"Ok, so, you hold your thumb over the hole here while you light it," Greg demonstrated. "And then when everything is lit, you take your thumb off the hole and suck the rest of it in." He handed it over.
I managed with moderate success, although I burned a bit of my thumbnail in the process. The smoke burned. I held it in for as long as I could, but erupted in a fierce bout of coughing after a few seconds.
"I... I..." I tried to speak between coughs.
"Hahaha, you'll be okay," Greg laughed. "It's better if you cough, actually -- it bursts the little capillaries in your lungs or whatever, and gets into your system faster."
Disgusting. But I didn't care. The coughing started to subside. My heart felt as if it were beating twice as fast, and a buzzing feeling spread out across my head. I felt it in my tongue first; it was different, maybe bigger, maybe more sensitive...?
Greg was taking another hit, and the movie was glowing and flickering on the wall in front of us. I hadn't really been following it before, but was utterly mystified by it now. By the end of each bizarre sentence the characters spoke, I had forgotten how it had started.
"You ok?" Greg asked. He had been handing the pipe to me for.... maybe forever. Ohhh.
"I..." suddenly was funny. "Hahahaa. Wow." I think my voice was really quiet.
"Hey, are you a lefty?" Greg asked, and placed the pipe in my left hand.
"Y-yes..." I said. "Haha." I was reeling. "How can you, um, tell?"
"You lit it with your... left hand?" Greg was grinning. "I don't, you did it like me. I'm a lefty."
I was already out of my mind, but I lit it again like a lefty. It felt like someone was sitting in my lap, or like someone had left open a door right behind me. So slow.
Greg finished off the pipe and set it down. "What do you think?"
Had I asked a question? "Hmmm, I don't... understand it. Is it supposed to make sense?"
"Hahahahahaha!" Greg started really laughing. "No, no, no -- the pot! That's what I was asking."
"What?" My stomach was starting to hurt. Or maybe I was hungry. "Oh. Uh, I... feel... crazy. There's, like, a door behind me...." I started to turn around.
"Hey, hey. Mandy." Greg reached over and squeezed my arm. I turned my head to look at him, and my eyes followed at a serious delay. "You're ok. You'll be ok." My arm felt like it detached from my body where he was holding it.
"I'm ok," I said, and shot out an irrepressable grin.
"You're ok," he said, and crept forward up to my mouth. He kissed me for what felt like one hundred minutes. I don't think I breathed.
"Hello," I exhaled. I flexed my fingers, which had found their way into Greg's hair. This was... delicious. Exhilarating. I couldn't remember why I had been afraid to---
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Day 15: Eva Retrospective on Mandy
I was terrified of her when she was finally born. She was sickly and thin, like an alien. In fact, very much like E.T. I don't know what I'd expected -- I had seen Ronnie when Mama took him home from the hospital, and he was really little and thin. But he wasn't mine; I hadn't seen him come out.
And she was mine. This bleating, gross, alive thing. And I loved her. That's why I was terrified. I counted all her fingers and toes the minute they left me alone with her; I memorized every small inch of her. I beamed my love into her with my eyes.
And they trusted me with her. Everyone trusted me to know what was best for her. To act on instincts, like a cat herding her litter, nipples sagging to the ground. That faith was just as terrifying, because it left me no other recourse. I was the sole owner of this tiny beast.
Well, Bram and I. In the three years leading up to my pregnancy I had all but rotted from the inside out, looking to him for instruction and decision and inspiration for every single movement I made. From what to cook to what to think. And so, I had stupidly expected the same level of puppeteering when we decided to have a baby -- it had even been his idea, mostly as a gesture of competition towards his colleagues who were already starting families.
But, as it turns out, there were a few more relevant reasons Bram decided he wanted to have kids, none of which were known to me at the time. Two things became clear, though, within a couple of weeks after we realized we'd conceived--Bram expected me to know exactly what to do, and was perfectly happy abstaining altogether from any active role in the process. It wasn't that he was unsupportive; I think that, to him, this was the mystery of the weaker sex. We may be helpless or even spineless, but when it came to babies the light turned on.
For the most part I grew to believe this story for myself -- that only I knew what was best, that any answer I came up with would be the right answer because it would be based in a primordial network of instincts that I had full access to but limited awareness of. Because -- she was mine. Ownership begat expertise, or at the very least right of operation.
Still, in the beginning it was terror and disbelief. The first few nights we brought her home I would have nightmares about having left her at the hospital, or in the car, or too near the fireplace. I would sit with her, and be holding her, and suddenly snap-to with a rush of adrenaline if I caught myself drifting off in thought for even a minute.
I hadn't expected any of those feelings to be so intense, or so crippling. My fear throughout the pregnancy had been in the opposite direction -- that I would be disappointed, and that I would not love her. Of course I told myself hundreds of times that, should she come out and be disfigured or substandard in some way, that I would love her more intensely in spite of that. That her mine-ness would ignite the maternal flame, no matter how insipid she turned out to be. However, I wasn't convinced, down in my core, that I was capable of that much unselfishness. I was worried I'd have to fake it, but was terrified I would just be unable to.
Maybe it's true that God only gives us problems to deal with that he's sure we can handle. Because, despite her initial ugliness, Mandolin was perfect. Better than. She excelled at everything -- spoke early, walked early, learned quickly. She was eager for everything. She was a direct answer to everything I had been afraid of.
And it was so overwhelming that I started to hate her. I couldn't help it. I loved her so fiercely, I knew her, I was what was best for her. Every step she learned to take was an indication that someday she would walk away from me. As she filled up with words and ideas and information, the mine-ness in her was crowded out. Her independence sickened me.
But somehow I let these feelings exist. She would be sitting on the floor and pick up a block, and I would take it from her and then give it back to her, to instill in her the idea that I was the one who made these decisions for her. In the nine months it took her to be born, I was also reborn, as a sick puppet master. I am reminded, now, of the times in my adolescence when my Mama would laugh at me folding the laundry. I would venture to guess that she was fighting the same feelings of hatred, of despite -- she just manifested them differently. I was so far gone, in her case, that all she could do was laugh cruelly at me, and know that I was no longer hers. And I suppose she knew, too, that that laughter, and everything that led up to it, made me hate her in return. How bitter that must have been.
And how lucky I was, then, that Mandy never hated me. She went her own way, of course, and it broke my jealous heart, but I don't think she ever hated me. Or maybe that's the curse of the weaker sex, as it were -- the love and the ownership are so intensely overwhelming, and yet it's not guaranteed to be a two-way street. Maybe love and hatred are the same thing.
-------
Word count: 965
And she was mine. This bleating, gross, alive thing. And I loved her. That's why I was terrified. I counted all her fingers and toes the minute they left me alone with her; I memorized every small inch of her. I beamed my love into her with my eyes.
And they trusted me with her. Everyone trusted me to know what was best for her. To act on instincts, like a cat herding her litter, nipples sagging to the ground. That faith was just as terrifying, because it left me no other recourse. I was the sole owner of this tiny beast.
Well, Bram and I. In the three years leading up to my pregnancy I had all but rotted from the inside out, looking to him for instruction and decision and inspiration for every single movement I made. From what to cook to what to think. And so, I had stupidly expected the same level of puppeteering when we decided to have a baby -- it had even been his idea, mostly as a gesture of competition towards his colleagues who were already starting families.
But, as it turns out, there were a few more relevant reasons Bram decided he wanted to have kids, none of which were known to me at the time. Two things became clear, though, within a couple of weeks after we realized we'd conceived--Bram expected me to know exactly what to do, and was perfectly happy abstaining altogether from any active role in the process. It wasn't that he was unsupportive; I think that, to him, this was the mystery of the weaker sex. We may be helpless or even spineless, but when it came to babies the light turned on.
For the most part I grew to believe this story for myself -- that only I knew what was best, that any answer I came up with would be the right answer because it would be based in a primordial network of instincts that I had full access to but limited awareness of. Because -- she was mine. Ownership begat expertise, or at the very least right of operation.
Still, in the beginning it was terror and disbelief. The first few nights we brought her home I would have nightmares about having left her at the hospital, or in the car, or too near the fireplace. I would sit with her, and be holding her, and suddenly snap-to with a rush of adrenaline if I caught myself drifting off in thought for even a minute.
I hadn't expected any of those feelings to be so intense, or so crippling. My fear throughout the pregnancy had been in the opposite direction -- that I would be disappointed, and that I would not love her. Of course I told myself hundreds of times that, should she come out and be disfigured or substandard in some way, that I would love her more intensely in spite of that. That her mine-ness would ignite the maternal flame, no matter how insipid she turned out to be. However, I wasn't convinced, down in my core, that I was capable of that much unselfishness. I was worried I'd have to fake it, but was terrified I would just be unable to.
Maybe it's true that God only gives us problems to deal with that he's sure we can handle. Because, despite her initial ugliness, Mandolin was perfect. Better than. She excelled at everything -- spoke early, walked early, learned quickly. She was eager for everything. She was a direct answer to everything I had been afraid of.
And it was so overwhelming that I started to hate her. I couldn't help it. I loved her so fiercely, I knew her, I was what was best for her. Every step she learned to take was an indication that someday she would walk away from me. As she filled up with words and ideas and information, the mine-ness in her was crowded out. Her independence sickened me.
But somehow I let these feelings exist. She would be sitting on the floor and pick up a block, and I would take it from her and then give it back to her, to instill in her the idea that I was the one who made these decisions for her. In the nine months it took her to be born, I was also reborn, as a sick puppet master. I am reminded, now, of the times in my adolescence when my Mama would laugh at me folding the laundry. I would venture to guess that she was fighting the same feelings of hatred, of despite -- she just manifested them differently. I was so far gone, in her case, that all she could do was laugh cruelly at me, and know that I was no longer hers. And I suppose she knew, too, that that laughter, and everything that led up to it, made me hate her in return. How bitter that must have been.
And how lucky I was, then, that Mandy never hated me. She went her own way, of course, and it broke my jealous heart, but I don't think she ever hated me. Or maybe that's the curse of the weaker sex, as it were -- the love and the ownership are so intensely overwhelming, and yet it's not guaranteed to be a two-way street. Maybe love and hatred are the same thing.
-------
Word count: 965
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Day 12: The Hookup, part 1
...
Well, there it was. I felt a keen mixture of excitement and dread. The tipsiness was starting to fade, too -- not good, since I wouldn't realistically be able to blame my reaction on that later. Greg was looking at me expectantly; I had no idea what to say.
"Is that so?" I asked, flirtatiously, feigning surprise. Looks like I'd landed on playing hard to get as the best way out. "Hmmm. Then perhaps we should... avoid a scandal and make our way back inside." Followed, of course, by a come-hither smile that probably looked hilariously gummy.
"But of course," Greg responded smoothly, with an assenting nod. He wasn't a bad guy, really.
We wandered back through the cellar stairs and into the basement, which was just as sparsely populated as the back porch had been. Apparently the lot of the guests had slipped out right around the time Greg and I stepped outside. Shit, what time was it anyway? Standing up reminded me acutely of all the alcohol I had been drinking. I had been distracted by Greg's flirtations.
"Looks like the scandal has gotten away from us," Greg said, echoing exactly how I felt. Jesus, I didn't want the people at work to get the wrong impression of me. Or one that I hadn't intricately tailored, to be more precise.
Greg was wiping down the couch, not at all the type of gesture that was going to make it easy to bow out. Even so, I started to try. "I better, uh, get going..."
"You could get going," Greg grinned up at me from the couch, "But have you ever seen Fear and Loathing? It's crazy by itself, but at... let's see, 4:30am, with a few drinks in you and whatever else, it's insane."
I couldn't tell if he was speaking from experience or supposing. It did sound interesting, though. Greg put me off and put me at ease in turns, but maybe the problem was me not checking my awkwardness. I summed up about two dozen more pro's and con's in my mind before allowing myself to land on the decision I had secretly been hoping for: stay.
I scooted over next to him on the couch, which smelled pleasantly of cleaning solution. "What's the movie about?"
"Well, well, glad you could stay." I expected him to move to put his arm around me or something, but he didnt. Fine with me. "This is really one of my favorites. We're actually kinda in the middle, or maybe near the end now, but really it's all an art piece about this one guy's crazy drug bender during a road trip to Las Vegas." Greg was reaching under the couch and fiddling with something. "Have you ever seen Trainspotting?"
I nodded my head yes, not sure what he was doing.
He produced what looked like a jewelry box and put it up on the coffee table. He glanced at me curiously for a second before continuing. "The message is similar, but taken to the extreme. Just a depiction of addiction and the insane places it leads you, especially when you jump on its back like it's some crazy motorcycle."
My mind was reeling. Greg was taking out a pipe and a bag of weed -- I had never even seen marijuana before, let alone did I know how to smoke it. Nor did I know if I even wanted to. Scratch that, I did want to, very much, but I didn't know if I should. And this film -- Greg had mentioned addiction. I wondered if I should tell him about my dad?
All the while that he was packing the bowl, Greg continued passionately describing the cinematography, gesturing with his hands and the lighter. I dared not interrupt; it was as if he was casting some strange sleepwalking spell on me. The movie, the party, the lights and the music, and now this. Where was I? What was I doing? I hadn't even smoked yet---
"Here you go," Greg said casually, exhaling smoke and holding the lit pipe in front of me. I must have looked either terrified or comical because he followed up with, "You smoke, right?"
