Chicken Wrangler

Well, today was a first. A co-worker came up to me this morning, which in itself is a cautionary act as everyone knows, I can be... well let's say a little less than cheerful in the mornings, to ask me if I would help her catch a chicken. Me, in a Monday morning daze, of course heard this as 'how was your weekend'.  'It was ok', I said. 'Yours'.  She looked at me as if I were totally disconnected from reality...which I am in the morning. "Huh?", she says.  We exchanged the usually 'what the fuck are you talking about' glances that people exchange in these mis-communication moments. "Huh?", I replied back.  "A chicken... will you help me catch a chicken?".  "Sorry, " I said one more time, "HUH?".  Exasperated she slowed her speech waaaaaaaay down to about .25 words per minute so I could understand. "willlllll....... youuuuuuuuu...... helllllllllllllllllp...... meeeee............ caaaatch.........aaaaaaaaaa.......chicken!"



"That's what I thought you said"... I said.  "And why exactly would I be helping you catch a chicken here at work?"  I tried to ask politely, since I had already frustrated her with having to repeat her question several times.  Not really realizing of course that maybe, oh, I don't know, one other person in the office might have done the same thing!



My co-worker goes on to explain that there is a young pullet running around in the courtyard area of our building.  There have been sightings, apparently, of said chicken in the past week or so.  Co-worker who has chickens of her own, and is an EXPERT chicken wrangler, wants to catch the chicken so that it doesn't end up as road kill or some other animal's dinner. "I'm going to send out an email message to everyone in the building to see if it belongs to anyone.", my co-worker says quite matter-of-factly.  "Um... sounds good to me", I said, scratching my head and trying not to laugh.  " .. but I want to catch him now so he doesn't get away again.".



So, the chicken chase was on.



We walked outside to where the young chicken was last seen, and there he was happily pecking at the grass. "THERE HE IS!", Co-worker exclaims!  "yep... there he is", I thought, now what?  Co-worker had it all worked out as to how the capture would happen.  All I had to do was make sure he didn't get past me. Lest I remind you that number 1, it's morning and number 2, I'm still trying to figure out why my day is starting off chasing a chicken.



"ok", I said, still not exactly sure how I was supposed to do that... but "ok".



The next 5 to 10 minutes were spent in a strange "catch-me-if-you-can" suspended reality kind of way with the chicken most definitely having the advantage in this game.  A couple of "oh SHIT!.. I almost had him"... moments cased in "god damn it COME HERE!" moments, and we had little chick chick safe and sound in a cardboard records retention box. I'm still not sure exactly how he got into the box, but the important thing is that he did.



Co-worker walks the chicken filled box, not to be in any way confused with the red and white ones the colonel uses, into our office building.  "you takin' him home", I ask.  "yes" she said, "at lunch time".  Well of course she would... what the hell was I thinking. Any person in their right mind would keep a boxed up chicken in their cubicle until lunch time, again barring the red and white box kind.



So... for the next several hours amidst the chatter of phone conversations and the buzz of the Xerox machine, I would hear a faint "chirp... chirp".  Each time reminding me that in today's economy... It might not be such a bad idea to add 'chicken wrangler' to my resume.

Spring

I woke up this morning to the sun. Still wearing winter's mood, I stood outside listening to the sounds of spring - birds chirping, squirrels chattering, a slight breeze rustling the fallen memories of fall, and the distant hum of a lawn mower.

Slowly, the smell of spring undressed winter from my soul and glimmers of rebirth began to sprout where silence and hibernation lived only moments before.  My thoughts of course thawed to those of something new, something with seedlings of me planted deeply there and tending to those seedlings with love, caring and passion. 

I glanced to the still naked tree in my back yard with its nakedness revealing the wooden box placed in the crook of two branches that has served as a nesting place for several generations of young squirrels.  It's empty this year.  No family of bushy tailed creatures darting in and out of the round hole that was cut by someone who once lived in the bigger box next to the tree.

For a moment, I was sullen with the thought that this place has become so barren.  That the sounds of children's voices from previous tenants have evaporated from the walls, that the gardens have only evidence of the most stubborn ancestors of plants from owners ago.  But, as seasons go, one dying for the other to live, so did my sadness.

"This isn't an ending, "I thought. "it's the beginning." 

These surroundings have become barren as if to provide a clean slate for those who will come next and to ease me gently, naturally, out of one season of my life to the next.  These surroundings and the way I feel in them are detoxifying.  I am cleansing myself of past mistreatments, hanging on to those things that are hearty enough to survive and readying myself for rebirth and renewal. 

