finding my laughing place…

My mother phoned today. She was pretty stressed out, taking it out on me a bit. Not that I was that surprised, that is usually her way. I’ve been expecting her call for a few days now, to query about Thanksgiving. In the meantime, I have been racking my brain attempting to find a way out of the festivities. It was my first year on my own, and I didn’t really look forward to spending a day surrounding a turkey.

Unfortunately, I had not come up with any good ideas and was left drowning on the line. “Are you going to be able to make it to Thanksgiving dinner, dear?”

Keep in mind. When my mother says ‘dear’ it’s not quite in the affectionate sense; it’s more in the sense that she’s trying to get away with something. Sort of an impatient asskissing.

“No, Mom, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Well, why not?”

My mind went blank. I don’t know why, but this was the first thing that popped into my head. “I’m going to Disneyland.”

Disneyland? My mother was not as surprised as I thought she would be. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. She didn’t even question it.

“Oh. Well, be safe, and we’ll definitely miss you. When you get back into town, give me a call. And how long has it been since you spoke to your father? You know it really wouldn’t hurt you to pick up a phone…”

“Yes, Mom.”

Since I moved out, I didn’t speak to her much because she was rather coarse and self-consumed. But there were times she softened up. Times I felt bad about not being closer with her, or trying to be. Times I remembered how we were when I was young, when we were closer; when she was the smartest, most beautiful woman in the world; my hero. Her hair had been dark and thick and wild (something I always envied) and her pale skin contrasted in a sublime way. She had the most marvelous laugh, the kind that erupted from her lips and would fill a room, the kind that men would follow blindly.

“I love you, Jo.”

“I love you too Mom. We’ll have dinner when I come back. I’ll cook. How’s that sound?”

“It sounds lovely.”

It’s easy to forget about your family when you don’t see them or hear their voices. There was age in my mother’s voice. Exhaustion. Perhaps it was just my imagination. Perhaps I just hoped that the occasional melancholy was good for my mother; kept her humble, helped her take a step out of her everyday business and remember me. I knew I was always somewhere in her mind, but it seemed I was somewhere in the back of it. Not that I saw that as distinctly depressing or inspiring. I just saw it as a fact, like any other.

I hung up the phone, silent tears cascading down my cheek. Perhaps I’m weaker than I thought I was. Or maybe just less heartless than I hoped to be. Which could be not as bad of a thing as I originally thought.

When I was done with my pre-menstrual moment, I sat down and thought about my alibi. Disneyland. I haven’t been there in two or three years, but I had often frequented the park during high school. I thought about the money I’ve made, stashed away in the past month or so. I could totally afford to go for a day or two. And for Thanksgiving? I knew holiday periods were busy there but going by myself rather with a group would probably be less frustrating and more interesting. Single rider lines. No holding places in lines for bathroom breaks. Every ride, show or meal my choosing—no compromises. I could wake up, or leave the park as late or as early as I wanted. I could go on Star Tours. Why did everybody hate Star Tours? And after years of it being gone, I could go on Submarine Voyage—the Finding Nemo version.

I thought of Johnny and our porch on Main Street, where we would sit and listen to the music, drinking our triple shot mochas, feeling like kids getting away with drinking coffee. I thought about the fireworks display that would take over Toon Town entirely and explode over the castle in a kaleidoscope of colors and songs. I thought about the bubbles that would emerge from the rooftops of Main Street, ‘snowing’ on the crowd and the faces and noises the children would make upon their discoveries of them.

Disneyland had melded moments for me that I would always hold dear, hold onto in my old age like rope that would blister and callous my hands till they bled.

The more I thought about it, the more appealing it became. I knew I couldn’t miss work Friday night but I was almost positive I could get out of my Wednesday shift. I half-thought about inviting Vincent but decided I was more in love with the idea of being there alone than being there period. I had never done that before. It would be an adventure.

Then I realized. It would be the first time I would be making that drive the whole way. It was slightly disheartening, but if I wanted my solo Disneyland Thanksgiving, it was the only way.

