My soul got sucked out of me again.
It happens sometimes. It hasn't happened in a while. Or it's been happening for so long I've forgotten what it was like to have one.
I think it started last December. Not the one three months ago, but the one fifteen months ago. The day they coralled everyone into the conference room and then Neil walked in and told us flat out he wasn't there to deliver good news, so he just went right ahead and said it. They'd be closing the office in June so we'd better stick around until our appointed time to talk to our appointed person and receive our appointed deadline and severance agreement. Then everyone's minds clicked back to the security officer parked in the car outside. Suspecting, I suppose, that someone would cause trouble, but if one person did, wouldn't there be a riot and would one fat guy in a rented suit really be enough to control the situation? Mostly people were quiet with angry looks on our faces and everyone looked around for shock or devastation or a smile or something on someone else's face to let us know that we'd registered it, we weren't dreaming, or it was a joke. I think one person burst into tears. I know my boss cried hysterical, howling yelps every day for at least a week. Sobs drawn from the pit of her chest, as deep as the sobs that came through her closed door the day her mother-in-law died. As for me, I drove packed in invisible cotton straight to Nate's store and asked him to guess why I was out of work early that day and his was the only face that gave me a look that told me it was real.
Honestly? I haven't been quite right ever since.
Oh, I got a job, sure. I stayed through the six months, straight up until the day after the day they took all of the furniture away. I was lucky. I was one of the few who got to stay to the end. A lot of people got sent home that very day. A merry fucking Christmas they had. But I got to stick it out. A fine rat on a sinking ship. Then I had just enough time off to go to my dad's wife's funeral the next week. They say timing is everything, I guess. And while I was out of town, I talked to the folks at my old job, where they just happened to be starting up a crafting magazine and could use my help. So, in all, I had a two week vacation between the death of the dream job and the start of the new one.
But then winter came. And we've been blanketed in snow for five months now with no end in sight. Another storm is coming Thursday. I can't explain the drive except to say that I have to do it for an hour every day and my last job was not just my dream job editing educational books for kids, where I got to learn something new every day and feel like I was contributing to the world and I was constantly busy, but it was also within biking distance from my house so that it didn't matter that I was in the office sometimes sixty hours a week when I could wear pajamas there if I wanted and knew my home, my garden, my cats, my blankets, my sewing machine, my fella, my kitchen were only fifteen carbon-neutral, exercise-friendly minutes away. Now it's dress up, drive, and sit in regimented, republican silence. For thirty-seven point five hours that feel longer than sixty educational, frantic, energetic, spastic hours of book making.
I'm glad to have a job, I am. And I'm glad to have a job that a lot of people would really like to have. After all, on a good day, I get to make craft projects. And write about them. And research them. But that's a good day, and most of my days are spent in limbo while I wait to find out whether or not we're really going to be a real magazine, whether or not we're going to actually launch. And whether or not I'll actually have a job for real. In a town where editorial jobs are slim pickings to say the least. In the meantime, though, I keep wondering if I should switch careers to something more practical. And the clock is ticking loudly, reminding me that I'm wasting time. That my life is on hold. That I'm already a ghost and I don't really know how long I have (because I think about that constantly) to live, so shouldn't I be making the most of it right now? And what am I doing? What am I waiting for? Something is missing. And I can't place my finger on it.
I have been lately, however, obsessed with finding out.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Wednesday, February 1, 2006
Davis
The summer after my junior year of college, my girlfriend and I decided to stay in Greensboro before she headed off to San Francisco and then the Peace Corps in the fall. One of my friends was going elsewhere for the summer, so her room was available for sublet. Liza and I promptly moved into a closet-sized room in what I thought was the coolest house in town. Near campus, it had its own yard and wasn’t a part of anything else—no neighborhood, nothing around it but un-used field.
George Mavronikolus lived there and he was a man who could play cello, pick up the phone and answer a complex physics equation, then go back to Mozart or Vivaldi or whatever. He also dropped out of graduate school, where he was getting a full ride, so that he could sit on Tate St. all day, in front of the coffee shops, and talk bullshit to passers by. Then he’d come home, pack a pipe with weed, and proceed to exclaim that he wished he could just dig his eyes out with a fork. He wasn’t a happy man, but he could definitely be counted in the number of pre-indie rock(er) dudes that I was swimmingly enchanted by and wished they could just be able to see me enough to know that I could love them well and fix everything. Yeah right. In the meantime, I was dating Liza so, you know, there was that.
Living upstairs in a separate apartment was a man who everyone referred to as “the Navy guy.” A quiet, older type who didn’t want to be bothered, often complained about noise, sometimes got stoned with George, and had apparently dropped out of the Navy. “Don’t bother him,” we were warned.
A little more than a year later, for my student teaching assignment I was placed in the only inner-city high school Greensboro had. My cooperating teacher was planning her wedding at the time, so basically, from day one, I was it. I was to be the teacher for these 250 kids who couldn’t give less of a shit about being there, since they had their own kids to worry about, and all.
Since I quickly learned that I couldn’t get help from my cooperating teacher, I relied on the kindness of strangers. Other teachers in the English department introduced themselves and made it known how much they would be helpful to me.
