Category: Fiction

Categories
cars Drew Fiction Sentiment

The fuzz and the guts

My first speeding ticket happened when I was driving back from school clothes shopping in Ukiah with a friend from Mendocino.  My third speeding ticket happened when I was rushing to Solano’s Beauty and the Beast rehearsal in Suisun City, after I had missed the exit southbound and was already running late and didn’t actually know where Suisun City was.

My second speeding ticket happened after a family lunch in Santa Rosa, and I was headed back to Davis and was trying to find the exit for 37 at San Rafael, but I missed it and got almost to the Golden Gate Bridge, and I was trying to make it back for an IS event that night, and (I know now that) all that highway south of San Rafael is 55 mph, and a cop pulled out of a speed trap just north of the bridge and got me.

I drive past that speed trap every single day (never going more than 62 mph) and every single day I think of that speeding ticket.  I haven’t actually seen a cop there again, even though I check every time, and anyway there is always someone cruising along in the fast lane.  But it’s strange that I could think of something that happened in 2003, almost every single day.

Nanowrimo starts on Monday so I figure one of two things will happen: I will either disappear from this blog, or I will post snippets of the amazing Nano writing I’m sure I’ll be doing.  In the meantime, here’s a picture of the pumpkins we carved today while we watched Anastasia and sang along.

Categories
Fiction Sentiment

Bryant Park 2007

I finally got all the old stuff off of my old laptop, and now I can go through it at my leisure and delete all the not-absolutely-necessary pictures and beginnings of stories and old AIM conversations.  I’ve already unearthed some good stuff.  Like this poem.  So get ready.

I’ve been hooked on sestinas since studying Elizabeth Bishop’s Sestina in high school.  It’s a complicated form, and I like some guidelines in poetry.  I have cobbled together a couple that I like: one called The Morning After, which is conveniently about Drew, and then this one.

BRYANT PARK
1/25/07

I am watching a grandfather skating around the ice
At Bryant Park, holding on to his granddaughter’s hand.
They are wearing handmade sweaters, red and blue.
The ice is fake and white, a device of the city,
But I believe it, as I believe the pine trees that scream,
Yes!  Foliage grows in New York City!  It’s fresh and clean!

I’ve taken two showers already today, but don’t feel clean.
I don’t think I can keep blaming it on the city.
I keep seeing your face, the memory encased in ice
Like I can still feel the vibration of the scream
Some people say ice is clear but I’ve seen it blue
I slowly pull my woolen glove from my cold hand.

The pocket opens reluctantly to admit my hand
The photo inside makes me want to scream
The storylines are old and faded, but still clean
The edges of the photo are stained a pale eggshell blue
My blood runs cold as I look back to the ice
And see the new disaster blooming in the city –

A lot can go unnoticed in the city.
A lot of people can get away from crimes, crystal clean
Over the happy laughter, I almost hear the man scream
As the little girl’s grandfather goes down on the ice
I don’t see him ever let go of her hand
As her red sweatered form falls down upon his blue.

Someone scoops up her body, crushing orange on blue,
And they try to hurry her off the ice
I hope someone has alerted the authorities of the city
And that someone else is holding her hand
That poor little girl – this morning she was so clean –
She hasn’t even realized that she should scream.

Finally her scream comes out of the blue,
And suddenly my hand feels so much more clean.
The pulse of the city keeps beating, strong as ice.

Categories
Fiction

Tumble Dry Low

Need to kill some time?  I wrote this.  You can read it and praise me.

TUMBLE DRY LOW
Setting: A laundry room in an apartment building.  Anna’s clothes are in the dryer.  She is reading a book.  Robin comes in and throws her clothes into a washer, sits down.  She watches Anna’s clothes for a minute.

Robin: Almost dry.

Anna: What?

Robin: Your clothes are almost dry.  You know, they look pretty fluffy.  Not like when you first put them in, and they’re all wet and heavy and stick together in a big wet heavy pile.

Anna: Yeah, they’re almost dry.  (Tries to go back to her book.)

Robin: (Sighs) That must be nice, to have your laundry almost done.  I hate doing laundry.  (Pats her laundry hamper.)  I wish this was over, already!  What’s your least favorite household chore?

Anna: Um…sweeping, I think.

Robin: Oh yeah, and none of these apartment buildings have any carpeting.

Anna: Uh, nope.

Robin: I want to lay down rugs everywhere, but you know, rugs… (Shrugs)  They’re pretty expensive.

Anna: That they are.  (Tries to go back to her book.)

Robin: What are you reading?

Anna: Um…The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova.

Robin: Cool.  What’s it about?

Anna: I’m not really sure yet…I just started it.  I think it’s kind of about a big mystery, and Vlad the Impaler, and, um (waves hand) some other stuff.

