"What are you doing?" He looks over my shoulder at my notebook.
I let him look. "Gleaning."
Some how, some way, on some level, we are a result. We are the sum of our reactions. A product of events and decisions. At least part of us. At least some small part, is the effect. The effect of all that has been done to us. For better or worse.
And sometimes I write about it.
The slow and purposeful harvest of what has been left behind. Especially what has been left behind by reapers. Takers. The guy in the band who got all the lyrics he needed, then left. The writer I wanted to like me. The editor who actually said, "If she ever kills herself I'm sitting on a gold mine. Until then, I just hope nobody publishes her."
It's in the experience that we become. It's in the use that we discover our value. It's in the healing that we receive clarity.
And it is in the gleaning that we remember.
February 25, 2007
Used
"If a great wave shall fall,
And fall upon us all,
Then I hope there's someone out there,
Who can bring me back to you."
-The Calling
"Your not getting it. You're not hitting it." The rain continues, relentless and loud. Frustrated, he pushes his hair back over his head. His sleeves are rolled up and his shirt looks wrinkled. It was probably perfect when he put it on 20 hours ago. He was probably fresh and clean and sharp. But it's been raining for hours.
I was younger. He was older. So much. Back then, it was all young.
I feel like I could cry. I'm sitting at the desk staring at the Words on the paper. Before the computer. There was paper. "It's three in the morning. What the fuck do you want from me."
"I want you to write this." His voice is drawing. It drew me. He was older, and relentless. I was younger. Younger than I am now. Younger than he was then. Younger than the rain.
"I did. I have." Relentless and loud. The rain, and the radio. "I don't understand what you're problem is. I wrote this ten different ways. Any one of them would be fine."
He stands up stretching and looks out the window. "Very, I don't come to you for fine. I don't trust you with my reputation, because you write fine."
He opens the window a little, and the rain continues.
"I hire you... because you get it. You can feel everything. You sink into these characters as if... as if this was happening to you. Like you're actually feeling it."
We look out the window together, into the relentless. Into the wet. Into the dark and I want him to like me. I want him to want me. I was younger and he knew what he wanted. "This writing you're giving me tonight... You're right, it's fine. It works. It's good. But I need more. You're only writing what you see. Describing from the outside." He rubs my shoulder and the rain continues. "Write it from the inside. Inside his head. Feel it with him."
He stares, into me, through me, unsure of how to get me there. "You always seem to have this fucking databank of emotion. There has to be a way you can go there. Haven't you ever felt loss like this character? Hasn't anyone ever left you? Left you, and left behind this void in your world that you will never fill?"
I'm triggered. There is a place. Where it rains all the time. The vet said I had done everything I could. But that's not what the rain says. That's not how it feels when it's dark.
Some decisions haunt you. For the rest of your life. Ever more. Every day.
His eyes move back and forth between mine. He sees it. He can see it on my face. The place where it never stops raining.
"Go there." His whisper is dark and wet. His eyes are dark and wet. Relentless. Like the rain.
"I don't know if I want to." I was younger. It was the most painful place inside me. Maybe it still is. He was older, and it was raining. And I didn't know I could do this. I didn't know other people would use it.
I didn't want to go there. I didn't know how I'd get back. I didn't know how much younger I was, or how significant a piece of me he was taking. I just wanted him to want me. I just wanted to write.
He strokes my shoulders, squeezing them in his hands. Urging me. Loud and relentless. "Very, go there. Go to that place. Write this for me."
I go back to the paper and the pen, and I'm younger and raining. I'm raining.
Before I've even decided if I want to go there,
I'm there.
I'm writing. I'm all alone inside myself, in the most painful place I have. And it worked, it came, it flowed. Dark and wet. Relentless and loud. With no idea of how to come back, I'm there. I was younger, and I wanted him to like me.
"...If I could turn back time."
-The Calling
And fall upon us all,
Then I hope there's someone out there,
Who can bring me back to you."
-The Calling
"Your not getting it. You're not hitting it." The rain continues, relentless and loud. Frustrated, he pushes his hair back over his head. His sleeves are rolled up and his shirt looks wrinkled. It was probably perfect when he put it on 20 hours ago. He was probably fresh and clean and sharp. But it's been raining for hours.
I was younger. He was older. So much. Back then, it was all young.
