My dad took on saltwater fish as a hobby when we lived in Denver’s Park Hill neighborhood, but he remained loyal to his fish shop even after we moved to the suburbs. Tropical Seas was a converted house on the south side of Colfax on the way to City Park. The upstairs was full of sunlight and indoor koi ponds and water lilies and the calming sound of bubbling water fountains. But we never lingered upstairs for very long, my dad always headed straight to the back stairs. Descending into the basement was like entering a different world -- a cold, dark, damp, freaky world. Stocked tanks were stacked floor to ceiling along multiple walls, the fluorescents and ultraviolets used to light them provided the only illumination in the basement and gave everything an eerie purplish glow. Schools of brightly colored fish were easily spooked and as soon as someone would approach them they would dart away from the glass en masse. On the counter near the cash register sat rows and rows of brandy snifters housing single Betas, kept in solitary confinement to keep them from ripping each other apart. That was all kid’s stuff. In the back room, beyond the exotic dolphin fish, past the stick-like salt water crabs, tucked away in a room with enormous tanks for enormous creatures is where she lived.
Medusa.
Medusa, the gigantic and ridiculously old eel, was Tropical Sea’s mascot for all intents and purposes. Everyone knew who she was. I couldn’t tell you how long she was exactly, but there was never a point where you could see her entire body. Wound around the rocks in her tank she could have gone on forever for all I knew. She was certainly thicker than my leg and I wasn’t a petite kid. Her skin looked like a boiled white sausage, and I imagined she smelled of meat and seaweed and dirt. Filmy eyes fixed in a stare at nothing in particular sat in sunken pockets on either side of her head. She had tiny cracked teeth that I could see when her mouth would fall open and slowly close, moved by the current of the filter no doubt. It gave her the appearance of a crazy old woman quietly talking to herself. If you squinted you could even make out a wig askew atop her head. She was definitely the oldest thing I’d ever seen, and I had a great grandmother who lived to 107 years-old mind you. I don’t remember being frightened of her, but in retrospect, how could I not have been? The image of her blindly mouthing words scares the crap out of me, she could have been casting evil spells for all I know. She was just so big and ancient and unlike anything I’d ever seen – like an alien stored in formaldehyde for observation. How could it have been anything but absolutely terrifying? Yet we visited her every time we were there. I was a lot braver as a kid than I turned out to be as an adult.
I’m not at all interested in eating fish or seafood of any kind. It’s kind of creeps me out. Okay, maybe the idea of lobster piques my interest but if I were to be completely honest I think it’s just the melted butter that sounds appealing. Of course, if I were to dip a hunk of human flesh in a cup of delicious melted butter I’m sure it would taste like wonderfully buttery chicken. I could do without the lobster, I just don’t dig on the seafood tip -- or human flesh for the record. No thanks to sushi or salmon or shrimp cocktail or even imitation crab for this girl. Why, when the rest of my family eats so normally? My brother is a chef for cripe’s sake. I never had a reason until this morning when the image of Medusa’s disturbing face flashed across my mind, completely unprovoked. The memory came out of nowhere as I was getting into my car and I felt a cold chill go up my spine. Could Medusa be working on my palate subconsciously after all these years? Could she be the source of my aversion to seafood? Could I finally have an answer to the question I seemed to be asked all the time, “what is wrong with you?” Now when offered fish I can just wave it off, “No, I can’t, there was a giant eel named Medusa when I was a kid – it’s a long story.”
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Putting It All In Perspective
I did something stupid last weekend. Sounds like the beginning of a teen pregnancy story, but no, all I did was leave my bag in the car.
After a lovely visit with some dear friends, I skipped down the driveway to where my car was parked on the street of their residential neighborhood. I stopped in my tracks when I saw the broken safety glass spread out on the passenger seat. If I would have been carrying my bag I would have dropped it in shock.
The Goldfinches!
I thought of the bird feeder Jenny proudly pointed out as we walked up to the house just a couple hours earlier, it had been covered in adorable little Goldfinches munching on bird seed. One of them must have flown into my car window and was surely bleeding to death somewhere near by.
Oh, poor bird, Jenny is going to be heart-broken.
Didn’t I leave my bag there?
Hmm, where’s my bag?
Could a fatally injured Goldfinch carry a medium-sized messenger bag?
Wait for it.
Hey…someone broke into my car!
I jogged back up the house, shaking more than was probably appropriate, and breathlessly told my friends what had happened. Jenny calmly called the police. Mark and Gaye and I walked around outside to see if the 13 year-old who had broken into my car on a dare had dropped the bag in a bush or behind a fence. No such luck. Jenny and I exchanged some jokes about insurance fraud and semen samples being left at the scene of the crime. Gaye commented on how well I was handling the whole situation and I smiled appreciatively. Yeah, I was handling it really well.
I winded my way up and then down Laurel Canyon, making a mental list of everything that I had I the bag:
Wallet with ID and a couple credit cards, only had seven dollars in cash though. That should piss off the middle-aged heroin addict who broke into my car.
Phone – it was a piece of crap and I needed a new one.
Blackberry – it was work’s not mine so, oh well.
Organizer with calendar and the credit cards I never use and Christmas gift cards. Grrr, I was going to get a new comforter with that Macy’s card.
iPod – shoot, why do I carry all this stuff around with me?
Eye drops – dammit, eye drops are expensive.
Makeup bag – sigh, I really liked some of that stuff but I probably won’t replace it.
I started to choke up when I unlocked the front door. Eric would see my face and rush to me and I would burst to tears in his arms as I detailed the events in between sobs. But the living room was empty, and I could just make out the sound of his shower running in the back of the apartment. I didn’t have the heart to be melodramatic on my own so I sat down and started making my calls. The police and my bank and my credit cards and the DMV and the credit bureaus. And that was that.
“It’s so invasive, it’s like being raped!” a coworker exclaimed when I told her about the break-in. Um, really? Like being raped? Golly, I really don’t think so. It sucks, sure, but you have to be able to keep it all in perspective. Insurance is going to take care of most of the stolen items. I squirrel money away in secret hiding spots like an old woman, so I’m fine until I get my debit card replaced. No one was hurt; it’s all just “stuff” and if the homeless single mother who broke into my car was able to sell my iPod for some food for her kids then by all means, let her have it. In the grand scheme of things, I’m one lucky lady and I often forget that.
Twenty four hours later I waited in a cramped Starbucks for my drink only to have the barista call out the wrong order with my name. I really thought I was going to punch someone or at the very least start crying. How in the hell does “vanilla latte” sound anything like “mocha?!” And what’s with the eye-roll when I ask for a replacement drink?! “Forget it, I’ll just take the mocha,” and I forced my way out of the store past a woman in a stupid sequined headband. I walked home seething, grinding my teeth. I had to hop out of the way when an SUV jumped a stop sign and some of the mocha that I didn’t order spilled on my favorite scarf which is dry-clean only. I’ll never take it to get dry-cleaned because I’m too cheap and lazy. WHY ME?!? I screamed out of frustration and anger and an overwhelming sense of injustice. I was the crazy lady screaming for no reason on the street.
Maybe I’m not so good at keeping it all in perspective after all.
After a lovely visit with some dear friends, I skipped down the driveway to where my car was parked on the street of their residential neighborhood. I stopped in my tracks when I saw the broken safety glass spread out on the passenger seat. If I would have been carrying my bag I would have dropped it in shock.
The Goldfinches!
I thought of the bird feeder Jenny proudly pointed out as we walked up to the house just a couple hours earlier, it had been covered in adorable little Goldfinches munching on bird seed. One of them must have flown into my car window and was surely bleeding to death somewhere near by.
Oh, poor bird, Jenny is going to be heart-broken.
Didn’t I leave my bag there?
Hmm, where’s my bag?
Could a fatally injured Goldfinch carry a medium-sized messenger bag?
Wait for it.
Hey…someone broke into my car!
