While enjoying our first snowstorm of the season, I laid down in the snow and flapped my arms, joyful at the brief visit to my childhood. I stood back to admire my snow angel only to see it eerily resembled a crop circle. I'd like to be able to honestly say that I was floored with shock and awe but I wasn't. I have been here before. It would take an Act of Congress, the second coming of Christ and a bottle or two of tequila to get me to utter an actual number. Let’s just say if I didn’t run the risk of death, I could be a really short, slow linebacker for the Jets. This is not a new dilemma, quite the contrary. I have been fat forever. I have tried every diet known to man and have found only moderate success with the cocaine, Diet Pepsi diet, a little harder to finance than Jenny Craig, but the “meetings” were much more animated.
I have a friend, ( I use this term friend loosely), who I confided in about my most recent quest for health. She suggested I join the gym and try some of the classes. She recommended yoga. They call it yoga but I think it is one of those Israeli combat classes they are trying to keep a lid on.
“Bend forward and your chin will be the first to touch.”
Wanna bet? The only way my chin would touch first is if it were no longer connected to my face.
“You are quite flexible for a woman your size” the teacher muses aloud.
“Fuck you,” I muse under my breath.
You are quite breakable for a woman your size. She is like the Mayor of Oz and I am the fat Dorothy who got dragged down the yellow brick road; clear the twister wasn’t strong enough to lift me. She looks at me with amazement. She stands about 4 and a half feet tall and weighs maybe 80 pounds after a binge on puffed wheat. She is nice enough but clearly wonders why I’m there. She isn’t the only one who wonders. I am large in many rooms but Sasquashish in this room. Tiny women like yoga around here.
I breathe heavy. I cannot “bind” and need to blow my nose to distraction. Yoga seems to open up my sinuses. Who knew? The mayor of Munchkinville reminds us to breathe and it’s a good thing she does. Without that reminder I would actually die instead of just wishing I would die.
I woke the next morning so sore I had difficulty swallowing. Trying to not be such a pussy I head to the gym for some light exercise. Forty five minutes on the treadmill. I talk to the fat chick on the torture contraption next to me until I can no longer speak. It consisted of a "hi" and a nod. Feeling a little cocky about my two days in row exercise streak, I decide to master Pilates.
I made less noise giving birth than I did in this class.
“Roll back slowly, using your core strength to let you come down one vertebrae at a time.”
First of all my “core strength” is sarcasm. Secondly, I require momentum and lots of it to do a sit up. Come to think of it I may need momentum and a push. Pilates is hard on a good day and I leave feeling like I’ve been punched in the stomach. It looked easy...on the beach in Hawaii, on television, while I ate Apple Jacks.
My friend, that bitch, suggested I hire a trainer. Mike, my over paid, unsympathetic, perfectly fit trainer, has the gift of making a bad situation worse. Dressed in a sweat shirt with a jacket, looking at him makes me sweat. I go to the gym with as little on as possible, short of getting arrested or causing innocent bystanders irreparable harm. First we use the treadmill to “warm up”. Little does he know I got “warm” walking from the car. Then we start with “sumo squats”, a fat girl favorite, followed by mock cross country skiing in place. Why not a little insult to injury. Sit ups. Arm curls. Chest presses. Leg extensions. Hamstring curls. (Those can hobble you for a few days.)
“Okay, Erin lets get some cardio in here!”
Clear! Ca-ching.
“Let’s run.”
Run? Have we met? Up the stairs across the gym down the stairs. Inner thigh machine. Outer thigh machine. I better have an ass like J. Lo or at least J. Lo's mother.
"Please, someone pull the fire alarm."
Mike starts every session off with the same question.
“How are your meals?”.
Small, green, Petco-ish. I recount what I’ve eaten that day. I’ve learned the hard way to leave out the girl scout cookies, you get extra torture for those. He must have had a bad girl scout episode from childhood. Girlscouts tend to have mean streaks. I think its the Miss America sash that implies beauty but rarely delivers.
After an hour I get to rest on the treadmill and contemplate all those years I smoked, ate and partied. I miss those days. I leave there nauseous, lightheaded and confused. Why? Why am I doing this? Oh that’s right! I'm fat, out of shape and killing myself.
I really want to win this time. I may not have another fight in me. I am going to show the flexible gremlin that I can practice yoga even if my chin doesn’t touch first. I will continue to practice Pilates knowing I will be making noises similar to those of a man being eaten by a bear. I will also not kill Mike (even though I have picked out the perfect place to hide his body). I like Mike and his demeanor suggests he likes me. His actions, however, say something else.
Running. Who invented that anyway. Someone being chased, I’m sure. Who’s chasing me? Oh yeah, the grim reaper...or Richard Simmons...its hard to say...but there is definitely sequence and spandex involved.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
The Rocking Chair Incident
My grandfather had made us each one. Mine was white with gold inlay in the head peice. He had handcarved the dowels that held the chair together. It was beautiful. My brothers' was black and shiny with a flat back. Mine was much prettier and it rocked perfectly. Terrys' leaned to the right and if you rocked long enough you would eventually end up moving in a complete circle. Like a boat with one oar. We had probably owned the chairs less than a week when the idea struck me.
“C’mon Ter, don’t be such a chicken! I told you, you won’t get hurt! I promise. It can't fail.”
“You always say that. It always fails and I always get hurt!”
“Terry, you get hurt because you are too uptight and afraid to take chances. You have to loosen up. I’m telling you, you will be fine.”
"That's easy for you to say."
Terry was always so squirly. As soon as I would present one of my ideas he would begin to sweat. This time was going to be different. I could feel it.
We were on top of our long staircase. Terry was tied to a rocking chair with a jump rope with the promise of a thrilling ski trip down the stairs. I assured him he would be fine. It appeared to be aerodynamically perfect. A smooth ride, I would be inclined to duplicate for myself after a successful run at ole Terry’s expense. To this day I am unclear why the jump rope was needed. He would say that it had something to do with me needing to chase him down prior to my experiment and his thrill ride. I have no specific recollection of that.
I did have his well being in mind. Let’s face it he didn’t have much else going for him. He was small with a black front tooth, from a prior “experiment”. And if you ask me he was to shy for his own good. May be this would be the way to wake him up inside. I was tired of watching him, entranced, staring at cartoons all day. My mother said not everyone was in need of finding trouble and that I should leave him be. He is only a year younger shouldn’t we have more in common? Shouldn’t he want to try to be more adventurous? Well I decided want has nothing to do with it. I was doing him a favor. He’d thank me for this one day.
“Ready?”
“If I said no would you let me go?”
“No. You’ll love it. You’ll see. You can thank me when it’s over”
“Just like I thanked you for my black tooth? Just hurry up.” Terry squeezed his eyes shut and held on for dear life. I gently, well that’s what I told my mother, pushed the rocking chair down the stairs. It was just as I had planned. It glided down the first few stairs as planned. Then it happened. The hole in my master plan. The landing. Mid point was a landing. I was familiar with it, played on it, set up tents on it and now it stood to undermine a perfect plan. Terry hit the landing which stopped to rocking chair abruptly. It then propelled forward head first. Being tied, for his own good, prevented him from any kind of self defense.
