Friday, March 30, 2012
Thursday, March 22, 2012
FALLING FROM THE EDGE OF COOL
A short story...
One of Sarah’s favorite High School activities was going out on the trail behind the school during lunch to smoke pot with her friends. There was a hierarchy of “cool” and she weighed in about half way up. Seems like she registered about half on most scales. Pretty, but not real pretty; smart, but not real smart; easy but not too easy. Kinda plain but you could tell she tried to jazz herself up a bit. She told me later that she kept her hair permed to look like Robert Plant’s. Auburn waves and eyes that got greener the more pot she smoked. There was always something a little odd about her, a little off.
It was late June, 1977, I believe, and there was a big party on the trial to celebrate the beginning of summer vacation. The belle of the ball, so to speak, was the new guy, Patrick. He sauntered into class the week before, tall and lanky with big brown curls brushing his shoulders and big brown eyes to match. I remember the faded Foghat t-shirt that he had on, that fit just-so, tucked into his brown corduroy bell-bottoms, the ones with the hole right by his left pocket. He wore the most amazing abalone belt buckle I’d ever seen. To say all the girls acted like crazed groupies around him would be an understatement.
On the trail, on that day in June, he lazily tapped a Marlboro out of his pack and asked if anyone had a light. “I do!” said Sarah, probably a little too excitedly. She fumbled in her denim purse, the one she just made in Home Ec from a pair of old jeans, while looking at me, eyes wide. I remember she said she was going to embroider Jimminy Cricket on the front flap. Waving the lighter in his direction, she said, “Here you go!” When he didn’t take it she waved it a little more frantically and said, “Patrick? Here...” Everyone got quiet as she turned and realized that she was waving a tampon at him, not a lighter. There was a chorus of laughter as she ran away, disappearing like the smoke from his cigarette.
One of Sarah’s favorite High School activities was going out on the trail behind the school during lunch to smoke pot with her friends. There was a hierarchy of “cool” and she weighed in about half way up. Seems like she registered about half on most scales. Pretty, but not real pretty; smart, but not real smart; easy but not too easy. Kinda plain but you could tell she tried to jazz herself up a bit. She told me later that she kept her hair permed to look like Robert Plant’s. Auburn waves and eyes that got greener the more pot she smoked. There was always something a little odd about her, a little off.
It was late June, 1977, I believe, and there was a big party on the trial to celebrate the beginning of summer vacation. The belle of the ball, so to speak, was the new guy, Patrick. He sauntered into class the week before, tall and lanky with big brown curls brushing his shoulders and big brown eyes to match. I remember the faded Foghat t-shirt that he had on, that fit just-so, tucked into his brown corduroy bell-bottoms, the ones with the hole right by his left pocket. He wore the most amazing abalone belt buckle I’d ever seen. To say all the girls acted like crazed groupies around him would be an understatement.
On the trail, on that day in June, he lazily tapped a Marlboro out of his pack and asked if anyone had a light. “I do!” said Sarah, probably a little too excitedly. She fumbled in her denim purse, the one she just made in Home Ec from a pair of old jeans, while looking at me, eyes wide. I remember she said she was going to embroider Jimminy Cricket on the front flap. Waving the lighter in his direction, she said, “Here you go!” When he didn’t take it she waved it a little more frantically and said, “Patrick? Here...” Everyone got quiet as she turned and realized that she was waving a tampon at him, not a lighter. There was a chorus of laughter as she ran away, disappearing like the smoke from his cigarette.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
TRICKY DICKY
Thought I'd switch it up a little and post some fiction! This is the 1st chapter of my novel-in-progress....I hope to get many comments//feedback on what you like and what you don't and, well, if you just really don't care....Smoochies!
We saw the lights in the distance; the first we’d seen in an hour. A few moments later, an 18-wheeler skidded to a stop in the gravel in front of us, lights blinking like a lotto machine in Vegas.
We ran to get in--Lori first with her practical backpack and me stumbling behind, feet ice-skating in the gravel while trying to maneuver my knock-off Louis Vuitton “Latchel” (supposedly a cross between luggage and a satchel). The passenger door swung open.
“What the hell are two darlin’s like y’all doin’ out here at this time of night? Get on in,” we heard.
“I want to sit in front,” Lori whispered, nudging me. “You get in first.”
