When my car wasn't where I'd left it, all I knew was it had been stolen. I imagined some junkie driving to his dealer's house, maybe passing out in my car later, pissing himself all over the front seat. This had happened to my friend's car. Or perhaps some crack dealer needed it to transport product across state lines. I'd read about that in the news. Or maybe some thoughtless kids had taken it for a joy ride, whipping over curbs and leaving a burned out hull of a Honda Civic in the woods. That's what happened to my mother's Karmen Ghia 35 years before. No doubt they were laughing as they warmed their hands on the toxic fire.
When the police called a week later to tell me my car had been recovered all I knew was that three juveniles had been arrested while driving it around south Seattle. They had been pulled over in an orderly traffic stop and arrested without incident. So it was the kids, only they hadn't had time to take my car out in the woods to burn it. I imagined three white boys with blond crew cuts and letter jackets high-fiving each other as they drove off in my car. Driving away from the 7-11 after using fake ID to buy a case of beer. I imagined three black kids wearing watch caps, fist-bumping each other as they drove away in my car, driving away from the 7-11 after ditching class in favor of finding someone over 21 to buy them a case of beer.
When I called six months later to find out where the prosecution was I found out the case had been lost in transition on its way to juvenile court. I also found out the two passengers had been 13 and the driver was 12 at the time of the theft. He had needed to sit on a phone book to see over the steering wheel, the officer told me. It was also explained to me that these particular kids had been caught and charged several times with "taking a motor vehicle without permission." That they were too young to be considered full fledged gang members but they worked for the gang by stealing cars since the punishment for juvenile car thieves is so much lighter than for adults.
When I picked my car up from impound The steering column has been stripped of casing to allow easier access to the ignition wires. A hole gaped where the stereo had lived. All of my belongings had been thrown from the car, except for one postcard with an areal photo of the impossibly yellow and blue Grand Prismatic hot spring in Yellowstone. There was no phone book.
When I attended the sentencing hearing of the boy who had been the backseat passenger I found out he was Laotian, as were all three boys. His mother was there, in tears. Through her interpreter she pleaded for us all to see the good in her son, lamented that he had fallen in with a bad crowd of young Laotian immigrants. When the judge allowed me to present my impact statement, I found the sweat from my down-turned palm had puddled on the table.
All three boys pleaded guilty to their charges. The clerk at the Victims' Advocate office told me it was very rare for juvenile car thieves to plead guilty because it was so easy for them to get off. Curious, I looked them up. I found the front seat passenger had recently gotten detention at his junior high school for turning in his homework late. His school was one I drove past occasionally. The driver, twelve years old when he had taken my car, had pleaded guilty as he was waiting trial for another crime. While the charging papers from my car theft had gotten lost in the shuffle, the alleged driver had been involved in a snowball fight--just two months after he had been arrested for stealing my car. The snowball fight turned ugly when the opponents used snowballs weighted with rocks to break a window of the boy's house. The boy took his father's rifle and shot at the kids in the street. One of those kids, seventeen years old, died of a gunshot wound to the head.
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Monday, December 27, 2010
Prompt:: Washing the Sins from Under My Skin
Tomorrow is the day I will wash the sins from under my skin. I said that yesterday, but when today got here I found I had too much laundry. Three loads and the time it takes to hang it all out to dry in the treeless back yard, flapping over gray grass too tired to fight the wind lays down before I even step on it. And the dishes, with caked on cheese from the lasagna I made last night. And it seems the kids were even messier than usual, perhaps conspiring to keep me busy pulling sheets and blankest out of vents and fluffing pillows out of the toy box. And how is it so much dust has landed on surfaces overnight? All this must be finished first. And in front of the house there is a small bed of tulips that had never quite kept the bright yellow promise of the packages. These need watering. And further down the walk is the mailbox full of ciculars and one bill with red all capital letters stamped across the face of the envelope: FINAL. NOTICE. Peeling the bill from its folds obligates me to find the checkbook, which takes a little rooting around in the desk drawers, and the sitting and sighing, and resting my chin in my palm as a tear leaves home, and runs away down my face to drop onto the signature line. My sins will have to wait until tomorrow.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
10 Minute Prompt: What anticipation has haunted you?
I hadn't seen
Aunt Arly and Uncle Leck
in three years.