I feel like I could cry. I'm sitting at the desk staring at the Words on the paper. Before the computer. There was paper. "It's three in the morning. What the fuck do you want from me."
"I want you to write this." His voice is drawing. It drew me. He was older, and relentless. I was younger. Younger than I am now. Younger than he was then. Younger than the rain.
"I did. I have." Relentless and loud. The rain, and the radio. "I don't understand what you're problem is. I wrote this ten different ways. Any one of them would be fine."
He stands up stretching and looks out the window. "Very, I don't come to you for fine. I don't trust you with my reputation, because you write fine."
He opens the window a little, and the rain continues.
"I hire you... because you get it. You can feel everything. You sink into these characters as if... as if this was happening to you. Like you're actually feeling it."
We look out the window together, into the relentless. Into the wet. Into the dark and I want him to like me. I want him to want me. I was younger and he knew what he wanted. "This writing you're giving me tonight... You're right, it's fine. It works. It's good. But I need more. You're only writing what you see. Describing from the outside." He rubs my shoulder and the rain continues. "Write it from the inside. Inside his head. Feel it with him."
He stares, into me, through me, unsure of how to get me there. "You always seem to have this fucking databank of emotion. There has to be a way you can go there. Haven't you ever felt loss like this character? Hasn't anyone ever left you? Left you, and left behind this void in your world that you will never fill?"
I'm triggered. There is a place. Where it rains all the time. The vet said I had done everything I could. But that's not what the rain says. That's not how it feels when it's dark.
Some decisions haunt you. For the rest of your life. Ever more. Every day.
His eyes move back and forth between mine. He sees it. He can see it on my face. The place where it never stops raining.
"Go there." His whisper is dark and wet. His eyes are dark and wet. Relentless. Like the rain.
"I don't know if I want to." I was younger. It was the most painful place inside me. Maybe it still is. He was older, and it was raining. And I didn't know I could do this. I didn't know other people would use it.
I didn't want to go there. I didn't know how I'd get back. I didn't know how much younger I was, or how significant a piece of me he was taking. I just wanted him to want me. I just wanted to write.
He strokes my shoulders, squeezing them in his hands. Urging me. Loud and relentless. "Very, go there. Go to that place. Write this for me."
I go back to the paper and the pen, and I'm younger and raining. I'm raining.
Before I've even decided if I want to go there,
I'm there.
I'm writing. I'm all alone inside myself, in the most painful place I have. And it worked, it came, it flowed. Dark and wet. Relentless and loud. With no idea of how to come back, I'm there. I was younger, and I wanted him to like me.
"...If I could turn back time."
-The Calling
February 21, 2007
The Berm
I was sitting on the jukebox with a Heineken, singing along with Frank Sinatra. Keeping to myself. Watching, as the couples began their matings.
I was on the outside. I knew where I was going, but I never got there. I never arrived.
I used to know him. I used to know every song and every whimper. I used to be able to hear him breathing in my head. I was someone that mattered to him. I was someone that meant something. I was.
I was humming along with Summer Wind, finishing another green bottled beer. Watching, as life goes on. As they talk and they happen.
And as I remember.
I was on the outside. I knew where I was going, but I never got there. I never arrived.
I used to know him. I used to know every song and every whimper. I used to be able to hear him breathing in my head. I was someone that mattered to him. I was someone that meant something. I was.
I was humming along with Summer Wind, finishing another green bottled beer. Watching, as life goes on. As they talk and they happen.
And as I remember.
And Here's The Rock!
"When you look through the years
And see what you could have been
oh, what you might have been..."
-Supertramp
I was 19. My friend Moon and I took Route 1 up the coast in California. One pretty sunlit town after another.
We ran out of gas and money in Morro Bay. It was a different world then. We walked around town in our bikini's and our smiles, asking different people if they knew how we could raise a few bucks. It wasn't long.
I don't remember his name. He picked us up at the gas station and took us to his house. He and his son had been there alone for a couple weeks, while his wife was away. It was a wreck. She was due home tomorrow.
We cleaned. We did laundry, vacuumed, scrubbed down his kitchen, did all the dishes, dusted. We cleaned the bathroom and straightened everything up. In our bikinis. He watched. That was all. He just sat on the couch smiling, listening to U2 and watched. It took us hours. But we did a decent job. Not a great job. He didn't want a great job. He didn't want it to look like he hired anyone. He wanted it to be believable. We took all the garbage out. We mowed the lawn. He made us veggie burgers on the grill, and served them with coleslaw and California Coolers. He let us use his shower.