I jogged back up the house, shaking more than was probably appropriate, and breathlessly told my friends what had happened. Jenny calmly called the police. Mark and Gaye and I walked around outside to see if the 13 year-old who had broken into my car on a dare had dropped the bag in a bush or behind a fence. No such luck. Jenny and I exchanged some jokes about insurance fraud and semen samples being left at the scene of the crime. Gaye commented on how well I was handling the whole situation and I smiled appreciatively. Yeah, I was handling it really well.
I winded my way up and then down Laurel Canyon, making a mental list of everything that I had I the bag:
Wallet with ID and a couple credit cards, only had seven dollars in cash though. That should piss off the middle-aged heroin addict who broke into my car.
Phone – it was a piece of crap and I needed a new one.
Blackberry – it was work’s not mine so, oh well.
Organizer with calendar and the credit cards I never use and Christmas gift cards. Grrr, I was going to get a new comforter with that Macy’s card.
iPod – shoot, why do I carry all this stuff around with me?
Eye drops – dammit, eye drops are expensive.
Makeup bag – sigh, I really liked some of that stuff but I probably won’t replace it.
I started to choke up when I unlocked the front door. Eric would see my face and rush to me and I would burst to tears in his arms as I detailed the events in between sobs. But the living room was empty, and I could just make out the sound of his shower running in the back of the apartment. I didn’t have the heart to be melodramatic on my own so I sat down and started making my calls. The police and my bank and my credit cards and the DMV and the credit bureaus. And that was that.
“It’s so invasive, it’s like being raped!” a coworker exclaimed when I told her about the break-in. Um, really? Like being raped? Golly, I really don’t think so. It sucks, sure, but you have to be able to keep it all in perspective. Insurance is going to take care of most of the stolen items. I squirrel money away in secret hiding spots like an old woman, so I’m fine until I get my debit card replaced. No one was hurt; it’s all just “stuff” and if the homeless single mother who broke into my car was able to sell my iPod for some food for her kids then by all means, let her have it. In the grand scheme of things, I’m one lucky lady and I often forget that.
Twenty four hours later I waited in a cramped Starbucks for my drink only to have the barista call out the wrong order with my name. I really thought I was going to punch someone or at the very least start crying. How in the hell does “vanilla latte” sound anything like “mocha?!” And what’s with the eye-roll when I ask for a replacement drink?! “Forget it, I’ll just take the mocha,” and I forced my way out of the store past a woman in a stupid sequined headband. I walked home seething, grinding my teeth. I had to hop out of the way when an SUV jumped a stop sign and some of the mocha that I didn’t order spilled on my favorite scarf which is dry-clean only. I’ll never take it to get dry-cleaned because I’m too cheap and lazy. WHY ME?!? I screamed out of frustration and anger and an overwhelming sense of injustice. I was the crazy lady screaming for no reason on the street.
Maybe I’m not so good at keeping it all in perspective after all.
$120
My first job after moving to Los Angeles was as a weekend hostess at Eatwell, a little greasy spoon in West Hollywood. Eatwell and I were an absolutely perfect fit. It was walking distance to my apartment, the vibe was laid back and gay men made up the majority of the clientele. As a six year old I began what would become a lifelong love affair with gay men when my best friend at the time, Eugene (aka Bunky), and I would dress up in my mother’s old bridesmaids dresses and put on elaborate shows. My regulars at Eatwell were all just older versions of my Bunky, but with hard pecs and oiled biceps.
I loved working at Eatwell from my very first shift and we all became a fast family of struggling artists and talents just waiting to be discovered. In this family the role of my older sister was played by a radically charming woman named Claudine. A rockstar lesbian who knew how to wear a beat-up cowboy hat with authenticity, Claudine had the kind of confidence and charisma that I had always coveted. She played pretty regularly around town and the first show I went to is burned in my memory. It was at The Joint on Pico and Robertson and I got there at 8:45 for the 9:00 show. There were still chairs stacked on tables when I walked into dark space and I recall the bartender taking me up on my offer to help take the stools down from the bar. Seven years later and I still haven’t gotten used to the fashionably late schedule and usually end up being the first person at any organized event. Claudine owned any stage she walked onto, strumming her guitar and singing her funny, heartbreaking, angry, beautiful songs. I always loved it when she’d cover Neil Diamond’s “I Am I Said.” I was totally a groupie.
As the months passed I finally started waiting tables and we worked side by side three or four days a week and began to spend more time together outside of work. We’d drink at The Silver Spoon, one of the few secret bars you could smoke in after a certain hour of the night. She was a horrible dart player, but dammit if she didn’t throw them harder than anyone I’d ever seen. When I started doing improv she was the loudest and kindest laugher in the house. We went two-stepping and then showed off our new moves for anyone who’d watch. She told me to watch out for the “Jim the New Guy,” said he wasn’t worth the effort. But he was straight so I tried. She ended up being right, he wasn’t worth the effort. I would house-sit for her and didn’t even complain when the cat attacked me repeatedly in the middle of the night. She charmed my mom and my Seattle friends. Everyone fell immediately in love with her, how could you not? She was like a tornado.
After a couple years slinging hash browns, I traded in my apron for the soulless corporate life. Around the same time Claudine also left the restaurant in order to make a serious go at her music career, devoting all her time to her ultimate goal of fame. My new relationship with Eric was becoming more serious, Claudine moved east into the heart of Hollywood and we saw less and less of each other. When we did hang out she admitted that she was struggling, some times worse than others, but still plugging away. She was in the studio a lot and had a producer and with that came some more opportunities, we all knew she was on the verge of something big. There was no doubt in my mind that she was on her way to greatness.
In January of 2006 I received a call at work late in the afternoon. It was Claudine and she sounded really strange, she was laughing a weird nervous laugh in direct contrast to her usual confidence. Finally she came out with it, she was incredibly embarrassed to have to ask but she didn’t know who else to go to. “My cable is going to be turned off and I don’t get paid until next week, can you help me?” A little over a hundred dollars to keep the cable company off her back and she’d have the money back to me before MLK’s birthday. I was actually touched that she would come to me. Me of all the people in her world...this is what true friendship is, helping each other out when one is down. No judgment, no guilt trips, just one friend asking and the other coming to her need. I went down to the ATM and withdrew some cash. I sealed it in an envelope with a smiley face and messengered it to her so that she could get to the cable office before they closed for the weekend. I drove home that night, happy with myself. I never talked to Claudine again.
I didn’t want her to think that I was angry so I waited until February to call. Number disconnected. I called her girlfriend Michelle and left a light message saying that we all needed to get together for brunch. I never heard back. In the years I knew Claudine I never saw her do any drugs, and her drinking never seemed out of control. Michelle was an EMT so I was confident that they were both okay. Even so, I googled them but no obituaries or news of a horrible accident popped up. I felt weird calling her mom or going into any sort of serious detective mode so I just let it go…let her go. I can only think that it’s incredibly rare that the actually monetary value of a relationship can be determined. But it must happen once and awhile because it happened to me. Our friendship as worth $120.00 to her. Six crisp twenty dollar bills. Makes me feel cheap somehow…or maybe I’m just a really great deal.
I loved working at Eatwell from my very first shift and we all became a fast family of struggling artists and talents just waiting to be discovered. In this family the role of my older sister was played by a radically charming woman named Claudine. A rockstar lesbian who knew how to wear a beat-up cowboy hat with authenticity, Claudine had the kind of confidence and charisma that I had always coveted. She played pretty regularly around town and the first show I went to is burned in my memory. It was at The Joint on Pico and Robertson and I got there at 8:45 for the 9:00 show. There were still chairs stacked on tables when I walked into dark space and I recall the bartender taking me up on my offer to help take the stools down from the bar. Seven years later and I still haven’t gotten used to the fashionably late schedule and usually end up being the first person at any organized event. Claudine owned any stage she walked onto, strumming her guitar and singing her funny, heartbreaking, angry, beautiful songs. I always loved it when she’d cover Neil Diamond’s “I Am I Said.” I was totally a groupie.