It is spring, and there will be much cleaning. There will be the clearing of the dead for the new to arrive. I will tend to this house with respect, but no longer with the thought that it is my mine because my home and my spring are there.   They are in the specks of sawdust that lay in the corner of a garage miles away. They are in the journey that will take me to there, to my new home, to my own nest that will no longer be empty.

In the Shadow of Ghosts

I can hide from ghosts I know and with whom I am familiar, but it's harder when they are strangers. It's harder when they reach around corners and up through crevices I didn't even know existed.

 

They bruise me... these ghosts of ghosts, on top of places my own ghosts have left scars. They threaten new-skin coverings still fragile and pink. And scream in my ears that that my ghosts are right. I'm not good enough.

 

 I just nod in agreement hoping it will satisfy all of them.

 

I try to shine light on their shadows in an attempts to make them disappear yet they dart into corners and underneath other shadows like spiders chased into cracks and soon peek out again. The light too dim to ever replace them. 

 

They laugh on their way through my nostrils and as they dive into my lungs, smothering any breath of air I thought I had stolen or earned and they revel in using my gut as a punching bag. 

 

They are cold blankets on top of still wet memories and they are see-through fences between then and now, black and white, here and there, was and is. 

 

They constantly shove me from behind  and I smile as I fall forward  face bloody and broken.

 

-Gina

Another tale of my life as an operator: It Could Have Been Me

"U S West, This is Gina. How can I connect your call?"  - you might remember from my first post of my life as an operator, was the standard greeting for every caller to my station. Monotonous, boring, routine... but that was the job. 

 

Sandy was a senior operator. She was rather tall, had long blond hair, a pretty smile and was in her early 40's.  I was new to the job, new to the city, 23 and in need of the motherly warmth and posture she took toward me.  We found ourselves on the same shifts and often sat next to each other and chatted between calls.  A friendship began.

 

I met her boyfriend, Robert, who was also an operator, 11 years younger than Sandy, and seemed to be madly in love with her.  Four months into my new life and my roommate decides that Denver isn't the place for her. I'm left worrying about how to pay the rent until Sandy says,  "hey, why don't you move in with us?"

 

They had a loft with a private bathroom in their condo that was sitting empty. We had shared many dinners and many conversations. It was the perfect salve for my predicament.  August of 1990, I moved in... warmed by their invitation and by their sincerity of having me become a part of the family. 

 

I didn't notice that after dinner drinks became stronger.  I didn't notice the look in his eyes when Sandy and I were conversing in the kitchen while clearing the dishes from dinner.  I didn't notice the bruises on her neck until I had already moved in. 

 

The doctor had prescribed 1,000 mg. of Eurythromiacin. Reactive Airway Disease was what they were treating.  The strength of the medicine made me puke... the disease filled my lungs as if I were drowning. I was only several weeks into my new living arrangements when it hit me.   I lost weight in record time. I went from 150+ pounds to 110 in less than 3 weeks. My body shook from sickness and lack of sleep. Laying down would certainly drown me, and sitting in a chair was less than restful, but it was my only alternative.

 

 I had finally fallen into a somewhat comfortable sleep. Half sitting, half in prone position. It was the first time in weeks when I smelled his breath before I felt his hand on my shoulder.
 

"Gina.. Gina... Wake up. " he said. 

 

My eyes opened to see Robert, at 2 in the morning, fully dressed and kneeling by my bed. 

 

"Come on.  I need to talk to you. We need to go so I can talk to you."  His voice was so insistent  that I didn't even question him.

 

My body rose voluntarily from it's spot without even asking me. Before I could register, we were in his car and driving. His mouth was moving, stop lights blurred as we raced through town, and my eyes were desperate to focus. When my eyes finally did adjust to the time and light... it finally came into view. It was black and square. Not the normal pistol of Gunsmoke or Andy Griffith. But something more like Kojak or Magnum P.I. would carry.  It sat there on the dashboard almost as afraid and unsure as I was... sliding from side to side as it maneuvered the corners in opposition to the turns he made.

 

Lights of the city faded in direct proportion to the fear that rose in me.  He obviously knew where he was going, but I was dizzy with sickness and fear. He kept talking of acceptance and belonging and quizzing me on how it all worked. All I could say was  "I don't know." 

 

He rambled and his voice grew louder.  He commanded answers to questions I couldn't understand. He demanded voice when I had none.. he demanded sympathy when all I had was fear. 