"Haha, I uh..." I started, letting an embarrassed giggle slip out, "well, I've never smoked before." I bit my lip in an attempt at an apologetic gesture, hoping to incur some sympathy.
"Oooh, ok. I guess I should have asked." Greg's face was hard to read. "But if you want to try it, you're welcome to -- I'm sure you'll like it."
"Um..." Shit. Shit, shit. So many neurons were firing their confusion and exhilaration at once that my brain felt numb. Greg was looking at me, again expectant, awaiting an answer. And a pivotal answer -- if I said no, then what? And yes?
"Sure, ok," I said lamely. "Could you... show me what to do?"
Greg's eyes flashed for a second with what looked like excitement. He reached towards me...
--------
Word count: 833
Well, there it was. I felt a keen mixture of excitement and dread. The tipsiness was starting to fade, too -- not good, since I wouldn't realistically be able to blame my reaction on that later. Greg was looking at me expectantly; I had no idea what to say.
"Is that so?" I asked, flirtatiously, feigning surprise. Looks like I'd landed on playing hard to get as the best way out. "Hmmm. Then perhaps we should... avoid a scandal and make our way back inside." Followed, of course, by a come-hither smile that probably looked hilariously gummy.
"But of course," Greg responded smoothly, with an assenting nod. He wasn't a bad guy, really.
We wandered back through the cellar stairs and into the basement, which was just as sparsely populated as the back porch had been. Apparently the lot of the guests had slipped out right around the time Greg and I stepped outside. Shit, what time was it anyway? Standing up reminded me acutely of all the alcohol I had been drinking. I had been distracted by Greg's flirtations.
"Looks like the scandal has gotten away from us," Greg said, echoing exactly how I felt. Jesus, I didn't want the people at work to get the wrong impression of me. Or one that I hadn't intricately tailored, to be more precise.
Greg was wiping down the couch, not at all the type of gesture that was going to make it easy to bow out. Even so, I started to try. "I better, uh, get going..."
"You could get going," Greg grinned up at me from the couch, "But have you ever seen Fear and Loathing? It's crazy by itself, but at... let's see, 4:30am, with a few drinks in you and whatever else, it's insane."
I couldn't tell if he was speaking from experience or supposing. It did sound interesting, though. Greg put me off and put me at ease in turns, but maybe the problem was me not checking my awkwardness. I summed up about two dozen more pro's and con's in my mind before allowing myself to land on the decision I had secretly been hoping for: stay.
I scooted over next to him on the couch, which smelled pleasantly of cleaning solution. "What's the movie about?"
"Well, well, glad you could stay." I expected him to move to put his arm around me or something, but he didnt. Fine with me. "This is really one of my favorites. We're actually kinda in the middle, or maybe near the end now, but really it's all an art piece about this one guy's crazy drug bender during a road trip to Las Vegas." Greg was reaching under the couch and fiddling with something. "Have you ever seen Trainspotting?"
I nodded my head yes, not sure what he was doing.
He produced what looked like a jewelry box and put it up on the coffee table. He glanced at me curiously for a second before continuing. "The message is similar, but taken to the extreme. Just a depiction of addiction and the insane places it leads you, especially when you jump on its back like it's some crazy motorcycle."
My mind was reeling. Greg was taking out a pipe and a bag of weed -- I had never even seen marijuana before, let alone did I know how to smoke it. Nor did I know if I even wanted to. Scratch that, I did want to, very much, but I didn't know if I should. And this film -- Greg had mentioned addiction. I wondered if I should tell him about my dad?
All the while that he was packing the bowl, Greg continued passionately describing the cinematography, gesturing with his hands and the lighter. I dared not interrupt; it was as if he was casting some strange sleepwalking spell on me. The movie, the party, the lights and the music, and now this. Where was I? What was I doing? I hadn't even smoked yet---
"Here you go," Greg said casually, exhaling smoke and holding the lit pipe in front of me. I must have looked either terrified or comical because he followed up with, "You smoke, right?"
"Haha, I uh..." I started, letting an embarrassed giggle slip out, "well, I've never smoked before." I bit my lip in an attempt at an apologetic gesture, hoping to incur some sympathy.
"Oooh, ok. I guess I should have asked." Greg's face was hard to read. "But if you want to try it, you're welcome to -- I'm sure you'll like it."
"Um..." Shit. Shit, shit. So many neurons were firing their confusion and exhilaration at once that my brain felt numb. Greg was looking at me, again expectant, awaiting an answer. And a pivotal answer -- if I said no, then what? And yes?
"Sure, ok," I said lamely. "Could you... show me what to do?"
Greg's eyes flashed for a second with what looked like excitement. He reached towards me...
--------
Word count: 833
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Day 10: Even More Greg
We weren't the only ones who were trashed, though. And the drunker everyone got, the louder they got, so much so that by the time we had given up on dancing, the party had gotten even louder than it had been when I arrived.
Greg had excused himself a few minutes ago, and I was left clinging more or less to the lip of the bar as I tried to steady myself. The party was still raging around me, but the brief interlude of relative quiet was enough for me to reorient my surroundings a bit. It was time to chug some water and start to head home. If I slipped out now, I'd be able to avoid saying bye to Greg, and---
"Haha, hey you, when's your birthday?!" Greg was halfway down the stairs and somehow shouting and giggling at the same time.
"I'm gonna take off!" I tried to answer, but my voice had been cracking for the past half hour.
"What?! Hahahaha!"
I tried again, and tried hard to move my lips deliberately so that maybe he could figure it out before he made it all the way into the room and snagged me again. "I'm ta-king off!" I cried.
"Go outside?!" Greg asked, pointing to the cellar stairs that led up to the back porch. He started for the door before I really had a chance to respond. It seriously looked as if his shoulders were shaking with laughter.
Fuck. I was getting really tired. But maybe sitting and chatting for a bit would admittedly be more safe than just fleeing the scene. "Um, okay!" I shouted to his back.
Once outside the basement, Greg's back porch was actually quite lovely. The atmosphere was entirely different from the brash underground party just a few feet away. He had some very nice looking wicker furniture, and had lined the railing with little candle sconces. A few tired partygoers were chatting or dozing in the seats closest to the basement door, so we made our way over to the loveseat up against the far wall.
"Wow, it is so much nicer out here!" Greg said loudly, startling a guy I'd never seen before who was sort of slumped over next to the grill. "Sorry," he whispered exaggeratedly.
"Much quieter, yes," I said, all of a sudden nervous about having to keep up a conversation now that we could actually hear each other.
"So, I was trying to ask you, when is your birthday?" Greg settled into the loveseat, but fortunately kept his distance.
"Uh, January," I responded, unsure as to why he needed to know. He didn't think I was underage or anything, did he?
"Ah. That makes you a Capricorn, right? Or Aquarius?"
"Aquarius, actually," I said, a little surprised, "although I don't really know much about it. "How about you?"
"Aries. April," he said. "The ram. I'm supposed to be fiery, passionate, driven. I don't put too much stock in the whole Zodiac thing, but everything I've ever read about Aries seems to describe me pretty well."
"What about Aquarius? I've never read anything about it."
"I think you're supposed to be a hard worker, very smart, but high strung," he said, after hesitating a moment.
"Hmm," I responded, almost inaudibly. I suppose it could have been true. I was curious about the context -- when was I supposed to high strung? How did different circumstances affect how I turned out? It'd be so nice to read a perfect description of me on paper, so that I wouldn't have to keep wondering.
"I don't remember exactly," Greg said, his eyes looking a bit glased over.
"Your party turned out nicely," I said, unable to really think of much else to say.
"Oh yeah, thanks. Yeah, it did. Well, hell, these are all a great bunch of people. I love throwing parties. Great space for it." His gaze traveled the length of the porch. "Now what did you think of everyone?" he asked, suddenly and emphatically, looking a bit mischievous.
"The party guests?" I asked. "I guess I don't really remember all the people I met, I mean..."
"No, no," Greg waved his hand as if to brush away my last statement. "I meant everyone from the studio. What did you think of them all getting crazy at a bender?!" His voice rose in volume and pitch at that last statement, as if it was hilarious to him and he couldn't hold it in.
"Well, uh..." I started, not really sure what kind of answer he was expecting. "I think I got just as crazy as they all did, so I don't think it was out of the ordinary or anything...."
At this point Greg was laughing out loud and clutching his stomach. "Oh boy, Mark, at that last round of beer pong, do you remember that? Getting so mad at us? HAHAHAHA!"
I did, at least hazily, and laughed a little as well. Greg and I had won the round and Greg had really jeered Mark and his partner, whoever it was. He didn't let it go until he really pissed Mark off. "I hope he won't still be mad on Monday though," I said somewhat seriously. The thought of heading home was really nagging at me now; it had to have been about three or four in the morning.
"Oh no, he won't," Greg said, rolling his eyes and again lettig his gaze drift over the length of the porch. "Mark is extremely competitive, but he's a good guy. I should know," he said, snapping his attention back to me, "because he really encouraged me when I told him I was thinking of asking you out."
------
Word count: 951
Greg had excused himself a few minutes ago, and I was left clinging more or less to the lip of the bar as I tried to steady myself. The party was still raging around me, but the brief interlude of relative quiet was enough for me to reorient my surroundings a bit. It was time to chug some water and start to head home. If I slipped out now, I'd be able to avoid saying bye to Greg, and---
"Haha, hey you, when's your birthday?!" Greg was halfway down the stairs and somehow shouting and giggling at the same time.
"I'm gonna take off!" I tried to answer, but my voice had been cracking for the past half hour.
"What?! Hahahaha!"
I tried again, and tried hard to move my lips deliberately so that maybe he could figure it out before he made it all the way into the room and snagged me again. "I'm ta-king off!" I cried.
"Go outside?!" Greg asked, pointing to the cellar stairs that led up to the back porch. He started for the door before I really had a chance to respond. It seriously looked as if his shoulders were shaking with laughter.
Fuck. I was getting really tired. But maybe sitting and chatting for a bit would admittedly be more safe than just fleeing the scene. "Um, okay!" I shouted to his back.
Once outside the basement, Greg's back porch was actually quite lovely. The atmosphere was entirely different from the brash underground party just a few feet away. He had some very nice looking wicker furniture, and had lined the railing with little candle sconces. A few tired partygoers were chatting or dozing in the seats closest to the basement door, so we made our way over to the loveseat up against the far wall.
"Wow, it is so much nicer out here!" Greg said loudly, startling a guy I'd never seen before who was sort of slumped over next to the grill. "Sorry," he whispered exaggeratedly.
"Much quieter, yes," I said, all of a sudden nervous about having to keep up a conversation now that we could actually hear each other.
"So, I was trying to ask you, when is your birthday?" Greg settled into the loveseat, but fortunately kept his distance.
"Uh, January," I responded, unsure as to why he needed to know. He didn't think I was underage or anything, did he?
"Ah. That makes you a Capricorn, right? Or Aquarius?"
"Aquarius, actually," I said, a little surprised, "although I don't really know much about it. "How about you?"
"Aries. April," he said. "The ram. I'm supposed to be fiery, passionate, driven. I don't put too much stock in the whole Zodiac thing, but everything I've ever read about Aries seems to describe me pretty well."
"What about Aquarius? I've never read anything about it."
"I think you're supposed to be a hard worker, very smart, but high strung," he said, after hesitating a moment.
"Hmm," I responded, almost inaudibly. I suppose it could have been true. I was curious about the context -- when was I supposed to high strung? How did different circumstances affect how I turned out? It'd be so nice to read a perfect description of me on paper, so that I wouldn't have to keep wondering.
"I don't remember exactly," Greg said, his eyes looking a bit glased over.
"Your party turned out nicely," I said, unable to really think of much else to say.
"Oh yeah, thanks. Yeah, it did. Well, hell, these are all a great bunch of people. I love throwing parties. Great space for it." His gaze traveled the length of the porch. "Now what did you think of everyone?" he asked, suddenly and emphatically, looking a bit mischievous.
"The party guests?" I asked. "I guess I don't really remember all the people I met, I mean..."
"No, no," Greg waved his hand as if to brush away my last statement. "I meant everyone from the studio. What did you think of them all getting crazy at a bender?!" His voice rose in volume and pitch at that last statement, as if it was hilarious to him and he couldn't hold it in.
"Well, uh..." I started, not really sure what kind of answer he was expecting. "I think I got just as crazy as they all did, so I don't think it was out of the ordinary or anything...."
At this point Greg was laughing out loud and clutching his stomach. "Oh boy, Mark, at that last round of beer pong, do you remember that? Getting so mad at us? HAHAHAHA!"
I did, at least hazily, and laughed a little as well. Greg and I had won the round and Greg had really jeered Mark and his partner, whoever it was. He didn't let it go until he really pissed Mark off. "I hope he won't still be mad on Monday though," I said somewhat seriously. The thought of heading home was really nagging at me now; it had to have been about three or four in the morning.
"Oh no, he won't," Greg said, rolling his eyes and again lettig his gaze drift over the length of the porch. "Mark is extremely competitive, but he's a good guy. I should know," he said, snapping his attention back to me, "because he really encouraged me when I told him I was thinking of asking you out."
