You know your workplace deserves its own episode of The Office when:
1) As part of a Can Drive, there is a karaoke competition complete with dj downstairs in the auditorium. It lasts three hours.
2) Your boss sends out an email detailing his involvement next week in a program called PMP Training.
3) Your co-worker one cubicle over has a last name that sounds like Toaster Streusel and works the expletive “Shit!” into nearly every phone conversation, good or bad.
4) Your superior in the sales department dances in her office at your mere mention of Salsa music, then loudly requires that everyone gather round to watch.
5) You participate in a skit for Charity that involves dancing provocatively to Flo Rida’s “Low” while waving phony money at people in the audience.
6) Shorts Friday turns into Butt Cheek Day as a few misguided youths wear butt shorts to work in September.
7) The names of customer companies provide a continual source of merriment as you file away “Taynt Co.,” “Diggin Durty Inc.,” and “Phat, Ho.”
8) The company picnic happens during work hours, with a free lunch, free ice cream straight from a truck parked at the curb, and the results of a contest meaning 5 executives will get pies in the face.
9) Someone has written “feces” in pencil on the bottom of the list of non-recyclable garbage above the green bin in the workroom.
10) One of your co-workers continually tries to hook you up with an associate who lives in Michigan and has no idea who you are. She postulates about your future with him and whether he would move to be with you.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Becky Wilson #5627
Becky Wilson was boy crazy.
“Don’t freak, but I think I like Adam.” She said it with a sympathy-inducing grin her eyebrows arched in mock-anguish before turning back to the road. I was riding in the passenger seat of her hand-me-down minivan on our way to a chick-flick movie.
“Adam?” Savannah Gregory was in the backseat.
“Yeah…” Becky sighed loudly, and made a right into the theater parking lot.
Savannah and I didn’t really have anything to say about Becky’s undying love for Adam. Everyone on the news team already knew. Becky had been gifted with the inability to conceal her true emotions. What you saw was what you got. Thus she was unable to work on-camera, and had been propelling herself toward becoming a producer.
“I mean, I thought I liked Jason, but I definitely know I like Adam. He’s just so cute!” The news team crew was predominately male. Savannah and Becky only knew each other so well because they were the only girls on crew.
“I mean, isn’t he!?” she gushed.
We shrugged. It was an uncomfortable topic. Adam was considered ambiguously gay.
I was not on crew. I was on-air talent. I read the news on Tuesday nights. Still, I was a non-major of the Mass Comm department, and I didn’t really fit in with the other on-air girls. They were usually blonde, always perky, and only sometimes very good at what they did. I was brunette, more often sarcastically morose, and always very good at doing the news. This is not to say that I could do their jobs today and really be a reporter or an anchor lady, but that in terms of editing and cold reading, I was somewhat exceptional. Okay, I might have been the bomb. I anchored in my first semester of college, having no idea what I was doing, and no experience besides speech and debate.
But it was people like Becky and Savannah that made me want to take another look at Mass Comm. They were close friends. And I hadn’t had close friends since, well, speech and debate.
“Do you really think he likes you back? He did hang out with you a lot.”
“Oh, yeah, Adam and I were like peas in a pod until I thought maybe I liked Jason.”
“Well isn’t it weird that you like Adam now after he knew you liked Jason?”
“He didn’t know I liked Jason.”
Savanah laughed.
“Beck, everyone knew you liked Jason. You still do.”
“I do not!”
They were so funny together.
“I think Jason’s kinda cute. In maybe a nerdy sort of way,” I chimed in.
The two girls looked at me from their seats in the car before squealing with girly glee.
“You like Jason!?”—
--“I know right?!”
I laughed half at their reactions, and half because I had never admitted this.
“He’s sort of shy and quiet, but really funny,” I said through my grin.
Jason had a “late night” show on the campus tv-news station. He was so quiet during the day, and then all of a sudden at 9pm on Thursdays he was Letterman, wearing artsy glasses and a blazer with elbow patches.
“I remember thinking that about Tim.” Savannah had a boyfriend who also worked crew. They had been together for over a year, and were very nearly attached at the hip.
“That he was nerdy, or shy and funny?” Becky snorted.
She was a collection of characteristics that could be both charming, and obnoxious.
“That he was shy and funny.”
“Is he still shy and funny?” I asked.
“Funny, yes. Shy, no. He pushed me off the bed yesterday. We were joking around and he pushed me so hard that I actually fell and busted my elbow a little bit.”
“Tim! What a jerk!” Becky said, smiling. “Did you hit him back?”
“I got him good.”
Unlike Savannah, Becky, bed, and boy, were not three words that had ever been said at the same time. She was just hopelessly awkward when she was trying to hide something, and the feeling could be exponentially multiplied if she was trying to suggest something. Instead of subtlety, Becky was blessed with candor. Her obvious nature made her a danger zone for most guys, and she seemed never able to gain the experience that could make her “cool.”
Savannah, Becky, and I walked toward the ticket line outside the theater. The two girls were not blonde or unusually perky. They were real, and I liked that. They were also very different from me. And as I checked my phone for the tenth time to see if anyone had called, I knew I could never really be close with them.
I didn’t want to talk about who Becky liked, or what Savannah’s boyfriend had done the other day. I wanted to hunt down Jason myself, if I had to. I’d much rather have been at the movies with him or whomever else I was waiting to hear from. It was almost less pressure to be with boys, because dates were easy. It was being with these girls that was hard. I had to fit in, say the right things. Girls didn’t give you brownie points for being pretty. You had to be the right kind of person.
I guess I just never felt like I was.
Becky is a producer now. Savannah married Tim. I still wonder if I could have been friends with them if I had only had the right things in common.
And I wonder if I wouldn’t be wishing this stupid copier in front of my cubicle a death threat if I had only been a Mass Comm major. Is there really only one version of yourself that can find true happiness? Did I miss that turn on my GPS or something?
“Don’t freak, but I think I like Adam.” She said it with a sympathy-inducing grin her eyebrows arched in mock-anguish before turning back to the road. I was riding in the passenger seat of her hand-me-down minivan on our way to a chick-flick movie.
“Adam?” Savannah Gregory was in the backseat.
“Yeah…” Becky sighed loudly, and made a right into the theater parking lot.
Savannah and I didn’t really have anything to say about Becky’s undying love for Adam. Everyone on the news team already knew. Becky had been gifted with the inability to conceal her true emotions. What you saw was what you got. Thus she was unable to work on-camera, and had been propelling herself toward becoming a producer.
“I mean, I thought I liked Jason, but I definitely know I like Adam. He’s just so cute!” The news team crew was predominately male. Savannah and Becky only knew each other so well because they were the only girls on crew.
“I mean, isn’t he!?” she gushed.
We shrugged. It was an uncomfortable topic. Adam was considered ambiguously gay.
I was not on crew. I was on-air talent. I read the news on Tuesday nights. Still, I was a non-major of the Mass Comm department, and I didn’t really fit in with the other on-air girls. They were usually blonde, always perky, and only sometimes very good at what they did. I was brunette, more often sarcastically morose, and always very good at doing the news. This is not to say that I could do their jobs today and really be a reporter or an anchor lady, but that in terms of editing and cold reading, I was somewhat exceptional. Okay, I might have been the bomb. I anchored in my first semester of college, having no idea what I was doing, and no experience besides speech and debate.
But it was people like Becky and Savannah that made me want to take another look at Mass Comm. They were close friends. And I hadn’t had close friends since, well, speech and debate.
“Do you really think he likes you back? He did hang out with you a lot.”
“Oh, yeah, Adam and I were like peas in a pod until I thought maybe I liked Jason.”
“Well isn’t it weird that you like Adam now after he knew you liked Jason?”
“He didn’t know I liked Jason.”
Savanah laughed.
“Beck, everyone knew you liked Jason. You still do.”
“I do not!”
They were so funny together.
“I think Jason’s kinda cute. In maybe a nerdy sort of way,” I chimed in.
The two girls looked at me from their seats in the car before squealing with girly glee.
“You like Jason!?”—
--“I know right?!”
I laughed half at their reactions, and half because I had never admitted this.
“He’s sort of shy and quiet, but really funny,” I said through my grin.
Jason had a “late night” show on the campus tv-news station. He was so quiet during the day, and then all of a sudden at 9pm on Thursdays he was Letterman, wearing artsy glasses and a blazer with elbow patches.
