(2009)
(c) 2/25/2025
Most nights I stuff myself, ravenous
for high-fat foods, alcohol, anything
to push my skin outwards, to increase
the plane
the surface, to create space, a range
so that my skin will be brushed
absentmindedly on the sidewalk,
walking in and out of doorways.
I look for opportunities to visit the
doctor
and though it pains me to be seen
I drop my drawers in a second.
All those mammograms. The pokes and
prods.
The drawn blood. The speculum.
It is as intimate as the transactional
pedicure, manicure, and massage.
And in grade school I was the target,
pummeled on the playground every few
days.
Maybe that had nothing to do with
their demons.
Maybe I was genius, making myself
mewling
pathetic, a kicked dog. Maybe I knew
it was guaranteed touch.
(c) 2/25/2025
No trip to the Louvre. No fumbling je veux
as we ordered croissants. The plan for Paris never
happened.
The week in Tobago, the delicious honeymoon he promised.
All the sea turtles nesting on Irvine Back Bay. No.
No cross-country trip. And no new couch
even after he ripped the back off my old sofa
to free his pet
corn snake.
The newest model
mustang was reposed.
The fake job he listed on the sale document,
that job he so bragged about, no income.
His whole resume a fraud.
Degrees unattained. Positions
never held. The
zirconium wedding ring
to symbolize his love. So much like my father.
Every year with him was diminishment. And still,
I stayed.
(c) 11/2024
“Come here.” Sofia instructed us to
lay hands across the stack of fabric bolts held in the turn of her elbow.
The fabric bolts were similar: a
faded buff, like overcrowded sunflowers that should be relocated, and in turn, over-patterned
with beige, ivory and pale-yellow flowers. The size and pattern of the florals
differed, though those differences were slight.
I almost instinctively hated all
four of the prints. Neutrals, off-neutrals, they made me feel mute. I also
hated the Simplicity Jiffy dress pattern we’d prayed over. Its movement-enhancing
elastic waist, the puffy sleeves, like a plea for romance and marriage. And
then that wide ruffle around the hem was one to many nods to femininity. At
least our deadline prohibited lace trim and rosettes.
Lois, Cindy and I dutifully walked
over to lay our hands across the fabric. How much paler we all looked than when
we arrived at the Mission Base seven months earlier.
Sofia began to pray, “Dear Heavenly
Father,” followed that with a litany of things we were thankful for, such as
the apples a neighboring rancher donated for our breakfast, my minimum wage,
part time job that provided the bus fare to the mall, and now, this wonderful
opportunity to connect with God.
She prayed, “and God, we ask that
you guide us to the right fabric, for your glory.”
I opened an eye to look at Sofia
and wondered if this really was important enough to bring to God.
The four of us were interested in
dance. Despite my aunt’s reprimands about dancing magically leading to
fornication, every Saturday night you couldn’t get me out of the all-of-three
under-age discotheques in the Seattle area. All that glamour and glitter. The
shimmer and shine. The jewel brights. It was difficult to remove those colors
and cuts from my wardrobe. It was easier to remember to slap on a bra every
morning, overtly modest, since I was called in to the base leader’s wife’s
office every couple of weeks. It was about my presentation every time. It
seemed to bother so many different people for different reasons.
The night before our shopping
excursion Sofia had showed us a photograph she still clung too of herself
two-years earlier. A photo predating becoming saved. In it her hair was spiked,
and while she didn’t have a tattoo, her nose was pierced. Now that was exotic,
the piercing. She let it grow back. In the photo Sofia wore a basic black-tee,
a leather biker jacket and combat boots. Scowling, Sofia looked so edgy,
confidant even. I think Sofia meant to show us the photo as an indicator of
just how far Jesus had to reach for her to bring her over to this maudlin
femininity of ruffles, bows, and demure knee-skimming skirt lengths.
“I feel guided to this one.” Cindy
touched a medium-sized floral bolt with a nail she no longer lacquered. Clearly
our Heavenly Father had guided her.
Lois felt guided to suggest a
different medium-sized floral bolt. Which of us had the shortest path to God’s
heart?
“God’s not speaking to me,” I said,
letting Sofia be the tiebreaker.
We scheduled a performance at a
neighboring church’s Tuesday night service. I’d written a short story about a
young boy being saved while walking along a beach. Battering Waves. A wise old
man. In hindsight, nothing remarkable. We didn’t have musicians and even though
we had a cassette player we couldn’t find a single song any of us wanted to
move to. Lois was in the process of finding suitable bible passages to
accompany a dance.
None of us were trained in dance.
Not even childhood ballet lessons. We couldn’t articulate whether what we were
doing was considered free-form, modern, jazz or whether we were just four
20-somethings swirling haphazardly across the shag. Creating choreography and
trying to remember it when we performed was a complexity at least two of us
couldn’t handle. Every movement slowed and repeated ad nauseum. A lot of lifted
arms and gazing upwards. And performing
in prairie-girl dresses? I hadn’t seen that before. And yet, all four of us
felt called to use what we were calling worship dance and testimony.
Eventually, our dresses were sewn.
