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Second Cool Day

9/28/2010

I love this weather. I opened the front door early yesterday and felt a cool—what is that? No, it couldn’t be—FALL breeze. According to the calendar, the seasons changed over a week ago but that, ladies and gentlemen, that acrid chill was what we Midwesterners called “football weather,” our cue to break out the sweaters. Then after dinner when we walked the dogs who were beside themselves with their positive good fortune—three walks in as many days, Steve said that in the car that morning the outside temperature gauge registered 58 degrees.

So for the last two, cool days I want to kiss the world, to walk up to that new mom I saw at work today and goo-goo right back at her infant who was cooing away robustly, trying out all his new sounds. And, yesterday, while running around completing various errands at work I stopped to stand, just stand in a slat of sunshine. (--Ever try that? You should. Right now. Go; I’ll be here when you get back.) This sliver of shine had found its way into the building—and I did, I took it personally. Feeling like I was entering a pool, I lifted my head and let it hit me, full in the face, and it filled me with light and an amazing sense of lightness, of traveling lighter in my skin. It made me smile for no reason at all the rest of the day and so I went home to kiss my husband, pet the dogs, and water the plants, but it must’ve been contagious because it made Steve, acting upon no request of mine, climb up the rickety attic stairs to retrieve the Halloween decorations. (Have I mentioned? Life is good.)

Days like this demand that you go out into the wondrous glow, especially after a scorching summer followed by moldy weeks of rain. And, the combination of exceedingly sunny days paired with fall gusts seems to have set off the rest of nature too, dragonflies buzzing then diving through last blooms of saffron and violet, the birds in stereo, ringing the treetops--a bird conference of chirping, all at once and madly, madly, madly. Even humanity’s noises: gears grinding, brakes stopping and starting, trucks making heavy deliveries seem part of the impromptu autumn concert, an explosion of sound.

Sitting in the yard listening to the season impact upon the world, I remembered a rich lady from graduate school; there were only eight of us in the writing program and she wasn’t one of us, but then I guess the art scene in New Orleans isn’t any different from art circles here in San Antonio (or any international city). Art geeks are art geeks and they can be more clannish than a gaggle of soccer moms, but we are always willing to invite the wealthy, patrons who throw parties at their boat houses, hoping we, the starving, will show to talk smart and look swarthy while downing their brie and casks of wine. So, no, this woman wasn’t a writer but she would host (pay for) poetry readings and include herself, inserting her name in the roster somewhere between the top and the middle poets, and I used to sigh that she had to be withstood, but one day she read something I vividly recall, “The Third Cool Day.” The piece was good, not just considering the source, but with its strong images and some salient phrasing, I’d have been proud to author it. Now, on days like this, I think of that sad lady with money but no friends, a woman who wanted to belong and then did with that poem.

I sigh to admit that the sun has gone down when, from my first cup of coffee, I let this second cool day entrance me. Before shutting off the back light I look a final moment at my lemon tree and the mint plant swaying, at the tree boughs and patio umbrella shimmering in gratitude to fall, frantic to be swept up into a change of pace. This is weather where I could (almost) stomach my own impulse for personification. The kind of day that makes me want to believe in animation, brooms, chairs, lawn furniture moving to an energized tune of their own device.

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Be in the Suburbs, Not (of Them)

9/27/2010

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I separated the slats of the bedroom blind and poked an angry eyeball in the direction of the noise, although there was no need to verify from where weedwhacking at 7:58 a.m. on a Saturday not-yet morning came. The culprit was (CENSORED), my nemesis and one reason I will not get past St. Peter at the heavenly gates. There will be no clearing security with this bad conscience. “Did you Love Thy Neighbor?”
“Not all of them, no. --I tried.”
“You held a grudge against your fellow man?”
“Most definitely. One in particular.”
“How often did you entertain these evil thoughts?”
“Almost daily, God forgive me.” What was the point of lying, not that this truth was particularly setting me “free”? I had, quite frankly, become one of those grumpy old puppet-guys who sat in the balcony and hated everything as far as (BLANK) was concerned. We have lived next door to (*&%$) for eight years and every time she cuts her grass--a whopping three times a week--and blows the clippings into the middle of the cul-de-sac I want to gift her a broom (and a dictionary so she'd know what one is and how to use it).

What was so pressing in the lawn work department that it had to be tackled before roosters have breakfasted? And, where did she think the wind sent her debris if not into her neighbors’ yards? Her habits did anything but nurture community;what kind of person did that, consistently, without a thought to others? I am not always a fresh bouquet of niceness but this lady brought out the worst in my character, and I couldn’t look at her without hearing Clint Eastwood cock his gun.