During that time I had
moved to Europe,
grown six inches,
and lost my Southern accent.
Also in that time
Arly's arteries
had hardened
and Leck's vein
had seeped so much
blood into his brain
that he lost the ability
to speak and to walk.
Before going to the nursing home
I heard my grandmother telling my mother
in another room
that Uncle Leck had asked
someone to bring him
a gun
so he could shoot
Arly and himself.
I remembered Uncle Leck
as a strong man of the earth,
in a white tee shirt;
a man just past his prime,
but the idea hadn't
quite caught up to him.
His house was in good repair.
The fig tree out back
grew huge leaves and
gave bushels of figs.
Arly in her bright white apron
swung open the screen door and
called all the kids in
for peach pie and ice cream.
Time had been cruel to them.
I couldn't imagine what
could have happened
in the last three years
to bring them so low
that Arly recognised me
as my mother
and Leck dreamed only
of the smell of gunsmoke.
Aunt Arly and Uncle Leck
in three years.
During that time I had
moved to Europe,
grown six inches,
and lost my Southern accent.
Also in that time
Arly's arteries
had hardened
and Leck's vein
had seeped so much
blood into his brain
that he lost the ability
to speak and to walk.
Before going to the nursing home
I heard my grandmother telling my mother
in another room
that Uncle Leck had asked
someone to bring him
a gun
so he could shoot
Arly and himself.
I remembered Uncle Leck
as a strong man of the earth,
in a white tee shirt;
a man just past his prime,
but the idea hadn't
quite caught up to him.
His house was in good repair.
The fig tree out back
grew huge leaves and
gave bushels of figs.
Arly in her bright white apron
swung open the screen door and
called all the kids in
for peach pie and ice cream.
Time had been cruel to them.
I couldn't imagine what
could have happened
in the last three years
to bring them so low
that Arly recognised me
as my mother
and Leck dreamed only
of the smell of gunsmoke.
Friday, December 10, 2010
10 Minute Prompt: What is Your Super Power?
Everyone has a Super Power. Not everyone knows it. Some people spend their whole lifetime without discovering what their Super Power is. Conversely, not everyone can tell when people are using their Super Powers. Sometimes their Super Power is being able sit quietly and look interested while they are really making grocery lists in their heads, or planning keggers, or reliving their last Hawaiian vacation. And some people’s Super Power is super annoying, like when they can remember every singe thing you’ve ever said to them and they remind you of it later when you contradict yourself, or change your mind. But that’s another story for another day. My Super Power is the Laugh Ray. I can shoot the Laugh Ray out of my mouth anytime I feel bored, or stressed, or when things are just getting too serious for no good reason, and whoever I aim at just falls over laughing. I have made robbers drop their loot in a fit of hilarity. But I wasn’t born knowing how to use my Super Power. I have had to learn to use my Laugh Ray judiciously, over time.
Before I was old enough to go to school I would use the Laugh Ray on my mom when she looked harried while trying to get dinner cooked. She would look at me and laugh so hard, doubling over, eyes closed, gripping the spatula to her chest, the food would burn and she would have to start all over again from scratch. So that wasn’t as helpful as I had hoped.
When I was in High School I would use it when I was bored in Mr. Nelson’s history class. While Mr. Nelson was describing the 1939 Nazi invasion of Poland he would double over laughing, trailing a chalk line across the green chalk board from the last R in ”Storm Trooper.” Sitting in detention is not the outcome I had in mind.
As an adult I find it useful to whip out the Laugh Ray when others around me stray into social territory that is dangerous to me. Like when I’m on a bus, minding my own business, and some guy sits down next to me and starts telling me how his next door neighbor is using remote viewing to follow him around his apartment, and is shooting rays through the wall into his apartment to burn his linoleum tiles and release asbestos into the air, and how the aliens are abducting people and engineering a whole new race of human beings. I whip out my Laugh Ray and before you know it, he is laughing his way all the way up the aisle to a seat near the driver.