One, in particular, was Davis Lee. He said, “I know you. You used to live downstairs from me.” I’m the type of person who has a terrible memory for meeting other people, especially if I get the sense that they won’t like me, so I was surprised that Navy guy remembered me. This also meant that Navy guy knew something else about me that none of the other teachers in this intolerant, southern, inner-city school knew. Nor could they know. It was crucially important to me that they not know this.
So the first chance that I got to take Mr. Lee aside, I begged him not to tell. Well, begged in a “you know what I know and I don’t want them to know what you know” type of communication that was revealed solely through eye contact and tiny gestures while speaking in the thinly-veiled speech of those in the know. Just like the mafia, gay people in Greensboro had code words. And this was a language that he perfectly understood. You see he’d been waiting for another gay person to arrive so that he wouldn’t be so alone. I guess I should have known this, being that he wore an article of clothing that was a tell-tale sign: Birkenstock sandals. Even in the winter, the hippies in North Carolina wear them with wool socks.
After that, Davis Lee and I were BFF in that school. We had lunch together and talked about teaching and lesson plans and what life was like outside of school. About our passion for teaching English, what drew us to it, etc.
It wasn’t long before people noticed. The students made jokes that Mr. Lee and the student teacher were hooking up. We didn’t care since it was the farthest thing from the truth, and since it acted as some sort of protective blanket. In fact, it was even better if they thought this, among this homophobic community.
Davis Lee was the one good thing about my student teaching experience and sometimes I wonder, after I left, what became of him? Is he still there? Did he finally burn out? Has he found love? Moved to a new state?
Mostly, though, my favorite two memories of him are this: observing his class; him teaching in action. He was a natural and really brought his classroom, his students, education to life. The second is this. One day one of his students was recounting a time when Davis Lee was mad; he had to bust up a fight. He was clipping down the hall at a quick pace and one kid said to another, “That Mr. Lee, man, you don’t want to get him mad. He be runnin’ down that hall in his flip-flops fast.”
George Mavronikolus lived there and he was a man who could play cello, pick up the phone and answer a complex physics equation, then go back to Mozart or Vivaldi or whatever. He also dropped out of graduate school, where he was getting a full ride, so that he could sit on Tate St. all day, in front of the coffee shops, and talk bullshit to passers by. Then he’d come home, pack a pipe with weed, and proceed to exclaim that he wished he could just dig his eyes out with a fork. He wasn’t a happy man, but he could definitely be counted in the number of pre-indie rock(er) dudes that I was swimmingly enchanted by and wished they could just be able to see me enough to know that I could love them well and fix everything. Yeah right. In the meantime, I was dating Liza so, you know, there was that.
Living upstairs in a separate apartment was a man who everyone referred to as “the Navy guy.” A quiet, older type who didn’t want to be bothered, often complained about noise, sometimes got stoned with George, and had apparently dropped out of the Navy. “Don’t bother him,” we were warned.
A little more than a year later, for my student teaching assignment I was placed in the only inner-city high school Greensboro had. My cooperating teacher was planning her wedding at the time, so basically, from day one, I was it. I was to be the teacher for these 250 kids who couldn’t give less of a shit about being there, since they had their own kids to worry about, and all.
Since I quickly learned that I couldn’t get help from my cooperating teacher, I relied on the kindness of strangers. Other teachers in the English department introduced themselves and made it known how much they would be helpful to me.
One, in particular, was Davis Lee. He said, “I know you. You used to live downstairs from me.” I’m the type of person who has a terrible memory for meeting other people, especially if I get the sense that they won’t like me, so I was surprised that Navy guy remembered me. This also meant that Navy guy knew something else about me that none of the other teachers in this intolerant, southern, inner-city school knew. Nor could they know. It was crucially important to me that they not know this.
So the first chance that I got to take Mr. Lee aside, I begged him not to tell. Well, begged in a “you know what I know and I don’t want them to know what you know” type of communication that was revealed solely through eye contact and tiny gestures while speaking in the thinly-veiled speech of those in the know. Just like the mafia, gay people in Greensboro had code words. And this was a language that he perfectly understood. You see he’d been waiting for another gay person to arrive so that he wouldn’t be so alone. I guess I should have known this, being that he wore an article of clothing that was a tell-tale sign: Birkenstock sandals. Even in the winter, the hippies in North Carolina wear them with wool socks.
After that, Davis Lee and I were BFF in that school. We had lunch together and talked about teaching and lesson plans and what life was like outside of school. About our passion for teaching English, what drew us to it, etc.
It wasn’t long before people noticed. The students made jokes that Mr. Lee and the student teacher were hooking up. We didn’t care since it was the farthest thing from the truth, and since it acted as some sort of protective blanket. In fact, it was even better if they thought this, among this homophobic community.
Davis Lee was the one good thing about my student teaching experience and sometimes I wonder, after I left, what became of him? Is he still there? Did he finally burn out? Has he found love? Moved to a new state?
Mostly, though, my favorite two memories of him are this: observing his class; him teaching in action. He was a natural and really brought his classroom, his students, education to life. The second is this. One day one of his students was recounting a time when Davis Lee was mad; he had to bust up a fight. He was clipping down the hall at a quick pace and one kid said to another, “That Mr. Lee, man, you don’t want to get him mad. He be runnin’ down that hall in his flip-flops fast.”