It is a selfish world, no doubt, and I should feel sorry for her because she must have no life, but I tired of that card too after she had had a pool installed (without authorization) and the chemicals burned a rectangle into our grass—which lifted up, dead & rootless, in one chunk like a giant toupee; the shape was the exact replica of her pool mechanisms which butted up against our fence. My husband tried to talk to her but she closed the door in his face. Instead of turning her in or getting angry then, we turned the other cheek and put in a small rock garden where nothing would grow and potted a lemon tree over it, figuring, If life gives you lemons. . .

Then, Ms. Sweetness & Light started calling the police on neighbors for the tiniest infraction (for noise one Friday night when four of them were sitting in their own drive having a beverage), lodging HOA complaints against other owners for the length of their grass and because she felt another took her trash out too early and then took too long retrieving the cans. She has left four notes on our door, complaining about our dogs, and filed a complaint against the lantana bed we planted at the edge of our property three springs ago. (The legal document said we had two weeks to file and mail back the report--with pictures, or we would be forced to remove it.) Oh, her list of charms goes on and on. . .

I have adopted every stance imaginable and tried various tacts. I avoided her for the longest and then guiltily invited her to a rather expensive dinner & entertainment gathering for ladies, trying to take the first step and improve relations. When that didn’t work, I attempted perfection, which did nothing to assuage her behavior but succeeded in making me more anxious and nervous. When her husband was sick I cooked a homemade meal and asked if she needed anything; I even added that we were praying for the family and his healing. “What good is God gonna do?” she’d snapped, laughing. “No, he’s deaf and off sipping Pina Coladas on a beach in the Virgin Islands.” Her comments showed me that her anger ran deeper than my patience or skills to help.

Her bitterness had become a lifestyle; it was a straightjacket she snapped herself into, and it was squeezing the life out of her. She was so obviously miserable and the sum of her decisions had put her inside a tailor-made prison where she lashed out at any who tried to assist, judging them fools. She didn't want out because she refused to see that she was in it. . .This is the final wall of futility: some issues must be addressed but all the good will in the world cannot fix what is broken inside the soul. A comment is easy to excuse, and we can chose to forgive even those who have no regret, but the prerequisite to reconciliation is relationship--and a relationship is a two-way street which requires two-party participation.

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The Beat Poets, and the Poets I'd Like to Beat

9/24/2010

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This is the true joy of life: the being used up for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clot of ailments & grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. George Bernard Shaw

In less than an hour I will be sitting outside the local post office (that no matter what time of day you go has a serpentine line, a minimum of nine people waiting in front of you each balancing eighteen boxes apiece, but the two cheerful ladies who hold down the counter exude immortal patience). In nearly fifty minutes, I will drive where I have arranged to pick up my high school junior, and perhaps because I will slide into a remote slot to let customers have the closest spaces I will feel like the Unibomber, casing the joint. My idling there will become more suspicious when I have to loiter longer than I’d like because, no matter how driven he is, my son will tarry. There could be only two people in the building (pick a building, any building) and the structure could be (a) on fire and (b) a philanthropic organization could be giving away new cars, free satellite dishes and pizza, and my son will still be the last person to vacate the space. The child simply does not know how to hurry; his is a slow-burning wick in an herbal tea universe.

I will have time, then, to relive our poetry discussion last night, when I ran to the reading room and pushed aside the music stand to retrieve a favorite book I hadn’t touched in years. I’d pushed the manuscript into his hands but when the perplexed look crossed his eyes I’d taken the book back and read the selection aloud, sure he wasn’t giving the message or the messenger a fair shot. My son hadn’t initiated a conversation with me about literature since middle school and I was freakishly overzealous: Why wasn’t he as impressed as I was, & why wasn’t this poem I had turned him on to changing his life?

In forty minutes I will open the door and insist he snap on the belt before I drive off—undoubtedly under surveillance and minutes shy of having the FBI
descend to investigate. My son will be distracted and although he is the one running late—and this scheme was his idea, insisting it’d be a quicker transition than his regular bus ride, he will be impatient to get home. In half of an hour, he will abandon his bookbag at the front door, fly over the dogs and into his shower, turning on the stereo to a station which will rattle the upstairs windows and loosen the very teeth in my gums.

Twenty minutes later, I will revisit the bookshelf he and I had chatted at and will, again, unshelf that special book, maybe even turn the page and read something else because when I had offered the book to him to take to school—as a companion piece to the one his class had read, an extension to his teacher’s lesson: wouldn’t she (stuck with some slog from the literary canon she didn't care for or wish to teach) appreciate his taking the time to dig further to join in the intellectual journey? Wouldn’t she, then, think she had done her job, passing on the torch to the next generation? But, no souls were going to be saved through poetry any time soon due to our dedication to the art because my son had gently rebuked the suggestion, and I’d nodded, Okay. . .

