You once saw this chick with wild, fiery-red curls sitting at the stop light of Magnolia and Pine. You marveled at her hair and her shiny, silver 1963 Stingray, not sure which you liked more. Perhaps it was the feeling it gave you. She had the top pulled back and "Boys of Summer" cranked, pumping out of the cabriolet, as she puffed out a series of tight smoke circles in the air with her Marlboro Red. You knew it was a Marlboro Red because the white and red pack, wrapped in cellophane, sat on the dash, staring at you. You were tempted to lean out the window and grub for one, forgetting you quit smoking ten years ago when you were young and dumb and free and dating old what’s-his-face. Yeah free. You remember that feeling. She felt like the silver-bullet train of freedom to you, in those two minutes and thirty-two seconds at the corner of Magnolia and Pine. You re-lived life before marriage and mortgages, before diapers and daycare, before disillusionment and divorce. The light turned green, that girl in the ‘63 Stingray with the crazy red curls popped the clutch and stole across the intersection, leaving you in her wake with your memories. You released your foot off the brake of your SUV, littered with lost Barbie shoes and yesterday’s half-eaten PBJ, and once again contemplated leaving. Sighing, you knew you can never escape yourself. Instead, you stuck your hand between the seats, fished out that half-eaten PBJ, and thought who needs freedom anyway.
GLITTER GULCH August 4, 2009
Out-of-date neon signs, long past retirement age, line Fremont Street. Their colored bulbs radiate an unwavering glow on the downtown Las Vegas streets. It is close to seven o’clock but the day’s heat clings to the air, stinging her eyes, as she exits from the back seat of the of the Town car. She gives a wave to the driver and quickens her pace entering the Horseshoe through one of the revolving doors lining the entrance. The cigarette smoke hangs in the air, like a cirrus cloud, causing her to wince. The room is low ceilinged and buzzes with ample fluorescents and gambling euphoria. Tourists, digging for gold, clutch metal coin buckets in the crooks of their arms as the clink of their booty echoes. They are permanent fixtures, screwed to row-after-row of slot machines. That’s Sin City, she thinks.
Benny Jr. insists that you can still ’smell the chips’ in the Old Vegas Horseshoe, on account of them being the same since Grandpa Binion opened the place in 1951, forcing the other houses to change from sawdust joints to classy, carpeted casinos. Benny always tells her, ‘they don’t make em like this anymore.’ Roxy wishes he would change the forsaken, threadbare carpet, but old cowboys seldom change.
"Would you radio Benny and let him know I’m here and will meet him in the Steakhouse?" She says brushing past Amanda the thin, freckled clerk at the registration desk. She checks her watch; three minutes until seven. She learned over the years you did not make Benny wait, you waited for Benny.
"Sure thing, Roxy." Amanda calls after her as she enters the elevator she hears the ting of a slot machine bell, a lucky winner screams at a jackpot win.
She presses the button for the twenty-fourth floor giving herself a once over in the floor to ceiling mirrors that adorn the elevators antique interior. Her lips are shaded Dangerously Red, matching her dress, complete with a low-plunging neckline and killer curves, all courtesy of Benny. She steps off the elevator and into Binion’s Ranch Steakhouse where Benny is waiting at the vintage mahogany bar. He slides his rocks glass across the bar and signals to the bartender, Petey, for another. She checks her watch again, noting it is one minute after seven o’clock. Her stomach muscles tighten as she gauges the expression on Benny’s face. He smiles at her tipping the brim of the cowboy hat covering his jet-black hair. The tension releases in her gut and a sheepish grin spreads across her face.
"Rox, the usual?" Petey asks polishing a wine glass.
Roxy nods and turns her attention to Benny planting a kiss on his left cheek. "Hi baby, sorry I’m late."
Benny retrieves her Chardonnay off the bar and takes her by the elbow leading her to their corner table overlooking the Vegas valley. Her breath catches in her throat as she gazes out over the cornucopia of shimmering lights. Benny and the Vegas lights brought her from Dallas and they are the reasons she remained after leaving she stopped performing each night on the strip.
