape her nostrils.

Erin clocked out and sat at the bar. Her outfit was a little more low-key; tiny white tee shirt and jeans. Her prominent breasts attracted the attention of the drunken man two seats down. Ignoring his slurring come-on, she ordered two whiskey shots. Throwing them back, she felt a surge of warmth and suddenly she wanted to dance again. Not on the stage, but in a hot crowd with the music so loud she wouldn’t be able to think.

There was little traffic on the way to the club. When she arrived, she ordered two more shots of whiskey and wove her way through the crowd and began to dance. After a while the whiskey wore off, and she needed a cigarette. Once outside the club she opened the trunk. Inside the limp and lifeless body of her daughter lay staring up at her. Erin slammed the trunk shut and quickly got into the car. She drove for hours, finally dumping the car in an empty lot, and caught a taxi to the bus station.

Erin got on the first departing bus and never looked back. Maria watched her mother ride away from her body, her journey toward the heavens momentarily paused. In that moment Maria knew that she would never see her mother again. 

***This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters, events, or places within this short story and any actual places, persons, or events is purely coincidental.***

"Old King" -- Neil Young

Dog for a Day

One morning this week Jamie woke me where I was snuggled up with Arabella.

"Are you gonna sleep all day?" he said when I looked up at him. I nodded my head thinking, yes, yes I am.


"C'mon please get up I've got something special for you to see."

After rubbing my eyes and yawning, I stumbled sleepily out onto the patio to see a beautiful blue-eyed husky being petted by the girls.

"It looks like someone lost a beautiful dog," I said.

"I've told the girls that it's not our dog, that someone's probably looking for her."

We spent the day with the dog, the girls chasing her all over the cul-de-sac, and her chasing them all around the yard. Addison used her own brush to comb away the winter coat it is shedding. Arabella, who hadn't been feeling well at all, was so happy to see the dog.

At first I was a little apprehensive about the dog, but as the day went on she followed me everywhere I went. I don't know if she knew I was sick with my kidney stones or what, maybe she just liked me, but I finally warmed up to the idea of letting her in the house. For most of the hot afternoon she lay in the kitchen floor while I cooked and cleaned.

Anna-Lee bounded inside to tell me that someone had just put up a Lost Dog sign on the corner. I gave her the phone and told her to go get the number. When the owners arrived to retrieve their beloved pet, she had been rolling around in the flooded patio (thanks, Addy) and was filthy. I felt terrible. Here I had let the dog get all dirty and fed her hot dogs because I thought she was starving (turns out they make for really stinky doggy farts!).

I told the owner how we had just fallen in love with their dog, I accepted the idea to dogsit for them anytime, and today they came around with Isoka for us to dogsit. We were overjoyed to have her for even a little while. The owners, who happened to be our neighbors, said we could come by and take her to play with us anytime. I never thought I wanted a pet until I met this dog. I'm happy that, even though she's not our dog, we have such a wonderful dog and its family in our lives!

Oh, by the way, rumor round the cul-de-sac today was that we stole their dog! Yeah, because I just go around stealing people's animals. What will people think when I keep her for a couple of days at a time? That I'm holding her hostage? Are they going to call the pet police? All I can say is that I love that dog enough to pick up its poop!

"Pushit" -- Tool

It was odd that she chose that time of day to leave. Outside the close cool walls of the apartment the afternoon air was thick and hot. Blaise glanced down and wished she had worn her sandals. She hated to go to the movies with sandals, the floor is always so sticky there, she thought, as she rolled down the windows.

It was almost a shame to break the quiet of the neighborhood, but she was ready to get to the mall, do some window shopping, then catch a movie with her friends. She turned up the volume on her stereo before she backed out of the parking space. Blaise flipped a hand through an unruly section of auburn hair and checked her mirrors. She waited for a dingy blue pick-up truck to pass by and then drove toward the Seventh Street entrance to the apartments, passing by a couple of thirsty-looking kids dragging their bikes toward home. Smiling  as she drove, she sung along with the music, trying to remember the name of that new movie. Crazy Schoolmarm, or something, she thought as she eased into traffic.

"Oh my god! I thought you'd never get here! I've been waiting for like ten minutes!" Sandy tapped the toe of one pump and slipped her cell phone back into her pocket.

"I had to wait until Mom got home. She just pulled a double," Blaise replied, lifting and dropping one shoulder in an elegant motion that accentuated the curtain of hair spilling down her back.

"Well, I already got your ticket, we're seeing Alley Fisticuffs 5: Bob's Revenge," Sandy dropped the slip of paperboard into her hand and walked into the mall, the doors shushing behind them in puff of warm air.

"It's not really Alley Fisticuffs, is it?" she queried, taking a deep breath of the cool air inside.

They headed toward the cinema, "No, it's some teeny bopper romance bullshit that Marnie insists that we watch 'cause she's into that ugly dude, Jeff Kayes, or whatever," Sandy's voice was a tiny bit bitchy under her outwardly happy tone.





