Anecdotes and Non-Sequiturs

The first:

I was sitting in the coffee shop, listening to two people next to me having a conversation.

Him: Have you seen Monica?
Her: Yeah, she's not doing so well. But it's hard to sympathize, 'cuz she's so annoying.

I do not know these people. They were obviously speaking of a different Monica. But I immediately felt defensive and hurt.

The second:

Boy and I went to a wedding in Madrid a few weeks ago. All was beautiful, and we had a great time. However, if Jesus went to a wedding in Madrid instead of Cana, he would have had to turn the wine into water. I have never been thirstier in my life than I was in Madrid. This seemed like a general consensus amongst the folks I was with. No one had a real reason why.

The third:

I haven't slept in three days. I'm jittery and tired. This week's been bad.

The fourth:

I haven't been even getting pleasure out of hockey these days. Though my team rocks, as usual.

The fifth:

I'm sitting in the coffee shop right now, again, and feeling sorry for myself. This was immediately alleviated, however, when I just heard the opening beats of "That's Not My Name," by the Ting Tings. I defy you to be in a bad mood when you hear this song. Also, two of my favorite people in the world love this song, and they both happen to be under the age of four.

The sixth:

I have re-found a prior love for Jonathan Ames. When me and Boy re-discover our delight in each other, we say we are having a renaissance. I'm having an Amesessance (I AM ALLOWED TO BE A DORK. I HAVE NOTHING ELSE GOING FOR ME RIGHT NOW).

It Broke

I think that I would have totally been hot for the Roman god Bacchus (or the Greek god Dionysus, whichever you prefer). He's the god of wine, was all sorts of crazily sexually adventurous, and was certifiably insane. Oh, and he was a cross-dresser. Loved a party, that guy. I'm sure I would have been all about it. I'm also sure he lived in his own head most of the time, as I have a tendency to do.

One of my favorite things in my mom's house (my house, growing up) was a ceramic mask of Bacchus (I wanted to attach a photo but I don't have one of her actual mask, and the ones online don't do it justice) that she bought in Venice when we were really little. For most of my life, it has hung on her dining room wall. My sister recently told me that she was scared of it. She told me this when she called me to tell me how my mom's (recent) move (from the house we grew up in, to an apartment) went.

Her: You remember that mask?
Me: What?
Her: You know. I was sceer [read: "scared." Long story] of it?
Me: Oh, yeah. Bacchus. I loved that thing.
Her: You did? 'Memba when [name deleted] cut himself on one of it's vines and had to get stitches?
Me: Yes.
Her: It broke.

I may be overreacting (it happens), but I could not believe the nonchalance with which she was telling me this information.

When I called my mom later, I said, kind of in a weird frenzy "Bacchus head broke!???!"

She laughed and said "yeah, he was the only casualty of the move. It's just as well, you guys [read: my sister and I] would have fought over it when I died, anyway" (This is not a weird thing to say, in my family. We're used to such comments).

"No, we wouldn't have. She wouldn't have wanted it. She didn't even like it. She was scared of it."

My mom paid this very little attention, as she probably should have. Oddly, I'm not entirely over it. I loved that fucking thing.

I'm sad I can't find a photo. You know who I mean...the dude with the grapes at the side of his head.

Anyway...I've recently been thinking that I wouldn't have been good with Bacchus anyway. He and I would have been cool to run around and get crazy and get into intense arguments and have lots of fun, but eventually, I bet I would have just wanted to sit on a bench and quietly hold Apollo's hand, or something.

UPDATE: I just found out that Bacchus was to have risen from the dead on March 25th, which is my bday. I would have taken that as a big sign.

What's "Not x365?"

I've had a few people recently ask me what Not x365 is. I'm not sure why people have been asking as of late...I've been doing it for months. Maybe more people read the blog, now?

Word.

Anyway, Not x365 is my version of The x365 project. It was started in 2006 by a dude named Dan Waber, the basic premise being that he would write about one person a day for 365 days in 40 words (because he was 40 years old at the time of the project). My friend Uncouth Heathen is the first person I saw do it, and I keep trolling her list to see if she's got me in there yet (she doesn't).