As soon as he hit the bottom he started to scream bloody murder. My parents, their company and a neighbor all came running. I stood at the top of the stairs having no where to run and knowing I needed somewhere badly. I ran down the stairs to his aid and if I were to be honest my own.
“Terry, what are you doing?” I asked. Why I thought anyone would believe he tied himself to a chair and threw him self down the stairs was beyond me. But I was desperate. Everyone just glared at me and I was sent to my room. A fate worse than death. I was up there forever. I was used to it. I spent a lot of time in my room. I can’t imagine why.
Finally I heard someone coming up the stairs. It was Terry with an ice pack on his forehead.
“Sorry, Ter. I really thought it was going to work.”
“I know.”
“Well, it would have worked if it wasn’t for that stupid landing.”
“Maybe.”
“Ya know, there is no landing at the Shompsky’s house. We could...”
“Never again.” Terry shuts the door behind him. I never did realized my skiing chair dream. Thanks for nothing, Terry.
“C’mon Ter, don’t be such a chicken! I told you, you won’t get hurt! I promise. It can't fail.”
“You always say that. It always fails and I always get hurt!”
“Terry, you get hurt because you are too uptight and afraid to take chances. You have to loosen up. I’m telling you, you will be fine.”
"That's easy for you to say."
Terry was always so squirly. As soon as I would present one of my ideas he would begin to sweat. This time was going to be different. I could feel it.
We were on top of our long staircase. Terry was tied to a rocking chair with a jump rope with the promise of a thrilling ski trip down the stairs. I assured him he would be fine. It appeared to be aerodynamically perfect. A smooth ride, I would be inclined to duplicate for myself after a successful run at ole Terry’s expense. To this day I am unclear why the jump rope was needed. He would say that it had something to do with me needing to chase him down prior to my experiment and his thrill ride. I have no specific recollection of that.
I did have his well being in mind. Let’s face it he didn’t have much else going for him. He was small with a black front tooth, from a prior “experiment”. And if you ask me he was to shy for his own good. May be this would be the way to wake him up inside. I was tired of watching him, entranced, staring at cartoons all day. My mother said not everyone was in need of finding trouble and that I should leave him be. He is only a year younger shouldn’t we have more in common? Shouldn’t he want to try to be more adventurous? Well I decided want has nothing to do with it. I was doing him a favor. He’d thank me for this one day.
“Ready?”
“If I said no would you let me go?”
“No. You’ll love it. You’ll see. You can thank me when it’s over”
“Just like I thanked you for my black tooth? Just hurry up.” Terry squeezed his eyes shut and held on for dear life. I gently, well that’s what I told my mother, pushed the rocking chair down the stairs. It was just as I had planned. It glided down the first few stairs as planned. Then it happened. The hole in my master plan. The landing. Mid point was a landing. I was familiar with it, played on it, set up tents on it and now it stood to undermine a perfect plan. Terry hit the landing which stopped to rocking chair abruptly. It then propelled forward head first. Being tied, for his own good, prevented him from any kind of self defense.
As soon as he hit the bottom he started to scream bloody murder. My parents, their company and a neighbor all came running. I stood at the top of the stairs having no where to run and knowing I needed somewhere badly. I ran down the stairs to his aid and if I were to be honest my own.
“Terry, what are you doing?” I asked. Why I thought anyone would believe he tied himself to a chair and threw him self down the stairs was beyond me. But I was desperate. Everyone just glared at me and I was sent to my room. A fate worse than death. I was up there forever. I was used to it. I spent a lot of time in my room. I can’t imagine why.
Finally I heard someone coming up the stairs. It was Terry with an ice pack on his forehead.
“Sorry, Ter. I really thought it was going to work.”
“I know.”
“Well, it would have worked if it wasn’t for that stupid landing.”
“Maybe.”
“Ya know, there is no landing at the Shompsky’s house. We could...”
“Never again.” Terry shuts the door behind him. I never did realized my skiing chair dream. Thanks for nothing, Terry.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Great Spirit and Almighty God
The Great Spirit and Almighty God had only one thing in common, they both scared the shit out of me. The Great Spirit was able to scoop up your soul with no notice and “acquire” you to be part of Him. Huh? Him who? Was he kidding? Would he put me back? Had we met? I think I would have remembered meeting someone who could absorb me like a giant sheet of Bounty. As far as the Almighty went He too could pluck me from this earth but He’d make me suffer first. Eternal damnation if my room wasn’t clean or if I had impure thoughts. I was in trouble.
There was the whole promise of heaven but I was assured early on it would be an uphill battle for the likes of me. I first learned of my dilemma from Sister Judith, a bitter, mean spirited woman who had been hand picked to rear the children of God. Sister Judith hated me. She had felt it necessary to isolate me to the lunchroom, a term we’ll use loosely. I was never allowed to eat in the lunchroom, but spent many hours being punished. Sr. Judith knew I hated being alone in that dark moldy basement not really suitable to eat in. It was her only advantage.
When lunch did come I then was moved to the library to eat alone because as a sinful glutton, I should not be exposed to the other children for fear they will pick up this deadly sin. I think Ted Bundy did more socializing than I did. That was when my Grandfather told me the Catholics had it all wrong. He assured me I didn’t have to take any more abuse from old Sister Judith. He said I had nothing to fear. Well, nothing but the Great Spirit. I began filling out recruitment forms (an idea I borrowed from Danny Kelly) Army, Navy any where I could.... Judith A. Sister. Gym memberships. Judith A. Sister. Plastic light up lawn Santa’s complete with reindeer, edible underwear for a XXX company I found in the back of Ronnie Shomsky’s playboy magazine, a lawn minora, C.O.D. of course. All sent to Judith A. Sister.
My recently divorced parents felt Catholic school would be a kinder environment for a kid like me if I would just stop challenging everyone. Why did I ask so many questions? Was it possible for me to go to school one day and not get a note home describing my blasphemy du jour? Apparently not. Adam and Eve my ass. I had the Nature channel. How did they expect to hide evolution from us? Sister Judith always suspected but could never prove my involvement in her torture as no one believed her involvement in mine.
She was eventually sent to the nun glue factory. They are all located in Pennsylvania, we suspected.
I then had to either accept my fate as an unwelcome Catholic or meet with the Great Spirit people. I met my Grandfathers medicine man once. He was a large, dark, angry looking man, who arrived when my Grandfather was sick, in a huge green Cadillac. (The Indians were not known for their jolly demeanor.) He had grabbed my face and said”Hmm, you’re one with a gift”. I don’t remember receiving a gift, not later in the mail either. He must have forgotten. My Grandmother told me that of course he forgot, the Indians were all drunks. If I remember correctly the Irish did just fine in that department.
When I asked my Grandfather about the Great Spirit, he took me to his garden and had me pick green beans. Before I picked them I had to thank each one of the beans. They never responded and I never understood how that helped anyone but my Grandfather.
When my Grandfather started to get sick and speak more often about joining the Great Spirit he made it sound as if it were an elite country club that would not have tolerated his kind while alive. He probably could have shined shoes or carried golf clubs but only dream of membership. The Great Spirit would never reject him the way the living world did or would He? I didn’t know. My Grandmother said he was to enjoy a eternal life of fire and brimstone. That was the only after life for the heathens. That did not appeal to me. I avoided August, hell was no place for me. It was the Catholics who had eternal life in paradise. Paradise? Now that has possibilities.