 

A series of turns and we were in the middle of a housing development to be. All that was concrete were the streets and the streetlights.  No houses... no people... just roads and empty lots... and a street light that spotlighted the isolation and privacy of it all. 

 

"Get Out."  Earlier pleas for understanding or tutorial were over.

 

He was angry that I didn't have answers to the ethanol questions on his breath.  He was determined.  All I could pray for was rape. I had survived that once before - guns on the other hand, I was pretty sure I couldn't survive.

 

God please let him rape me and leave me here miles from anyone or anything. I prayed for what I thought would be the best of all outcomes. 

 

My prayers were constantly interrupted by his screaming. By his questions for which I had no answers, by his questions I couldn't even understand.  Hours passed. I have no idea really what was said. My eyes weary from watching the waving of the gun and his finger off and on and off again of the trigger.

 

My pants were wet.  And my legs stung from the cold.  I was tired, and sick, and cold and sure. Sure that this would be the way I died. Unsure if anyone would ever find me.  Broken to the point that I barely cared.

 

 He stared -   to the East as the sun dared to rise. He had waited too long. 

"Let's go." he said. 

 

"You have an early shift."  We drove back.  Silent. 

 

He disappeared. Back to the bedroom where Sandy lay sleeping. Wrapping his arms around her. 

 

I  sat... for an hour or so until the alarm went off.  I showered and made my way to work. 

 

"U S West, This is Gina. How can I connect your call?" 

 

I was too terrified to say anything more.

 

 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

 

"Twenty-five year old Rhonda  Maloney was abducted and raped by Robert Harlan in the early morning hours of February 12th, 1994. Shortly after 5:15 AM, on a cold Saturday morning, Maloney flagged down a passing motorist, Jacquie Creazzo. As the two women made their way to the Thornton, CO police department, Maloney's abductor gave chase. He opened fire on the women, wounding and eventually paralyzing Creazzo. After she crashed her car into the lawn of the police station, Harlan dragged Maloney from the car and fled. A police officer arrived one minute later. By that time, Harlan and Maloney were gone. Over the next few hours, Harlan continued to rape Maloney. He shot her twice under a highway overpass, placed her in his trunk, hosed the body down at a car wash, then dumped her body under a bridge in a remote area."

- DEAD RECKONING: Left At The Scene - The History Channel

Being there...

"It's  just what one does." she says 
"No," I say "it's just what you do. It's what you do for her and her for you. It's special." 

 I watch them -- friends...pranksters... compadres, soul-sisters I think.  No.. I know. 

I envy them that bond and find myself wanting to protect it. I know how special it is, how important, how necessary. The food to love's wine, the water to love's air, the balance on the other side of the scale... friendship.

For those lucky enough, it will hold amongst love and loss, pain and joy, fear and freedom. For those lucky enough it will last a lifetime.  This is for the lucky ones... 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
it is ever present that knowing between them, around them, in them; 
it is a friendship born not of recipes and play dates, but of silent wombs and strength; 
it is a togetherness unequaled immeasurable
no words to describe,define,defend or deny no need or time or reason for that; 
it is their strength in times of absense and pain;
their comfort amongst uncertainty; 
it is their smiles of hidden secrets and jokes between only them; 
it is hope;  and  it is theirs. 

-Gina

A Memory: The Fish, The Monkey, The Python and the Capitalists

 It was mid morning as we wove our way through the murky water  'klongs' or canals that served as playgrounds and front yards for some of the kids that were swimming along side us. The sputtering of the engine and the diesel fumes on our long-tail boat were not so different from the sound and smell of the modified 3 wheeled motorcycle or 'tuk-tuk'   that had delivered us to the pier 30 minutes earlier. Loud noises and diesel fumes equaled transportation everywhere in Thailand.

The tour guide revved the engine and leaking gas, water snakes, and swimming children with smiling faces waving to us with one hand and treading water with the other were left in our wake. We floated by houses, women building fires on their front porches and hanging laundry from strings that hung between awnings and water trees. We passed men who were too stoned on opium to do anything but stare at the sky. And then we began to hear the hum. The hum and the hustle of Damnoen Saduak. The floating market.

The engine suddenly went quiet and we were drifting on momentum and excitement. My eyes burned and watered a bit from the toxic smoke but I could see it getting closer.  A large warehouse-like building on stilts surrounded by water and long-tail boats galore, each filled with their owners wares of the day.  We slowly slid into our makeshift slip and we heard some one yell 'Sawadee, Merikan, Sawadee'. Of course we looked up to see who was calling to the 'Merikans'. We were surprised to see two young boys, maybe 14 taking a picture of us in our boat wearing 'Merikan' clothes and a Thai tan.