[catch more of this story later...]

"This Is the Way" -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

Reviewing the scribbled script of my beloved white leather journal (thanks, www.lovetojournal.com, and Jamie, of course) I found this little tibit:

In reference to this quote, "I would rather walk with God in the dark than go alone in the light":

"What kind of god would hide in the dark? Hmmm..."
[found in Google search: demopedia.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=view_all&address=263x42176#42182]

Well, random person who asked this question, which do you prefer? Light or dark. Is there a semi-light space (otherwise called grey) in which one can travel with others? Oh wait, that's called life. Nevermind.

So does God have a flashlight or what?

Just sayin...

"Till the World Ends" -- Britney Spears

Stardate: May 21, 2011

Captain’s Log

Today the world ends. Or at least according to some uber-religious guy who reads his Bible and buys billboard space to advertise the end of the world. I’m not convinced.

Today we have a journey ahead of us, and I’ve been up since 5 this morning. Well, I did have a little bit of a nap between 7 and 8. I just couldn’t sleep. You know, I went to the grocery yesterday and the worst part about the world ending today is that I bought all these groceries and now I won’t have a chance to eat them. We had planned on hitting Denny’s today, but I don’t know that I want my last meal to be cheese fries and weak coffee.

On the Early show they have been discussing this issue all morning. One of the stories was about capitalizing on the world ending…can you do that? Of course you can. Albrecht Durer did. He created the famous Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. But this guy isn’t exactly Durer. And Durer probably didn’t really believe the world would end. But, then again, you never know. This guy can spend millions on his end-of-the-world propaganda via his radio stations and billboards, but what’s going to happen when he’s wrong. After all, Albrecht Durer, and his peers, didn’t see the world end during their lifetimes. Kind of makes you wonder, huh?

So, if you’re a believer, I wouldn’t go out and spend all your money, flip off the cop who pulls you over for a minor traffic violation, or tempt fate frogger-style by darting out into traffic. The world might not end at 6 o’clock tonight, so don’t put all your eggs in one basket.

If you’re a skeptic and a cynical shit such as I, who laughs at the apocalypse, then join me. Join me as I laugh. (My husband tells me not to laugh “because you never know.” Well, if the world ends, I will at least have enjoyed a day out with my family) My skepticism knows no end. So is that 6 PM my time? Or is that Mountain time? And what about the people on the other side of the world? It won’t be six o’clock everywhere, so is it like a cascading sort of thing, like watching the wave in a stadium? “Well, George, it’s 6 central, guess we’ll have one more hour to contemplate the afterlife.”

Yes, I mock you, end-of-the-world believers. Pray for me, for I’m too busy listening to loud music and dancing ‘til the world ends. (Oh, and a special thanks to Britney Spears for creating my Apocalyptic Soundtrack!)

"I Would Die for You" -- Garbage

Once Mom, Amy and I had the best laugh of our lives. Or so I think...it's all just perception, I suppose. Anyway,  here I was, this naive young girl, reading aloud to them, and they were just rolling with laughter. I had no idea what the book was even talking about. There were tears streaming down their faces, and they just laughed so hard at every sentence that I read! Amazing that I had this power to induce such laughter! Alas, it is all in the book. The author kept saying, in the text, that he was impotent. But I did not fully understand this concept. As it was explained to me, by Mom and Amy, that it meant that you were no longer able to do something that you could once do. So they laughed at me reading this book with my best poker face. It was hard not to laugh, but the more I read, the more they laughed. It was fun. Mom was fun.  


I remember taking a walk with Mom, drinking peppermint schnapps and rum and cokes, weaving our way down the road. We strolled down the moonlit road with my favorite people in the world at my side, the chirping crickets pausing their songs as we went along, forming a hollow tunnel through the night noise which we filled with the laughter and jostling conversations of our own. 


Is it true? Was everything so perfect? I once had a Mother. It was cool because she taught me everything that I know. But, then again, I haven't finished learning.

We once threw a prom party at our house, and in the morning while Mom cooked everyone pancakes, the phone rang. It was ____'s Mom. She wanted to know if her son was there. He was a tall brown-headed boy with glasses. Mom went to the nearest boy matching that description and shook him roughly, telling him, "Wake up, your Mom is on the phone." 


In Mom's recollection, which was so amusing to hear, the boy just looked puzzled. He looked at her, looked at the phone, laid it down and went back to sleep. Or tried to anyway. Mom kept insisting that he talk to his Mother. 


Days later my sister and I were sitting at our friend's house and he tells us this story. Of course, being his friends, we knew that his Mother was dead. We were shocked, but thought that it was hilarious. He proceeded to tell us, in vivid comical detail, that our Mother had, unknowingly, insisted that he talk to his dead Mother on the phone, and that he kept refusing most politely until, finally she understood that this was not the son sought by the caller. At hearing this tale, we all shook with laughter until we cried, even he, who was trying to get a kick out of his dead Mother. 