Roxy hangs her purse on the back of the chair and takes her place at the table. "Benny, you said you had something important to talk to me about." Benny, opens his mouth to speak, their lanky waiter, James, brings over their salads.
"Mr. Binion. The usual for you. Caprese salad and the Pear and Gorgonzola for you madam. Your porterhouse and lobster will be out soon." James says sliding the dishes in front of them.
Benny stacks a thick piece of mozzarella on top of a ripe, red beefsteak tomato and slices into it. "Wanna bite?" he asks.
Roxy shakes her head and pushes a candied walnut around the plate with a fork. Her palms are sweaty. James returns and slides the tables candle towards Roxy. He places a steaming, twenty-one ounce Porterhouse, Au Gratin potatoes with a crisp, golden-brown crust, a bright orange Australian lobster tail, and a heaping mound of sautéed baby asparagus in the middle of the table along with two extra plates. The flame catches her eye, it orange, blue and white colors dancing the white wax. Benny prepares her plate, selecting tender morsels from each category. The converging smells assault her making her light-headed. Roxy reaches across the table and grabs her glass of ice water. She takes a big gulp, stifling the urge to vomit. She pushes her plate out of the way.
"What’s the matter?" says Benny.
"Oh, it’s nothing. I haven’t been feeling too good lately. I’m not too hungry anyway. Didn’t you want to talk to me about something?" Roxy says changing the subject.
"I do. We’ll get to that." Benny signals to James. "We need a bottle of champagne and two flutes. Bring only the best in the house for my girl here." James returns and pours the bubbly into two glasses. "We’ve been together for some time now ya know Rox," he pauses reaching into his pocket, "I’d like you to marry me." Benny extracts a golden ring topped with a three-karat diamond from its velvet home.
Roxy gasps, exhaling as she reaches for the ring, the dancing flame exhausts itself. "It’s beautiful." She says admiring the brilliant stone.
"Sorry uh, boss, I don’t mean to bother you but uh we got a shark we took outta the pit. It ain’t his first time neither." Bruno the head of security for the casino interrupts.
"Bring him on into the kitchen. I’ll meet you there." He turns to Roxy, "I gotta show a friend some cowboy hospitality. I’ll be right back."
Roxy stands. She feels her ears grow hot the fire spreading over her face. "Benny, I’m warning you…we have been over this a thousand time…"
"Roxy, sit down, shut up, and don’t’ move." Benny exits.
She hears Benny’s booming voice over a clatter of pots and pans, followed by a man pleading. The pleading turns into a wail of pain before silence. Two Horseshoe security guards pull the sobbing man through the dining room. He clutches his hand in a blood soaked linen.
"What did you do?" Roxy says in a whisper a look of horror on her face. "What did you do?" She says again raising her voice.
"You know we don’t play with fish in my house. If I were Grandpa Binion that fish would be two feet under in the middle of the desert, instead of missing a finger." Benny says as he dips his linen napkin in water to extract three dots of crimson from his shirt.
Roxy looks out the window at the glitter gulch below. In the distance, she sets her eyes on a thunderstorm bypassing the valley, illuminating the black horizon with flashes of lightning. Her eyes go wide. She looks at the ring on her finger, up to Benny and back down to the ring and takes it off.
With a slow, trancelike movement, she bends gathering her handbag. She pauses, touches her abdomen, and drops the ring into her full champagne glass. "Mr. Binion, I have to let you go." She says as she backs away from the table before fleeing from the restaurant.
She does not stop for Benny’s angry cries. She does not stop on the stairs for twenty-four flights. She does not stop during the two-mile walk down Fremont to her apartment. She does not stop through an hour of frantic packing or through eighteen hours and twelve hundred miles of desert driving. She does not stop until she gets to her Mother’s door, and rings the bell.