 I gripped my own camera and just smiled.

Getting out of a long-tail can be tricky. I'm sure many a tourist got closer to water snakes and bamboo roots than they ever wanted to. I'm sure it's why there we're several Thai boys and men ready to take our hands and pull us to shore.

I was the next to the last person off the boat and my legs were trying to steady the craft as my uncle made his final ascent with a large push to the ledge. "Damn, Chris... Tip the thing... I'm still in here!".  Chris and I were just about to engage in playful family banter when ....

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

What the fuck?!

Chris and I swung around, I clawed my way onto the bank on hands and knees standing up just in time to see my aunt, who was first off the boat and already halfway into the market, come running back towards us, hands in the air and screaming "GET IT AWAY!!!!!!!! NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

She grabbed my arm and swung behind me like she was escaping a schoolboy kiss by rounding the tether ball poll.

Coming towards us was a man... a man offering us a python.  I found out then.... my aunt doesn't like snakes. Before I knew it, the man wasn't just offering just anyone the snake. Since my aunt had so politely declined his offer, his sites were now on me.  Not only were his sites on me, but so were the first few feet of his python. The head slithered around the back of my neck, its cold belly like a heavy silk scarf on my skin. Its muscles contracting and expanding along my side as its tail wrapped my waist.

I was giggling like a two year old at the experience and my aunt who was staring at me in sheer horror. I was having so much fun I didn't notice the snake's owner holding out his hand until I saw Chris put 5 baht in the palm.  Nor did I have time to think about the other man coming toward me with a monkey  in his arms... it's arms outstretched toward me. Nope... didn't think about what the repercussions of holding both a snake and a monkey at the same time would be... at least not at first.

So now I've got a snakes head by my right cheek, it's body a little tighter around my waist than before the monkey arrived, and the monkey in my left arm grabbing my ear and peeking around my face to see what's on the other side. I think it was about then that I asked our guide to interpret for me as I spoke to the snake handler....

"Sawadeekha" (traditional Thai greeting with a slight bow... nervous smile on my face)
"ummm... when was the snake last fed please?"

The man just laughed.  And actually, that may have been comforting had not at just that moment the monkey decided to grab the snakes throat and begin shaking it like a baby's rattle. Mind you now the proximity... snakes head was near the right cheek... the monkey's face was near my left cheek. Now I have the monkey's own personal puppet show going on inches in front of my nose.  I have big blue eyes.  But I don't think they've been any bigger than they were at that very moment. Giggling was still going on... but now it was my aunt... laughing at me and my "predicament".

I'm not sure who was more concerned, the snake's handler or the monkey's handler, or my uncle who was handing out Bahts  like crazy... but... everyone ended up in there respective corners unharmed... and I got a picture and an experience of a lifetime.

The rest of the floating market tour wasn't quite as "eventful" but it was amazing and truly awesome in its own right. The mid-afternoon sun was hot and sweat dripped down my chest as I purchased a cold Tsing-Tao beer for the boat ride home. I paid the smiling woman and followed the rest of the 'Merikans' out the back door.  Just then their was a tap on my shoulder. I turned and for being surrounded by strangers, his face was somehow familiar.  Before I could even smile or ask what he wanted, his own lips curled into a big smile and then a porcelain plate rose up between my face and his.

In the center of this porcelain plate, edged with red designs and gold on the rim... was a picture. A picture of my aunt, my uncle, and me  arriving at the market a couple of hours before.

"45 Baht." He said with confidence yet winking for a barter.

I just grinned and pointed to my head, "No baht.... memories", I said. 

We both gripped our cameras and smiled.

In Memory... (12/9/2007)

any memories we had were dulled by the morphine I slid under your tongue
it wasn't the pillows 
or the light yelling into my skin that woke me
or even the liquid crystal mosquito flying in
out
and around my ears


it was you

rattling out of your skin 
stumbling over breathing tubes and catheters
hurdling your corpse and slamming into walls 
unable to find the light switch

- Gina - 

 It's been three years ago today since I woke up, went to check on my comatose father and found him dead.

Me, the one who he hadn't talked to in 20+ years;  me, the one who wasn't his favorite (I know, because he told the neighbor so... and they felt the need to share); me, who wasn't good enough to love, but was good enough to clean his puke from the bathroom floor after his night of prowling and before my day at school.

