Ah, the voyeurism of Facebook. It allows you to befriend acquaintances from high school, friends from former lives and relatives that you haven’t seen in at least 10 years. Maybe it’s about getting the friend numbers up there in order not to look like a loser. Because it’s not like you really talk after the befriending. They’re static pictures with profiles. Once in a while they’ll send an update. After 15 years, you find out that they’re enjoying coffee or their kid is home sick with the swine flu.
But what do you really say after so much time? Hey, I fuck women now. I hate kids. And I don’t believe in the same bullshit that you do. Instead I put a disclaimer on my page, warning of controversial topics. And some of these friends and acquaintances from my former life disappear quietly--perhaps wishing that they hadn’t learned quite so much and desperately trying to remember the way I used to be.
I’ve clicked on these distant friends, looking at their pictures, asking myself if I look that old. I’m obviously in denial. Then I click on their friends and their friend’s friends. And I start to find people that I used to know. People that I left behind for another life. And I realize exactly how much time has passed. Time enough for children to grow into adults, unrecognizable giants compared to their former selves. Time for hairlines to recede beyond denial. Worry lines turn to crinkles and to wrinkles. Salt & pepper hair turns white. People that were old then, ancient now. Some thinner, some fatter and a few unchanged.
The last time I saw you . . .
You were at the garage sale that Jessie threw. She insisted on getting rid of all our junk. You recognized the white dress that I let you borrow for some big event. You had a ring on your finger. Before that, we were raking someone else’s lawn and you told me you were going to date him. I think you might have felt bad about it, but you didn’t know then, that I didn’t really care. He was the least of my worries.
We were in church. And you made sure you looked the other way. Before that we sat together on a park bench in Zeeland by the fountain where I gave you the “let’s be friends” letter. You cried.
I saw you in Ange's back yard. At least 10 years ago-- maybe more. And the time before that was at Vonnie's when Robbie was like 2. Then again in 1989 on our Spring Vacation. We drove all the way to Dunn. You played the Cocktail Soundtrack. You were into Hippy Hippy Shake. The first time, you were a baby in my house. Gram Fran was there. I got a doll that year for Christmas and I named it after you.
We saw you at Family Video store in Holland. You were driving an antique car.
You were working at Wal-Mart.
I tried to avoid you as I walked out the church door. Moments before that you had been behind the pulpit giving your sermon.
You were in the front row at church. You were grade school age. Your nose was always stuffy because of allergies. I think you had a stack of pogs.
Your hair was permed and you were probably playing your trumpet on stage.
We were both shopping at Target. You were visiting from D.C.
You were up from some other state, visiting. We ate at TGI Fridays.
In our 1 bedroom apartment. You told us to try an open relationship.
In a smoke-filled apartment in Okalahoma City, the day after New Years. Someone had made Mexican chicken tortilla soup.
I have a vague recollection of seeing you last at a nursing home. You must have just started working there or something.
You were bringing your son to the Emergency Room. I was on my way into work.
We were passengers in a friend’s car. Your boyfriend wouldn’t stop calling.
I saw you at Wheatland with your husband, but you didn’t hear me when I called your name. I let it go. You disappeared into the crowd.
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Picking up Women at the Gas Station
People freak out about meeting other people on the internet. They could be serial rapists or serial killers. I would have to say you have the same chance of meeting them on the internet as you do in real life.
Jessie was driving her shitty little Saturn. I was sitting in the back seat. A big red truck drove along side of us and honked. They were honking because they approved of our rainbow sticker. We pulled into a gas station and the truck pulled into the gas station across the street. Before we left, the red truck drove over to our side. A short little Mexican woman jumped out. Somehow Jessie arranged a date between me and this woman, Esme.
It was almost a blind date. I didn’t know her. We danced at Diversions, and I brought her home. And then she didn’t leave for 2 months. Esme lived on 16th street in an olive green house with her mother and the 8 year-old son she had when she was only 13. The kitchen walls and ceiling were brown with grease. There had been a fire. Tester noodles were crusted on the backsplash.