In ten minutes the dogs will get fed while my son shaves and dresses (in torn jeans and a graphic tee honoring one of his favorie bands, lyrical poets to hear him tell it); my husband will walk in from his work week, and the whole family will gear up for the seventy-five minute drive across town in rush hour, where the boy will ask to play the mix CD he made for his girlfriend, monopolizing the conversation with details of his upcoming date, the homecoming game at her high school. He has had four girlfriends (and they all live on the moon--which is to say he cannot find one in the same area code) but she is different; he is very into this girl and his excitement will be contagious.

Five minutes further into the evening my husband and I will drop him off and awkwardly endure their sweethearts’ embrace, clasping onto the hand each will hold the rest of the night. I will watch them, beginners at making so many memories that have yet to break their hearts, walk together toward the football stands. I don't know how long their romance will last but the week's events have reminded me of these truths: I have not always chosen correctly between ART and FAMILY, usually trying to monster them both in because I need to relate to more flesh and blood issues, not merely to thinkers who are centuries in the grave, and my son may have an intermittent love for books (which I do not understand) but he definitely knows how to latch on to what is real in the here and now.

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Greasy, Squeaky Wheels (A Timeless Fable)

9/22/2010

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Once upon a time in the far off land of Hypoc Ruesee there lived a wooly jackass. Jackass was a pretty good beast as far as jackasses were concerned, bigger than most but no richer, and as these things go he wandered in search of greener pastures and stumbled upon the kingdom. The king, diminutive of stature, was so welcoming and the fine forest folk so friendly that Jackass was smitten and took up residence, therein, planning a happy retirement.

Although on in years, the smallish king had not been in power long and, as these things go, he’d been awaiting placement so long that he flew like a well-oiled athlete when the ball was finally his and so his reputation spread. With more time on his hands now that his better-half was peddling her wares on the road (and he had to campaign less), he filled the void convening with a merry minstrel and a sarcastic jester, constant companions who honestly did love the king but fed his ego mostly because the royal paychecks fed them. The king, 24% kind and 37.5% well-intentioned, was a poor judge of character so it wasn’t entirely his fault that he entertained the inflated profusions, plus--as these things go--he wouldn’t be the first monarch in history to be led astray by false praise. But if a supple belief in his own beneficence was a weakness (--Did he not often bring himself to tears at his increasingly rare public appearances where he personally addressed his subjects?), then the king’s tragic flaw was an often headless leadership style that forced his affairs to run rather like a circus, which became apparent after the rush of the change of guard had settled.

Hard times and bad luck soon befell the nearly-enchanted castle and the king, not the wisest sage alive, let his fears govern him. Nervous that things weren’t going as planned, he allowed the minstrel to assure him that only the greatest are tested so severely and so continued to spend half the year abroad, engaging in one humbly self-serving activity after another: yachting the great seas and supping at banquet after lavish banquet all in the name of advancing the throne. Meanwhile, Jackass, a renowned brick layer, was so convinced of the king’s mission that he offered his services, and he was immediately put to work housing the king’s gardens as grumblings in the kingdom were growing and the jester had convinced the king that he needed to erect some defenses.

Of course, Jackass being Jackass couldn’t help but finish the project ahead of schedule, pruning roses and watering the orchids as he designed the wall because a thing in need of doing was a thing in need of doing--and wasn’t he a citizen of the kingdom, looking out for its best interests so who cared if the terms of his employment did not cover the extra duties he had taken upon himself to perform? And as the pages of the calendar passed, the tide, once again, turned in the king’s favor.

Not long after, a palm reader traipsed into the king’s thriving court in need of a roof against the rain. Oh, your Supreme Majesty, I am so unworthy but willing a disciple that I should twist myself in knots if given the chance to come into your imperious presence. Well, the king was so moved by this flatterer’s cunning (craftily sheathed in self-deprecation) that he hired the palm reader, who had never accurately predicted the future for a single client.

The king had no real purse for a palm reader, broken or otherwise, but he called forth the bricklaying jackass. “Henceforth, you two shall live as one to save on expense,” but no sooner had the palm reader moved in to the loft that he started rearranging, drinking up the milk in Jackass’s refrigerator with no mind to replace it. Jackass merely continued on, business as usual, while the palm reader spent less and less time at his assigned task and more and more time bending the king’s ear (the king loved a good sob story). Eventually, the palm reader’s burdens fell to Jackass to complete.

Despite the cutbacks, the hairy brick layer seemed to be prospering, and the king could be heard whispering to his cronies, Who does that brick layer think he is? Does he think he built the place? I must not be working him hard enough, and the sanctions worsened.

One day, as Jackass was weeding along the south wall, he noticed mounds of dirt that suggested that a colony of something had tunneled under the wall. But when he reported it to the king, Jackass was not a hero but the villain.

What makes you think that this is the case? the king sighed, passing the pitcher of ale to the minstrel, the jester and the palm reader. Do you have so much time on your hands that you would bother me with nonsense?