“I remember thinking that about Tim.” Savannah had a boyfriend who also worked crew. They had been together for over a year, and were very nearly attached at the hip.
“That he was nerdy, or shy and funny?” Becky snorted.
She was a collection of characteristics that could be both charming, and obnoxious.
“That he was shy and funny.”
“Is he still shy and funny?” I asked.
“Funny, yes. Shy, no. He pushed me off the bed yesterday. We were joking around and he pushed me so hard that I actually fell and busted my elbow a little bit.”
“Tim! What a jerk!” Becky said, smiling. “Did you hit him back?”
“I got him good.”
Unlike Savannah, Becky, bed, and boy, were not three words that had ever been said at the same time. She was just hopelessly awkward when she was trying to hide something, and the feeling could be exponentially multiplied if she was trying to suggest something. Instead of subtlety, Becky was blessed with candor. Her obvious nature made her a danger zone for most guys, and she seemed never able to gain the experience that could make her “cool.”
Savannah, Becky, and I walked toward the ticket line outside the theater. The two girls were not blonde or unusually perky. They were real, and I liked that. They were also very different from me. And as I checked my phone for the tenth time to see if anyone had called, I knew I could never really be close with them.
I didn’t want to talk about who Becky liked, or what Savannah’s boyfriend had done the other day. I wanted to hunt down Jason myself, if I had to. I’d much rather have been at the movies with him or whomever else I was waiting to hear from. It was almost less pressure to be with boys, because dates were easy. It was being with these girls that was hard. I had to fit in, say the right things. Girls didn’t give you brownie points for being pretty. You had to be the right kind of person.
I guess I just never felt like I was.
Becky is a producer now. Savannah married Tim. I still wonder if I could have been friends with them if I had only had the right things in common.
And I wonder if I wouldn’t be wishing this stupid copier in front of my cubicle a death threat if I had only been a Mass Comm major. Is there really only one version of yourself that can find true happiness? Did I miss that turn on my GPS or something?
Brian Who Flaked #0393
“Hey, everybody! Get with this girl, so she’ll like you!” He trudged across the yard to his car. “Whore.”
As soon as I heard it come out of his mouth, I had a moment. Like one second I was in idle, swimming in the shock of it all, and the next, I was shooting like a bolt of lightning toward him across the grass. Other kids at the party stopped what they were doing, if they hadn’t already. “Oh, snap.” I heard someone say. I didn’t stop. My heart was thudding away; I couldn’t control myself. My stomach contorted into a twisted knot of rage as I flew towards him.
*************************************************
Brian Gary was a boy with two first names who lived on campus where I went to college. He lived across the building from me, and we bumped into each other several times. I worked the front desk of our residence hall, which really meant I kept a watchful eye out for people sneaking in or out, and called a Resident Assistant if anyone happened to report large quantities of blood or feces anywhere.
“Hi.”
I looked up from my copy of Winesburg, Ohio to see Brian staring at me across the desk.
“Hi.” I looked back down. “Can I help you with anything?”
“What are you reading?”
“Winesburg, Ohio.”
“No, what are you reading?”
“Winesburg, Ohio.”
I could feel his confusion at my Who’s-On-First answer so I looked back up.
“It’s a collection of short stories by Sherwood Anderson. He taught Faulkner how to be Faulkner. He’s the inventor of Southern Gothic. He’s… It’s a good book.”
“Cool. Hey, what’s your name?”
Brian was twenty-five and an aerospace major. He didn’t look either of these things. He had thick-lensed prescription glasses that made his eyes look small and squinty. When he took them off, he looked like a timid little mole rat blinking at you, half blind. He had psoriasis around his hairline and terrible dandruff in his scalp. He had prescription creams on the bedside table in his dorm room, and I shuddered to think of what evil residues lurked in the fabrics of his pillow. His room was a single, meaning he had no roommate. It was furnished with staple dorm furniture intended for two, and a futon that his mom had bought him for the first apartment he had never procured. He liked Seinfeld, non-fiction, and ramen with shrimp.
We watched television for hours and I discovered too late that he was a terrible kisser. He took his glasses off to do so, and the whole mole rat thing was just too much. His hair was a course shock of black. Totally disappointing to the touch. He was one-sixteenth American Indian and I didn’t know the rest of his ethnic background, but in a first for me, I didn’t care. I didn’t want to know. All I wanted to do was get rid of the sick feeling I felt when I stared at the imperfections I couldn’t get past.
I was a bitch. Sure.
“Why are you being so weird?”
We sat outside the backdoor of our building, on the concrete steps, both of us staring at the mud.
“I don’t know. I’m not being weird. I’m just being me. Maybe I feel weird.” I felt like he kept edging toward me. I made no move to stop it, but the whole gesture just seemed so pathetic and clingy that I wanted to shake free of it, of all of him. I wanted to stand up and away out of his petty reach.
“I don’t think you’re acting like you used to. Is something wrong?”
I looked up at him, and the pleading look in his eyes behind those thick little glasses. Screw it. I’d just tell him the truth.
“I can feel myself doing it again.” I looked back down at the mud.
“Doing what?”
“It seems like, every time, I’ll start a relationship, and then something happens. I either become dominated or I dominate. Neither is healthy, of course, but its always one or the other! And-- I think I’m just going into bitch mode on you.” I laughed a little helpless laugh. I knew this would set him off a bit, but I really only anticipated his little hopes to be crushed. I didn’t expect anything more than a dejected look.
“Dominate? What, you’re dominating me?”
“No. I’m just... I’m being a bitch about it. Something in me is destroying this thing we have.”
“This thing we have?”
He looked at the ground between his knees. His face was all tense and rigid. Still. And yet I sensed a movement behind it all. He stood up.
“As far as I’m concerned, we don’t have anything.” He spat the words.
“Okay.” I looked up, masking my ripple of surprise. I wanted to smirk, and play innocent at the same time.
“All right!” And he walked off around the corner of the building with his head up high, like some kind of super hero. ‘Wounded Pride!’ I thought to myself. ‘Great Indian name for poor Brian.’
We didn’t see each other for the next two days unless I was working the front desk and he happened to walk through. He would nod at me, like I was some comrade Homeboy or something. Maybe it cracked me up a little too much.
I didn’t flinch when he declared that he would come with my friend and I to a party I made plans to go to while working the desk.
“What’s with him?” Josh asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think I made him mad.”
************************************************
“Hey, everybody! Get with this girl, so she’ll like you!” He trudged across the yard to his car. “Whore.”
He had been giving me the evil eye all night, and it had finally come to this. His lecture to me from an adjacent folding chair on the smoking porch of some stranger’s house, filled with strange people, had been horrifying. It was something I couldn’t make stop. I couldn’t argue back. Public humiliation is always like this. Whether the one humiliating you is your family member, or some guy you thought you knew. You have to sit quiet and wait for it to be over.
But he’d pulled the right trigger.
As soon as I heard it come out of his mouth, I had a moment. Like one second I was in idle, swimming in the shock of it all, and the next, I was shooting like a bolt of lightning toward him across the grass. Other kids at the party stopped what they were doing, if they hadn’t already. “Oh, snap.” I heard someone say. I didn’t stop. My heart was thudding away; I couldn’t control myself. My stomach contorted into a twisted knot of rage as I flew towards him. I lunged at him for all the humiliation I’d ever felt and I’d ever tried to force myself through quietly.
“Just who the hell do you think you are? You’re damn right I didn’t give a shit about you. Who would? You don’t even know me. You wanna tell me who I am? I’ll tell you what you are. You’re just a drunk, twenty-five-year-old, college student loser. Your life doesn’t mean shit and it never will. And how DARE you call me that!”
I slapped him across the face as hard as I could.
For a single beat I stood shaking, not knowing what to do next. I thought maybe I wanted him to hit me back. I heard the witnesses behind me go quiet, but only for a split second.
“You are so lucky you’re a girl right now it’s not funny!” He got right up in my face. “I’d beat the shit out of you.”
He stepped back and opened the door to his car.
“You really think you’re something, huh?” He got into his car laughing this awful, mean laugh. It made my stomach turn.
Then he drove away while I stood shaking in the tall, wet grass watching his red taillights disappear down the road.