But that was Mom, forever putting her foot in her mouth (that trait which she so graciously bestowed on me), and trying to have a laugh about it instead of fretting. Losing your Mother, or any parent, for that matter, changes you indelibly. You still see the way you saw before she died, you hear the way you did then, but there's this hole--somewhere you can never really identify-most of the time it's possible to ignore it, but it is lurking there, this empty feeling.

The emptiness, it is the space in my dreams, that swallows the joys of my life like a black hole. The black hole takes me through a wormhole, Darkoesque where I end in a place where my Mother exists. I know it cannot be, but I still dream. And when I dream, even if I cannot remember every little detail, I live in this place where life is different. Sometimes I can see her, sometimes I think that I can hear her speaking during the scenes of the dream. But it is forever fleeting, this contact. She's there somewhere beyond the body and I just cannot reach her.

In my dreams, different doesn't always mean good...

"Otherside" -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

Because Mother's Day is coming up this weekend, and my Mom is dead, I'm recycling a story that I wrote for my Creative Nonfiction class. Enjoy:

My Mother hardly ever wore lipstick. On my first day of Day Care she smeared on my favorite shade of Estee Lauder crimson—a gift from Dad, no doubt—and kissed a sticky note. “When you feel sad, just take this out and know that I love you and miss you so much,” she said, putting the note in my pocket, and hugging me tight. I didn’t want her to go, she didn’t really want to leave me, but she had to.

Mom and Dad worked out of the office in our house, and since I was the youngest, not yet old enough to go to school, Mom was my only playmate until three-thirty in the afternoon. After a few weeks without my siblings to play with, I made up a new game. I dragged my mother away from her paper work, out into the yard, and instructed her on the rules of my new game.

“I stand over here with the ball. When I throw it, you go get it and bring it back to me,” I told her. Hence the title, “run and go fetch it.” After a few days and a few rounds of our new game, she enrolled me at Day Care over in town. Although I know she loved me very much, I had become too much to handle while she tried to get her paper work done every day.

Armed with my lipstick-kissed note, I faced a new crowd. At daycare there were lots of other kids to play with, and although Mom wasn’t there I had fun—until nap time. In the darkened classroom, laying on the red and blue vinyl mat, the other children squirming and settling into quiet slumbers around me, I took my tissue out and pressed my lips to the dark outline of my Mother’s kiss.

Soon we had a routine. After Dad woke the other kids and got them off to school, he’d wake Mom up. Everyday Mom would come in and sing a song to wake me. Smiling she would sing in her sweet voice:

“Little bird with a yellow bill

  Hopped up on my window sill

  Cocked his tiny head and said

  You

  Are

  a Sleepyhead.

  Flapped his wings and away he flew

  Singing ‘You’ll be late for Day Care School!’”

One morning as we were combing our hair and brushing our teeth, we heard a chirp echo in the small tiled bathroom. Pulling back the shower curtain we found a tiny baby tree frog hopping around the bathtub. We decided to take him to day care for show and tell. Mom scooped him into a mason jar and screwed on the lid.

At day care school, after everyone had had a chance to press their little faces up against the glass to see the small green frog as my mother held the jar, we put on our coats and trotted single-file down the sidewalk. We freed the tiny frog in the neighbor’s tree-filled yard and turned to go back inside.

While we had been liberating the frog my mother had gotten into the car and was driving away. I saw the red taillights of the white Chevrolet as it turned the corner and disappeared. I felt in the pocket of my coat of my jacket for my note and wondered when she’d be back. 

"She Talks to Angels" -- The Black Crows & "Not for You" -- Pearl Jam

The moon is waxing once again, and everything is going wrong. The day is creeping closer, looming in a clichéd sort of way, just on the undercurrent of every thought and motion. Addison got the photo book, the photo book, and looked at the pictures.

Pointing to one she said, "Who's that?"

"That's you and GG, when you were a little bitty baby," I told her. Sometimes I think she's mad at me because I'm not Mom.

Now that I think about it, I should have titled this differently. Let's just try this again.

"Not for You" -- Pearl Jam

So, going back to a...shared theory, it is rather unfortunate that I see, when free-associating the word 'heaven,'  puffy clouds and Adam Sandler. Who knew that my mental image of heaven would forever be tinged by watching Happy Gilmore repeatedly?

Sometimes I dream of going to the mall in Cincinnati. Only this isn't your average everyday trip. Sometimes I'm driving to Florida, via Cincinnati, and end up at this crazy mall, exposition, old amphitheater place that is just weird. And always I am alone. I shouldn't be alone. I'm never alone now, so why am I alone? There are other people, sometimes, but they don't have bodies--I cannot grasp a hand or feel the brush of clothing or even the swish of my own hair. It's unnerving. What if one could not feel? I wake, in the dead of night, and upon realizing that I am, indeed, still safe in my huge soft bed, I often drift back to sleep and into the eerily vivid world of my strange dreams.