I started to develop my own idea of this paradise. Would there be Twinkies? Kool-Aide? If so, I was in. So I started to pray. I prayed for a Koala Bear. No answer. I prayed for Sonny and Cher to reunite. No luck. I prayed for Elton John to come find my yet undiscovered talents. No calls. I prayed for Leif Garrett to be my boyfriend. Nada. I prayed to be thin. I prayed to be pretty. I prayed for a puppy, a hamster, an easy bake oven. No. No . No. I’m going back to the Indians.
All of this back and forth seemed to increase my odds of ending up in “limbo”. This, according to my Grandmother, is where you remained forever with no chance of heaven but you didn’t fry in hell. Well, that’s not too bad. Boring, but I was quite sure I wouldn’t be alone. I started to make a mental list of my house mates at hotel limbo.
Eddie Kascak would be there for sure. He melted all my Barbies which isn’t a mortal sin but it was close. I decided that if it was going to be me and Eddie I should practice getting along with him. We would be spending eternity together and currently a 5 minute car ride would result in a fight. I discussed “our” dilemma with Edward who said his years as an alter boy would be his exemption from limbo. Then he gave me the finger.
I had decided that I didn’t care if I lived in limbo. I could make friends. Although any image of limbo brought about an instant anxiety I have yet to shake. It would be alright. I was no longer concerned. Really. The definition of limbo is an uncertain period of waiting. I now see limbo like waiting for the cable guy or calling motor vehicle. Unpleasant but usually not without some entertainment value.
I have since realized how silly the idea of an all knowing, all encompassing being who has the skill to micro manage his minions or the desire to for that matter, is to me. I would like to think that the energy you posses while alive somehow joins the energy that has accumulated from the many who have left this place before us but I don’t know. I hope that more because I am afraid one of my grandparents may be right. What if they are right? It’s similar to being an organ donor and then finding out after your donation that you still need all your stuff. What if my irreverent attitude and clear law breaking of both moral perimeters will force me into a state of eternal damnation or endless period of waiting? Or worse, eternity with one of my grandparents.
I have thought to capitalize on my experiences with both religions while alive since I’ll be in hell anyway. If I were ambitious I could stick a flag out in the front yard of my house and break out the slot machines and show girls or open a halfway house for wayward pedophile priests. Both lucrative neither of interest.
There was the whole promise of heaven but I was assured early on it would be an uphill battle for the likes of me. I first learned of my dilemma from Sister Judith, a bitter, mean spirited woman who had been hand picked to rear the children of God. Sister Judith hated me. She had felt it necessary to isolate me to the lunchroom, a term we’ll use loosely. I was never allowed to eat in the lunchroom, but spent many hours being punished. Sr. Judith knew I hated being alone in that dark moldy basement not really suitable to eat in. It was her only advantage.
When lunch did come I then was moved to the library to eat alone because as a sinful glutton, I should not be exposed to the other children for fear they will pick up this deadly sin. I think Ted Bundy did more socializing than I did. That was when my Grandfather told me the Catholics had it all wrong. He assured me I didn’t have to take any more abuse from old Sister Judith. He said I had nothing to fear. Well, nothing but the Great Spirit. I began filling out recruitment forms (an idea I borrowed from Danny Kelly) Army, Navy any where I could.... Judith A. Sister. Gym memberships. Judith A. Sister. Plastic light up lawn Santa’s complete with reindeer, edible underwear for a XXX company I found in the back of Ronnie Shomsky’s playboy magazine, a lawn minora, C.O.D. of course. All sent to Judith A. Sister.
My recently divorced parents felt Catholic school would be a kinder environment for a kid like me if I would just stop challenging everyone. Why did I ask so many questions? Was it possible for me to go to school one day and not get a note home describing my blasphemy du jour? Apparently not. Adam and Eve my ass. I had the Nature channel. How did they expect to hide evolution from us? Sister Judith always suspected but could never prove my involvement in her torture as no one believed her involvement in mine.
She was eventually sent to the nun glue factory. They are all located in Pennsylvania, we suspected.
I then had to either accept my fate as an unwelcome Catholic or meet with the Great Spirit people. I met my Grandfathers medicine man once. He was a large, dark, angry looking man, who arrived when my Grandfather was sick, in a huge green Cadillac. (The Indians were not known for their jolly demeanor.) He had grabbed my face and said”Hmm, you’re one with a gift”. I don’t remember receiving a gift, not later in the mail either. He must have forgotten. My Grandmother told me that of course he forgot, the Indians were all drunks. If I remember correctly the Irish did just fine in that department.
When I asked my Grandfather about the Great Spirit, he took me to his garden and had me pick green beans. Before I picked them I had to thank each one of the beans. They never responded and I never understood how that helped anyone but my Grandfather.
When my Grandfather started to get sick and speak more often about joining the Great Spirit he made it sound as if it were an elite country club that would not have tolerated his kind while alive. He probably could have shined shoes or carried golf clubs but only dream of membership. The Great Spirit would never reject him the way the living world did or would He? I didn’t know. My Grandmother said he was to enjoy a eternal life of fire and brimstone. That was the only after life for the heathens. That did not appeal to me. I avoided August, hell was no place for me. It was the Catholics who had eternal life in paradise. Paradise? Now that has possibilities.
I started to develop my own idea of this paradise. Would there be Twinkies? Kool-Aide? If so, I was in. So I started to pray. I prayed for a Koala Bear. No answer. I prayed for Sonny and Cher to reunite. No luck. I prayed for Elton John to come find my yet undiscovered talents. No calls. I prayed for Leif Garrett to be my boyfriend. Nada. I prayed to be thin. I prayed to be pretty. I prayed for a puppy, a hamster, an easy bake oven. No. No . No. I’m going back to the Indians.
All of this back and forth seemed to increase my odds of ending up in “limbo”. This, according to my Grandmother, is where you remained forever with no chance of heaven but you didn’t fry in hell. Well, that’s not too bad. Boring, but I was quite sure I wouldn’t be alone. I started to make a mental list of my house mates at hotel limbo.
Eddie Kascak would be there for sure. He melted all my Barbies which isn’t a mortal sin but it was close. I decided that if it was going to be me and Eddie I should practice getting along with him. We would be spending eternity together and currently a 5 minute car ride would result in a fight. I discussed “our” dilemma with Edward who said his years as an alter boy would be his exemption from limbo. Then he gave me the finger.
I had decided that I didn’t care if I lived in limbo. I could make friends. Although any image of limbo brought about an instant anxiety I have yet to shake. It would be alright. I was no longer concerned. Really. The definition of limbo is an uncertain period of waiting. I now see limbo like waiting for the cable guy or calling motor vehicle. Unpleasant but usually not without some entertainment value.
I have since realized how silly the idea of an all knowing, all encompassing being who has the skill to micro manage his minions or the desire to for that matter, is to me. I would like to think that the energy you posses while alive somehow joins the energy that has accumulated from the many who have left this place before us but I don’t know. I hope that more because I am afraid one of my grandparents may be right. What if they are right? It’s similar to being an organ donor and then finding out after your donation that you still need all your stuff. What if my irreverent attitude and clear law breaking of both moral perimeters will force me into a state of eternal damnation or endless period of waiting? Or worse, eternity with one of my grandparents.
