The holidays are here again! And for me, that means every delicious morsel of food comes with at least two awkward conversations with family members. So this year I'm coming prepared with answers to the questions that typically come my way. I'm going to make sure this is the best Thanksgiving ever:
1). Technically I'm not seeing anyone but I think it's starting to get pretty serious with my twitter boyfriend.
2). If by 'job,' you mean helping a kooky elderly woman run her studio, receiving an occasional PayPal deposit for writing jokes about where I put my tongue, and selling my tattered boxers for $15 a pair on the Internet, then yeah, I guess you could say I have a 'job.'
3). Oh the barn by the highway? No. I refuse to have anymore conversations about the barn on the highway. You people have been talking about this fucking barn since August.
4). Yeah it's actually not that expensive to live out there if you move into a sober living commune. I'll fake a heroin addiction if it means cheap rent and a pool. A pool is a necessity. I need somewhere I can work out and get drunk at the same time. You know how it is.
5). I'm not saying [news personality name excluded] is bad at his job, I'm just saying he's a bad lay. It's all white teeth and puns.
6). No, I don't know why the barn by the highway leaves its lights on all night long. Maybe the pigs get seasonal affective disorder.
7). Can I get some Paxil to go with these peas?
8). Well bovine depression is a serious issue in this country. Just ask the pigs in the barn by the highway.
9). You ever go to look at porn and you click a video and then before you know it you have six tabs open in your browser and you're sixteen pages into an essay on the roles of race, wealth and social status in sexual attraction? Such a boner kill. Like, Boner City, Population Zero.
10). You know, money just isn't that important to me. Anyway, I've got to get going to the Black Friday sales. If you need me I'll be on the news driving a baseball bat into a mother-of-three's spine for an iPad. Thanks for the meal. See you at Christmas.
Happy holidays everyone! Especially to you, twitter boyfriend. Maybe this Christmas we can have a tweet-up with our parents.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
Negasonic Teenage Nomad
"Seriously boy you don't have to read the entire thing. It's boring," I say.
"I want to," Antonio says. His eyes narrow for a moment and he points at a word on the glossy page. I look to where he's pointing.
"Infrastructure," I say. When he doesn't answer, I add, "City stuff, roads and sewers and power lines."
He hums acknowledgment and continues reading. He's self-conscious about his difficulty with English. I've reminded him that English is a language that plays by its own rules and constantly changes them, that he has no reason to be ashamed of struggling with its silent letters and inconsistent laws.
We're sitting on the carpeted floor of his apartment, our backs pressed against his couch. He's reading through my most recent article in Columbus Entertainment Magazine, a five-page cover story featuring the August visit of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition to a deserving Columbus family.
"You really don't have to read it," I say again.
"Be done if you just be quiet," he says, gently swatting me on the arm. I leave him alone and occupy myself with his bookshelf, looking through the rows of fantasy and horror, mystery and satire.
He looks up from the magazine and says that he liked The Da Vinci Code. "It was hard but I like it."
"Phrasing," I say, almost instinctively. He ignores me and redirects his attention to the magazine. As he reads his head bobs and his shoulders pulsate to the song streaming from his laptop, a YouTube playlist I had set up earlier. He has a rhythm that makes itself known even when he isn't paying attention.
I notice.
"Love this song," I say. He smiles.
"About poor people still having fun without money," he says, then adds, "What being Cuban is all about."
"You got jokes," I say.
We may speak in our own short-handed language, we may have difficulty understanding the sentences we try to relay to each other, but the humor always transcends.
"Been my theme song for a few months," I say, "Traveling and stuff."
Nashville. Atlanta. The island.
Next is Boston. Columbus. Chicago. Maybe Charleston?
We sit around a little longer, doing nothing significant or important, until it's time for me to leave. It's a Friday, my last day of work at a job that is difficult to explain without hours of time and a bottle of bourbon. It was a music job, a combination of office work, studio time, and bizarre errands. But it's time to move from the island, I'm onto the next project.
"You leave too early," he says, "Should stay longer."
"Last day, lots to do, very important."
Antonio hums approval, pecks me on the lips and squeezes my hands.
