She sat in the corner and picked at her cheeseburger like an old man might pick at a loaf of bread while feeding the birds. Across from her sat a small man with a pompadour haircut making out with his teenaged girlfriend. Josie sat and took all this in. She contrasted it with how her day started.
She started the day on her way to a casting agent's office where she was to read lines for a soap commercial.
"With new Oleavio soap for sensitive skin...washing my face is a dream!"
She practiced the lines in her head on the subway all morning. She took turns accenting different words in the sentence.
"Washing MY face is a dream!"
"Washing my FACE is a dream!"
"Washing my face is a DREAM!"
She felt confident she could deliver lines with confidence for once. She skipped breakfast to feel lighter and to not upset her stomach. She made sure she got at least 9 hours of sleep, she didn't want bags under her eyes. She approached audtions with the same cautiousness some might reserve for surgery.
As the day progressed she got more and more nervous. She had wished she made the appointment for 9 or 10 or even 11 instead of 12. Noon. So much time to wait. And worry.
She got to the offices early and waited in the tiny and dirty waiting room. She filled out her paperwork and stared at the tv in the corner playing a Destiny's Child music video. She smiled without realizing it. She felt silly. She wasn't an actress. There were pictures on the walls of models and child stars. Black and white head shots blown up to enormous proportions. She waited some more before excusing herself for the restroom. The receptionist didn't even hear her and she left. She left the waiting room, the office, the floor, the building.
"I can't do this", she said to herself.
To soften the blow she went out to eat with money she didn't have and observed the eating habits of strangers.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
The List
James had a problem. James was alone. Not a temporary kind of loneliness but a chronic longing to belong with another human being. A woman, specifically.
He'd had girlfriends but that was all long ago. There was Candace or "Candy" as she liked to be called. She was the first. She left him for another man. A taller and skinnier man. Then there was Amy. She was what he still referred to as "the love of his life". They broke up and got back together a total of 4 times. She had commitment issues. Next came Elizabeth. She was sweet but it just didn't work. They were too different. They had nothing in common.
Those were the girlfriends. He'd had a couple of one night stands. Sharon was the first. She was a girl from L.A. that he met at a concert and asked him if she could crash on his couch. They ended up having sex in his bed and she was gone before he woke up. There was also Lisa. She went home with him after a New Year's Eve party.
But that was all ages ago. Now James was what most people would refer to as a hermit. Which isn't to say he was a recluse. He still saw people when the occasion called for it. He could still communicate when necessary. Birthdays, promotions, a friend from out of town visiting...he could still relate. His hermitdom was more of an internal condition. He gave up on the idea of having a wife and kids, an idea he once held dear. He'd even given up on having a girlfriend ever again. The list of women James had loved in secret outnumbered the ones he loved publicly 10 to 1. Somewhere along the way women began to frighten him. This had never been the case in the past. He was raised by women. He was the son of a single Mother with 2 Sisters. He knew how to talk to women so that wasn't the problem. He didn't know what had happened to his once potent charms. But they were gone, he knew that much.
One Sunday morning, following a particularly humiliating night of being rejected by yet another girl with a boyfriend, James decided to make a list of his ideal partner. He read in some women's magazine at his Dentist's office that that's what you should do when you're unlucky in love. No bother that their sample list included "tall, dark and handsome" and "large penis". It could apply to men too, he gathered. It was all the same. Besides, he had nothing better to do and he liked making lists anyway. He'd already spent the better part of his morning on his grocery list, his 6 month plan and a list of movies he needed to watch so why not craft the perfect girlfriend in list form?
The list went on for 2 pages. When he was done he laughed at himself and said "I've gone fucking nuts" outloud. But he kept the list. He would add to it secretly when he saw a woman on the street with a trait he admired.
"Confident walk" got added Tuesday morning. "Wears nice dresses" was added later the same day. He had to write smaller and smaller so all the words could fit on the pages. That eventually stopped working so he added a third page and then a 4th. All of them filled up on both sides. The qualifications got more and more specific, sometimes turning into whole paragraphs. The day he finally finished the list he was in the park. He sat on a park bench underneath a big pine tree and took a deep breath as he put the pen in his pocket. 5 pages, front and back. There was nothing else to add. It was everything he could think of. It took 2 months but he was finally done.