------
Word count: 951
Monday, November 9, 2009
Day 9, cont'd from Day 8
"Right, well," Joyce said, temporarily incensed, "guess I'll get going." She gathered up her heap of makeup apron, sweater, and oversized purse, and made her way outside of our little kiosk. She lingered, though, straightening up a few bottles of fingernail polish. Luckily "Bram" was still chatting intently with the pharmacist.
"Listen, Eva, dear," Joyce started, staring hard at the bottles of fingernail polish. "You'd do well to find yourself a good man. You're young now, but..." she let her voice trail off. Joyce and I had been chummy ever since I started working at the drug store a few weeks ago, but hadn't ever really had a heart to heart before. "Anyway, you should give that fellow a chance. Talk to him a little. He really is sweet on you." She finally looked up at me from the fingernail polish, and was grinning. "And such dimples! Is he ever a cute one!"
I felt my face flush as I nodded my head. "Sure is, Joyce," I admitted. "Have a good night!"
"See you tomorrow, dear," she said, shuffling off.
I was fairly sure I understood what she was getting at, though. I started straightening the makeup brushes and compacts, picking up where Joyce had left off with the fingernail polish. Catching the attention of someone who could... well, let's say, someone who was a good catch. Well, that was something not to be shrugged off. I mean, I didn't think I'd end up like Joyce some day, with the makeup counter as my only little oasis away from my lonely life. Well, at least, that may be where I was in my life right now, but...
"Well, hello again, Eva," a familiar voice broke me out of my reverie.
"You must be Bram," I said, trying to make sure he knew I knew his name.
"Listen, Eva, dear," Joyce started, staring hard at the bottles of fingernail polish. "You'd do well to find yourself a good man. You're young now, but..." she let her voice trail off. Joyce and I had been chummy ever since I started working at the drug store a few weeks ago, but hadn't ever really had a heart to heart before. "Anyway, you should give that fellow a chance. Talk to him a little. He really is sweet on you." She finally looked up at me from the fingernail polish, and was grinning. "And such dimples! Is he ever a cute one!"
I felt my face flush as I nodded my head. "Sure is, Joyce," I admitted. "Have a good night!"
"See you tomorrow, dear," she said, shuffling off.
I was fairly sure I understood what she was getting at, though. I started straightening the makeup brushes and compacts, picking up where Joyce had left off with the fingernail polish. Catching the attention of someone who could... well, let's say, someone who was a good catch. Well, that was something not to be shrugged off. I mean, I didn't think I'd end up like Joyce some day, with the makeup counter as my only little oasis away from my lonely life. Well, at least, that may be where I was in my life right now, but...
"Well, hello again, Eva," a familiar voice broke me out of my reverie.
"You must be Bram," I said, trying to make sure he knew I knew his name.
Day 9: Wham Bram Thank You Ma'am
"Right, well," Joyce said, temporarily incensed, "guess I'll get going." She gathered up her heap of makeup apron, sweater, and oversized purse, and made her way outside of our little kiosk. She lingered, though, straightening up a few bottles of fingernail polish. Luckily "Bram" was still chatting intently with the pharmacist.
"Listen, Eva, dear," Joyce started, staring hard at the bottles of fingernail polish. "You'd do well to find yourself a good man. You're young now, but..." she let her voice trail off. Joyce and I had been chummy ever since I started working at the drug store a few weeks ago, but hadn't ever really had a heart to heart before. "Anyway, you should give that fellow a chance. Talk to him a little. He really is sweet on you." She finally looked up at me from the fingernail polish, and was grinning. "And such dimples! Is he ever a cute one!"
I felt my face flush as I nodded my head. "Sure is, Joyce," I admitted. "Have a good night!"
"See you tomorrow, dear," she said, shuffling off.
I was fairly sure I understood what she was getting at, though. I started straightening the makeup brushes and compacts, picking up where Joyce had left off with the fingernail polish. Catching the attention of someone who could... well, let's say, someone who was a good catch. Well, that was something not to be shrugged off. Or was it? It all depended on how well you could keep a man, as they say. And I knew next to nothing about that. So perhaps it was better to avoid this situation altogether, rather than risk losing---
"Well, hello again, Eva," a familiar voice broke me out of my reverie.
"You must be Bram," I said, somewhat flatly, figuring that circumventing the coy approach would help speed along the inevitable. If I was going to be led on, at least I wouldn't let it go on and on.
"Yes ma'am," he replied, without missing a beat. "I was hoping you could help me with something."
A pause.
"Yes?" I asked. The obvious route would have been to ask if he needed more lipstick for his girlfriend, but I suspected it was a setup in order for him to deny having a girlfriend at all.
"I, uh..." I seem to have caught him off guard, or at least temporarily. "Well, Eva, I was wondering if you could recommend a nice restaurant. And if you'd join me there for dinner on Friday."
He was grinning. And very sure of himself. I felt one hundred percent the opposite -- nervous, embarrassed, and certain that this was all a trick, and that at the next moment Joyce would come shuffling back cackling at what an idiot I'd been. Everyone would know that--
"...Eva?" Bram asked, sounding slightly concerned.
Nothing had happened. It was still just Bram standing in front of me at the makeup counter, although now looking slightly worried. Worried that I might say no! How strange!
"Sorry, uh, yes. Sure, I'll go." I had no idea what to say.
"Really? That's great!" Bram actually seemed excited.
My mind was absolutely blank. Hadn't he asked me another question that I was still supposed to answer? For a brief second, my mind darted back to the woods. Oh, no -- what was I getting myself into?
"So, you think of a restaurant you'd like to go to. Any place at all. And I'll pick you up on Friday, say, seven o'clock?" His excitement really was charming.
"Yes, okay. I mean, no, I... get off at eight o'clock on Friday."
"Great! Eight it is. I'll pick you up here." He reached over the counter and took my hand -- oh, no, not the woods -- just to shake it vigorously. "Thank you, Eva," he said, and left.
I was in shock. Fortunately it was a slow day for the makeup counter, because I was barely able to speak with the few customers who did come by. I was consumed by snapshot images - impressions, really - of the woods. Just as quickly as they surfaced I buried them again. I hadn't even thought of the woods in such a long time, but if they could be dredged up again so easily... I shuddered. I barely knew Bram, but I would be absolutely mortified - terrified - if he so much as suspected anything like that had ever happened to me. I was relieved to think that he'd be picking me up from the pharmacy, but if things went well he'd eventually have to meet my family, and---!
My attention was averted for a second as someone nearby knocked over a couple of cereal boxes from a display. I wanted to slap myself in the face for being so insane, but my thoughts were racing and I couldn't make them stop. I checked the clock - ten minutes until close. I had to get out of there. I put up the "Be Right Back!" sign and packed my bags.
-------
Word count: 842
"Listen, Eva, dear," Joyce started, staring hard at the bottles of fingernail polish. "You'd do well to find yourself a good man. You're young now, but..." she let her voice trail off. Joyce and I had been chummy ever since I started working at the drug store a few weeks ago, but hadn't ever really had a heart to heart before. "Anyway, you should give that fellow a chance. Talk to him a little. He really is sweet on you." She finally looked up at me from the fingernail polish, and was grinning. "And such dimples! Is he ever a cute one!"
I felt my face flush as I nodded my head. "Sure is, Joyce," I admitted. "Have a good night!"
"See you tomorrow, dear," she said, shuffling off.
I was fairly sure I understood what she was getting at, though. I started straightening the makeup brushes and compacts, picking up where Joyce had left off with the fingernail polish. Catching the attention of someone who could... well, let's say, someone who was a good catch. Well, that was something not to be shrugged off. Or was it? It all depended on how well you could keep a man, as they say. And I knew next to nothing about that. So perhaps it was better to avoid this situation altogether, rather than risk losing---
"Well, hello again, Eva," a familiar voice broke me out of my reverie.
"You must be Bram," I said, somewhat flatly, figuring that circumventing the coy approach would help speed along the inevitable. If I was going to be led on, at least I wouldn't let it go on and on.
"Yes ma'am," he replied, without missing a beat. "I was hoping you could help me with something."
A pause.
"Yes?" I asked. The obvious route would have been to ask if he needed more lipstick for his girlfriend, but I suspected it was a setup in order for him to deny having a girlfriend at all.
"I, uh..." I seem to have caught him off guard, or at least temporarily. "Well, Eva, I was wondering if you could recommend a nice restaurant. And if you'd join me there for dinner on Friday."
He was grinning. And very sure of himself. I felt one hundred percent the opposite -- nervous, embarrassed, and certain that this was all a trick, and that at the next moment Joyce would come shuffling back cackling at what an idiot I'd been. Everyone would know that--
"...Eva?" Bram asked, sounding slightly concerned.
Nothing had happened. It was still just Bram standing in front of me at the makeup counter, although now looking slightly worried. Worried that I might say no! How strange!
"Sorry, uh, yes. Sure, I'll go." I had no idea what to say.
"Really? That's great!" Bram actually seemed excited.
My mind was absolutely blank. Hadn't he asked me another question that I was still supposed to answer? For a brief second, my mind darted back to the woods. Oh, no -- what was I getting myself into?
"So, you think of a restaurant you'd like to go to. Any place at all. And I'll pick you up on Friday, say, seven o'clock?" His excitement really was charming.
"Yes, okay. I mean, no, I... get off at eight o'clock on Friday."
"Great! Eight it is. I'll pick you up here." He reached over the counter and took my hand -- oh, no, not the woods -- just to shake it vigorously. "Thank you, Eva," he said, and left.
I was in shock. Fortunately it was a slow day for the makeup counter, because I was barely able to speak with the few customers who did come by. I was consumed by snapshot images - impressions, really - of the woods. Just as quickly as they surfaced I buried them again. I hadn't even thought of the woods in such a long time, but if they could be dredged up again so easily... I shuddered. I barely knew Bram, but I would be absolutely mortified - terrified - if he so much as suspected anything like that had ever happened to me. I was relieved to think that he'd be picking me up from the pharmacy, but if things went well he'd eventually have to meet my family, and---!
My attention was averted for a second as someone nearby knocked over a couple of cereal boxes from a display. I wanted to slap myself in the face for being so insane, but my thoughts were racing and I couldn't make them stop. I checked the clock - ten minutes until close. I had to get out of there. I put up the "Be Right Back!" sign and packed my bags.
-------
Word count: 842
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Day 8: playing catch up.
After that summer my whole life got a lot quieter. I don't think either of us really knew what had happened -- what we did -- out there in the woods. Or maybe we did, on some base level, but just weren't willing to acknowledge it. I think I'll only ever be able to use the word "it." I shudder to think.
But life coasted on, sometimes flowing slowly over the rocks, sometimes careening down the back roads. Mama got more and more reclusive, so I started taking over most of the housework, and some she'd never even bothered to do before, like dusting. She grew to resent that plenty quick, and instead of helping me try and keep house, she'd stand there making fun of me folding laundry, pointing out when I'd dropped one of the kids' socks or underwear on the floor. The first few times I'd broken down and cried, right in front of her, and run to my room. I'd hear her shuffle down the hallway back towards her bedroom and pause at my door, maybe to apologize, maybe to gloat, I never knew. But eventually I hardened to it, and stopped acknowledging her for the most part one way or another.
I can't tell you what was worse, though -- Mama, all broken down, trying her damnedest to pull the rug out from under me, or the rest of the kids, Sammy and Ruthie and Ronnie, resenting me just as much for tryin' to tell them what to do. They ran wild most of the time while I was at school, gettin' meaner by the day. I don't know what it is that makes a child feel entitled to a certain kind of life; God knows I learned quick not to ask for much. Maybe it turned out I was just too generous. But by the end of the day my heart was just almost black from resenting them right back. Everything I was doin' I was doin' for them.
Sammy was the worst of all. He had given up going to school at about 12 or 13. He was 16 by the time I was a senior in high school, and he'd already gotten real bad into drinking. Just like Papa. He'd be gone for two, three days at a time, then show up mid-afternoon and collapse on the couch. Generally I avoided him pretty successfully; we hadn't spoken in years.
[conversation between Sammy and Eva]
After that I knew I had to get out of that house. Funny, I was never worried for little Ruthie, who, by that point, was turning 11. Sammy had always treated her properly, like a real big brother, defending her from bullies and encouraging her to do her homework, the whole bit. Maybe it was cause she worshiped him from the moment she could talk. Or maybe 'cause she was a big tomboy, and tough for a kid - not feminine and naive like I was. What I really suspect though is that deep down Sammy hated himself bad for what had happened, and was tryin' to somehow right his wrongs by way of Ruthie. Even now I guess we were both victims, though the thought of him still puts me in a cold sweat.
That was my senior year in high school, as I'd said. There was no chance Papa would pay for any of us to go to college, let alone a girl. I'd only be graduating in the middle of my class that spring anyhow, so no chance for an academic scholarship. So about 3 months before graduation I started working at the pharmacy counter as a makeup girl, thinking somehow I could save up enough to start community college later that fall. Sure it meant I had housework piling up at home, but I was out of the house for a good 10 hours a day. It was like a dingy, faint beam of light after years of living in the darkness.
That's how I met Bram, a couple weeks after I started workin' at the pharmacy. He was 25 then, and hands down the most charming man I had ever met. A young doctor, just graduated from medical school a year before, and finishing up his residency. Even after everything that happened, my heart still flutters when I think of those first few weeks, meeting him and flirting with him. He came in to pick up a prescription from the pharmacy, and actually stopped by the makeup counter to pick up lipstick. Soon as he saw me he amended his story to say he had to get a gift for a friend, but I was so full of butterflies that he was even talking to me that I didn't really notice.