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Steve
When I was in college, I met a guy through some bullshit, threadbare, cheesecloth-like network of acquaintances. He was a gymnast and would perform tricks on the lawn as we’d hang out there, talking up a storm about his love for Skinny Puppy and mine for poetry. My big dreams of inviting people over for tea. Because that was “grown up”.
He introduced me to his friends, this group of eight guys who were a year ahead of me and therefore far more experienced in college. They seemed so old and so cool and so worldly like they knew what was going on. I grabbed my friend Laurie from across the dorm hall to come along with me and admire their long hair, flannel shirts, combat boots, and sensitive, intellectual nature. We drew comparisons between them and the characters of Winnie the Pooh.
Everyone called him Cutie Steve.
Cutie Steve was first in love with me and when it became clear that wasn’t going to work (because I’m a bitch, because I wasn’t ready yet to date anyone, because I was too much of a nerd and insecure with myself), he moved on to Laurie who thought he was cute at first. After all, his name was deceptive that way. But soon she grew tired of what a clingy and pathetic dork he was, so my roommate picked up the slack. Laurie, Robbin, and I would hang out in our room and Cutie Steve would stop by. Him among all his ladies he adored. All of us liking his company, but even better, being amused by his being a goofball and liking his attention.
Somewhere along the line, we learned he could do an impression of Fozzy Bear. Not sure how that came about. But the important part of the story here, is that we soon made it a requirement for his admission to our room that he say, “Wokka wokka” before entering. Then when he wasn’t there, we would laugh until our stomachs hurt, saying, “Wokka wokka.” Laurie and I would prank call each other from across the hall, too, saying that we were Piedro, this foxy Italian student we were crushing on that year. Very grown up. Amazing that Piedro wasn’t just dying to really call us.
Sometimes, we would look out the cafeteria window during lunchtime and see a lone girl walking. She wore Kelly green shoes with an army green jacket and olive green jeans. We laughed about how much she wore green. She always wore green. All those unmatching greens. “Green must be her favorite color,” we would say. Brilliant observation, Watson.
One day we looked out the window, and there was Cutie Steve, walking along right beside the green girl. They stayed that way for the next three years and I’m not sure what happened after that.
But we were really happy for them. And a little ashamed of ourselves. If only we’d been cool enough to wear mismatched greens and not care. We could have let down our defenses enough to actually accept a man who loved Skinny Puppy and did gymnastics and said Wokka wokka to impress us. We could have looked past color combinations and aesthetic choices and courting tactics to actually see who he was. But then, if he looked past our stupid exteriors, he might have seen who we really were as well. Thankfully, he found a green girl who was worthy of him.
He introduced me to his friends, this group of eight guys who were a year ahead of me and therefore far more experienced in college. They seemed so old and so cool and so worldly like they knew what was going on. I grabbed my friend Laurie from across the dorm hall to come along with me and admire their long hair, flannel shirts, combat boots, and sensitive, intellectual nature. We drew comparisons between them and the characters of Winnie the Pooh.
Everyone called him Cutie Steve.
Cutie Steve was first in love with me and when it became clear that wasn’t going to work (because I’m a bitch, because I wasn’t ready yet to date anyone, because I was too much of a nerd and insecure with myself), he moved on to Laurie who thought he was cute at first. After all, his name was deceptive that way. But soon she grew tired of what a clingy and pathetic dork he was, so my roommate picked up the slack. Laurie, Robbin, and I would hang out in our room and Cutie Steve would stop by. Him among all his ladies he adored. All of us liking his company, but even better, being amused by his being a goofball and liking his attention.
Somewhere along the line, we learned he could do an impression of Fozzy Bear. Not sure how that came about. But the important part of the story here, is that we soon made it a requirement for his admission to our room that he say, “Wokka wokka” before entering. Then when he wasn’t there, we would laugh until our stomachs hurt, saying, “Wokka wokka.” Laurie and I would prank call each other from across the hall, too, saying that we were Piedro, this foxy Italian student we were crushing on that year. Very grown up. Amazing that Piedro wasn’t just dying to really call us.
Sometimes, we would look out the cafeteria window during lunchtime and see a lone girl walking. She wore Kelly green shoes with an army green jacket and olive green jeans. We laughed about how much she wore green. She always wore green. All those unmatching greens. “Green must be her favorite color,” we would say. Brilliant observation, Watson.
One day we looked out the window, and there was Cutie Steve, walking along right beside the green girl. They stayed that way for the next three years and I’m not sure what happened after that.
But we were really happy for them. And a little ashamed of ourselves. If only we’d been cool enough to wear mismatched greens and not care. We could have let down our defenses enough to actually accept a man who loved Skinny Puppy and did gymnastics and said Wokka wokka to impress us. We could have looked past color combinations and aesthetic choices and courting tactics to actually see who he was. But then, if he looked past our stupid exteriors, he might have seen who we really were as well. Thankfully, he found a green girl who was worthy of him.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Joe
"You love those dogs more than you love your children," my mom used to joke with my dad. He spent hours in the yard with them, refused to let anyone discipline them, always made excuses for them, like the time Max (our St. Bernard) knocked me down on my roller skates and pinned me to the ground with a snarl or the time Tasha burst through the bedroom door, grabbed my kitten, shook it and a couple hours later Alice died of shock.