Her mother wore oxygen and was too fat to tie her own shoes. She couldn’t move very fast, but her voice carried and she scared me a little. I met many of her friends and family that commented on my light eyes. I only ever caught half the conversation, because it was always in Spanish. Esme drove a gold Camero with naked women silhouettes. It didn’t run very well and spent most of the time parked in her backyard. I didn’t really think anything about her not working, because I was a college student. A lot of us didn’t work or didn’t work that often. But I think she was dealing. And that was why she was on probation. Only I didn’t understand this until later.
I was 21. I believed what people told me. It only lasted 2 months, and I would have ended it sooner, but I was scared how she would react. I caught her in lies. Was it an overdose or a brain tumor or multiple personality disorder? Esme wasn’t educated enough to keep the lies believable. Instead of picking one lie, she would combine and overlap them where they didn’t make sense. I wasn’t stupid, only new to liars and manipulators.
She stole my chocolate one day. I think it was intended to be funny. But I’m serious about my chocolate. I tried to get it back, and she was rather rough about it. I realized while we wrestled on the floor that she could hurt me and wouldn’t care if she did.
There was something mean about her. She had this kitten for a while, but as soon as she saw another kitten that she liked better she threw the old kitten out. She said it was ugly.
Esme had been looking forward to going to the graduation dance with me. She had just bought a new outfit. A couple of days before the dance, I broke up with her via letter. Jessie delivered it. The next day there was a box of things on the porch, pictures of us together with her face cut out and everything I ever gave her. She requested I return everything that she ever gave to me. I didn’t. I still have my broken hematite ring, the glass fang with a bubble of mercury and some pesos from Mexico. I don’t have a single picture of her though.
Jessie said she saw her drive by the house a few times in her red truck (really her fiancés red truck, the fiancé she had the entire time) But we moved. I didn’t see her again until Tulip Time. She acted like we were real close, called me some endearing term. I kept on walking.
I heard about her later through the lesbian grapevine. Sylvia shook her head in amazement, “You dated Horse Hair?” “Why do you call her that?” I asked. “Because she had a fucking mullet.” Sylvia said that Horse Hair had dated her girlfriend Erica. At one point she came to D&W with a loaded gun and waved it around. And another friend of mine had dated her sometime later and got a disease. She might have had bad hair, but she got around.
Jessie was driving her shitty little Saturn. I was sitting in the back seat. A big red truck drove along side of us and honked. They were honking because they approved of our rainbow sticker. We pulled into a gas station and the truck pulled into the gas station across the street. Before we left, the red truck drove over to our side. A short little Mexican woman jumped out. Somehow Jessie arranged a date between me and this woman, Esme.
It was almost a blind date. I didn’t know her. We danced at Diversions, and I brought her home. And then she didn’t leave for 2 months. Esme lived on 16th street in an olive green house with her mother and the 8 year-old son she had when she was only 13. The kitchen walls and ceiling were brown with grease. There had been a fire. Tester noodles were crusted on the backsplash.
Her mother wore oxygen and was too fat to tie her own shoes. She couldn’t move very fast, but her voice carried and she scared me a little. I met many of her friends and family that commented on my light eyes. I only ever caught half the conversation, because it was always in Spanish. Esme drove a gold Camero with naked women silhouettes. It didn’t run very well and spent most of the time parked in her backyard. I didn’t really think anything about her not working, because I was a college student. A lot of us didn’t work or didn’t work that often. But I think she was dealing. And that was why she was on probation. Only I didn’t understand this until later.
I was 21. I believed what people told me. It only lasted 2 months, and I would have ended it sooner, but I was scared how she would react. I caught her in lies. Was it an overdose or a brain tumor or multiple personality disorder? Esme wasn’t educated enough to keep the lies believable. Instead of picking one lie, she would combine and overlap them where they didn’t make sense. I wasn’t stupid, only new to liars and manipulators.
She stole my chocolate one day. I think it was intended to be funny. But I’m serious about my chocolate. I tried to get it back, and she was rather rough about it. I realized while we wrestled on the floor that she could hurt me and wouldn’t care if she did.
There was something mean about her. She had this kitten for a while, but as soon as she saw another kitten that she liked better she threw the old kitten out. She said it was ugly.