"Excuse me, I need to get some, uh, red lipstick?" I heard an impatient-sounding voice from the other side of the counter ask me. I was stocking the bottom shelf inside my little make up island and took a few seconds to finish up.
"I need..." he started. I'm sure my face was red from stooping over, and my hair was probably sticking out all over the place, but he must have liked what he saw because he faltered for a few seconds before continuing. "Hi there.... Eva? Uh, some lipstick, it's... can I have it gift wrapped?"
"Hello," I responded, a bit confused by his change in tone. What a handsome customer! But he seemed a bit older, and was buying lipstick, so... right, lipstick! "We have several different brands of lipstick. Was there one in particular you were looking for?" Did that sound too formal?
"Well, no... not really. She likes, uh... gee, I don't really know." He was scratching his head and squeezing his eyes shut, as if trying really hard to remember. "Which one is the most expensive? Or, the best quality, I mean." He opened his eyes and flashed me a goofy, dimpled grin.
"Let's see here." Now I was determined to be as helpful as possible. I rummaged through a couple of bins and laid several options out on the counter. "I'd say these here are our most popular." I knew he was looking at me instead of the lipstick; I could feel my face growing just as red. "These two here are brand new shades, very popular with some of the high school girls. And this one here is a classic, very versatile. And then this one here is probably our most expensive, supposed to be long lasting. Then the last few here are regulars for a lot of the ladies I see coming in here." I felt as if I had been talking without breathing for five minutes straight.
"Which do you use?" he asked. I don't think he'd taken his eyes off of me the whole time.
"Um, well, haha," I let a giggle slip out, "I don't usually go in for a lot of this stuff, but... if I had to pick, I'd say this one." I held up the one I'd referred to as "classic" earlier. Hell, I don't know.
"I'm sure my, well, my friend will love it. I'll take it. And I'll go grab some wrapping paper as well... could you tell me where that would be?"
I pointed him to the stationery aisle and he abruptly took off, almost like he had suddenly remembered he had to be somewhere. I was a little disappointed, but had enough work left to do stocking the shelves that I had more or less forgotten about this little episode by the end of the day.
I didn't see him again until about a week later, when I first arrived at work after being in classes all day. I walked over to the makeup station to relieve Joyce, when I saw him checking out some trifles over by the pharmacy counter. His back was to us.
"Ah, great, hey Eva." Joyce was a sweet woman, middle aged and a tad sallow, and loved to gossip. "Glad you're here finally - that guy over there won't leave me alone about you!" Cue the butterflies; Joyce was about to burst with secrets.
"Oh, uh... who?" I asked, pretending nonchalance while I tucked away my school stuff under the counter.
"Bram. The light haired fellow over there by the pharmacy. He was asking about you, wanting to know when you got in today. I imagine he's planning to ask you out!" Sweet Joyce. I don't think she'd ever been on a date in her life.
"Well. I don't think I've ever met anyone named Bram." I didn't want Joyce to know that I was absolutely thrilled, or she'd shout it to high Heaven. "Anyway, now that I'm here you can go ahead and clock out."
-------
Word count: 1,469
But life coasted on, sometimes flowing slowly over the rocks, sometimes careening down the back roads. Mama got more and more reclusive, so I started taking over most of the housework, and some she'd never even bothered to do before, like dusting. She grew to resent that plenty quick, and instead of helping me try and keep house, she'd stand there making fun of me folding laundry, pointing out when I'd dropped one of the kids' socks or underwear on the floor. The first few times I'd broken down and cried, right in front of her, and run to my room. I'd hear her shuffle down the hallway back towards her bedroom and pause at my door, maybe to apologize, maybe to gloat, I never knew. But eventually I hardened to it, and stopped acknowledging her for the most part one way or another.
I can't tell you what was worse, though -- Mama, all broken down, trying her damnedest to pull the rug out from under me, or the rest of the kids, Sammy and Ruthie and Ronnie, resenting me just as much for tryin' to tell them what to do. They ran wild most of the time while I was at school, gettin' meaner by the day. I don't know what it is that makes a child feel entitled to a certain kind of life; God knows I learned quick not to ask for much. Maybe it turned out I was just too generous. But by the end of the day my heart was just almost black from resenting them right back. Everything I was doin' I was doin' for them.
Sammy was the worst of all. He had given up going to school at about 12 or 13. He was 16 by the time I was a senior in high school, and he'd already gotten real bad into drinking. Just like Papa. He'd be gone for two, three days at a time, then show up mid-afternoon and collapse on the couch. Generally I avoided him pretty successfully; we hadn't spoken in years.
[conversation between Sammy and Eva]
After that I knew I had to get out of that house. Funny, I was never worried for little Ruthie, who, by that point, was turning 11. Sammy had always treated her properly, like a real big brother, defending her from bullies and encouraging her to do her homework, the whole bit. Maybe it was cause she worshiped him from the moment she could talk. Or maybe 'cause she was a big tomboy, and tough for a kid - not feminine and naive like I was. What I really suspect though is that deep down Sammy hated himself bad for what had happened, and was tryin' to somehow right his wrongs by way of Ruthie. Even now I guess we were both victims, though the thought of him still puts me in a cold sweat.
That was my senior year in high school, as I'd said. There was no chance Papa would pay for any of us to go to college, let alone a girl. I'd only be graduating in the middle of my class that spring anyhow, so no chance for an academic scholarship. So about 3 months before graduation I started working at the pharmacy counter as a makeup girl, thinking somehow I could save up enough to start community college later that fall. Sure it meant I had housework piling up at home, but I was out of the house for a good 10 hours a day. It was like a dingy, faint beam of light after years of living in the darkness.
That's how I met Bram, a couple weeks after I started workin' at the pharmacy. He was 25 then, and hands down the most charming man I had ever met. A young doctor, just graduated from medical school a year before, and finishing up his residency. Even after everything that happened, my heart still flutters when I think of those first few weeks, meeting him and flirting with him. He came in to pick up a prescription from the pharmacy, and actually stopped by the makeup counter to pick up lipstick. Soon as he saw me he amended his story to say he had to get a gift for a friend, but I was so full of butterflies that he was even talking to me that I didn't really notice.
"Excuse me, I need to get some, uh, red lipstick?" I heard an impatient-sounding voice from the other side of the counter ask me. I was stocking the bottom shelf inside my little make up island and took a few seconds to finish up.
"I need..." he started. I'm sure my face was red from stooping over, and my hair was probably sticking out all over the place, but he must have liked what he saw because he faltered for a few seconds before continuing. "Hi there.... Eva? Uh, some lipstick, it's... can I have it gift wrapped?"
"Hello," I responded, a bit confused by his change in tone. What a handsome customer! But he seemed a bit older, and was buying lipstick, so... right, lipstick! "We have several different brands of lipstick. Was there one in particular you were looking for?" Did that sound too formal?
"Well, no... not really. She likes, uh... gee, I don't really know." He was scratching his head and squeezing his eyes shut, as if trying really hard to remember. "Which one is the most expensive? Or, the best quality, I mean." He opened his eyes and flashed me a goofy, dimpled grin.
"Let's see here." Now I was determined to be as helpful as possible. I rummaged through a couple of bins and laid several options out on the counter. "I'd say these here are our most popular." I knew he was looking at me instead of the lipstick; I could feel my face growing just as red. "These two here are brand new shades, very popular with some of the high school girls. And this one here is a classic, very versatile. And then this one here is probably our most expensive, supposed to be long lasting. Then the last few here are regulars for a lot of the ladies I see coming in here." I felt as if I had been talking without breathing for five minutes straight.
"Which do you use?" he asked. I don't think he'd taken his eyes off of me the whole time.
"Um, well, haha," I let a giggle slip out, "I don't usually go in for a lot of this stuff, but... if I had to pick, I'd say this one." I held up the one I'd referred to as "classic" earlier. Hell, I don't know.
"I'm sure my, well, my friend will love it. I'll take it. And I'll go grab some wrapping paper as well... could you tell me where that would be?"
I pointed him to the stationery aisle and he abruptly took off, almost like he had suddenly remembered he had to be somewhere. I was a little disappointed, but had enough work left to do stocking the shelves that I had more or less forgotten about this little episode by the end of the day.
I didn't see him again until about a week later, when I first arrived at work after being in classes all day. I walked over to the makeup station to relieve Joyce, when I saw him checking out some trifles over by the pharmacy counter. His back was to us.
"Ah, great, hey Eva." Joyce was a sweet woman, middle aged and a tad sallow, and loved to gossip. "Glad you're here finally - that guy over there won't leave me alone about you!" Cue the butterflies; Joyce was about to burst with secrets.
"Oh, uh... who?" I asked, pretending nonchalance while I tucked away my school stuff under the counter.
"Bram. The light haired fellow over there by the pharmacy. He was asking about you, wanting to know when you got in today. I imagine he's planning to ask you out!" Sweet Joyce. I don't think she'd ever been on a date in her life.
"Well. I don't think I've ever met anyone named Bram." I didn't want Joyce to know that I was absolutely thrilled, or she'd shout it to high Heaven. "Anyway, now that I'm here you can go ahead and clock out."
-------
Word count: 1,469
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Day 4: More Greg
Could be worse, indeed.
A couple of weeks later, Greg had a party to celebrate having bought his apartment building. Most of the cast and crew was invited, but I seemed to have narrowly escaped the invite. That is, until I got an email from Mark the day before the party, forwarding me the details and mentioning that Greg hoped I'd be able to make it.
I'm usually OK with parties. After a couple of drinks, the frenetic self-absorption begins to fade, and I can interact with people on a somewhat normal plane. What I don't like, though, is going to a party by myself, when I don't know anyone there very well. To have your presence expressly requested is one thing -- well, at least, requested via a third party -- but managing to have an enjoyable time going through the getting-to-know-you process with the other rejects by the punch bowl is entirely another.
But... at Greg's house? I just really didn't like him that much. I couldn't shake the feeling that he felt sorry for me, and that didn't sit right. I mean, I guess it would make sense that he would invite me, and last minute at that, if he did feel sorry for me. But maybe I should get over it; let any of these bastards really feel sorry for me and see where it gets them.
I wrote back that I'd try to make it, but no promises. And then I tried to consider the opportunity neutrally, and weigh the pros against the cons without trying to force the outcome.
The pros:
another chance to get to know some of the folks from work a bit more socially
an opportunity to get out of my head for the evening
free booze
The cons:
social anxiety, blah blah blah
an opportunity to make an ass of myself if I drink too much
It wasn't really worth debating further. I would go, and I wouldn't drink too much, and I'd try to have an ok time. I really hated the fact that I had been brought up to believe this was normal behavior.
...
"Hi... is this Greg's house?" I inquired meekly of an odd assembly of people in the foyer. There were a few post-middle-aged folks milling around, and a very pregnant woman talking to a older couple. With that surreal introduction, I wasn't sure I was at the right house.
The woman of the older couple looked up, and pointed me to the basement stairwell on the other side of the room.
I don't exaggerate when I say that, from that bizarre foyer aperitif onward, it was a descent into madness. The basement was choked full of people whom, from the look of things, were well ahead of me on drinking. There were no overhead lights on, but what must have been about a mile's worth of rope lights and string lights were strung along every surface - even wrapped around all the pipes that were visible from the ceiling. There was a built in bar, a pool table with a glass top serving as a buffet, and a series of stools, crates, and bean-bag chairs strewn about the place. It seemed as if everything had reflective qualities as well, causing the entire place to glow, and distorting everyone's features as if this were a masquerade party. A movie was being projected onto the far wall - what looked to be Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
The sound from the movie was completely drowned out by the buzz of about 60 people talking at once. There were stabs of laughter every few seconds, the almost overwhelming sound of ice clinking in glasses, and the occasional whiff of melody from a speaker somewhere that was patiently bleating out music. It was amazing that none of this noise was noticeable from the street, or even the living room when I first came in; down here it was paralyzing.
And before I get too off-track, the other overwhelming sensation worth noting was the smell. The sugary sweet smell of fruit drinks and flavored liquor mixed with the musty damp smell I assume was the basement's natural aroma, plus the warmer, more humid smell of a slew of skin-covered bodies packed into a small space. There must have been 15,000 square feet of skin in there. The result was what I imagined a newly-dead body to have smelled like - dirty, human, and slightly sweet with decay.
So I flowed slowly in the room, somewhat comforted in the fact that I probably wouldn't need to worry about making too much conversation with anyone. I wanted to find Mark and say hi, so at least he'd know that I'd shown up, and I figured I wouldn't go out of my way to find Greg.
Until he popped up from behind the bar, that is.
"Heeeeey, Maaaaandy! Glad you could make it!"
"Oh, hey, Greg. Some place you've got here!"
"Thank you, dear lady! And it's aaaaalll miiiiine!" Clearly he wasn't going to be driving home tonight.
"Yeah, congratulations. That's really great. I really li--"
"What's that? You'd really like... a drink?" Greg asked, extremely exaggerating the movement of cupping his hand around his ear. He pushed over a cup to her that smelled a little ominous.
"Sure, haha, thanks," I responded, a little taken aback.