But we weren't supposed to take that to heart.
Anyway. He's the sort of fellow that has at any given moment a few dozen open beer cans scattered about in various stages of temperature and liquid level. He's the guy in the basement chain smoking cigarettes as he writes feverishly in his yellow notepad: song lyrics, radio scripts, letters to the editor. "Hey, come here, kid. Tell me what you think of this."
He's the guy that had his arms folded, tugging at and chewing his moustache, waiting for me to come home from somewhere so he could tell me he found my journal and knew that I smoked pot and then I yelled at him for invading my privacy. Spun the tables.
He's the one that wore those darkened 70s glasses at the kitchen table and put his cup down so firmly and half the time he was mad and half the time he wasn't and I could never quite figure out the correlations or patterns, so I was always scared when he placed down his cup because I could never tell what was in his eyes through those glasses and then my mom laughed hysterically when my brother "accidentally" broke those glasses by setting down the radio on top of them. Once, he flung my brother across the room and my brother bounced against the wall, landed on the bed, and got a cut on his hand between his fingers. I think he was 9, but he could've been younger. It was when we still lived on Herman St. in Bay View, where I was never older than 6.
It was kind of well known in our family that he was the one that never wanted children, but my mom wanted three, so they compromised at two. She fell out of love with him pretty quickly, if she ever had been, which I wonder about because there's a story of her flinging the engagement ring at him down the street. But her mother told her that his heart was breaking and his mother thought he would kill himself so my mother relented. What a life saver. What a martyr. I guess at least one of them figured he owed her, so children it was.
But, you know, "You never wanted them." So it was fun growing up with that hanging over me while we heard them fight through the paper thin walls at night. Not falling asleep. Wondering if they'd get divorced and being so very scared of that, but wouldn't it have been better? Wouldn't a quiet night time been more bearable? Wouldn't I have avoided insomnia later in life? Couldn't my brother have had a better role model? Someone a little more involved in the idea of having a family, not just a servant to the woman he loved so desperately that he was willing to do anything, including putting two lives into the world, just to keep her... to keep her happy. Which she wasn't. No one was.
He was hard to talk to. Mostly because there were two modes: not wanting to be bothered and therefore referring you to the dictionary to look it up (how I hated the dictionary!) or feeling chatty and wanting to be the dictionary. We had a joke. You ask him what time it is and he tells you how to build a watch and the complete history of clocks, starting with the sun dial.
He's the guy that taught me two things.
One. That there is no such thing as unconditional love. That men do not have a complete set of feelings. That I will always be unworthy of love. That there is something that lacks in me and no one can quite put a finger on it.
Two. If I'm having trouble getting to sleep at night, why don't I write something down? How about poetry. I'm a pretty good writer, so why don't I try that?
But we weren't supposed to take that to heart.
Anyway. He's the sort of fellow that has at any given moment a few dozen open beer cans scattered about in various stages of temperature and liquid level. He's the guy in the basement chain smoking cigarettes as he writes feverishly in his yellow notepad: song lyrics, radio scripts, letters to the editor. "Hey, come here, kid. Tell me what you think of this."
He's the guy that had his arms folded, tugging at and chewing his moustache, waiting for me to come home from somewhere so he could tell me he found my journal and knew that I smoked pot and then I yelled at him for invading my privacy. Spun the tables.
He's the one that wore those darkened 70s glasses at the kitchen table and put his cup down so firmly and half the time he was mad and half the time he wasn't and I could never quite figure out the correlations or patterns, so I was always scared when he placed down his cup because I could never tell what was in his eyes through those glasses and then my mom laughed hysterically when my brother "accidentally" broke those glasses by setting down the radio on top of them. Once, he flung my brother across the room and my brother bounced against the wall, landed on the bed, and got a cut on his hand between his fingers. I think he was 9, but he could've been younger. It was when we still lived on Herman St. in Bay View, where I was never older than 6.
It was kind of well known in our family that he was the one that never wanted children, but my mom wanted three, so they compromised at two. She fell out of love with him pretty quickly, if she ever had been, which I wonder about because there's a story of her flinging the engagement ring at him down the street. But her mother told her that his heart was breaking and his mother thought he would kill himself so my mother relented. What a life saver. What a martyr. I guess at least one of them figured he owed her, so children it was.
But, you know, "You never wanted them." So it was fun growing up with that hanging over me while we heard them fight through the paper thin walls at night. Not falling asleep. Wondering if they'd get divorced and being so very scared of that, but wouldn't it have been better? Wouldn't a quiet night time been more bearable? Wouldn't I have avoided insomnia later in life? Couldn't my brother have had a better role model? Someone a little more involved in the idea of having a family, not just a servant to the woman he loved so desperately that he was willing to do anything, including putting two lives into the world, just to keep her... to keep her happy. Which she wasn't. No one was.