When the sun was setting he paid us twice what we had asked for and gave us his homemade granola in a brown paper bag for the road.
That night we went down to the beach. Moon played guitar. I wrote. We drank a bottle of Southern Comfort and ate all the granola. We slept under the stars on a blanket from Tijuana.
We just weren't worried.
We just weren't planning, or thinking.
We just
were.
It was a different world back then.
And see what you could have been
oh, what you might have been..."
-Supertramp
I was 19. My friend Moon and I took Route 1 up the coast in California. One pretty sunlit town after another.
We ran out of gas and money in Morro Bay. It was a different world then. We walked around town in our bikini's and our smiles, asking different people if they knew how we could raise a few bucks. It wasn't long.
I don't remember his name. He picked us up at the gas station and took us to his house. He and his son had been there alone for a couple weeks, while his wife was away. It was a wreck. She was due home tomorrow.
We cleaned. We did laundry, vacuumed, scrubbed down his kitchen, did all the dishes, dusted. We cleaned the bathroom and straightened everything up. In our bikinis. He watched. That was all. He just sat on the couch smiling, listening to U2 and watched. It took us hours. But we did a decent job. Not a great job. He didn't want a great job. He didn't want it to look like he hired anyone. He wanted it to be believable. We took all the garbage out. We mowed the lawn. He made us veggie burgers on the grill, and served them with coleslaw and California Coolers. He let us use his shower.
When the sun was setting he paid us twice what we had asked for and gave us his homemade granola in a brown paper bag for the road.
That night we went down to the beach. Moon played guitar. I wrote. We drank a bottle of Southern Comfort and ate all the granola. We slept under the stars on a blanket from Tijuana.
We just weren't worried.
We just weren't planning, or thinking.
We just
were.
It was a different world back then.
February 13, 2007
This Isn't Me, Either
This is from
M. Night Shyamalan's
Lady in the Water
Vick: - Change doesn’t happen the way you say its gonna happen without dramatic events that accelerate thinking. Well this thing, it might take decades or longer
to create a reaction, before it anchors in the consciousness. That’s not a type of change your telling me is gonna happen, right? I was wondering why he didn’t meet me
this leader who's just a boy. If he was so inspired by my Words, why didn’t he try to meet me? There's a lot of things in The Cookbook people won't like to hear. I'm not anything, ya know? I don’t think I'm anything special. So I started thinking how is this going to happen? Why are people gonna suddenly take me seriously, and why didn't he meet me, and I thought of how it could happen. Story, I wanted to ask you, is something going to happen to me? Is someone gonna kill me because I write this?
Story: - Yes. Man thinks they're each alone in this world. It is not true. We are all connected. One act can one day affect all.
M. Night Shyamalan's
Lady in the Water
Vick: - Change doesn’t happen the way you say its gonna happen without dramatic events that accelerate thinking. Well this thing, it might take decades or longer
to create a reaction, before it anchors in the consciousness. That’s not a type of change your telling me is gonna happen, right? I was wondering why he didn’t meet me
this leader who's just a boy. If he was so inspired by my Words, why didn’t he try to meet me? There's a lot of things in The Cookbook people won't like to hear. I'm not anything, ya know? I don’t think I'm anything special. So I started thinking how is this going to happen? Why are people gonna suddenly take me seriously, and why didn't he meet me, and I thought of how it could happen. Story, I wanted to ask you, is something going to happen to me? Is someone gonna kill me because I write this?
Story: - Yes. Man thinks they're each alone in this world. It is not true. We are all connected. One act can one day affect all.
February 12, 2007
Jealous Not
"I could sneer, I could glare
Say that life is so unfair
And the one who made it, made it
`Cuz her breasts were really big."
-Jill Sobule
The waitress sets my second martini down in front of me. I like them dirty, not dry. I'm talking about the martini. Not the waitress.
A copy of Sharon's manuscript is to my left. What remains of my T-Bone is pushed to my right. I like 'em rare and bloody. I'm not talking about the steak. I'm talking about the manuscript.
It used to be rare and bloody. It used to be something you could sink your teeth into. That you had to work to digest. That would fill you. And now it's not. I had read it the first rare bloody time through. And now I've read the remains.