Common sense, Jackass answered before quitting the kingdom, knowing there was no worse material to carve an enemy from than the tender cloth of a former fan. It was with sad relief that he left what was no longer palatial, walls that would soon collapse and a courtyard less sunlit than he had imagined. He knew better, now, than to think that although they glistened like mad, the golden hue of the objects inside was just that, a reflection under which no deep value existed.

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Manna in the Desert (final Vegas)

9/21/2010

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“Wine?” Elizabeth asked, pouring a generous glass when I nodded vigorously. “Or I’ve got something stronger? We’re having steak, potatoes, corn and peas. Do you think we need a salad? I could make a salad. No? Well, here you go. Red wine goes with everything.” The gentlemen were out manning an age-old ritual at the grill. We were giddily enjoying relaying the juicy encounters we had encountered in their absence (or should I have said, "In their absence, we were giddily relaying. . .). We were being bad, whispering and checking around the corners so even the kids couldn't hear our girl talk.

“That’s what I’m saying,” I smiled, getting up to make the faux pas of putting ice cubes into it. “Can I help you do something? I’m not comfortable sitting here watching you run around. You worked all day before this.”

Her house was spotless with gleaming wood floors and family portraits in handsome frames along the red runner on the dining room table next to scented candles. It was always interesting to see childhood friends living adult lives and seeing how others ran their affairs and made sense of the chaos that is raising children. Meating bones of the normally invisible family dynamics & couples tensions.

“Erin is so excited you’re here. I told her you do all kinds of plays and sing and dance. She wants to sing for you, if she’s not too nervous. And she got all dressed up for you.” As if on cue, Erin bounded into the kitchen in a cornflower blue dress, her long brownish hair combed back into pretty clips (I think she may have had on her Sunday shoes over white bobby socks). “She loves to watch those shows, Dancing with the Stars and America’s Got Talent.”

“I’m gonna start taking dance lessons soon,” Erin sparked, doing a quick offkilter pirouette.

“Can you imagine if they would’ve had American Idol when we were growing up? You would’ve been famous,” Elizabeth prophesied as I nodded; this time in protest.

The kids showed me their hamsters and Erin, ipod in ear, sang for us. Then we took our dinners to the patio. It was sultry outside so the kids jumped in the pool. There were too many residual city lights to see stars but the night was incredibly bugfree. Soon the neighbors yelled that the kids were too loud and so were sent inside, but not until we had all shared bad beighbors' stories.

“Don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Chris started, cutting into his steak, “but Vegas has a homeless problem. You can’t feed them. If the police catch you, they’ll give you a ticket. –Isn’t that good meat? We’ve got great meat out here.”

“Yeah,” I started when Chris jumped up to refill my wine, “New Orleans had a lot of street people too. Always.” Apparently you could bungee jump from the Stratosphere but not aid the homeless, who really were everywhere. Steve and I had noted the entrepreneurs on both sides of the walkways over the highways with coolers of “ice cold waters for a dollar” and had counted four girls each holding punier, more pathetic homemade signs that said, “Preganant (sic) and in a bad situation” and “Saving money to fix our van.” But we’d also seen the smart-aleck whose sign read, “Why lie? I want your $1 to buy beer.” And another guy, obviously mentally ill, kept screaming obscenities and threatening to “kick anyone’s a*% with this cane.” But he had his hat out for money too.

“Las Vegas is hurting,” Elizabeth sighed. “Property’s gone to the toilet and construction halts mid-project because contractors run out of money. The schools are good, close, and my job is super-busy.” She worked at a law firm, dealing mostly with insurance fraud, and she was damned good at her job.

When Chris brought out a picture of Elizabeth’s dad, now deceased, meeting the president, I started crying again. “Oh, I loved your dad. I haven’t seen him in soo long. This picture is killing me.” Sean, an Irish immigrant, had come to the country with nothing but dreams and had opened his own video business. He was a driven and a funny man who had exposed me to true Irish culture and had given me one of my first jobs. Elizabeth wiped tears from her eyes and squeezed my hand.

"Each of us in our way had difficult upbringings," I smiled as did she, knowingly back, "but we learned to laugh at it. Hey guys, did either of us ever tell either of you about the time we were bored one weekend in Collinwood? Well, Elizabeth there got the idea to go streaking in the park..." Elizabeth laughed so hard she spit Coke, and her face was red as if she couldn't find her breath. "And, you know what she did? Beat me back to the car--with the keys and our clothes. Then she turned on the lights and chased me around the trees I was running behind, beeping the horn so the whole horny neighborhood would see me too."

As she drove us back to our luxurious hotel with the light on top that is visible from space, I got quiet, reflecting on our week in Vegas. Steve and I had done a bit of everything, overeaten expensive Kobe beef from The Burger Bar, survived a convention after party with an open bar, lobster tails and shrimp scampi. We had even played the CSI game and had tickets to see the Titanic exhibit the next day. There was even mention of a trip to Minus 5, a bar made completely of ice—chairs, walls, bar, the glasses themselves. But breaking bread with my friend and her family had been the most significant event and had brought the most peace. Getting out of the car, I thanked her again for her lovely hospitality, trying to move faster than my tears. Regretting that we didn't live closer.