I stood in the doorway that morning...for who knows how long. My eyes darting back and forth between his chest and his half opened eyes. Waiting ... just in case.

Nothing happened.

"God DAMN IT!... don't you fucking move!" It's all I could think of to say as I walked closer to him.

 I guess I was going to check his pulse ... to REALLY REALLY make sure.  All I could think of was those TV shows where people walked up to what they thought was a dead body, and it moved.

"God DAMN IT!... don't you fucking move!"

 He didn't.

It was quick really. I got the phone call from him in October, Columbus Day.  Two months later he was gone.  It was enough time to tell me he was dying,  enough time to tell me I was the executor of his in-debt "estate", enough time to see the only grandchild he would ever know - a boy, finally he got a boy, enough time for me to remember how much he had once meant to me...But not enough time to ever say he loved me. The coma saved him from that nasty chore.

I'm not sure if I believe that people can still here you ... even if they are in a coma.... but I had to take the chance that they could.  I had to believe that he had to listen to what I had to say to him... whether or not he could respond.  "Ok Dad, here's the deal..." and that was all he allowed me to say.

His body that had been writhing for hours, stopped.

I gave him the morphine just like the hospice nurse had shown me.  I dipped the lollipop sponge in water and ran it across his dry and cracking lips.  I kissed him on the forehead and went to lay on the couch, to stand ready for the next dose.

I fell asleep and so did he.

Forever.

You cant have just one (12/11/2007)

Talk to just about anyone who has one and I'll bet they'll tell you the same thing; Tattoos are kind of like potato chips, you can't have just one.  

This one was my first tattoo.  I got it on the same day that I sat myself down and said, "Gina, You're a Lesbian."  Not that it was really news to me... it was just the first time I let myself say it aloud.  I was 27 and it was the first time in my life that I felt I had any power, that I had control.  Somehow that translated into the need for a tattoo. Maybe because as taboo as getting inked still was then... it was still better than being Gay. Only sailors and Hell's Angels and "different" people had tattoos.  At last... I finally identified myself with a group... those who were "different", and it just felt right. 

I walked into the first tattoo parlor I could find, determined, proud, and excited.   Excited until the tattoo "artist" appeared from behind the curtain of cigarette smoke that separated the front of the establishment from the back.  Her sandpaper voice coated with tequila wasn't exactly reassuring.  As it turned out, she was one of the nicest people I ever met. She was the first to acknowledge my "different-ness"... she was the first to accept it.  

The parrot  that ended up on my shoulder blade has no significance whatsoever. It was just the first drawing in all of their "portfolios" that didn't involve skulls, knives or snakes. I wasn't leaving until I had ink in my skin...until I was really "different".

My second tattoo is a wizard. It commemorates my sister finding her own power.  For whatever her reasons were, a tattoo would signify the power for her too.  I took her to a much better place, it was clean, and tattoos were just becoming "fashionable".  I paid, she insisted I get another, she picked the wizard, and I grinned.. a big sister grin as my sister and I reclaimed our power in blood and ink.  

It's been 4 or 5 years, since my last tattoo.   I have since then, found another power within me... one that has survived 14 years of emotional abuse, one that has stopped the abuse, one that is determined (as hard and painful as it is)... to be me... to be different ... still.  

The want for another tattoo is growing.  I just don't know yet what it will be.  But it will be different... like me.

Just a few more minutes

 God(dess) I could almost kill for a couple of hours of sleep.  

The skin under my eyes feel like 5lb. weights are pulling it to the floor, my eyes themselves burn, and my brain, well... I don't know where it's hiding.  

I could try blaming it on a magnetically reversed, high-latitude sunspot that emerged on the surface of the sun at the end of last week, but that would then only account for several days of sleeplessness,  not weeks.  

Endless hours of infomercial watching and delirium in the wee hours of the morning has resulted in me finding a trial version of Proactive and a set of Hercules Hooks in my mailbox this afternoon.  Guess I'll be zit free while looking for heavy stuff to hang on my wall. 

I've tried reading the driest of material in hopes of boring myself to sleep, only to learn that the reason I wasn't getting any sound out of my speakers when I put in a cd was because, according to the schematics... I had the damn thing plugged into the wrong port on my receiver.  I should really try reading stereo instructions *before* attempting to hook things up. Who wouldda thunk? 

The house is usually in a certain state of disarray... organized clutter if you will.  But not these days. Vacuuming... there's something almost enchanting about waltzing at midnight with your hoover. 