I have thought to capitalize on my experiences with both religions while alive since I’ll be in hell anyway. If I were ambitious I could stick a flag out in the front yard of my house and break out the slot machines and show girls or open a halfway house for wayward pedophile priests. Both lucrative neither of interest.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Me & Ronnie
It seemed like a good idea, but they always did. I had all the necessary tools. Scotch tape? Check. Loose leaf paper? Check. Matches? Check. I could see Ronnie Shomsky pacing outside the window waiting, his lips moving. I knew he was debating. He sat on the curb, head hung, scooping dried leaves like he was told. I startled him, as usual. It wasn’t a hard thing to do. He was a jumpy kid who lived on raw hot dogs.
They weren’t going to be real cigarettes. I knew those stunted your growth and Ronnie couldn’t afford for that to happen. Homemade cigarettes were a whole different story. They wouldn’t have any of those chemicals in them. “All natural” was the term I used to assure Ronnie we couldn’t get in trouble. I was aware that trouble was always moments away. Ronnie’s mother did not think I was a suitable playmate and wondered how he only seemed to misbehave in my company. I was sure it was because he spent the majority of his days stooped and drooling in front of old F-Troop reruns eating Charlie Chips. They were so lazy they actually had the chips delivered. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of that.
We sat on the curb and carefully rolled the dry maple leafs into the loose leaf paper and taped it. Of course I had to go first, Ronnie was always so nervous. I never did figure out why. I lit my cigar looking loose leaf concoction and smoked away. I felt a little sick but knew there was a greater good involved. I couldn’t stay six forever. I made one for Ronnie. I thought his should be bigger. “Alive with pleasure” just like the ad said. I rolled a big, fat log of a cigarette. He complained like he always did and put the cigarette to his lips. I lit it for him, he was nowhere near mature enough to play with matches.
The flame barely touched the end of his cigarette and burst into one big flame, like the trick cigars on Bugs Bunny. The shock throws him on his back where I slap him on his forehead and put out his bangs, which were burning. Bangs were not right for him anyway. He had black soot on his face and he was crying. I knew it was only a matter of time before he ran home, told his mother and the phone would ring.
That was the first time I set Ronnie Shomsky on fire.
They weren’t going to be real cigarettes. I knew those stunted your growth and Ronnie couldn’t afford for that to happen. Homemade cigarettes were a whole different story. They wouldn’t have any of those chemicals in them. “All natural” was the term I used to assure Ronnie we couldn’t get in trouble. I was aware that trouble was always moments away. Ronnie’s mother did not think I was a suitable playmate and wondered how he only seemed to misbehave in my company. I was sure it was because he spent the majority of his days stooped and drooling in front of old F-Troop reruns eating Charlie Chips. They were so lazy they actually had the chips delivered. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of that.
We sat on the curb and carefully rolled the dry maple leafs into the loose leaf paper and taped it. Of course I had to go first, Ronnie was always so nervous. I never did figure out why. I lit my cigar looking loose leaf concoction and smoked away. I felt a little sick but knew there was a greater good involved. I couldn’t stay six forever. I made one for Ronnie. I thought his should be bigger. “Alive with pleasure” just like the ad said. I rolled a big, fat log of a cigarette. He complained like he always did and put the cigarette to his lips. I lit it for him, he was nowhere near mature enough to play with matches.
The flame barely touched the end of his cigarette and burst into one big flame, like the trick cigars on Bugs Bunny. The shock throws him on his back where I slap him on his forehead and put out his bangs, which were burning. Bangs were not right for him anyway. He had black soot on his face and he was crying. I knew it was only a matter of time before he ran home, told his mother and the phone would ring.
That was the first time I set Ronnie Shomsky on fire.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
My Mother
My mother always said I had a way with words. Not in the way Hemingway’s mother may have gushed of her son’s musings but more likely the way Mrs. Borden regarded Lizzie’s deftness with an axe. I doubt she had ever expected my words would be used for any good, let alone income, regardless of her unrelenting support and encouragement. Although my mother truly believed my brother and I could accomplish anything we set our minds to, for those of you that know me, my limitations are quite obvious. I am no where near perky enough for Regis & Erin, too bitter and sarcastic for pre-school teacher and my unwilling physique has taken ballerina off my list of potential employs. I would have to rely on my “way with words” and hope not to offend the easily offended or starve to death trying.
My brother has abilities I am much more confident in. Educated in several fields and pragmatic in his efforts, he is a parental dream. Terry has always followed the chosen, straight and narrow path and because of his hard work, focus and determination, has a very successful life, enviable to those of us whose paths were winding and full of shiny distraction.
When my mother became ill several weeks ago it was clear to me why she attempted to construct us into competent adults. She knew that one day she would need to rely on us. She was confident. I, on the other hand, have doubted my competence since the age ten. After Terry and I had a mental breakdown about the user manual for a set of Zen Meditation Balls, I thought my mother would finally cut us loose, but her faith in us never wavered. We had always relied on her very capable skills and honestly never thought she would ever need anything from us. It took months for me to find an appropriate Christmas gift as it was, what could I possibly offer her?
While my mother’s life was in limbo her beloved dog of 14 years, Vito, became ill and needed to be put to sleep. My brother and I pinky swore never to tell our mother we had ended Vito’s long overdue life and went so far as to destroy the paper trail that may have linked us to the evil deed. After putting poor Vito to rest we returned to the hospital to try and sort out our mother’s situation and lie through our teeth if the subject of Vito arose. (Did I mention we ran down a squirrel on the way? You can’t make this up. I expect the ASPCA to arrive momentarily.)
As the days passed it became evident my mother was dying. After a massive stroke and her inability to breathe without assistance, we were informed she would be bed ridden, tube-fed, and respirator dependant. My mother was the most independent person I have ever known. That coupled with her quiet and modest nature we knew we had very few options.
My mother had always made her wishes clear. I had signed off on her advance directives over a decade ago. I’m sure she regretted it before the ink dried. I’ve spent those ten years asking her about the status of her health every time she purchased a new piece of jewelry, taking her pulse at the acquisition of a new Coach bag or feeling her forehead when she bought a new car. She had planned and paid for her funeral with a local funeral director in her neighborhood. I would comment “there it is” every time we passed the place. She would giggle and tell me I was “sick”.
In theory this was all very simple. In application there was so much grey area to wade through it made what we thought to be a clear decision murky at best. Who were we to determine someone else’s quality of life? I knew what she wanted but it differed from what I was willing to tolerate for her. If it were up to me she would be propped up in the middle of my living room as we speak. Luckily, gratefully, the decision was not mine to make.
The doctors removed my mother respirator. The next twenty-four hours were the most unbearable of my life. Watching my mother, the person who always believed in me, slowly, painfully slip away is something I will never recover from. What made the process almost palatable was my mother’s clarity. Aside from her wishes and arrangements being finalized, she had picked out her clothes and traveling trinkets, a favorite book “Blood Brothers”, and an unexpected traveling companion in her dog, Vito. A final gift my mother gave to us was her wishes. We didn’t disappointed her. We did what she had asked of us our entire adult life, allow her to live and die in comfort and with the dignity she earned and deserved.