I, like many, was attracted to this idea, but I didn't like that I had to use a certain amount of words or that I had to do it every day. I also didn't like to use people's names. So I do the NOT x365 project, writing about whomever I want, whenever I want, in however many words I want. I never use people's names , but sometimes it's obvious.

I'll do one now...I haven't done one in a while. Heregoes:

#14: You're a hilarious friend of my sister's; you've become one of my friends as well. For some reason, I know the most embarrassing childhood story about you (it involves potato chips and underwear), but my favorite story is when I caught you wearing my skirt (that clearly my sister had lent you) walking down the main street of the town we grew up in, and when you saw me, you tried to hide. As if. Your wedding rocked! One of the best in recent memory, hands down.

Not as Scary as You'd Think

The other day I was walking to my subway stop in Brooklyn, on the phone with my best bud. I was having a normal conversation with that tramp, and didn't feel the need to interrupt him when something very odd happened. The second he was done yapping about some shit or another, though I had to ask him:

Me: Did you hear what just happened to me when you were talking, just then?
Him: No, what?
Me: Some dude in a hat walked up to me, pointed in my chest, and said "on this night, I will kill one lady."
Him: Are you serious? Just now? How did I miss that?
Me: I have no idea. Maybe you're just really self absorbed.
Him: "On this night, I will kill one lady?"
Me: Yep. In his defense, though, I don't think he meant that I was the one lady.
Him: Oh, that's good.

And, scene.

I'm Sorry In Advance For This (A Post Not For The Weak of Stomach).

I watched the Ricky Gervais HBO special on DVR last night, with Boy. That man is just freaking delightful* (I mean Ricky, not Boy, though Boy is pretty damn delightful himself). I laughed out loud several times, even though I was in the midst of a bratty argument (I picked it myself!) and even though I was lying on the sofa thinking "I will not laugh. I just won't. That will prove a point" (that there was no point to prove bothered me none). It's that good. You should all watch this special.

Midway through his routine, Ricky told a joke that jerked a memory of mine. Well, not a memory of mine necessarily, but the memory of a story an old friend once told me. A story of something that happened to him...a story that had tortured me for many days and weeks and months and years. My brain was haunted and no amount of brain-scrubbing could remove this yarn from the depths of the cranium.

But then, one day, poof! Oh happy day! It was gone. Until Ricky.

So friends, because I am sure there are so few of you, I will risk telling the story right here. Dare I? Yes, I do dare. So read below if you wish, but you have been warned. No one has ever heard this story without responding with some version of "UGGHGHGHHGHGHGH." Here goes:

Back in NOLA, I had a friend, a friend who will heretofore be known as Red. Red had received an email about an upcoming high school reunion. Red was very anxious about attending, but since his friends were such horrible people who loved to see him uncomfortable in any situation, they (we) made their (our) case for it, and finally convinced him to go.

Right before Red was to leave for the reunion (it was in Houston), he had an apartment-related emergency. The sink exploded, or there was some sort of plague, (bugs, locusts, or frogs, I forget which one). Red was unable to live in his apartment for three weeks, so since he was already going home to Houston, he figured he'd just extend his stay. I think it was around Thanksgiving, anyway, so lots of us would be either with our families (sounds unfamiliar), working hard (closer, but not quite), or too drunk (bingo) back in NOLA anyway.

So Red goes to the reunion. He gets wasted. He sees old friends. He drinks with old friends. He drinks with old girlfriends. And finally, he does the stud-muffin reunion thing that guys everywhere want to do: he begins flirting with the girl he loved from afar, who didn't know he existed in high school (ahh, John Hughes, you would be proud). Eventually, Red asks the girl to go home with him, and she accepts. He takes her back to his parents' house, and is so drunk that they never move past the sofa. Red falls asleep, drooling on the floor, because he wanted to leave the sofa for the girl (oh, the chivalry).

The next morning, Red feels so bad. He wakes up with his head on the floor, mouth open on the carpet, and embarrassed. He's sure he wasn't at all able to satisfy this girl based on how drunk he was, so he wanted to make it up to her. He reaches up to the sofa, pats her on her hand, and says "hi, sweetie, I'm so sorry. Let me make it up to you. I wanna go down on you."