"There's moooore where that came from!" Greg said, blushing and waggling his finger.
Then it hit me. The second he blushed, I knew. Greg liked me. I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it sooner -- of course. He wasn't condescending to me when he was usurping my converstion from the rest of the group at dinner that night -- he was trying to get to know me.
What a novel idea. I felt like an idiot, that I hadn't noticed it sooner, but at the same time I was amused at myself for being so far removed as not to have noticed it. Someone had a crush on me. It had been a long time, and the effects were interesting to observe.
But of course, there was the immediate present. This drink tasted terrible, and appeared to be of an opaque purple color. It tasted as if it were a mixture of amaretto sours and maybe one or two other things that I couldn't place at all. And now I had the burden of this knowledge that Greg had a crush on me, and to all appearances had been using our mutual friend Mark to string me along.
I was pleased enough with the rushing feelings of approval that I decided not to make up my mind yet about Greg. He was an odd guy, to be sure, with a flair for the dramatic... but armed with this knowledge I now wasn't sure what had been him acting normal, what had been him trying to impress me, and now what had been him just flambuoyantly drunk. I took another gulp of my purple haze in a cup and grinned.
"I wasn't sure what you'd like!" The noise was growing, and Greg was having to shout over the music. "So I improvised! What do you think?!"
"A little strong!" I shouted back. "But good!" I lied, and took another gulp. I could already feel the prickly feeling in my stomach that meant the alcohol was being absorbed.
"Wooonderful!" he said, sloshing his own drink a little onto the bar. "Now, I must ask you. Would you like to play beer pong?"
Hmmm. Bad idea. This drink was probably all I should be having anyway. But... "Uh, sure. Ok! I'm terrible, though!" I called back. I'd wager my cheeks were probably flushed.
We made our way over to the beer pong setup on the other side of the basement. As luck would have it, Mark and another guy Josh from the studio had just been stood up by their competitors, so we joined right in. It was at this point, I'm afraid to say, that things started to get a little blurry. Maybe it was because I hadn't eaten anything, or maybe I was just letting myself get seduced by that heady feeling of affirmation. Either way, we ended up playing a couple games of beer pong with a rotating team of people. In between matches, or maybe afterwards, I have a vague memory of several of us leading by example in trying to get the rest of the partygoers to dance. I can only imagine. Needless to say, by that point, I was absolutely trashed. Of course the one con I had listed that was actually avoidable I had turned into a room-spinning reality.
---------
Word count: 1,450
A couple of weeks later, Greg had a party to celebrate having bought his apartment building. Most of the cast and crew was invited, but I seemed to have narrowly escaped the invite. That is, until I got an email from Mark the day before the party, forwarding me the details and mentioning that Greg hoped I'd be able to make it.
I'm usually OK with parties. After a couple of drinks, the frenetic self-absorption begins to fade, and I can interact with people on a somewhat normal plane. What I don't like, though, is going to a party by myself, when I don't know anyone there very well. To have your presence expressly requested is one thing -- well, at least, requested via a third party -- but managing to have an enjoyable time going through the getting-to-know-you process with the other rejects by the punch bowl is entirely another.
But... at Greg's house? I just really didn't like him that much. I couldn't shake the feeling that he felt sorry for me, and that didn't sit right. I mean, I guess it would make sense that he would invite me, and last minute at that, if he did feel sorry for me. But maybe I should get over it; let any of these bastards really feel sorry for me and see where it gets them.
I wrote back that I'd try to make it, but no promises. And then I tried to consider the opportunity neutrally, and weigh the pros against the cons without trying to force the outcome.
The pros:
another chance to get to know some of the folks from work a bit more socially
an opportunity to get out of my head for the evening
free booze
The cons:
social anxiety, blah blah blah
an opportunity to make an ass of myself if I drink too much
It wasn't really worth debating further. I would go, and I wouldn't drink too much, and I'd try to have an ok time. I really hated the fact that I had been brought up to believe this was normal behavior.
...
"Hi... is this Greg's house?" I inquired meekly of an odd assembly of people in the foyer. There were a few post-middle-aged folks milling around, and a very pregnant woman talking to a older couple. With that surreal introduction, I wasn't sure I was at the right house.
The woman of the older couple looked up, and pointed me to the basement stairwell on the other side of the room.
I don't exaggerate when I say that, from that bizarre foyer aperitif onward, it was a descent into madness. The basement was choked full of people whom, from the look of things, were well ahead of me on drinking. There were no overhead lights on, but what must have been about a mile's worth of rope lights and string lights were strung along every surface - even wrapped around all the pipes that were visible from the ceiling. There was a built in bar, a pool table with a glass top serving as a buffet, and a series of stools, crates, and bean-bag chairs strewn about the place. It seemed as if everything had reflective qualities as well, causing the entire place to glow, and distorting everyone's features as if this were a masquerade party. A movie was being projected onto the far wall - what looked to be Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
The sound from the movie was completely drowned out by the buzz of about 60 people talking at once. There were stabs of laughter every few seconds, the almost overwhelming sound of ice clinking in glasses, and the occasional whiff of melody from a speaker somewhere that was patiently bleating out music. It was amazing that none of this noise was noticeable from the street, or even the living room when I first came in; down here it was paralyzing.
And before I get too off-track, the other overwhelming sensation worth noting was the smell. The sugary sweet smell of fruit drinks and flavored liquor mixed with the musty damp smell I assume was the basement's natural aroma, plus the warmer, more humid smell of a slew of skin-covered bodies packed into a small space. There must have been 15,000 square feet of skin in there. The result was what I imagined a newly-dead body to have smelled like - dirty, human, and slightly sweet with decay.
So I flowed slowly in the room, somewhat comforted in the fact that I probably wouldn't need to worry about making too much conversation with anyone. I wanted to find Mark and say hi, so at least he'd know that I'd shown up, and I figured I wouldn't go out of my way to find Greg.
Until he popped up from behind the bar, that is.
"Heeeeey, Maaaaandy! Glad you could make it!"
"Oh, hey, Greg. Some place you've got here!"
"Thank you, dear lady! And it's aaaaalll miiiiine!" Clearly he wasn't going to be driving home tonight.
"Yeah, congratulations. That's really great. I really li--"
"What's that? You'd really like... a drink?" Greg asked, extremely exaggerating the movement of cupping his hand around his ear. He pushed over a cup to her that smelled a little ominous.
"Sure, haha, thanks," I responded, a little taken aback.
"There's moooore where that came from!" Greg said, blushing and waggling his finger.
Then it hit me. The second he blushed, I knew. Greg liked me. I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it sooner -- of course. He wasn't condescending to me when he was usurping my converstion from the rest of the group at dinner that night -- he was trying to get to know me.
What a novel idea. I felt like an idiot, that I hadn't noticed it sooner, but at the same time I was amused at myself for being so far removed as not to have noticed it. Someone had a crush on me. It had been a long time, and the effects were interesting to observe.
But of course, there was the immediate present. This drink tasted terrible, and appeared to be of an opaque purple color. It tasted as if it were a mixture of amaretto sours and maybe one or two other things that I couldn't place at all. And now I had the burden of this knowledge that Greg had a crush on me, and to all appearances had been using our mutual friend Mark to string me along.
I was pleased enough with the rushing feelings of approval that I decided not to make up my mind yet about Greg. He was an odd guy, to be sure, with a flair for the dramatic... but armed with this knowledge I now wasn't sure what had been him acting normal, what had been him trying to impress me, and now what had been him just flambuoyantly drunk. I took another gulp of my purple haze in a cup and grinned.
"I wasn't sure what you'd like!" The noise was growing, and Greg was having to shout over the music. "So I improvised! What do you think?!"
"A little strong!" I shouted back. "But good!" I lied, and took another gulp. I could already feel the prickly feeling in my stomach that meant the alcohol was being absorbed.
"Wooonderful!" he said, sloshing his own drink a little onto the bar. "Now, I must ask you. Would you like to play beer pong?"
Hmmm. Bad idea. This drink was probably all I should be having anyway. But... "Uh, sure. Ok! I'm terrible, though!" I called back. I'd wager my cheeks were probably flushed.
We made our way over to the beer pong setup on the other side of the basement. As luck would have it, Mark and another guy Josh from the studio had just been stood up by their competitors, so we joined right in. It was at this point, I'm afraid to say, that things started to get a little blurry. Maybe it was because I hadn't eaten anything, or maybe I was just letting myself get seduced by that heady feeling of affirmation. Either way, we ended up playing a couple games of beer pong with a rotating team of people. In between matches, or maybe afterwards, I have a vague memory of several of us leading by example in trying to get the rest of the partygoers to dance. I can only imagine. Needless to say, by that point, I was absolutely trashed. Of course the one con I had listed that was actually avoidable I had turned into a room-spinning reality.
---------
Word count: 1,450
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Day 3: Meeting Greg
With the divorce finalized and the truth still smarting, I felt as if I was the most clearheaded I'd ever been. That was both true and not-true; anger can make you feel things more acutely, but can also distort your perception about what should be done about them.
So I got it in my head to burn bridges. I wanted to be rid of every connection I had to my sniveling, mortally wounded little group of blood relatives. I would jump ship, and ride some rotting vessel to the shore.
My plan was ultimately to grab onto the fastest moving train and let it take me far far away, whether that train was a career, a lover, a hobby, a family, or anything in between. I was in a place to start charging after all of the above if I wanted to, but I really didn't care which. I was tired of treading against the waterfall; I wanted to give up and let it carry me to my doom.
And unlucky me, several of the above more or less landed in my lap at once.
...
Let's see. Mark and Jonathan take it black, Manny with cream, Beth with skim and Equal, Barb with non-dairy, Brad and Deb with skim and sugar. Mark, Jonathan, Manny, Beth, Barb, Brad, Deb... wasn't there someone else? Mark, Jon, Manny, Beth --- oh, Luiz! And Luiz takes---
"What's your name?"
An imagined shattering sound as my inane thoughts are interrupted.
Pause.
"Hey there, what's your name?"
I didn't turn around. I wasn't really feeling friendly. Whoever wanted to introduce themselves to my ponytail was probably a loser. This coffee maker was my only friend.
"Excuse me..."
Great, tenacity. Love it. "What?" I asked, pretending not to have heard all along.
"Haha, hi, I'm Greg. What's your name?" He was a short-ish, late 20's-ish guy, tawny-colored curly hair. He was dressed nicely; it was hard to tell which department he worked for.
"Hi, Greg, I'm Mandy." I gave him the standard firm handshake for good measure.
"Wow, strong handshake." No kidding. "What do you do around here?" he gestured widely at the break room. He was probably an actor; something about the way he kept looking around made me think he was used to having an audience.
"Mostly this," I said, pointing to the coffee machine.
"Ah. Mark mentioned there was a new PA. How are you liking things so far?
I really didn't want to discuss my feelings with this guy. It was starting to seem like he had just come in here to jerk me around. "It's alright. Pretty busy I guess, with so many things going on at once."
"Tell me about it! I feel like I never get any time at all between stage calls." So he was an actor. And by the look of things he expected me to be impressed.
"Yeah. I'd better get a move on with this coffee," I replied, reaching in front of us both to grab the coffee pot again. Please go away, dude.
"I see! Well, very nice to meet you, Mandy," Greg said, and retreated from the break room.
"You too," I said, already facing the other direction. I wanted to get this coffee over with. It was only part of my plan to suck up to the crew and eventually get promoted out of coffee duty, but it would be a nice bonus when they stopped sneering at me like they'd figured out something I hadn't.
But maybe what I hadn't figured out yet was ego. Sure as hell I hadn't been brought up to think of myself first. There were no other TV studios in town here, so these guys were the big fish in the small pond - cast and crew no exception. There were always things going on, but usually it was because John Q. contracted the studio to film a commercial for his tire shop, or someone from the filmmaking class wanted to shoot an experimental music video. I knew their product library very well -- I'd soaked it up from living in this town so many years. The view behind the curtain was a filthy warehouse in the shipping district.
Couldn't let them see me being so cynical, though. This was all a paradise of distraction compared to the sulfuric hell of the Wallace family downfall. I can't afford to think about that, even for a second.
Armed with a tray full of coffee cups, I made my way out onto the studio floor.
...
I was getting my jacket on and contemplating what I was going to fix a single serving of for dinner, when one of the lighting techs, Mark, came down the hall.
"Hey, Mandy, hold up?"
"Uh, yep?"
"Hey, so I know you haven't met everyone yet, but a few of us were gonna go grab some dinner down the street. You're welcome to join us if you'd like."
"Oh, um..." Shit. This was exactly the kind of thing I was terrible at - chit-chatting and talking shop. But I was hungry... and this probably needed happen sooner or later. "...Yeah, sure, ok."
"Hey, great. I think we're gonna meet out by the main entrance. I gotta grab my stuff -- see you outside!"
Whew. It was moments like these that I got to experience the rare feeling of seeing myself from two very different points of view. On the one hand, I was terrified to go. What if they didn't like me? What if I made some huge faux pas, and really embarrassed myself? What if they expected me to know all kinds of movie trivia and broadcasting lingo? On the other hand, I hated myself for that fear. What an idiot I was to second guess myself in front of these people, whose lives were as deep as puddles.