He was hard to talk to. Mostly because there were two modes: not wanting to be bothered and therefore referring you to the dictionary to look it up (how I hated the dictionary!) or feeling chatty and wanting to be the dictionary. We had a joke. You ask him what time it is and he tells you how to build a watch and the complete history of clocks, starting with the sun dial.
He's the guy that taught me two things.
One. That there is no such thing as unconditional love. That men do not have a complete set of feelings. That I will always be unworthy of love. That there is something that lacks in me and no one can quite put a finger on it.
Two. If I'm having trouble getting to sleep at night, why don't I write something down? How about poetry. I'm a pretty good writer, so why don't I try that?
Friday, February 25, 2005
Paul
My first job in Boston was at the Kinko's in Copley Square. It felt cool to be a part of something, though my second job was even cooler, because it was working in the office at Harvard Book Store, which meant I got to walk through Harvard Square every morning and pick up my vanilla latté from some independent coffee shop I can't remember the name of.
When I started working at Kinko's, I didn't feel confident that I was properly trained to do anything, as the training session was mainly mumbo-jumbo about personality and team building, which seemed a throw-back to the start of the company. I mean, really. It started as a hut that had a xerox machine and folks could come and get copies made. Then it ballooned into this megalith and the company policy is that they try to make it still feel like some cute, corny, little hippie operation when really it's just a corporation like any other.
So there's this thing about working at Kinko's. There's always the lead copy guy. He's the one that takes charge of all the machines and feels sort of infringed upon when others come in and mess up his groove. Paul was this guy.
According to the other employees, Paul was intimidating. He had a goatee which possibly made him look surly, as his facial hair covered his mouth. He wore glasses, so maybe it was hard to see his eyes through the reflection on the lenses. He had thick black hair and good, square, sturdy build, so maybe that seem imposing. He was also rather quiet, so maybe they thought he was always pissed off. But I put on my little orange dress and didn't care what he thought because, fuck him, I wasn't sticking around there forever. I'd worked customer service jobs before, I was in graduate school, I didn't care.
He started training me on the equipment and every time I messed up, I thought that would be the time he lost his patience with me, but he never did. As the days went on, the personal space between us would decrease as we worked on the auxiliary machines together. Jogging enormous documents, coil binding, slicing stacks of postcards. First an arm casually brushing by mistake while reaching for something. Learning glue binding. An accidental movement readjusting the hem of my skirt. Breath on the back of my neck.
Our manager was PaulBrian—a glorious, manic/depressive gay man who was in love with Paul. So the three of us often went on adventures together. We had enormous fun when it was the three of us. One morning, we went out for an extravagent breakfast that ended up costing us $60.
So it seemed natural that Paul and I thought we could go it alone. Our chemistry was obviously there, and clearly we had the extra added edge of feeling like we were somehow cheating on PaulBrian. So we went out. I ended up having to ask him to walk me to the train because it was midnight, but then I feared that I would make the green line in to the center, but not be there in enough time to catch the orange line for transfer. So he walked with me back to his apartment.
While we were in the midst of the sidewalk, he suddenly grabbed my shoulders and steered me aside. It was a movement that was shocking in a way that was at once frightening and thrilling. We had not yet kissed. And so.
We still did not. He was saving me from a skunk that was toddling along, about to cross our path.
I stayed the night at his house and he used my skin like braille, smoothing every inch of it with his fingers. Light dusting butterfly wings. And still, I don't think we ever kissed. But we were working our way up to it. The next time we went out, the conversation was stilted. We were awkward. It was like we were forcing something. A magic that wasn't there without PaulBrian with us. I made the joke that we needed to drink in order to have fun around one another.
As it was coming out of my mouth, I didn't think it was true. Until 3/4 of the words were out, and then I finished the sentence.
I quit Kinko's shortly thereafter, or maybe right before that time.
I sort of wonder whatever happened to Paul. I think if I had been a little more comfortable with myself and confident of other people at the time, it probably would have gone a little better. Been a little less forced. I really did like him, after all. I just couldn't talk to him.
When I started working at Kinko's, I didn't feel confident that I was properly trained to do anything, as the training session was mainly mumbo-jumbo about personality and team building, which seemed a throw-back to the start of the company. I mean, really. It started as a hut that had a xerox machine and folks could come and get copies made. Then it ballooned into this megalith and the company policy is that they try to make it still feel like some cute, corny, little hippie operation when really it's just a corporation like any other.
So there's this thing about working at Kinko's. There's always the lead copy guy. He's the one that takes charge of all the machines and feels sort of infringed upon when others come in and mess up his groove. Paul was this guy.
According to the other employees, Paul was intimidating. He had a goatee which possibly made him look surly, as his facial hair covered his mouth. He wore glasses, so maybe it was hard to see his eyes through the reflection on the lenses. He had thick black hair and good, square, sturdy build, so maybe that seem imposing. He was also rather quiet, so maybe they thought he was always pissed off. But I put on my little orange dress and didn't care what he thought because, fuck him, I wasn't sticking around there forever. I'd worked customer service jobs before, I was in graduate school, I didn't care.
He started training me on the equipment and every time I messed up, I thought that would be the time he lost his patience with me, but he never did. As the days went on, the personal space between us would decrease as we worked on the auxiliary machines together. Jogging enormous documents, coil binding, slicing stacks of postcards. First an arm casually brushing by mistake while reaching for something. Learning glue binding. An accidental movement readjusting the hem of my skirt. Breath on the back of my neck.