As the months passed I finally started waiting tables and we worked side by side three or four days a week and began to spend more time together outside of work. We’d drink at The Silver Spoon, one of the few secret bars you could smoke in after a certain hour of the night. She was a horrible dart player, but dammit if she didn’t throw them harder than anyone I’d ever seen. When I started doing improv she was the loudest and kindest laugher in the house. We went two-stepping and then showed off our new moves for anyone who’d watch. She told me to watch out for the “Jim the New Guy,” said he wasn’t worth the effort. But he was straight so I tried. She ended up being right, he wasn’t worth the effort. I would house-sit for her and didn’t even complain when the cat attacked me repeatedly in the middle of the night. She charmed my mom and my Seattle friends. Everyone fell immediately in love with her, how could you not? She was like a tornado.
After a couple years slinging hash browns, I traded in my apron for the soulless corporate life. Around the same time Claudine also left the restaurant in order to make a serious go at her music career, devoting all her time to her ultimate goal of fame. My new relationship with Eric was becoming more serious, Claudine moved east into the heart of Hollywood and we saw less and less of each other. When we did hang out she admitted that she was struggling, some times worse than others, but still plugging away. She was in the studio a lot and had a producer and with that came some more opportunities, we all knew she was on the verge of something big. There was no doubt in my mind that she was on her way to greatness.
In January of 2006 I received a call at work late in the afternoon. It was Claudine and she sounded really strange, she was laughing a weird nervous laugh in direct contrast to her usual confidence. Finally she came out with it, she was incredibly embarrassed to have to ask but she didn’t know who else to go to. “My cable is going to be turned off and I don’t get paid until next week, can you help me?” A little over a hundred dollars to keep the cable company off her back and she’d have the money back to me before MLK’s birthday. I was actually touched that she would come to me. Me of all the people in her world...this is what true friendship is, helping each other out when one is down. No judgment, no guilt trips, just one friend asking and the other coming to her need. I went down to the ATM and withdrew some cash. I sealed it in an envelope with a smiley face and messengered it to her so that she could get to the cable office before they closed for the weekend. I drove home that night, happy with myself. I never talked to Claudine again.
I didn’t want her to think that I was angry so I waited until February to call. Number disconnected. I called her girlfriend Michelle and left a light message saying that we all needed to get together for brunch. I never heard back. In the years I knew Claudine I never saw her do any drugs, and her drinking never seemed out of control. Michelle was an EMT so I was confident that they were both okay. Even so, I googled them but no obituaries or news of a horrible accident popped up. I felt weird calling her mom or going into any sort of serious detective mode so I just let it go…let her go. I can only think that it’s incredibly rare that the actually monetary value of a relationship can be determined. But it must happen once and awhile because it happened to me. Our friendship as worth $120.00 to her. Six crisp twenty dollar bills. Makes me feel cheap somehow…or maybe I’m just a really great deal.
Jalapeño Eye
I leaned my hips against the bathroom sink, bracing for pain, as my finger moved closer to my eye and the contact lens came into focus. “Maybe this morning will be different,” I told myself. “There shouldn’t be any pain, I took care of that, and I was probably overestimating the heat last night anyway.” I bent my knees slightly, trying to give myself a neutral stance should something horrible happen as the tiny lens docked with my eyeball. And we…have…contact. The pain was immediate and searing, like extra coarse sand paper and red hot pokers and molten lava all converging on my left eye. Fucking jalapeño eye!
It’s a rookie mistake I seem to make over and over and over…and over again. In slicing the little green pepper for my improvised Mexican lasagna last night I was careless, I was cocky. “Jalapeño eye can’t get me again,” I laughed and silently mocked the pinky sized vegetable in front of me. I even half-heartedly used the thin plastic produce bag as a glove but tossed it aside as I removed the seeds. The last couple jalapeños I brought home were mild at best so why would this one be any different? The first bite told me that this one was in fact very different. I enjoyed the taste of Mexican cheesy goodness and broke into Lamaze breathing to cool my mouth that had suddenly burst into flames. It was hot, but almost enjoyable, like the dry heat of a Colorado summer day before the threat of a high-altitude sunburn chases me into the basement. Eric and I took turns falling backward, talking about how hot the peppers were, as if we’d forgotten each previous bite of jalapeño and were experiencing them anew. Good times, and a great Mexican lasagna if I do say so myself.
Later, while chewing on my nail I realized how stupid I’d been. The spicy heat residue was still on my fingers, even after repeated hand washing, and it was in there deep. But the longer I chewed on my nails, the weaker the heat seemed to be. Was this all it took to beat the pepper? Removing the top layers of finger epidermis like a psycho-killer Kevin Spacey in Se7en? Yes! I beat it. I beat the jalapeño eye, I am the winner! And so I popped out my contacts, stowed them in their separate little saline baths, and went to bed victorious. So why then was I less than confident this morning as my contact balanced on my finger and traveled toward my frightened eyeball?
Cue worst pain ever.
The palms of my hands flew to the eye, trying to ease the pain with pressure. I quickly ran in place, hoping the throbbing energy would change direction and be released through the balls of my feet. She’s a maniac, maaa-niac on the floor. I’m sure my downstairs neighbor was super stoked at 6:30 AM as the floor of my bathroom is like one huge squeaky spot. Only halfway done, there’s still the right eye. Just do it, do it quick. I don’t know that it was possible to feel more pain than the first eye, but this was pretty close. I tried to walk it off, leaving the bathroom and bumping into the living room door frame and then the couch as I had both of my eyes covered. Tears streamed down my cheeks and I wanted to scream. “I’ve just blinded myself,” I panicked, “I’m going to recover from this pain only to open my eyes and realize that I’m completely blind. I’ll never be able to see the autumn leaves change all my favorite colors again. Done are the days of meditating on a Rothko or Mondrian. I didn’t get to finish Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I was only halfway through season six before I blinded myself with a jalapeño pepper!” The tears of pain were mixed with those of a blind woman who felt completely and utterly sorry for herself. But then the fear was miraculously pushed back, apparently I still had some fight left in me. I forced my eyelid open and plucked out the contact flicking it in the direction of the trash can, and then the other eye. I took a couple deep breaths. I did it. I’m going to make it. I really do need to bite the bullet and make and appointment for Lasik because something tells me that jalapeño eye will continue to be a problem until I can cut out the middle man.
Oh, and the leaves have turned a beautiful October crimson on Carmelita if anyone’s interested.
It’s a rookie mistake I seem to make over and over and over…and over again. In slicing the little green pepper for my improvised Mexican lasagna last night I was careless, I was cocky. “Jalapeño eye can’t get me again,” I laughed and silently mocked the pinky sized vegetable in front of me. I even half-heartedly used the thin plastic produce bag as a glove but tossed it aside as I removed the seeds. The last couple jalapeños I brought home were mild at best so why would this one be any different? The first bite told me that this one was in fact very different. I enjoyed the taste of Mexican cheesy goodness and broke into Lamaze breathing to cool my mouth that had suddenly burst into flames. It was hot, but almost enjoyable, like the dry heat of a Colorado summer day before the threat of a high-altitude sunburn chases me into the basement. Eric and I took turns falling backward, talking about how hot the peppers were, as if we’d forgotten each previous bite of jalapeño and were experiencing them anew. Good times, and a great Mexican lasagna if I do say so myself.
Later, while chewing on my nail I realized how stupid I’d been. The spicy heat residue was still on my fingers, even after repeated hand washing, and it was in there deep. But the longer I chewed on my nails, the weaker the heat seemed to be. Was this all it took to beat the pepper? Removing the top layers of finger epidermis like a psycho-killer Kevin Spacey in Se7en? Yes! I beat it. I beat the jalapeño eye, I am the winner! And so I popped out my contacts, stowed them in their separate little saline baths, and went to bed victorious. So why then was I less than confident this morning as my contact balanced on my finger and traveled toward my frightened eyeball?