"Mama, I’m home." She cries, bursting into tears.
In the Shadow of the Queen June 22, 2009
In the Shadow of the Queen
I hear Sam’s music long before he comes tearing around the corner in his 356 Speedster. My stomach, doing flip-flops, stops mid-flop, as he zips past my house pulling into the neighbor’s driveway. I remind myself to breathe. Grabbing the magazine at my feet, I flip to my horoscope and feign interest. Careful not to give myself away, I peep over the top of the magazine. Looking in his rearview, he tousles his sandy hair, grabs the low-raked windshield and the camel-colored bucket seat, and swings his lean body out of the cabriolet. As he turns towards me, I pop the Seventeen back over my eyes. He rounds the front of the car and pauses to buff the Porsche’s emblem. It glistens and twinkles in the summer sun, almost as much as his golden tan.
“Hey Elle,” he waves. “I’ll call you later babe.” I throw my middle finger in the air and crank ‘The Boys of Summer’ tune playing on my boom box. He shrugs, sauntering up to her door.
“Damn her,” I curse under my breath. My ears begin tingling, heat crawling up my face. He has blown me off twice this week, cancelling our standing M&M (Main Street and movie) binge, to whisk her off to God knows where.
What does he see in her? I am his best friend. I introduced them. Why am I am getting the shaft? I try to focus on my horoscope, hoping the growing tension in my head will subside. It says the change in my love life that I am hoping for, is right at my fingertips. My heart starts pumping. I throw the magazine on the ground and grab the baby oil, smoothing it up to my bikini line.
Violette Salisbury. Her name sounds as if someone combined Barnie with a slab of beef. All she needs is a side of mash potatoes and we have a full meal.
“She’s named after the famous French ballerina Violette Verdy,” Sam told me one afternoon. Sounds dramatic to me.
Violette Salisbury and her mother moved to Kings Mountain a few weeks ago, from Los Angeles – the Valley she called it – after her parents’ divorce. She told me her Dad was some big shot movie producer in Burbank, whose hands had the uncanny problem of wandering up in his production assistant’s skirts. Her mother had more than enough of her husband’s indiscretions, and the Silicone Valley, to last her a lifetime. Learning her childhood “summer cottage” on Moss Lake was on the market, she made long-distance plans to purchase it. Sight unseen she bought the property and high tailed it back east, Violette in tow, to lick her wounds in the comfort of her Alma Mater. This landed the Salisbury team of two, and their foofy Pomeranian duo, to flank my house to the east sharing a common sidewalk.
My Timex beeps, jolting me out of the thoughts in my head and signaling me to start baking my backside. The two lovebirds exit Violette’s house. Violette is giggling and chewing on a piece of her flaxen hair. Our eyes meet.
“Oh my God Elle!” She says running over to me. “Like, thank you so, so much for introducing me to Sam. He like just asked me to go with him to Denny Hagedorn’s big bash. I was so totally worried about moving to this podunk city at the end of the school year. I thought, like I wouldn’t make any friends and would just have the most boring summer vacation ever. You totally fixed that.”
My jaw dropped. Sam, my Sam, was taking her to the biggest social event of the school year. The Sam that hid beneath the willow trees creating mythical lands and creatures with me, best buddies since we were nine years old. The Sam that set rabbit traps in the cotton fields, plunged from the rope swing and sunned on the banks of Moss Lake with me summer after summer. He had gone with me to Denny Hagedorn’s big year-end bash since Denny had moved to Kings Mountain in the sixth grade.
My heart was a freight train going downhill. I wanted to burst into tears but refused to do to do that in front of Violette Salisbury. My nostrils flaring, I managed a smile matching hers. After all, I was in drama club.
“That’s terrific Violette. I’m sure I’ll see you there.” I said. “We’ll have to hit the shops in downtown Charlotte to look for dresses before the party,” I lied.