They were too formless to need fitting. Cindy and I slathered on some eye
color, but Lois and Sofia had already given up on cosmetics. According to the
script my role was that of a hapless, hopeless young boy and I suggested that I
wear dress slacks and a button down.
“I’m sure that will be convincing”
I said, “all also honor God, since he directed my writing in the story.”
After much prayer and listening to
God thankfully that the others agreed I did not need to wear that hideous
dress.
During a swirl with an upward gaze
and arms opening to God, I heard a man gasp, and another say, “Oh, so
beautiful.” Suddenly I felt certain our message of redemption was getting
through to the audience. I was hopeful that should the minister end the service
with a call to the alter at least one person would have been moved by our dance
to walk to the alter.
After service I was approached by
two men who wanted to let me know how beautiful the dance had been. How
beautiful I had moved. How beautiful I was. They didn’t mention the story line,
nor whether the movements put them into a worshipful space. I have been one to
hang on to any small bit of praise or validation as though it were the last
meal of my life, already snuffling for more. Clearly, I’d been living on the
base long enough, because I was more concerned for once in giving the glory to
God. I had no sense that they were going to find a quiet spot and pray. I
interpreted the look in their eyes as being as desiring as the looks in the
discotheques.
The next day I was called again to
the Base Leader’s Wife’s office.
“I’d like to steer you to join the
Children’s puppetry team.”
Okay. Puppets are fun. “I want to
dance though,” I answered.
The minister had complained to our
base leader. I was too seductive. I portrayed a seven-year-old boy wearing a
baggy button-down shirt too seductively.
“I didn’t even make eye-contact.” I
paused. “I had my hair pulled back into a bun!” I was mentally thinking of all
the ways in which I had definitely not been seductive. Maybe it was the blue
slathered around my eyes. It wasn’t my smile; I hadn’t smiled. And yet, I had
broken one of our strict for-females-only rules: Do not entice men.
“I didn’t entice anyone,” I said.
“It’s their responsibility to control their own reactions. It’s their
responsibility to deal with their own lust.”
But apparently, it wasn’t.
The next week I was on puppet
making duty, safe in the craft room. Even if I did perform, I’d be hidden
inside a large cardboard house. Foam, paint, and bright colors manipulated by
my hands. My body, completely invisible until the final curtain call when I
could reveal myself, draped in beige.
(c) 1/12/2023
I didn’t sign any papers;
it was mutual. A handshake. Culturally
driven. Just the way things are.
(c) 3/21/2022
“Well, Sean,” I said, “You look good! Your wound has healed
up nicely.”
Sean had shaved off the scrub of beard and mustache. His
makeshift cast, which was built up from strips of t-shirt and plaid shirts
wrapped nearly two inches thick and that had been hiding a purplish, swollen
hand, was now gone. The gash had healed to a four-inch-long welt along his
wrist. His hand looked normal.
Sean showed me how his wrist was stiff and that he could
barely bend it. If he’d had any type of manual labor job before that
opportunity was now past.
“I sure wish you could have gone to the ER with that!” The
mother in me popped out. I hoped Sean wouldn’t take it poorly. I had already
learned that he wouldn’t check in to any medical facility. Money and lack of
insurance aside, he was convinced Doctors would lock him up and force feed him hallucinogens
and poison.
I noticed that while I couldn’t say Sean’s clothes looked
freshly laundered at least they weren’t rank and grubby from months of daily
wear.
“Yeah,” he said. “I got the chance to clean myself up.” He
beamed and his blue eyes shone with a calm I hadn’t seen when running into him
during the past year.
I thought against asking him where the opportunity came
from. It had taken me several months, a few dips into my grocery bag or wallet,
and a couple of meals at Ozzie’s Pub before he offered his name.
The first time I saw Sean panhandling outside of Starbucks
three different people, including me, ran up with cups of coffee and bagged
pastries. I nudged my companion. “Look how he shines!” His smile was infectious.
I instantly wanted to give him the world. If only I’d owned the world.
When I talked him into a meal, I learned to not ask many
questions. His meal choices had started as burgers and fries, an occasional steak.
Eventually all he ate was pulled Pork and a Pale Ale. No sides. No buns. “This
is what the German’s eat,” he’d said. He’d never go back to California to see
his mother. The German’s were teaching him how to be a man. I didn’t ask about
the Germans. I supposed they were white supremacists, and if Sean bought into
that belief, I didn’t want to sit here feeding him. I hadn’t asked about the
wound on his wrist either. I couldn’t tell if it was an accident or
self-inflicted. I had offered to pay for urgent care. That is how small my
world is. He needed much more than one doctor visit.
Sometimes Sean would shut down, turn slightly, and stare to
the right of my face. Then he grinned as though there was a frenetic comedy on
a big screen beside my head. A couple of times I turned to look. “There’s
nothing there,” Sean said somewhat dispassionately. After a long pause, he would re-start the
conversation.
The last time I ran into Sean he showed how he got around the security fence and slept in the crawl space of the now defunct Kasper’s French restaurant. The restaurant was festooned with notice of what new Apartment Complex was coming. Now four years later, I think of Sean on occasion and with worry. It never changes anything.