I think it ended like all humiliations end, too.I smiled a little bit, still shaking, and walked back to the party, pretending nothing had happened at all.
As soon as I heard it come out of his mouth, I had a moment. Like one second I was in idle, swimming in the shock of it all, and the next, I was shooting like a bolt of lightning toward him across the grass. Other kids at the party stopped what they were doing, if they hadn’t already. “Oh, snap.” I heard someone say. I didn’t stop. My heart was thudding away; I couldn’t control myself. My stomach contorted into a twisted knot of rage as I flew towards him.
*************************************************
Brian Gary was a boy with two first names who lived on campus where I went to college. He lived across the building from me, and we bumped into each other several times. I worked the front desk of our residence hall, which really meant I kept a watchful eye out for people sneaking in or out, and called a Resident Assistant if anyone happened to report large quantities of blood or feces anywhere.
“Hi.”
I looked up from my copy of Winesburg, Ohio to see Brian staring at me across the desk.
“Hi.” I looked back down. “Can I help you with anything?”
“What are you reading?”
“Winesburg, Ohio.”
“No, what are you reading?”
“Winesburg, Ohio.”
I could feel his confusion at my Who’s-On-First answer so I looked back up.
“It’s a collection of short stories by Sherwood Anderson. He taught Faulkner how to be Faulkner. He’s the inventor of Southern Gothic. He’s… It’s a good book.”
“Cool. Hey, what’s your name?”
Brian was twenty-five and an aerospace major. He didn’t look either of these things. He had thick-lensed prescription glasses that made his eyes look small and squinty. When he took them off, he looked like a timid little mole rat blinking at you, half blind. He had psoriasis around his hairline and terrible dandruff in his scalp. He had prescription creams on the bedside table in his dorm room, and I shuddered to think of what evil residues lurked in the fabrics of his pillow. His room was a single, meaning he had no roommate. It was furnished with staple dorm furniture intended for two, and a futon that his mom had bought him for the first apartment he had never procured. He liked Seinfeld, non-fiction, and ramen with shrimp.
We watched television for hours and I discovered too late that he was a terrible kisser. He took his glasses off to do so, and the whole mole rat thing was just too much. His hair was a course shock of black. Totally disappointing to the touch. He was one-sixteenth American Indian and I didn’t know the rest of his ethnic background, but in a first for me, I didn’t care. I didn’t want to know. All I wanted to do was get rid of the sick feeling I felt when I stared at the imperfections I couldn’t get past.
I was a bitch. Sure.
“Why are you being so weird?”
We sat outside the backdoor of our building, on the concrete steps, both of us staring at the mud.
“I don’t know. I’m not being weird. I’m just being me. Maybe I feel weird.” I felt like he kept edging toward me. I made no move to stop it, but the whole gesture just seemed so pathetic and clingy that I wanted to shake free of it, of all of him. I wanted to stand up and away out of his petty reach.
“I don’t think you’re acting like you used to. Is something wrong?”
I looked up at him, and the pleading look in his eyes behind those thick little glasses. Screw it. I’d just tell him the truth.
“I can feel myself doing it again.” I looked back down at the mud.
“Doing what?”
“It seems like, every time, I’ll start a relationship, and then something happens. I either become dominated or I dominate. Neither is healthy, of course, but its always one or the other! And-- I think I’m just going into bitch mode on you.” I laughed a little helpless laugh. I knew this would set him off a bit, but I really only anticipated his little hopes to be crushed. I didn’t expect anything more than a dejected look.
“Dominate? What, you’re dominating me?”
“No. I’m just... I’m being a bitch about it. Something in me is destroying this thing we have.”
“This thing we have?”
He looked at the ground between his knees. His face was all tense and rigid. Still. And yet I sensed a movement behind it all. He stood up.
“As far as I’m concerned, we don’t have anything.” He spat the words.
“Okay.” I looked up, masking my ripple of surprise. I wanted to smirk, and play innocent at the same time.
“All right!” And he walked off around the corner of the building with his head up high, like some kind of super hero. ‘Wounded Pride!’ I thought to myself. ‘Great Indian name for poor Brian.’
We didn’t see each other for the next two days unless I was working the front desk and he happened to walk through. He would nod at me, like I was some comrade Homeboy or something. Maybe it cracked me up a little too much.
I didn’t flinch when he declared that he would come with my friend and I to a party I made plans to go to while working the desk.
“What’s with him?” Josh asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think I made him mad.”
************************************************
“Hey, everybody! Get with this girl, so she’ll like you!” He trudged across the yard to his car. “Whore.”
He had been giving me the evil eye all night, and it had finally come to this. His lecture to me from an adjacent folding chair on the smoking porch of some stranger’s house, filled with strange people, had been horrifying. It was something I couldn’t make stop. I couldn’t argue back. Public humiliation is always like this. Whether the one humiliating you is your family member, or some guy you thought you knew. You have to sit quiet and wait for it to be over.
But he’d pulled the right trigger.
As soon as I heard it come out of his mouth, I had a moment. Like one second I was in idle, swimming in the shock of it all, and the next, I was shooting like a bolt of lightning toward him across the grass. Other kids at the party stopped what they were doing, if they hadn’t already. “Oh, snap.” I heard someone say. I didn’t stop. My heart was thudding away; I couldn’t control myself. My stomach contorted into a twisted knot of rage as I flew towards him. I lunged at him for all the humiliation I’d ever felt and I’d ever tried to force myself through quietly.
“Just who the hell do you think you are? You’re damn right I didn’t give a shit about you. Who would? You don’t even know me. You wanna tell me who I am? I’ll tell you what you are. You’re just a drunk, twenty-five-year-old, college student loser. Your life doesn’t mean shit and it never will. And how DARE you call me that!”
I slapped him across the face as hard as I could.
For a single beat I stood shaking, not knowing what to do next. I thought maybe I wanted him to hit me back. I heard the witnesses behind me go quiet, but only for a split second.
“You are so lucky you’re a girl right now it’s not funny!” He got right up in my face. “I’d beat the shit out of you.”
He stepped back and opened the door to his car.
“You really think you’re something, huh?” He got into his car laughing this awful, mean laugh. It made my stomach turn.
Then he drove away while I stood shaking in the tall, wet grass watching his red taillights disappear down the road.
I think it ended like all humiliations end, too.I smiled a little bit, still shaking, and walked back to the party, pretending nothing had happened at all.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Agree-Monster, Mrs. Barnes #9893
Overbrook High was a good school when I went there. There were AP classes, and Honors classes, and a film class, and an Orchestra class, and we had a nationally competitive Speech and Debate team. I involved myself in all five of these things that I thought made Overbrook great.
The place was built to hold half the population it did when I went there. In fact, my mother had gone to the same school some thirty-five years before me with a much smaller student body. Her yearbooks looked like pamphlets compared to mine.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?”
Mrs. Barnes had also graduated from Overbrook High. Only her class had been the first to go all the way through the school when it was brand new, and a mint green wall color was called innovative instead of nauseating.
“Nothing.” I had frozen with my hand in front of the controls to the popcorn machine.
“That’s right. You’re not burning anything tonight, missy. Go be Nacho Nelly.”
Mrs. Barnes was not only a year-one graduate of Overbrook, she taught there, too. She was both a Geometry teacher, and the school’s Debate coach. It just so happened, that during basketball season, she was also the manager at the concessions stand where our Speech team got to keep half the proceeds. Which was why I found myself laboriously prying open a gallon tin of Nacho Cheese and scraping it out into a crock-pot that had probably never been clean.
“Kunal, you can be the Popcorn Prince tonight.”
“Yesssssss.” Popcorn Prince or Princess was the job that required the least amount of cleanup. Unfortunately, you also had to be good at knowing when to add what.
“Hellllooooo?!” Shayna was obviously perturbed. “I always get to be Popcorn Princess. It’s like, my job.”
“Exactly.” Mrs. Barnes turned from where she was leaning up against the counter. “We’re switching it up tonight. Kunal is Popcorn Prince. You get to be… cashier.”
Shayna frowned and moved over toward the cashbox.
“How come cashier doesn’t get a cool name?” She muttered.