All of these feelings ran through me in an instant, like an electric current. I don't know if this is the true answer or not, but in my heart I believe that it's that current that the change comes from. Everything I've just described I've heard Eva describe in one way or another -- feeling overwhelmed and intimidated one second, then hostile and elitist the next. I used to think it was those second set of feelings that took a person over and caused the change, but there's more to it than that. There's fear in the change, and loneliness -- it's more a combination of the two points of view than anything else. Then something goes wrong, or maybe the feelings get too strong a hold of a person, but that's when the change starts happening.
At any rate, I figured I would tag along and see what I could see.
As I got outside, a group of 10 or so people were standing around, chatting, and rocking back on their heels. Most of what I caught had to do with work -- how so and so forgot their lines, or the producer was being too tough with the schedule, basic stuff. It seems this group both worked and played together, as the rest of the conversation centered around re-telling stories of parties they'd gone to together, movies they'd seen, games they'd played. Nice to know, on the one hand, that if I made it into this group, my social life would be one less thing I'd have to worry about.
"Hey, Mandy, glad you could join us." The guy from the breakroom. Apparently he was the last person we were waiting on, since the group started walking as soon as he stepped out of the door.
Was it Gary? Rob? Craig? I couldn't remember for the life of me. "Hi... What was your name again?" Smooth, real smooth.
"It's Greg. No worries. I imagine that's a lot of new faces to have to keep track of." His tone was extremely platonic.
"And coffee orders," I offered up tentatively. This was going to be a long night.
"Indeed!" Greg responded with a flourish. "What did you do before this?"
"I... was a student," I said, which was partially true. "Down at Monroe."
"Oh, that's where I first started taking acting lessons. Great place. Did you major in film, or...?"
"English, actually, but I took a couple of classes in film studies."
"Oh great, I know Mark did the film studies program there a few years ago."
"That's how I first met Mark, actually, when he substituted for a couple of weeks last semester."
"Right, I remember a few months ago we were short on lighting techs!"
By now we were approaching the restaurant - Evan's Saloon. Looked like a nice enough place, but it was pretty dead inside. Mark held the door for us as we all filed in. So far the conversation had gone well enough, but I didn't want to get sequestered in chit-chat all night long with the same person. A few clusters of people had been laughing and joking with each other -- that sounded like more fun than chatting with Greg.
"So, you went to college here. Are you originally from this area?" Greg asked, as he pulled a seat out for me. Guess I would be stuck with him all night after all.
"Not exactly - I'm from Charlotte."
"Ah, I'm very familiar with Charlotte. How about family? Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
"Um, yes." I started a little at the question; hopefully he hadn't noticed. "I have a younger brother and sister." It was feeling more and more like Greg felt sorry for me that I didn't know anyone. Perhaps interviewing me was his good deed for the day, in order to make me feel like more of a part of the conversation.
"How about you?" I asked, for a change of pace.
"Nope, I'm an only child. I didn't grow up here, though; my family is originally from Canada." Greg seemed proud of this fact.
I knew nothing of Canada, however. "Interesting."
The rest of dinner pretty much followed suit. Although I couldn't really read Greg that well, my overall opinion of him was that he was proud, and a bit of a jerk because of it. He had told me about the skiing trips his family used to take up in Canada, and how he recently purchased the building his apartment had been in. In turn, I spilled my unclassified guts, telling him about what I studied in college, what my hobbies were, and the general climate of Charlotte. He mentioned he was just about to start a new documentary project next week that was going to take up a lot of his time, so at least I wouldn't have to worry about seeing a lot of him during the day.
Could be worse.
--------
Word count: 1,804
So I got it in my head to burn bridges. I wanted to be rid of every connection I had to my sniveling, mortally wounded little group of blood relatives. I would jump ship, and ride some rotting vessel to the shore.
My plan was ultimately to grab onto the fastest moving train and let it take me far far away, whether that train was a career, a lover, a hobby, a family, or anything in between. I was in a place to start charging after all of the above if I wanted to, but I really didn't care which. I was tired of treading against the waterfall; I wanted to give up and let it carry me to my doom.
And unlucky me, several of the above more or less landed in my lap at once.
...
Let's see. Mark and Jonathan take it black, Manny with cream, Beth with skim and Equal, Barb with non-dairy, Brad and Deb with skim and sugar. Mark, Jonathan, Manny, Beth, Barb, Brad, Deb... wasn't there someone else? Mark, Jon, Manny, Beth --- oh, Luiz! And Luiz takes---
"What's your name?"
An imagined shattering sound as my inane thoughts are interrupted.
Pause.
"Hey there, what's your name?"
I didn't turn around. I wasn't really feeling friendly. Whoever wanted to introduce themselves to my ponytail was probably a loser. This coffee maker was my only friend.
"Excuse me..."
Great, tenacity. Love it. "What?" I asked, pretending not to have heard all along.
"Haha, hi, I'm Greg. What's your name?" He was a short-ish, late 20's-ish guy, tawny-colored curly hair. He was dressed nicely; it was hard to tell which department he worked for.
"Hi, Greg, I'm Mandy." I gave him the standard firm handshake for good measure.
"Wow, strong handshake." No kidding. "What do you do around here?" he gestured widely at the break room. He was probably an actor; something about the way he kept looking around made me think he was used to having an audience.
"Mostly this," I said, pointing to the coffee machine.
"Ah. Mark mentioned there was a new PA. How are you liking things so far?
I really didn't want to discuss my feelings with this guy. It was starting to seem like he had just come in here to jerk me around. "It's alright. Pretty busy I guess, with so many things going on at once."
"Tell me about it! I feel like I never get any time at all between stage calls." So he was an actor. And by the look of things he expected me to be impressed.
"Yeah. I'd better get a move on with this coffee," I replied, reaching in front of us both to grab the coffee pot again. Please go away, dude.
"I see! Well, very nice to meet you, Mandy," Greg said, and retreated from the break room.
"You too," I said, already facing the other direction. I wanted to get this coffee over with. It was only part of my plan to suck up to the crew and eventually get promoted out of coffee duty, but it would be a nice bonus when they stopped sneering at me like they'd figured out something I hadn't.
But maybe what I hadn't figured out yet was ego. Sure as hell I hadn't been brought up to think of myself first. There were no other TV studios in town here, so these guys were the big fish in the small pond - cast and crew no exception. There were always things going on, but usually it was because John Q. contracted the studio to film a commercial for his tire shop, or someone from the filmmaking class wanted to shoot an experimental music video. I knew their product library very well -- I'd soaked it up from living in this town so many years. The view behind the curtain was a filthy warehouse in the shipping district.
Couldn't let them see me being so cynical, though. This was all a paradise of distraction compared to the sulfuric hell of the Wallace family downfall. I can't afford to think about that, even for a second.
Armed with a tray full of coffee cups, I made my way out onto the studio floor.
...
I was getting my jacket on and contemplating what I was going to fix a single serving of for dinner, when one of the lighting techs, Mark, came down the hall.
"Hey, Mandy, hold up?"
"Uh, yep?"
"Hey, so I know you haven't met everyone yet, but a few of us were gonna go grab some dinner down the street. You're welcome to join us if you'd like."
"Oh, um..." Shit. This was exactly the kind of thing I was terrible at - chit-chatting and talking shop. But I was hungry... and this probably needed happen sooner or later. "...Yeah, sure, ok."
"Hey, great. I think we're gonna meet out by the main entrance. I gotta grab my stuff -- see you outside!"
Whew. It was moments like these that I got to experience the rare feeling of seeing myself from two very different points of view. On the one hand, I was terrified to go. What if they didn't like me? What if I made some huge faux pas, and really embarrassed myself? What if they expected me to know all kinds of movie trivia and broadcasting lingo? On the other hand, I hated myself for that fear. What an idiot I was to second guess myself in front of these people, whose lives were as deep as puddles.
All of these feelings ran through me in an instant, like an electric current. I don't know if this is the true answer or not, but in my heart I believe that it's that current that the change comes from. Everything I've just described I've heard Eva describe in one way or another -- feeling overwhelmed and intimidated one second, then hostile and elitist the next. I used to think it was those second set of feelings that took a person over and caused the change, but there's more to it than that. There's fear in the change, and loneliness -- it's more a combination of the two points of view than anything else. Then something goes wrong, or maybe the feelings get too strong a hold of a person, but that's when the change starts happening.
At any rate, I figured I would tag along and see what I could see.
As I got outside, a group of 10 or so people were standing around, chatting, and rocking back on their heels. Most of what I caught had to do with work -- how so and so forgot their lines, or the producer was being too tough with the schedule, basic stuff. It seems this group both worked and played together, as the rest of the conversation centered around re-telling stories of parties they'd gone to together, movies they'd seen, games they'd played. Nice to know, on the one hand, that if I made it into this group, my social life would be one less thing I'd have to worry about.
"Hey, Mandy, glad you could join us." The guy from the breakroom. Apparently he was the last person we were waiting on, since the group started walking as soon as he stepped out of the door.
Was it Gary? Rob? Craig? I couldn't remember for the life of me. "Hi... What was your name again?" Smooth, real smooth.
"It's Greg. No worries. I imagine that's a lot of new faces to have to keep track of." His tone was extremely platonic.
"And coffee orders," I offered up tentatively. This was going to be a long night.
"Indeed!" Greg responded with a flourish. "What did you do before this?"
"I... was a student," I said, which was partially true. "Down at Monroe."
"Oh, that's where I first started taking acting lessons. Great place. Did you major in film, or...?"
"English, actually, but I took a couple of classes in film studies."
"Oh great, I know Mark did the film studies program there a few years ago."
"That's how I first met Mark, actually, when he substituted for a couple of weeks last semester."
"Right, I remember a few months ago we were short on lighting techs!"
By now we were approaching the restaurant - Evan's Saloon. Looked like a nice enough place, but it was pretty dead inside. Mark held the door for us as we all filed in. So far the conversation had gone well enough, but I didn't want to get sequestered in chit-chat all night long with the same person. A few clusters of people had been laughing and joking with each other -- that sounded like more fun than chatting with Greg.
"So, you went to college here. Are you originally from this area?" Greg asked, as he pulled a seat out for me. Guess I would be stuck with him all night after all.
"Not exactly - I'm from Charlotte."
"Ah, I'm very familiar with Charlotte. How about family? Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
"Um, yes." I started a little at the question; hopefully he hadn't noticed. "I have a younger brother and sister." It was feeling more and more like Greg felt sorry for me that I didn't know anyone. Perhaps interviewing me was his good deed for the day, in order to make me feel like more of a part of the conversation.
"How about you?" I asked, for a change of pace.
"Nope, I'm an only child. I didn't grow up here, though; my family is originally from Canada." Greg seemed proud of this fact.
I knew nothing of Canada, however. "Interesting."
The rest of dinner pretty much followed suit. Although I couldn't really read Greg that well, my overall opinion of him was that he was proud, and a bit of a jerk because of it. He had told me about the skiing trips his family used to take up in Canada, and how he recently purchased the building his apartment had been in. In turn, I spilled my unclassified guts, telling him about what I studied in college, what my hobbies were, and the general climate of Charlotte. He mentioned he was just about to start a new documentary project next week that was going to take up a lot of his time, so at least I wouldn't have to worry about seeing a lot of him during the day.
Could be worse.
--------
Word count: 1,804
Monday, November 2, 2009
Day 2: Churchagaw?
When we were kids, I remember thinkin' that our house was the most beautiful one I'd ever seen. Sammy an' my bedroom was the first one on the left when you went down the hallway, right next to baby Ruthie's little room. The sun would stream in through the windows on that side of the house, dappling through the leaves on our plum tree outside. Really it was just a plain one-story vinyl-sided deal in a nondescript cul-de-sac a couple miles from the rougher part of town. We didn't get much crime out our way, though; it was almost as if burglars and everyone else knew they'd get too little loot for it to be worth the trouble.
In the summers we were pretty much left to our own devices - Papa was either down at the shipyard or down at Jack's drinkin', and Mama spent a lot of time in her room. So Sammy an' I would make up games together, y'know, shoot squirrels in the back yard, and run an' steal people's things from their yards, whatever we could find. When I think about it now, a lot of our games had to do with collecting things, specifically stolen things, an' then either hidin' 'em again like treasures or breakin' 'em down so no one could find out what we'd done.
One summer we got to spend a whole month with Gramma an' Grampap Rodgers, out in the mountains. We were so excited we couldn't sleep, and we stayed up late into the night whispering about how we were gonna take out Grampap's huntin' dogs, and explore the entire woods, and build a fort that no one could find that we could keep all our treasures in. We talked a lot about that fort, and the nonsense logistics of how to keep it perfectly hidden from everyone but ourselves. The Fort filled our thoughts all the way up to the driveway of the old brick church that Grampap was the pastor of. Papa pulled up slowly, and Grampap was there waitin' for us outside the sign that read Pentecostal Church of God.
Sayin' that name again reminds me of something that, now, seems to shed a little light on how things turned out. It took me all summer to find out that the Churchagaw wasn't real, an' I'd made him up out of Grampap saying 'Church 'a' Gawd' in his thick accent. When Grampap first told us he was in charge of the Churchagaw, I imagined it as a great big black bird holed up in the secret passage behind the pulpit. Grampap was the Churchagaw's slave, and he would bring it the big silver bowls from the church, full of the offering papers and leftover bits of bread and juice to eat. I stopped takin' communion when I found out about the Churchagaw, because I didn't want 'im to be too hungry. While I figured most people were content to sing their hymns to the Churchagaw, I knew my little sacrifice would really make his Sunday.