Drew’s call broke into my thoughts like a sudden awakening from a dream, the kind where you feel like you’re falling. I answered, a bit disoriented and still rather hurt about the birthday business, but still pleased to hear from him. He asked me how my day was going and what my plans were for Thanksgiving. It was humorous to say the words again, this time not lying, this time, proud of and excited about the truth. “I’m going to Disneyland.”

He laughed. “Really?”

“Really.”

“With who?” I grinned at the green monster, rearing its unexpectedly ugly head. It felt good to know that he was jealous, jealous of nobody even. I had spoken of Johnny in passing once or twice, and he knew that we had spent a lot of time there, so I’m sure he thought that was the case this time.

“Nobody.”

“You’re going by yourself?”

“Yes.” I didn’t even ask him what he was doing. I was busy planning my trip.

“I’m cooking this year. More into it all now, you know.” I don’t know if that was him trying to blame me for his newfound chef inspiration or if he was just explaining that he had never cared about the Thanksgiving traditions.

“Wow, that’s ambitious.” I smiled.

In the Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Room, in the Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Room…

“Yeah. Well, I’m a master chef yo. I’ve got what they call, le skills. Maybe if you’re lucky you can sous for me again sometime. Or at least, help me put out any fires.”

His humor uplifted me. It was rather unique in that it was clever disguised as anything but. I guess I missed him. If I wasn’t so excited about going to Disneyland, I might be more responsive to his holiday hinting. I decided to get off the phone before I changed my mind about it all, and he asked me out for Sunday evening before we hung up.

He had left me out of his birthday but Sunday night would suffice. He was adamant about it being early, which admittedly made me quite curious but I didn’t bother questioning him. I knew he would tell me we were going somewhere like McDonalds or Jack in the Box just to make me crazy. He makes me crazy anyway. Maybe just crazy enough.

…all the birds sing the words and the flowers croon, in the Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Room!

Unsupervised

Drew can cook.

I wouldn’t have really guessed this from someone who primarily wears concert t-shirts, Dickies shorts and beanies. I may be judgmental, but my expectations have often proved correct in the past. I feel shallow now, as if my biases might have worked against me on more than one occasion.

He picked me up around five thirty and took me directly to his apartment. After he turned the key into the lock and opened the door, I could feel the reggae spilling out of his bedroom like warm caramel. I smiled and hugged him from behind as he divulged that his roommate was out of town for the next week or so and we had the whole place to ourselves.

He spun me around, dipping me till I hit the floor, grinning. Slipped me the tongue. I could tell it was going to be a good night.

We took a few shots of Jagermeister and hit the kitchen. He was attempting a vodka sauce, one of my all-time favorites but nothing he had ever cooked before. It was very charming, watching him go back and forth from his computer, analyzing the recipe, scratching his head, watching confusion turn to realization and eventually deciding to not rely on the recipe.

He leaned against the sink. “A cook just cooks, right?”

I wrapped an arm around his neck, letting the other arm fall. “Right.” I slowly unzipped his pants, letting the teeth open one by one, freeing him…

A few minutes later, the vodka-induced flames leapt higher than originally anticipated, causing a peculiar aroma and the fire alarm to ring. Laughing, pants around his ankles, he took the pan off the stove and onto the countertop, shaking it, putting out the fire. “It’s melting the fucking microwave!” I giggled at the singed white plastic, also smoking.

I’m sure it must have been quite a scene, my half-naked self standing just below the smoke detector, waving a broom. By the time the alarm stopped ringing, Drew had become decent and was saving the sauce, adding some cream, and dropping the angel hair pasta into boiling water. He poked his head out of the kitchen, smiling wickedly as I ran to fetch my clothes.

By the time we sat down to dine, not only did we have a bewitching dinner but a good story too. He poured us two glasses of Chianti and served us both. Even though we had had a debacle, the food tasted lovely and I was honestly surprised by how perfectly the shrimp was cooked and how lush and creamy the sauce had become, considering it had been on fire less than thirty minutes previously.