Esme had been looking forward to going to the graduation dance with me. She had just bought a new outfit. A couple of days before the dance, I broke up with her via letter. Jessie delivered it. The next day there was a box of things on the porch, pictures of us together with her face cut out and everything I ever gave her. She requested I return everything that she ever gave to me. I didn’t. I still have my broken hematite ring, the glass fang with a bubble of mercury and some pesos from Mexico. I don’t have a single picture of her though.
Jessie said she saw her drive by the house a few times in her red truck (really her fiancés red truck, the fiancé she had the entire time) But we moved. I didn’t see her again until Tulip Time. She acted like we were real close, called me some endearing term. I kept on walking.
I heard about her later through the lesbian grapevine. Sylvia shook her head in amazement, “You dated Horse Hair?” “Why do you call her that?” I asked. “Because she had a fucking mullet.” Sylvia said that Horse Hair had dated her girlfriend Erica. At one point she came to D&W with a loaded gun and waved it around. And another friend of mine had dated her sometime later and got a disease. She might have had bad hair, but she got around.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Memories of a Cougar
The last time I saw Beatriz must have been over 5 years ago. When my couple of dates with her daughter, Carmen were not so remote. When I looked more like myself then with the blonde spiky hair. Beatriz asked me if I had a girlfriend or something. She remembered that I had dated Carmen. But I can’t remember how the conversation started. Or maybe Carmen had asked Beatriz to ask me. That’s when Bea’s cheeks were fuller. Before the dentures. Before her skin turned from olive to pasty grey.
Before the date with Carmen. I worked with Bea on 2nd shift at the Nursing Home—washing up residents after they dug themselves out and finger painted with their own shit. Ah, those were the days. Bea had perfectly curled hair and dark lipstick with liner. There was something elegant about her. She was only in her 50’s then. Now she’s a great-grandma. So I can only assume that one of Carmen’s kids is the parent.
Seems like I met Carmen on Yahoo personals. At the time, I was living with Jessie and Mel. It was during my serial monogamous rebound relationships--after Joe, after my 2 day stay in Pumpkin Town. It was after Horse Hair. January, February, March 1999? No it had to be March, because I was already hired in at the hospital. Our first date was at Ponderosa. I had never eaten at Ponderosa. It was before I knew what good food was. She brought her children. They had bright green or blue eyes. And I had to touch them otherwise give them Ojo. That’s when I learned about the Evil Eye. If you look at a child and want to hold them and then don’t, they get sick with the Evil Eye.
Our second date was at—fuck I can’t remember the name. Now Rumor’s bar, but it was a lesbian bar then. She wanted to smoke her cigarette outside. Carmen said they wouldn’t let her smoke her “special” cigarettes inside, because they stunk too much. So we stood outside in the parking lot or maybe we were sitting in her car. It didn’t smell like a cigarette. Her “special” cigarette was of the MaryJane brand, but I didn’t really know about that then.
I think she kissed me on the cheek before she let me out of the car. Maybe I let myself out of the car. And I never saw her again until the other day. Goddamn, I would not have recognized her. Except Bea was there, and I recognized Bea. And she introduced Carmen. She had been a hot 40 year-old Latina with her mother’s hot lips. Now she was a rough 50 year old with pockmarked skin and pajamas. I don’t think she recognized me by face or name. I was some stranger amidst an information exchange. But what are 2 dates that I can’t clearly remember? 2 dates and a few e-mails 10 years ago doesn’t lend itself very well to tangible memory. It’s so distant and fuzzy, it might not have ever happened.
Not long after our last date, Jessie and Mel saw Carmen making out with some man in a truck. Carmen saw them see her and she ducked away. Looking back I think the whole date thing with Carmen was a set-up. I suspect she was friends with Horse Hair. They lived on the same street. Things with Horse Hair didn’t end well and there was stalking involved. Stalking that might have continued, had I not moved. Maybe Carmen had been sent as a spy. But it never amounted to anything. Maybe Horse Hair was trying to find out if I still talked about her. Which I didn’t. So there was nothing to find out.