Except she wasn't there. She had left in the middle of the night.

The hand he was holding (but not looking at) was his mom's.

He looked up, realized this, and ran into his room, where he stayed for the remaining 18 days (eventually one of us let him stay at our place).

That's the story of Red. Sorry if I oversold it, but to me, not many things could be worse.


*Our definitions of "delightful" may not synch up. Read the rest of the blog and judge for yourself.

I Actually Don't Mind the Term "Manic" (and Things You Can Say on The Simpsons).

Well, look at you! Still reading my blog. Aww.

So I guess a person could technically call me "depressed." Am I sad? No. Have I learned how to monitor this depression so that I can live a totally normal life? Yes. Do I hate when people ask yes or no questions and answer them themselves? Yes.

Anyway, I'm pretty much fine now. I go through the occasional "bummed out, unsure about stuff" phases, but who doesn't? Because of my history, though, I forget that this shit is not exclusive to me. It's funny...being totally self-absorbed, when I used to go through these rough patches, I would forget that they would eventually pass. The scariest thing was that I always thought they'd last forever.

On the other hand, one thing I never really minded was the post-rough patch period. The high high high that follows the depressed low: the mania. That used to be fun.

What the fuck does this have to do with anything?

Well, I'm going through a small period of optimism, starting today, that came on so suddenly that I feel a little manic.

To address the second part of my posting title: apparently you can say "shite" on The Simpsons. Groundskeeper Willy said it on an episode the other night. Put an accent on it and it's cute, I suppose.

I'll Start With a Little Rambling, End With a Not x365

Hi folks,

After last week's festivities, (the election, the situation with my hockey league, Boy having Irish friends in town, the election, and drinking every night in celebration of all of these things, like the election), I haven't felt much like blogging. I already fucked up on NaBloPoMo, and though I can do it again next month, I can't win the fancy prizes donated by friends of mine like Uncouth Heathen. But it was more about the discipline than the prizes. I mean Uncouth Heathen had some sort of surgery, and she was still able to do it.

BUT. Next month. I have faith.

Also: I don't know what this means in my life, but I've been having gross dreams about brain damaged test monkeys and dead pigeons.

I went to hot yoga this morning, which felt great, but after a few too many days of not doing it...that shit is hard.

Anyway, here's another one.

#8: I drove to Ozzfest with you, in a car with you and #4, and one other girl. At one point of the long long car trip, a bug fell out of your dreads. I always thought you were cute, but my friend thought you were a stupid little boy (you're only five years younger than me). You were also a little dirty, hence the bug. We drank a lot of red bulls in that car, and the concert itself was the drunkest I've ever been in my entire life. Did I want to go to Ozzfest? Probably. Tommy Lee was probably there. But I couldn't tell you one thing that happened that day, except for this: there was a guy there who would pay people to kick a soccer ball at his head really hard. You kicked that ball. You missed his head by a long shot.

That's the Fucking Way!

Did you ever see the movie Dodgeball?

Yesterday was the last day of the season for my hockey league. We watched the game from the "stands," though we play at a very rough-around-the-edges park, so there are not actually stands. It's basically a little railing that we stand behind, and we call it the Heckle Wall.

Anyway. Dodgeball. The team that did not win, happily, was a team that reminds me of team GloboGym from Dodgeball, except without the hilarity. They are way better than anyone else in our little league, but not because they've played together forever and persevered. They are the best because they recruit from real hockey teams and college ice teams. This is weird, as we play at a park where homeless dudes pee in the corners and there's dogshit around and we play on sneakers and we drink about 7x more than we play, anyway. This is the type of league it is. It's the sort of league that someone like me, someone who's not totally athletic, can join. This is the sort of league it is NOT: a league where captains recruit players from craigslist with ads in French and Czech to assure the best, scariest, most serious hockey players that grace this earth. They live in Crazytown.

They lost yesterday, and they lost to a team that is fantastic. When I say fantastic, however, I mean that they are good hockey players, freally great people, and personify the friendly/collaborative spirit that our league is all about. The title of this post is their cheer (my team's cheer, incidentally, is "Let's Do This Bitch").