Sad little chewed up bone alone on the plate of a carnivore. Now I'm talking about the steak, that the waitress has returned to clear. Sharon is talking to Kevin about the book deal. The waitress quietly picks up my plate, making slight eye contact for permission first. Then she glances at my already half gone martini, and I nod. She can see it, I need another drink. She senses it. I like that flavor. I'm talking about the waitress. Not the martini.
I sink into a place beneath the surface. I push myself down, lower and lower, beneath the water, beneath the earth. I am the place beneath the earth. I am beneath the earth.
Kevin is gushing. Impressed and fortified. Deep down he knows he's a better writer than she is. So if she got a deal, surely he will as well. I like the transference. I'm talking about the idea, not Kevin's in particular.
I wouldn't call it a book deal. I'd say it's more a suicide flight. She let them rape that manuscript. Now it's vanilla and nothing. I sip my martini as I mentally thumb that manuscript. It's perfect. The martini, not the manuscript. But it was once. I had read it. When she was birthing. When she would call me at 3:00 AM struggling with a scene. A sentence. A Word. I had read it piece by piece, moment by moment, when it was strong. When the hero had a past. And a present. And dimensions.
It takes all my concentration not to speak. That effort effects nothing. The conversation does not lull. Not even for the waitress clearing the mess surrounding the manuscript. I mean that literally, not metaphorically. The only thing worth saving on that table was what Sharon discarded.
"Veronica's been oddly quiet all night. Jealous bitch." Kevin waves his drink at me, as if he's trying to get my attention. Minty fresh. I'm talking about his Mojito, not his sarcasm. Sharon looks away.
I'm completely different. I am not one of them. That's not what I want. I write for different reasons. I suck the olives out of the bottom of my martini, and I swallow. Not the olive. I'm talking about the stab. I could defend myself against it. But that would be at Sharon's expense. And she's paid a high enough price for the night.
Not like that. No, not like that.
Some bridges you can't help but burn.
Say that life is so unfair
And the one who made it, made it
`Cuz her breasts were really big."
-Jill Sobule
The waitress sets my second martini down in front of me. I like them dirty, not dry. I'm talking about the martini. Not the waitress.
A copy of Sharon's manuscript is to my left. What remains of my T-Bone is pushed to my right. I like 'em rare and bloody. I'm not talking about the steak. I'm talking about the manuscript.
It used to be rare and bloody. It used to be something you could sink your teeth into. That you had to work to digest. That would fill you. And now it's not. I had read it the first rare bloody time through. And now I've read the remains.
Sad little chewed up bone alone on the plate of a carnivore. Now I'm talking about the steak, that the waitress has returned to clear. Sharon is talking to Kevin about the book deal. The waitress quietly picks up my plate, making slight eye contact for permission first. Then she glances at my already half gone martini, and I nod. She can see it, I need another drink. She senses it. I like that flavor. I'm talking about the waitress. Not the martini.
I sink into a place beneath the surface. I push myself down, lower and lower, beneath the water, beneath the earth. I am the place beneath the earth. I am beneath the earth.
Kevin is gushing. Impressed and fortified. Deep down he knows he's a better writer than she is. So if she got a deal, surely he will as well. I like the transference. I'm talking about the idea, not Kevin's in particular.
I wouldn't call it a book deal. I'd say it's more a suicide flight. She let them rape that manuscript. Now it's vanilla and nothing. I sip my martini as I mentally thumb that manuscript. It's perfect. The martini, not the manuscript. But it was once. I had read it. When she was birthing. When she would call me at 3:00 AM struggling with a scene. A sentence. A Word. I had read it piece by piece, moment by moment, when it was strong. When the hero had a past. And a present. And dimensions.
It takes all my concentration not to speak. That effort effects nothing. The conversation does not lull. Not even for the waitress clearing the mess surrounding the manuscript. I mean that literally, not metaphorically. The only thing worth saving on that table was what Sharon discarded.
"Veronica's been oddly quiet all night. Jealous bitch." Kevin waves his drink at me, as if he's trying to get my attention. Minty fresh. I'm talking about his Mojito, not his sarcasm. Sharon looks away.
I'm completely different. I am not one of them. That's not what I want. I write for different reasons. I suck the olives out of the bottom of my martini, and I swallow. Not the olive. I'm talking about the stab. I could defend myself against it. But that would be at Sharon's expense. And she's paid a high enough price for the night.
Not like that. No, not like that.