But 10 years later I have these faint memories, and I wonder if I’m the only one who remembers or am I only confabulating. Memories fail. I see that now. Do I remember how it really happened or how I think it happened?
Before the date with Carmen. I worked with Bea on 2nd shift at the Nursing Home—washing up residents after they dug themselves out and finger painted with their own shit. Ah, those were the days. Bea had perfectly curled hair and dark lipstick with liner. There was something elegant about her. She was only in her 50’s then. Now she’s a great-grandma. So I can only assume that one of Carmen’s kids is the parent.
Seems like I met Carmen on Yahoo personals. At the time, I was living with Jessie and Mel. It was during my serial monogamous rebound relationships--after Joe, after my 2 day stay in Pumpkin Town. It was after Horse Hair. January, February, March 1999? No it had to be March, because I was already hired in at the hospital. Our first date was at Ponderosa. I had never eaten at Ponderosa. It was before I knew what good food was. She brought her children. They had bright green or blue eyes. And I had to touch them otherwise give them Ojo. That’s when I learned about the Evil Eye. If you look at a child and want to hold them and then don’t, they get sick with the Evil Eye.
Our second date was at—fuck I can’t remember the name. Now Rumor’s bar, but it was a lesbian bar then. She wanted to smoke her cigarette outside. Carmen said they wouldn’t let her smoke her “special” cigarettes inside, because they stunk too much. So we stood outside in the parking lot or maybe we were sitting in her car. It didn’t smell like a cigarette. Her “special” cigarette was of the MaryJane brand, but I didn’t really know about that then.
I think she kissed me on the cheek before she let me out of the car. Maybe I let myself out of the car. And I never saw her again until the other day. Goddamn, I would not have recognized her. Except Bea was there, and I recognized Bea. And she introduced Carmen. She had been a hot 40 year-old Latina with her mother’s hot lips. Now she was a rough 50 year old with pockmarked skin and pajamas. I don’t think she recognized me by face or name. I was some stranger amidst an information exchange. But what are 2 dates that I can’t clearly remember? 2 dates and a few e-mails 10 years ago doesn’t lend itself very well to tangible memory. It’s so distant and fuzzy, it might not have ever happened.
Not long after our last date, Jessie and Mel saw Carmen making out with some man in a truck. Carmen saw them see her and she ducked away. Looking back I think the whole date thing with Carmen was a set-up. I suspect she was friends with Horse Hair. They lived on the same street. Things with Horse Hair didn’t end well and there was stalking involved. Stalking that might have continued, had I not moved. Maybe Carmen had been sent as a spy. But it never amounted to anything. Maybe Horse Hair was trying to find out if I still talked about her. Which I didn’t. So there was nothing to find out.
But 10 years later I have these faint memories, and I wonder if I’m the only one who remembers or am I only confabulating. Memories fail. I see that now. Do I remember how it really happened or how I think it happened?
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Longest Relationship I Ever Had
10 years and 7 months—something like that. Almost everything I know about nursing, I learned there. My job has probably been the only stable thing in my life. I have moved 8 times, lost 2 partners, almost lost my mom, watched my father-in-law die, started and abandoned the MSN program and finished my MFA. That’s the short version.
Even before the restructuring, I knew the end was drawing near. I could feel it at 6:30 am as I walked down the long corridor. I wondered how many more times I would ride the elevator to my floor. What was next? I kept having dreams about tornadoes and tsunamis. These dreams are often about change and rebirth. I thought maybe I would die in a fiery plane crash on my way to Nebraska. That obviously didn’t happen.
Yesterday I worked the last day at my 1st nursing job. I didn’t know it was going to be my last day until the day before. It was anti-climatic. A regular let’s discharge everybody Friday. No bangles. No buzzers. No banners. Just an e-mail on how I’ll leave a void. Assholes leave voids too.
Packed up my stash of snacks. Emptied the freezer. Shredded my mail file and evaluation portfolio. Picked out the books that were still relevant.
All day I made a list in my head of the things that I won’t miss. All the discharge paper work—not many people are discharged on the night shift. Not having a bright light over the bed. Being on the last floor the doctors come to round. Getting up at 4:30am. The constant ring of the phone. Semi-private rooms. Medications in a million different places. Being Vocera-ed for stupid ass shit—but maybe that will be somebody else’s job.