Cue worst pain ever.
The palms of my hands flew to the eye, trying to ease the pain with pressure. I quickly ran in place, hoping the throbbing energy would change direction and be released through the balls of my feet. She’s a maniac, maaa-niac on the floor. I’m sure my downstairs neighbor was super stoked at 6:30 AM as the floor of my bathroom is like one huge squeaky spot. Only halfway done, there’s still the right eye. Just do it, do it quick. I don’t know that it was possible to feel more pain than the first eye, but this was pretty close. I tried to walk it off, leaving the bathroom and bumping into the living room door frame and then the couch as I had both of my eyes covered. Tears streamed down my cheeks and I wanted to scream. “I’ve just blinded myself,” I panicked, “I’m going to recover from this pain only to open my eyes and realize that I’m completely blind. I’ll never be able to see the autumn leaves change all my favorite colors again. Done are the days of meditating on a Rothko or Mondrian. I didn’t get to finish Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I was only halfway through season six before I blinded myself with a jalapeño pepper!” The tears of pain were mixed with those of a blind woman who felt completely and utterly sorry for herself. But then the fear was miraculously pushed back, apparently I still had some fight left in me. I forced my eyelid open and plucked out the contact flicking it in the direction of the trash can, and then the other eye. I took a couple deep breaths. I did it. I’m going to make it. I really do need to bite the bullet and make and appointment for Lasik because something tells me that jalapeño eye will continue to be a problem until I can cut out the middle man.
Oh, and the leaves have turned a beautiful October crimson on Carmelita if anyone’s interested.
High Empathy
You could call me a “crier” but I’d rather you didn’t. I prefer to see myself as suffering from what my mother calls “high empathy” – an emotional condition marked by overactive tear glands and the inability for one to distinguish someone else’s pain or happiness from her own. But, yeah, I cry a lot…I mean A LOT.
In ancient Rome I would have been a much sought after professional mourner, and would have been rich. You think Christopher Walken works all the time? I would have made him look like a shut-in. I tear up just thinking about all the easy cash I missed out on. I don’t know what my professional resume would have looked like, probably just a series of examples showing my crying range. Maybe a little something like this:
Whenever Harry Potter gets on a broom in film versions of the books, I can’t help it, my throat gets tight and my breathing gets shallow and then…it’s waterworks. Why? I have no idea! Is it the beauty of magic and possibility? Do I subconsciously want to be a wizard? Your guess is as good as mine. While I’m on the subject of movies – I had a major episode not that long ago while watching one of my Netflix rentals. Life Is Beautiful? Glory? Whale Rider? Nope, this one was grossly misrepresented as a child’s romp through an imaginary playground when in fact it was more like a simultaneous emotional cold cock to the face and a judo chop to the kidney. Jerks. Yeah, I’m talking to you Bridge to Terabithia. You can go ahead and suck it! Let’s just say that no one lives happily ever after. I should have just rented Narnia again, maybe then I could have avoided spending the rest of the afternoon with cold compresses on my eyes. Maybe.
It’s not just sad movies that get me going, oh no, just as often they are tears of joy. Wet and messy, swelling tears of joy. The worst of these examples happened several years ago when I attended the wedding of my dear, dear friend Carew and her wonderful then-fiancé Aaron. They were married in Grand Lake, Colorado which has always been an incredibly special place to me, and I was surrounded by some of my best friends in the world. Carew floated through the forest on the way to the deliver her vows and…I…lost…it. My entire row was quietly sobbing, moved by the love she and her soon-to-be-husband so obviously felt for each other and which the so beautifully shared in their original vows set against the backdrop of a warm Rocky Mountain summer sunset. And there were harps. Exhausted, puffy and red-faced, I made it back to the lodge with my friends for a recuperative drink before the reception. I think it was Haleigh who repeated an especially sweet line from the ceremony and my tears returned. The bartender put a drink in front of me, telling me the couple at the other end of the bar had purchased it for me. I looked up expecting to see someone from the wedding party, but no, it was a couple of strangers. The woman came over -- she had enormous fried blond hair -- and gave me a sympathetic and knowing look, “you’re in love with the groom?” The table erupted in laughter. It was hilarious but also incredibly telling -- I obviously had a problem if my tears of joy were mistaken as those of the deepest pain. And if I was in love with the groom, what kind of masochist would I have to be to go to his wedding?
When I’m with my mom and my little brother and one of us starts crying, forget about it. It’s like the pie-eating vomit scene from Stand By Me, you know, when the guy starts revenge puking and suddenly the whole town is horking up chucks. Except with us its contagious weeping. A lot less of a mess, but no less disturbing for onlookers. When I see my family waiting for me in baggage claim or days later when they leave me at the check-in curb; when we’re standing in the kitchen talking about our favorite family vacation to Maine; if I see a picture of our cat Buck Rogers who disappeared fifteen years ago or god forbid one of us starts the “I love you” circle – all are grounds for a cry-fest. My mom tries to rationalize the predilection for tears, “it’s the Irish in us.” And my brother and I nod, silently agreeing not to bring up my mother’s admission that her affiliation with the Irish was a choice she made in college and that we have little-to-no Celtic blood. Are the Poles especially weepy?
Sometimes I go for what seems like a very long time without so much as a whimper, and when that happens I can feel the tears start to build up and I know that a release is just around the corner. Like a pressure cooker or the Hoover Dam or a werewolf. I used to manage it back in high school by fast-forwarding to the end of Dead Poet’s Society when Ethan Hawke climbs up on his desk and declares “Oh captain, my captain.” That would be all I needed to get my cry-on. Now it comes on all willy-nilly; someone cuts the stop sign line on Carmelita, or Eric waits a whole ten minutes after he wakes up to do the dishes, or I look at my closet and hate all my clothes. There’s no rhyme or reason to any of it…so I guess it’s not like a werewolf at all. Those werewolves really do have it easy in comparison - at least they know when the full moon is on the way, just take a glance at a calendar. In addition to suffering from high empathy, it appears that I’m also having a hard time letting go of the Seth Green-as-Oz-the-werewolf episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
I went to a therapist for a short time to get my crying under control. Well, in all honesty, I went to therapy because a co-worker was driving me towards homicidal daydreams, but I stayed in therapy to work on the crying-all-the-time thing. We tried breathing techniques and meditation. I practiced taking myself out of a situation, giving myself a more realistic context, reminding myself that it was not me standing up for Robin Williams, my ousted prep-school teacher in the 1950’s, that was something called a “movie.” I think I was starting to make some real progress with it, at least I wasn’t crying within five minutes of our session start time, when out of the blue, she broke up with me. She said something ridiculous like “I think you’ve really worked through what you came here for,” and I guess she was right because my co-worker has survived this whole time but there was still so much more I needed to learn from her. She just smiled, assured me I was strong and wished me good luck. I’m pretty sure I cried all the way home.
Just last night a Radio Shack commercial got me. RADIO SHACK!!!
There are times – when I cried straight through Superman Returns for instance, a new low point – when I beat myself up for being weak, for letting my tears take over. I look at my boyfriend from behind my enormous sunglasses that I hope hide the puffy eyes long enough to make it to the Grove parking lot and wish I could be strong and in-control like him. But then who would I be? I can’t imagine how I would function without the crying option, it has been part of me since I can remember. It’s an immediate physical and emotional catharsis and I depend on it. I just have to remember to stay hydrated.