So I quick built up an obsession with the Churchagaw, and multiplied it to the excitement Sammy 'an I had already built up for the Fort. An' of course Sammy had no idea what I was talking about. That first night we were there, we'd already planned on sneakin' out to explore the woods, but I wanted to go across the parsonage yard to the church, to see if we could catch a glimpse of the 'Gaw himself.
...
"What are you talkin' about, Eva?" Sammy whispered loudly, with brotherly disgust in his voice.
"Well, but... the Churchagaw! Y'know, what Grampap said at dinner!" We were both tryin' to keep our voices low, so Gramma and Grampap wouldn't hear us chatterin'. They might'a both been deaf by then anyway, but whisperin' was necessary for a thrillin' adventure.
"Yeah, the Church, I know. But there's nothin' to see over there, Eva, just books an' an empty church is all!" Sammy's face was too hard to see in the dark, but I can guess he was confused by the change 'a plan, after all the time we'd spent decidin' on how the Fort's trap door was gonna work. Even so...
"But, Sammy, you're not hearin' me right! The Chur--"
"Just shut up about that, now! We already said we were gonna go sneak into the woods! We can go see the Church on Sunday with Gramma an' Grampap." I'd made him mad.
"Ok, ok, Sammy," I gave over, reluctantly. "But let's be real careful they don't hear us - I just don't wanna go home before we get to see the Churchagaw."
------
Word count: 779
I didn't get nearly as far as I wanted to tonight. The fact sheet really robbed me of my energies, but I think it was a necessary task for being able to keep up momentum in the long run. I'm down some 500 words, but hopefully I'll be able to work that out over the next few days.
In the summers we were pretty much left to our own devices - Papa was either down at the shipyard or down at Jack's drinkin', and Mama spent a lot of time in her room. So Sammy an' I would make up games together, y'know, shoot squirrels in the back yard, and run an' steal people's things from their yards, whatever we could find. When I think about it now, a lot of our games had to do with collecting things, specifically stolen things, an' then either hidin' 'em again like treasures or breakin' 'em down so no one could find out what we'd done.
One summer we got to spend a whole month with Gramma an' Grampap Rodgers, out in the mountains. We were so excited we couldn't sleep, and we stayed up late into the night whispering about how we were gonna take out Grampap's huntin' dogs, and explore the entire woods, and build a fort that no one could find that we could keep all our treasures in. We talked a lot about that fort, and the nonsense logistics of how to keep it perfectly hidden from everyone but ourselves. The Fort filled our thoughts all the way up to the driveway of the old brick church that Grampap was the pastor of. Papa pulled up slowly, and Grampap was there waitin' for us outside the sign that read Pentecostal Church of God.
Sayin' that name again reminds me of something that, now, seems to shed a little light on how things turned out. It took me all summer to find out that the Churchagaw wasn't real, an' I'd made him up out of Grampap saying 'Church 'a' Gawd' in his thick accent. When Grampap first told us he was in charge of the Churchagaw, I imagined it as a great big black bird holed up in the secret passage behind the pulpit. Grampap was the Churchagaw's slave, and he would bring it the big silver bowls from the church, full of the offering papers and leftover bits of bread and juice to eat. I stopped takin' communion when I found out about the Churchagaw, because I didn't want 'im to be too hungry. While I figured most people were content to sing their hymns to the Churchagaw, I knew my little sacrifice would really make his Sunday.
So I quick built up an obsession with the Churchagaw, and multiplied it to the excitement Sammy 'an I had already built up for the Fort. An' of course Sammy had no idea what I was talking about. That first night we were there, we'd already planned on sneakin' out to explore the woods, but I wanted to go across the parsonage yard to the church, to see if we could catch a glimpse of the 'Gaw himself.
...
"What are you talkin' about, Eva?" Sammy whispered loudly, with brotherly disgust in his voice.
"Well, but... the Churchagaw! Y'know, what Grampap said at dinner!" We were both tryin' to keep our voices low, so Gramma and Grampap wouldn't hear us chatterin'. They might'a both been deaf by then anyway, but whisperin' was necessary for a thrillin' adventure.
"Yeah, the Church, I know. But there's nothin' to see over there, Eva, just books an' an empty church is all!" Sammy's face was too hard to see in the dark, but I can guess he was confused by the change 'a plan, after all the time we'd spent decidin' on how the Fort's trap door was gonna work. Even so...
"But, Sammy, you're not hearin' me right! The Chur--"
"Just shut up about that, now! We already said we were gonna go sneak into the woods! We can go see the Church on Sunday with Gramma an' Grampap." I'd made him mad.
"Ok, ok, Sammy," I gave over, reluctantly. "But let's be real careful they don't hear us - I just don't wanna go home before we get to see the Churchagaw."
------
Word count: 779
I didn't get nearly as far as I wanted to tonight. The fact sheet really robbed me of my energies, but I think it was a necessary task for being able to keep up momentum in the long run. I'm down some 500 words, but hopefully I'll be able to work that out over the next few days.
NaNoWriMo Day 2: fact sheet
I need a place to start keeping the facts straight as this story grows. I and others have thought of some great ideas for different scenes which I'd like to include. Hopefully that will help with the overwhelmed feeling of filling this bitch up with 5o,000 grunts of content. So.
The Cast:
The Cast:
- Eva, or Mrs. Wallace - the mother, and perhaps occasional narrator
- Mandolin, or Mandy - the daughter, and main narrator
- Abraham, or Bram - Mandy's father
- Lila & Jacob, or Jake - Mandy's kids, Eva's grandkids
- Isaac, or Ike - Mandy's brother
- Alexandra, or Ali, or Alex - Mandy's sister
- Sammy, Ruthie, Ronnie - Eva's brothers & sister
- Eva's grandfather, or maybe brother, molests her as a kid
- Eva meets & marries Bram
- Bram turns out to be a drug addict
- Eva has kids - Mandy, Ike, & Alex
- Eva & Bram separate
- Eva molests Ike?
- Eva & Bram get divorced
- Mandy meets Greg & they move in together
- Alex becomes a stripper
- Mandy gets pregnant & has an abortion
- Mandy gets pregnant again with twins
- Greg turns out to be gay
- Mandy ditches Greg - does she kill him? does Eva kill him?
- Bram dies (heart attack?)
- Mandy has Lila & Jacob
- Ike meets & marries someone
- Eva burns Mandy's face & body with some kind of acid
- Alex takes custody of Lila & Jacob
- Eva goes to jail while awaiting bail
- Ike's wife leaves him
- Mandy visits Eva in jail
- Ike visits Eva in jail
- Mandy confesses to the burned face herself, claiming insanity
- Mandy is institutionalized instead of Eva
- Eva dies somehow (cancer, maybe?)
- explosive ending! Ike burns down someone's house & dies?
Sunday, November 1, 2009
NaNoWriMo Day 1
Here's my first day's work for NaNoWriMo 2009! Introduction / explanation is at the bottom, but read that last so that your reading isn't biased. And let me know what you think!
-------
She was so beautiful.
I remember when she turned 22, circa 1983; we have a video of her sunning in the back yard, kids playing in the plastic pool. Her hair was curled, but not permed - the terrible 80's frizz somehow missed her - and her skin had darkened that summer to a golden tan. She was about 7 or 8 months pregnant then, glowing with it and with the sunlight. Looking pained but happy, and the kids running up to her all blonde and in their bathing suits, getting drops of water on the tops of her legs as they begged her to watch them go down the slide on their tummies.
Even then, though, I think the change was taking root inside her. None of us knew it, least of all she, but looking back I think it was already underway. I love her so much, even now. Now most of all, really, when all I am left with are these video memories. It's hard to tell the difference between stories told to you and stories you were there to see. My strongest memories are of the times she really came to me, really needed me -- helping her through the separation, and several years later, through the divorce. Oddly enough, even helping her through the process of putting me away, where I could be looked after properly - even then I was her shoulder to cry on. That was a hard time for us, and a tough decision, but I think it was the right one. And I will always, always be there for her - she's part of me, whether for better or worse.
The change was well manifested during that time, which I think is why she needed me so much. Normally she was so independent - fiercely strong and insanely courageous. I mean, that's exactly it. Every day of her life she was like a wild, beautiful beast - warm at the best of times, savage at the worst. Mysterious the most. And it was reproach that got her riled up most of all - she never could take correction, especially from me. How it was that we could be mother & daughter, built of much the same stuff, I'll never understand.
But she died last spring. I may as well acknowledge it, out loud, and stop gently forgetting. But I can't have outlived her! Not after we set up this place for me to die in, after she cleaved to my chest like a child in the doorway before she took off. We had made a deal with each other, to keep from going crazy while the investigations were going full bore - long as I was still around she wouldn't disappear, wouldn't forget about me in here. She'd kept her word for, what, 6 years. And finally disappeared. Radiantly beautiful until the very end, despite what the change had done to her. I'll admit my words aren't unbiased, but I know it was true because I saw it reflected in everyone's eyes after all was said and done - how could someone so beautiful have gone so wrong.
Her grandchildren - grandchildren! - will have nothing to do with me. They're the only ones left, the heirs of all this madness, they and their uncle, her only son. Although it pains me so much that they're hurting, I suppose I can understand. I know a lot of the media speculated that I had driven her to become what she did - not directly, of course, but because we clashed, or I pushed her buttons, or whatever you want to call it. I think that's ridiculous, but blame just doesn't stick to beauty. Nor to mystery, at least that which is romantic. There was nothing ever really beautiful or mysterious about me - I worked hard and I loved harder. I can say with a clear conscience that I have always been there for anyone who has ever needed me.
And Lila and Jacob - Eva's grandchildren - don't. That might sound cold, or maybe petulant in some roundabout way, but I've always known that the best way to get a horse to drink is to leave it wander until it finally gets thirsty. If my estranged family ever needs my help - and honestly I don't know what I could ever do for them here in this place - they at least know where to find me.
But of course, that said, I suppose I could dredge up some guilt for the fact that I let Eva herself fill me up with her neediness, rather than forging relationships with the two of them earlier on. Lila and Jacob are dear, but I only had eyes for Eva. They were strange to me when they were born, my little funnies. I suppose I had just reached an age where babies no longer made sense to me. You go through that caretaking process and it just saps the life out of you. I think that really disappointed Eva, but by then the change had all but burned us both at the stake - I had little room for else but her, and she for naught but herself.
...
"Do you think you could make that breakfast strudel for us tomorrow, Mom?" I asked, wanting to impress my new friends with her cooking.
She looked at me coolly. "Mandy, no. It's enough that I allowed you to have your friends sleep over. You know I can't relax when there are other people in the house. Your friends--"
"I SAID thank you, Mom. But I wanted to have a fun breakfast too, and I know they'll love the strudel, and we can help--"
"Don't beg me, Mandy. There's plenty of cereal, and, let's see, you can make oatmeal for everyone if you want. But that strudel is a lot of work, and I won't be making it tomorrow."
Huff. "Mom, plea---"
"No 'Mom, please.' I said no. Just be grateful you get to have your friends over at all." Her mouth was set, eyebrows raised slightly. She was waiting to see if I would keep asking, go for the 3rd strike.
"Fine, Mom. Sorry. I promise we won't bother you." I knew better than to push it when a Privilege was on the line - I'd been on my best behavior for weeks, waiting and waiting for her to deem that I'd earned a reward. Getting her to agree to a sleepover was a stretch, but I had gotten away with it by playing up the fact that I had only had a couple of friends anyway, whom I never got to see after school because they rode the bus and I didn't. I turned and started for the den.
"Good girl," she said to my back. A few seconds later I heard her call, "Goodnight, girls!" down the stairs after me.
My friends were almost done setting up sleeping bags and pillows in front of the TV for the night. I was a little nervous around them - I rarely got to have friends over, and was fairly clueless as to what little girls normally did together outside of school. I had a vague notion that they stayed up late and ate snacks and talked, so snacks we had a-plenty, though now came the talking part. I wanted them to like me SO much. I wanted to be swept up in their world, learn from them how to go shopping at the mall, how to deal with boys, the whole bit. And if they invited me over to their houses in turn, surely it would make sense to Mom to reciprocate.
"Did she say yes?" Amber asked excitedly. Time for a reckoning. I'd been talking up the strudel to them, confident my mom would have said yes when she saw how well everything was going.
"Um, she... doesn't have the ingredients right now," I lied, embarrassed. "Well, but, she said..." I thought for a second to explain how my mom doesn't usually like to have other people in the house, but it's-not-you-it's-her. Just as quickly decided against that. "She said we could have oatmeal if we wanted...." Oh well.
"Ooh, I know how to make the best oatmeal!" Sarah piped up. She was probably the sweetest of all the girls, and liked me the most. Usually this fact annoyed me, but for the moment I was grateful.
"Cool, ok," I exhaled, more with relief than excitement. While not glamorous, it would at least be a step up from cereal.
[what happens during the sleepover?]
...
"Breakfast, girls!"
I was already awake, but had been lying still, waiting for the other girls up. I had heard about people loving to sleep in, but had never been able to sleep past about 8am myself. But, breakfast. What was this about?
"Girls!" I heard her call from the top of the stairs. "Time to wake u-up! Breakfast is ready!"