I wonder if that is how it must feel to be a ghost? To exist without being able to touch anyone, interact with someone you can see? It is a sickening feeling, an emptiness, to hope that someone who is dead could still be here.

"Heaven Beside You" -- Alice In Chains

So there was discussion of having a death date party. No? You didn't think that was amusing? Hmm. Well, perhaps you would be interested in knowing that a certain day is approaching that marked the end of life as we all knew it. So, instead of getting super bummed out, I say we all get some popcorn, MGD, and watch Mama's Family. Oh wait. "Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion." Yeah, we could watch Steel Magnolias, Terms of Endearment, and then The Burbs. 


Okay, okay. I know that you want to hear me whine some more don't you? Oh. Well, fine. I didn't want to complain about my dead mother anymore either, thanks.

The Square Shoulder of a Man Named Butch

XI

Claire flicked on the television in the corner and grabbed a pitcher of orange juice. She was pouring juice in a tumbler when the news anchor introduced a live report.

            “Hello, Gina Flynne reporting from the Sherwood Nature Preserve five miles south of the city: a body has been found in the river, tangled in the driftwood and leaves. We have here, the nature observer who happened to spot the body in the river. Mr. Thornton, how did you happen to spot a body in the river?” the reporter leveled her microphone at a back-pack laden whose khakis and polo shirt were damp, his tennis shoes dirty. His tan skin gave the soft pallor of fear, a sickly white color under all that bronzed skin.

            “Well, I was just out here checking out what animals I could see for this class project. I’m doing a chart of all the different animals that I could see while walking about a three mile roundtrip hike. I began by spotting and identifying all manner of animals that live in this environment. On my way down, just about a half mile into the hike I spotted something in the water. I had seen some otters in the river earlier, so I walked closer to the bend in the river and I saw something. But it wasn’t moving, except lapping with the leaves in the current. The river’s been down a bit since there hasn’t been much rain, ‘cept that good shower we had last weekend. That was the first good rain we’ve had since August.”

            “Yes, Mr. Thornton I believe it was,” Gina the reporter turned to face the camera as it zoomed in on her, catching a section of flapping caution tape in the distance, “At this time authorities have not released any information other than that it was a body, and that it was found in the river…”

            Gina Flynne rambled on in corner of the kitchen, and Claire plopped down onto the loveseat in the breakfast nook, “I can’t believe this. What if that’s Roxanne? What if she got swept away in the flash flood?”

            Mark handed Claire a slice of buttered toast and sipped his own juice. Licking the orange pulp from his lips he said, “Then I guess you have one less case you have to worry about before you go off to your new job. And I have one less on the docket next month,” he said with a smile.

            “You are so terrible, that’s not funny,” She narrowed her eyes at him as he leaned over to kiss her, “I mean, she’s out there somewhere, who knows what might happen? That really could be her. In the river,” Claire’s eyes drifted away from him, un-focusing as they slid upward. Maybe she should call that guy, that private detective who’d found her friend’s runaway son. Her son was living in a homeless shelter five states over when he found him. A real knight in tweed armor, she thought of Margo’s tears trailing through her blush as she recounted the tale. She reached in her mind for a name, but Mark was repeating her own name, snapping attention back into focus on his face, and she could not remember.

            “You know, Claire, we can help people by keeping the law offenders off the streets and their kids in decent homes. What we do is important. But we can’t save everyone from everything. Even if we put in 110% every day, there always seems to be something else that could be done, something more,” he saw that she was drifting out of the conversation again.

“Listen, I forgot that I had this brunch meeting with Margo this morning, so I think I will skip the toast.” She shoved the toast back into his hand, downed the remainder of her juice and slid on her jacket. As she gathered her things, she tried to ignore Mark’s half-hearted objections.

            “Okay then, I guess I’ll just go play some golf. Call me when you get home from brunch,” he reached for her and he managed a quick peck on her cheek before she breezed by him and out the back door. Her footsteps down the stairs faded, and Mark wondered why she was so bothered by the runaway.  

[Unfortunately, this is the last serial post for this book, at this point in time. Perhaps more, or another, will be featured here in the near future. Thanks for reading, I hope that you enjoyed!*Laura Beth]

Toadies - "Happy Face"

You know you've been waiting for this....

The Square Shoulder of a Man Named Butch continues:

IX

“It’s been long enough,” said Mark Gabeheart, his brow furrowed in concentration as he looped and knotted his tie in front of the mirror.

            “Yes, I know, but I keep hoping she will show up here. It’s not like her to steal. She must have felt so desperate,” replied Claire, pulling the stiff tissue stuffing out of a new purse.

            “You should report this, cancel your credit cards. Do something,” and although he tried to sound gently concerned, anger laced his clipped words.

            “I’ve been thinking about it…she hasn’t used any of my cards, I checked all the balances just this morning. I just think that she will come here or call, or stop me in the garage again.” Claire frowned as she perched on the edge of the bed slipping her slender feet into strappy heels.