Our manager was PaulBrian—a glorious, manic/depressive gay man who was in love with Paul. So the three of us often went on adventures together. We had enormous fun when it was the three of us. One morning, we went out for an extravagent breakfast that ended up costing us $60.
So it seemed natural that Paul and I thought we could go it alone. Our chemistry was obviously there, and clearly we had the extra added edge of feeling like we were somehow cheating on PaulBrian. So we went out. I ended up having to ask him to walk me to the train because it was midnight, but then I feared that I would make the green line in to the center, but not be there in enough time to catch the orange line for transfer. So he walked with me back to his apartment.
While we were in the midst of the sidewalk, he suddenly grabbed my shoulders and steered me aside. It was a movement that was shocking in a way that was at once frightening and thrilling. We had not yet kissed. And so.
We still did not. He was saving me from a skunk that was toddling along, about to cross our path.
I stayed the night at his house and he used my skin like braille, smoothing every inch of it with his fingers. Light dusting butterfly wings. And still, I don't think we ever kissed. But we were working our way up to it. The next time we went out, the conversation was stilted. We were awkward. It was like we were forcing something. A magic that wasn't there without PaulBrian with us. I made the joke that we needed to drink in order to have fun around one another.
As it was coming out of my mouth, I didn't think it was true. Until 3/4 of the words were out, and then I finished the sentence.
I quit Kinko's shortly thereafter, or maybe right before that time.
I sort of wonder whatever happened to Paul. I think if I had been a little more comfortable with myself and confident of other people at the time, it probably would have gone a little better. Been a little less forced. I really did like him, after all. I just couldn't talk to him.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Grant
I fucking goddamn hated Grant.
When we moved to Atlanta the first time, it was me and my whole family and I was 12. My brother made himself instantly popular. He was mostly friends with the soccer kids, but he was also friends with the class fuck-up. In elementary school, they innocently call them clowns. But, come on. I'm talking about the loser kids, here, who don't fit into the system and eventually end up in jail. That was Grant.
And just like all the bullies/ clowns/ fuckups, he was hott.
So of course all the girls wanted him and of course he took them. He was just like that guy Dave that I obsessed over later in high school. Except, my experience with him can be likened to a formative moment in sixth grade involving Chris B.:
I used to stare. A lot. I'd stare at Chris all day, every day. Because he was alluring to me. So one day, he took his opportunity to genuflect before me and beg me to go out with him. In front of the entire class. Believe it or not, the embarrassment I felt from this experience prevented me from dating anyone until I moved to another state for college. I thought everyone who was interested in me was actually just making fun of me.
Anyway, that's how it was with Grant. Except, instead of being in my classroom and being able to go home and get away from him, I'd spend a whole day at school getting humiliated, followed up by a nice healthy bus ride full of kids throwing shit and making fun of me. And then topped off by my brother brining his best friend over to taunt me endlessly. Or at the very least, devalue me and make me feel less than human and certainly not the least bit attractive. The really fun part was that because he was so good looking, it made his statement stronger. If he was just some ugly, unpopular asshole, it wouldn't have bothered me as much. But because I was attracted to him, it made a pretty strong impression on me. It was like he was branding me, in fact.
So I went away to college and then I came back. By that time, my brother and I had figured out a way to tolerate each other or attempt at being friends. Especially since I didn't have any, since I'd moved back. So I went with him to see bands, I went to all of his shows. And just like back in high school, he was in a band with Grant.
One night, we were in a shit hole establishment, watching some band that was friends with them. They sucked. During the show, Grant and I started bickering, and I said, "You're just mad because you can't fuck me."
He said, "You're right."
Then we started making out. My brother turned around and saw us and his eyes bugged out of his head. Then Grant came back home with us and spent the night licking me clean. Then he went home and I didn't worry about it too much, except that I'd crossed a line, so I felt a little dirty. Mostly it was the thing about my brother.
Grant went back home, where he lived with his girlfriend. He hated her. But I liked her. So neither of us told her about it. The kind of sucky thing was that the next time I saw him, he was incredibly sweet to me. It sucked because it was unusual and out of the ordinary for our interactions with one another. I had, in fact, never seen that side of him before, nor did I know it could exist. So that sort of weirded me out. Furthermore, I really did like his girlfriend, so I kind of felt like an ass that way. So I maintained my removal and eventually it passed like nothing had ever happened.
When we moved to Atlanta the first time, it was me and my whole family and I was 12. My brother made himself instantly popular. He was mostly friends with the soccer kids, but he was also friends with the class fuck-up. In elementary school, they innocently call them clowns. But, come on. I'm talking about the loser kids, here, who don't fit into the system and eventually end up in jail. That was Grant.
And just like all the bullies/ clowns/ fuckups, he was hott.