As we got ready for bed upstairs with our view of the Rocky Mountains encapsulating Vegas, Elizabeth texted me one last time: “Seeing you always makes me feel so much better.”

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Homestyle Vegas (Part 1)

9/20/2010

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The Nevada night breeze was a strong but wet tapestry of hot currents threaded together from multiple directions. I leaned against the black pyramid, trying to remember what my middle-school best friend’s husband looked like; Elizabeth was at home mashing potatoes for the cook out she had invited us to so Chris was picking us up at the hotel.

I was excited and nervous about the reunion: I had only seen her once in over a decade and not since 2005 when she had moved her son and daughter out here to join up with her spouse who had landed a lucrative job as a Vegas contractor. I pulled down uselessly on the hem of my too short jeans skirt and watched Steve pace, hands in his pockets. As usual, we were conspicuously early. “There is a ton of traffic. Give the man a break. She said they live nearby.”

“How am I supposed to be of any help in recognizing him?” Steve tiffed, now in the middle of the row of taxis lined up outside the Luxor (with all the partying going on around us, I was glad to see that most were letting the sober members of society drive). “I only ever met the guy once--at our wedding.”

I paused before answering what I took as a rhetorical question, noting the tiny Asian woman in sky-high heels who would be in traction before she got to the end of the block. I was long past the age of crippling myself for fashion. “Elizabeth said it’s a midsized white car with Betty Boop decorations. She said it would be hard to miss.” Truth was, Vegas was a taxi & limo playground; cars were in short supply.

With a honk and a big smile, Chris beckoned from behind the wheel, chatting amiably when we got in. “Just leave the windows down. The air’s broke but the breeze will pick up once we get moving.” He told us he had been laid off and listed an impressive resume of the casinos and businesses he had had a hand in building. Yet it seemed that in the town of excess & indulgence where hotels had roller coasters on top of them and oxygen bars and malls inside of them selling everything from the five-flavored popcorns we had bought for Elizabeth’s children and a liberty statue made of jellie bellies, where every machine is taller, brighter and louder than the one beside it, Chris could not find employment. Apparently, the economy was the economy & no place was recession proof.

Newfangled jobs often seemed strange to me, businesses like Edible Arrangements (overpriced fruit on toothpicks) and dog hotels booming while traditional ones did not fare well. I thought the job I would most want in Vegas was selecting the mix CDs casinos played, non-stop mood-enhancing tunes. It was an eighties pop star conspiracy, a brainwashing of upbeat music (lots of Micheal Jackson) and the gamblers’ anonymous theme song, George Michael—no joke—asking gaily, “Why don’t you DO it? With a monkey on your back. Why can’t you DO it? Why can’t you set your monkey free?” Why, the day previous, I had sat at an out-of-order gaming machine (because there are no benches or free seats anywhere in Vegas—every one belongs to a lounge or a casino) and saw the employee jack hammering behind a roped off section of seats, tearing up the concrete, probably removing a machine whose slots got a little too loose or gave away millions. I never have understood how someone thinks they can beat the system or win against astronomical odds. These magnificent buildings did not pay for themselves.

One second I was lost in thought and then the skyscrapers and architectural amazements melted away and the tree lawns, mailboxes, and sidewalks of a mild suburbia appeared. Las Vegas wasn’t just about tourism, my friend and many others worked hard to create a breathing space for themselves and to call it home. I smelled the barbecue before I saw the two-story townhouse.

When we pulled into their garage and I saw Erin’s pink bicycle and my friend, crying and waving crazily with a kitchen towel from the open door, I jumped out and threw my arms around her, hugging this girl (this wife, this mother) who got her period before me, stole a boyfriend, but years later handed me $100 when I was in a tight spot in college. This woman, vital to the shred of sanity I managed to maintain in teenage-hood, knew me more intimately than I would let most in any more. Seeing her moved me to joyful sobs, waking a dormant part of myself I was ecstatic to see again (and couldn't wait to let loose on the world again). “It’s so good to see you! I cannot believe it’s been so long, my God. How are you?”