Some bridges you can't help but burn.
February 11, 2007
In The Wind We Walk Slower
"I wish I could hire you to write something else." He hands me the check, and closes the folder.
"You can. What else do you need written?" I put the check in my front pocket next to my lip gloss. These were only some marketing letters. These were fairly simple and straight forward.
He shakes his head. "No, not like a job. I mean, I wish I could hire you to write for me. To put my thoughts into Words."
I'm listening. Patiently. "Sometimes I can do that." I coax him in the quiet. I wait. I hear him.
He sits back in the chair behind the desk. "I don't even know how to begin. I mean, I just wish you could put Words in my mouth. I just can't talk to her anymore. We still talk, but only about everyday things. We have secrets from each other now. It's hard to explain."
There's the picture of us, in the light with which we see.
And then there's the moments we give to the darkness.
We have to be clear with ourselves.
"I wasn't a great partner. I know that much. But I wasn't so bad."
I didn't always know what to do. But I almost always knew what not to do. And that alone would be sustaining. But not enough so. Not enough.
"At one time we were so close. Like it built up to something between us. But we couldn't hang on to it."
We experience the growing, and the changing. And the burning. And the simmer.
"We just go through the motions now. We just deal with it."
Because this is us, the shadow we cast, the image we are. Again and again, reflected through the windows and the bravery.
"I know we both feel it. It's like we're about to break up, any day. But neither of us wants to.
In the wind we walk slower. When everything is moving around us, we resist, and we move slower.
"I know it will come, and I know the parts I will miss.
I will miss your dignity. Those moments where you stood tall, with class and grace. I will cherish those with longing.
"It's not like there's anything I can say now that will change any thing."
We go so far. And then, we don't go back.
"There was a time, when we would lay in bed for hours without talking. And now I don't know what to say."
And it was in the silence that we said the most.
.
"You can. What else do you need written?" I put the check in my front pocket next to my lip gloss. These were only some marketing letters. These were fairly simple and straight forward.
He shakes his head. "No, not like a job. I mean, I wish I could hire you to write for me. To put my thoughts into Words."
I'm listening. Patiently. "Sometimes I can do that." I coax him in the quiet. I wait. I hear him.
He sits back in the chair behind the desk. "I don't even know how to begin. I mean, I just wish you could put Words in my mouth. I just can't talk to her anymore. We still talk, but only about everyday things. We have secrets from each other now. It's hard to explain."
There's the picture of us, in the light with which we see.
And then there's the moments we give to the darkness.
We have to be clear with ourselves.
"I wasn't a great partner. I know that much. But I wasn't so bad."
I didn't always know what to do. But I almost always knew what not to do. And that alone would be sustaining. But not enough so. Not enough.
"At one time we were so close. Like it built up to something between us. But we couldn't hang on to it."
We experience the growing, and the changing. And the burning. And the simmer.
"We just go through the motions now. We just deal with it."
Because this is us, the shadow we cast, the image we are. Again and again, reflected through the windows and the bravery.
"I know we both feel it. It's like we're about to break up, any day. But neither of us wants to.
In the wind we walk slower. When everything is moving around us, we resist, and we move slower.
"I know it will come, and I know the parts I will miss.
I will miss your dignity. Those moments where you stood tall, with class and grace. I will cherish those with longing.
"It's not like there's anything I can say now that will change any thing."
We go so far. And then, we don't go back.
"There was a time, when we would lay in bed for hours without talking. And now I don't know what to say."
And it was in the silence that we said the most.
.
February 07, 2007
The Seduction
Honduras. Years ago. Years.
Resort. Beautiful. Bar. On the Beach.
Young blond guy. Turns out he was 18. Even as young as I was back then, I still had 10 years on him. God he was Gorgeous. He actually took my breath away when I first looked at him.
Sunset. Tropical drinks with 6 kinds of rum. Edible flowers.
I walked right up to him. Smiling. Staring. "What's your name?"
"Kelly," he said. Shook my hand.
Eye contact. Deadly. I grinned. "Kelly, I am going to seduce you." Before the week is over. Before I go home. I am going to have you.
He laughed. Not interested. Thanks but no thanks.
But we can have a drink together. Can't we?
"Sure we can." I nodded. "So what brings you to Honduras?"
Diving. Diving Club. Class trip, from school.
"Freshman?" I asked.
"Senior." He answered.