As the days passed James found himself growing more and more desperate for affection. The days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months. He would read the list some nights when he had trouble sleeping. It made him smile to imagine this perfect woman walking and talking. He would imagine her kissing him and rubbing his head after a long day of work. But the temporary wonderment of such a notion soon gave way the heartbreaking realization that it was only pure fantasy that couldn't be real. He'd had enough. At 1AM he got up, got a pair of shoes on and list in hand walked out to his backyard.
"I'm going to bury this goddamn list! She's never going to exist! FUCK!", he yelled as he began to dig the shovel into the soft ground.
He threw the pages into the hole, spit on it in frustration and began to fill it back in with soil. He went to bed feeling accomplished. The next morning James woke up and laughed to himself. He looked back on the night before like a delirious dream.
"What the fuck is wrong with me?" he asked himself and later, publicly, his friends.
He freely admitted his strange behavior to his loved ones. It made for a good story to tell at the bar when the conversation had dried up. It broke the tension. James didn't mind looking the fool, he even preferred it. He fancied being the jokester.
The days after that morning all blended together in the long run. Work, eat, sleep. Take out the trash on Tuesday, laundry on Sunday. It was all the same.
Winter months turned into Spring months and things began to bloom. As Summer loomed on the horizon, James decided to mow his backyard. He hoisted his heavy lawnmower from his basement and set out to work.
On his first pass around the yard he hardly noticed it but it was there. Hair. Human hair. Growing from the ground. He stopped dead in his tracks when he finally saw it. He even left the lawnmower on in his excitement. He leaned down to look at it. He carefully touched it with his gloved hand. He gave it a gentle tug. There was resistance. There was something attached to the hair, he knew that much. He finally turned off the lawnmower and put it away in his basement where it belonged. He took one last look at the hair before going in for the evening.
The next day James awoke and checked on the hair. It was still there, it hadn't been an illusion. It even looked slightly longer than the night before but he couldn't be sure. He decided to measure it so he could be sure that it was growing from now on. It was currently 5-1/3 inches but that would soon change.
A week later it was 7 full inches. 7 inches of human hair. Blonde, straight hair. It was definitely growing at an alarming rate. Could it be? Was it true? Was his list turning into a woman? Growing? From the ground? Did he accidentally "plant" her? James began to feel like a kid in the days approaching Christmas. What else could it be? It must be her.
He went off to the public library on the weekend and researched gardening. He brought back stacks of books on horticulture, cultivating crops, nurturing your green thumb, cultivating and so on. He went to the garden supply store and bought special tools and special gloves. Should he buy plant food? She wasn't really a plant, she was a person. Or at least she would be. Would plant food just make her sick? Or worse yet, kill her? He decided to get one bag just in case planting human food in the ground didn't work. A plan B.
He began cooking for her. He assumed liquids were the easiest thing for her to get nutrients out of. It could soak up into her "roots" or whatever she had. He made her soups. Chicken and wild rice, crab bisque, homemade pho. All of it poured on the ground around the growing hair, carefully so as to not get any on the hair itself. He realized he should maybe even build some protection for the hair. It would be autumn soon and he didn't want leaves to fall on to her head.
He took a tarp and formed a primitive tent around her. A pup tent, nothing fancy. But if there was a rainstorm or it got windy she wouldn't get hurt.
He obviously couldn't find tips on growing a human so instead he followed instructions on gardening cabbage. He figured her head was about the same size. He also got advice on cutting hair and trimmed her split ends and would brush the hair every chance he had.
After a couple of weeks the earth began to break and the very top of her head emerged. Just the very edge of her hair line at first and then the tiniest bit of her forehead several weeks later. Before too long she stuck out of the ground up to her shoulders. She was beautiful. Everything he could imagine. He cried at the sight of her. She was his list. Soon she would be out of the ground fully and he'd cut her down and clean her off. They would read in bed together and she would laugh at his jokes. They would laugh about her origins. She would say she was from the Midwest when people asked. They would even joke that they met in a gardening class when people asked how they met. He would name her Susan.
He'd had girlfriends but that was all long ago. There was Candace or "Candy" as she liked to be called. She was the first. She left him for another man. A taller and skinnier man. Then there was Amy. She was what he still referred to as "the love of his life". They broke up and got back together a total of 4 times. She had commitment issues. Next came Elizabeth. She was sweet but it just didn't work. They were too different. They had nothing in common.