It was such a happy moment. Good won over evil. The entire league was cheering the happy team, and booing GloboGym. It was like a cheesy sports movie, but in real life.

That's all. Congrats Kills.

Not x365, Part II

#4 We had Bon Jovi concerts in the kitchen of the restaurant...the one we ran in NOLA. The concerts consisted of this: waiting until the restaurant closed, turning up the Bon Jovi casette very loudly, drinking splits of crap champagne, dancing around the kitchen, and scream-singing into plastic spatulas. We also had a version of these concerts that we would give at your house, except we usually drank wine, then, instead of champagne. When "Tiny Dancer" came on, we would cry. Your ex-husband would get annoyed when we did this. We lied to him constantly about how much we drank. You housed me when I was homeless, you employed me when I was unemployed. You lent me scratch when I had none. You let me stay in your apartment when you weren't there. I recently lost touch with you and suspect this is my fault. I miss you.

#5 YOU ARE INCREDIBLE!


#6 I recently learned of a mental condition from Law and Order, SVU. Those with this condition think that they are in a romantic relationship, while their supposed "partner" is left completely unaware. I think you have that. Remember when I was your girlfriend? I know you do, but I don't. Remember when you got really mad at that guy I fooled around with, and threw an ashtray at him in the middle of my bar shift? Remember when you told him "stay away from my girlfriend?" I honestly had no idea you were talking about me. Do you know how crazy that is? You're married now, and I must admit, this shocks me. You've proposed to a lot of people. Congrats, though, you seem to be happy.

This is Not the x365 Project.

I read about this thing called the x365 project. Yes, it was created in '06, but I'm sort of slow on the uptake on this kind of thing. Basically, what you're supposed to do is write fifty words or less, every day, about various people in your life.

I'm not going to do that.

It's really limiting, and I have enough trouble keeping up with this blog without having rules. Also, I'm not always comfortable putting people's names, even just their first names, on this thing. What I will do, however, is do a few of these whenever I damn feel like it, with whatever names I want.

So here's three.

#1 You were an ex of mine. You were two exes ago, so I'll call you Double Ex. This name fits for you for many reasons. You were verbally abusive. Let's not mince around on tippy-toes about that, either. You were. I'm glad I am able to let it go a little bit now, and that I no longer feel I have to hit ignore on my phone when you call. And I won't lie, I sort of relish the fact that you are so sorry you "let me go;" I'm not proud of it, but I sort of like that you feel shitty about how you treated me. I'm sorry you don't know what to do about that girl you just got pregnant. I hope you find a way to be happy, but I'm pretty sure you never will. I'm sure at some point we'll see each other again; NOLA is not that big of a city, and your armada of trucks swarms around the place like roaches.

#2 Nutty ex boss! Granted, I've had many nutty ex bosses, and you were not even the nuttiest. Your weird relationship with your dog bothered me, though. You were a crazy rich dude and you tried to make your dog into a crazy rich lady. You said she would only eat if there were no coats on the chairs, and if the dishwasher wasn't running. When she pooped blood once, you said she was developing an ulcer because I watched her when she ate. It was strange that you canceled an interview you were supposed to do because of the blood-pooping incident, by the way. You told me she did yoga. She did not do yoga. She was lanky, so I'll admit, sometimes it looked like it. But she wasn't. Want to know how I know that? Because she was a dog. Know the only thing she was passionate about? Chasing cats. You bought her perfume once. That was crazy.

#3 I will call you Lucian. You and I were on the same trip in the summer of 1993. We were fifteen. You lived across the country. I was attracted to you, despite your weirdness (not because of it. I was too young for that at that time). Once, on a bus trip in Germany, we almost held hands. We did not, because you thought I had a boyfriend back home. The reason you thought this was because I told everyone I did. Needless to say, I did not. After you and I did not hold hands, you got up and sat with another girl. By the end of that bus trip, you and she were a couple. After returning home, you wrote me a few very strange erotic letters. I never wrote back. After a few weeks, you "broke up" with me. You said it was because of religion.