It’s funny; sometimes he decides to play the boyfriend role to a tee. When I think of him negatively, it’s hard to do it for very long because this side pops out from time to time.

We clinked glasses. “Babe, when’s your birthday, really?”

He chuckled. “It was Monday.”

Taming the beast

I wish to reach my arms out and grab him, pull him between my fingers, mold him, sculpt him, smooth out all the roughness he embodies. I wish to transform him. Perhaps I even wish to break him. It cannot be foretold at this time, because our relationship is so inconsistent. Some days I cannot imagine life without him involved. Other days I hope to never speak to him again. He terrorizes me.

I know his birthday is coming up, although he won’t tell me the exact day. It is making me nervous. Of course I would like to see him, but I don’t want to appear like I have my heart set on it. He seems to be one of those people who don’t care about birthdays. Just another year, you know the type. Probably the kind of person who threw his own surprise party back in high school, and decides now in the later (and more sophisticated) years of his life that such a day doesn’t matter.

But then sometimes I think he just doesn’t want me to know what day it falls on so he can lie to me, tell me it is his birthday and spend that day with me and his real birthday with someone else, or even worse (yes, it would be worse)—alone. Occasionally I find myself just wishing for him to be happy, because although I believe he has the capacity for happiness, and can make others laugh until their sides ache, joy seems to be something he lacks. Though it is true that it is I who wish to wield this joy upon him, my involvement is not necessary.

He needs to be saved. I think he knows that and avoids it anyway. Maybe there is a myriad of me, women who fall and secretly obsess, hoping he chooses them over the others to let them change his life, open him up, allow him to become vulnerable. My stomach sinks at that thought.

At times, I abhor myself for being such a typical woman, the one thing I strive not to become. I’m not sure if I would be so wrapped up with Drew if I wasn’t so attracted to him, if he gave me the things that I wanted instead of teasing me with pleasant possibilities. I often find myself romanticizing people and situations, and I fear that I fell into quite such the routine with him. Or perhaps I am just more masochistic than I give myself credit for. I do so enjoy the calm aftermath of the neurotic episodes I have from time to time. And I think he finds humor in them as well.

He never answers the phone past eight. I always wonder why but never ask. Though he claims to bed early (and when I stay over during the week, that is true due to his work schedule), but who knows. I probably don’t really want to.

I imagine a slender young woman with red lipstick charming him, the way I charmed him, laughing, drinking, talking about nothing. Sometimes it makes me jealous. Sometimes I am relieved by the thought.

Today, however, is not one of those days. We have a date tonight that he’s tried to drunkenly cancel twice, last night and the night before. And each day after, he calls me and blames dumb drunkenness; that he still wants to see me; that he has to see me. It is apparent that to him, our concert experience together on Friday brought us closer together. It would be nice to think that way. But in my view, I have felt closer to him in general this entire time, and the concert, to me, was just another day. More of the same. Another reminder that one can feel alone even without being so.

Perhaps at night, after a few more drinks than necessary, his feelings scare him. It is possible that I scare him also, but I do my best to keep my feelings under wraps. It is the better thing for both of us.

On a cheerier note, Vincent and I have a sushi date on Thursday. He’s really been amazing the past few weeks, totally being around more than he used to be. Not to mention the fact that he seems genuinely happy with Camille, and he doesn’t even rub it in. He actually primarily mentions the things that happen to be wrong with her, and even if there aren’t many, it makes me feel better. Plus, now, he always has a bottle of really nice wine to bring over and share.

Work has been pretty busy lately, thank God; busy enough that I actually have the money to take days off when something comes up. I’ve started wondering about Christmas presents. I’m generally not the person that does the Christmas-mall-shopping experience; I usually buy things for people when I see something that makes me think of them, regardless what time of year it is, and I try not to break the bank around holiday time because of that. It just seems silly to me, to agonize over gift giving for people who are going to love you regardless how much you spend or what trendy store you perused.