Those were the girlfriends. He'd had a couple of one night stands. Sharon was the first. She was a girl from L.A. that he met at a concert and asked him if she could crash on his couch. They ended up having sex in his bed and she was gone before he woke up. There was also Lisa. She went home with him after a New Year's Eve party.
But that was all ages ago. Now James was what most people would refer to as a hermit. Which isn't to say he was a recluse. He still saw people when the occasion called for it. He could still communicate when necessary. Birthdays, promotions, a friend from out of town visiting...he could still relate. His hermitdom was more of an internal condition. He gave up on the idea of having a wife and kids, an idea he once held dear. He'd even given up on having a girlfriend ever again. The list of women James had loved in secret outnumbered the ones he loved publicly 10 to 1. Somewhere along the way women began to frighten him. This had never been the case in the past. He was raised by women. He was the son of a single Mother with 2 Sisters. He knew how to talk to women so that wasn't the problem. He didn't know what had happened to his once potent charms. But they were gone, he knew that much.
One Sunday morning, following a particularly humiliating night of being rejected by yet another girl with a boyfriend, James decided to make a list of his ideal partner. He read in some women's magazine at his Dentist's office that that's what you should do when you're unlucky in love. No bother that their sample list included "tall, dark and handsome" and "large penis". It could apply to men too, he gathered. It was all the same. Besides, he had nothing better to do and he liked making lists anyway. He'd already spent the better part of his morning on his grocery list, his 6 month plan and a list of movies he needed to watch so why not craft the perfect girlfriend in list form?
The list went on for 2 pages. When he was done he laughed at himself and said "I've gone fucking nuts" outloud. But he kept the list. He would add to it secretly when he saw a woman on the street with a trait he admired.
"Confident walk" got added Tuesday morning. "Wears nice dresses" was added later the same day. He had to write smaller and smaller so all the words could fit on the pages. That eventually stopped working so he added a third page and then a 4th. All of them filled up on both sides. The qualifications got more and more specific, sometimes turning into whole paragraphs. The day he finally finished the list he was in the park. He sat on a park bench underneath a big pine tree and took a deep breath as he put the pen in his pocket. 5 pages, front and back. There was nothing else to add. It was everything he could think of. It took 2 months but he was finally done.
As the days passed James found himself growing more and more desperate for affection. The days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months. He would read the list some nights when he had trouble sleeping. It made him smile to imagine this perfect woman walking and talking. He would imagine her kissing him and rubbing his head after a long day of work. But the temporary wonderment of such a notion soon gave way the heartbreaking realization that it was only pure fantasy that couldn't be real. He'd had enough. At 1AM he got up, got a pair of shoes on and list in hand walked out to his backyard.
"I'm going to bury this goddamn list! She's never going to exist! FUCK!", he yelled as he began to dig the shovel into the soft ground.
He threw the pages into the hole, spit on it in frustration and began to fill it back in with soil. He went to bed feeling accomplished. The next morning James woke up and laughed to himself. He looked back on the night before like a delirious dream.
"What the fuck is wrong with me?" he asked himself and later, publicly, his friends.
He freely admitted his strange behavior to his loved ones. It made for a good story to tell at the bar when the conversation had dried up. It broke the tension. James didn't mind looking the fool, he even preferred it. He fancied being the jokester.
The days after that morning all blended together in the long run. Work, eat, sleep. Take out the trash on Tuesday, laundry on Sunday. It was all the same.
Winter months turned into Spring months and things began to bloom. As Summer loomed on the horizon, James decided to mow his backyard. He hoisted his heavy lawnmower from his basement and set out to work.
On his first pass around the yard he hardly noticed it but it was there. Hair. Human hair. Growing from the ground. He stopped dead in his tracks when he finally saw it. He even left the lawnmower on in his excitement. He leaned down to look at it. He carefully touched it with his gloved hand. He gave it a gentle tug. There was resistance. There was something attached to the hair, he knew that much. He finally turned off the lawnmower and put it away in his basement where it belonged. He took one last look at the hair before going in for the evening.
The next day James awoke and checked on the hair. It was still there, it hadn't been an illusion. It even looked slightly longer than the night before but he couldn't be sure. He decided to measure it so he could be sure that it was growing from now on. It was currently 5-1/3 inches but that would soon change.