Shayna and Kunal were on the Speech team with me. Kunal was a state championship debater, and Shayna and I were sophomores. We did interpretation events and practiced rote memorization while conjuring wildly ridiculous emotions. It was like competitive acting. We were good at it so far, and we liked it. But while we weren’t state champions yet, we found ourselves loving the part of Speech Team that meant we got to stare at older, talented guys like Kunal wearing three piece suits.
“Hey, watch it, Kunal, you’re going to get oil on me!” …or maybe not like Kunal.
Kunal was Bengali, which meant that he could grow a full beard and mustache at his seventeen years of age. He had made this unusual fashion statement his trademark, and it gave him an edge while he made Marxist comments in his AP government class. He looked like a forty-year-old man trapped in a seventeen-year-old boy’s body, and sometimes in the midst of a particularly heated rebuttal he sounded like one too.
Shayna and I were pretty close to being best friends. We had been competing in speech events since we were thirteen, and we had a lot in common. Shayna was trend sensitive and colorful. She liked shopping, sports, accessories, and winning speech trophies.
“Hey, are you going to Homecoming?” Shayna also liked boys.
“I don’t think so,” I twisted the knob on the crock-pot all the way to the right. “I went last year and it really wasn’t fun. The only interesting thing that happened was that Darius Palmer wore a dress.” Darius had slowly become more and more female since he’d first arrived in our seventh grade class. It had taken him three and a half years, but he was now considered a flamer, and was unmistakably gay.
“Yeah, but you could go with Russ. Talk about accessorizing!”
“I don’t know. We might find something better to do that night than freeze our butts off in the bleachers at homecoming.” Something better like lay around in the grass, I thought. Russ and I had been dating for a bit less than a year, but we were linked like an old married couple as far as Speech team was concerned. Russ was the captain of the Brickmore High School team. Brickmore was down the street from Overbrook, but several busy intersections separated it from Metro County, meaning it was securely rooted in the new money suburb of Brickmore itself. Russ’s family owned stock in soft drinks that dated back almost a hundred years. They were worth significantly more than my parents.
“It should be a crime to make us wear all these pretty dresses to go to some dance-type function and then hold it outside so we all cover up with coats.” Shayna dipped a chip into my now luke warm nacho cheese and popped it into her mouth before Mrs. Barnes could look.
Hm. It might be too cold to lie out in the grass.
Russ’s house in Brickmore had a creek running behind it. You could walk along the creek until there was an open space and a clearing containing some kind of large electrical box servicing his subdivision. We liked to go there and lay out in the grass staring at the sky and holding hands. We walked there those days because the last time we had taken Russ’s car, we’d found his father and a police car next to it when we got back. The owners of the house we parked it in front of had called the police to have it removed from their property. On the drive back, I distinctly heard his father refer to me under his breath as “jail bait,” and since then I was attempting to present a Brickmore-acceptable version of myself anytime I saw Russ.
It wouldn’t stop me from lying in the grass with him, though.
“You girls talking about Homecoming?”
We both turned around to see Mrs. Barnes leaning against the frame of the side door to the concessions stand. She always seemed to be leaning against something.
“Yeah.”
It might have had to do with the fact that age had not exactly been kind to her body. Though after all, she was the one of the flagship graduates of the smelly public school we were now standing in.
“You girls know something? I bet you’d never guess now, but when I was in school, I was on the homecoming court.”
“Really?” I could believe it. Mrs. Barnes had a face with soft features. At sixteen, this was the sole factor by which I determined whether someone had once been beautiful.
“Yes. And Mr. Barnes escorted me.”
“Oh! How cute!” Shayna clasped her hands in girly glee.
“Are you girls going?” I was surprised she was interested. Mrs. Barnes was the Dragon Lady. She wasn’t exactly the kind to buddy up with students. She was more likely to yell at you while making a facial expression akin to a screaming teapot than to ask you questions about a meaningless social function.
“She’s not going,” Shayna pointed at me before looking away and straightening two boxes of candy that weren’t centered on the back shelf.
“Yeah, I went last year. It was kinda boring.”
“If you did go,” Mrs. Barnes was interested in my social life? “You’d be going with Russ Walker?”
“Well, yes. We’ll probably do something else that night, though.” I wanted to keep my name linked with his. I didn’t want her to think I wasn’t with him at all. Russ was, after all, pretty dreamy. And talented. And perfect.
Mrs. Barnes looked absently over at Kunal filling bag after bag of yellow popcorn.
“I might go with Chase Miller,” Shayna had to be included. “He goes to my church.”
“Don’t get too wrapped up in that boy,” Mrs. Barnes said to me suddenly.
“…Oh, I’m not.” But I was, of course. I wanted to marry that boy. I thought about it all the time. I tacked Walker on the end of my name constantly just to see how it would look and how it would sound.
“She wants to marry him!” Ah, Shayna, ever the enthusiast. “You married Mr. Barnes, didn’t you? She’s going to marry Russ, and the circle will be complete! It’s a reincarnation of love!”
Mrs. Barnes looked away from Kunal and back at us. She actually looked a little bit sad.
“I did marry Mr. Barnes, but not right away.”
“Like after college?” Shayna asked.
“No.” She turned back to Kunal. “Don’t start more yet! Where would you put it? Think before you do something that’ll waste team money!” Kunal put down the container of popcorn kernels and sighed.
“So when did you marry him?” Shayna and I still wanted to know.
“I got married nearly out of high school. But it wasn’t to Mr. Barnes.”
“Oh,” we both said.
“That’s why some of my books, if you’re looking on maybe the top of that bookshelf, say Bethany Anders on the binding.”
“I thought Anders was your maiden name?” I asked.
“It was my married name. The first one.”
“What happened?” Shayna asked, and I elbowed her.
“Oh,” Mrs. Barnes turned and opened the cashbox, “I only did it to get away from home. I was very young. Back then a girl couldn’t move out on her own. I just got married.”
“Wow. You make it sound so easy!” Shayna handed her the roll of quarters she was reaching for on the bottom shelf below the counter. “Like… finding a husband is like grocery shopping.”
“Oh, it’s not hard at all,” she said, breaking the quarters open on the edge of the counter with a loud pop.
“Not hard?” I asked. “Isn’t it, though?” It was hard for my parents to stay married, I thought. They didn’t agree on anything lately. They were hardly around each other. I felt like they were hardly around me. As a unit, anyway.
“Girls, it’s not hard to be married. At all. It’s easy, actually, to agree, to get along, in a marriage.”
“It is?” It just didn’t make sense to me.
“Yes, it’s easy to be married. It’s hard to be happily married.”
And this was the one thing that I remember most of Mrs. Barnes.
She said that, and I thought, great! It’ll be easy for me to marry Russ and be happily ever after. Domestic bliss is only a few years away, I thought, and we’ll be together all the time, as adults in our adult lives!
What I didn’t bank on was the fact that in those few years I was marking off day by day, I would still be immature, wild, and overly imaginative. I wouldn’t understand the world the way I was so sure I did then. My parents would be divorced, and I’d be chasing guy after guy, so desperately trying to agree, to get along, just like Mrs. Barnes said, that in the end I’d forget who I was completely and agree so much and so often that I wouldn’t remember anything about what I wanted.
Maybe that was why Mrs. Barnes went back and found Mr. Barnes, her high school sweetheart. Maybe she didn’t get to become anything, since what she became was an agree-monster. Coming back into yourself is hard. I watched my mother try to do it five years after Mrs. Barnes told us her story at the concessions stand.
Mrs. Barnes doesn’t teach at Overbrook anymore. And I didn’t realize how much I would miss that school until I left. But that’s how all important things are missed. Nostalgia happens suddenly, and keenly, and without warning or premeditation.
The distinct smell of old library books mingled with the scent of a thousand musty cafeteria lunches made me want to cry the next time I visited Mrs. Barnes’ room after high school. It met me at the door like a permeable wall of memories. I felt like I was looking back at myself in some sort of Dickensian High School Christmas Carol.
Yeah, Zac Efron, try starring in that.
The place was built to hold half the population it did when I went there. In fact, my mother had gone to the same school some thirty-five years before me with a much smaller student body. Her yearbooks looked like pamphlets compared to mine.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?”
Mrs. Barnes had also graduated from Overbrook High. Only her class had been the first to go all the way through the school when it was brand new, and a mint green wall color was called innovative instead of nauseating.
“Nothing.” I had frozen with my hand in front of the controls to the popcorn machine.