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VEGAS: Hiatus from Wholesome

9/16/2010

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As I rode the elevator with Elvis this morning, I suspected that his previous night had just ended, haggard as he looked in the harsh day lights. Then, too, I counted five more Elvis impersonators by noon. . .Vegas is a peculiar town, decades after its founding fathers--the Rat Pack & organized crime families--supposedly moved on to shadier things than the desert. It is no longer the same grotto glamorized in black and white flicks where ladies in siren red lipstick and stilettos market at 10:00 am to have supplies when cocktail hour hit even the suburbs at high noon (or should I say especially?). Regardless of an onslaught of facelifts and persona grafts, its sustainability is what perhaps impresses me most, lasting in the unlikeliest of places and continuing to tickle the lit corner on the sinnier side of our collective imagination. Undoubtedly the cheesiest town on the map, Vegas stakes its claim on B, C and who-the-heck-are-you? rated “talent” that still, somehow, demands pricey admissions. It's a weird place I cannot help but have a soft spot for because it harbors no delusions of grandeur.

Vegas has a spotty complexion but no identity crisis, and Las Vegas seems to be at home in its flawed skin from the giant picture of Donny & Marie airbrushed (paint chipping near Marie's eye and Donny's bottom lip) across the entire side of the hotel they are performing at to the enormous bronze statue (made with the craftsmanship of a chocolate Easter bunny mold) of Siegfried, Roy and The Tiger alongside a manmade lake as unnaturally blue as the pellets one drops in toilet water. Speaking of throwbacks, Vegas is also probably the last public sector on earth where pregnant mothers and their dogs can smoke anywhere. It is impossible to walk the strip without being assaulted by cigarette smoke, even though some casinos like the Tropicana try to disguise the accumulated years of blown carcinogens by masking it with a fake coconut, pineapple fragrance that could choke a cat.

As I walk Vegas, which is hotter than Texas this time of year, I cannot help but love the fantasy and the desperate efforts that have been poured into achieving grand-scale illusion from the unemployed wannabe starlets off the bus dressed as Storm Troopers, angels & demons to the consistently sold out David Copperfield, juggling, ventriloquist and no-name animal acts. (Really? Even if Copperfield is the magician’s magician, anything short of Houdini, who was otherworldly in my book, I don’t get the appeal of magic shows. . .)

Pedestrians learn quickly who has the stripper cards because vendors stand on the corners of almost every street and click the cards with their fingernails to draw your attention—but it is simple classical conditioning: you hear that sound a few times and see what accompanies it, and then you no longer have to look or to guess what this troll sells. And, although the city has cleaned up at least the main drag, the sidewalk of which was covered with pornographic trading cards as plentiful as confetti the last time we conferenced here in 2007, the number of young families and moms pushing 3-4 babies in a stroller with one hand while trying to down a three-foot neon blue bong filled with daiquiri is astounding. Just what part of Vegas spells out FAMILY vacation to you?

What is the lure of Vegas that draws them from every age, economic group, and country? The love for gambling? A million to one chance to change their lives instantly with a collosal win, or the complicity of its lurid promise: “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas”? (And, what is it about being in the desert that makes me crave seafood?) Regardless of the distraction, I am happy to be out and about by myself people watching. I walk for miles and miles every day in this convention town listening to Celine Dion and 80’s party music pumped out of giant speakers along the sidewalks, lest one might have a moment for reflection, quiet time to reconsider that final bet or whether or not to dial that stranger’s number to arrange a tryst.

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Epic Shower of Joy (3 of 3)

9/10/2010

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“How could someone do that to us? How did she know we weren’t hurt in here? Because she didn’t care! She was only interested in saving her own neck,” Seamus exclaimed, edging on hysterical (and whose adrenaline wasn’t flaring after that car chase? We had tailed within legal limits while the driver had zigzagged down side streets with no signals, driving in the wrong direction and cutting off other cars to lose us. I had watched her run three more stop signs before disappearing). Now, we were waiting inside the cab on the side of the road, the truck’s hazards blinking out our precarious position, while Steve finished the police report. I was trying to keep from vomiting.

“Hear that?!” Seamus updated, voice gleeful with justice. “Police just caught her. She was at her house and her parents gave her up. Dad says he’ll prosecute. Boy, is she in trouble now--”

“Wait, shhh. I want to hear this,” I lied, turning up the radio because the shock in Seamus’ voice showed me he had witnessed a cruelty I wished he hadn’t and that something extra, almost sinister, in his tone said it was a lesson I couldn’t undo. (Yet if that had been my son commiting the wrong, I would not have shielded him either; he would have had to stand up and face the consequences.)

“Oh, cool,” Seamus said, buying into it because the topic was on music. “It’s a rock interview.”

At dinner, the three of us held hands and prayed for everyone involved in the incident, mostly thankful for another day to be alive and together, but I couldn’t stop my hand from shaking, thinking about the reckless, frightened girl who had hit us and fled, in light of the David Bowie quote we had happened upon earlier: "Heathenism is a state of mind. You can take it that I’m referring to one who does not see his world. He has no mental light. He destroys almost unwittingly. He cannot feel any God’s presence...He is the 21st century man." Do unto others as you would have them do unto you is a provacative imperative. I am not vindictive; plus, I have skeletons with my name engraved in their bones, sins I wish I didn't own so if that girl whose name I do not know lets this scenario humble and change her for the positive, then I am content with that outcome and I wish her family well. Mistakes are inevitable and even compounded ones, forgivable, as long as they are mopped up responsibly.