            “She probably just took the cash and threw the rest away, that’s what junkies do—“

            “She’s not a junkie. You know, you’re as much to blame for any of this as I am. She’s just a child who was torn from her home!”

            “Torn from her home! Listen, those people were growing pot plants in the shed in their back yard. They deserved to go to jail,” Mark was furious now.

            “You know who deserves to go to jail? Parents who have meth labs in their bathrooms, who unnecessarily expose their children to those chemicals; but the maximum sentence for both parents, on cultivation charges? No probation instead of jail time. That’s absurd. You could have given them a slap on the wrists, probation, drug screening. I’m sure that they were just trying to get by. Her mom had recently lost her job. There’s no way that they could make it on one income for long. This economy, it does things to people. Some people do things that they might not otherwise do, good or bad, just to get by,” Claire paced in front of her mirror, finally selecting a lipstick and mirror compact to put in her purse.

            “They broke the law. I set an example. Those who break the law, even if they haven’t ever done anything like that before, are responsible for the consequences. They should have considered where their daughter would end up before they decided to grow marijuana in their back yard!” Mark’s voice was swelling, the anger rising up his neck and spreading in red swatches up his cheeks.

            “I can’t have this conversation with you again, Mark, let’s just forget it. We both fucked up and now that girl is a runaway—,” Claire was pulling her overcoat on and picking up her purse.

            “We fucked up? I was just doing my job,” Mark checked his watch, “Listen we’re going to miss our reservation if we don’t get going,” he pulled on his own overcoat and followed her out toward the kitchen.

            “Whatever, Mark,” she said, resolved not to speak to him anymore, at least not until she’d had a couple of glasses of wine.

X

At home Carl was quite unsure what to do about the man in the trunk. He backed his car up to the back door, coming as close as he could to the concrete steps there. He went to the door, unlocked it, and hurried inside. From the little space he made between the blinds he looked at the neighbor’s houses. No one appeared to be out and about. He gathered some plastic bins from the basement storage closet and stuffed them with two old blankets. He went back out into the rain, sitting the open bins beside the trunk. He listened a moment before working the key in the lock, hearing only the rain and wind in the trees. Slowly he opened the trunk, only to see that the once-unconscious man was now obviously dead, blood spilling from his head and leaving a huge puddle on the otherwise clean upholstery.

He removed the blankets from the bins and threw them inside. He unlocked the doors and sat the bins in the back seat and walked back into the house. His mind was reeling. He had killed someone. Now what? He sat at the kitchen table, his soggy clothes dripping onto the linoleum floor. And put his head between his hands. He listened for a long time. The only noise besides his pounding heart was the rain. It was splattering through the trees and hitting the roof, a metal garbage can outside, and somewhere, a wind chime. He strained to hear an inner voice that was not there. His mother’s wisdom had left him. His mind flicked through every Forensic Files episode he had ever seen. He was thinking gruesome thoughts again.

After a while, he grew cold. He rose from the table and went into the bedroom. He changed out of his damp clothes, stuffing them into a plastic garbage bag. He washed his face in warm water in the bathroom. He put a clean pair of shoes in a grocery sack, slipped on his raincoat, and went back out into the rain. Thinking, once again, in the driver’s seat of the car, he opened the glove box and got out his spare pair of gloves, the cotton kind, some his mother had given him when she went through some of his father’s old things. He slipped them on, and drove out of the city, heading northwest toward the state park.

His headlights sliced through the rain and the gathering darkness as he turned onto a road that led down to the water. The road was long, winding its way to and fro along the river until it ended as a boat ramp slanting into the water. There was enough parking to accommodate several trucks with boat trailers, but the lot was empty. Carl turned away from the water toward the lot, and then reversed to stop a few feet from the edge of the rising river’s rain-dappled surface.  He removed the man from the trunk, arranging the blankets over the bloody spot. He removed the man’s clothes and rolled him into the water. The body disappeared below the churning surface for a few moments, but Carl turned away. He gathered the man’s clothes, briefcase, and cell phone pieces and stuffed them into one of the plastic bins and placed it in the trunk.

He pulled off the highway at a truck stop and had a cup of strong oily coffee. He pulled his car around the back of the restaurant as he was leaving and, after wiping it, and all its contents, obsessively with an old towel, he threw the plastic bin into the dumpster there. He sped away. Very late that night he put his soiled clothes, shoes, towel, and gloves into a garbage can down the street. He crawled into bed and quickly fell into the black hole of sleep. 

"Animal Bar" -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

Okay, so Dad wants more! Here ya go...

The Square Shoulder of a Man Named Butch

VII

Roxanne hadn’t slept that night. Under the overpass downtown, she wasn’t the only one seeking shelter from the cold rain. She went from one place to another, looking for a dry, safe spot to go through the handbag. Finally, as it was nearing dawn, she settled in the basement door entrance in a shabby house just beyond the industrial buildings that lined the river south of downtown. She dug out all of Ms. Claire Everly’s belongings. A little less than seven hundred dollars cash, hidden in the various little crevices of the deceptively spacious handbag. She also found several credit cards, two bank cards, and a checkbook in a long wallet. There were lipsticks, a powder compact, a slew of receipts, peppermints, and some loose change had settled on the bottom. Roxanne tucked the cash inside her bra and stuffed the contents back into the purse.