"Travel safe, boy," he says. He rests his head on my chest, pressing me against the door of my car.
In a few months, after the year passes, I'll settle down in one place, a loud city in a faraway place where the weather is warm and the people are dark. Until then I'm a nomad, and in the month that celebrates giving thanks, I'm thankful for people like Antonio, people who accept the travelers with open arms despite their inevitable departure, someone who can joke about retiring together knowing that it will never happen.
Although I might have to come back in fifty years to keep that promise. After all, this place is an island paradise.
Antonio says we'll have a pool and everything.
"I want to," Antonio says. His eyes narrow for a moment and he points at a word on the glossy page. I look to where he's pointing.
"Infrastructure," I say. When he doesn't answer, I add, "City stuff, roads and sewers and power lines."
He hums acknowledgment and continues reading. He's self-conscious about his difficulty with English. I've reminded him that English is a language that plays by its own rules and constantly changes them, that he has no reason to be ashamed of struggling with its silent letters and inconsistent laws.
We're sitting on the carpeted floor of his apartment, our backs pressed against his couch. He's reading through my most recent article in Columbus Entertainment Magazine, a five-page cover story featuring the August visit of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition to a deserving Columbus family.
"You really don't have to read it," I say again.
"Be done if you just be quiet," he says, gently swatting me on the arm. I leave him alone and occupy myself with his bookshelf, looking through the rows of fantasy and horror, mystery and satire.
He looks up from the magazine and says that he liked The Da Vinci Code. "It was hard but I like it."
"Phrasing," I say, almost instinctively. He ignores me and redirects his attention to the magazine. As he reads his head bobs and his shoulders pulsate to the song streaming from his laptop, a YouTube playlist I had set up earlier. He has a rhythm that makes itself known even when he isn't paying attention.
I notice.
"Love this song," I say. He smiles.
"About poor people still having fun without money," he says, then adds, "What being Cuban is all about."
"You got jokes," I say.
We may speak in our own short-handed language, we may have difficulty understanding the sentences we try to relay to each other, but the humor always transcends.
"Been my theme song for a few months," I say, "Traveling and stuff."
Nashville. Atlanta. The island.
Next is Boston. Columbus. Chicago. Maybe Charleston?
We sit around a little longer, doing nothing significant or important, until it's time for me to leave. It's a Friday, my last day of work at a job that is difficult to explain without hours of time and a bottle of bourbon. It was a music job, a combination of office work, studio time, and bizarre errands. But it's time to move from the island, I'm onto the next project.
"You leave too early," he says, "Should stay longer."
"Last day, lots to do, very important."
Antonio hums approval, pecks me on the lips and squeezes my hands.
"Travel safe, boy," he says. He rests his head on my chest, pressing me against the door of my car.
In a few months, after the year passes, I'll settle down in one place, a loud city in a faraway place where the weather is warm and the people are dark. Until then I'm a nomad, and in the month that celebrates giving thanks, I'm thankful for people like Antonio, people who accept the travelers with open arms despite their inevitable departure, someone who can joke about retiring together knowing that it will never happen.
Although I might have to come back in fifty years to keep that promise. After all, this place is an island paradise.
Antonio says we'll have a pool and everything.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Head Scratchies
I scratch his head. He keeps his hair in a short, clean buzz-cut and my fingers brush straight to the smooth scalp.
"Mm, head-scratchies," he mumbles, "Makes me lazy."
"D.C. was too loud. Too dirty. It's nice here," he'll tell me. He speaks in short phrases and simple words based on his still-developing grasp of the English language. At first I had difficulty making conversations flow, but it grew on me.
Say what you mean, say it quickly, understand that quiet doesn't mean uncomfortable.
"Mm, head-scratchies," he mumbles, "Makes me lazy."
"You mean tired."
"Whatever boy..."
He sleepily throws his head on my chest.
We're sitting on a towel on the beach, waiting for the sun to set, because this is Florida, and isn't this what one is supposed to do while in Florida? Sit, relax, enjoy the breeze, hold someone comfortable, wait for the beautiful end.