Afterwards, back at home in the hot cave and feeling like the sad heroine in a gothic novel, I lit every candle I owned, hawking over Seamus who distractedly struggled to do physics in its spotty light. “Let me get you the mechanic’s flashlight from the garage.” (Meanwhile, Steve was across the street at the neighbors. We had run into the family at the restaurant (!) and Steve--who has a locksmithing license--was helping them break into their own home; they used their garage door as sole access and power was still out. . .)

When it simply got too dark to fight it anymore, we kind of fell into a cluster around the flickering living room candles, wondering aloud how things were in the “old-fashioned days” when bodies must have relied on sunrise and sunset to mark their days as candles didn’t spark off much resistance to nightfall. From memory, Seamus played songs on his guitar and I laid back, singing along when I knew the selection or could remember the lyrics. Steve relaxed and enjoyed the unexpected boon of family time when we weren't each going in separate directions.

I thought about a book I’d seen the day before: 14,000 things to be happy about, a random list of objects/ideas like rainbow fish, the smell of kindergarten glue. I had to smile, and what a week it had been! One friend had lost a friend who had suffered painfully for a year and was finally released in death, while another’s newborn grandbaby had a rare and chronic condition. It brought to mind a couple I had read about whose first & only child was born terminally ill, but the 99 days that that infant had lived were spent gloriously; her incredible parents focused on the time they had and loved her like there was no tomorrow (because there wasn’t), documenting every precious detail that those of us with time take for granted. (What I wouldn’t give for sa luminous soul and boundless hope.)

I sang a little louder (a) to keep up with my son who was howling like the Alpha coyote, (b) knowing our impromptu jam was winding down like a fitting “Taps” on these twenty-four hours. Each doing our best to hang loose but stay tightly woven on a tough day, raising our voices and our hearts to strike out against a negative canvas.

(The minute we crawled into our respective beds, we cheered, "Woo Hoo!" in unison because the air conditioning had blasted back on. At last.)

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Epic Storms of Woe (cont'd, 2 of 3)

9/9/2010

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The neighbor’s loud motor jarred me awake, as usual (he gunned the engine, warming up the clunker for 15 minutes every morning in order to get to wherever he’s going). Then it was the trash truck lifting & crunching and, finally, a redundant alarm that told me to get cracking. I heard the rain before it drenched me, since my car was in the drive. The wipers whizzed as fast as they could go but the volume of rainfall made visibility dangerously low and when eighteen-wheelers--which Texas seems to produce--blasted past I was blinded, holding my breath and my spot in the lane until I regained that five feet of road I could see in front of me.

It took forty minutes to drive 15 freeway exits, knuckles death-gripped around the steering and hands aching when I reached the office. As I packed up my thermos and appointment book, I noted HAZMAT trucks parked in the fire lane and when I walked into the building a fleet of industrial fans and dehumidifiers blew plaster, dust, work boot dirt and flits of fiberglass into the air. The sneezing started immediately and my eyes watered the rest of the shift.

The building had flooded over the weekend so furniture was piled high, carpets were rolled and every available garbage can bulged. Baseboards had been removed and left out to dry, nail side up, and drywall had been sawed off where it had taken water, exposing the pink insulation which blew about like cotton candy at a fairgrounds. Internet was down and the motherboard on the main computer was fried so my job that day entailed clean up and damage control for incoming calls. Although none of that was storm related (a pipe had burst in the kitchen), we did have a separate flood issue: the stone column at the entrance absorbed all the standing water it could and became saturated, flowing so rapidly out at the base of the windows that it would pool a second after you’d mopped.

After work I drove home, a repeat performance of above except that the weather had worsened and the wind, picked up. Because the community’s gate had worked fine, I got mad when our garage door wouldn’t (my pants had just dried off from the morning’s interlude). It wasn’t until I had stood under where the roof drained (directly above the electronic garage door opener mount) and manually punched in the code numerous times that I realized the power was out.

You don’t gauge dependency on technology until forced to go without it. No power means I cannot open the garage to stow the flag we left out from Labor Day which was blown off its pedestal and rolled back and forth across the street, giving our trash cans a run for their money. I could not get online to see what Sophie had made for dinner or boil water myself--while the freezer defrosted. (CPS had no updates or ETA for service to replace the burned out transmitter and with a reported 95,000 homes without electricity what could we do?)

. . .So, it was here where Seamus’ and my yesterdays intersected. He had come home to find me in this dusky room contemplating my own woes when he had flopped in, irritated that his girlfriend was having a meltdown over losing her job—and then his overview had made me want to hunt down his stalker from the bus stop.

