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.

 

 

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"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.