“That’s right. You’re not burning anything tonight, missy. Go be Nacho Nelly.”
Mrs. Barnes was not only a year-one graduate of Overbrook, she taught there, too. She was both a Geometry teacher, and the school’s Debate coach. It just so happened, that during basketball season, she was also the manager at the concessions stand where our Speech team got to keep half the proceeds. Which was why I found myself laboriously prying open a gallon tin of Nacho Cheese and scraping it out into a crock-pot that had probably never been clean.
“Kunal, you can be the Popcorn Prince tonight.”
“Yesssssss.” Popcorn Prince or Princess was the job that required the least amount of cleanup. Unfortunately, you also had to be good at knowing when to add what.
“Hellllooooo?!” Shayna was obviously perturbed. “I always get to be Popcorn Princess. It’s like, my job.”
“Exactly.” Mrs. Barnes turned from where she was leaning up against the counter. “We’re switching it up tonight. Kunal is Popcorn Prince. You get to be… cashier.”
Shayna frowned and moved over toward the cashbox.
“How come cashier doesn’t get a cool name?” She muttered.
Shayna and Kunal were on the Speech team with me. Kunal was a state championship debater, and Shayna and I were sophomores. We did interpretation events and practiced rote memorization while conjuring wildly ridiculous emotions. It was like competitive acting. We were good at it so far, and we liked it. But while we weren’t state champions yet, we found ourselves loving the part of Speech Team that meant we got to stare at older, talented guys like Kunal wearing three piece suits.
“Hey, watch it, Kunal, you’re going to get oil on me!” …or maybe not like Kunal.
Kunal was Bengali, which meant that he could grow a full beard and mustache at his seventeen years of age. He had made this unusual fashion statement his trademark, and it gave him an edge while he made Marxist comments in his AP government class. He looked like a forty-year-old man trapped in a seventeen-year-old boy’s body, and sometimes in the midst of a particularly heated rebuttal he sounded like one too.
Shayna and I were pretty close to being best friends. We had been competing in speech events since we were thirteen, and we had a lot in common. Shayna was trend sensitive and colorful. She liked shopping, sports, accessories, and winning speech trophies.
“Hey, are you going to Homecoming?” Shayna also liked boys.
“I don’t think so,” I twisted the knob on the crock-pot all the way to the right. “I went last year and it really wasn’t fun. The only interesting thing that happened was that Darius Palmer wore a dress.” Darius had slowly become more and more female since he’d first arrived in our seventh grade class. It had taken him three and a half years, but he was now considered a flamer, and was unmistakably gay.
“Yeah, but you could go with Russ. Talk about accessorizing!”
“I don’t know. We might find something better to do that night than freeze our butts off in the bleachers at homecoming.” Something better like lay around in the grass, I thought. Russ and I had been dating for a bit less than a year, but we were linked like an old married couple as far as Speech team was concerned. Russ was the captain of the Brickmore High School team. Brickmore was down the street from Overbrook, but several busy intersections separated it from Metro County, meaning it was securely rooted in the new money suburb of Brickmore itself. Russ’s family owned stock in soft drinks that dated back almost a hundred years. They were worth significantly more than my parents.
“It should be a crime to make us wear all these pretty dresses to go to some dance-type function and then hold it outside so we all cover up with coats.” Shayna dipped a chip into my now luke warm nacho cheese and popped it into her mouth before Mrs. Barnes could look.
Hm. It might be too cold to lie out in the grass.
Russ’s house in Brickmore had a creek running behind it. You could walk along the creek until there was an open space and a clearing containing some kind of large electrical box servicing his subdivision. We liked to go there and lay out in the grass staring at the sky and holding hands. We walked there those days because the last time we had taken Russ’s car, we’d found his father and a police car next to it when we got back. The owners of the house we parked it in front of had called the police to have it removed from their property. On the drive back, I distinctly heard his father refer to me under his breath as “jail bait,” and since then I was attempting to present a Brickmore-acceptable version of myself anytime I saw Russ.
It wouldn’t stop me from lying in the grass with him, though.
“You girls talking about Homecoming?”
We both turned around to see Mrs. Barnes leaning against the frame of the side door to the concessions stand. She always seemed to be leaning against something.
“Yeah.”
It might have had to do with the fact that age had not exactly been kind to her body. Though after all, she was the one of the flagship graduates of the smelly public school we were now standing in.
“You girls know something? I bet you’d never guess now, but when I was in school, I was on the homecoming court.”
“Really?” I could believe it. Mrs. Barnes had a face with soft features. At sixteen, this was the sole factor by which I determined whether someone had once been beautiful.
“Yes. And Mr. Barnes escorted me.”
“Oh! How cute!” Shayna clasped her hands in girly glee.
“Are you girls going?” I was surprised she was interested. Mrs. Barnes was the Dragon Lady. She wasn’t exactly the kind to buddy up with students. She was more likely to yell at you while making a facial expression akin to a screaming teapot than to ask you questions about a meaningless social function.
“She’s not going,” Shayna pointed at me before looking away and straightening two boxes of candy that weren’t centered on the back shelf.
“Yeah, I went last year. It was kinda boring.”
“If you did go,” Mrs. Barnes was interested in my social life? “You’d be going with Russ Walker?”
“Well, yes. We’ll probably do something else that night, though.” I wanted to keep my name linked with his. I didn’t want her to think I wasn’t with him at all. Russ was, after all, pretty dreamy. And talented. And perfect.
Mrs. Barnes looked absently over at Kunal filling bag after bag of yellow popcorn.
“I might go with Chase Miller,” Shayna had to be included. “He goes to my church.”
“Don’t get too wrapped up in that boy,” Mrs. Barnes said to me suddenly.
“…Oh, I’m not.” But I was, of course. I wanted to marry that boy. I thought about it all the time. I tacked Walker on the end of my name constantly just to see how it would look and how it would sound.
“She wants to marry him!” Ah, Shayna, ever the enthusiast. “You married Mr. Barnes, didn’t you? She’s going to marry Russ, and the circle will be complete! It’s a reincarnation of love!”
Mrs. Barnes looked away from Kunal and back at us. She actually looked a little bit sad.
“I did marry Mr. Barnes, but not right away.”
“Like after college?” Shayna asked.
“No.” She turned back to Kunal. “Don’t start more yet! Where would you put it? Think before you do something that’ll waste team money!” Kunal put down the container of popcorn kernels and sighed.
“So when did you marry him?” Shayna and I still wanted to know.
“I got married nearly out of high school. But it wasn’t to Mr. Barnes.”
“Oh,” we both said.
“That’s why some of my books, if you’re looking on maybe the top of that bookshelf, say Bethany Anders on the binding.”
“I thought Anders was your maiden name?” I asked.
“It was my married name. The first one.”
“What happened?” Shayna asked, and I elbowed her.
“Oh,” Mrs. Barnes turned and opened the cashbox, “I only did it to get away from home. I was very young. Back then a girl couldn’t move out on her own. I just got married.”
“Wow. You make it sound so easy!” Shayna handed her the roll of quarters she was reaching for on the bottom shelf below the counter. “Like… finding a husband is like grocery shopping.”
“Oh, it’s not hard at all,” she said, breaking the quarters open on the edge of the counter with a loud pop.
“Not hard?” I asked. “Isn’t it, though?” It was hard for my parents to stay married, I thought. They didn’t agree on anything lately. They were hardly around each other. I felt like they were hardly around me. As a unit, anyway.
“Girls, it’s not hard to be married. At all. It’s easy, actually, to agree, to get along, in a marriage.”
“It is?” It just didn’t make sense to me.
“Yes, it’s easy to be married. It’s hard to be happily married.”
And this was the one thing that I remember most of Mrs. Barnes.
She said that, and I thought, great! It’ll be easy for me to marry Russ and be happily ever after. Domestic bliss is only a few years away, I thought, and we’ll be together all the time, as adults in our adult lives!
What I didn’t bank on was the fact that in those few years I was marking off day by day, I would still be immature, wild, and overly imaginative. I wouldn’t understand the world the way I was so sure I did then. My parents would be divorced, and I’d be chasing guy after guy, so desperately trying to agree, to get along, just like Mrs. Barnes said, that in the end I’d forget who I was completely and agree so much and so often that I wouldn’t remember anything about what I wanted.