In ancient Rome I would have been a much sought after professional mourner, and would have been rich. You think Christopher Walken works all the time? I would have made him look like a shut-in. I tear up just thinking about all the easy cash I missed out on. I don’t know what my professional resume would have looked like, probably just a series of examples showing my crying range. Maybe a little something like this:
Whenever Harry Potter gets on a broom in film versions of the books, I can’t help it, my throat gets tight and my breathing gets shallow and then…it’s waterworks. Why? I have no idea! Is it the beauty of magic and possibility? Do I subconsciously want to be a wizard? Your guess is as good as mine. While I’m on the subject of movies – I had a major episode not that long ago while watching one of my Netflix rentals. Life Is Beautiful? Glory? Whale Rider? Nope, this one was grossly misrepresented as a child’s romp through an imaginary playground when in fact it was more like a simultaneous emotional cold cock to the face and a judo chop to the kidney. Jerks. Yeah, I’m talking to you Bridge to Terabithia. You can go ahead and suck it! Let’s just say that no one lives happily ever after. I should have just rented Narnia again, maybe then I could have avoided spending the rest of the afternoon with cold compresses on my eyes. Maybe.
It’s not just sad movies that get me going, oh no, just as often they are tears of joy. Wet and messy, swelling tears of joy. The worst of these examples happened several years ago when I attended the wedding of my dear, dear friend Carew and her wonderful then-fiancé Aaron. They were married in Grand Lake, Colorado which has always been an incredibly special place to me, and I was surrounded by some of my best friends in the world. Carew floated through the forest on the way to the deliver her vows and…I…lost…it. My entire row was quietly sobbing, moved by the love she and her soon-to-be-husband so obviously felt for each other and which the so beautifully shared in their original vows set against the backdrop of a warm Rocky Mountain summer sunset. And there were harps. Exhausted, puffy and red-faced, I made it back to the lodge with my friends for a recuperative drink before the reception. I think it was Haleigh who repeated an especially sweet line from the ceremony and my tears returned. The bartender put a drink in front of me, telling me the couple at the other end of the bar had purchased it for me. I looked up expecting to see someone from the wedding party, but no, it was a couple of strangers. The woman came over -- she had enormous fried blond hair -- and gave me a sympathetic and knowing look, “you’re in love with the groom?” The table erupted in laughter. It was hilarious but also incredibly telling -- I obviously had a problem if my tears of joy were mistaken as those of the deepest pain. And if I was in love with the groom, what kind of masochist would I have to be to go to his wedding?
When I’m with my mom and my little brother and one of us starts crying, forget about it. It’s like the pie-eating vomit scene from Stand By Me, you know, when the guy starts revenge puking and suddenly the whole town is horking up chucks. Except with us its contagious weeping. A lot less of a mess, but no less disturbing for onlookers. When I see my family waiting for me in baggage claim or days later when they leave me at the check-in curb; when we’re standing in the kitchen talking about our favorite family vacation to Maine; if I see a picture of our cat Buck Rogers who disappeared fifteen years ago or god forbid one of us starts the “I love you” circle – all are grounds for a cry-fest. My mom tries to rationalize the predilection for tears, “it’s the Irish in us.” And my brother and I nod, silently agreeing not to bring up my mother’s admission that her affiliation with the Irish was a choice she made in college and that we have little-to-no Celtic blood. Are the Poles especially weepy?
Sometimes I go for what seems like a very long time without so much as a whimper, and when that happens I can feel the tears start to build up and I know that a release is just around the corner. Like a pressure cooker or the Hoover Dam or a werewolf. I used to manage it back in high school by fast-forwarding to the end of Dead Poet’s Society when Ethan Hawke climbs up on his desk and declares “Oh captain, my captain.” That would be all I needed to get my cry-on. Now it comes on all willy-nilly; someone cuts the stop sign line on Carmelita, or Eric waits a whole ten minutes after he wakes up to do the dishes, or I look at my closet and hate all my clothes. There’s no rhyme or reason to any of it…so I guess it’s not like a werewolf at all. Those werewolves really do have it easy in comparison - at least they know when the full moon is on the way, just take a glance at a calendar. In addition to suffering from high empathy, it appears that I’m also having a hard time letting go of the Seth Green-as-Oz-the-werewolf episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
I went to a therapist for a short time to get my crying under control. Well, in all honesty, I went to therapy because a co-worker was driving me towards homicidal daydreams, but I stayed in therapy to work on the crying-all-the-time thing. We tried breathing techniques and meditation. I practiced taking myself out of a situation, giving myself a more realistic context, reminding myself that it was not me standing up for Robin Williams, my ousted prep-school teacher in the 1950’s, that was something called a “movie.” I think I was starting to make some real progress with it, at least I wasn’t crying within five minutes of our session start time, when out of the blue, she broke up with me. She said something ridiculous like “I think you’ve really worked through what you came here for,” and I guess she was right because my co-worker has survived this whole time but there was still so much more I needed to learn from her. She just smiled, assured me I was strong and wished me good luck. I’m pretty sure I cried all the way home.
Just last night a Radio Shack commercial got me. RADIO SHACK!!!
There are times – when I cried straight through Superman Returns for instance, a new low point – when I beat myself up for being weak, for letting my tears take over. I look at my boyfriend from behind my enormous sunglasses that I hope hide the puffy eyes long enough to make it to the Grove parking lot and wish I could be strong and in-control like him. But then who would I be? I can’t imagine how I would function without the crying option, it has been part of me since I can remember. It’s an immediate physical and emotional catharsis and I depend on it. I just have to remember to stay hydrated.
Junior and the Serial Killer
For Piñata: A Personal Essay Show (December 2007)
Junior was a fixture on The Ave, the major thoroughfare just west of the University of Washington campus where the street kids often congregated. I was never quite clear whether or not he was actually homeless. I don’t recall him asking for money or anything, and his ceaseless dancing seemed less like busking and more like his personal gift to the world. He had a never-ending supply of plastic sunglasses, the lenses of which he decorated with glitter so thick it was hard to believe he could see out of them. He looked like a pimp from a bygone age whose flash and sparkle were slightly tarnished.
I have it on good authority that Marcus extended the first invite. My roommate Marcus wanted our parties to be epic, legendary. If Junior, a minor celebrity in the UW student circle, were to show up to one of our house parties it would be a total coup. And it was, that first time.
“Dude, is that the guy from The Ave?” someone asked in line at the keg.
“Yeah, Junior.”
“That guy’s hilarious.”
And sure he was, like the Energizer Bunny before the commercials got old and repetitive.
Once that door had been opened, however, it was impossible to close. Junior would spot one of us on the street and we wouldn’t be able shake him. If we ducked into a store or coffee shop he’d simply wait outside for us, continuing the barrage once we reemerged. He took to sleeping on the old couch on the front porch, leaving empty 40 bottles like his calling card. He’d let himself into our backyard where roommates and friends could always be found on warm nights and we learned that outside the context of a party he wasn’t nearly as charming to be around. His voice seemed unnecessarily loud, his spontaneous dance breaks grew tiresome, he monopolized conversation and just couldn’t take the hint that we didn’t want him there. I couldn’t avoid The Ave completely but when I’d see Junior I’d cross the street, pretending to be late for class, wanting more than anything to not have to deal with him.
One night Claudia, Carew and I were watching TV in the living room when the front door flew open. In stumbled Marcus who dropped his bike on the carpet and ran across the room.
“Junior’s heading down the alley!” We all sprung into action, turned off the TV and all the lights and then belly-crawled to the stairs. Staying as low as possible we snuck up to my room where I had a good view of the backyard. There was Junior, dancing through the gate, announcing his arrival as if he were Flava Flav. Met with silence he walked up to the house and peered in through the windows. I pictured Marcus’ bike on its side in the living room, the front wheel still spinning slowly, contradicting the notion that no one was home. Junior looked up towards my bedroom window where we crouched, spying on him and we ducked down, faces to the carpet. The four of us stayed up there for what seemed like hours, positive he was on the back patio just waiting us out. He stopped coming around shortly after that. I felt a twinge of guilt, thinking perhaps he saw us hiding from him that night. But that tiny twinge was far outweighed by the overwhelming feeling that if I never saw that guy again it would be too soon.
That was until a couple years later.