“Perfect,” she purred. “Ok, well, were off. So, like, I’ll talk to you soon?” She rocked back and forth on her heels, making her golden mane swing back and forth, causing me to hate her more.
“Mm hmmm.” I was tempted to stick my foot out as she walked by, but I knew that would create issues between Sam and I. As it is now, he seemed oblivious to my pain.
“Cool,” she said. She walked to where Sam was waiting in the car before turning and calling out over her shoulder, “I can’t wait.”
Next, Sam did something that blew my mind. He got out of his precious Speedster, walked around to the opposite side, and opened her door. Never, I mean never, had I seen him do that. That is when I knew: My days of sun and Sam would be over from this point forward.
I bolt upright in bed. My heart is pounding as if it is going to leap out of my chest. My breathing is erratic. My cotton jersey sheets cling to my sweat soaked skin. I start laughing making my sides clench into tight balls of iron. It was all a dream.
The clock flashes eleven. The sun is waxing its mid-morning peak. I throw on my bikini and run to the kitchen to devour a bowl of Special K.
Grabbing the phone on my way to the door, I dial. “Dude! Are you up yet? Get over here. You and I have a date with the rays and bottle of baby oil. Ugh, and I had the worst dream ever. I’ll tell you all about it when you get here.” I say. “Hurry up.”
In the yard, I plop down on my towel and crank my tunes. The Eagles, Hotel California, is playing on the radio. The lyrics make me laugh. As I am sloshing on my baby oil, I look up to see a shiny Mercedes Benz turns the corner. A forty-foot Atlas Van Lines truck follows. The Mercedes pulls over allowing the truck to pass. The truck driver downshifts to a stop at the neighboring house and backs into the driveway. The blood drains from my face as a young, buxom, honeysuckle blond and her mother exit the Mercedes.
Running into the house, my mouth tasting of vomit, I hurl myself on my bed and start crying.
FREE TO GOOD HOME June 4, 2009
Free to Good Home
My twenty-two pound math-for-liberal-arts-junkies book lands on the floor with a thud, jolting me out of a mid-term studying infused sleep. I scan the room for my cell phone. Flicking it on, I realize its 4:30 AM. I have no missed calls and no texts. The house is lit up like a Christmas tree, in the same state as when I dozed off, calculating the god-forsaken Pythagorean Theorem. The television, originally on for background noise to quell the quiet creakiness, is now blaring. A daytime-drama-has-been and her fateful counterpart are taking turns droning on about how my life will change: if, and only if, I am one of the next ten callers to order their very-special-one-of-a-kind-miracle-vegetable-chopper. Yeah right. Off goes the boob-tube.
Room by room I do a quick check on the kids, flipping off lights, tripping over chew toys and Barbie dolls. Where is my husband? He promised he wouldn’t be out late tonight. I check Mini-Me’s room. No husband there. In my room (again) Mini-Me is laying on top of the covers, spread-eagle, Curious George panties smiling at me. I can never keep this kid clothed. No husband there, either. Glancing in on the Other-Child, moaning in her sleep as usual, I simultaneously blanket curse the neurologists, epilepsy and Phenobarbital. No husband there.
Slightly annoyed I grab the cell again. My mind sing-songs, “Oh where, oh where, could Cookie be?” I text him. “LIAR!” A split second later I’m punching the qwerty keys. I dial his number once, twice, three…twelve times. Persistence is one of my better virtues.
“Hi and thanks for calling,” I hear Cookie’s voice. Blah, blah, blah; I depress the power button avoiding the greeting. I’ve been relegated to voice mail. Bastage!
Hijacking his personal tweet-deck, I bang the keyboard, “It’s 5 am; do you know where your husband is? It’s 5 am; do you know where mine is?” Since blowing up his cell, for the last thirty minutes, hadn’t done much good, maybe going public would. Being the fourth time in a few weeks this has happened, my concern over his personal safety has waned. I don’t question whether he’s dead or alive anymore. I deduce he’s alive; at least until he gets home.