A week later it was 7 full inches. 7 inches of human hair. Blonde, straight hair. It was definitely growing at an alarming rate. Could it be? Was it true? Was his list turning into a woman? Growing? From the ground? Did he accidentally "plant" her? James began to feel like a kid in the days approaching Christmas. What else could it be? It must be her.
He went off to the public library on the weekend and researched gardening. He brought back stacks of books on horticulture, cultivating crops, nurturing your green thumb, cultivating and so on. He went to the garden supply store and bought special tools and special gloves. Should he buy plant food? She wasn't really a plant, she was a person. Or at least she would be. Would plant food just make her sick? Or worse yet, kill her? He decided to get one bag just in case planting human food in the ground didn't work. A plan B.
He began cooking for her. He assumed liquids were the easiest thing for her to get nutrients out of. It could soak up into her "roots" or whatever she had. He made her soups. Chicken and wild rice, crab bisque, homemade pho. All of it poured on the ground around the growing hair, carefully so as to not get any on the hair itself. He realized he should maybe even build some protection for the hair. It would be autumn soon and he didn't want leaves to fall on to her head.
He took a tarp and formed a primitive tent around her. A pup tent, nothing fancy. But if there was a rainstorm or it got windy she wouldn't get hurt.
He obviously couldn't find tips on growing a human so instead he followed instructions on gardening cabbage. He figured her head was about the same size. He also got advice on cutting hair and trimmed her split ends and would brush the hair every chance he had.
After a couple of weeks the earth began to break and the very top of her head emerged. Just the very edge of her hair line at first and then the tiniest bit of her forehead several weeks later. Before too long she stuck out of the ground up to her shoulders. She was beautiful. Everything he could imagine. He cried at the sight of her. She was his list. Soon she would be out of the ground fully and he'd cut her down and clean her off. They would read in bed together and she would laugh at his jokes. They would laugh about her origins. She would say she was from the Midwest when people asked. They would even joke that they met in a gardening class when people asked how they met. He would name her Susan.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Leaving the City
Tomorrow I leave this city. I leave its trees and houses. I leave behind its people. It's probably just sentimentality talking but I feel like I love everybody who has ever lived here. I mourn the loss of everyone who has died here. Every woman I've ever loved has been from here. Every kiss has been under its sky.
From where I am laying on the couch I can see the water and the sky. And the harbor ships coming in. I see an airplane in the overcast sky and I imagine myself on it. Flying high, over the land and sea, nervous and alone. I contrast it with how I feel now. On her sofa, the object of her affection. Loved and missed. If home is where the heart is then my heart will always be here. With her, in this apartment. On this couch. No city could ever match her beauty and she doesn't even know it.
This is what I will miss the most.
From where I am laying on the couch I can see the water and the sky. And the harbor ships coming in. I see an airplane in the overcast sky and I imagine myself on it. Flying high, over the land and sea, nervous and alone. I contrast it with how I feel now. On her sofa, the object of her affection. Loved and missed. If home is where the heart is then my heart will always be here. With her, in this apartment. On this couch. No city could ever match her beauty and she doesn't even know it.
This is what I will miss the most.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
The Bag Full of Hair
There's a bag full of hair on the street corner. Bright blonde hair. Golden hair. In little chunks in a small brown paper bag. On the corner of 15th and Harrison. They look like the clippings of a haircut, swept up into a lunch sack. There's no blood. Not that I can tell. I laugh because I'm uncomfortable. With a furrowed brow she looks away from me.
"It's not funny. It's creepy. What is wrong with you?"
"I know it's not funny. It's just...bizarre"
"Yeah. It's weird alright. It's like one of those things you tell yourself you will tell your kids about someday"
"I doubt it"
"Why?"
"I doubt I'll live that long"
She laughs and says, "Well, I'll live that long. I don't smoke"
Then she tells me about a tv show she saw that was about the world ending in 2012 and how it made her feel both terrified and at peace. The story is capped with "should we call the police?"
"The police? What are they gonna do about the Mayan calendar ending in 2012?"
She laughs and says "I mean about that bag with the hair in it, dipshit. What if it's evidence or something?"
"I doubt it's that sinister, Charlotte. It's probably just the remains of a prank or a barber shop's trash"
With an unmotivated urgency she says "Do you want to go out to eat tonight? I want to try that sushi place that Dad likes. With the conveyor belt"
"I suppose. Can we invite Chris?"