The realization that she was a thief gnawed at her, her stomach knotting painfully in a combination of hunger and guilt. She needed a plan. Her parents weren’t the most strict or straight-laced but they had taught her that stealing was never an option. But she was desperate, and had no where to go. She remembered one of the only times that she’d ever stayed in a motel. She had been woken by her mother, who pulled her from the bed and carried her down the stairs. The fire alarm was sounding and her father was frantically running from the kitchen to the basement with a fire extinguisher when they swept through the foyer and out the front door. Her mother had assured her that nothing was wrong, No, honey, there’s no fire, I think it’s just the carbon monoxide alarm. Daddy’s just checking the furnace to make sure. We’re going to go stay somewhere else tonight, just to make sure. Once inside their minivan with the engine running and the heater blasting, Roxanne had fallen back to sleep, only waking when she heard her mother and father arguing in hushed tones. Vicki, that’s not the sort of place you take your family to stay. I’d rather shell out the extra money and stay in a motel that doesn’t charge by the hour. She had opened her eyes to see them passing a neon Motel sign that blinked “vacancy” in nauseating orange flashes. They were driving further north where the motel signs were lit from within with names like “The Carlton Inn” with shrubberies and covered parking zones in the front. Well, I don’t think a hundred dollars for tonight is going to break us. They had pulled into one such motel and her father had paid for a room with two beds and they watched television until she fell asleep.

She thought of that night as she walked in the rain the few miles to the nearest Goodwill, hoping that it would be open by the time she got there. It was, and there she purchased an outfit, some mismatched socks, a pair of shoes, and an umbrella. Down the block from the Goodwill store was a motel with a partially lit neon sign. The clerk at the desk looked at her through the wire mesh and plexi-glass partition, probably thinking she was a prostitute, and gave her a room key in exchange for forty dollars. As she walked away he was grumbling something about noon being the checkout time.

Room 212 smelled of mildew and old shoes. The bed was made, but did not look very clean in the dim light of the single floor lamp. The bathroom was a seventies style puke yellow that made the dirt and stains blend in. She had hoped that there were plenty of soaps and little shampoos, but there was only one small wax wrapped bar beside the sink. She showered, using most of the small bar of soap to wash away the stench of two weeks on the streets. She dried with the small rough towel, not looking too closely at it. She left her room again and crossed the several blocks to the nearest drug store, where she bought new necessities; everything she needed to clean up and start her new life.

When she returned to the motel she showered, washing everything twice. She brushed her teeth twice, then a third time after she had flossed and rinsed with mouth wash. She put on new socks and underwear, and her Goodwill clothes, gathered all her things and put them into the plastic sack from the drug store, and stuffed them into the drawer under the television.

Out on the street she started walking. She looked for signs that read “Now Hiring” and at the fourth sign, a small soda-shop style diner badly in need of remodeling; she opened the door and went inside. She inquired at the lunch counter; the worn older woman perched on a stool behind the register pointed her toward an office in the back. Behind the small metal desk was an old man, dark gray hair stiffly pulled over the balding spot on his head. Before him were neat stacks of folders, each one labeled, weeks of receipts and invoices. He pulled his glasses from his thick face and managed a polite smile.

“Can I help you young lady?” his voice was much younger than his appearance, thick with an accent she could not place. It came out strong and authoritative, not unlike the voice of her high school principal.

“Yes, sir, my name is Roxanne James and I’d like to put in an application,” she said, and though her hands were quaking she managed to still her voice.

“Won’t you have a seat,” he gestured to a chair, “You look young; are you old enough to work?”

“I need the money. I don’t have any parents and I want to live on my own,” said Roxanne, her false confidence never wavering.

The man looked at her for a very long time. Roxanne started to twitch uncomfortably in the chair. Finally, he picked up a paper from a bin to her left and a pen from a cup on the corner of the desk, and handed them to her, “My name’s Mr. White,” his “t” came out crisp, and she wondered if it was his real name, “I’m the manager and owner of this restaurant. You can fill this out, but I’m not sure that you’ll be able to do much around here. I’ll help you what I can, up to six hundred dollars.”

“Thank you so much,” said Roxanne, starting to write. In the address space she put in the address of the motel, pausing a little before the second line, trying to remember the correct zip code.

“I have a full staff of waiters, but I need someone in the kitchen. Since you’re young you can do dishes, but you can’t touch any of the appliances. If someone doesn’t show up for their shift, you can wait a few tables. You can work two, three hours a day through the week, after school. After six hundred dollars I have to put you on payroll—tax forms and all…I suppose you won’t be causing any trouble, right?”

“No, sir,” and Roxanne smiled for the first time in two weeks.