My mother used to tell me she wanted to “come back” as me. She envied my outgoing nature and irreverent attitude, her painful shyness was often misread as indifference. Little did she know how I envied her genuine kindness and unconditional acceptance.
At my mother’s wake, my friend offered me some kind words and insight to my sadness. He told me that my mother has left with me and Terry all the best qualities she brought into this world. We now have the opportunity to continue my mother’s legacy of generosity, compassion and warmth. I doubt my brother will find this much of a stretch but for me it will take sincere effort and most likely, divine intervention, or more aptly stated, my mother’s continued belief in me.
My brother has abilities I am much more confident in. Educated in several fields and pragmatic in his efforts, he is a parental dream. Terry has always followed the chosen, straight and narrow path and because of his hard work, focus and determination, has a very successful life, enviable to those of us whose paths were winding and full of shiny distraction.
When my mother became ill several weeks ago it was clear to me why she attempted to construct us into competent adults. She knew that one day she would need to rely on us. She was confident. I, on the other hand, have doubted my competence since the age ten. After Terry and I had a mental breakdown about the user manual for a set of Zen Meditation Balls, I thought my mother would finally cut us loose, but her faith in us never wavered. We had always relied on her very capable skills and honestly never thought she would ever need anything from us. It took months for me to find an appropriate Christmas gift as it was, what could I possibly offer her?
While my mother’s life was in limbo her beloved dog of 14 years, Vito, became ill and needed to be put to sleep. My brother and I pinky swore never to tell our mother we had ended Vito’s long overdue life and went so far as to destroy the paper trail that may have linked us to the evil deed. After putting poor Vito to rest we returned to the hospital to try and sort out our mother’s situation and lie through our teeth if the subject of Vito arose. (Did I mention we ran down a squirrel on the way? You can’t make this up. I expect the ASPCA to arrive momentarily.)
As the days passed it became evident my mother was dying. After a massive stroke and her inability to breathe without assistance, we were informed she would be bed ridden, tube-fed, and respirator dependant. My mother was the most independent person I have ever known. That coupled with her quiet and modest nature we knew we had very few options.
My mother had always made her wishes clear. I had signed off on her advance directives over a decade ago. I’m sure she regretted it before the ink dried. I’ve spent those ten years asking her about the status of her health every time she purchased a new piece of jewelry, taking her pulse at the acquisition of a new Coach bag or feeling her forehead when she bought a new car. She had planned and paid for her funeral with a local funeral director in her neighborhood. I would comment “there it is” every time we passed the place. She would giggle and tell me I was “sick”.
In theory this was all very simple. In application there was so much grey area to wade through it made what we thought to be a clear decision murky at best. Who were we to determine someone else’s quality of life? I knew what she wanted but it differed from what I was willing to tolerate for her. If it were up to me she would be propped up in the middle of my living room as we speak. Luckily, gratefully, the decision was not mine to make.
The doctors removed my mother respirator. The next twenty-four hours were the most unbearable of my life. Watching my mother, the person who always believed in me, slowly, painfully slip away is something I will never recover from. What made the process almost palatable was my mother’s clarity. Aside from her wishes and arrangements being finalized, she had picked out her clothes and traveling trinkets, a favorite book “Blood Brothers”, and an unexpected traveling companion in her dog, Vito. A final gift my mother gave to us was her wishes. We didn’t disappointed her. We did what she had asked of us our entire adult life, allow her to live and die in comfort and with the dignity she earned and deserved.
My mother used to tell me she wanted to “come back” as me. She envied my outgoing nature and irreverent attitude, her painful shyness was often misread as indifference. Little did she know how I envied her genuine kindness and unconditional acceptance.
At my mother’s wake, my friend offered me some kind words and insight to my sadness. He told me that my mother has left with me and Terry all the best qualities she brought into this world. We now have the opportunity to continue my mother’s legacy of generosity, compassion and warmth. I doubt my brother will find this much of a stretch but for me it will take sincere effort and most likely, divine intervention, or more aptly stated, my mother’s continued belief in me.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Johnny Ray
I loved Johnny Ray. Not Johnny Ray the singer from 1912 or whenever but Johnny Ray from Cornwall Street. John Wayne Ray to be exact. He wasn’t a rock star or a GQ model. He wasn’t my childhood crush, that top slot went to Scott Baio, but Johnny Ray was to become my reluctant prom date, whether he knew it or not.
To the best of my knowledge John never finished high school. To be honest I don’t know if he even attended high school but I didn’t care. He looked me square in the eyes, unlike most boys, who still struggled with the concept of girls being people. He was edgy and always looking for a fight but to me he was protective and warm. He told me things I know he never told anyone else. The connection we shared was beyond that of any I had prior to meeting John.
Our first meeting consisted of him throwing himself on the hood of Lisa’s car as we caroused Cornwall St. looking for my wayward friends. At first we thought we had run down some poor soul who was trying to make his way across the street until he sprung to his feet, laughing like a lunatic and ran off.
It was love at first collision. I was an instant , faithful, follower...okay, stalker. He behaved badly from day one. I forgave his every indiscretion and shortcoming, to my own peril. I spent hours composing perfectly written letters describing every nuance of the ongoing’s of my high school world and he would spend hours sifting through them. I doubt he read them. I suspected he couldn’t. He said he liked to look at my handwriting that to him it looked like art.
Soon after we met he started to call me Heather. At first I was offended that he had forgotten my name and substituted mine for someone who could not have been as enamored as I. When I finally mustered the courage to remind him of my actual name he said he decided I needed a change. Erin was not a pretty name and Heather suited me better. Did he say I was pretty twice removed? He suggested that I feel free to rename him. I hopped at the opportunity. I called him George. Not for any reason except it set me apart from the others. There were many others.
They came in many forms these “others”. Cheap, smelling of strong perfume or booze, older, tattooed, some didn’t have teeth and they all had bad dye jobs. I always felt that he was kind to show these otherwise unlovable women friendship until I found him having sex with Karen Heifer on the bathroom floor of a friend’s house during a party. I was ruined. John was too. He struggled with the disappointment he caused me. I convinced myself he had too much respect for me to have sex with me in virtual public, let alone on a filthy bathroom floor. His lack of private interest I attributed to an affection that surpassed tawdry liaisons. I was not like the “others”. It didn’t occur to me that his lack of interest was exactly that; a lack of interest. It wasn’t cool to be in love with a fat girl, even if he was. I was the one who was unlovable.
It was clear from his encounters with women like Karen Heifer that the bar was low. Very low. The realization that fat girls were too low to even be potential bathroom floor companions was devastating.
As my prom quickly approached, I relinquished any fantasy of my knight in shining armor, or a Black Sabbath t-shirt, swooping to my dateless rescue. John surprised me. When the mention of my prom came up he insisted on being my date. I was thrilled.
My prom memories consist of primping all day, putting on a massive royal blue dress, trying to convince myself that I was pretty only to have him tell me I looked like Martha Washington. His mother slapped him on the back of his head. To that point she was so proud to see John in a tuxedo with a nice girl. Let me clarify that if I am, in fact, the nice girl? Something is radically wrong.