No argument here, I thought. I grabbed a rung on the side of the truck, hoisted myself up and crawled to the sleeping area in the back. It smelled like stale beer, cigarettes and B.O. Lovely. I heard the automatic click of the doors locking as we eased back onto the highway.
“Name’s Tricky Dicky,” the driver said, grinning, showing teeth that were certainly no stranger to chaw. He kept glancing between Lori and I, excitedly, as if he expected applause.
“Hey, darlin’ there in the back,” he snorted, “Reach back there in the corner and tell me what you find.”
No fucking way, I thought. For the first time during our little “outing,” fear grabbed me and my whole body seized up. I envisioned hacked up body parts or his dead mother dressed for the ball, or, even worse, a severed horse head like in the Godfather, an image that still gets me. I felt around on the cushion under me for wet spots and tried to act casual as I glanced around the cubicle. It was too dark to really see much and my hands came up dry.
“What’s the matter, darlin’?” he said. “Trick Dicky got yer tongue?” He laughed himself into a spastic coughing fit.
I began kicking Lori’s seat and gave her the holy-shit-big-eyed expression when she turned around. She returned the expression and turned back around. A little help here, I thought.
“Now,” he said. “Where’re you two goin? I’m on a straight shot to good ol’ F.L.A. and we could have us one helluva party between now and then.”
“Well, actually, I’m just going to check in with my sister and let her know we’re on our way,” I said, digging for my cell phone. “She lives near Efland and is waiting up for us. If you could just drop us off by the Efland exit she’ll be at the gas station to pick us up. We really appreciate the ride, uh, Mister.” What was I supposed to say, “We really appreciate the ride Tricky Dicky?” No way! If I remembered correctly, we were about an hour from Efland. My sister lived in Chapel Hill and didn’t even know we were coming, but God willing and the creek don’t rise, she would soon enough. Or, more like God willing and we don’t get chopped up into little pieces and eaten for breakfast with some fava beans, she would soon enough.
“Well,” he said, “that’ll work too. Now, what’re y’all names? You must be the quiet one, eh,” he said, glancing over at Lori. “I can’t say you’re the pretty one because you both sure are fine...” As if! Yeah, Lori, pipe up! What are we gonna do now? Lori had a knack for bailing when the going got rough. I was usually the one to get us out of whatever trouble we happened to be in. Ah, the burden of being quick on your feet... “I’m Daisy Consuelos Virginia Estes,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.” She was hugging her backpack to her chest, stiff as a board.
“Daisy Configaro what?” he said, “what kinda name is that? I didn’t realize I had me a real live senorita here...”
Oh yeah, I thought. And let’s not make it a real dead senorita. What was she thinking? Even he would have to see that with her pale skin and strawberry hair she was about as far from Latino as you could get.
“Oh, Lori,” I said. “She’s not only the quiet one, she’s the funny one. Yeah, Lori, you sure are funny!” “Actually,” I said, “this is Lori, and my name is Berkely. We’re on our way to visit my sister, but I guess I already told you that.”
“Yesirree,” he said. “Now, let’s get back to business and go on and hand me that thing back there,” he said.
I still hadn’t found my phone but now I needed a cigarette. I found the pack in the bottom of my purse. “Is it okay if I smoke?” I asked.
“Help yerself, darlin’,” he said. “Think I’ll have me one too.” He flicked open a lighter in my direction and I inhaled the sweet menthol deep into my lungs. I noticed a black panther and Confederate flag on the front of the lighter. It seemed familiar somehow.
He glanced back at me, looking me up and down.
“Don’t tell me you’re scaart to grab ahold of that thing back there,” he said. “It won’t bite, and neither will I, we’re just going to have us some fun.”
I don’t think I’m into your kind of fun, I thought. In fact, I would bet my life on it. Actually, scratch that. I certainly wasn’t in a position to bet my life.
Afraid of making him mad if I stalled any longer, I took a deep breath and began walking my hand toward the corner behind me. I touched something cold and rubbery, smooth and round.
You’ve got to be kidding, I thought. I wrapped my hand around what had to have been the world’s largest dildo. One end smacked me in the face as I lifted it up. It collapsed into an upside down U-shape under it’s own weight; I swear to God that thing was at least 3 ft. long.
Sniggers from the driver’s seat turned into another wheezing fit as Tricky Dicky struggled to keep control of the truck.