But I really don’t know what I am going to do about Drew. Not only is his birthday around the corner, but so is Christmas. I absolutely refuse to do the gift card type of thing, but I’m at a loss when it comes to something such as this. It can’t be too intimate or it will scare him off, but I don’t want it to be a gag gift either. I honestly detest the mall, so perhaps I will browse online today. Challenge of the week: what to get an aging punk rocker?

Any suggestions are certainly welcome.

‘I remember Halloween…’

Halloween was just what I needed. Vincent got off a little early so we could have a little extra time to get together the last bits of our costumes, and although he didn’t really need the time, I certainly did. Vincent got away with wearing head to toe black, a wig that was really only slightly different than his natural hair color, a silver cross and an acoustic guitar. I, on the other hand, had to buy a Lacoste dress (which I don’t even want to divulge how much I spent on), and a dirty blonde wig to cut and slightly gel down so it looked more like the style in the film. As I was attempting to perfect my makeup, lining my eyes again and again with black, Vincent was finishing my wooden finger cover, practicing his Cash accent.

When we finished, we stood in front of the huge mirror in my hallway. We looked amazing. I wished I had a camera to capture the moment.

Doing all this, keep in mind, I had no idea what we were even doing yet. Vincent had mentioned he had a plan for us, but didn’t let me in on it. He just said it was a good thing that I had to wear a fur coat for my costume, so I was a little concerned. Soon enough, we got in his car, a black 80’s BMW named Lola, armed with two full flasks and a hefty joint between us.

We smoked about half of it on the way up Highway 17, blasting my favorite Miles Davis album, Bitches Brew, for some inspiration. It was pretty exciting to be visiting Santa Cruz, because I haven’t been there since the beginning of the summer, essentially missing the best time of year to go. But I had only been there for Halloween once, and that was back in high school, way before I was legal age to hit the bars. I was certain that this experience was going to prove much more interesting.

We arrived in Santa Cruz about eight thirty and parked on a side street near the boardwalk. The streets were not as full as I had remembered them, although there were plenty of people. Devils, demons and short skirts flooded around us, their small voices blurring together in an amusing, animalistic fashion. We were in our own little world even amongst the others; stoned, sucking on our flasks, feeding our growing buzzes, giggling.

I’m sure Vincent would prefer I not say that he was giggling, but in such a circumstance, there is no other way to describe it.

I thought of Drew and what he was doing, but only out of pure curiosity. There wasn’t anywhere else I would rather be at that moment, but I thought of my bed, empty now and more than likely empty later and it made me sad. But the thought was fleeting and soon enough other things clouded my mind.

We made our way to Pirates of Emerson, a haunted house positioned on the boardwalk and part of the actual beach itself as well. I had heard of this haunted house on the Discovery Channel, one of many of the “Scariest Haunted Attractions” so I was really excited if not a little apprehensive. We paid for our tickets and headed toward the beach side. As we were entering, one of the hidden workers spotted me sipping out of my flask and said something. Upon being discovered, I laughed and held it out to him, offering. He smiled, reached out to take it, said “Happy Halloween,” and had a swig. Vincent and I cheered at our victory, took the flask back and stumbled in.

It was almost completely dark inside, littered with black lights, black light sensitive paint and animatronics. Actors donning terrifying costumes and outrageous makeup would follow us or jump out at us from time to time, while I clutched onto Vincent’s arm, screaming for fear, for fun.

I could never go into the entire experience because it was a lot more extensive than I had anticipated, but we ended up getting lost in a Sand Trap maze and lingering for quite a while in a huge spinning tunnel, falling over, sober patrons laughing at us, walking over us. Colors and lights surrounded us both like some sort of surreal firework display. At that point I was delighted we had not gotten caught or in trouble for being so inebriated there, and we could not stop laughing, relishing our good luck.