Robin: Is it good?

Anna: Um…so far.

Robin: Cool.

(Anna nods.  She hates the way people say “cool” all the time when they have nothing else to say.  She reads for about 6 seconds.  Shayna comes in with a bag of laundry.)

Shayna: Oh hey…Robin, right? (Robin nods) – Oh man, are all the washers taken?

Robin: Yeah, I just got the last one. Sorry.  It’ll be done in 28 minutes.

Shayna: That’s cool, I’ll wait.  You’re Anna, right?

(Anna doesn’t really want to look up, but does anyway and nods.)

Shayna: I’m Shayna.  You’re across the hall from me…4B, right?  Your husband helped me out last week when my key got stuck.  Man, I thought I was going to miss the train, and then be late for work!  I was so worried.  I guess it just took some man power…you know what I mean?

Robin: Sure do.

Anna: (Smiles weakly.)  I’ll tell Joel you said thanks.

Shayna: Yeah.  What are you reading?

Anna: Um…The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova.

Robin: She says it’s about Vlad the Impaler.

Shayna: Cool.  Who’s that?

Robin: I don’t know.

Anna: (Reluctantly) He’s the guy that the Dracula stories are based on. 
From the 15th century.  He terrorized the Ottoman Empire. 
When the Turks finally killed him, they preserved his head in a jar of honey and it was displayed in Constantinople.

Shayna: Cool.  Are you into history and stuff like that?

Read the full text here

Categories
Fiction Friends Sentiment

Finishing

Katie found this in her house.  It’s from Music Circus 2004.  Don’t have any more background than that, but I kind of like it.  At least it’s not angsty, right?

Categories
Awesome Fiction Sentiment

This post can be summed up simply: “Everyone writes awful stuff when they’re younger. Right?”

In my “Last 5 Books I Read” post, I talked about a story I had written when I was 14, about waking up 10 years in the future in my “perfect” life, and how unrealistic it was because clearly, as a 14-year-old, you know nothing about the real world.  Also, I had bestowed upon my future self all kinds of ridiculous honors and riches, which is just silly, because in real life, 24-year-old me worked customer service at a publishing company and watched a lot of Bridezillas and shopped at Old Navy.  And was (and I still am!) really happy.  But it just goes to show you how stupid teenagers are.

Erin left a comment suggesting that she needed to see some of this story pronto (actually, she only asked for outlines, but I like to go above and beyond), because she is very smart and recognizes the potential for entertainment when she sees it.  So, I found the story where I had hidden it (on the floor in the open, no one will look there) and I bring it to you now.

My note on the top of this small pile of papers indicates that 14-year-old me felt that this “Basically needs to be fleshed out – well…I don’t know. I think it’s too short.”  26-year-old me thinks that is a less-than-accurate representation of what the final edits need to be.  Here on out, 26-year-old me will comment in [italics], not to be confused with regular 14-year-old “thinking” italics.

THE STORY I WAS VERY, VERY, I MEAN LIKE UNREALISTICALLY PROUD OF WHEN I WAS 14

I woke to a hand on my shoulder and warm puffs of breath on my face.  There was a moment of relaxation before the initial panic set in…the very beginning of a 72-hour panic session.

I sat up in bed.  The covers were thick, and they held out the freezing cold air.  [Sounds like San Bruno sometimes, actually.]  Air that was just a few degrees too low for Lakeport temperatures.  I racked my brain, trying to come up with the date, but the closest I could come was September 8, 1998, which couldn’t be right.  The weather was supposed to be warm…even in the very early morning.  It would have to be December or January to even come close to achieving the 30 degree weather I was feeling.  [What’s all this “weather” nonsense indoors?]

All of this – my inner monologue, that is – [LOL] took place in but a few seconds, and before I could stop myself, I turned my head slightly to the left and saw someone next to me in the bed!

Beyond the sleeping lump in the covers was what I assumed to be a clock.  [But who am I to say? I’m just a 14-year-old…right?]  I could see only red digital numbers communicating to me that it was 3:51 a.m.  In the corner, tiny numbers proclaimed “9/7/08.”  I assumed that was the date [oh, I can figure some things out, but I’m baffled by a “clock”], but “08”?  Maybe it means “98,” I thought.  But the question remains: who is this beside me???

Too afraid (for reasons even I did not completely comprehend) to contemplate my present situation, I looked around the room, expecting to see my belongings: CD player to my right, desk to my left, and mirror straight ahead of me.  But oh, what I saw instead…

The first thing I noticed, as my eyes grew used to the dark, was that the room was twice as big as my bedroom.  Since I saw everything in gray in the darkness of the early morning, I wouldn’t know until daylight that the walls, instead of being the ghastly pink that they should have been, were instead a gorgeous pale green.  The bed was not my twin bed, but a king-sized bed.  The closet doors were still mirrors, but they were framed with a green marble.  And of course, the format of the room was entirely off.