Molly, Claudia and I were headed back to the U-District from a party in Eastlake. It had only been lightly misting when we left the party but soon the rain took on more weight until it was a downpour. We huddled under a bus shelter to avoid getting completely drenched. I wasn’t really familiar with the Eastlake bus schedule - it could have been more than an hour for a bus, or they might not have even been running that late at night. This was ten years ago and I only knew one person with a cell phone and that one person wasn’t one of us, not that it mattered because none of our friends had cars anyway. We were potentially stranded. Down the street a pair of headlights came our way, slowing to a stop alongside us. I’m not very good with car models; it was a boat of a thing from the seventies. A figure leaned over from the driver’s side and rolled down the window.
“You need a ride?” A forty-ish man with shoulder-length stringy hair blinked at us behind little wire rimmed glasses. Claudia’s eyes were huge and panicked, she might as well have yelled “Hell no, get out of here you freak!” But I shrugged and Molly shrugged in return. Two shrugs beat a panicked look so I opened the passenger side door. Pushing the seat forward, I told Claudia and Molly to sit in back and I would take the front, figuring that my giantess-like size would prevent him from trying anything. The car smelled like wet dog, everything was damp from the rain and I knew in an instant we should have listened to Claudia.
“I’m Andy,” he offered. He wore a leather patchwork vest which in retrospect I guess could have been human skin.
“I’m Gretchen, this is Claudia and Molly. Molly, Claudia and Gretchen, Gretchen Molly and Claudia. Claudia, Gretchen and Molly.” I kept saying our names focusing on something I heard in a sociology class about serial killers thinking of their victims as objects not fellow human beings. If Andy saw us as real people with real feelings he would be less likely to torture and kill us, right? It really made so much sense back then.
“I have to make a quick stop,” Andy said and pulled onto an unlit street that led down to the water. We passed boarded-up house boats and dark sailboats and the car began to slow. Holy shit, this is bad. This is really bad. I reached my hand between the seats and Molly and Claudia immediately grabbed it, all of us squeezing on to each other for dear life.
“It puts the lotion on its skin,“ I said to myself.
“Gretchen, that’s not funny,” I scolded.
“I have no upper body strength, how in the hell am I going to climb out of a hole?”
“I’ll be lucky if he leaves me alive long enough to even consider how I’m going to get out of a hole.”
“My mom is going to be so pissed at me.”
“She can’t be mad, I’ll be dead.”
“Okay, she’ll be sad. And then she’ll be mad.”
This may sound over-reactionary but Seattle, the city I’d fallen madly in love with, my adopted home, was also home to Ted Bundy and the Green River Killer and…Andy. The most gruesome scenarios I could possibly dream up had probably already been storyboarded by some freak in my neighborhood with women issues.
“Andy, we really do have to be getting back. Any way you could drop us off first?” Molly asked. He considered this staring straight ahead, and surprisingly turned the car around and headed back up to the main street.
Oh sweet baby jesus, you are brilliant Molly.
The rain had stopped by the time we made it to the bridge taking us back over to the U-District. “Anywhere along here is fine,” Molly said as soon as Andy turned onto The Ave.
“No. I’ll take you all the way to your place. Where do you live?” he asked, never once looking at any of us. Claudia and I lived together a little farther north in Greenlake, but Molly’s apartment was just a few blocks up the street and there was no way we were going to show this guy where she lived. Andy, however, didn’t seem like the kind of guy who was going to take “no” for an answer. What in the hell were we going to do, drive around with this guy until he got a hankering for the taste of human intestines? I couldn’t think of an ending to the evening that didn’t involve us begging for our lives.
Then, out of nowhere, like an angel he appeared. Junior. He was dancing with himself on the corner. “That’s one of our friends! You can drop us off here!” I flung open the door, forcing Andy to stop.
“Junior!” Claudia called from the backseat. Junior bent over looking into the car through his glittered sunglasses.
“Hello ladies!” he said grinning from ear to ear.
We jumped from the car one by one and into Junior’s outstretched arms. Glaring at us, Andy slowly drove away, only to turn around and head back for another look before speeding away for good. We leaned into Junior, our accidental savior, and walked up the street toward Molly’s building. I forgave him all the nights he invited himself into our lives, and all the beer bottles I had to clean up and all the energy sucking conversations he trapped me in. That cold, wet night, I loved Junior. Getting into that car was a horrible mistake and I knew how very lucky we were it turned out the way it did, walking up The Ave like Halloween castaways, a ragamuffin pimp and his three hoes.
Junior was a fixture on The Ave, the major thoroughfare just west of the University of Washington campus where the street kids often congregated. I was never quite clear whether or not he was actually homeless. I don’t recall him asking for money or anything, and his ceaseless dancing seemed less like busking and more like his personal gift to the world. He had a never-ending supply of plastic sunglasses, the lenses of which he decorated with glitter so thick it was hard to believe he could see out of them. He looked like a pimp from a bygone age whose flash and sparkle were slightly tarnished.
I have it on good authority that Marcus extended the first invite. My roommate Marcus wanted our parties to be epic, legendary. If Junior, a minor celebrity in the UW student circle, were to show up to one of our house parties it would be a total coup. And it was, that first time.
“Dude, is that the guy from The Ave?” someone asked in line at the keg.
“Yeah, Junior.”
“That guy’s hilarious.”
And sure he was, like the Energizer Bunny before the commercials got old and repetitive.
Once that door had been opened, however, it was impossible to close. Junior would spot one of us on the street and we wouldn’t be able shake him. If we ducked into a store or coffee shop he’d simply wait outside for us, continuing the barrage once we reemerged. He took to sleeping on the old couch on the front porch, leaving empty 40 bottles like his calling card. He’d let himself into our backyard where roommates and friends could always be found on warm nights and we learned that outside the context of a party he wasn’t nearly as charming to be around. His voice seemed unnecessarily loud, his spontaneous dance breaks grew tiresome, he monopolized conversation and just couldn’t take the hint that we didn’t want him there. I couldn’t avoid The Ave completely but when I’d see Junior I’d cross the street, pretending to be late for class, wanting more than anything to not have to deal with him.
One night Claudia, Carew and I were watching TV in the living room when the front door flew open. In stumbled Marcus who dropped his bike on the carpet and ran across the room.
“Junior’s heading down the alley!” We all sprung into action, turned off the TV and all the lights and then belly-crawled to the stairs. Staying as low as possible we snuck up to my room where I had a good view of the backyard. There was Junior, dancing through the gate, announcing his arrival as if he were Flava Flav. Met with silence he walked up to the house and peered in through the windows. I pictured Marcus’ bike on its side in the living room, the front wheel still spinning slowly, contradicting the notion that no one was home. Junior looked up towards my bedroom window where we crouched, spying on him and we ducked down, faces to the carpet. The four of us stayed up there for what seemed like hours, positive he was on the back patio just waiting us out. He stopped coming around shortly after that. I felt a twinge of guilt, thinking perhaps he saw us hiding from him that night. But that tiny twinge was far outweighed by the overwhelming feeling that if I never saw that guy again it would be too soon.
That was until a couple years later.
Molly, Claudia and I were headed back to the U-District from a party in Eastlake. It had only been lightly misting when we left the party but soon the rain took on more weight until it was a downpour. We huddled under a bus shelter to avoid getting completely drenched. I wasn’t really familiar with the Eastlake bus schedule - it could have been more than an hour for a bus, or they might not have even been running that late at night. This was ten years ago and I only knew one person with a cell phone and that one person wasn’t one of us, not that it mattered because none of our friends had cars anyway. We were potentially stranded. Down the street a pair of headlights came our way, slowing to a stop alongside us. I’m not very good with car models; it was a boat of a thing from the seventies. A figure leaned over from the driver’s side and rolled down the window.