My poor animals are wondering why I have created this new schedule for them. Their sleepy eyes blinking at me in wonder as I wake them to go outside to "go potty".  I know I heard Dexter whisper to Sachi on the way out the door.... 

"Aren't *we* the one's who are supposed to wake *her* up when we have to go?"

Sachi warned him to just do his business and be thankful I didn't have the ball in hand.  

When sleep does finally decide to tease me... it's usually at 4:45.  The alarm goes off at 5:00.  

*whine*... oh god(dess) just a couple more minutes...

Techno-love

I'm in love with my new Motorola Surfboard Broadband Cable Modem! It's like an old lover back in my hands. 

You see, I knew this modem very, very well. I also had affairs with Linksys , 3Com, RCA and too many others to count, but the  Surfboard... that was my baby. 

In another life, this now Jill of All Trades-Mistress of None... was part of the Research and Development team of AT&T Cable...now Comcast.  I spent many days and nights writing specs and testing modems readying them for their debut on the network. I made sure they could carry the loads that would be asked of them. I taught them to release their IP addresses when asked to, not just when they felt like it and I always made sure they were powerful.  

Some did not perform, could not perform.  Others were way too eager to download.  It was a delicate dance between me, the modems, and executives that pimped them. A word from me could keep them from ever riding the internet highway.  

Temperamental executives could cause political uneasiness, modems too naive would make the customers angry.  A fine dance it was.  

My Surfboards never let me down. They were loyal, quick, and sleek. The perfect fit in my hand and on my network. It was true love.  

That was several years ago, but as I sit gazing at my new love found again.... it's pc/activity light winking flirtatiously at me, I feel a small tingle in my hard drive just fantasizing where it will take me.

That Night...

(CAUTION: Violent content)

That night and that place weren't that different from any other college campus around the country. 

Oingo Boingo greeted us as we walked into the frat house...

"It's a dead man's party
Who could ask for more
Everybody's comin', leave your body at the door
Leave your body and soul at the door . . . "  they sang.

I had arrived on campus the night before. Debbie and Vandy ended up being room mates at the School of Mines after high school. Both of them wanted to be engineers. I wanted to be a teacher, so I stayed in Greeley attending the university there.  

It was a beautiful drive to their dorm. The road wound against the bottom of the foothills.  It was fall, we were young and we lived in dorms. What could be better?  

Debbie, always the bubbly one was grinning ear to ear and immediately looking around to find someone she knew. Vandy, the self proclaimed black witch and Stevie Nicks fan stood there a minute biting her already red cuticles before she started off for the keg. I stood there in my jeans, pink shirt and hot pink tie hoping everyone knew that Annie Hall had recently made it ok.  

The rooms were filling up quickly with jocks, and geeks, and girls. Giggly girls. Cute girls.  The kind of girls the jocks and geeks liked.  I could smell the beer that had already been spilled on the floor in several places and the faint smell of clove cigarettes from the lips of a beatnik-wannabe in the dining room.  

Vandy came back with an extra beer and an invitation to go out back.  

"There's more people out there.  And hot tubs!" she giggled.  

Oh god... I knew Vandy would end up naked in the hot tub with some guy by the end of the evening. But, it only took her an hour. 

Debbie had found the people she was looking for, and they sat on bean bags off to the side of the living room discussing the physics of fluids and how that would apply their budding careers.  

My tie and I took up residence leaning on the side of the pool table, just watching all that was going on around us.  

"Hi, my name is Scott. Do you go to school here?"  His voice and breath were too close to my ear for me to turn without breaking his nose, so I had to step forward to turn around.  

"Hi...umm, Gina, and no, I don't"  I said.

We shook hands and engaged in the kind of talk that takes place in situations like that; nervous, meaningless, flirty.  The kind of talk that seems like comfort for two, or too, lonely people. 

He liked the tie and I liked that he had touched my hand. Not because I wanted a boy... but because I wanted a human connection, because I wondered what it would feel like to kiss someone, because I had had one too many beers.  

The night crept on about as slowly as his hand crept up my leg. He was very attentive to my drinks... always making sure I had plenty, and I felt lucky that I wasn't being slobbered on by him like some of the giggly girls were now being slobbered on by the geeks and jocks. 

At some point ,  I don't really remember when, he wanted to show me his high school year book.  We weaved our way through bodies and beer bottles to his room.  The room was blue, not dark blue, but light blue, the color of icebergs in the ocean and it made me shiver.  There were two beds, his and his room mates. The latter of which, I was a bit shocked to see, was occupied by a couple who didn't know or care that we had just walked in.  