Maybe that was why Mrs. Barnes went back and found Mr. Barnes, her high school sweetheart. Maybe she didn’t get to become anything, since what she became was an agree-monster. Coming back into yourself is hard. I watched my mother try to do it five years after Mrs. Barnes told us her story at the concessions stand.
Mrs. Barnes doesn’t teach at Overbrook anymore. And I didn’t realize how much I would miss that school until I left. But that’s how all important things are missed. Nostalgia happens suddenly, and keenly, and without warning or premeditation.
The distinct smell of old library books mingled with the scent of a thousand musty cafeteria lunches made me want to cry the next time I visited Mrs. Barnes’ room after high school. It met me at the door like a permeable wall of memories. I felt like I was looking back at myself in some sort of Dickensian High School Christmas Carol.
Yeah, Zac Efron, try starring in that.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Zyan Hassan #9184
I met Zyan Hassan at a stoplight on Harding Place.
I didn’t tell anyone this when we started seeing each other.
“Peek Point.”
“Pea pod?”
“Peek Point!”
“Ping pong?”
“Peek Point!”
“…I guess I’ll just recognize it when I see it.”
He was Kurdish. He had a thick accent and had not been in the country for very long. Maybe two years.
His apartment at Peek Point, which I eventually located, smelled thickly of men’s aftershave. You could smell it before you knocked on the door outside on the landing. The permeating smell of this spicy cologne might have been the only thing that continually lingered in his apartment. The place was nearly devoid of furniture. He had a television, and several large woven blankets on which we sat and ate things like cucumber salad and something that looked yellow like eggs but was actually chicken. It was really good.
He explained to me about the different countries that had once been pieces of Kurdistan, and about how traditionally rigid Kurdish values kept one inside a box, maybe, but that the box was safe, happy, and commonly accepted.
I learned to say, “Hi, How are you?” “I’m fine, and how are you?” in Sorani Kurdish.
He continually called me something that meant “beautiful thing of my heart.”
I learned that he’d had a girlfriend who was now married and still called him sometimes begging to run away with him.
He told me my clothes were too tight, and he left me five voicemails one night when I left my phone in the car by accident.
He told me that there was a difference between traditional Kurds and acculturated Kurds. I quickly came to understand that the ones I’d had crushes on in high school were the acculturated kind. He told me they were shameful, insolent, and disrespectful of the religion and the culture from which they came.
One day he made a point to show me a commemorative coin I had never noticed resting on the mantle above his fireplace. It was unusually large. He told me that while he was in Iraq, General Wesley Clark had come to speak to American troops about the war. He handed out some coins, and somehow, the then-presidential hopeful ended up giving a coin to Zyan. He kept going on about how nice General Clark was, what a good man. He held the coin out for me to see grinning, his white teeth and wide eyes a glow with something akin to pride. An Iraqi boy with an American General’s coin.
“Help me with this?”
He sat crouched on the floor of his Peek Point apartment with a thick white form paper in front of him.
“What is it?” I put my bag down next to the door and came to sit beside him.
“It’s a form so that I become a military interpreter.” He held the paper up in the light and squinted at it. “What does this mean?”
He pointed to the words “Social Security Number”, and I knew I would be there a while.
Zyan wanted to go back to Iraq in a safe way. He wanted to stop cleaning office buildings after dark, stop working at his friend’s hamburger joint, stop driving a car that smelled like french fries. He didn’t have much that other people didn’t. He didn’t have education, a degree, any technical training. He didn’t even have an extended family here like most immigrants you see clumped together in certain parts of the city. He did have one thing though; he was tri-lingual. Aside from English and his native language, he spoke Arabic. And in 2005, knowing Arabic could make you a living.
Eventually I viewed his near-fail pass of the ASVAB as a quick out for me. If he went into the military, and back to Iraq, I wouldn’t have to sit there calling him every time I went somewhere. Before long it was clear that I was going to break up with him.
Clear to me, anyway.
“What… why?”
“Because.” I pressed the phone tighter against my ear and cupped my hand around the receiver. “We don’t have the same values. We’re not in the same place in our lives.”
“What is value?”
I sighed, and crossed the kitchen to stare out at my mother’s backyard.
“We’re not in the same place in our lives,” I repeated.
“But, I—I never tell you this, but—I love you.”
A little late for that one!
“Oh… I’m sorry. I have to go.”
I was annoyed by the whole thing. I hate break ups. I always tried to get them over with as quickly as possible and start thinking about what I was going to do the next day, the next hour, the next five minutes. It was much easier to decide to make grilled cheese than to figure out what I could do to make things easier for someone else.
If I always had something to do, I wouldn’t remember what their face looked like, or their voice sounded like, when I told them I’d rather make a sandwich than be with them.
Zyan came back from Iraq a year later. He was thirty pounds lighter, and I thought twice before telling him I was practically engaged to Miguel Morales. Zyan didn’t like the military. His English still wasn’t that great, and he never saw General Wesley Clark. I pictured him crouching in the sand like Geraldo, trying to explain something to US Military personnel. He wanted to date me again. Instead he went back to cleaning offices and working at a gas station.
I sincerely hope he kept his faith. People with principles, even ones that don’t make sense to me, are hard to come by these days. It’s 2009 and I’ve only met a few people since then that have matched the intensity of his beliefs. That’s admirable.
Sometimes, someone will walk by me wearing a certain scent of men’s cologne, and my brain will literally drop everything. Before I know it, I’m back on that landing outside his second floor apartment at Peek Point. Scent really is the strongest link to memory.
I didn’t tell anyone this when we started seeing each other.
“Peek Point.”
“Pea pod?”
“Peek Point!”
“Ping pong?”
“Peek Point!”
“…I guess I’ll just recognize it when I see it.”
He was Kurdish. He had a thick accent and had not been in the country for very long. Maybe two years.
His apartment at Peek Point, which I eventually located, smelled thickly of men’s aftershave. You could smell it before you knocked on the door outside on the landing. The permeating smell of this spicy cologne might have been the only thing that continually lingered in his apartment. The place was nearly devoid of furniture. He had a television, and several large woven blankets on which we sat and ate things like cucumber salad and something that looked yellow like eggs but was actually chicken. It was really good.
He explained to me about the different countries that had once been pieces of Kurdistan, and about how traditionally rigid Kurdish values kept one inside a box, maybe, but that the box was safe, happy, and commonly accepted.
I learned to say, “Hi, How are you?” “I’m fine, and how are you?” in Sorani Kurdish.
He continually called me something that meant “beautiful thing of my heart.”
I learned that he’d had a girlfriend who was now married and still called him sometimes begging to run away with him.
He told me my clothes were too tight, and he left me five voicemails one night when I left my phone in the car by accident.
He told me that there was a difference between traditional Kurds and acculturated Kurds. I quickly came to understand that the ones I’d had crushes on in high school were the acculturated kind. He told me they were shameful, insolent, and disrespectful of the religion and the culture from which they came.
One day he made a point to show me a commemorative coin I had never noticed resting on the mantle above his fireplace. It was unusually large. He told me that while he was in Iraq, General Wesley Clark had come to speak to American troops about the war. He handed out some coins, and somehow, the then-presidential hopeful ended up giving a coin to Zyan. He kept going on about how nice General Clark was, what a good man. He held the coin out for me to see grinning, his white teeth and wide eyes a glow with something akin to pride. An Iraqi boy with an American General’s coin.
“Help me with this?”
He sat crouched on the floor of his Peek Point apartment with a thick white form paper in front of him.
“What is it?” I put my bag down next to the door and came to sit beside him.
“It’s a form so that I become a military interpreter.” He held the paper up in the light and squinted at it. “What does this mean?”
He pointed to the words “Social Security Number”, and I knew I would be there a while.
Zyan wanted to go back to Iraq in a safe way. He wanted to stop cleaning office buildings after dark, stop working at his friend’s hamburger joint, stop driving a car that smelled like french fries. He didn’t have much that other people didn’t. He didn’t have education, a degree, any technical training. He didn’t even have an extended family here like most immigrants you see clumped together in certain parts of the city. He did have one thing though; he was tri-lingual. Aside from English and his native language, he spoke Arabic. And in 2005, knowing Arabic could make you a living.