I could see an open door on the far side of the room, and through it I could see what appeared to be a bathroom.  A larger door looked to lead out of the room.  [And this may be one of my favorite lines:]  The entire room is tastefully decorated, I noted appreciatively, but how did I get here?

I threw back the covers and got out of the warm bed, the cold air hitting my bare legs in a shocking gust.  I shivered, then threw on a nearby robe sporting three initials in a swirly writing.  Too preoccupied to take the time to decipher these letters, I quickly forgot about them.  Although I must have recognized them subconsciously, for the sight of them sent a rush of excitement through my system, but I blamed it on my confusion about my surroundings.  I opened the ornate door and stepped into the plushly carpeted hallway.

I moved carefully down the hall, feeling like a stranger in (what seemed to be) my own home.  I stopped at the first door on the left and pushed it open gingerly.  I was looking at a beautifully furnished bathroom, with gold faucets and white porcelain.  After a few seconds of gazing in, I moved on.

A grandfather clock at the end of the hall announced the time was 4:00 am.  I jumped when it chimed its resounding bong because my heart was already going 160 mph.  I had an instinctive feeling that I was going to realize something both wonderful and hideous very soon.

I ended up in the kitchen; I opened the fridge door.  I needed a drink.

A drink? I thought curiously.  Surely I mean, like, a Coke or something.  After all, I’m 14 years old, I don’t drink.

I steered my hand away from the bottle of wine that sat on the bottom shelf and instead grabbed a Pepsi.  [In reality, 24-year-old me, oops, spoiler alert, anyway, we never had Pepsi unless the Chinese food delivery guy brought it unexpectedly.]  Then I sat down at the kitchen table.

He found me like that.  Sitting at the kitchen table with an unopened can of Pepsi, staring off into space.  I was vaguely aware of him waving his hand in front of my face and calling my name, but I didn’t come fully “awake” until he slapped me lightly on the face.

===
[And, with that little glimpse of spousal abuse, I’m going to skip ahead.  What you’re missing: a description of myself seeing myself in the mirror for the “first” time, and I’m very pretty.  And 5’8″.  Also a description of how this mysterious man and I got married – when I was 20!  “Just post-college”!  Also,  “he” pretty instantly believes me about being only 14.  And lastly, a scribbled note written to myself: “Sex Romantic scenes?  I really don’t know…”  We can only wish.]
===

All that day, I did things on the pretext of waiting for his return.  I cleaned the house, although it only needed a light dusting and vacuuming.  I could tell that in the future, or the past, or whatever it was, I kept the house nice.

I went into my writing studio [Okay, side note: The use of “writing studio” instead of “office” reminds me of this other story I wrote when I was in kindergarten, about orphans. And I just remember that because I couldn’t remember or think of the word “orphanage” I kept writing “adoption agency” or “adoption place.”  I hope that I have since learned my lesson about how, if you can’t remember the simplest word, you shouldn’t just substitute another word or phrase that means sort of the same thing], sat down at the large mahogany desk [on purpose sentence fragment?].  I stared blankly at the dark screen of the new computer.  I made no move to turn it on, however.  For one thing, I was in no mood for writing; for another, I figured if I ever got back to the past, I wanted to live each moment brand new.  I had no desire to read some of the material I had become famous for…at least, not a strong enough desire to overcome the knowledge that I shouldn’t.

So I did menial tasks to keep my hands busy.  When I had nothing to do, I sat and stared out the window at the view of Mendocino.  Living high on a hill, we had that luxury.  [Hey! I live high on a hill now!]

The phone rang about noon.  I jumped practically out of my skin.  Staring at the receiver, I tried to telepathically figure out who it was.  If it was him, I wanted to talk to him.  But I didn’t feel like talking to anyone else…especially if I would have to figure out who it was and how I knew them.

My worry of it being someone I should have known was offset by my desire to talk to him.  I tentatively picked up the phone and said “Hello?”

“Hi.”

Good.  It was him.

“I’m surprised you answered the phone,” he said.  “I thought you would have let the machine get it.”  [Oh yeah…that would have been the smart thing to do.]

“Yeah,” I replied.  “I thought about it.”  [Liar.]  “But hey, a coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man only once.”

He laughed.  God, how I loved to hear him laugh.  [Gag me here twice please.  Once for quoting Shakespeare (it’s Julius Caesar, I think?) and once for the sappiest line yet.]

“Good point.  Anyway, the reason I called was to say three things.  One: hi.”

“Hi,” I said.

“Two: What do you think about going out to dinner tonight?”