Scott took my arm and pulled me to the back where there was a  sort of room within a room  with bookshelves, a desk, and a chair.  He reached into one of the bookshelves and pulled down a black bound book with silver lettering and then flipped the pages till he found the one he wanted.  I took the book from him and brought it closer, trying to find him among the other players.  I was just about to point him out, when I was thrown to the ground. 

The carpet smelled like dirty socks and McDonald's french fries. It was blue too, dark blue.  His hand went to the back of my head and clinched my hair, clothes being pulled and stretched, and hands... everywhere hands...and I remember thinking.. "how did he end up inside of me so quickly?", but he did.. and I felt myself rip. 

I thought I heard someone whisper "stop, please stop".  

Why where they whispering?  

"Yell at him.. SCREAM at him, please, make him stop."  

I tried to look back.. but saw no one.  

He thrust so hard...I swear I could feel him in my throat, but really it was the screams that were stuck there.  I tried to focus on a cobweb in the corner, on the ceiling, but his body kept getting in the way... so instead, I tried to look through him.  

I was squinting.. the dark was so fucking bright.  Why did it have to be so bright? My head hit the desk leg as he finished. 

"Tell anyone, and I'll deny it... "  he threatened.

I laid there... for minutes...or hours, it was hard to say. I turned my head to the right and I saw a hand clutching my tie... it's knuckles where white and bulging and it wore my class ring. That same hand ran between my legs to wipe away the blood that had been painted there, and then along with another, dressed me.  

As I sat there... finally able to bring the cobweb into focus... it occurred to me that someone was playing that tape again...  

"...leave your body at the door
Leave your body and soul at the door . . . "

Part of the Posse

Wow! Ever have one of those times where words just don't fit?  For those of us who write, it's kind of an odd feeling.  But, that's how I feel this morning.  I woke up  to indulge myself in reading all my favorite blogs and see that I have been added to Margo Moon and Starr Ann's Posse over at the Starr Ann Chronicles!

I've watched Margo and Starr Ann over the fences for awhile, and always see the flickerglow in the their window, but being a little shy, hadn't quite made my way to the stables for a proper hello. 

This past weekend, a mutual friend with a capital F helped me meet Miss Margo, and what a pleasure it was. So to wake up this morning.... with me and my horse Bolero, as members of the posse... overwhelming.  So much so that Bolero and I went for a morning ride, just to reflect on the new year, new friends, new beginnings.  

We rode out, not to far... and we weren't going to be long...so I didn't even bother with a saddle or a bit... I just used his halter and lead rope as a makeshift headstall and reigns.  Bolero's walking gait is always smooth. Long, slow strides that just rock you into the center of yourself and your surroundings. I just let my head bob, and back sway in unison with his as we walked to his favorite spot.

It's a spot... just on the edge of town, where the city fades away to the north and prairies open to the south.  With the morning sun rising in the East, he turns... to face West... stops... throws his head back and snorts... white billowing breath like a steam engines release from his nostrils... horse-speak for  "We're Here".  

He shifts his weight to the left and so do I.  We just sit there in the quiet... looking across the barren, frosted field to the mountains dipped in snow.  

We let the rising sun warm our backs while a chilly wind tickled my nose and played in Bolero's mane.  

"I'm happy...", I whispered to Bolero. 

His head came back to the side and he gently tapped my leg with his nose... as if to say... 

"Let's RIDE!"

It's All Relative

There's a blonde haired, six year old. We share the recessive gene for blue eyes and a middle name.  We share a mom... kind-of... he thinks of her as a grandma, she's not... but he *is* a grandson.

He only see's his grandfather once in awhile and when he does, he says that his breath smells like beer.  He won't know, at least for awhile, that his grandmother smelled of beer too, the day they pulled her dead body from the wreckage. 

He won't know, at least for awhile...that same grandma touched his father as a lover when he was his age and that maybe that has something to do with the fact that he can't see daddy any more. Lawyers, judges and jail cells say so.  

He cries sometimes when he starts thinking too much about his mom. He doesn't understand the light bulb that burned his head 4 years ago, the one that cooked her meth, was the one that took her and has her hidden only miles from him.

He doesn't know that the man and woman he lives with are his great-aunt and uncle.  He just just calls them mom and dad.  My mom... his paternal great-aunt... is Bonnie to him... and he loves her he does know that.  He knows too that she  loves him. He gets to visit once a month or so. 