She sighes. "Why do we have to invite him?"
"He's my friend. He's going through a rough time right now"
"I suppose you can call him. But after you call the police about that bag of hair. I couldn't sleep if I knew it belonged to a little girl or a rape victim or something"
I can't believe that this woman is related to me. She sounds nothing like me. She sounds nothing like Mom, she uncertainly sounds nothing like Dad.
"Why do you always have to be so dramatic?"
A sigh, a pause.
"Alright, alright. I'll call the fucking police. Jesus"
She smiles as she holds her hand up to her eyes to block out the sun. Her lips are chapped and it reminds me that she is imperfect and that makes me relate to her more. I grew up in her shadow, my taller and older and more attractive sister. Now we're equals of sorts, with blemishes and spare tires and matching bags under our eyes. And chapped lips.
"It sure is bright today".
I say this to make her feel less alone. A verbal squint of solidarity, a wordy echo of her uncomfortable stance.
"Damn straight it is. Will you come with me to buy some sunglasses? Mine broke"
I nod as I notice a group of teenagers congregating across the street. 4 girls and 4 boys. They look awkward and frustrating and obnoxious and endearing all at the same time. One boy with shaggy hair wears a t-shirt that says "2 YOUNG 2 DIE" in big block letters and smokes a cigarette like a beginner.
The image of the bag on the corner hits me again.
"You still want me to call the police?"
She looks down at the ground and mumbles "No. I guess you're right. It's probably nothing".
"We can go back and look at it again if you want. See if we see any clues or anything. Signs of a struggle."
"Like detectives?"
"Like detectives"
"Just like when we were kids"
"Like when we were kids"
"It's not funny. It's creepy. What is wrong with you?"
"I know it's not funny. It's just...bizarre"
"Yeah. It's weird alright. It's like one of those things you tell yourself you will tell your kids about someday"
"I doubt it"
"Why?"
"I doubt I'll live that long"
She laughs and says, "Well, I'll live that long. I don't smoke"
Then she tells me about a tv show she saw that was about the world ending in 2012 and how it made her feel both terrified and at peace. The story is capped with "should we call the police?"
"The police? What are they gonna do about the Mayan calendar ending in 2012?"
She laughs and says "I mean about that bag with the hair in it, dipshit. What if it's evidence or something?"
"I doubt it's that sinister, Charlotte. It's probably just the remains of a prank or a barber shop's trash"
With an unmotivated urgency she says "Do you want to go out to eat tonight? I want to try that sushi place that Dad likes. With the conveyor belt"
"I suppose. Can we invite Chris?"
She sighes. "Why do we have to invite him?"
"He's my friend. He's going through a rough time right now"
"I suppose you can call him. But after you call the police about that bag of hair. I couldn't sleep if I knew it belonged to a little girl or a rape victim or something"
I can't believe that this woman is related to me. She sounds nothing like me. She sounds nothing like Mom, she uncertainly sounds nothing like Dad.
"Why do you always have to be so dramatic?"
A sigh, a pause.
"Alright, alright. I'll call the fucking police. Jesus"
She smiles as she holds her hand up to her eyes to block out the sun. Her lips are chapped and it reminds me that she is imperfect and that makes me relate to her more. I grew up in her shadow, my taller and older and more attractive sister. Now we're equals of sorts, with blemishes and spare tires and matching bags under our eyes. And chapped lips.
"It sure is bright today".
I say this to make her feel less alone. A verbal squint of solidarity, a wordy echo of her uncomfortable stance.
"Damn straight it is. Will you come with me to buy some sunglasses? Mine broke"
I nod as I notice a group of teenagers congregating across the street. 4 girls and 4 boys. They look awkward and frustrating and obnoxious and endearing all at the same time. One boy with shaggy hair wears a t-shirt that says "2 YOUNG 2 DIE" in big block letters and smokes a cigarette like a beginner.
The image of the bag on the corner hits me again.
"You still want me to call the police?"
She looks down at the ground and mumbles "No. I guess you're right. It's probably nothing".
"We can go back and look at it again if you want. See if we see any clues or anything. Signs of a struggle."
"Like detectives?"
"Like detectives"
"Just like when we were kids"
"Like when we were kids"
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