VIII

The first sign of his anger breaking free again was while Carl was driving. He found that driving in the city was mad. People who followed the rules, he could tolerate, but those whose driving was less than exceptional bore his rage without even knowing it. He cursed under his breath at them, and sometimes, if the music was loud enough in his car, he would shout. Follow the rules, Carl. The person who arrives first at an intersection has the right of way, Carl. Fasten your seatbelt, Carl. Don’t forget to check your blind spot!  Oh, how I wish people would read their driver’s manuals. He heard his mother’s sing song voice inside his head and cringed.

No, he preferred to walk. He favored the street that went through the campus, where there were always pretty young people doing important things. Watching for and spotting the same ones at the same time of day, first outside the high school two blocks north of campus, all the girls and boys arriving well before the bell. Then he saw the older, more developed women and men of the college campus; all those walking to and from class, jobs, or sports. There were a few here and there that he always looked for; he gave them names inside his head and pretended conversations. Carl thought of himself as an observer as he drove. Slightly removed from the college world he was once immersed in, following their lives through the things they carried. 

The day that Carl stopped listening to the inner voice that was his mother, he was driving to work because it was raining. It was Saturday, and he had been called in to work to fix the boss’s computer, which had crashed the prior evening. It was the third Saturday in a row that he’d been called in to fix someone’s computer. “You know, I sent out a memo last week. You just can’t download all this crap onto work computers—they don’t have the memory capacity to handle all that,” he’d told them the previous Saturday.

 On his way downtown, he didn’t follow too closely to the other cars. He minded his speed, distance, and used his lights and signaled. He was almost to his building when a car darted out from a side street, right in front of him. He had to slam on his breaks and nearly stop to keep from hitting the sleek black sedan. He cursed and sped up, fishing in his console for his notepad and paper. At the next light he tried to copy down the plate number before the light changed and the car sped away. Carl checked his blind spot and changed lanes, speeding now, to follow the man who cut him off. The black sedan was just entering the public parking garage up ahead. Carl went into the garage after him, jabbed the button, and snatched a ticket from the machine. He sped up the entrance ramp and followed his glowing taillights up the spiraling levels. At the third level the sedan parked, and Carl slowed as he passed by, glaring at the man gathering his things inside his car. He parked a few spaces away and pulled an old baseball cap low on his face. He stepped slowly and deliberately out of his car. He circled around to the open trunk and reached inside. He started toward the man, his quickening footsteps echoing louder and louder.

As the man walked toward the elevators, he punched buttons on his phone, a coffee mug tucked in the crook of his arm. Carl struck quickly. The man never expected it. Dropping his things, he immediately started to fight back, when Carl struck again with the tire iron. The man went limp, his coffee cup rolling away from him sloshing mocha java whatever onto his nice leather briefcase as it stopped. Carl lugged the man up onto his shoulder and hurried back to the car. He put the unconscious man into his trunk, then ran back to gather the briefcase and scattered bits of blackberry. Carl got back into his car and drove back out of the garage.

He turned onto the street and headed home, dialing work on his cellular phone. He hated to use his phone while driving, but decided it was necessary. He told his boss he was sick, and wouldn’t be coming to work.

"Just Because" -- Jane's Addiction

All right, those of you still with me after this morning's rant, here's the next couple of chapters:

The Square Shoulder of a Man Named Butch

V

The office was dark and quiet, except for them. In the dim bathroom, the handsome Judge and the lovely social worker straightened their suits in front of the mirror, the woman patting soft fragrant powder on her smooth face. From a distance she looked smooth and young, but he knew every line that framed her pursed lips and fanned out from her bold, dark eyes. Back in the spacious office they grabbed briefcases and overcoats and turned out the lights.

“Dinner tomorrow at my place,” he asked, with a knowing smile.

“Only if you’re cooking,” she replied.

“Reservations for two, then,” he said, laughing.

Claire wound her way through the maze of cubicles that made up the outer office space. No one else was there so late, it was nearly midnight, and it was Friday. She imagined her co-workers and associates downing stiff drinks at the bar down the street, the co-mingling smells of expensive whiskey and leather booths and for a moment wished that they could go there together. But not yet. Not yet.

In the employee parking garage adjacent to the court house they walked to their cars in silence. Outside the wind had quickened, just enough to moan between the close buildings and stir the litter in the streets. No rain, but she could smell it coming, over the smells of oil and old fumes in the garage, she could smell the wet, earthy smell of rain to come. The wind seemed to be singing to them, a sad song, low and long, with a sound that was almost weeping. As they neared their cars, parked only a few spaces apart, the weeping grew louder. No, it was not the wind or the rain to come. It was a child crying; dirty and alone, tucked into the dark cold concrete corner of the far end of the garage.  

“Are you lost?” he asked the child.  Claire stepped from her car door, shifting her keys, hand bag, and briefcase in her hands, taking a few timid steps toward him, straining to see the child more clearly.          