“Sounds great!” I said enthusiastically.  “Like, where?”

“Someplace nice.  Look,” he directed me, “in the closet there’s a long black and silver dress.  It’s pretty fancy, but I think it would be the most appropriate thing you have.”  [I am now imagining Drew picking out my clothes based on memorizing my closet.  Right.]  “I’ll be home around 6:30 tonight, okay?  I’ll call right now and make reservations for 7:30.”

“Hey, what was the third thing?” I asked.

“Oh yeah.  Three: I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said honestly.  “See you at 6:30.”

I hung up the phone gently.  Sitting in the chair, I thought about how it would feel for me to miss so many years of my life…did I want to just stay here or did I want to figure out a way back to the year where I belonged?

Then I remembered the dress.  I ran to the closet in the bedroom, threw open the doors, and rifled through the clothing until I found what I was looking for — a gorgeous (obviously designer) long black dress.  I could tell right away that this was something I had saved for.  From what I could tell about our living conditions, we had an impressive amount of money, but we weren’t rich.  [Vague, vague.]  Yet this dress…I’d bet that even a princess would be exceptionally proud to own it.

===
[Even I knew this paragraph was not great, I have notes saying “New dress – mo. one?”  I’m not sure what “mo.” stands for.  Something amazing I’m sure.  I also have a note saying “Deal with $$$ better.”  I may have been trite and a little sappy, but I was no fool.

After I try on the beautiful gown, I realize that I have to go back to the 90s where I belong.  We go out to dinner, and let me just show you the description of the restaurant.]
===

Dinner was wonderful, although I hardly tasted a thing.  I was too involved with the surroundings and the company.  There was stained glass in almost every window, and chandeliers hung from the ceiling in various places.  The atmosphere was romantic, yet tasteful.

===
[I was big on “tasteful,” right?  And yet something tells me my sense was a bit off.  You can clearly tell that at this point my experience with fine dining was JJ North’s Grand Buffet in Santa Rosa.

So then I decide to tell him that I have to go home.  The foolproof way of doing this is to go to my house in Lakeport, and spend the night there.  But we’ll wait a day or two so we can hang out.  A couple days later…]
===

At 8:30 that night, we left Mendocino and headed east.  Two hours later, I was home.

And shocked.

My house was gone.  I had not as of yet thought about what I would say to the current owners of the house when I got there, but luckily I didn’t have to…

[Not sure where I thought my parents would be at this point.  I guess when you’re 14, 24 does seem a lifetime away.]

There was an empty field, grassy and gorgeous, even at night.  I regretted not bringing a sleeping bag, but hopefully I wouldn’t have to wake up out here.  If I could just go to sleep quickly, everything would be fine.

And I had the means for that.  In my pocket was a package of (perfectly safe) tranquilizers.  [I might have meant sedatives.]  I was prepared to make the journey back to 1998.  I gulped the 2 pills dry, ignoring the bitter taste.

I lay out in the field.  It was a warm night, not yet winter weather.  I stretched out my blue jeaned legs and tucked my arms behind my head.  Looking up at all the stars, I could easily imagine that I was already back in 1998…but no, because there was the sound of his Jeep starting up.  We had agreed that he should go home and go to sleep, same as me.  Waiting for him on the counter at home were 2 pills identical to mine.

My eyelids grew heavy after awhile…how long it was I couldn’t tell.  The stars were adding to my weariness and right before I slipped off to sleep I whispered his name.

“I love you…”

I barely got the sentence out before my eyes shut and I was gone.

EPILOGUE

I sat up in bed and stretched.  The air was cool but not cold, just like usual.  My cat, Gabe, jumped on the bed and pushed his wet nose into my face.

“Yuck!” I exclaimed.  The clock on my nightstand read 6:48, and music blasted out.  It was Madonna’s “Frozen.”  [LOL]

What a way to start the day, I thought sarcastically, but not bitterly [thanks for clarifying] as I threw back the covers.  I got out of bed and started my day.

An hour later, I was in my room applying makeup to my 14-year-old face.  [FYI, I don’t think I ever wore makeup when I was 14.]  I went to spray myself with body mist [a note here reads: ?really?] and the strangest thing happened.

The mirror seemed to…change…and I saw myself as an adult.  I looked older, but not extremely different.  This flash was for a split second, but I caught it.  And I reacted the way any normal person would.

Whatever, I shrugged it off completely, saying it was a trick of the lighting, the angle, the fact that I was still a little tired, you know.

Then I remembered how I had been feeling last night.  After a day of annoying peers and condescending teachers, I had been ready for a vacation.  Unfortunately school had just begun.  I remembered thinking, If only I knew there was something to live for.  Something to work for.  Something to look forward to.  If only I didn’t feel so alone.  [Drama queen?]