Upon arrival it didn’t take long for me to realize the prom was really just an opportunity for him to peacock around and pretend he wasn’t really with me. He posed for as many pictures as he could. I was happy for him. I remember. He had lived a difficult life and he was entitled to feel good about himself even if it was at my expense.
After the prom we arrived at the traditional prom night motel. I was nauseous with anxiety and hope. I opened the door to find it crawling with fifty of his closest and drunkest friends. They had written Cornwall Rocks on the wall in red paint. I think it was paint. I hope it was paint. I was so overwhelmed by the tight quarters, the drinking and the fighting that I eventually went home.
John walked me out to the car, held my face in his hands, kissed me and thanked me. It was all worth it. As I piled my huge blue dress into the car I saw Karen Heifer arrive. Prom night was over for me. Johnny, on the other hand, was going to get some more use out of his tux.
To the best of my knowledge John never finished high school. To be honest I don’t know if he even attended high school but I didn’t care. He looked me square in the eyes, unlike most boys, who still struggled with the concept of girls being people. He was edgy and always looking for a fight but to me he was protective and warm. He told me things I know he never told anyone else. The connection we shared was beyond that of any I had prior to meeting John.
Our first meeting consisted of him throwing himself on the hood of Lisa’s car as we caroused Cornwall St. looking for my wayward friends. At first we thought we had run down some poor soul who was trying to make his way across the street until he sprung to his feet, laughing like a lunatic and ran off.
It was love at first collision. I was an instant , faithful, follower...okay, stalker. He behaved badly from day one. I forgave his every indiscretion and shortcoming, to my own peril. I spent hours composing perfectly written letters describing every nuance of the ongoing’s of my high school world and he would spend hours sifting through them. I doubt he read them. I suspected he couldn’t. He said he liked to look at my handwriting that to him it looked like art.
Soon after we met he started to call me Heather. At first I was offended that he had forgotten my name and substituted mine for someone who could not have been as enamored as I. When I finally mustered the courage to remind him of my actual name he said he decided I needed a change. Erin was not a pretty name and Heather suited me better. Did he say I was pretty twice removed? He suggested that I feel free to rename him. I hopped at the opportunity. I called him George. Not for any reason except it set me apart from the others. There were many others.
They came in many forms these “others”. Cheap, smelling of strong perfume or booze, older, tattooed, some didn’t have teeth and they all had bad dye jobs. I always felt that he was kind to show these otherwise unlovable women friendship until I found him having sex with Karen Heifer on the bathroom floor of a friend’s house during a party. I was ruined. John was too. He struggled with the disappointment he caused me. I convinced myself he had too much respect for me to have sex with me in virtual public, let alone on a filthy bathroom floor. His lack of private interest I attributed to an affection that surpassed tawdry liaisons. I was not like the “others”. It didn’t occur to me that his lack of interest was exactly that; a lack of interest. It wasn’t cool to be in love with a fat girl, even if he was. I was the one who was unlovable.
It was clear from his encounters with women like Karen Heifer that the bar was low. Very low. The realization that fat girls were too low to even be potential bathroom floor companions was devastating.
As my prom quickly approached, I relinquished any fantasy of my knight in shining armor, or a Black Sabbath t-shirt, swooping to my dateless rescue. John surprised me. When the mention of my prom came up he insisted on being my date. I was thrilled.
My prom memories consist of primping all day, putting on a massive royal blue dress, trying to convince myself that I was pretty only to have him tell me I looked like Martha Washington. His mother slapped him on the back of his head. To that point she was so proud to see John in a tuxedo with a nice girl. Let me clarify that if I am, in fact, the nice girl? Something is radically wrong.
Upon arrival it didn’t take long for me to realize the prom was really just an opportunity for him to peacock around and pretend he wasn’t really with me. He posed for as many pictures as he could. I was happy for him. I remember. He had lived a difficult life and he was entitled to feel good about himself even if it was at my expense.
After the prom we arrived at the traditional prom night motel. I was nauseous with anxiety and hope. I opened the door to find it crawling with fifty of his closest and drunkest friends. They had written Cornwall Rocks on the wall in red paint. I think it was paint. I hope it was paint. I was so overwhelmed by the tight quarters, the drinking and the fighting that I eventually went home.
John walked me out to the car, held my face in his hands, kissed me and thanked me. It was all worth it. As I piled my huge blue dress into the car I saw Karen Heifer arrive. Prom night was over for me. Johnny, on the other hand, was going to get some more use out of his tux.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Three Stories About Lisa
I looked over and saw her smirking and shaking her head. She looked like a nymph. She was slight and tiny with a Dorothy Hamill haircut and ears that came to a fairy-like point. She was delicate, graceful and soft-spoken.
“What are you doing?”
I was busy trying to steady a chair under the convent window. I was everything she was not. Clumsy, loud, large with curly red hair that lent itself to the theory I was off.
“I’m doing research.”
“Research? Erin, we’re ten.” She was a little slow sometimes.
“So what, I want to know if nuns have hair. Don’t you? I think it would explain why they were so mean.”
“They are mean to you because you make them feel stupid.” I wasn’t sure what she meant but I had a mission and she was either in or out.
“You gonna help or what?” Lisa walked over and steadied the chair I had stolen from Lisa’s neighbor, Salami Legs.
“Did you steal this chair from Mrs.Wayda?”
“Borrowed.”
Lisa did her best to keep the chair steady. It just wasn’t high enough. I took a milk crate from behind the convent and put that on top of the chair. High enough but very unsteady. I stood atop of my perch and peered into the window. Lisa stood behind me assuring me we were headed for disaster and that our parents were sure to be called.
“Lisa, you are distracting me!”
I finally was able to look in the window. I could not believe my eyes. Sister Jacinta was in a girdle and her habit dancing with a sewing bust. The shock of such a sight knocked me flat on my back. The noise could have “woke the dead” Sister Jacinta would tell the Monsignor, my parents, Lisa’s parents and Ole’ Salami Legs.
We were sent to confession.
“I told you we’d get caught”.
"You just can't help yorself."
She went first as a time saver, three Hail Mary’s. I guess this being her first offense they were showing mercy. Me? I should have packed a lunch. An entire rosary, pew polishing for a week and I had to make good with Salami Legs by “visiting” her after school everyday for a month. Slave labor\ visiting...call it what you will. I prayed everyday as I arrived at her house that Salami Legs had finally bought a pair of pants. It never happened. She must have been proud of those big, swollen, red, salami looking legs. They disturbed me.
I was grateful that when I left I could always find Lisa waiting at the corner to see if Salami Legs had bought pants.
"Nope. She caught me staring at them. She asked if I wanted to touch them."
" Did you?"
"Good God, no!"
"That's what you get for staring."
"Thanks, Lis."
She assured me that someday we would laugh about all of this. “You’ll see it will make a good story”.
“It’s a shame you’ll never be able to have a Dorothy Hamill it would make you look less...crazy.”
II
“I hate dances.”
“How do you know, you’ve never been to one!”
“Lisa, please! If you were really my friend you would leave me alone!”
“No, I wouldn’t. It’s for your own good.”
“No, it’s for your good cause you can’t go if I don’t go with you.”
“I never ask you for anything!”