“Power’s out. Why don’t you just go pick up a pizza?” I suggested to my husband who had walked in right after Seamus. “Out six hours and counting.”

“Then everybody get in the car,” he’d said instead, opening the door back up.
I had lost all motivation but at least the rain had also stopped. . .

“What in God’s green earth was that?” I asked a minute later, rubbing my neck because I had been thrown against the seat belt and the force had snapped my head forward. We were stopped at a red light on the main thoroughfare to the restaurant when I had felt a strong but muted hit (Steve’s F150’s heavy-duty construction had absorbed the impact, blunting it).

In the second it takes you to register that you have been in an accident, the car that had plowed into us had spun around in an illegal U-turn and was getting away, smashed front and all. The guys took longer to process than I had but Steve kicked into gear and followed suit, pursuing the law (and jaw) breaker.
“Get his license plate!” Steve yelled, calling 911 as Seamus and I scrambled for a scrap of paper. “I’d like to report a hit-and-run.”

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Epic Fail (To Be Continued. . .)

9/8/2010

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“Well, that just freakin’ sucks!” Seamus says, throwing down his bookbag before kicking off gigantic tennis shoes. He is soaked and from without in the storm the teen enters, bringing a second, internal storm with him. If his words hadn’t convinced me (they had, potty mouth) than the power with which he had slammed the front door--making the wreath and its flowery antennae--rattle like teeth knocked loose from a punch in the mouth, did.

“Tough day?” I managed, although I was still having trouble downloading my own strife and didn’t feel sturdy enough to yoke his yet. “Calm down. Take a breath, and tell me what’s going on.”

“Epic fail, Mom. You have no idea. First, the molester lady at the bus stop, where we waited twenty-five minutes in the pouring rain for the driver—who is never on time this year, and now (his girlfriend) is having a really bad day and is taking it out on me. First she calls me in class when I cannot speak to her and now she won’t pick up the phone.”

Before I take my turn and catch you up to speed on where I’ve been (--Colonial times, the Dark Ages? I don’t know, but it’s someplace with no AC or phone lines. No internet thanks to hurricane Hermine, which was downgraded to a TS although it dumped a foot of rain on San Antonio, taking out our power), I must have details from my son on the pedophile. “What do you mean, molester?”

“Yeah, this creepy lady in a white car rolls up to the bus stop and asks me and Keith if we want a ride to school,” and he raises a finger as if to stop me before I form the question, “which of course I was going to say, No, to off the bat, but then I knew she was cuckoo when she said, Course, I’ll take you home to dry you off first, before taking you to school. . .”

“She said WHAT?!” I sat up in the chair I was slumped in, where I had been sitting on and off for three hours, trying to move as little as possible in the hot, dark house. “How is that getting you to school on time, taking you to HER house to dry off?! What did this woman look like? How old was she and what kind of a car did she drive?”

“Don’t worry, Mom. You’ve made me watch so many anti-molester movies—and now, I am glad, I am--that you did so you have nothing to worry about. Plus, I think she was like from another country.”

“Bud, you’re too sweet—and trusting. Have you never heard of Made in China? Do you think places like Malaysia don’t manufacture crazies just as well as we can?” I pictured this woman of a harmless appearance driving around, taking advantage of inclement weather to make her offer to handsome but naive athletes while her killer husbandslashboyfriend waits at the motel with a mask on and a chainsaw in his hands. “My mind can be a scary place, yes, son, but the world is even scarier (and nowhere near as funny). --I want to think you’d do whatever you needed to to defend yourself. Always! Kick, bite, scream, urinate on yourself if you have to to make her think you’re nuts—”

“Thanks, Mom, but I’m burning daylight here,” Seamus grinned, pointing at his hulking bookbag, which he had slung back over his shoulder.

“It’s gonna be hotter upstairs,” I called as he climbed the stairs to his room, “and darker. Why not do your homework at the kitchen table? Where there’s more light?” (And I can keep an eye on you to know you're safe. . .)

“I will,” he mumbled, none too excited at the suggestion. “Just let me get settled first.”

I watched him go and his voice fade, wondering what had happened to the Thousand Acre Wood? How many years ago was it when he, voice of exasperated innocence and inexperience, used to argue, “But, Mom, they said it on television! It HAS to be true.” To the time when my boy was incapable of an interior thought, broadcasting them all? And why did I feel, now, like the inverse was true, that there was so much more he was privy to that I did not know (and probably would not have liked)?

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Second Cool Day

Be in the Suburbs, Not (of Them)

The Beat Poets, and the Poets I'd Like to Beat

Greasy, Squeaky Wheels (A Timeless Fable)

Manna in the Desert (final Vegas)

Homestyle Vegas (Part 1)

VEGAS: Hiatus from Wholesome

Epic Shower of Joy (3 of 3)

Epic Storms of Woe (cont'd, 2 of 3)

Epic Fail (To Be Continued. . .)

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