Almost two hours later we finally made our way out. Vincent was craving a cigarette so I took my heels off and we walked down the beach, away from the maddening crowds as he lit a cigarette, puffing it therapeutically. We found a nice little desolate spot all the way at the end of the boardwalk, and smoked some more of the joint he had tucked into his Parliaments box.

He asked me about Drew. He hadn’t really in a while. Recently he had mostly focused on Camille and their haphazard relationship, and talked shit about all the less-than-worthy exes that were attempting to creep back up, expecting. I didn’t know what to say. I shrugged and said things were fine, lying. I didn’t want to spoil the night. But more importantly, I didn’t want the night to be about him. Vincent had saved my holiday. I didn’t want to fall back into my funk.

The flasks were empty. The end of the joint looked meager and sad, and he mentioned something about saving it for the ride home so he threw it back in the pack. “Shall we nurse a drink or two downtown?” he queried, not needing an answer.

I reached my hand out for him to help me up and we stumbled back into the streets. We walked downtown, anticipating the Catalyst but upon passing, we discovered Tiger Army was playing there so we knew there was no way we would get in.

My feet were starting to hurt so we needed a destination. We headed into Rosie McCann’s to have a pint and mingle a bit, showing off our costumes. Upon Vincent’s disappearance with a mysterious redhead, a very drunk British gentleman in a suit immediately began hitting on me, repeatedly telling me I was “simply irresistible.” I suspected only just recently he had been introduced to Robert Palmer until I understood that’s what his costume had been. I noticed the bar contained a few tall pale women in black dresses and toy guitars and upon the realization, could not stop laughing. I wasn’t interested but he was fun to talk to. I liked his accent. And his costume was clever too.

I gave Vincent the wink after about a half hour of chatting and he came over to play the boyfriend role. Shortly after, we left, making our way down the street to The Asti, a dive bar Vincent used to frequent back when he lived in Santa Cruz. He called it the best place to drink during the day, so I had high hopes. We ordered Jacks and cokes and couldn’t taste the coke. Vincent ended up playing pool with someone dressed as Sid Vicious and I did my best to discourage the frat boy types in half-costumes that talked to me.

It was official. I was drunk. But the night seemed young. The jukebox was going strong, with music I could feel, and whatever tension that had built inside me after talking about Drew was melting away. I looked down at my phone and noticed he had left me a text message saying Happy Halloween and that he was thinking about me. I smiled.

About an hour later, Vincent carried me out of the Asti and into the Saturn Café to sober up a bit before our journey home down a dangerous highway. The place was extremely crowded; chock full of attractive people, brightly colored wigs and revealing clothing. But luckily, we scored a booth only about ten minutes after we got there. Vincent had been continuing his mission as being a sweetheart, letting me lean on him, as I was holding my purse in one hand, my shoes in the other, and was having a bit of trouble standing.

We drank a few cups of coffee before we decided what to eat, two bowls of chili (extra cheese, please!) and a large order of steak fries to share. The food was very hot, very satisfying. Just what the doctor ordered. I revealed all the lines I was fed, from the haunted house cronies to Robert Palmer to the frat boys, and Vincent divulged that the girl from Rosie’s had given him head in the bathroom while he sang “Ring of Fire.”

There are a lot of freaks in Santa Cruz.

A pretty girl with short black hair and sparkly fake eyelashes had been eyeing me for a while before having the nerve to come up and say hello. I knew she was either bi or gay (hey, we were at Saturn for chrissakes), but her ample breasts were spilling out in an almost innocent manner and she seemed to be quite sweet. I was rather drunk so I took her number. Vincent’s expression indicated a pleasant swelling from down below and I chuckled, blushing.

It had been a good night. We lingered a little longer than we would normally, drinking coffee, reminiscing, giving him the chance to sober up a little more before the drive back.

We passed on the joint, put on some Bob Dylan and sang along. When my favorite tune came on, I was singing it loud, singing it for Drew, to Drew, wherever he was.

“Still I wish that there was something you would do or say, to try and make me change my mind and stay… but we never did too much talking anyway…so don’t think twice, it’s alright…”