“Bullshit.”
Lisa began to pout and she was a professional.
“Why do you want to go so bad?”
“Because Eric Conklin asked me and he is so cute. Please, please, please!”
“Fucking aye. Yeah, this is just great! You get to go with Eric and I get stuck with Joe“man breasts”. This is not exactly fair.”
“Erin, he has a car and looks old enough to get served. A few sips of Boons farm and you won’t care.”
“It may take more than a few sips.”
“He always has good pot.”
“True but I’m not wearing a fucking dress.”
Here I am in a fucking dress. A God awful one at that. Black with pleats, like a giant black accordion. My Grandmother picked it out, assuring me that if I were not so fat I might be able to find something more flattering. It would come in handy for her funeral I thought. Lisa, in an attempt to spruce it up, tied a pink ribbon around my neck. I am sure people wondered if it was keeping my head on. Lisa looked pretty as usual, like Cinderella.
“I am not going out like this, Lis.”
“Oh, yes, you are. I did not spend all day getting ready for you to back out now.”
Christ. I was stuck in my black pleated dress with a pink ribbon waiting for Joe “man breasts” to pick us up. What has my life come too?
“You look pretty, Erin.”
“Whatever, Joe. Take a deep breath. Let’s not make a spectacle of ourselves, okay pal?”
“Sure, sure. I can be cool ya know.”
“Uh huh. C’mon Lis, it’s time to ruin my life in public now.”
“Stop being such a baby.”
“There better be booze.”
It turns out they do not manufacture enough Boons Farm wine to make Joe “man breasts” appealing but they do make enough to make Eric Conklin throw up on Cinderella. He’s not so cute anymore and should rethink the amount of macaroni and cheese he eats prior to drinking... just a suggestion.
We were back at Lisa’s by 9pm.
“I wish I had a chance to dance.”
“I know, Lis. I am sorry things did not go as you had planned. Get up. I know I’m not Eric Conklin but I promise I won’t throw up on you.”
Lisa stood up and I grabbed her and started to tango. I had no idea how to tango but she didn’t care. We laughed and tangoed. From that point on we tangoed at every party, wedding, funeral or any event, appropriate or not. We didn’t care where and we always laughed. We laughed just like the night of our first tango and I never threw up on her.
III
I wondered if anyone else felt the same way I did. It would start when I left my house. This pit at the bottom of my stomach that made me feel weak As I drove my hands would start to feel as if they didn’t belong to me. Loose and prickly. By the time I was on the elevator my arms tingled so bad they felt as if they were on fire. It was the same every day. I never got used to it. She would look fine. Yellow but fine. She slept a lot and would wake briefly and smile at me. Her eyes bright yellow but always sparkling. She was fine, really. I snuck in as quiet as possible. I would say it was not to disturb her but if I were to be honest if she just slept I could pretend everything was fine. Fine. I knew it would be a matter days. I sat next to her bed and began to cry. She looked over at me with her big, yellow eyes and wide smile and said “ Don’t cry, Erin. It’s okay”. She reached over to grab my hand. This was the last time we spoke to each other. She would look at me over the next few days and smile but that was it.
We had no unfinished business. We were always clear how we had felt. I had spent several weeks prior to this hospital at her house keeping her company, renting old movies, looking at yearbooks and watching her sleep. We laughed. We always laughed.
I was afraid Lisa was going to die from the first day I knew she was ill. She, to the best of my knowledge, never thought she was going to die. It was accurately representative of our relationship. I would say I was a realist, she would say pessimist. She would say she was an optimist, I’d say she lived in a fantasy world. We would laugh and chalk our friendship up to lack of exposure to normal people.
I was terrified of being with Lisa when she died. I wanted to receive one of those 3 a.m. phone calls saying “I’m sorry she’s gone”. Nice and neat. It would still hurt but it was tidy. Lisa had lived three days longer than anyone should of as it was. I had to watch Lisa suffer, struggle for each breath and slowly, painfully slip away. I was so afraid of my own grief that I did anything I could to stay mentally occupied. When I was not mentally occupied I would fall asleep like a narcoleptic.
My phone rang. “She’s dying, you need to come now.” I got back in bed. I weighed this choice. Could I really watch my best friend die? Would she even want me to? I put on sweats and a Red Sox hat and drove numbly to the hospital where I had spent 12 hours a day with her, her family and various visitors. We joked, laughed, told stories, ate hot dogs and cried. I hoped she could hear us.
When I arrived at the hospital Lisa was barely breathing, it was the calmest I had seen her in weeks. She had come to accept her fate. I had not. She had found peace. As I stood there half asleep and nauseous waiting for Lisa to die, it dawned on me that this may actually happen. Lisa may actually die and I was completely unprepared. Then she left, just slipped off into her next life.
It was morning and there were arrangements to be made. I went with her parents to the funeral home. I picked out Lisa’s coffin. It was mauve with pick roses embroidered in the bedding. I went to her house to pick out her clothes. As I sifted through her tons of outfits, knowing I needed something loose to fit over her bloated shell, I could feel her guiding me to the “good stuff”, a pretty silk skirt she had bought in Paris and a cashmere sweater she had found in Italy the fall before. I was sure the thought of her outfit being worn by a homeless guy outside the Goodwill was enough to flex whatever psychic muscles she possessed.
I spent the afternoon making arrangements for a post funeral luncheon consisting of the traditional after death fare of ziti and rubbery chicken. I finally went home and tried to sleep but I could not stop seeing Lisa’s face. I found myself trying to find the exact moment Lisa died. There was no gust of wind or religious occurrence that would make you sense her passing. She was just gone. Out like a lamb.
The following evening I gracefully and without feeling, greeted hundreds of old friends, Lisa’s family, co-workers and acquaintances. I had the same pained smile plastered on my face.
After Lisa’s wake I thought to call her and tell her who I has seen and how fat, bald, old, divorced or plastic so and so had become. She was not available to gossip. We would never need to sit in confession together again. There would be no more tangoing.
“What are you doing?”
I was busy trying to steady a chair under the convent window. I was everything she was not. Clumsy, loud, large with curly red hair that lent itself to the theory I was off.
“I’m doing research.”
“Research? Erin, we’re ten.” She was a little slow sometimes.
“So what, I want to know if nuns have hair. Don’t you? I think it would explain why they were so mean.”
“They are mean to you because you make them feel stupid.” I wasn’t sure what she meant but I had a mission and she was either in or out.
“You gonna help or what?” Lisa walked over and steadied the chair I had stolen from Lisa’s neighbor, Salami Legs.
“Did you steal this chair from Mrs.Wayda?”
“Borrowed.”
Lisa did her best to keep the chair steady. It just wasn’t high enough. I took a milk crate from behind the convent and put that on top of the chair. High enough but very unsteady. I stood atop of my perch and peered into the window. Lisa stood behind me assuring me we were headed for disaster and that our parents were sure to be called.
“Lisa, you are distracting me!”
I finally was able to look in the window. I could not believe my eyes. Sister Jacinta was in a girdle and her habit dancing with a sewing bust. The shock of such a sight knocked me flat on my back. The noise could have “woke the dead” Sister Jacinta would tell the Monsignor, my parents, Lisa’s parents and Ole’ Salami Legs.