His name is Antonio, not one of my employer's three Antonios, the pool guy, the gardener, the contractor, but an Antonio just for me. He's a coworker of my friend Valerie. Working construction by day has left him with a meaty but tightly-bound physique and waiting tables by night has instilled in him an overly polite nature.
"Everything okay?" he always asks. With concerned brown eyes he'll say, "You comfortable?"
And I always answer, "I'm good. You not at work, boy. Relax."
He's short, much shorter than me, but his head rests right on my chest. It fits. He's originally from Cuba, spent his teens in Washington D.C. and moved to Southwest Florida in his early twenties.
"Whatever boy..."
He sleepily throws his head on my chest.
We're sitting on a towel on the beach, waiting for the sun to set, because this is Florida, and isn't this what one is supposed to do while in Florida? Sit, relax, enjoy the breeze, hold someone comfortable, wait for the beautiful end.
His name is Antonio, not one of my employer's three Antonios, the pool guy, the gardener, the contractor, but an Antonio just for me. He's a coworker of my friend Valerie. Working construction by day has left him with a meaty but tightly-bound physique and waiting tables by night has instilled in him an overly polite nature.
"Everything okay?" he always asks. With concerned brown eyes he'll say, "You comfortable?"
And I always answer, "I'm good. You not at work, boy. Relax."
He's short, much shorter than me, but his head rests right on my chest. It fits. He's originally from Cuba, spent his teens in Washington D.C. and moved to Southwest Florida in his early twenties.
"D.C. was too loud. Too dirty. It's nice here," he'll tell me. He speaks in short phrases and simple words based on his still-developing grasp of the English language. At first I had difficulty making conversations flow, but it grew on me.
Say what you mean, say it quickly, understand that quiet doesn't mean uncomfortable.
"Thump, thump, thump," he says, his ear pressed against the thin fabric of the shirt covering my chest, "Heart always thumping, never relaxed."
I scratch his head again, try to slow my heart, put it in rhythm with the crush of the waves and the gentle motions of my fingers.
"I'm leaving in a few weeks," I say, "I meant to say something earlier." He pauses for a moment, mulls it over in his head. Then he smiles reassuringly, flashes that waiter's grin I've grown accustomed to during my short time with him.
"It's fine. People always leaving. It's how it is here," he says,"We have fun until you leave." He smiles again, leaves a kiss on my chin and says, "It's no problem." He adds, "You okay, right?"
I tell him I'll miss him.
"I won't miss you," he says, flashing that sly waiter's grin. I put him in a playful headlock, just for a moment, just until he admits that he'll miss me.
We fall into a comfortable quiet and watch as the sun slowly rests over the horizon, no need for what he calls the "talk, talk, talk, always talking" of others.
This island, the wealthy retirees and the seasonal tourists, they'll pay you just to exist and be young. On paper you may be a cashier or a landscaper, but to them you're that sweet girl at the office supply store or the nice boy that always stops to chat over a glass of lemonade. They want the talk, talk, talk. It'd be easy enough for a young person to move here, find a good-enough job, reside in a nice place and live a comfortable life in a palm-lined paradise.
"It's fine. People always leaving. It's how it is here," he says,"We have fun until you leave." He smiles again, leaves a kiss on my chin and says, "It's no problem." He adds, "You okay, right?"
I tell him I'll miss him.
"I won't miss you," he says, flashing that sly waiter's grin. I put him in a playful headlock, just for a moment, just until he admits that he'll miss me.
We fall into a comfortable quiet and watch as the sun slowly rests over the horizon, no need for what he calls the "talk, talk, talk, always talking" of others.
This island, the wealthy retirees and the seasonal tourists, they'll pay you just to exist and be young. On paper you may be a cashier or a landscaper, but to them you're that sweet girl at the office supply store or the nice boy that always stops to chat over a glass of lemonade. They want the talk, talk, talk. It'd be easy enough for a young person to move here, find a good-enough job, reside in a nice place and live a comfortable life in a palm-lined paradise.
That's all Antonio wants. Somewhere quiet, nice, safe. Someone to give him head scratchies.
I'm envious of him, his succinct way of speaking, his uncomplicated work, how something as simple as head scratchies makes him so content with existence.