I’m washing my face when the wiener brothers begin whining at the back door. My overstuffed dapple sausage Jack, le chien névrotique des deux, barks. Roscoe wags his tail, stares at Jack and then sniffs his ass. Patiently, they wait as the key turns slowly in the lock.
Enter stumbling husband. Enter foul smell of beer. Nice. Just what I’ve always wanted, I think, grabbing the can of vapor flowers to cover the acrid, rotting-bread smell.
I’m standing, half-hidden, when he enters the house. “Where’s your cell phone?” The question takes a moment to register in his beer-soaked brain.
He stares back at me blankly before fishing his cell out of his back pocket. “Oh, nine missed calls. Hey, did you call me from a blocked phone number?”
Oh, nine missed calls, whoop-die-doo. My inner monologue mimics. “No. Why? Who else is calling you at 5:00 AM?” Hmmm…that’s funny; I called twelve times, only nine registered?
I feel the sting of four half-moon craters puncturing the flesh on my palms. “So where have you been? Game ended at 11:30 PM. It’s now after 5:00 AM and the bars close at 2:00 AM. Did you forget it’s your daughter’s birthday party tomorrow?”
“No, I didn’t forget. I’ll be up early tomorrow to get my stuff done. Downtown was crazy! People lining the streets, like Mardi Gras. I was at Clubhouse, then Pine Street Bar” he pauses, “what’s that place…the one I kept running next door to watch the game that night because they didn’t have cable? Matador is it?”
Was he stalling? I pressed. “I don’t know. What I’m interested in hearing is where you went after 2:00 AM?”
“After the bars, we wandered the streets. Then I went to this girl’s house. She’s a radio personality. I don’t even remember her name. But, there was like two girls there and six guys. We were all hanging out. There was some other radio guy there. Stone something-or-other; he’s a stocky guy, lots of tattoos.”
“Interesting. So let me see if I have this straight. You stumble in after 5:00 AM, drunk, after being at some girl’s house ‘hanging out’ for the last few hours. You ignore my phone calls and can’t be bothered to send a status text. You must be aiming for consistency, because this is the fourth time it’s happened in the past few weeks. I don’t appreciate it. In fact, come play-offs, I won’t be available to watch the kids while you’re off gallivanting the city all night.”
“Oh really,” he retorts. “Well, come final play-off games, I don’t plan on coming home at all.”
I’m half expecting him to stick out his tongue, throw his thumbs in his ears and say nanny-nanny-boo-boo. I could scream. I’d really like to pick up a blunt object and ram it into the side of his head, but I’ve watched enough ‘Forensic Files’ to know better. Our eyes are small slits, our gazes fixed. We’ve reached stalemate.
“Really?” I say. “Won’t come home at all, huh? We’ll see about that.” I turn on my heel, crawling in bed to cuddle with Mini-Me.
I awake a few hours later; phone ringing, head pounding. The barrage of phone calls has begun. Girlfriends want to know if I’m okay. Guy friends just want to know. No, I’m not single…yet.
I rummage through the purse to find the 800 mg horse pills to turn-my-frown-upside-down. I pop those, along with a couple of fat burners, and my daily prescribed dose of Adderal. What the hell, it’s Sunday. I grab a Xanex and chase the whole lot with Perrier. About 30 minutes later, I’m feeling no pain. Cracked and mellowed, but focused. I grab my computer and pull up my Facebook account.
“What’s on my mind?” it asks. Vague and leading, daring me to unfurl my innermost ranting-raving desires or what have you. I post the following cathartic ramble: “Free to good home: 5’10” male; adept at taking out trash and doing dishes; may require obedience training; comes with full wardrobe and two adorable wieners.”
Cookie doesn’t grace us with his presence until well after noon that day. Needless to say, the Other-Child’s birthday party with Chuck-E is postponed. The reprisal: Cookie gets a wicked sinus infection. Guess I didn’t need that blunt object after all
Casualty of War May 31, 2009
Part One: Casualty of War
They said it was a game. I had never played it before.
