Drove to Chicago

Sometime in May, 2007, en route to Chicago...to play some gigs.

Into the Desert

Give me the road, like an open hand, that I might trace its lifelines along the length of my own, forgetting that we are not the same, but maybe we are, because every thing is a jumble of molecules and particules, and who knows whether tomorrow will come, and what does that mean anyway?

You see a lot of beautiful stuff out here, alone.  The landscape so flat and naked, inviting and unpretentious.  I look out over the arc of my steering wheel, transfixed by the sheer nothingness in front of me.

Then there's a little girl smoking a cigarette by the side of the road.  A pick-up truck pulls over, and they ride off into the sunset.  The trucks and the cigarettes and the paved highways simmering in the slanting evening sun, who's tried so desperately to make everything explode.  He worked all day to heat the Earth to its boiling point, but night is drawing his power from him, like a whisper, or a kiss on the ear.

And the Moon hastens the revelers of the night, who emerge like children into the dewy dusk, the sweat of day finally evaporating, and they shout and laugh with glee, saying, we waited all day for this!

Desperation: A Dark Look at the Potential Consequences of Irrational Decision-Making

I heard from my mom who heard from my aunt that Dress Barn is hiring. Actually, Dress Barn is desperate for help. While she was making her purchases, my aunt was solicited by the cashier, who asked if she knew of anyone who wanted to work. The aunt didn't volunteer my name, which is surprising considering how the older generation of my family seems to jump at the opportunity to volunteer one of their spry young kin for some sort of disagreeable task as though by being related this sort of thing is acceptable and should at times be appreciated--but I digress... All of this just happened to transpire on the Saturday--let's face it, one of the many Saturdays--when I was in the middle of (another) existential crisis revolving around my current unemployment, my future aspirations (or lack thereof) and the prospect of a perpetual wealth of possibilities (all of which I know I am capable of succeeding at, the real dilemma being which to do first).

Any other day, I would not have settled for working in retail. Retail is the one area of employment I just can't see myself working in. I would be much more content delivering pizzas--happy even--if such an occupation were not so disregarded by my parents for one, but folding blouses and dressing mannequins? Hell no. And especially not at Dress Barn. The name itself sparks images in my head of boxy, matronly dresses and floors covered in sawdust. (My sister bought her Confirmation/eighth grade graduation dress from Dress Barn. It was a rose-colored, button-down, full-length dress covered in little rosettes down the front, with short sleeves and a collar...and shoulder pads, epic shoulder pads. It was 1995, and I was in first grade, but don't let that fool ya. I developed a speedy and steadfast aversion to Dress Barn and everything that name summoned up into my over-active mind. That's how I was as a child, attributing characteristics to people and places based on their names; growing up I was terrified of the flea market...)

So that was the ongoing prejudice for Dress Barn that I began my day with, as I do everyday, whether conscious of it or not. And yet, after I heard of the job opportunity, I was so...conflicted. They are desperate. I am desperate. Wouldn't that be a match made in heaven? a blissful marriage where all needs are met, at least the basic need of an employee and employment, respectively?

Here was a J-O-B, an adult situation to add to my life that would also add some numbers to my shrinking bank account while also allowing me to create an alternate universe for myself, one in which I help middle-aged women with no sense of style find clothes to feed that taste. Of course, as this other person in this other world, I would actually enjoy my new-found calling, going so far as to adhere to a frumpy dress code consisting of floor length, floral skirts and pastel tank tops...but not sexy, low-cut tank tops. I'm talking about the ones where the sleeveless-ness begins right at the armpit, sort of where Barbie's arm attaches to her plastic shoulder; imagine what Barbie looks like when her arms fall out and you would see me, except, this pastel tank top I will take to wearing will not show off my (nonexistent) curves, and the only sex appeal will be generated by the obtrusiveness of the seam of my bra, crossing straight across the cup: above the seam is lace, below is silk (in case you were wondering what the seam is for). That's about as risqué as it gets, and that's not saying much. But if I'm feeling frisky, I might get a perm; girls with straight hair always spend their lives wishing they could have those lush curls...and vice versa.

Have I sunk so low? Is money really more important than my own self-worth? And even if I didn't start dressing as though every day were Easter Sunday, would my happiness remain intact? Debatable.

Reluctantly, I agree to run errands with my mom, mostly to get out of the damn house, which is beginning to feel a bit like a prison cell, a stifling, soul-sucking trap. Before we leave, though, I add Dress Barn's number to my cellphone, hoping my spirits will rally before my desperation presses the TALK button.

Unlikely Allies

I fake-smile at her from across the kitchen table to show that I am annoyed to have my morning solitude interrupted.  Instead of the usual, "Let it go" that is meant to put me in a calm, Zen-like mood, but which only ever serves to frustrate me further, she fake-smiles back as though to say, "I know.  Me too."

May 1, 2009: The Green Man with the Ashtray Hand

I was lounging, fetchingly, on the brick walkway of Lowry Mall, just opposite the Memorial Union clock tower.  A man with long, dark hair and a dark beard sat in front of me, just past beyond my feet were planted, but I wasn’t paying him much attention.  Suddenly, he came around to me and held out his tattooed stump of a left arm, and where a hand should have been was a decorative ceramic ashtray.  In the ashtray was my turquoise ring, which I hadn’t realized I’d dropped.  It must have rolled down to where he was sitting when I wasn’t paying attention.  He had a brilliant and slightly capricious smile—a real charmer—but I let him sit down with me anyway.  Across from me on the ground he was suddenly whole again, and the tattoos were gone.  He looked like Devendra Banhart.  Maybe he really was.  I thought about Chase in San Francisco and how I would be less frightened in this situation if this strange man were Chase instead.  (But even Chase scares me slightly; he’s too skinny.)  As the bearded man spoke to me, I noticed that his skin had a slight greenish tint to it, like he had at one time been a plant and was now taking human hormones; he wasn’t quite there yet.  I think he told me I looked colored too.  ME?  You’re green!  What?  He didn’t believe me.  We sat there gazing at each other, fingers entwined.  We slept together on the couch in the sunroom, and when I heard her stirring in the kitchen, I wondered what Jacquie would think if she saw us there together.