J.G. asked me if I was a little sad. She asked if I was going to miss them. I said that I was and that I would, but I hesitated a little and laughed at the end. So she didn’t believe me. You’re not really sad, she said. Well, I am, but I don’t want to be. And I most certainly don’t want to be in front of people. It’s hard to be sad when I know I’m only going to be 5 floors down, and in all likelihood will be back as a float staff from my new floor. And it’s hard to be sad when I don’t feel anything yet. Except a sinking, nauseated feeling in my stomach. Besides nobody died. Everybody is still right there where I left them—for now.
I stood in my boss’s office to say good-bye. I think maybe she was holding back tears. Maybe. It was verging on something emotional, and I didn’t like it. I had this compulsion to hug her, but I know she doesn’t like hugs. Instead I said, this feels weird, so I’m out of here.
Truthfully, I’m scared shitless. I’ll be the one orientating, not mentoring someone else. I’ll be the new person. I’ll be the person who doesn’t know stuff. And I’m really going to miss them.
Even before the restructuring, I knew the end was drawing near. I could feel it at 6:30 am as I walked down the long corridor. I wondered how many more times I would ride the elevator to my floor. What was next? I kept having dreams about tornadoes and tsunamis. These dreams are often about change and rebirth. I thought maybe I would die in a fiery plane crash on my way to Nebraska. That obviously didn’t happen.
Yesterday I worked the last day at my 1st nursing job. I didn’t know it was going to be my last day until the day before. It was anti-climatic. A regular let’s discharge everybody Friday. No bangles. No buzzers. No banners. Just an e-mail on how I’ll leave a void. Assholes leave voids too.
Packed up my stash of snacks. Emptied the freezer. Shredded my mail file and evaluation portfolio. Picked out the books that were still relevant.
All day I made a list in my head of the things that I won’t miss. All the discharge paper work—not many people are discharged on the night shift. Not having a bright light over the bed. Being on the last floor the doctors come to round. Getting up at 4:30am. The constant ring of the phone. Semi-private rooms. Medications in a million different places. Being Vocera-ed for stupid ass shit—but maybe that will be somebody else’s job.
J.G. asked me if I was a little sad. She asked if I was going to miss them. I said that I was and that I would, but I hesitated a little and laughed at the end. So she didn’t believe me. You’re not really sad, she said. Well, I am, but I don’t want to be. And I most certainly don’t want to be in front of people. It’s hard to be sad when I know I’m only going to be 5 floors down, and in all likelihood will be back as a float staff from my new floor. And it’s hard to be sad when I don’t feel anything yet. Except a sinking, nauseated feeling in my stomach. Besides nobody died. Everybody is still right there where I left them—for now.
I stood in my boss’s office to say good-bye. I think maybe she was holding back tears. Maybe. It was verging on something emotional, and I didn’t like it. I had this compulsion to hug her, but I know she doesn’t like hugs. Instead I said, this feels weird, so I’m out of here.
Truthfully, I’m scared shitless. I’ll be the one orientating, not mentoring someone else. I’ll be the new person. I’ll be the person who doesn’t know stuff. And I’m really going to miss them.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Fucking Breeders (or Fucking Kids)
Warning this may be offensive to you if you have children or are planning to have children. I’m not sorry.
The neighborhood is a little quieter. I think the little fuckers are back in school now. I’m all about year-around school and uniforms. They play in the road. Litter. Ride their bikes through our lawn. Pull the branches off our stubby maple. Beat each other up. Fucking kids. Can’t wait until the annoying ice cream truck retires for the season. A little snow and the fuckers will be holed up in front of a TV with a game controller in their hands. Next summer I hope to have a thorn barrier, hedge roses and raspberry bushes. Ride through the lawn now bitches.