Once I was at a party and the host says “You know if gays are allowed to marry the next thing you know people will be trying to marry their dogs...” When no one was looking I turned on my Laugh Ray and before you knew it everyone was laughing so hard, pointing their fingers at one another, holding their sides, and all intentions to hate on gays was forgotten.
It can come in handy in more personal situations too, like when I’m hanging out with someone new, and I like her, say on a second date, and she starts talking about her feelings, and that she really wants kids but would rather get a dog first to see how we parent together. I open my mouth as if to say “I think that’s a great idea,” but instead I turn on the Laugh Ray. Pretty soon we’re having a good time again.
All in all, my Super Power has allowed me to dodge many bullets.
Before I was old enough to go to school I would use the Laugh Ray on my mom when she looked harried while trying to get dinner cooked. She would look at me and laugh so hard, doubling over, eyes closed, gripping the spatula to her chest, the food would burn and she would have to start all over again from scratch. So that wasn’t as helpful as I had hoped.
When I was in High School I would use it when I was bored in Mr. Nelson’s history class. While Mr. Nelson was describing the 1939 Nazi invasion of Poland he would double over laughing, trailing a chalk line across the green chalk board from the last R in ”Storm Trooper.” Sitting in detention is not the outcome I had in mind.
As an adult I find it useful to whip out the Laugh Ray when others around me stray into social territory that is dangerous to me. Like when I’m on a bus, minding my own business, and some guy sits down next to me and starts telling me how his next door neighbor is using remote viewing to follow him around his apartment, and is shooting rays through the wall into his apartment to burn his linoleum tiles and release asbestos into the air, and how the aliens are abducting people and engineering a whole new race of human beings. I whip out my Laugh Ray and before you know it, he is laughing his way all the way up the aisle to a seat near the driver.
Once I was at a party and the host says “You know if gays are allowed to marry the next thing you know people will be trying to marry their dogs...” When no one was looking I turned on my Laugh Ray and before you knew it everyone was laughing so hard, pointing their fingers at one another, holding their sides, and all intentions to hate on gays was forgotten.
It can come in handy in more personal situations too, like when I’m hanging out with someone new, and I like her, say on a second date, and she starts talking about her feelings, and that she really wants kids but would rather get a dog first to see how we parent together. I open my mouth as if to say “I think that’s a great idea,” but instead I turn on the Laugh Ray. Pretty soon we’re having a good time again.
All in all, my Super Power has allowed me to dodge many bullets.
10 Minute Prompt: Sometimes You Just Gotta
Sometimes you just gotta say “NO!” When you’re tired, or you’re hungry, or you’re angry, or you’re lonely. When your friend calls to complain that the love of their life who they simply cannot imagine themselves without has broken up with them, for the fifteenth time and isn’t that just horrible, only you haven’t heard from your friend since the 12th time and that was 8 months ago? That’s a good time to say “no.”
Sometimes you just gotta scream. When you work day in and week out to make a better world, a place for yourself that is warm, safe, cushioned, furnished and then one night someone breaks the window and climbs in, uninvited, to help themselves to your last beer, that’s a good time to scream.
Sometimes you just gotta eat the whole pint of ice cream. Like when you’ve tried so hard to make it work and you’ve compromised and you’ve gone to couples counseling and she still breaks up with you for the 15th time, that’s a good time to eat the whole pint of ice cream.
Sometimes you just gotta reach out and grab what you want. When you’ve walked past that store every day, twice, and seen that diamond encrusted Rolex, and that ruby ring, and that adorable shih tzu puppy, and your piss-poor job hasn’t paid you enough though you’ve worked yourself sick and compromised all your values, that’s a good time to walk in, distract the sales person, and take it.