Oh shit, I thought, now we’re going to crash and I am going to be found holding this enormous dildo. I can see the headlines now. If my parents weren’t mortified enough by my behavior already, this would certainly cinch the deal.
“Whataya think,” he yelled, “you like that thing, or what? Here, hand it up and I’ll show you what I like to do.”
It’s heavy enough to knock him out, I thought, if I just swing it hard enough at his head.
We saw the lights in the distance; the first we’d seen in an hour. A few moments later, an 18-wheeler skidded to a stop in the gravel in front of us, lights blinking like a lotto machine in Vegas.
We ran to get in--Lori first with her practical backpack and me stumbling behind, feet ice-skating in the gravel while trying to maneuver my knock-off Louis Vuitton “Latchel” (supposedly a cross between luggage and a satchel). The passenger door swung open.
“What the hell are two darlin’s like y’all doin’ out here at this time of night? Get on in,” we heard.
“I want to sit in front,” Lori whispered, nudging me. “You get in first.”
No argument here, I thought. I grabbed a rung on the side of the truck, hoisted myself up and crawled to the sleeping area in the back. It smelled like stale beer, cigarettes and B.O. Lovely. I heard the automatic click of the doors locking as we eased back onto the highway.
“Name’s Tricky Dicky,” the driver said, grinning, showing teeth that were certainly no stranger to chaw. He kept glancing between Lori and I, excitedly, as if he expected applause.
“Hey, darlin’ there in the back,” he snorted, “Reach back there in the corner and tell me what you find.”
No fucking way, I thought. For the first time during our little “outing,” fear grabbed me and my whole body seized up. I envisioned hacked up body parts or his dead mother dressed for the ball, or, even worse, a severed horse head like in the Godfather, an image that still gets me. I felt around on the cushion under me for wet spots and tried to act casual as I glanced around the cubicle. It was too dark to really see much and my hands came up dry.
“What’s the matter, darlin’?” he said. “Trick Dicky got yer tongue?” He laughed himself into a spastic coughing fit.
I began kicking Lori’s seat and gave her the holy-shit-big-eyed expression when she turned around. She returned the expression and turned back around. A little help here, I thought.
“Now,” he said. “Where’re you two goin? I’m on a straight shot to good ol’ F.L.A. and we could have us one helluva party between now and then.”
“Well, actually, I’m just going to check in with my sister and let her know we’re on our way,” I said, digging for my cell phone. “She lives near Efland and is waiting up for us. If you could just drop us off by the Efland exit she’ll be at the gas station to pick us up. We really appreciate the ride, uh, Mister.” What was I supposed to say, “We really appreciate the ride Tricky Dicky?” No way! If I remembered correctly, we were about an hour from Efland. My sister lived in Chapel Hill and didn’t even know we were coming, but God willing and the creek don’t rise, she would soon enough. Or, more like God willing and we don’t get chopped up into little pieces and eaten for breakfast with some fava beans, she would soon enough.
“Well,” he said, “that’ll work too. Now, what’re y’all names? You must be the quiet one, eh,” he said, glancing over at Lori. “I can’t say you’re the pretty one because you both sure are fine...” As if! Yeah, Lori, pipe up! What are we gonna do now? Lori had a knack for bailing when the going got rough. I was usually the one to get us out of whatever trouble we happened to be in. Ah, the burden of being quick on your feet... “I’m Daisy Consuelos Virginia Estes,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.” She was hugging her backpack to her chest, stiff as a board.
“Daisy Configaro what?” he said, “what kinda name is that? I didn’t realize I had me a real live senorita here...”
Oh yeah, I thought. And let’s not make it a real dead senorita. What was she thinking? Even he would have to see that with her pale skin and strawberry hair she was about as far from Latino as you could get.
“Oh, Lori,” I said. “She’s not only the quiet one, she’s the funny one. Yeah, Lori, you sure are funny!” “Actually,” I said, “this is Lori, and my name is Berkely. We’re on our way to visit my sister, but I guess I already told you that.”
“Yesirree,” he said. “Now, let’s get back to business and go on and hand me that thing back there,” he said.
I still hadn’t found my phone but now I needed a cigarette. I found the pack in the bottom of my purse. “Is it okay if I smoke?” I asked.
“Help yerself, darlin’,” he said. “Think I’ll have me one too.” He flicked open a lighter in my direction and I inhaled the sweet menthol deep into my lungs. I noticed a black panther and Confederate flag on the front of the lighter. It seemed familiar somehow.