I remember this little old lady at the nursing home, M.G. She was a stick of her former self. She had been a missionary. Never married. Never had children. Traveled the world. Met Ghandi. Did all sorts of self-less things, I’m sure. One thing she said has always stuck with me, “Married people don’t do anything.” She said this with such conviction and snobbery. But I think she was right. We get into relationships, and it becomes all about the honeymoon phase and how we can see more of each other. It’s all about being up each other's butts. Then we either get comfortable or continue to do nothing to improve ourselves. Or we become unhappy and try to find things that will make us as happy as we were when we first met. This is why people have children, because they are bored or unhappy. Instead of fixing themselves, they create a younger version of themselves, hoping these younger versions will turn out better. Will do more. Have more. Be more. And just maybe the parents can live vicariously through their child’s experiences. Can’t anyone stay happy and childless? Everything is too perfect or drama-free in their lives, so they must procreate it.
The neighborhood is a little quieter. I think the little fuckers are back in school now. I’m all about year-around school and uniforms. They play in the road. Litter. Ride their bikes through our lawn. Pull the branches off our stubby maple. Beat each other up. Fucking kids. Can’t wait until the annoying ice cream truck retires for the season. A little snow and the fuckers will be holed up in front of a TV with a game controller in their hands. Next summer I hope to have a thorn barrier, hedge roses and raspberry bushes. Ride through the lawn now bitches.
I remember this little old lady at the nursing home, M.G. She was a stick of her former self. She had been a missionary. Never married. Never had children. Traveled the world. Met Ghandi. Did all sorts of self-less things, I’m sure. One thing she said has always stuck with me, “Married people don’t do anything.” She said this with such conviction and snobbery. But I think she was right. We get into relationships, and it becomes all about the honeymoon phase and how we can see more of each other. It’s all about being up each other's butts. Then we either get comfortable or continue to do nothing to improve ourselves. Or we become unhappy and try to find things that will make us as happy as we were when we first met. This is why people have children, because they are bored or unhappy. Instead of fixing themselves, they create a younger version of themselves, hoping these younger versions will turn out better. Will do more. Have more. Be more. And just maybe the parents can live vicariously through their child’s experiences. Can’t anyone stay happy and childless? Everything is too perfect or drama-free in their lives, so they must procreate it.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
My Dead Wives
You’re probably wondering about the title to this blog. Why Postmortem Life and Black Widows? That’s so morbid. Okay, so I’ve never been married. I have never had a wife in a legal sense just girlfriends or partners. Maybe significant other is a better word. There have been four main ones, two of which have died.
Melynda was a redneck with a mullet. I met her at a church outing when I was 16, and she was 20. She grew up with chickens and goats in the house and a schizophrenic father. She was the only child to graduate from high school let alone go to college. They lived in a double-wide off a dirt road and had government cheese in their fridge.
That’s when we spoke in tongues and raised our hands and knocked on strange doors in Cabrini Green and inner city Detroit, because we believed in Jesus and hell and the Republican party. It’s true. I voted for Bob Dole. That’s when I wore Addicted to Jesus t-shirts and didn’t swear for 4 years. And when I hid my Bible from my parents because they didn’t approve. Only they approved even less when they suspected something else.
It started with phone sex only we would never have called it that. We were only privately masturbating simultaneously over the phone. But otherwise we did very Christian sort of things like watch 8 hours of Anne of Green Gables and then have sleep overs in a twin bed. I kissed her first and couldn’t stop.
Melynda told me that she wasn’t in love with me anymore over a Slim Jim at Russ’. She had met someone on the internet--someone older and more exotic. Melynda is still alive and well somewhere in Nebraska.
I met Emery through yahoo personals when they were free. We lasted 2 years and 26 days. Or maybe I should say that she lasted. The doctors told her she was young. Wrap it. It’s just a pulled muscle. Two weeks later, Rhiannon and I stood next to the stretcher that held her lifeless body. She had an endotracheal tube shoved down her throat and a useless IV in her hand. Her gray hoodie and green corduroys were filleted open. A neighbor had found Emery, barely breathing on the apartment steps. That’s where the large clot had dislodged from her calf and entered into her lungs.