Sometimes you just gotta scream. When you work day in and week out to make a better world, a place for yourself that is warm, safe, cushioned, furnished and then one night someone breaks the window and climbs in, uninvited, to help themselves to your last beer, that’s a good time to scream.
Sometimes you just gotta eat the whole pint of ice cream. Like when you’ve tried so hard to make it work and you’ve compromised and you’ve gone to couples counseling and she still breaks up with you for the 15th time, that’s a good time to eat the whole pint of ice cream.
Sometimes you just gotta reach out and grab what you want. When you’ve walked past that store every day, twice, and seen that diamond encrusted Rolex, and that ruby ring, and that adorable shih tzu puppy, and your piss-poor job hasn’t paid you enough though you’ve worked yourself sick and compromised all your values, that’s a good time to walk in, distract the sales person, and take it.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
A Girl Is A Dangerous Thing (10 Minute Free Write)
I knocked on his door to see if he was OK. The apartment manager had sent me, suspecting the tenant was having trouble, maybe his health was failing, maybe his mind was going. It was my job to identify needs and offer resources. I thought I heard a rustle behind the door, but no answer. I rang the bell. His bell was the first I had rung all day that worked perfectly as it was designed. It made an off-key bing-bong triggered by the push and release of a black button just underneath the peep hole. The tenant opened the door as wide as his own body and leaned out into the hall. I introduced myself with a smile, patting my chest as I said my name. He remembered me perfectly from his visit to my office a year ago.
He opened his door wider and invited me in. I realized how warm the hallway was as the cold threw its arm around me in his apartment. He was wearing a scarf that looked hand knitted. But his bald head was bare. I wasn't sure how he could feel warm, it had to be under 50 degrees in his one-bedroom apartment. And bird-thin 80 somethings are notoriously cold blooded. My goal was to see if he was having any problems keeping up with his housekeeping or personal hygiene. So far so good, though his apartment was cluttered there was no odor. And clutter was about all he had.
I saw only 4 pieces of furniture in the living room area: three wooden folding chairs and a wooden TV tray aspiring to a desk. On the wall above the make-shift desk was a sizable collection of clippings from newspaper and magazine stories featuring aliens. They were all the short, gray-skinned variety with the large egg-shaped head and black eyes. On another wall were several pictures of a dark-haired man with dark skin and an infectious smile.
I asked him about his income, his recent troubles, and his options for assistance. He talked to me about UFOs, abductees, the Baba who gave him the gift of fragrance, how he'd lived most of his adult life in sexual abstinence, and parthenogenesis. He had studied Hinduism at the Theosophical Society. He had served in the Army. His eyes shone as he told me that one in every 100 women was parthenogenic. I was a blue-gill hooked on his line. Who are those women and how could we tell them apart? For him it was enough that they existed.
They are the perfect essence of humanity, women born of woman without sperm -- the ovum splitting into itself, imploding into an embryo. The perfect being. Was it possible Jesus was really a parthenogenic woman? I kept that question to myself. I remembered reading about a woman who had been knocked unconscious during a bombing in London during WWII and who later found herself to be pregnant. The only explanation for her pregnancy, since she claimed she hadn't had sex and no one could prove her wrong, was that her ovum had spontaneously fertilized itself. This theory was supported by the baby herself when she grew into a tiny carbon copy of her mother. Her conception was at once a rejection of millions of years of reproduction and a leap into immortality and divinity. That little girl represented a world without men.
The man tapped a one inch square baggie that was pinned to the wall under a photo of the dark haired man. That's the last little bit of the fragrance, condensed from what's left over after incense is burned....
He opened his door wider and invited me in. I realized how warm the hallway was as the cold threw its arm around me in his apartment. He was wearing a scarf that looked hand knitted. But his bald head was bare. I wasn't sure how he could feel warm, it had to be under 50 degrees in his one-bedroom apartment. And bird-thin 80 somethings are notoriously cold blooded. My goal was to see if he was having any problems keeping up with his housekeeping or personal hygiene. So far so good, though his apartment was cluttered there was no odor. And clutter was about all he had.