I knew that feeling alone was an adolescent thing, and I was supposed to feel that way.  That didn’t help soothe my ego, though.  With the way I was feeling, it would have taken a miracle to make me feel better.

I wonder, I thought, amused, if something happened that would have made me wake up in such a good mood.  Something between last night and now.  Something amazing and wonderful.

I looked back in the mirror.

Nah.

===
And there you have it.  I know it was long, but I wanted to try to get in the good parts.  I mean, everyone writes awful stuff when they’re younger, right?  I know there is a lot more where this came from…

Categories
Awesome Books Fiction

The Last 5 Books I’ve Read

You were wondering, right?

Watership Down by Richard Adams

I wanted to show the cover of my copy so that you would know why I’ve never gotten around to reading this book before.  It just looks so…Dune.  My dad gave me this book (his copy?) when I was younger and I just never tackled it.  So I decided to go for it, and Erin and I read it as part of our bicoastal book club…and I could not put it down.  Love love loved it.  The balance of epic hero tale (a la Lord of the Rings) and rabbits (a la Animal Farm) just really worked for me.  I love a good protagonist who gets put down and fights back and comes through it.  I love a happy ending.  I love a story that moves, and keeps me turning pages.  I sat backstage every night for a week reading this furiously with a flashlight, despite how the light bulbs kept burning out and the angle of sitting hurt my back and I should have been working.  So good.

A text conversation with Erin as she neared the last third of the book:
Erin: OMG why didn’t they kill the patrol??
Me: Good guys never kill the bad guys if they have a choice.
Erin: But now there has to be a big battle.
Me: [LOL] What did you think the last 100 pages was for??

Recommend recommend recommend.

Thin is the New Happy by Valerie Frankel

I know the title is kind of a turn-off because it sounds like she’s advocating losing weight as the only thing to make you happy.  But actually the point of this memoir (by a woman who’s written something like 14 fiction novels) is that after 30 years of on-and-off dieting, she needs to fix whatever is under the surface and causing her to treat herself this way.  While reading about her struggles with her mother and how screwed up her body image is, I realized that while I too had to deal with occasional comments from my mom growing up, I didn’t have it nearly as bad.  Nor did I, apparently, get as screwed up.  Also, some of her boyfriends say things to her that I can’t imagine hearing from Drew…so maybe I’ve just gotten really, really lucky.

I just picked this up at Target because of the bright colors, but I found it to be really thought-provoking.  Several people asked me about it based on the title, looking ready to rip apart the statement “Thin is the New Happy,” and I found myself waxing athletic on the actual message of the book and what I was taking away from it.

Skeletons at the Feast by Chris Bohjalian

I should really figure out how to pronounce his last name.  This was a birthday present from Drew, who dutifully noted that I’ve been working my way through Mr. Bohjalian’s oeuvre.  This was one I hadn’t picked up yet because every time I read the back, I got intimated by the setting – WWII, Holocaust, and all that.  But I got sucked in by this book, the way I have by all of CB’s books, and I wasn’t really surprised.

The 3 main characters are: an 18-year-old German girl and her good-people farming family, who are being squeezed between the Russians and the Germans as the war crescendoes; her 20-year-old British POW lover; and a young Jewish man who has managed to stay alive by killing bad guys indiscriminately and impersonating soldiers whenever necessary. 

It’s a love story and a war story and a morality tale and an adventure story all in one.  They’re Germans, but they’re not bad guys, but Anna has to figure out where she stands and how she can stand up for what she believes in.  (If she can stop having crazy sex with her hottie Brit for one second.) 

I tore through it and enjoyed it immensely, although often got all cringey at descriptions of war crimes. [Shudder.]

The Catsitters by James Wolcott

I just grabbed this up at the library because I liked the cover.  It’s about a bachelor living in New York City, and when he catches his girlfriend cheating on him (worse yet, she forgot to feed his cat while he was away for the weekend), his best friend who lives in Georgia coaches him over the phone on how to A) manipulate and torture her until she’s ruined for other men, and then B) be the perfect guy, no longer a “bachelor,” now an “unmarried man.”

He’s an actor, so I got little glimpses of the actor living in New York City, which was fun, but not as in-your-face as Christopher Bram’s Lives of the Circus Animals.  I didn’t have to tiptoe my way through constant theatre in-jokes or “show business” remarks.  I really empathized with the main character, and I adored his cat Slinky.  I sort of thought I might cry at the end of this book.

One thing I wasn’t expecting – it’s from 2000 or 2001, so there is mention of “email” and “cell phones” as things that not everyone automatically has. That made me check the copyright date.