He glanced back at me, looking me up and down.
“Don’t tell me you’re scaart to grab ahold of that thing back there,” he said. “It won’t bite, and neither will I, we’re just going to have us some fun.”
I don’t think I’m into your kind of fun, I thought. In fact, I would bet my life on it. Actually, scratch that. I certainly wasn’t in a position to bet my life.
Afraid of making him mad if I stalled any longer, I took a deep breath and began walking my hand toward the corner behind me. I touched something cold and rubbery, smooth and round.
You’ve got to be kidding, I thought. I wrapped my hand around what had to have been the world’s largest dildo. One end smacked me in the face as I lifted it up. It collapsed into an upside down U-shape under it’s own weight; I swear to God that thing was at least 3 ft. long.
Sniggers from the driver’s seat turned into another wheezing fit as Tricky Dicky struggled to keep control of the truck.
Oh shit, I thought, now we’re going to crash and I am going to be found holding this enormous dildo. I can see the headlines now. If my parents weren’t mortified enough by my behavior already, this would certainly cinch the deal.
“Whataya think,” he yelled, “you like that thing, or what? Here, hand it up and I’ll show you what I like to do.”
It’s heavy enough to knock him out, I thought, if I just swing it hard enough at his head.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
25 RANDOM THINGS ABOUT ME
1. In my 20’s, I delivered singing balloon-o-grams for a living.
2. I met Red Skelton at the Raleigh-Durham airport, eons ago. He wore a lot of Black Hills Gold
jewelry, which was also a favorite of my mother's.
3. I’m a big fan of tater tots and I don’t eat them nearly enough.
4. I can’t follow a knitting pattern to save my life.
5. There was a time when I could play “Bohemian Rhapsody,” in its entirety, on the piano.
6. I love Neil Diamond, Glen Campbell and Barry Manilow.
7. I love Elton John more.
8. I was devastated when I didn’t get the heart-shaped, rose-colored glasses (a la Elton) that I wanted for
my 15th birthday.
9. I sleep best with the windows open and the fan going full-blast.
10. The first concert I went to was to see Loggins and Messina at Barton Hall in Ithaca, NY in the early
'70's. Peace, love, and macrame....Danny's Song forever!
11. I am blind without my glasses.
12. It’s been 25 years since I’ve had a drink of alcohol.
13. I’ve had a knack for giving people nicknames since I was a child.
14. I collect religious memorabilia, but think I’m done with it.
15. No matter what I do, my houseplants always die.
16. I’ve rarely met a shoe I didn’t like.
17. I hitchhiked from NY to FLA, with a girlfriend, when I was 19--and lived to tell...and I will!
18. My younger sister and I made up our own vocabulary when we were kids; we can go there in an
instant.
19. I would walk a mile for some Chick-Fil-A.
20. I used to sing and play guitar in a neo-country band (The Gringo Girls), in Chapel Hill, NC, in the
'90's. Cowboy boots and fringe, baby!
21. Robert Downey, Jr. is my idea of the perfect man.
22. I wish I had married into a big Italian family.
23. My favorite person in the world is my daughter. (Duh! Maybe stretching the “random” a bit...)
24. I snacked on Milkbone dog biscuits as a toddler, much to my family’s amusement.
25. I need the sun to feel truly healthy and happy.
2. I met Red Skelton at the Raleigh-Durham airport, eons ago. He wore a lot of Black Hills Gold
jewelry, which was also a favorite of my mother's.
3. I’m a big fan of tater tots and I don’t eat them nearly enough.
4. I can’t follow a knitting pattern to save my life.
5. There was a time when I could play “Bohemian Rhapsody,” in its entirety, on the piano.
6. I love Neil Diamond, Glen Campbell and Barry Manilow.
7. I love Elton John more.
8. I was devastated when I didn’t get the heart-shaped, rose-colored glasses (a la Elton) that I wanted for
my 15th birthday.
9. I sleep best with the windows open and the fan going full-blast.
10. The first concert I went to was to see Loggins and Messina at Barton Hall in Ithaca, NY in the early
'70's. Peace, love, and macrame....Danny's Song forever!