I want to take him where I'm going, force him to teach me the secret to satisfaction with simplicity, but where I'm going is loud, cruel, dangerous. It isn't for him, but I'm comfortable there. I thrive in the absurd. It's why I'm on an island working for an elderly self-made music mogul and holding a Cuban boy who I admittedly have difficulty understanding. Did he just say "next week" or "what street?" Probably "next week," I don't think he'd answer a question with a question, unless he didn't understand what I said... fuck it, I'm just going to scratch his head and smile, talking is stupid...
Unlike Antonio, I'm not capable of being content living a comfortable, good-enough life, even if it is in paradise. The cynicism creeps in. Oh, the beach again? How about you do something interesting with your life, asshole.
I'll go to the loud, cruel, dangerous place, and anytime I start to let the cynical take over, I can at least take comfort in knowing that head scratchies will find a way to tame the bitterness.
Scratch, scratch, scratch...
I'm envious of him, his succinct way of speaking, his uncomplicated work, how something as simple as head scratchies makes him so content with existence.
I want to take him where I'm going, force him to teach me the secret to satisfaction with simplicity, but where I'm going is loud, cruel, dangerous. It isn't for him, but I'm comfortable there. I thrive in the absurd. It's why I'm on an island working for an elderly self-made music mogul and holding a Cuban boy who I admittedly have difficulty understanding. Did he just say "next week" or "what street?" Probably "next week," I don't think he'd answer a question with a question, unless he didn't understand what I said... fuck it, I'm just going to scratch his head and smile, talking is stupid...
Unlike Antonio, I'm not capable of being content living a comfortable, good-enough life, even if it is in paradise. The cynicism creeps in. Oh, the beach again? How about you do something interesting with your life, asshole.
I'll go to the loud, cruel, dangerous place, and anytime I start to let the cynical take over, I can at least take comfort in knowing that head scratchies will find a way to tame the bitterness.
Scratch, scratch, scratch...
Friday, October 7, 2011
Where the Sand Ends and the Rest of the World Begins
I live on an island now... a tropical island, not some garbage island up in Alaska where I'd have to deal with hockey pucks shattering my windows and Sarah Palin poking around my yard for oil.
After my lease and campus job expired at the end of August, I stayed with my parents for a few weeks.
I love them, I really do, and I love visiting home, I really do.
But I have a tendency to drink too much on the weekends and sleep with media personalities. There's no sidewalks or cabs in my hometown, and Toledo's 'Blizzard' Bill Spencer just wasn't going to cut it. Besides, he's like an hour-and-a-half drive away and is probably married anyway.
So I packed up the car and headed south. I have family scattered across the country, which is convenient when you want to travel but don't have any money. You see my grandmother, always planning ahead, was smart enough to spawn five daughters, then annoy them enough to make them want to move as far away as possible.
I spent a week with family friends in Nashville, a few days with an aunt and uncle in Atlanta, and ended up in Marco Island, Florida, where another aunt lives.
Marco Island is south of Naples and Ft. Myers. It's a small island inhabited by tourists, retirees, and the Cubans who clean up after them. The shore is lined with hotels and the suburbs are bursting with mini-mansions. A lot of the residents actually come from Ohio, so it's common to see Ohio State University apparel while strolling down the beach.
It's like I didn't even move.
My aunt, who has been a server at a restaurant on the island for an amount of time that makes her sound experienced but not old, knows a lot of people around here, and introduced me to a woman who would able to provide me with part-time work.
I don't want to reveal too much about her business, but it involves music copyrights and providing soundtracks for television and movies. She's been doing it for over forty years. Her clients have included NBC, Comedy Central, and Miramax, among dozens of other names that I recognized immediately.
A few years ago she moved her entire business from New York City to her Marco Island home. Filing cabinets fill the garage. Audio equipment and shelves of albums line the walls of her home.
My first day I walked in to find her dancing to heavy rap as she compiled an album for some clients. She went on to tell me that Ice-T loved this song when he heard it, and something about what a nice young man he was.
I've been helping with archiving and organizing and updating the business. And sometimes I have to bring in the garbage can from the curb, because hey, it's heavy.
I'm not sure how long I'll be here, or what the next step will be after that, because I've never been good at life-planning. It's why I collected two minors, two part-time jobs, and five internships during my time in college.