The girls were waking up slowly, rubbing fists into eye sockets and untangling from the sleeping bag jungle. I made my way up quickly, bounded the stairs to see what she was talking about. Maybe she had just set out the oatmeal stuff for us to use - maybe my suspicions weren't actually true. As I approached the dining room, I saw a perfect blueberry strudel sitting on the table, cooling. A cold knot grew in my spine.
"Good morning honey," my mom said from the kitchen. She was facing the stove, using a spatula on something. It was only about 10am, but she was fully dressed. She even had shoes on.
"Th...anks, Mom," I said hesitantly. This felt like some kind of trick - I wasn't sure how to respond.
"Hey, thanks Mrs. Wallace!" Amber piped up behind me. I had failed to notice her arrival shortly after mine. "This looks delicious! Did you make this from scratch?"
"Oh, no trouble. Did you girls have a fun night?" She wheeled around with a plate of pancakes in each hand. I was mystified.
"Yeah, we played games until like four in the morning!" Megan said, sliding into a seat at the table. I silently joined them, the cold knot growing.
"Wow, banana pancakes too! You really went all out, Mrs. Wallace," Sarah said. I winced. I was going to have to pay for this later.
Everyone echoed their thanks, filling their eyes with the spread.
[more breakfast conversation, then everyone leaves]
...
"Thanks, Mom, for doing the strudel. And the pancakes. You didn't have to," I said, forcing open the door that she had left ever so slightly ajar.
"Well. I wanted to." She was digging in the drawer for aluminum foil and didn't look at me while talked. Maybe the thanks had caught her off guard, and this wouldn't all explode like I had thought it would. "You said you wanted to have a fun breakfast for your friends."
There it was. Good tactic - make me own it. "They all really liked it. I told them you were a good cook." She turned to look at me. Softening her up before the blow came was all I could really do.
"I just hope you remember this the next time you ask for a privilege. Remember that I'm the one who has to take care of it." Her eyes were black orbs.
"I'll... go clean up the den...." I tried to sneak away--
"Mandy! No. LEAVE IT." Her voice thundered, and she was quick behind me. "I'll clean that up later, too," she said, at normal volume but higher pitch. She was stooping over, almost at eye level with me.
"I JUST want you to know, Mandy," she said, boring into my face with her eyes and her hot breath. Her right hand found my left wrist and squeezed. "EVERYTHING I DO for you."
"Yeah, Mom--"
"DON'T YOU TAKE THIS ALL FOR GRANTED!" She was now screaming directly at me, her face distorted and terrifying.
"No, Mom, I---"
"YOU WHAT! You WHAT, Mandy?!"
"I... I don't! I mean, I really appreciated it! Like, I'm not taking it for granted--"
"You kids take everything I do for granted."
[how to resolve this argument?]
--------
Word count: 2,046 / 50,000
Ok, so. I'm trying to take a lot of inspiration from Geek Love here in the narration style and POV. What I'm ultimately going for, though, is a larger statement, a la Mary Shelley, about monster-making. How parents can scar their children in the name of love, or act as monsters themselves and tell themselves it's for their kids' own good. I'm laying the groundwork now for what will hopefully become clear as a twisted network of complex, subverted family roles - kids as parents, parents as kids, siblings as both strangers and self.
I can tell I am going to have trouble, though, with the narrator being too much in her own head. A lot of this is written as post-liminal stream of consciousness, so I need help in identifying which passages need more description & back story, and which need less exposition in general. I'm also finding the active scenes a bit more taxing - I'm not sure I do so well with dialogue. Please let me know any thoughts you have about how this could be stronger.
-------
She was so beautiful.
I remember when she turned 22, circa 1983; we have a video of her sunning in the back yard, kids playing in the plastic pool. Her hair was curled, but not permed - the terrible 80's frizz somehow missed her - and her skin had darkened that summer to a golden tan. She was about 7 or 8 months pregnant then, glowing with it and with the sunlight. Looking pained but happy, and the kids running up to her all blonde and in their bathing suits, getting drops of water on the tops of her legs as they begged her to watch them go down the slide on their tummies.
Even then, though, I think the change was taking root inside her. None of us knew it, least of all she, but looking back I think it was already underway. I love her so much, even now. Now most of all, really, when all I am left with are these video memories. It's hard to tell the difference between stories told to you and stories you were there to see. My strongest memories are of the times she really came to me, really needed me -- helping her through the separation, and several years later, through the divorce. Oddly enough, even helping her through the process of putting me away, where I could be looked after properly - even then I was her shoulder to cry on. That was a hard time for us, and a tough decision, but I think it was the right one. And I will always, always be there for her - she's part of me, whether for better or worse.
The change was well manifested during that time, which I think is why she needed me so much. Normally she was so independent - fiercely strong and insanely courageous. I mean, that's exactly it. Every day of her life she was like a wild, beautiful beast - warm at the best of times, savage at the worst. Mysterious the most. And it was reproach that got her riled up most of all - she never could take correction, especially from me. How it was that we could be mother & daughter, built of much the same stuff, I'll never understand.
But she died last spring. I may as well acknowledge it, out loud, and stop gently forgetting. But I can't have outlived her! Not after we set up this place for me to die in, after she cleaved to my chest like a child in the doorway before she took off. We had made a deal with each other, to keep from going crazy while the investigations were going full bore - long as I was still around she wouldn't disappear, wouldn't forget about me in here. She'd kept her word for, what, 6 years. And finally disappeared. Radiantly beautiful until the very end, despite what the change had done to her. I'll admit my words aren't unbiased, but I know it was true because I saw it reflected in everyone's eyes after all was said and done - how could someone so beautiful have gone so wrong.
Her grandchildren - grandchildren! - will have nothing to do with me. They're the only ones left, the heirs of all this madness, they and their uncle, her only son. Although it pains me so much that they're hurting, I suppose I can understand. I know a lot of the media speculated that I had driven her to become what she did - not directly, of course, but because we clashed, or I pushed her buttons, or whatever you want to call it. I think that's ridiculous, but blame just doesn't stick to beauty. Nor to mystery, at least that which is romantic. There was nothing ever really beautiful or mysterious about me - I worked hard and I loved harder. I can say with a clear conscience that I have always been there for anyone who has ever needed me.
And Lila and Jacob - Eva's grandchildren - don't. That might sound cold, or maybe petulant in some roundabout way, but I've always known that the best way to get a horse to drink is to leave it wander until it finally gets thirsty. If my estranged family ever needs my help - and honestly I don't know what I could ever do for them here in this place - they at least know where to find me.
But of course, that said, I suppose I could dredge up some guilt for the fact that I let Eva herself fill me up with her neediness, rather than forging relationships with the two of them earlier on. Lila and Jacob are dear, but I only had eyes for Eva. They were strange to me when they were born, my little funnies. I suppose I had just reached an age where babies no longer made sense to me. You go through that caretaking process and it just saps the life out of you. I think that really disappointed Eva, but by then the change had all but burned us both at the stake - I had little room for else but her, and she for naught but herself.
...
"Do you think you could make that breakfast strudel for us tomorrow, Mom?" I asked, wanting to impress my new friends with her cooking.
She looked at me coolly. "Mandy, no. It's enough that I allowed you to have your friends sleep over. You know I can't relax when there are other people in the house. Your friends--"
"I SAID thank you, Mom. But I wanted to have a fun breakfast too, and I know they'll love the strudel, and we can help--"
"Don't beg me, Mandy. There's plenty of cereal, and, let's see, you can make oatmeal for everyone if you want. But that strudel is a lot of work, and I won't be making it tomorrow."
Huff. "Mom, plea---"
"No 'Mom, please.' I said no. Just be grateful you get to have your friends over at all." Her mouth was set, eyebrows raised slightly. She was waiting to see if I would keep asking, go for the 3rd strike.
"Fine, Mom. Sorry. I promise we won't bother you." I knew better than to push it when a Privilege was on the line - I'd been on my best behavior for weeks, waiting and waiting for her to deem that I'd earned a reward. Getting her to agree to a sleepover was a stretch, but I had gotten away with it by playing up the fact that I had only had a couple of friends anyway, whom I never got to see after school because they rode the bus and I didn't. I turned and started for the den.
"Good girl," she said to my back. A few seconds later I heard her call, "Goodnight, girls!" down the stairs after me.
My friends were almost done setting up sleeping bags and pillows in front of the TV for the night. I was a little nervous around them - I rarely got to have friends over, and was fairly clueless as to what little girls normally did together outside of school. I had a vague notion that they stayed up late and ate snacks and talked, so snacks we had a-plenty, though now came the talking part. I wanted them to like me SO much. I wanted to be swept up in their world, learn from them how to go shopping at the mall, how to deal with boys, the whole bit. And if they invited me over to their houses in turn, surely it would make sense to Mom to reciprocate.
"Did she say yes?" Amber asked excitedly. Time for a reckoning. I'd been talking up the strudel to them, confident my mom would have said yes when she saw how well everything was going.
"Um, she... doesn't have the ingredients right now," I lied, embarrassed. "Well, but, she said..." I thought for a second to explain how my mom doesn't usually like to have other people in the house, but it's-not-you-it's-her. Just as quickly decided against that. "She said we could have oatmeal if we wanted...." Oh well.
"Ooh, I know how to make the best oatmeal!" Sarah piped up. She was probably the sweetest of all the girls, and liked me the most. Usually this fact annoyed me, but for the moment I was grateful.
"Cool, ok," I exhaled, more with relief than excitement. While not glamorous, it would at least be a step up from cereal.
[what happens during the sleepover?]
...
"Breakfast, girls!"
I was already awake, but had been lying still, waiting for the other girls up. I had heard about people loving to sleep in, but had never been able to sleep past about 8am myself. But, breakfast. What was this about?
"Girls!" I heard her call from the top of the stairs. "Time to wake u-up! Breakfast is ready!"
The girls were waking up slowly, rubbing fists into eye sockets and untangling from the sleeping bag jungle. I made my way up quickly, bounded the stairs to see what she was talking about. Maybe she had just set out the oatmeal stuff for us to use - maybe my suspicions weren't actually true. As I approached the dining room, I saw a perfect blueberry strudel sitting on the table, cooling. A cold knot grew in my spine.
"Good morning honey," my mom said from the kitchen. She was facing the stove, using a spatula on something. It was only about 10am, but she was fully dressed. She even had shoes on.
"Th...anks, Mom," I said hesitantly. This felt like some kind of trick - I wasn't sure how to respond.
"Hey, thanks Mrs. Wallace!" Amber piped up behind me. I had failed to notice her arrival shortly after mine. "This looks delicious! Did you make this from scratch?"
"Oh, no trouble. Did you girls have a fun night?" She wheeled around with a plate of pancakes in each hand. I was mystified.
"Yeah, we played games until like four in the morning!" Megan said, sliding into a seat at the table. I silently joined them, the cold knot growing.
"Wow, banana pancakes too! You really went all out, Mrs. Wallace," Sarah said. I winced. I was going to have to pay for this later.
Everyone echoed their thanks, filling their eyes with the spread.
[more breakfast conversation, then everyone leaves]
...
"Thanks, Mom, for doing the strudel. And the pancakes. You didn't have to," I said, forcing open the door that she had left ever so slightly ajar.
"Well. I wanted to." She was digging in the drawer for aluminum foil and didn't look at me while talked. Maybe the thanks had caught her off guard, and this wouldn't all explode like I had thought it would. "You said you wanted to have a fun breakfast for your friends."
There it was. Good tactic - make me own it. "They all really liked it. I told them you were a good cook." She turned to look at me. Softening her up before the blow came was all I could really do.
"I just hope you remember this the next time you ask for a privilege. Remember that I'm the one who has to take care of it." Her eyes were black orbs.
"I'll... go clean up the den...." I tried to sneak away--
"Mandy! No. LEAVE IT." Her voice thundered, and she was quick behind me. "I'll clean that up later, too," she said, at normal volume but higher pitch. She was stooping over, almost at eye level with me.
"I JUST want you to know, Mandy," she said, boring into my face with her eyes and her hot breath. Her right hand found my left wrist and squeezed. "EVERYTHING I DO for you."
"Yeah, Mom--"
"DON'T YOU TAKE THIS ALL FOR GRANTED!" She was now screaming directly at me, her face distorted and terrifying.
"No, Mom, I---"
"YOU WHAT! You WHAT, Mandy?!"
"I... I don't! I mean, I really appreciated it! Like, I'm not taking it for granted--"
"You kids take everything I do for granted."
[how to resolve this argument?]
--------
Word count: 2,046 / 50,000
Ok, so. I'm trying to take a lot of inspiration from Geek Love here in the narration style and POV. What I'm ultimately going for, though, is a larger statement, a la Mary Shelley, about monster-making. How parents can scar their children in the name of love, or act as monsters themselves and tell themselves it's for their kids' own good. I'm laying the groundwork now for what will hopefully become clear as a twisted network of complex, subverted family roles - kids as parents, parents as kids, siblings as both strangers and self.
I can tell I am going to have trouble, though, with the narrator being too much in her own head. A lot of this is written as post-liminal stream of consciousness, so I need help in identifying which passages need more description & back story, and which need less exposition in general. I'm also finding the active scenes a bit more taxing - I'm not sure I do so well with dialogue. Please let me know any thoughts you have about how this could be stronger.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