When he visits he gets to see Nana... my grandmother, his great grandmother, mother of 5, daughter of two... Nana. He does know that visiting her means cookies and kisses. 

He does know, that when he visits,  people... me and my sister and her boyfriend, travel miles to see him.  He doesn't know that we are second cousins... we are just Bonnie's daughters... or Gina or Shannon and Shawn. The one's who always have gifts for him and tease him and play rockets with him. 

He doesn't know that when we go out with him and people refer to him as my son or that I wish I had adopted him when I had the chance.

So the blonde haired, blue eyed six year old,  as we're sitting in a restaurant, leans over and whispers...  

"Gina, do you have a boyfriend?"

"No", I say.

"So, you're just a girl?" he asks. 

"Yep... I'm just a girl" I say.

He doesn't know... it's all relative.

Connections

In a previous life; yes even before the one where cable modems slid effortlessly upon my testing rack, before the executive babysitting gig, before the graphic artist thing, before the office manager thing, and before another staff babysitting job... before all of those, but after the wal-mart and movie theater popcorn jockey stint... I was an operator. 
A pick up the phone, dial zero and someone on the the other end answers with knowledge of all things telephone kind of operator.  

It's probably one of the most interesting jobs I've ever had. In spite of never having a set schedule, sitting in a call center where we sat lined like chattel going to market and in spite of having to raise a yellow colored card to let the managers know we needed to pee ... in spite of all that... it brought experiences that are too strange to be anything but true. 

The job of an operator, in practice, is rather mindless.  Wait for the beep in your headset, push a button, announce yourself, connect the caller to their number, push another button to disconnect, wait for the beep and repeat. However, every once in awhile, there comes a call that just, well... it just gives you a story to tell forever.  Lucky for me I have many stories to tell. 

One includes dark construction sites in the middle of the night and a gun, one involves the sound of the panic in a foreigners voice, one involves going back in time,  but those are posts for another day, not this one.  This post is about finding common ground. Making that caller's connection possible with nothing more than the ability to speak canine.  

80% of the calls coming to my station were for collect call connections, and a good chunk of those originated in jails and psych wards. Another good chunk of request for collect calls came from pay phones. Random people on the streets with no money trying to find someone who will take their call.  All of these calls were funneled into the room where I sat, headset on and waiting for a beep.  

A caller if he/she tried a collect call more than once, could connect with me one time and my neighboring co-worker the next. It wasn't uncommon for prisoners to call so many times that he could tell you which operators were on duty, and who you were sitting next to.  These type of people were the "regulars".  

The Woofer was a regular.  

At least once per shift, one of the operators would yell out... "The dog is on the loose!", and we knew that sometime within the next couple of hours, several of us would end up blowing our call completion times because we had to deal.. with The Woofer.   

A call from The Woofer went something like this.... 

Beep Beep....  
"U S West, this is Gina, how can I connect your call?" 

"Woof"  he would say, which really, didn't answer my question completely.

"I'm sorry, I'll need a phone number and the manner in which you would like to pay for the call" I would say.

"(Woof Woof Woof)Woof Woof Woof  - Woff Woof Woof Woof"  he would bark in telephone number format. 

"Sir, Are you trying to make a collect call?" I would ask.

"Woof"  he would confirm.

In most cases, this is where the operator would "disconnect"... hang up.  We were timed on how long it took to complete our calls and The Woofer took too much time.  

It was near the end of a very long double shift and nearing 2 o'clock in the morning when The Woofer ended up on my headset. I was tired, I was facing going home to an empty apartment, I was new to a big city.. and did I say I was tired?  

Beep Beep.... 

"U S West, this is Gina, how can I connect your call?" 

"Woof"...

...you remember the conversation;  then it struck me...  

"Thank you sir, that number was (Woof Woof Woof) Woof Woof Woof - Woof Woof Woof Woof. Is that correct?"  

Silence.

"Sir, was that the correct number?" I asked again. 

"Woooof..." he said, with a tone of surprise.

"Fine, Let me connect you."

I had dialed my own home phone number, knowing The Woofer and I would both hear the phone ring, but only I knew that no one would answer.  

"Wait!" came a voice from the other end.

"Sir?" I said.  "Is there something wrong?"  

"I changed my mind." he said. "But Ma'am..."  

"Yes?"  

"Thank You."  

"And thank you, for using U S West.  Have a nice evening Sir."  I said as I disconnected for the evening.

That was the last time the Woofer's call ever came to my station, but I like to think it wasn't the last time there was a connection.