High school. God... he was still in high school. Young. Hard. Pretty. Blond. Tanned. New.
I'm pretty sure I was drooling.
Personable. Polite. Friendly enough. But there to dive. That's it. Just dive. Nothing personal. Not interested.
Okay, I said. Okay.
He spent every day diving the reefs.
I spent every day at the Dolphin Research Institute.
And every night, I went. To the beach. At the resort.
Fruity rum drinks. Sunsets. Waves.
To the bar where we met.
A parrot that would walk up and down the bamboo shade saying, "Mamacita, I tink I luuuvvv you."
A bartender that would bring us many many complimentary rum samplers.
A calm lagoon. A breath taking sky. Another world.
Every night, after dinner, in the sunset, in that resort bar, I would wait.
And every night, after dinner, to that beach, he would come.
Great conversations. Many laughs. Flirting. My most concentrated effort ever.
Every night I'd ask him: Escort me back. To my bungalow. Across the lagoon, on the private island. Just two bungalows there. Mine and one that had been empty since I'd arrived. No one there. Like a private island. Just beach. And moon.
Every night he would decline.
Until the last. The last night of my stay.
That long blond wavy hair. In his big blue eyes. Two rum drinks to go. We took the row boat across the lagoon.
I had stated my intentions. Before I even told him my name. I told him my intentions. He knew.
The perfect setting. The quiet private beach. Gentle lagoon waves. The moon. The tropical breeze. The wet. The want. The week, spent seducing him.
We fucked in the sand. We fucked in the water. We fucked on the small docked raft. We fucked in a wooden beach chair that we broke, and drove down into the sand. All night long. It had taken everything I had to seduce this kid. I was going to get my time's worth.
We woke up naked. Entangled. In the wet sand. In the lapping water. In the sunrise. In the sounds of the tropical birds and the waves. We grinned. We wished each other well. He left. I hurried.
Plane to catch.
In my bungalow. Throwing bathing suits and pooka shell necklaces into my suitcase. Then I remembered.
Condoms.
We left condoms. All over. From one end of the beach to the other.
I rushed outside again. Up and down the private beach. Picking them up.
And then the door opened. To the bungalow next to mine. The bungalow. That had been vacant for my entire visit. Up until then.
The man that walked out was smiling. Stood on his steps. Waved to me.
Great, I thought. Great. Watched. By a stranger. That's fucking great.
With a fist full of used condoms, I waved back.
Then a woman followed. She stood in the doorway. Yelled at him. Get back inside.
I guess he wasn't allowed to wave to me.
I looked at her. In the doorway. Angry and glaring.
And that's when I saw it. Behind her. Inside the bungalow. Right there in the doorway. Video equipment. A lot of expensive video equipment. Probably intended for filming dolphins and dives. Not seductions. But an opportunity presented. Didn't it.
What's better than secretly being watched by strangers?
Secretly being filmed by strangers. That's what.
Years afterward, I would remember, and think: Damn! That video is going to show up one day. On the internet. Shit.
And then I turned 40. And all that changed.
I'm older. And I'm all that goes with that.
I'll never look like that again. Like I did. On that beach. At that resort. Tanned. Twenty eight. Agile. Bendable. Insatiable. Tight. Young. Firm.
And seducing an 18 year old that looked like something from Norse mythology.
So now, when I remember, I think: Damn, I really hope that video shows up on Youtube or something.
"They say the devil's water, it ain't so sweet,
You don't have to drink right now.
But you can dip your feet,
Every once in a little while."
-The Killers
Resort. Beautiful. Bar. On the Beach.
Young blond guy. Turns out he was 18. Even as young as I was back then, I still had 10 years on him. God he was Gorgeous. He actually took my breath away when I first looked at him.
Sunset. Tropical drinks with 6 kinds of rum. Edible flowers.
I walked right up to him. Smiling. Staring. "What's your name?"
"Kelly," he said. Shook my hand.
Eye contact. Deadly. I grinned. "Kelly, I am going to seduce you." Before the week is over. Before I go home. I am going to have you.
He laughed. Not interested. Thanks but no thanks.
But we can have a drink together. Can't we?
"Sure we can." I nodded. "So what brings you to Honduras?"
Diving. Diving Club. Class trip, from school.
"Freshman?" I asked.
"Senior." He answered.
High school. God... he was still in high school. Young. Hard. Pretty. Blond. Tanned. New.