Eventually I viewed his near-fail pass of the ASVAB as a quick out for me. If he went into the military, and back to Iraq, I wouldn’t have to sit there calling him every time I went somewhere. Before long it was clear that I was going to break up with him.
Clear to me, anyway.
“What… why?”
“Because.” I pressed the phone tighter against my ear and cupped my hand around the receiver. “We don’t have the same values. We’re not in the same place in our lives.”
“What is value?”
I sighed, and crossed the kitchen to stare out at my mother’s backyard.
“We’re not in the same place in our lives,” I repeated.
“But, I—I never tell you this, but—I love you.”
A little late for that one!
“Oh… I’m sorry. I have to go.”
I was annoyed by the whole thing. I hate break ups. I always tried to get them over with as quickly as possible and start thinking about what I was going to do the next day, the next hour, the next five minutes. It was much easier to decide to make grilled cheese than to figure out what I could do to make things easier for someone else.
If I always had something to do, I wouldn’t remember what their face looked like, or their voice sounded like, when I told them I’d rather make a sandwich than be with them.
Zyan came back from Iraq a year later. He was thirty pounds lighter, and I thought twice before telling him I was practically engaged to Miguel Morales. Zyan didn’t like the military. His English still wasn’t that great, and he never saw General Wesley Clark. I pictured him crouching in the sand like Geraldo, trying to explain something to US Military personnel. He wanted to date me again. Instead he went back to cleaning offices and working at a gas station.
I sincerely hope he kept his faith. People with principles, even ones that don’t make sense to me, are hard to come by these days. It’s 2009 and I’ve only met a few people since then that have matched the intensity of his beliefs. That’s admirable.
Sometimes, someone will walk by me wearing a certain scent of men’s cologne, and my brain will literally drop everything. Before I know it, I’m back on that landing outside his second floor apartment at Peek Point. Scent really is the strongest link to memory.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Benton, Adam #4563
“Hey, uh, we’re friends of Benton.”
That was all it took and we were in the door.
After a quick name check, we were let into PanFlash free of charge at the head of the line. Which wasn’t really that long or anything, it was just cool to be friends with the headliner.
Adam Benton had been DJ-ing for around five years after an earlier attempt at becoming the next white rap star had failed like Kirsty Alley’s career. He was no Eminem.
What he was was a kid from an affluent new-money suburb who fancied himself a music connoisseur. I couldn’t really debate that, though. He was pretty good at what he did. PanFlash had allowed him the promotion, booking, and use of their club every other week for months now, and Benton was great at packing it with guests. He was charismatic in a subtle sort of way. Part of this was due to the fact that he and three drug-addled high school friends had rented out a house in college. More than twice a week, a barrage of drunken, drug-loving, hippie wannabe co-eds could be seen blowing large clouds of smoke from the front porch and side deck.
One of my first memories of Benton actually involved him pulling a plate out of a dresser drawer in his bedroom full of people and sweet smoke before sifting through some floury substance that was not flour.
Since then, I had actually come to like him. That memory was three years past when I walked through the doors at PanFlash. Mordred was with me. He was one of the reasons I knew Benton in the first place, and I let him lead me through the dark, surprisingly open feeling PanFlash.
The ceiling was high, and the whole place had an abandoned warehouse atmosphere. It wasn’t classy, but it was urban which was fine for a DJ venue. It was dark, with sparsely placed hanging lights and a few colored spotlights near the dance floor, which took up a good third of the place. There was a bar area right in front of us with a few people waving money for the bartender, but after a bit of hesitation, Mordred steered me toward the round booth tables directly beside the dance floor.
“I don’t really have that much money on me,” Mordred said in my ear, because it was loud, and gestured toward the bar. He probably didn’t need a drink anyway; I figured he was probably already high.
So typical of Mordred to take me to a bar that he could get in for free, and then not have money for drinks. Somehow he always paid for pills, though.
The place wasn’t crowded yet, but there were plenty of people standing around or sitting and staring at the music videos playing on the big screen behind the stage. Nearly everyone looked like they were trying to be something they weren’t. This sort of style has always surprised me with its contrived authenticity. They looked like rich kids on Halloween. It occurred to me, as we moved toward a booth directly across from center stage, that the style might just be the kind that happens when you combine substance abuse and MTV.
We sat down for a second. I remember looking at Mordred and thinking that he was beautiful. The colored lights reflected off his eyes, and he smiled at me.
“You’re looking at me strangely.”
“Strangely.” And I laughed. The adverbial form of the word ‘strange’ was not something Mordred would have said if he weren’t high. And he smiled again because I was laughing. His eyes were relaxed in the thick of it, and he squeezed my hand.
I looked back out at all the youth and excess around me. One lone guy was now dancing on the dance floor, breaking the empty floor up with his break dancing, which included much more flailing of arms and intense facial expression than was necessary. He was sweating rather profusely when he stood up and made an exaggerated gesture to no one in particular that said “you just got owned.” He was serious. So it was pretty funny.
“I’m gonna go find Benton,” and Mordred got up and ran off in the direction of the bar.
I sat there, suddenly trying to sit up straight and not look fat, staring at the sweaty break dancing guy.
After a couple of songs, break dancing guy found someone to battle, which only made him flail more wildly, almost knocking himself into onlookers, which I thought was hysterical. I, on the other hand, found myself being pulled toward the back of the place by Mordred who had found Benton.
“Hey! It’s good to see you!” We had entered a small room at the back of the bar across from the restrooms. The room was for talent so they could get ready for shows. While one would think this to be really cool, it wasn’t. It was a room with white walls, one table, a couch, a tv, and a cooler full of some overpriced energy drinks. Benton stood up from a table where he had been sitting with his glowing ibook.
“Its good to see you too!” I came forward and we hugged. Benton was the kind of person who hugged you even if he didn’t know you that well. He had wide eyes and a boyish face that he tempered with a seemingly out of place goatee and mustache. They were both just thick enough to pass adolescent inspection. It kinda looked like baby hair.
“I’m just gearin’ up for the show!” He adjusted his flat-billed cap. “You’ve never been here before, right?”
“Nope.”
“It’s gonna be dope, man. Really cool.”
Mordred broke in before I could say anything else.
“Oh yeah, have you had a chance to look at any of the stuff I gave you?”
Mordred was constantly getting things off the Internet for free. New music, new movies, he was impatient and impractical in nearly every aspect of his life.
“Yeah, I looked at it.” Benton went back to fiddling with his laptop, and Mordred turned to me, I guess to recap why he was cool.
“I gave Benton some music so he could maybe put it into his set.”
I nodded.
Mordred looked down at me and batted away my hands from my stomach before making a quick face and turning back to Benton. He didn’t like it when I clasped them in front of me. I think he thought it made me look fat. In fact, I know he thought it made me look fat.
Then Janie came in. She had a drink in her hand.
“Hey, you want anything? I am so incredibly sober.” Janie was Benton’s girlfriend. She was a gorgeous girl with long black hair and pale, naturally flushed skin. They practically lived together. I gave Janie some credit, though. She had a real job, something about graphics and advertising, and she lived by herself when Benton wasn’t there. She walked around the table and sat down on a couch behind Benton. It was facing a television with the same music videos from the stage on it.
“We’re okay. We don’t need anything,” Mordred said, and I wondered if he always answered for me. He rubbed my back while he said it.
Benton’s show was pretty good. It was a little sad because when he finally went on stage, most people had already left. It was nearly one in the morning, and he played for around thirty people standing close to the stage.
Mordred was here and there during the show. I sat with Janie, and made obvious comments about the lights, and the cigarette smoke, and the musical transitions. Everytime Mordred came back he sat down next to me and squeezed my hand, or rubbed my back, or kissed my cheek. One time I saw him come out of that back room, and I knew why.
Just before we left, he ran outside, threw up, and came back in. When we walked out to get in the car and go home, he ran toward some trees near the edge of the parking lot so I wouldn’t see him get sick again, but I knew it. I pretended not to listen and kept my attention focused on two guys just outside the door to the place. They were arguing about whether they should go home, or beat someone up who had apparently threatened to shoot one of them. The one who wanted to beat up his would-be shooter was most definitely drunk. The other was yelling at him in a high pitched and exasperated voice. It was high drama.
I got in the car, hoping the guy who had “beef” wouldn’t show up for a show down, and waited for Mordred to get in. My head hurt just looking at him when he opened the door, his face all ashen, so I backed out pretty suddenly.