“You need a ride?” A forty-ish man with shoulder-length stringy hair blinked at us behind little wire rimmed glasses. Claudia’s eyes were huge and panicked, she might as well have yelled “Hell no, get out of here you freak!” But I shrugged and Molly shrugged in return. Two shrugs beat a panicked look so I opened the passenger side door. Pushing the seat forward, I told Claudia and Molly to sit in back and I would take the front, figuring that my giantess-like size would prevent him from trying anything. The car smelled like wet dog, everything was damp from the rain and I knew in an instant we should have listened to Claudia.
“I’m Andy,” he offered. He wore a leather patchwork vest which in retrospect I guess could have been human skin.
“I’m Gretchen, this is Claudia and Molly. Molly, Claudia and Gretchen, Gretchen Molly and Claudia. Claudia, Gretchen and Molly.” I kept saying our names focusing on something I heard in a sociology class about serial killers thinking of their victims as objects not fellow human beings. If Andy saw us as real people with real feelings he would be less likely to torture and kill us, right? It really made so much sense back then.
“I have to make a quick stop,” Andy said and pulled onto an unlit street that led down to the water. We passed boarded-up house boats and dark sailboats and the car began to slow. Holy shit, this is bad. This is really bad. I reached my hand between the seats and Molly and Claudia immediately grabbed it, all of us squeezing on to each other for dear life.
“It puts the lotion on its skin,“ I said to myself.
“Gretchen, that’s not funny,” I scolded.
“I have no upper body strength, how in the hell am I going to climb out of a hole?”
“I’ll be lucky if he leaves me alive long enough to even consider how I’m going to get out of a hole.”
“My mom is going to be so pissed at me.”
“She can’t be mad, I’ll be dead.”
“Okay, she’ll be sad. And then she’ll be mad.”
This may sound over-reactionary but Seattle, the city I’d fallen madly in love with, my adopted home, was also home to Ted Bundy and the Green River Killer and…Andy. The most gruesome scenarios I could possibly dream up had probably already been storyboarded by some freak in my neighborhood with women issues.
“Andy, we really do have to be getting back. Any way you could drop us off first?” Molly asked. He considered this staring straight ahead, and surprisingly turned the car around and headed back up to the main street.
Oh sweet baby jesus, you are brilliant Molly.
The rain had stopped by the time we made it to the bridge taking us back over to the U-District. “Anywhere along here is fine,” Molly said as soon as Andy turned onto The Ave.
“No. I’ll take you all the way to your place. Where do you live?” he asked, never once looking at any of us. Claudia and I lived together a little farther north in Greenlake, but Molly’s apartment was just a few blocks up the street and there was no way we were going to show this guy where she lived. Andy, however, didn’t seem like the kind of guy who was going to take “no” for an answer. What in the hell were we going to do, drive around with this guy until he got a hankering for the taste of human intestines? I couldn’t think of an ending to the evening that didn’t involve us begging for our lives.
Then, out of nowhere, like an angel he appeared. Junior. He was dancing with himself on the corner. “That’s one of our friends! You can drop us off here!” I flung open the door, forcing Andy to stop.
“Junior!” Claudia called from the backseat. Junior bent over looking into the car through his glittered sunglasses.
“Hello ladies!” he said grinning from ear to ear.
We jumped from the car one by one and into Junior’s outstretched arms. Glaring at us, Andy slowly drove away, only to turn around and head back for another look before speeding away for good. We leaned into Junior, our accidental savior, and walked up the street toward Molly’s building. I forgave him all the nights he invited himself into our lives, and all the beer bottles I had to clean up and all the energy sucking conversations he trapped me in. That cold, wet night, I loved Junior. Getting into that car was a horrible mistake and I knew how very lucky we were it turned out the way it did, walking up The Ave like Halloween castaways, a ragamuffin pimp and his three hoes.
The Butterfly Effect
For Piñata: A Personal Essay Show (July 2007)
I was what you would call a “good girl” growing up. I was the girl who never snuck out of the house or drank or had sex. Yeah, that girl. Everything I didn’t do was out of fear. Fear of disappointing my parents or teachers or of getting into trouble or getting hurt. It started with “wanna to go TPing?” NO WAY. And went right through to the frat boys, “No, but have you met my roommate, Laurie?” You know those plastic bladders from inside a box of wine? Well this girl used to carry a full one with her to parties in order to avoid paying for keg beer, so she was usually pretty much up for anything. I however was not, “no” just seemed to roll off my fearful tongue. My junior year of college while studying abroad something happened that changed the way I approached my life, a decision was made in the heat of the moment that set me on a different path entirely. This is not one of those stories wherein something major happens. One has even argued that in fact nothing happens. But as the flap of a butterfly’s wings may ultimately cause a tornado thousands of miles away, so too did this uneventful event change me forever.
After spending a couple months at my Art History seminar in Rome I explore Northern Italy on my own. It’s heavenly really, not having to negotiate with anyone, or compromise. I’m not interested in mixing with other travelers and I bask in my solitude. This however is short-lived and halfway into the second week my love affair with myself is wearing dangerously thin. I’m really looking forward to seeing my friends when they join me in Amsterdam. Brussels is my layover between Italy and Holland. I spend the morning at museums and the afternoon horribly lost so by the time I get back to the hostel I’m exhausted, barely able to keep my eyes open while trying to follow the World Cup match on TV. I’m moments away from peeling myself off the couch when, one-by-one, a steady stream of young men crest the top of the stairs. They are like a group of messy angels, all dressed in white shorts and polo shirts in varying states of disarray. There are grass and mud stains sprinkled among them, fallen knee socks bunched around ankles, a few carry large wooden paddles and every single one of them makes eye contact with me as they hit the second floor landing. Tall ones and shorter ones and skinny ones and muscle-y ones, a dozen in total, all of them around my age. One of the blondies elbows his buddy and makes his way over, leans on the back of the couch and asks in a charming English accent “what’s the score?”
I surprise myself by answering correctly “Holland is up two-zero.”
“Cheers.” He pushes off and heads to the showers with the rest of them. My breath is shallow, my heart is beating fast. I smile at the older German guy sitting on the other side of the room as if he’s my best girlfriend and we’re going to start giggling and jumping up and down. He rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the television. When they emerge all clean and fresh smelling from their rooms, I’m back on the couch. This time with combed hair, an application of deodorant and a smile. The tall guy with a mop of light brown curls invites me to join them for a drink in basement bar. It looks like a Wham video, lit entirely in black light. I learn that they too are heading to Amsterdam and shots of tequila are doled out.
What followed remains only a series of mental snapshots all debaucherous montage-style:
Cheers!
Shouting over the bad techno music.
We’re laughing.
They’re begging me come with them.
They’re chanting my name
I blurt out the word “YES!”
High fives all around.
My train ticket is ceremoniously ripped up.
I’m in a conga line wearing a sombrero.
CHEERS!
It’s still dark out as my bag is tossed in the back of their white van and we’re off. When my memory finally regains normal speed we’re pulling into a truck stop a couple hours outside of Brussels. I get out to stretch my legs, staring out at the windmills that dot the field beyond the parking lot. I can’t believe I agreed to this, it is so not Gretchen. I’m the responsible one, I’m the good girl, remember. A good girl would never get in a car with a strange man, much less twelve of them…and now these guys are going to overpower me and do horrible things to my lifeless body. Then they’re going to cut me up and throw the pieces out of the sliding van door at random intervals. My family will never know what happened to me. I mean what am I thinking?! I’m thinking that I’d have regretted letting them go without me, regretted not saying “yes” and for once in my young life I let myself say it. So what if I’m going to die? Toby, a Clark Kent look-a-like, leans against the van next to me and assures me they are all nice guys, and that I have nothing to worry about. And for some reason I trust this stranger so I silence my inner death cries and climb into the van.