I'm pretty sure I was drooling.
Personable. Polite. Friendly enough. But there to dive. That's it. Just dive. Nothing personal. Not interested.
Okay, I said. Okay.
He spent every day diving the reefs.
I spent every day at the Dolphin Research Institute.
And every night, I went. To the beach. At the resort.
Fruity rum drinks. Sunsets. Waves.
To the bar where we met.
A parrot that would walk up and down the bamboo shade saying, "Mamacita, I tink I luuuvvv you."
A bartender that would bring us many many complimentary rum samplers.
A calm lagoon. A breath taking sky. Another world.
Every night, after dinner, in the sunset, in that resort bar, I would wait.
And every night, after dinner, to that beach, he would come.
Great conversations. Many laughs. Flirting. My most concentrated effort ever.
Every night I'd ask him: Escort me back. To my bungalow. Across the lagoon, on the private island. Just two bungalows there. Mine and one that had been empty since I'd arrived. No one there. Like a private island. Just beach. And moon.
Every night he would decline.
Until the last. The last night of my stay.
That long blond wavy hair. In his big blue eyes. Two rum drinks to go. We took the row boat across the lagoon.
I had stated my intentions. Before I even told him my name. I told him my intentions. He knew.
The perfect setting. The quiet private beach. Gentle lagoon waves. The moon. The tropical breeze. The wet. The want. The week, spent seducing him.
We fucked in the sand. We fucked in the water. We fucked on the small docked raft. We fucked in a wooden beach chair that we broke, and drove down into the sand. All night long. It had taken everything I had to seduce this kid. I was going to get my time's worth.
We woke up naked. Entangled. In the wet sand. In the lapping water. In the sunrise. In the sounds of the tropical birds and the waves. We grinned. We wished each other well. He left. I hurried.
Plane to catch.
In my bungalow. Throwing bathing suits and pooka shell necklaces into my suitcase. Then I remembered.
Condoms.
We left condoms. All over. From one end of the beach to the other.
I rushed outside again. Up and down the private beach. Picking them up.
And then the door opened. To the bungalow next to mine. The bungalow. That had been vacant for my entire visit. Up until then.
The man that walked out was smiling. Stood on his steps. Waved to me.
Great, I thought. Great. Watched. By a stranger. That's fucking great.
With a fist full of used condoms, I waved back.
Then a woman followed. She stood in the doorway. Yelled at him. Get back inside.
I guess he wasn't allowed to wave to me.
I looked at her. In the doorway. Angry and glaring.
And that's when I saw it. Behind her. Inside the bungalow. Right there in the doorway. Video equipment. A lot of expensive video equipment. Probably intended for filming dolphins and dives. Not seductions. But an opportunity presented. Didn't it.
What's better than secretly being watched by strangers?
Secretly being filmed by strangers. That's what.
Years afterward, I would remember, and think: Damn! That video is going to show up one day. On the internet. Shit.
And then I turned 40. And all that changed.
I'm older. And I'm all that goes with that.
I'll never look like that again. Like I did. On that beach. At that resort. Tanned. Twenty eight. Agile. Bendable. Insatiable. Tight. Young. Firm.
And seducing an 18 year old that looked like something from Norse mythology.
So now, when I remember, I think: Damn, I really hope that video shows up on Youtube or something.
"They say the devil's water, it ain't so sweet,
You don't have to drink right now.
But you can dip your feet,
Every once in a little while."
-The Killers
February 06, 2007
Lemons and Angels
I was barely there.
It would take him a moment to remember.
There'd be nothing bad to say.
There'd be very little said at all.
But in my life, in my footsteps, it was a long season. From sun into cold rain.
From snowstorm to moonlight.
At the time I felt so lucky that this was my life.
And then I was erased.
Among others,
Faces that are no longer there,
Many disappearances. Temporary alliances. People who outlived their usefulness.
And some of the people grow tired of lying,
And eventually they go away,
To find their way.
Go away, to find your way.
God, I was the waitress after all.
Again, and then again.
One, two, three, four.
It was what it was.
There's no hard feelings.
Maybe just a disenchanted warmth that I know isn't mutual,
A mingling of angels and lemons,
Ended. And forgotten.
But the Earth, the Earth remembers.
A very grateful grace of God that I'm gone.
I'm so lucky that isn't my life.