“No,” she spoke in a hoarse whisper, “I was waiting for you,” inclining her head toward Claire. He was close enough that he saw it was a young girl, about fourteen, maybe fifteen years old, with wide fearful eyes.

“And instead I see you! You took me away from them! And now I have nothing!” The girl cried weakly. She stood from where she was crouching, her long legs unfolding her full height. She was not that much shorter than the Judge, who graced 6’ 3.”  The girl’s pants were crawling up her socks above the dirty sneakers she wore. She had been crying some time and her green eyes were red, the skin around them puffy and raw. She wore a holey flannel sweatshirt over a faded black t-shirt, her long chestnut hair flowing in stringy waves down the back.

“I’m sorry, I—,” he started to say, but she narrowed her eyes and silenced him with a voice growing stronger in anger.

“You may not remember but I do. And you, what do you have to say for yourself?” she took a step closer, coming a little into the pale yellow of one of the lights that were scattered down the wall of the garage. The judge and the woman both saw her more clearly now. One of Claire’s cases, Roxanne something, the Judge thought, how could you forget that face?

“Roxanne James. Your foster parents have been worried about you,” said Claire, “They called me the other day; they said you ran away.”

“I had to. Mr. Trenton told me I had a snowballs’ chance in hell of being emancipated! On visiting day, they wouldn’t even take me to see my parents. He was drunk again. You told them to take me every week. But he wouldn’t let her take me! He said it was just one weekend and that they wouldn’t even miss me!” her sobs grew louder now.

“Let me just call the Trentons—“

“No! No. They don’t want me to leave them. But they’re not my family,” Roxanne’s tears made salty stains on her nearly black shirt.

“I’m sure they would want to know that I’ve found you—“

“You found me?” she said incredulously, “I just came here because I thought you would understand; that maybe you could find me another place to stay. Instead I find you here with him! Isn’t it just dandy that you and Judge Gabeheart are fucking around—you could have helped me two weeks ago—but you said wait! And the whole time you’re fucking the guy who could grant me emancipation!”

Claire took a tentative step forward, “Listen, maybe I was wrong. I didn’t know how bad it was for you. But here you are, it’s a miracle you aren’t hurt. Let me help you.”

“Let us help you,” echoed Judge Gabeheart, “We can call someone, Claire could wait here with you for an escort, Claire could go with you and speak to your foster parents” and when her eyebrows flew up and her eyes flashed with anger he said, “It would be so much safer for you if you would just let us get you home.”

Roxanne was retreating already, “I went home, but not to the Trenton’s. And now some guy lives in our house. It doesn’t even look like our house. The neighbor told me they auctioned our house and all our stuff after they took me away,” she was losing her breath, the sobbing gone now, taking with it her energy.

            “Let me help you, Roxanne,” said Claire, stepping closer, reaching out her hands. “I think I can help you to be on your own. It will just take a little while; we’ll get all this sorted out.”

“You. Have. Helped. Me. Enough!” she looked from one to the other with accusing eyes, she started to cry again, rivulets of tears dampening her cheeks and neck, the back of her hands. She backed away toward the concrete half-wall that was between her and the alley.

“Roxanne, wait. Don’t run again. Come with me,” Claire stepped closer, extending her hands, and as she did Roxanne snatched her hand bag and vaulted over the concrete, into the darkness, followed by Claire’s pleading calls that echoed in the narrow alley.

VI

 When Carl was thirty five, his parents passed away, first Mr. Rhodes, dying peacefully in his sleep at the hospital where he was being treated for pneumonia. And then his mother, only months after her husband, a heart attack claiming her life as she was watching television at home alone. He saw his sisters and their husbands at the funerals, promising each other to visit, though knowing that he would drift farther with these losses. He lived downtown, much closer to the family home than his sisters, and he was left to go through their things.

       In the attic, in a box that was marked his birth year, he found pictures, documents. He found the truth. He phoned his eldest sister to ask her, and eventually she gave in. She told him about his mother and father, older brothers. But she knew nothing more than what she had overheard their parents discussing in heated whispers in the room next to hers, the night her mother had brought him home. Phrases like, “deplorable conditions,” “couldn’t possibly leave him there,” “we don’t have to tell him the truth,” and then finally, “I’ve hired a lawyer, and I’m going to get custody.” He hung up the phone feeling very alone in the world. He hired a removal service to clean out the rest of their parent’s belongings, only packaging and sending the things his sisters had requested. He talked to his sisters occasionally through email or by telephone, and received Christmas cards from them every year, their family picture selves growing and changing progressively in the Christmas card album he kept.

He went to work every day and treated ailing networks and computers up and down the long hallways of cubicles. But in his mind pathways were forging. Somehow he had found that place, the dark growing stain, where the evil lurked down deep in his soul.  When he found the place, he found possibilities he had never considered before. Hurting people was possible, probable even. His desire to inflict pain swelled and crested, stronger and quicker and focused on violence. But he held back. Always, he heard his mother’s voice telling him to be good. All his life he listened. He tried to listen.