But for now I'll enjoy this island purgatory, this humid place where the young come to unwind and the old come to die.
If you need me I'll be where the sand ends and the rest of the world begins.
After my lease and campus job expired at the end of August, I stayed with my parents for a few weeks.
I love them, I really do, and I love visiting home, I really do.
But I have a tendency to drink too much on the weekends and sleep with media personalities. There's no sidewalks or cabs in my hometown, and Toledo's 'Blizzard' Bill Spencer just wasn't going to cut it. Besides, he's like an hour-and-a-half drive away and is probably married anyway.
So I packed up the car and headed south. I have family scattered across the country, which is convenient when you want to travel but don't have any money. You see my grandmother, always planning ahead, was smart enough to spawn five daughters, then annoy them enough to make them want to move as far away as possible.
I spent a week with family friends in Nashville, a few days with an aunt and uncle in Atlanta, and ended up in Marco Island, Florida, where another aunt lives.
Marco Island is south of Naples and Ft. Myers. It's a small island inhabited by tourists, retirees, and the Cubans who clean up after them. The shore is lined with hotels and the suburbs are bursting with mini-mansions. A lot of the residents actually come from Ohio, so it's common to see Ohio State University apparel while strolling down the beach.
It's like I didn't even move.
My aunt, who has been a server at a restaurant on the island for an amount of time that makes her sound experienced but not old, knows a lot of people around here, and introduced me to a woman who would able to provide me with part-time work.
I don't want to reveal too much about her business, but it involves music copyrights and providing soundtracks for television and movies. She's been doing it for over forty years. Her clients have included NBC, Comedy Central, and Miramax, among dozens of other names that I recognized immediately.
A few years ago she moved her entire business from New York City to her Marco Island home. Filing cabinets fill the garage. Audio equipment and shelves of albums line the walls of her home.
My first day I walked in to find her dancing to heavy rap as she compiled an album for some clients. She went on to tell me that Ice-T loved this song when he heard it, and something about what a nice young man he was.
I've been helping with archiving and organizing and updating the business. And sometimes I have to bring in the garbage can from the curb, because hey, it's heavy.
I'm not sure how long I'll be here, or what the next step will be after that, because I've never been good at life-planning. It's why I collected two minors, two part-time jobs, and five internships during my time in college.
But for now I'll enjoy this island purgatory, this humid place where the young come to unwind and the old come to die.
If you need me I'll be where the sand ends and the rest of the world begins.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Butterfly
She woke me up with a light slap on the face. I groaned and took a moment to dig the crust out of my eyes and acquainted myself with my surroundings: her bed, her bedroom, her.
She's my lesbian ex-girlfriend. Everyone should have one.
We did it again. It seems to inevitably happen at the most unexpected times.
"Did we really do this again?" I asked, "I mean, is there like a punch-card or something? The fifth lay turns us straight?"
"Cured," she sang slowly, a reference to a joke made during similar mornings in the past.
I asked her if she could get me a Capri-Sun and play some Dragonette, one of our favorite musicians.
"ALL OF THE DRAGONETTE," she hummed, speaking in bizarre Internet-meme language. She slipped a t-shirt over her head as she stood up. Her bedroom was similar to mine, a mismanaged mess of boxes and furniture, signs of an upcoming move. She loaded a song on her laptop and left. When she returned she was sipping on a Capri-Sun with another in her hand.
"You know sometimes I worry that you're just using me to relive your rape," I said.
In her attempt at suppressing her laughter the clear liquid from the Capri-Sun pouch sprayed from her nose and rolled down her lips.
"Is it okay for me to laugh at that?" she asked. Her hair was buzzed, but growing back. The extreme haircut was an attempt at regaining control and she instantly regretted it, embarrassed like someone caught naked. Fortunately her face is narrow and lined with sharp angles, chin and nose and cheekbones in all the right places and littered with a star-scape of gleaming piercings on her eyebrow and nose and lip. The hair is an irrelevant sidenote, an unnecessary frame.