And there you go.

Bodega Guys and Hook Hands

I've not been able to go into my bodega since last Monday. At the very least, the night shift (of the 24 hour place) is off-limits for me. My bodega guy asked me out. My bodega guy. Asked me out.

Now I understand those of you not familiar with bodega culture may not fully grasp how terribly horrible it is for your bodega to be off limits. This one is the shit, too. More like a gourmet mini grocery-convenience store. And it's a good idea to make friends with your bodega people, as I did, as well. You can have packages left off there, if your building doesn't have a lobby and you don't want your packages left outside. If they're close enough to your apartment, they'll help you carry heavy stuff home. And sometimes, if they know you real well, and if you lost your bank card and it's too late to go to the bank, and all you have is a check and you really, really, need a pack of cigarettes because you just got back from a trip to New Orleans and you can't help but wondering really, REALLY, why you live in the most expensive city in the world, well, then, sometimes, they'll let you write them a check. They're not stupid, though. You have to put your phone number on the top of the check.

See where this is going?

So anyway, last Monday, I had a drink with a friend that I haven't seen in a long while. I got home fairly early, got off the subway, and went into the bodega, as I often do, to purchase a snack. Well, flirty bodega man was in there, and asked me what I was up to for the evening. Flirty is younger than most of the other bodega dudes, and chattier, too. I just smiled at him, and told him I was on my way home. He then said, "Maybe we could hang out sometime before the holidays." Since I have never ever learned how to decline gracefully (WHYWHYWHY did I never learn that??), I just made some sound like "kayhrmsph," let it trail off, and walked out.

Well, I get home, and not but two seconds later, my cell phone rings with an unfamiliar number. I don't answer the unfamiliars. Ever. But I did listen to the message. It was Flirty. He had gotten my number from the check I had written, and wanted to see what I was doing because he was on a "quick break." Actually, let's be honest. I didn't even get asked out by bodega dude, I think I got booty-called by him. Claaaaaaaasy.

Reminds me of something else (a little bit):
My mom still lives (for now) in the town in which my sister and I grew up. The town definitely has elements of small-town livin', even though it is a fairly upscale Long Island town. Everyone sort of knows everyone, which is (I suppose) nice, but also, everyone knows everyone's business. That has nothing to do, per se, with my story, but I'm painting a picture here, folks.

Anyway, there used to be (or maybe there still is) a cab driver in this town who had a hook hand. A pretty high-tech hook hand, too. It was all metal, none of that fake skin plastic bullshit. He wasn't joking around with that hook, yo. We'll call him Vinny the Hook. So V the H wound up with my mom in his cab at one point. Suffice it to say, he became smitten. Whenever a call would come in from my mom, V the H would be the first one to pick up the dispatch, and be there to pick her right on up. I'm pretty sure he asked her out once or twice. My mom, unlike me, surely did learn how to decline gracefully, I imagine, because she never did wind up going out with the Hook, nor did she have to avoid the cab company altogether.

Until.

One day he was driving her home from somewhere (I'm sure she didn't even have to tell him where she lived anymore...which now that I think about it is REALLY creepy), and pulled in front of the house. She paid him, and was about to get out. But Hooky turned around with a bunch of CDs in his hand, and said "here. Take these. They make me think of you."

I'm sure that at this point, my mom made a noise akin to the "kayhrmsph" noise I made in the bodega last Monday, but she took the CDs. My favorite part of the whole thing is that apparently, the music that made V the H think of my mom consisted of the scores of several movies that she described as "satanic." Literally so. Not a judgement call, but literally movies condoning satanic worship.

Not that there's anything wrong with that...

A Zillion Years Ago...Tenneessee in NOLA.

It was mother’s day. I remember, because it was the first (and only) day that the restaurant at which I worked was open for brunch. It had been set up far in advance, lots of food was ordered, we made drunken plans for everything to run smoothly. Skip, bon vivant, boss extroirdinnaire, sat me down along with RA (my best friend, surrogate mom, and co manager. She's only one year older than me, but at the time she was the most "together" person I knew) and Stevie Z. For some reason, he loved to blow smoke up our collective asses. I remember thinking that I knew and loved him so well. We watched him get drunk. We watched him snort smoke eat pills and every other damn thing. He watched us do much of the same, but did that mean he really knew us? I adored the man, but I was too stupid to realize that I didn’t know Skip, I knew the show that he put on; the act that he wanted us to see.