Sylvia worked at the group home with Emery. Eight months after Emery died, Sylvia and I started dating. She would leave poetic and sometimes ridiculous messages on the answering machine. “Why are frozen pizzas kept in the freezer section?” She made house calls when I was sick, forcing me to drink cinnamon tea. Soon we were going out a couple times a week to Jupiter Moon, the twenty-four hour coffee shop to play Scrabble and watch the privileged kids act pretentiously sophisticated. I won’t lie. We argued a lot and broke up several times.
We had been separated for about a year. She was headed eastbound on I-96 when she lost control of her vehicle. I imagine a vivid sequence of events. And I see her in her purple Jeep Cherokee, driving too fast down the freeway, skipping to the next track of her Bob Marley CD. Her long dreads decorated with beaded poetry and twisted wire, clinking together as she leaned forward, partially obstructing her view of the road. With a sudden swerve and screeching tires, her short, heavy, body smashed through the glass landing with a dead thud on the pavement.
And then there’s Jacks, my current partner and personal chef. We didn’t want to meet. Manuel set us up at his Halloween Party. I was a bitch and she was nothing special. Until we sat down in the wet grass and talked while everyone else was smashing the adult piñata. Jacks and I were delighted when we discovered that this is the longest relationship either one of us has ever had. I worry a lot that she’ll die. I know it’s inevitable. We all die. I just don’t want it to be too soon.
Melynda was a redneck with a mullet. I met her at a church outing when I was 16, and she was 20. She grew up with chickens and goats in the house and a schizophrenic father. She was the only child to graduate from high school let alone go to college. They lived in a double-wide off a dirt road and had government cheese in their fridge.
That’s when we spoke in tongues and raised our hands and knocked on strange doors in Cabrini Green and inner city Detroit, because we believed in Jesus and hell and the Republican party. It’s true. I voted for Bob Dole. That’s when I wore Addicted to Jesus t-shirts and didn’t swear for 4 years. And when I hid my Bible from my parents because they didn’t approve. Only they approved even less when they suspected something else.
It started with phone sex only we would never have called it that. We were only privately masturbating simultaneously over the phone. But otherwise we did very Christian sort of things like watch 8 hours of Anne of Green Gables and then have sleep overs in a twin bed. I kissed her first and couldn’t stop.
Melynda told me that she wasn’t in love with me anymore over a Slim Jim at Russ’. She had met someone on the internet--someone older and more exotic. Melynda is still alive and well somewhere in Nebraska.
I met Emery through yahoo personals when they were free. We lasted 2 years and 26 days. Or maybe I should say that she lasted. The doctors told her she was young. Wrap it. It’s just a pulled muscle. Two weeks later, Rhiannon and I stood next to the stretcher that held her lifeless body. She had an endotracheal tube shoved down her throat and a useless IV in her hand. Her gray hoodie and green corduroys were filleted open. A neighbor had found Emery, barely breathing on the apartment steps. That’s where the large clot had dislodged from her calf and entered into her lungs.
Sylvia worked at the group home with Emery. Eight months after Emery died, Sylvia and I started dating. She would leave poetic and sometimes ridiculous messages on the answering machine. “Why are frozen pizzas kept in the freezer section?” She made house calls when I was sick, forcing me to drink cinnamon tea. Soon we were going out a couple times a week to Jupiter Moon, the twenty-four hour coffee shop to play Scrabble and watch the privileged kids act pretentiously sophisticated. I won’t lie. We argued a lot and broke up several times.
We had been separated for about a year. She was headed eastbound on I-96 when she lost control of her vehicle. I imagine a vivid sequence of events. And I see her in her purple Jeep Cherokee, driving too fast down the freeway, skipping to the next track of her Bob Marley CD. Her long dreads decorated with beaded poetry and twisted wire, clinking together as she leaned forward, partially obstructing her view of the road. With a sudden swerve and screeching tires, her short, heavy, body smashed through the glass landing with a dead thud on the pavement.
And then there’s Jacks, my current partner and personal chef. We didn’t want to meet. Manuel set us up at his Halloween Party. I was a bitch and she was nothing special. Until we sat down in the wet grass and talked while everyone else was smashing the adult piñata. Jacks and I were delighted when we discovered that this is the longest relationship either one of us has ever had. I worry a lot that she’ll die. I know it’s inevitable. We all die. I just don’t want it to be too soon.
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