I saw only 4 pieces of furniture in the living room area: three wooden folding chairs and a wooden TV tray aspiring to a desk. On the wall above the make-shift desk was a sizable collection of clippings from newspaper and magazine stories featuring aliens. They were all the short, gray-skinned variety with the large egg-shaped head and black eyes. On another wall were several pictures of a dark-haired man with dark skin and an infectious smile.
I asked him about his income, his recent troubles, and his options for assistance. He talked to me about UFOs, abductees, the Baba who gave him the gift of fragrance, how he'd lived most of his adult life in sexual abstinence, and parthenogenesis. He had studied Hinduism at the Theosophical Society. He had served in the Army. His eyes shone as he told me that one in every 100 women was parthenogenic. I was a blue-gill hooked on his line. Who are those women and how could we tell them apart? For him it was enough that they existed.
They are the perfect essence of humanity, women born of woman without sperm -- the ovum splitting into itself, imploding into an embryo. The perfect being. Was it possible Jesus was really a parthenogenic woman? I kept that question to myself. I remembered reading about a woman who had been knocked unconscious during a bombing in London during WWII and who later found herself to be pregnant. The only explanation for her pregnancy, since she claimed she hadn't had sex and no one could prove her wrong, was that her ovum had spontaneously fertilized itself. This theory was supported by the baby herself when she grew into a tiny carbon copy of her mother. Her conception was at once a rejection of millions of years of reproduction and a leap into immortality and divinity. That little girl represented a world without men.
The man tapped a one inch square baggie that was pinned to the wall under a photo of the dark haired man. That's the last little bit of the fragrance, condensed from what's left over after incense is burned....
Bent Showcase Spoken Word (in writing)
Our fingers touched as we both reached for the last strawberry.
“Oh, please, you take it.” I said turning my hand over to a palm.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. You take it.” She said, mimicking my palm.
I am the hostess. My mother would turn in her grave if she caught me taking the last of anything while entertaining a guest.
“I’m not really hungry for more. I was just going to finish the last lonely strawberry. It looks juicy. You should take it.” I insisted.
“No, really, I was only taking it to seem nice.” she said, her smile turned down coyly
“Well, I’m not going to eat it now. You might as well. It will go to waste. You know you want it” I said, and pushed the dish towards her.
She pushed it back, “I’m pretty sure you want it.” Her smile got bigger and warmer.
I took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure whether I was losing my patience or ready to find a new way. I picked up the strawberry, carefully pinching the green cap to keep from touching the succulent fruit. I waved it slowly under her nose so she could smell how ripe and ready the fruit was.
She pushed my hand away. I was so surprised and distracted by her touch that the strawberry was almost pushed into my mouth before I realized what she was doing. She laughed when I ducked my hand under hers.
I took a deep breath. I knew what I had to do. I looked her right in the eye and thrust my hand forward so that the strawberry opened up on her face, dripping red juice on her lips.
“Oh, please, you take it.” I said turning my hand over to a palm.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. You take it.” She said, mimicking my palm.
I am the hostess. My mother would turn in her grave if she caught me taking the last of anything while entertaining a guest.
“I’m not really hungry for more. I was just going to finish the last lonely strawberry. It looks juicy. You should take it.” I insisted.
“No, really, I was only taking it to seem nice.” she said, her smile turned down coyly
“Well, I’m not going to eat it now. You might as well. It will go to waste. You know you want it” I said, and pushed the dish towards her.
She pushed it back, “I’m pretty sure you want it.” Her smile got bigger and warmer.
I took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure whether I was losing my patience or ready to find a new way. I picked up the strawberry, carefully pinching the green cap to keep from touching the succulent fruit. I waved it slowly under her nose so she could smell how ripe and ready the fruit was.
She pushed my hand away. I was so surprised and distracted by her touch that the strawberry was almost pushed into my mouth before I realized what she was doing. She laughed when I ducked my hand under hers.
I took a deep breath. I knew what I had to do. I looked her right in the eye and thrust my hand forward so that the strawberry opened up on her face, dripping red juice on her lips.
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