And I liked him the way I knew him: flawed, a fuck-up, but a self-aware fuck-up that I oddly looked up to. I couldn’t strive to be someone that made a lot of money, woke up in the morning, kissed their kids and went to work. That wasn’t going to happen for me. But I could aim as high as Skip: a fuck-up that somehow made it work. A happy go lucky jovial fuckup, who paid his bills and whose parents loved him. Now I know there ain’t no such thing, really.

The three of us were regularly smart people, I swear. But when it came to Skip, we became bobble headed idiots, “sure Skip, right Skip, totally Skip, we’re in this with you.” He’d tell us it was because we were the only three people he could trust--business wise, and with everything else. I still want to think, even now, that that wasn’t all it, though. That a teensy bit of him didn’t just pick out the three of us because we were suckers, but because he really did want to give back to us if he ever could. That he would have made us four equal partners in something he really thought would be great. That he didn’t just need someone to pick up his ever-increasing slack.

Of course, on that early early Mother's Day morning, what wound up happening was that Steve, RA and I were the only ones that showed up. I’m not even sure we had any customers…maybe it was packed. Maybe it was a giant disappointment of an afternoon, money-wise. I do remember that it was a no-nonsense time for RA, though. That it was one of those days she was genuinely pissed to be there, she did her work, and she left. I bitched, but I secretly loved every minute of it.

We banged out brunch; we cleaned up. RA left. Steve and I hung around afterwards and probably had a drink or two to celebrate finishing up. I sort of loved Steve at the time, so I’m sure I was in no rush to get out. He probably had no where else to be, anyway.

Before we opened, and all through brunch, we tried calling and calling Skip. He didn't show up, and we had no money in the register. Steve actually sent me to the nearby casino with 20 bucks to make a little cash to put in the register before opening. I'd be lying if I said that was the only time this happened. Skip never picked up his phone.

When he finally did call back, I'm sure he knew we were done for the day. It was no coincidence. His back had been bugging him for weeks and weeks. The man needed surgery. I know he couldn’t afford it; probably had no medical plan, and his parents, though dripping with money, had no interest in helping him out, (if they even knew at all).

But right in the middle of our drinking, the phone rang. It was Skip. He did, in his defense, sound miserable.

“I’m sorry, hook," he said to me when I answered. "Can’t even get out of bed today, my back’s terrible. Lemme get Steve-o real quick.” I was so mad at him, but it still hurt a little that he wanted to talk to Steve, not me.

Steve rolled his eyes and took the phone. Unlike me, his annoyance was genuine.

As I smoked my cigarette, I half paid attention to Steve, scrambling for paper and a pen, exasperatedly sighing, jotting down some information and slamming down the phone.

“He needs Vicoden. Tennessee’s got some.”

“So what does that have to do with you?” I wanted to know.

“Apparently, I have to go to Tennessee’s hotel room, the one he lives out of, in god knows where, get them, and bring them to Skip.”

“For what?” I meant reciprocation.

“For nothing. Out of the goodness of my goddamn heart. For the 25% of this shithole that he’s always promising us. For a part of this business that he’s driving into the ground, anyway.”

He was so annoyed, but all I wanted was to be asked to go, too. An adventure. He wouldn’t ask, though, I knew.

“Want me to go with you?” I caved.

“Well I was going to just ask to borrow your car. But yeah. Come take a ride.”

So without questioning why he was going to ask to borrow my car for this excursion (he had his own vehicle which was, if not "perfectly good," then at least sufficient), I happily trailed behind him, practically skipping out of the building.

Tennessee was a recent hire at the restaurant. I was never sure exactly what his deal was. I think he was brought on as a dishwasher, but he wound up being a general maintenance dude, possibly due to his drug connections. No one was ever given any other way to address him except for “Tennessee,” and no one really questioned it. At this time, it was news to me that Skip even knew where Tennessee lived, nevermind talked to him outside of the restaurant. Like I mentioned, I was a little slow on the uptake back then.