Small strips of white medical-tape were wrapped around several of her fingers, cuts from playing with her newest toy, a butterfly knife. I've watched her use it in the past, the blades gracefully dancing between her fingers and the clack-clack-clack of metal striking metal. Watching her do it made me nervous, left butterflies energetically batting around in my stomach and cutting up my insides. It's a hobby she picked up from a few of our other friends. She was only doing what myself and so many others have done, attempting to find peace through violence.
"You really need to stop with the butterfly knife thing," I said, eying the bandages, "This will make you the fourth person I've dated that has one."
"That says something fucked up about you, not us," she said, taking her butterfly knife in hand and twirling it among the flesh of her fingers.
Clack-clack-clack.
"I swear if I wake up castrated... well... I guess I won't do anything, considering the number of suspects."
Clack-clack-clack.
I rose from bed and dressed myself, said something about how I had to get going because of work and moving and everything that needed done. She walked me to the door and we stood in the doorway avoiding the word "goodbye."
Through her short hair I noticed a small, round, barely noticeable birthmark about an inch deep into her hairline. It was a speck, minuscule, a dot from an ink pen. She's shorter than me, and I took her head in my hand and pulled it towards me.
I left a kiss on that dot, because it was a part of her I've never kissed before.
We finally found our voices and exchanged goodbyes.
Our fingertips separated but the fluttering in my stomach lingered. As days passed the fluttering died down.
But the clack-clack-clack of one lone butterfly remains.
She's my lesbian ex-girlfriend. Everyone should have one.
We did it again. It seems to inevitably happen at the most unexpected times.
"Did we really do this again?" I asked, "I mean, is there like a punch-card or something? The fifth lay turns us straight?"
"Cured," she sang slowly, a reference to a joke made during similar mornings in the past.
I asked her if she could get me a Capri-Sun and play some Dragonette, one of our favorite musicians.
"ALL OF THE DRAGONETTE," she hummed, speaking in bizarre Internet-meme language. She slipped a t-shirt over her head as she stood up. Her bedroom was similar to mine, a mismanaged mess of boxes and furniture, signs of an upcoming move. She loaded a song on her laptop and left. When she returned she was sipping on a Capri-Sun with another in her hand.
"You know sometimes I worry that you're just using me to relive your rape," I said.
In her attempt at suppressing her laughter the clear liquid from the Capri-Sun pouch sprayed from her nose and rolled down her lips.
"Is it okay for me to laugh at that?" she asked. Her hair was buzzed, but growing back. The extreme haircut was an attempt at regaining control and she instantly regretted it, embarrassed like someone caught naked. Fortunately her face is narrow and lined with sharp angles, chin and nose and cheekbones in all the right places and littered with a star-scape of gleaming piercings on her eyebrow and nose and lip. The hair is an irrelevant sidenote, an unnecessary frame.
Small strips of white medical-tape were wrapped around several of her fingers, cuts from playing with her newest toy, a butterfly knife. I've watched her use it in the past, the blades gracefully dancing between her fingers and the clack-clack-clack of metal striking metal. Watching her do it made me nervous, left butterflies energetically batting around in my stomach and cutting up my insides. It's a hobby she picked up from a few of our other friends. She was only doing what myself and so many others have done, attempting to find peace through violence.
"You really need to stop with the butterfly knife thing," I said, eying the bandages, "This will make you the fourth person I've dated that has one."
"That says something fucked up about you, not us," she said, taking her butterfly knife in hand and twirling it among the flesh of her fingers.
Clack-clack-clack.
"I swear if I wake up castrated... well... I guess I won't do anything, considering the number of suspects."
Clack-clack-clack.
I rose from bed and dressed myself, said something about how I had to get going because of work and moving and everything that needed done. She walked me to the door and we stood in the doorway avoiding the word "goodbye."
Through her short hair I noticed a small, round, barely noticeable birthmark about an inch deep into her hairline. It was a speck, minuscule, a dot from an ink pen. She's shorter than me, and I took her head in my hand and pulled it towards me.
I left a kiss on that dot, because it was a part of her I've never kissed before.
We finally found our voices and exchanged goodbyes.
Our fingertips separated but the fluttering in my stomach lingered. As days passed the fluttering died down.
But the clack-clack-clack of one lone butterfly remains.
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