Time of my Life by Allison Winn Scotch

Jen Lancaster told me to read books by Jennifer Weiner, Beth Harbison, and Allison Winn Scotch, so when I trooped off to the library, I dutifully picked up books by the latter two (I have read a lot of Jennifer Weiner, and for me, it’s kinda hit-or-miss).

Um, hello, is this not essentially the “novel” I was writing when I was in high school, which is me waking up as a 20-something with the perfect life?  Here are the differences between my untitled novel and Time of my Life:

-AWS actually wrote her book, and mine consisted of a compelling opening, and then mostly just outlines of how my perfect life would be.
-TOML is about a woman going to sleep in 2007 and waking up in 2000, the person she used to be, and how she uses this opportunity to explore the road not traveled.  My book was just me wishing my perfect future life.
-This book is really good and people seem to really enjoy it.  Whereas mine was really only enjoyed by me.

It was a little predictable and a little too neatly wrapped up, but I liked this story and read it in an evening and then a morning.  Fun read, and I am definitely going to pick up more of her stuff.

I kind of fudged this “5 books” thing because I wanted a range.  Other books recently read include: John Irving’s The Fourth Hand and Beth Harbison’s Shoe Addicts Anonymous.  Books currently being read include Kristin Chenoweth’s A Little Bit Wicked and Aimee Bender’s The Girl with the Flammable Skirt (short stories of the super artistic type, like nothing I could ever write but I enjoy reading them now and then).

Enough talk, I’m a-wasting my reading time.

Categories
Fiction

Ryan Gosling is aptly named

I am being followed by Ryan Gosling.  It started about a week ago, at the grocery store.  He was close behind me in every aisle, while I selected broccoli, tortellini, canned peaches.  Even in the feminine hygiene aisle, he was there when I sneaked a look from the corner of my eye.  He appeared to be seriously contemplating a box of Tampax Pearl, scented.  By the time I had filled my basket, I had worked up the courage to turn to him and to say…what would I say, exactly?  But then I saw him leaving through the automatic doors into the foggy spring night, his hands empty, his gait unhurried.

The next time I saw him he was driving up 19th Avenue behind me in a red Ford Focus.  My sunroof was open and I was so content, enjoying the fresh air and the choices of the radio DJs and the way the traffic ahead of me seemed to part to let me through – that I didn’t realize until I was cresting the hill that the red car behind me was him.  Then I began hitting every stoplight on red and every time I looked in the rearview mirror he was right behind me, rough gaze burning.  I noticed a flaw in the surface of the mirror that I was sure I hadn’t seen before.  Then I stalled the car when the light turned green, and he smiled at me.  No, not at me, with me, generous, and honest.  He stayed behind me until we hit the freeway and then he fell far behind and disappeared.

The third time I was walking a trail out by the reservoir.  It was a Sunday afternoon.  The trail was the type where you go from Point A to Point B, and then turn around and head back to Point A.  I was listening to my iPod on shuffle and skipping two songs for every one I listened to.  I was thinking very hard about a passage I had been asked to read for a friend’s wedding.  I reached the end of the trail, high-fived the fence at the end, and turned to start back.  After about five minutes I saw a familiar face come around a bend in the trail and I recoiled, resulting in my tripping over my own feet, spilling my keys and iPod onto the ground, and skinning my palms as I landed.  He looked startled, although probably not as startled as I, and jogged up to me, asking if I was okay.

I’m fine, I said, jumping up.  My iPod had pulled off of the headphones but when I plugged it back in it picked right up.  My keys had fallen off the trail and I scrounged them out of the grass, scooping them into my pocket.  So–listen– I said.  All of my scripted questions and accusations went straight out of my head.  Can I get a picture with you?

He said sure and stood next to me, arm around my shoulders, while I snapped two pictures on my phone.   So now my computer desktop picture is of me, looking scrubby and flustered in jogging clothes, and Ryan Gosling, also in jogging clothes but looking so trendy and confident.

Everyone thinks I made up the stalking thing as a background for how I got the photos.  And maybe I am crazy, because I haven’t seen RG again since the pictures.  Maybe I scared him off…maybe he got bored.  Maybe it was all just a coincidence.  I have started going for walks at the reservoir every day, because even if it was a coincidence, he might go back there again.  And then I could ask him.  And I would get him in a video clip this time, so people would believe me.  In the meantime I’ve stopped talking about it, because my friends are starting to make fun of me.  Some of them have even suggested that I photoshopped that desktop picture.  I’m thinking about changing it anyway.  It’s not a very flattering picture of me.

Categories
Being a girl Drew Fiction

Situation: Comedy

Yesterday, DMP informed me that each of my stories sounds like it is just the set-up to an actual story.  Every time I finish one, he is apparently left waiting for the action to begin.  I don’t tell stories, I tell situations.