The only thing I miss
Are the best Italian Ices in New Jersey.
It would take him a moment to remember.
There'd be nothing bad to say.
There'd be very little said at all.
But in my life, in my footsteps, it was a long season. From sun into cold rain.
From snowstorm to moonlight.
At the time I felt so lucky that this was my life.
And then I was erased.
Among others,
Faces that are no longer there,
Many disappearances. Temporary alliances. People who outlived their usefulness.
And some of the people grow tired of lying,
And eventually they go away,
To find their way.
Go away, to find your way.
God, I was the waitress after all.
Again, and then again.
One, two, three, four.
It was what it was.
There's no hard feelings.
Maybe just a disenchanted warmth that I know isn't mutual,
A mingling of angels and lemons,
Ended. And forgotten.
But the Earth, the Earth remembers.
A very grateful grace of God that I'm gone.
I'm so lucky that isn't my life.
The only thing I miss
Are the best Italian Ices in New Jersey.
February 03, 2007
And This is Why
Me: Do you have any fears, El Guapo?
El Guapo: I have many. Nothing like ducks being slaughtered, but fears nonetheless.
And I thought... Ducks being slaughtered... oh my god... he remembered. This references something I had told El Guapo a long time ago. Something awful to me. Some kids in my neighborhood went to the little duck pond we have, and killed some of the ducks. It was very upsetting for me, I took it very badly. I had talked to El Guapo about it. And all this time had passed, and he remembered. He saved it in his memory to the point where he now references it when dialogue-ing with me, to barometer levels of fear or pain.
And I realize right there in that moment, that this is why I love him.
And I started listening
To all the reminders
As to Why.
****
LD: So I didn't know what to do, so I thought to myself, OK. WWJDD?
Me: What?? Did someone fucking save you while I was in the bathroom? What the fuck?? And by the way, I think you are adding on an extra "D".
LD, Smiling: No, no no. W W J D D. What Would Johnny Depp Do?
Me: And this is why I love you. I'm buying your next drink.
LD lifting her glass to me: And that is why I love you!
****
Me: How's your daughter doing with your having to put Mugsy down last week?
Angel: She's good. She was talking on her play cell phone yesterday, and I asked her who she was talking to. She said Elvis. I asked her how Elvis is, and she said he's good, he thinks Mugsy is the best dog ever, and he healed Mugsy. So Mugsy is so happy now, with Elvis.
Me: You mean to tell me, you have taught your 3 year old daughter that kind of faith and belief and love, that she talks to Elvis Presley on her fake cell phone, and believes her dog is healed and happy in the afterlife?
Angel: Well, yes.
And this is why I love you.
****
Me: Does it bother you when I blog about my former lovers?
Husband: No. Why should it? I won.
And this is why I love you.
And I thought... Ducks being slaughtered... oh my god... he remembered. This references something I had told El Guapo a long time ago. Something awful to me. Some kids in my neighborhood went to the little duck pond we have, and killed some of the ducks. It was very upsetting for me, I took it very badly. I had talked to El Guapo about it. And all this time had passed, and he remembered. He saved it in his memory to the point where he now references it when dialogue-ing with me, to barometer levels of fear or pain.
And I realize right there in that moment, that this is why I love him.
And I started listening
To all the reminders
As to Why.
****
LD: So I didn't know what to do, so I thought to myself, OK. WWJDD?
Me: What?? Did someone fucking save you while I was in the bathroom? What the fuck?? And by the way, I think you are adding on an extra "D".
LD, Smiling: No, no no. W W J D D. What Would Johnny Depp Do?
Me: And this is why I love you. I'm buying your next drink.
LD lifting her glass to me: And that is why I love you!
****
Me: How's your daughter doing with your having to put Mugsy down last week?
Angel: She's good. She was talking on her play cell phone yesterday, and I asked her who she was talking to. She said Elvis. I asked her how Elvis is, and she said he's good, he thinks Mugsy is the best dog ever, and he healed Mugsy. So Mugsy is so happy now, with Elvis.
Me: You mean to tell me, you have taught your 3 year old daughter that kind of faith and belief and love, that she talks to Elvis Presley on her fake cell phone, and believes her dog is healed and happy in the afterlife?
Angel: Well, yes.
And this is why I love you.
****
Me: Does it bother you when I blog about my former lovers?
Husband: No. Why should it? I won.
And this is why I love you.
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