So of course all the girls wanted him and of course he took them. He was just like that guy Dave that I obsessed over later in high school. Except, my experience with him can be likened to a formative moment in sixth grade involving Chris B.:
I used to stare. A lot. I'd stare at Chris all day, every day. Because he was alluring to me. So one day, he took his opportunity to genuflect before me and beg me to go out with him. In front of the entire class. Believe it or not, the embarrassment I felt from this experience prevented me from dating anyone until I moved to another state for college. I thought everyone who was interested in me was actually just making fun of me.
Anyway, that's how it was with Grant. Except, instead of being in my classroom and being able to go home and get away from him, I'd spend a whole day at school getting humiliated, followed up by a nice healthy bus ride full of kids throwing shit and making fun of me. And then topped off by my brother brining his best friend over to taunt me endlessly. Or at the very least, devalue me and make me feel less than human and certainly not the least bit attractive. The really fun part was that because he was so good looking, it made his statement stronger. If he was just some ugly, unpopular asshole, it wouldn't have bothered me as much. But because I was attracted to him, it made a pretty strong impression on me. It was like he was branding me, in fact.
So I went away to college and then I came back. By that time, my brother and I had figured out a way to tolerate each other or attempt at being friends. Especially since I didn't have any, since I'd moved back. So I went with him to see bands, I went to all of his shows. And just like back in high school, he was in a band with Grant.
One night, we were in a shit hole establishment, watching some band that was friends with them. They sucked. During the show, Grant and I started bickering, and I said, "You're just mad because you can't fuck me."
He said, "You're right."
Then we started making out. My brother turned around and saw us and his eyes bugged out of his head. Then Grant came back home with us and spent the night licking me clean. Then he went home and I didn't worry about it too much, except that I'd crossed a line, so I felt a little dirty. Mostly it was the thing about my brother.
Grant went back home, where he lived with his girlfriend. He hated her. But I liked her. So neither of us told her about it. The kind of sucky thing was that the next time I saw him, he was incredibly sweet to me. It sucked because it was unusual and out of the ordinary for our interactions with one another. I had, in fact, never seen that side of him before, nor did I know it could exist. So that sort of weirded me out. Furthermore, I really did like his girlfriend, so I kind of felt like an ass that way. So I maintained my removal and eventually it passed like nothing had ever happened.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Daniel
I think I already wrote about him. Somewhere else, another time. But I'll do it again so that I have everything collected here.
The night before I left Atlanta to move to Milwaukee, my cat died. This is a true story, though I have incorporated it into many other texts, including Tales from Loser Girl's Attic. It was awful. But it opened up something inside of me. A voraciousness that I did not expect. For the first time in my life, I wanted to fuck everything. Yes, as cliché as it is, I wanted to fuck away the pain. Fill up the hole with fingers and tongues and dicks. I felt cavernous.
I'd read an Aimee Bender story where that happened. So in one way, I wasn't surprised because it was familiar. At least I'd heard of it happening before. I just didn't expect that it would happen to me. I'm a truly vanilla person.
So later that night, I went to see my friend Paul perform at a coffee house for the last time. Opening for him was this guy. The Folk Singer.
Here's what happened: I'd seen him before. He performed one other time when I had been to Eddie's Attic to see someone or something else and he was there performing. The other person, that I was there to see (and can't remember now), was opening for his CD release party. So I was going to leave right after. But he made me stay. I have never before and never since seen anyone play live who was as talented as him. His command over his guitar was overwhelming. And it wasn't even the spell of voracious loss that he was weaving over me. Because the first time I saw him perform I was happily in some sort of lesbian dating relationship or other.
At any rate, I figured he's be a dick, so I never said anything to him or bought his CD or even tried to go to any of his other shows. Because he had that thing. He had that swarthy gypsy look about him. Scraggly black hair and thick dark eyelashes and a smudge of black stubble staining his chin and artfully crafted sideburns and sculpted facial hair where he chose for it to go. He wore vintage clothing that was some approximation of an expatriate or Parisian traveler of the earlier part of the century. Or maybe he was a vampire. Not like a cheesy one, but like a time traveler with class. Thunk. That was the sound of my heart flopping down from my chest on that coffee shop, leaving town night. I was held in awe. His voice was gorgeous, his music beautiful. And I felt as if he were singing directly to me. Or at least I really really wanted him to.
So after he was done and becuse I was leaving town, I decided to purchase his CD this time because this time there was nothing I had to lose. It was, technically, you see, already lost if you consider my cat.
When I went up to him after he was done, I made some sort of small comment that I can't remember. I had been crying all day and digging in the red Georgia clay to bury my cat in a hole and I was covered in dirt, wearing a sweaty T-shirt and horrible clothes with my hair a mess and even my glasses on over my puffy stained eyes. He did a double-take and said something else. And then magic was spun around us and we were both cast in delicious gold. I wanted to tell him to shove me in the back of his station wagon and take me back to wherever he went, kick a trail through the discarded clothes on the floor of his room and ram the back of my head into his wall until one or both of us bled.
But I didn't. Instead, I took his CD home and drove the next day with it playing the whole way from Atlanta to Milwaukee.
When I got there, I looked him up on the internet and wrote him an email thanking him for making music so gorgeous. He wrote back and that's where it started. A lengthy correspondence of escalating material for masturbation. Every day I went to work at my temp job filing insurance documents, thinking of him. My head spinning constantly over what he'd just written earlier that day. I'm surprised no one noticed the smell. Because I was consantly drenched in pure sex.