We’re back on the road and it’s loud. All of them - Toby, Pete, Reg, Foxy, Mike, Ed, Dave, Martin, Jeremy, Sammy, Ollie and Jake - are shouting along in unison with a cassette tape of a British comedy duo. I can follow very little of what is going on but Pete explains that it’s something like the American “who’s on first?” but much funnier because it’s about…cricket. Of course, I mean, what else would the Cambridge Cricket Club be listening to? Toby is right, they are all gentlemen. Okay, almost all of them, and the other two are harmless, they’re just trying to get a rise out of the American girl. I just happen to be sandwiched between these two…and they’re naked. Ed and Dave stripped down to nothing, trying to get a reaction out of me and think they are a bit put out when I barely bat an eyelash. Instead rest my hands on each of their bare thighs. Now they are kind of stuck here in their nakedness. It may seem silly, but I’m damn proud of myself. Sure, I took my first big leap with a van-load of English dandies, I mean a cricket team from Cambridge University, can you imagine a less menacing group? Maybe next time I’ll go bungee jumping with the Oregon State hacky sack club. Even so, I said “yes” and all it cost me was a non-refundable train ticket from Brussels to Amsterdam. They insist I stay with them at their hotel, and even double up on rooms so I can have my own. I mentioned that they’re gentlemen, right? My mom loves telling people this story, however in her version I go to Amsterdam with a rugby team from Oxford, which would have made for a much different story, I’m sure.
I returned to my familiar “no thanks” when they ask me to postpone meeting up with my friends so I can go back to Cambridge with them for a few days. Sweet, sweet boys. I think back to those three days in Amsterdam and it’s true, they were pretty uneventful – getting stoned at coffee shops, ogling at the windows in the red light district, laughing over pints of Heineken – much like everyone else’s trip there. I didn’t even smooch any of them. But for me it’s not about the time we spent in Amsterdam, it was how I got there and learning that it’s a good thing for a good girl to occasionally say “yes.” If it weren’t for that lesson who knows where I’d be, certainly not up on stage in Los Angeles. Shit, you know what? I bet I smooched one of them I would’ve learned the lesson that would have made me famous by now.
I was what you would call a “good girl” growing up. I was the girl who never snuck out of the house or drank or had sex. Yeah, that girl. Everything I didn’t do was out of fear. Fear of disappointing my parents or teachers or of getting into trouble or getting hurt. It started with “wanna to go TPing?” NO WAY. And went right through to the frat boys, “No, but have you met my roommate, Laurie?” You know those plastic bladders from inside a box of wine? Well this girl used to carry a full one with her to parties in order to avoid paying for keg beer, so she was usually pretty much up for anything. I however was not, “no” just seemed to roll off my fearful tongue. My junior year of college while studying abroad something happened that changed the way I approached my life, a decision was made in the heat of the moment that set me on a different path entirely. This is not one of those stories wherein something major happens. One has even argued that in fact nothing happens. But as the flap of a butterfly’s wings may ultimately cause a tornado thousands of miles away, so too did this uneventful event change me forever.
After spending a couple months at my Art History seminar in Rome I explore Northern Italy on my own. It’s heavenly really, not having to negotiate with anyone, or compromise. I’m not interested in mixing with other travelers and I bask in my solitude. This however is short-lived and halfway into the second week my love affair with myself is wearing dangerously thin. I’m really looking forward to seeing my friends when they join me in Amsterdam. Brussels is my layover between Italy and Holland. I spend the morning at museums and the afternoon horribly lost so by the time I get back to the hostel I’m exhausted, barely able to keep my eyes open while trying to follow the World Cup match on TV. I’m moments away from peeling myself off the couch when, one-by-one, a steady stream of young men crest the top of the stairs. They are like a group of messy angels, all dressed in white shorts and polo shirts in varying states of disarray. There are grass and mud stains sprinkled among them, fallen knee socks bunched around ankles, a few carry large wooden paddles and every single one of them makes eye contact with me as they hit the second floor landing. Tall ones and shorter ones and skinny ones and muscle-y ones, a dozen in total, all of them around my age. One of the blondies elbows his buddy and makes his way over, leans on the back of the couch and asks in a charming English accent “what’s the score?”
I surprise myself by answering correctly “Holland is up two-zero.”
“Cheers.” He pushes off and heads to the showers with the rest of them. My breath is shallow, my heart is beating fast. I smile at the older German guy sitting on the other side of the room as if he’s my best girlfriend and we’re going to start giggling and jumping up and down. He rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the television. When they emerge all clean and fresh smelling from their rooms, I’m back on the couch. This time with combed hair, an application of deodorant and a smile. The tall guy with a mop of light brown curls invites me to join them for a drink in basement bar. It looks like a Wham video, lit entirely in black light. I learn that they too are heading to Amsterdam and shots of tequila are doled out.
What followed remains only a series of mental snapshots all debaucherous montage-style:
Cheers!
Shouting over the bad techno music.
We’re laughing.
They’re begging me come with them.
They’re chanting my name
I blurt out the word “YES!”
High fives all around.
My train ticket is ceremoniously ripped up.
I’m in a conga line wearing a sombrero.
CHEERS!
It’s still dark out as my bag is tossed in the back of their white van and we’re off. When my memory finally regains normal speed we’re pulling into a truck stop a couple hours outside of Brussels. I get out to stretch my legs, staring out at the windmills that dot the field beyond the parking lot. I can’t believe I agreed to this, it is so not Gretchen. I’m the responsible one, I’m the good girl, remember. A good girl would never get in a car with a strange man, much less twelve of them…and now these guys are going to overpower me and do horrible things to my lifeless body. Then they’re going to cut me up and throw the pieces out of the sliding van door at random intervals. My family will never know what happened to me. I mean what am I thinking?! I’m thinking that I’d have regretted letting them go without me, regretted not saying “yes” and for once in my young life I let myself say it. So what if I’m going to die? Toby, a Clark Kent look-a-like, leans against the van next to me and assures me they are all nice guys, and that I have nothing to worry about. And for some reason I trust this stranger so I silence my inner death cries and climb into the van.
We’re back on the road and it’s loud. All of them - Toby, Pete, Reg, Foxy, Mike, Ed, Dave, Martin, Jeremy, Sammy, Ollie and Jake - are shouting along in unison with a cassette tape of a British comedy duo. I can follow very little of what is going on but Pete explains that it’s something like the American “who’s on first?” but much funnier because it’s about…cricket. Of course, I mean, what else would the Cambridge Cricket Club be listening to? Toby is right, they are all gentlemen. Okay, almost all of them, and the other two are harmless, they’re just trying to get a rise out of the American girl. I just happen to be sandwiched between these two…and they’re naked. Ed and Dave stripped down to nothing, trying to get a reaction out of me and think they are a bit put out when I barely bat an eyelash. Instead rest my hands on each of their bare thighs. Now they are kind of stuck here in their nakedness. It may seem silly, but I’m damn proud of myself. Sure, I took my first big leap with a van-load of English dandies, I mean a cricket team from Cambridge University, can you imagine a less menacing group? Maybe next time I’ll go bungee jumping with the Oregon State hacky sack club. Even so, I said “yes” and all it cost me was a non-refundable train ticket from Brussels to Amsterdam. They insist I stay with them at their hotel, and even double up on rooms so I can have my own. I mentioned that they’re gentlemen, right? My mom loves telling people this story, however in her version I go to Amsterdam with a rugby team from Oxford, which would have made for a much different story, I’m sure.
I returned to my familiar “no thanks” when they ask me to postpone meeting up with my friends so I can go back to Cambridge with them for a few days. Sweet, sweet boys. I think back to those three days in Amsterdam and it’s true, they were pretty uneventful – getting stoned at coffee shops, ogling at the windows in the red light district, laughing over pints of Heineken – much like everyone else’s trip there. I didn’t even smooch any of them. But for me it’s not about the time we spent in Amsterdam, it was how I got there and learning that it’s a good thing for a good girl to occasionally say “yes.” If it weren’t for that lesson who knows where I’d be, certainly not up on stage in Los Angeles. Shit, you know what? I bet I smooched one of them I would’ve learned the lesson that would have made me famous by now.
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