11. I am blind without my glasses.
12. It’s been 25 years since I’ve had a drink of alcohol.
13. I’ve had a knack for giving people nicknames since I was a child.
14. I collect religious memorabilia, but think I’m done with it.
15. No matter what I do, my houseplants always die.
16. I’ve rarely met a shoe I didn’t like.
17. I hitchhiked from NY to FLA, with a girlfriend, when I was 19--and lived to tell...and I will!
18. My younger sister and I made up our own vocabulary when we were kids; we can go there in an
instant.
19. I would walk a mile for some Chick-Fil-A.
20. I used to sing and play guitar in a neo-country band (The Gringo Girls), in Chapel Hill, NC, in the
'90's. Cowboy boots and fringe, baby!
21. Robert Downey, Jr. is my idea of the perfect man.
22. I wish I had married into a big Italian family.
23. My favorite person in the world is my daughter. (Duh! Maybe stretching the “random” a bit...)
24. I snacked on Milkbone dog biscuits as a toddler, much to my family’s amusement.
25. I need the sun to feel truly healthy and happy.
Friday, March 2, 2012
TREE OF LIFE
Recently, we drew tarot cards in my writing group for inspiration; I loved the card that I chose, or rather, the one that chose me. I have had the sense that this new year, 2012, holds such promise for me in ways that I’ve yet to realize.
The card that met my fingers as they crept under the deck read “New Moon,” followed by “Promise”. I tell ya, I’m feeling it! There was a beautiful painting of a couple, arms around each other, sitting on blanket of what I could only assume to be the most luscious, greenest of grass, gazing out at a lake of still waters silhouetted by a blazing sun setting into a sky cloaked in topaz. As if that weren’t enough, I flip the card over and Oh! Here is my symbol of 2012--a magnificent, lush tree standing tall; strong but not overpowering. Its roots run deep and its branches reach to the sun and glitter with jewels. It is peaceful and vibrant. It is steadfast and assured. This tree is me. And if it’s not me just yet, it’s who I’m becoming. I stand tall, yet don’t overpower (oh hush, naysayers!). My roots run deep and I reach toward the sun, over and over again. I am peaceful and vibrant, steadfast and assured, although often haltingly. This painting is breathtaking and makes me happy; looking at it tugs at my tender heart. My heart feels especially tender these days. Finally, I feel a willingness to let it be tender, to ask what it needs instead of trying to shut it down. I’m having a heart connection with myself instead of always looking elsewhere for that sense of connectedness. It feels like there are jagged splinters, buried deep in my heart, that are coming to the surface on their own; that are working themselves up and out. When I get a splinter in my finger, my tendency is to pick at it, to run and get a needle and dig it out, blood or no blood, and always more pain. The few times that I have just left well enough alone, the splinter always works itself out without a lot of to-do. My heart is letting me know that it’s ready; that I’m ready, for true healing to begin.
Last night while I was watching “Good Luck, Charlie” with my daughter (yeah, I know, the things we do...) I got all teary-eyed when P.J. realized he was really just a pastel-lovin’ guy who got excited about hanging out with his mother’s book club friends and not the goth kid he was trying to be to impress a girl he liked. “Jeez, Mom,” said my daughter. “I know...,” I said. I used to say the same thing to my mother as tears streamed down her face during Hallmark commercials. I think tender hearts run in our family, but we have a hard time allowing that to be present in ourselves. My family used to call me “sensitive” like it was a bad thing; a slur. For a long time I used that against myself, but not anymore. It’s who I am, for better or worse. I looked again at the picture of this magnificent tree on the card and realized that it, too, was born out of all the splinters that grew up and out of its beautiful, tender heart.
Last night while I was watching “Good Luck, Charlie” with my daughter (yeah, I know, the things we do...) I got all teary-eyed when P.J. realized he was really just a pastel-lovin’ guy who got excited about hanging out with his mother’s book club friends and not the goth kid he was trying to be to impress a girl he liked. “Jeez, Mom,” said my daughter. “I know...,” I said. I used to say the same thing to my mother as tears streamed down her face during Hallmark commercials. I think tender hearts run in our family, but we have a hard time allowing that to be present in ourselves. My family used to call me “sensitive” like it was a bad thing; a slur. For a long time I used that against myself, but not anymore. It’s who I am, for better or worse. I looked again at the picture of this magnificent tree on the card and realized that it, too, was born out of all the splinters that grew up and out of its beautiful, tender heart.
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