Finally, when neither one of us could take it any more, we arranged to meet in Indiana. When I got to the pre-arranged destination, he lept from his table and gave me a hug like he hadn't seen me in years because I'd been a trapped in a prison camp for war refugees. We went on a date. I got a hotel room. We sat by the pool. And finally he kissed me. I dragged him back to my room and right when the time came, because I was still a technical virgin at the time, I stopped. We didn't have sex.
The next day was horrible. He annoyed the crap out of me. All he wanted to do was go shopping and all I wanted to do was go home. I got more and more disillusioned with him as the day went on. I noticed that his sense of humor is stupid and for as brilliant of a musican and songwriter he is, he wasn't very bright. I still wish him success because I think the world deserves his talent. But other than that, he was horrible. This was a very clear moment of separating the art from the artist. The heart from the artist.
Finally, when I got back, I was kind of mad that it seemed he felt the same way. Our communication slipped and when I finally found out that he was dating someone else, I was pissed. But at the same time, kind of relieved.
The night before I left Atlanta to move to Milwaukee, my cat died. This is a true story, though I have incorporated it into many other texts, including Tales from Loser Girl's Attic. It was awful. But it opened up something inside of me. A voraciousness that I did not expect. For the first time in my life, I wanted to fuck everything. Yes, as cliché as it is, I wanted to fuck away the pain. Fill up the hole with fingers and tongues and dicks. I felt cavernous.
I'd read an Aimee Bender story where that happened. So in one way, I wasn't surprised because it was familiar. At least I'd heard of it happening before. I just didn't expect that it would happen to me. I'm a truly vanilla person.
So later that night, I went to see my friend Paul perform at a coffee house for the last time. Opening for him was this guy. The Folk Singer.
Here's what happened: I'd seen him before. He performed one other time when I had been to Eddie's Attic to see someone or something else and he was there performing. The other person, that I was there to see (and can't remember now), was opening for his CD release party. So I was going to leave right after. But he made me stay. I have never before and never since seen anyone play live who was as talented as him. His command over his guitar was overwhelming. And it wasn't even the spell of voracious loss that he was weaving over me. Because the first time I saw him perform I was happily in some sort of lesbian dating relationship or other.
At any rate, I figured he's be a dick, so I never said anything to him or bought his CD or even tried to go to any of his other shows. Because he had that thing. He had that swarthy gypsy look about him. Scraggly black hair and thick dark eyelashes and a smudge of black stubble staining his chin and artfully crafted sideburns and sculpted facial hair where he chose for it to go. He wore vintage clothing that was some approximation of an expatriate or Parisian traveler of the earlier part of the century. Or maybe he was a vampire. Not like a cheesy one, but like a time traveler with class. Thunk. That was the sound of my heart flopping down from my chest on that coffee shop, leaving town night. I was held in awe. His voice was gorgeous, his music beautiful. And I felt as if he were singing directly to me. Or at least I really really wanted him to.
So after he was done and becuse I was leaving town, I decided to purchase his CD this time because this time there was nothing I had to lose. It was, technically, you see, already lost if you consider my cat.
When I went up to him after he was done, I made some sort of small comment that I can't remember. I had been crying all day and digging in the red Georgia clay to bury my cat in a hole and I was covered in dirt, wearing a sweaty T-shirt and horrible clothes with my hair a mess and even my glasses on over my puffy stained eyes. He did a double-take and said something else. And then magic was spun around us and we were both cast in delicious gold. I wanted to tell him to shove me in the back of his station wagon and take me back to wherever he went, kick a trail through the discarded clothes on the floor of his room and ram the back of my head into his wall until one or both of us bled.
But I didn't. Instead, I took his CD home and drove the next day with it playing the whole way from Atlanta to Milwaukee.
When I got there, I looked him up on the internet and wrote him an email thanking him for making music so gorgeous. He wrote back and that's where it started. A lengthy correspondence of escalating material for masturbation. Every day I went to work at my temp job filing insurance documents, thinking of him. My head spinning constantly over what he'd just written earlier that day. I'm surprised no one noticed the smell. Because I was consantly drenched in pure sex.
Finally, when neither one of us could take it any more, we arranged to meet in Indiana. When I got to the pre-arranged destination, he lept from his table and gave me a hug like he hadn't seen me in years because I'd been a trapped in a prison camp for war refugees. We went on a date. I got a hotel room. We sat by the pool. And finally he kissed me. I dragged him back to my room and right when the time came, because I was still a technical virgin at the time, I stopped. We didn't have sex.
The next day was horrible. He annoyed the crap out of me. All he wanted to do was go shopping and all I wanted to do was go home. I got more and more disillusioned with him as the day went on. I noticed that his sense of humor is stupid and for as brilliant of a musican and songwriter he is, he wasn't very bright. I still wish him success because I think the world deserves his talent. But other than that, he was horrible. This was a very clear moment of separating the art from the artist. The heart from the artist.
Finally, when I got back, I was kind of mad that it seemed he felt the same way. Our communication slipped and when I finally found out that he was dating someone else, I was pissed. But at the same time, kind of relieved.
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