When pressed, he admitted it’s endearing.  (“But don’t you like that about me?”  “Not really.”  “But, if I died, wouldn’t you miss it?”  “Um…yes.”)  I think it’s an interesting character trait.  Something I will keep an eye (ear) on.  Pay attention to what my “stories” want to be, and whether they seem complete.

In celebration! of endearing character traits, here are a few actual stories I have told him recently…and then the endings I am inventing now to fulfill him (and whoever else jumps on this train).

1. The Misplaced Priest

“The Hayward Daily Review had a story today about how, sometimes, when priests are accused of things like inappropriate behavior around children, and stuff, sometimes the Catholic Church just sends them away to faraway countries where they are already doing outreach and missions and stuff.  And there was this picture of a priest who was accused a few a years ago, and in the picture he’s in like Venezuela or somewhere, and he’s holding this little boy, and there are two more standing next to him, and they’re all under 5 years old and they’re all just wearing shorts, and he’s got this look, like, this half smile on his face, and I’m like, This is a bad idea, right?  Does this guy not look exactly like Ronnie McGorvey in Little Children?”

This is where my story originally ended.  But maybe DMP would have been happier had it gone on:

“So then Craig says, You know what?  My favorite cousin down in Santa Barbara is a Catholic priest.  And about 8 years ago one of the families in his church got in trouble, and he helped them personally as well as through the church, with money and food, and he even let them stay with him for a week or so, a single mother and her two boys.  Eventually she got back on her feet and she was very grateful and gracious.  Now one of the sons is like 18 or 19, and is calling my cousin asking him for more money.  My cousin keeps saying no, he’s helped them a lot, he’s not exactly well-off by anyone’s standards, and this kid doesn’t need money, he just wants money.  So a couple weeks ago my cousin calls my parents and tells them that this 18-year-old kid said he is going to go to the police and say that my cousin abused the two kids all those years ago, which is absolutely not true.  So he’s dealing with the possibility of this accusation – which would be devastating even if unfounded – and he’s thinking about just resigning before things get messy and saving himself the trouble.

“But then he finds out through one of his superiors that he’s been talking to about this, that the church is looking for a few priests to send to Afghanistan to do outreach there, and even before this mess with the 18-year-old he was praying about a way to reach out to more people.  He had even been thinking about going over to the Middle East, or to Africa, and trying to do some work there.  Building wells or whatever, helping people, like priests do.  So he talked to whoever is in charge and now he’s working on all the paperwork and going through the process to fly over there and minister to people.  And he’s not running away from guilt or from fear.  He’s going because he felt called to go, and now he’s even wondering if this kid was just the one last sign from God that he needed to take the plunge.”

I figure in a good, full story you always learn a lesson, and my lesson in this story is not to judge people by a single picture in a newspaper, even when accompanied by a pretty thorough article and some pretty compelling evidence.

2. The Case of the Rude Driver (Installment 35 of 119 – I seem to often have “stories” about rude drivers)

“Dude, so all the roads in Mill Valley were flooded from the rain and high tides today, and so everyone is driving really slow.  And there’s this part of the road where it splits into two lanes for like an eighth of a mile, so more people can fit behind the traffic light, and I was driving carefully through this sort of deep water, when a red jeep zooms by me on the right, and splashes a huge tidal wave of mud over my car.  My windshield wipers had a hard time cleaning it off.  And now my car is coated with this film of dirty skanky gutter water.”

Continued…

“So, I freaked out, because on top of being rude, it was really dangerous, and I decided, the heck with my calltime, I can be a little late today.  And I followed that jeep for about 6 miles out toward Stinson Beach.  They finally pulled over, and I got a little scared, because I thought maybe they were ready for a confronation and would jump out of the car with a crowbar or something.  But when no one got out of the car I turned my car off and got out (carefully, expecting an ambush).  I walked up to the driver’s side and looked in the window, and there in the driver’s seat was a 9-months-pregnant woman!  I knocked on her window and she rolled it down but I could hear her Lamaze breathing even before that.  “Do you need help?” I asked her.  She nodded, fearfully.  But luckily I had my emergency first-aid kit in the car, along with plenty of distilled water and road flares.  I set it all up, called the hospital and had them send out an ambulance, and decided to wait with her and talk quietly to keep her calm.

“That probably would have worked, but she had waited too long before leaving her work, because she wanted to stay long enough for her workday to count as a whole day, and not waste a half-sickday.  So she was already pretty far along.  I ended up delivering that baby on the side of Hwy 1, right before the ambulance arrived.  Thank goodness!  They took care of it from there, but I made sure they had my name and phone number, and she promised to call me.  She also hinted that she was thinking about naming her baby after me, but it was a boy, bless him, and I told her it’s okay if she wants to go with something more traditionally male.”