We were sent to confession.
“I told you we’d get caught”.
"You just can't help yorself."
She went first as a time saver, three Hail Mary’s. I guess this being her first offense they were showing mercy. Me? I should have packed a lunch. An entire rosary, pew polishing for a week and I had to make good with Salami Legs by “visiting” her after school everyday for a month. Slave labor\ visiting...call it what you will. I prayed everyday as I arrived at her house that Salami Legs had finally bought a pair of pants. It never happened. She must have been proud of those big, swollen, red, salami looking legs. They disturbed me.
I was grateful that when I left I could always find Lisa waiting at the corner to see if Salami Legs had bought pants.
"Nope. She caught me staring at them. She asked if I wanted to touch them."
" Did you?"
"Good God, no!"
"That's what you get for staring."
"Thanks, Lis."
She assured me that someday we would laugh about all of this. “You’ll see it will make a good story”.
“It’s a shame you’ll never be able to have a Dorothy Hamill it would make you look less...crazy.”
II
“I hate dances.”
“How do you know, you’ve never been to one!”
“Lisa, please! If you were really my friend you would leave me alone!”
“No, I wouldn’t. It’s for your own good.”
“No, it’s for your good cause you can’t go if I don’t go with you.”
“I never ask you for anything!”
“Bullshit.”
Lisa began to pout and she was a professional.
“Why do you want to go so bad?”
“Because Eric Conklin asked me and he is so cute. Please, please, please!”
“Fucking aye. Yeah, this is just great! You get to go with Eric and I get stuck with Joe“man breasts”. This is not exactly fair.”
“Erin, he has a car and looks old enough to get served. A few sips of Boons farm and you won’t care.”
“It may take more than a few sips.”
“He always has good pot.”
“True but I’m not wearing a fucking dress.”
Here I am in a fucking dress. A God awful one at that. Black with pleats, like a giant black accordion. My Grandmother picked it out, assuring me that if I were not so fat I might be able to find something more flattering. It would come in handy for her funeral I thought. Lisa, in an attempt to spruce it up, tied a pink ribbon around my neck. I am sure people wondered if it was keeping my head on. Lisa looked pretty as usual, like Cinderella.
“I am not going out like this, Lis.”
“Oh, yes, you are. I did not spend all day getting ready for you to back out now.”
Christ. I was stuck in my black pleated dress with a pink ribbon waiting for Joe “man breasts” to pick us up. What has my life come too?
“You look pretty, Erin.”
“Whatever, Joe. Take a deep breath. Let’s not make a spectacle of ourselves, okay pal?”
“Sure, sure. I can be cool ya know.”
“Uh huh. C’mon Lis, it’s time to ruin my life in public now.”
“Stop being such a baby.”
“There better be booze.”
It turns out they do not manufacture enough Boons Farm wine to make Joe “man breasts” appealing but they do make enough to make Eric Conklin throw up on Cinderella. He’s not so cute anymore and should rethink the amount of macaroni and cheese he eats prior to drinking... just a suggestion.
We were back at Lisa’s by 9pm.
“I wish I had a chance to dance.”
“I know, Lis. I am sorry things did not go as you had planned. Get up. I know I’m not Eric Conklin but I promise I won’t throw up on you.”
Lisa stood up and I grabbed her and started to tango. I had no idea how to tango but she didn’t care. We laughed and tangoed. From that point on we tangoed at every party, wedding, funeral or any event, appropriate or not. We didn’t care where and we always laughed. We laughed just like the night of our first tango and I never threw up on her.
III
I wondered if anyone else felt the same way I did. It would start when I left my house. This pit at the bottom of my stomach that made me feel weak As I drove my hands would start to feel as if they didn’t belong to me. Loose and prickly. By the time I was on the elevator my arms tingled so bad they felt as if they were on fire. It was the same every day. I never got used to it. She would look fine. Yellow but fine. She slept a lot and would wake briefly and smile at me. Her eyes bright yellow but always sparkling. She was fine, really. I snuck in as quiet as possible. I would say it was not to disturb her but if I were to be honest if she just slept I could pretend everything was fine. Fine. I knew it would be a matter days. I sat next to her bed and began to cry. She looked over at me with her big, yellow eyes and wide smile and said “ Don’t cry, Erin. It’s okay”. She reached over to grab my hand. This was the last time we spoke to each other. She would look at me over the next few days and smile but that was it.
We had no unfinished business. We were always clear how we had felt. I had spent several weeks prior to this hospital at her house keeping her company, renting old movies, looking at yearbooks and watching her sleep. We laughed. We always laughed.
I was afraid Lisa was going to die from the first day I knew she was ill. She, to the best of my knowledge, never thought she was going to die. It was accurately representative of our relationship. I would say I was a realist, she would say pessimist. She would say she was an optimist, I’d say she lived in a fantasy world. We would laugh and chalk our friendship up to lack of exposure to normal people.
I was terrified of being with Lisa when she died. I wanted to receive one of those 3 a.m. phone calls saying “I’m sorry she’s gone”. Nice and neat. It would still hurt but it was tidy. Lisa had lived three days longer than anyone should of as it was. I had to watch Lisa suffer, struggle for each breath and slowly, painfully slip away. I was so afraid of my own grief that I did anything I could to stay mentally occupied. When I was not mentally occupied I would fall asleep like a narcoleptic.
My phone rang. “She’s dying, you need to come now.” I got back in bed. I weighed this choice. Could I really watch my best friend die? Would she even want me to? I put on sweats and a Red Sox hat and drove numbly to the hospital where I had spent 12 hours a day with her, her family and various visitors. We joked, laughed, told stories, ate hot dogs and cried. I hoped she could hear us.
When I arrived at the hospital Lisa was barely breathing, it was the calmest I had seen her in weeks. She had come to accept her fate. I had not. She had found peace. As I stood there half asleep and nauseous waiting for Lisa to die, it dawned on me that this may actually happen. Lisa may actually die and I was completely unprepared. Then she left, just slipped off into her next life.
It was morning and there were arrangements to be made. I went with her parents to the funeral home. I picked out Lisa’s coffin. It was mauve with pick roses embroidered in the bedding. I went to her house to pick out her clothes. As I sifted through her tons of outfits, knowing I needed something loose to fit over her bloated shell, I could feel her guiding me to the “good stuff”, a pretty silk skirt she had bought in Paris and a cashmere sweater she had found in Italy the fall before. I was sure the thought of her outfit being worn by a homeless guy outside the Goodwill was enough to flex whatever psychic muscles she possessed.
I spent the afternoon making arrangements for a post funeral luncheon consisting of the traditional after death fare of ziti and rubbery chicken. I finally went home and tried to sleep but I could not stop seeing Lisa’s face. I found myself trying to find the exact moment Lisa died. There was no gust of wind or religious occurrence that would make you sense her passing. She was just gone. Out like a lamb.
The following evening I gracefully and without feeling, greeted hundreds of old friends, Lisa’s family, co-workers and acquaintances. I had the same pained smile plastered on my face.
After Lisa’s wake I thought to call her and tell her who I has seen and how fat, bald, old, divorced or plastic so and so had become. She was not available to gossip. We would never need to sit in confession together again. There would be no more tangoing.
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