“Are you mad or something?”
“No.”
“You’re mad.”
“Why did you have to go and do that? You knew it would make you sick.”
He didn’t answer. It must have been because he didn’t feel well. Mordred always had an answer. In high school he had almost been a certifiable genius with a whopping IQ score. As a three-sport athlete and an Honors student, he was popular to boot.
But no matter how rich he and Benton had been in high school, or how smooth they looked or talked, it really felt, to me, like they were blowing up a balloon full of nails that had gone way past its bursting point. It was that time that always came to me in the night where I felt like I had to get out of there, or else I would end up being smacked in the face with all those little bursting shards. So I contemplated forcing Mordred out of the car, and then pulled around the corner.
That was all it took and we were in the door.
After a quick name check, we were let into PanFlash free of charge at the head of the line. Which wasn’t really that long or anything, it was just cool to be friends with the headliner.
Adam Benton had been DJ-ing for around five years after an earlier attempt at becoming the next white rap star had failed like Kirsty Alley’s career. He was no Eminem.
What he was was a kid from an affluent new-money suburb who fancied himself a music connoisseur. I couldn’t really debate that, though. He was pretty good at what he did. PanFlash had allowed him the promotion, booking, and use of their club every other week for months now, and Benton was great at packing it with guests. He was charismatic in a subtle sort of way. Part of this was due to the fact that he and three drug-addled high school friends had rented out a house in college. More than twice a week, a barrage of drunken, drug-loving, hippie wannabe co-eds could be seen blowing large clouds of smoke from the front porch and side deck.
One of my first memories of Benton actually involved him pulling a plate out of a dresser drawer in his bedroom full of people and sweet smoke before sifting through some floury substance that was not flour.
Since then, I had actually come to like him. That memory was three years past when I walked through the doors at PanFlash. Mordred was with me. He was one of the reasons I knew Benton in the first place, and I let him lead me through the dark, surprisingly open feeling PanFlash.
The ceiling was high, and the whole place had an abandoned warehouse atmosphere. It wasn’t classy, but it was urban which was fine for a DJ venue. It was dark, with sparsely placed hanging lights and a few colored spotlights near the dance floor, which took up a good third of the place. There was a bar area right in front of us with a few people waving money for the bartender, but after a bit of hesitation, Mordred steered me toward the round booth tables directly beside the dance floor.
“I don’t really have that much money on me,” Mordred said in my ear, because it was loud, and gestured toward the bar. He probably didn’t need a drink anyway; I figured he was probably already high.
So typical of Mordred to take me to a bar that he could get in for free, and then not have money for drinks. Somehow he always paid for pills, though.
The place wasn’t crowded yet, but there were plenty of people standing around or sitting and staring at the music videos playing on the big screen behind the stage. Nearly everyone looked like they were trying to be something they weren’t. This sort of style has always surprised me with its contrived authenticity. They looked like rich kids on Halloween. It occurred to me, as we moved toward a booth directly across from center stage, that the style might just be the kind that happens when you combine substance abuse and MTV.
We sat down for a second. I remember looking at Mordred and thinking that he was beautiful. The colored lights reflected off his eyes, and he smiled at me.
“You’re looking at me strangely.”
“Strangely.” And I laughed. The adverbial form of the word ‘strange’ was not something Mordred would have said if he weren’t high. And he smiled again because I was laughing. His eyes were relaxed in the thick of it, and he squeezed my hand.
I looked back out at all the youth and excess around me. One lone guy was now dancing on the dance floor, breaking the empty floor up with his break dancing, which included much more flailing of arms and intense facial expression than was necessary. He was sweating rather profusely when he stood up and made an exaggerated gesture to no one in particular that said “you just got owned.” He was serious. So it was pretty funny.
“I’m gonna go find Benton,” and Mordred got up and ran off in the direction of the bar.
I sat there, suddenly trying to sit up straight and not look fat, staring at the sweaty break dancing guy.
After a couple of songs, break dancing guy found someone to battle, which only made him flail more wildly, almost knocking himself into onlookers, which I thought was hysterical. I, on the other hand, found myself being pulled toward the back of the place by Mordred who had found Benton.
“Hey! It’s good to see you!” We had entered a small room at the back of the bar across from the restrooms. The room was for talent so they could get ready for shows. While one would think this to be really cool, it wasn’t. It was a room with white walls, one table, a couch, a tv, and a cooler full of some overpriced energy drinks. Benton stood up from a table where he had been sitting with his glowing ibook.
“Its good to see you too!” I came forward and we hugged. Benton was the kind of person who hugged you even if he didn’t know you that well. He had wide eyes and a boyish face that he tempered with a seemingly out of place goatee and mustache. They were both just thick enough to pass adolescent inspection. It kinda looked like baby hair.
“I’m just gearin’ up for the show!” He adjusted his flat-billed cap. “You’ve never been here before, right?”
“Nope.”
“It’s gonna be dope, man. Really cool.”
Mordred broke in before I could say anything else.
“Oh yeah, have you had a chance to look at any of the stuff I gave you?”
Mordred was constantly getting things off the Internet for free. New music, new movies, he was impatient and impractical in nearly every aspect of his life.
“Yeah, I looked at it.” Benton went back to fiddling with his laptop, and Mordred turned to me, I guess to recap why he was cool.
“I gave Benton some music so he could maybe put it into his set.”
I nodded.
Mordred looked down at me and batted away my hands from my stomach before making a quick face and turning back to Benton. He didn’t like it when I clasped them in front of me. I think he thought it made me look fat. In fact, I know he thought it made me look fat.
Then Janie came in. She had a drink in her hand.
“Hey, you want anything? I am so incredibly sober.” Janie was Benton’s girlfriend. She was a gorgeous girl with long black hair and pale, naturally flushed skin. They practically lived together. I gave Janie some credit, though. She had a real job, something about graphics and advertising, and she lived by herself when Benton wasn’t there. She walked around the table and sat down on a couch behind Benton. It was facing a television with the same music videos from the stage on it.
“We’re okay. We don’t need anything,” Mordred said, and I wondered if he always answered for me. He rubbed my back while he said it.
Benton’s show was pretty good. It was a little sad because when he finally went on stage, most people had already left. It was nearly one in the morning, and he played for around thirty people standing close to the stage.
Mordred was here and there during the show. I sat with Janie, and made obvious comments about the lights, and the cigarette smoke, and the musical transitions. Everytime Mordred came back he sat down next to me and squeezed my hand, or rubbed my back, or kissed my cheek. One time I saw him come out of that back room, and I knew why.
Just before we left, he ran outside, threw up, and came back in. When we walked out to get in the car and go home, he ran toward some trees near the edge of the parking lot so I wouldn’t see him get sick again, but I knew it. I pretended not to listen and kept my attention focused on two guys just outside the door to the place. They were arguing about whether they should go home, or beat someone up who had apparently threatened to shoot one of them. The one who wanted to beat up his would-be shooter was most definitely drunk. The other was yelling at him in a high pitched and exasperated voice. It was high drama.
I got in the car, hoping the guy who had “beef” wouldn’t show up for a show down, and waited for Mordred to get in. My head hurt just looking at him when he opened the door, his face all ashen, so I backed out pretty suddenly.
“Are you mad or something?”
“No.”
“You’re mad.”
“Why did you have to go and do that? You knew it would make you sick.”
He didn’t answer. It must have been because he didn’t feel well. Mordred always had an answer. In high school he had almost been a certifiable genius with a whopping IQ score. As a three-sport athlete and an Honors student, he was popular to boot.
But no matter how rich he and Benton had been in high school, or how smooth they looked or talked, it really felt, to me, like they were blowing up a balloon full of nails that had gone way past its bursting point. It was that time that always came to me in the night where I felt like I had to get out of there, or else I would end up being smacked in the face with all those little bursting shards. So I contemplated forcing Mordred out of the car, and then pulled around the corner.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Oh, Divine Air Duct
I think God is in the air duct above my desk.
Know how I know?
Every time I clasp my hands, like so,
Look up, and
"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,
for this boy!"
that's what I see.
The air duct.
Blowing back at me.
Know how I know?
Every time I clasp my hands, like so,
Look up, and
"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,
for this boy!"
that's what I see.
The air duct.
Blowing back at me.
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