This story has action, suspense, a hero, and new beginnings.  How can you not love it?

3. Fergie Who?

“Today, in Safeway, Fergie was on the cover of a magazine, looking hot as usual, and the woman behind me in line was studying the cover pretty intently.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see her glancing at me a couple times too, and finally she asked me, “Is that Fergie, who was married to Prince Andrew?”  I said, “Oh, no, that’s Fergie the singer, from the Black Eyed Peas.”  “Well, I didn’t think she was that nice redhead!” she said, sounding relieved.

Okay, even I know that’s not a story.  But I would still totally tell it to someone like it was.  What is wrong with me?

Let’s continue.

“Fergie the Duchess is a lovely person,” she went on, “just lovely.” 

“You know The Duchess of York?” I asked her, being kind since I was still third in line and the person at the register was still trying to remember their phone number. 

“Oh yes,” she said, now turning to face me full on.  “Well, I used to date Prince Andrew before their marriage, so we met several times, and then we would get together and she would ask me how I dealt with certain habits of his…” 

“What type of habits?” I asked. 

“Well, he would clip his toenails in the bathtub but forget to rinse them down the drain,” she said, “and he would never finish a bottle or carton of anything – he always left just a half-inch in the bottom, not even enough for a full glass.  So irritating.”  She sighed.  “Fergie – the duchess Fergie – would call me up sometimes and ask how I ever put up with it.” 

“That is very interesting,” I said. 

“You know Andrew told me once that he didn’t like redheads.  Just thought it was unnatural.  That’s why I always took care to keep my hair very dark.  To blend in.” 

“Wow,” I said.  “So that’s why they got divorced.”

“Yes,” she said.  “That’s why.”

And then it was my turn at the register and I scanned my way through quickly.  Before leaving I turned back and did a little half-wave to the crazy brunette behind me in line.  “It was nice talking to you,” I said.

“Don’t eat any underripe persimmons,” she said back to me, and I left.

Categories
Being a girl Endings Fiction

Maybe less caffeine before bed?

Last night I had trouble falling asleep.  As I lay there listening enviously to the even breathing of a certain other person who could obviously fall asleep just fine, I slowly didn’t know where I was anymore.  I lay on my side facing the outside edge of the bed and realized that the wall in front of me had two closet doors, one open and overflowing, one closed.  The bedroom door further down was closed for privacy.  The fan at the foot of the bed was off (this is the middle of winter after all) but I could sense it there.  I could feel the dusty curtains somewhere behind me over the grated window that led out onto the fire escape, and then I heard (faintly) the 7 train go by outside.  I reached a hand out and touched, not the smooth polished wood of the nightstand I was somehow no longer expecting, but the rough unpolished birch of a $7 Ikea side table.  Covered in piles of books, papers, and dust.  I let my fingers trail up over my head and I stroked the headboard I remember leaving behind.

I kept my eyes closed because I could see so clearly through the bedroom door, down the hallway, into the living room glowing in the light filtered in from streetlamps.  The ugly couches and the TV we paid off for a year were outlines, dusty ones.  If I went to the window the sill would be cold even with the heater blowing warm air from the vent below it.  Out the window the Manhattan skyline glittered: the Empire State Building, its lights already off due to heavy fog; the Chrysler Building, my favorite, sparkling like a Christmas tree; the CitiBank Building a blight as always on the otherwise perfect view.  Inexplicably an older woman would be pushing a cart down 61st Street even though all the stores and laundromats would be closed.  Would it be snowing?  Sometimes I could only tell by looking at the beams from streetlights – and sometimes it was everywhere.

The elevator rumbled innocuously past the 4th floor, delivering home someone who had just disembarked the recent 7 train.  The parquet floor was cold and the rug gritty beneath my bare feet.  If I knocked on Jared’s louvered doors would he answer them, wearing a t-shirt from God of Carnage or [title of show]?

I kept my eyes closed tight, rolled around in the so familiar feel of this bedroom I had lived in for 3 years.  I tried not to move so I wouldn’t disturb this feeling.  I wanted to peek and see if it was true.  Before I looked though, I wondered what was more likely: that the last year had been a dream and it was the beginning of 2009, I was gainfully employed in a job that challenged me and gave me health insurance?  Or that this was an alternate reality where I was in January 2010, but one where we had stayed in New York?  Would anyone else realize this was wrong?  Would Jared be happy or disappointed to have us back?  Would I be happy or disappointed to be there?  Would Drew?

Eventually I fell asleep and when I woke up I was in San Bruno, California, married and fully admitting it was 2010.  It seems silly and a little dramatic to imagine being back in Queens.  Of course I wasn’t back in Queens.  But it was nice to feel it, is all, around me, for just a little while.