Tennessee lived in a run-down, scary motel in a part of the city I had never been to. Actually, it was outside of the city, in Chalmette, and why or how Skippy even found him is beyond me. We were really in the middle of nowhere.

Steve, long haired, dirty Steve, liked to sit in my car and smoke with the windows rolled up. I never asked him not to, though in a show of great passive aggression, I always made sure to roll down the windows whenever I had one. Not just my window, but all of them. We barely spoke on the ride out to the motel. I knew he was aggravated, so I didn't push it.

There was a pair of blue jeans hanging from the balcony outside Tenneessee's room, like a flag directing us where to go. It was a good thing, too, as this was not the type of establishment with a uniformed front desk attendant, and even if it was, what was I going to do? Ask if he knew where Tennessee was?

His room smelled musty, but I have to say that I was expecting to be hit with a stench much worse upon walking in. He was just lying there like he expected to see us. Of course he expected to see us.

“Y’alll ready?”

I was confused, but I figured I just wasn’t down with the lingo. I was beginning to realize that this shit probably went down all the time. Without me. “Yeah, we’re ready, man, we’re ready,” Steve told him.

Tennessee nodded. “Well, y’all sit here for a minute, let me go take care of this.”

So he left. He left Steve and me in this room in the middle of Chalmette. Steve didn’t seem to think it was strange, though, so I’ll be damned if I was going to act like I did. He picked up the remote control to the tv, and started flipping channels. I think we settled on a nature program with wildebeasts or some such nonsense. I watched for a while, but I’d been up since seven in the morning, and probably had been out until four the night before. I dozed off pretty quickly.

Steve, apparently dozed off himself. I know this because we were both simultaneously woken by someone bursting into the room. Had we locked the door? Had Tennessee?

We woke up slow, but there was suddenly a ball of energy in the room. A scraggly white chick, probably coming in at 90 something pounds, had flew in, notably un-shocked to see us. She was talking so fast. Was she talking fast, or had I just not fully woken up yet? Did Steve know her? She was telling a story. Did I miss the beginning, or did this chick just not know/care that she started in the middle?

“And I was banging on the door all last night. I don’t know if he didn’t hear me or what, do you know where he was? I think he was here, and just didn’t answer the door. Did y’all hang out with him? I bet y’all hung out with him. I’m not blaming you, I’m sure he didn’t tell you he was supposed to be with me. Were you here then? Oh, shit, y’all heard me banging on the door, didn’t you? I feel like an ass. See? He makes me always feel like an ass.” She spat questions and statements at us through the gaps in the front of her mouth; she was missing a considerable amout of teeth. Steve looked at me and smiled a little, raising his eyebrows, and I felt comforted. At least he didn't think this shit was normal.

“Well I’m gonna go after I fix myself for a sec, just hold on,” she went on. I’d never seen anyone shoot up in front of me before. I swore I wouldn’t make a sound. I was wide-awake now. She looked like a crack whore, but she shot up like a pro. I guess one wasn’t exclusive to the other. Or maybe I was too young and knew nothing, which was becoming abundantly clear as the day went on.

She did nod out for a second. I didn’t think it was weird at the time, because I was so tired myself. But just for a second. In another minute, she was up and zipped out of the room as fast as she came in.

Steve looked at me, with that clowny smile that he had, and his laugh, his perfect ‘ha’s that he made when he laughed. Genuine, though..

“What the fuck are we doin’, baby.” Not a question. Just a statement. This is why I loved him. For moments like this. He didn’t find this shit any more normal than I did, and I loved him for it. I looked at him and smiled.

At the time, I never thought "wow. How did this happen with my life, that I'm sitting in a motel waiting for a dude with no name, to give my boss Vicoden. " I didn't question working at a job that required me to go to the casino just to be able to open up. Steve was older, though, and I'm sure that shit ran through his head like a motherfucker. Maybe.

More later.

The sad thing is, I sorta miss that time in my life. Even though I was a moron.