“You take the golf ball and throw it on the ground. If it hits the other person, they’re out.” Lizzie’s sister said it so matter-of-factly. She was older. She was the expert. With trepidation, I gingerly accept the golf ball. I was “it” first. No basic training, not even a “boot,” catapulted into a boondoggle operation. Game on; we scatter like rats, scampering for our lives, when the cook enters the kitchen. My operative: get to base-camp (the front porch) and through the beaten zone (the rest of the yard) without encountering a bouncing Betty (said golf ball) or the Viet-Cong (Lizzie’s sister). I sprint towards the back of the house to hide beyond the berm. Emerging cautiously from the boonies, I scale the perimeter towards the left. No good, possible spider holes detected. I adjust my sights and focus my recon to the right of the hooch. Bingo, I was scott-free, feeling like a skilled boonierat.
Enter armed enemy sapper. Red Alert. Rock and Roll, she fires a shaped charge, no hesitation. I watch in slow motion, my thoughts the dead march. Analyzing my potential moves, one-by-one, I turn each one down. I was trapped. Her ammunition bounces off the drive-way hitting me square in the mouth. Man down. Blood everywhere, I’m screaming somewhere inside my head and for real. I’m not sure which of the two was louder.
When Lizzie’s father comes storming out of the house, he yanks me inside commencing the bomb damage assessment. I can feel it. They are gone. A million dollar wound. A check in the mirror confirms the worst…my two front teeth: FUBAR. I was a casualty of war.
Part Two: Porcelain Shrapnel
Slow motion moments. Eyes fluttering, nauseous, groggy, foggy. Just keep them closed. Where am I? That smell, I recognize it. It’s antiseptic, sterile with an indefinable mixture of cleaning fluids, anesthesia, rubbing alcohol and metal? Sit up? No, lay chilly. Just keep them closed. Damn, where am I? Cotton mouthed. Thirsty. Lost in the past, my thoughts pierce my stupefied state shrieking silently, “Are they still there? Chipped? Cracked?” Running my tongue along the marred porcelain, I bolt upright, roaring, “Get my fucking husband!” The nurses, dressed in their standard-issue clinic fatigues, shoot each other a knowing look of alarm. They’d known this was coming. Their fugazi patient awake, kicking and screaming, “Get my fucking husband! Now!”
“Uh Ma’am, please. Please stay calm. We, um, we had a little problem with your procedure,” the doe eyed physician’s assistant putters. She’s a predictable hooch-girl with hair cut into a too-neat bob. My personal space alarm goes off…ehn, ehn, ehn. She was the first one I wanted to put in a Glad-bag, just because she was there. Restraining my inner hell-fury, I fire my best die-bitch-die look instead.
“I know. I knew you were going to freak out,” in walks my husband, the moment’s knight-in-shining armor. “The anesthesiologist came out. An hour ago. He told me everything. I’ve been calling all over town. I found a guy who can fix it. I scheduled an appointment for tomorrow morning. It’ll be ok,” Cookie spews, a torrential rain, breathless. “So, while he was taking out your trach tube,” he continues the after-action report, breathing a little more regularly. “You came out of unconsciousness quicker than expected. You bit down on the tube, hard, nearly taking off his fingers. They went flying into the air. You almost took-out the head nurse. You sure-as-shit freaked out the anesthesiologist; he may require therapy.”
Huh? I freaked out the Bac-si? He’s going to require therapy? I festered. Kill, kill, kill! I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the anesthesiologist, the orchestrator of my current cluster fuck. The reason I was lit-up. Oh I was going to give it to him. Porcelain shrapnel was only the beginning of my wrath. Fester. Fester. Who was I? What had I become? Fester, fester, fester. Why couldn’t I think clearly? My thoughts were rumbled, my mind racing. I’d known something was going to happen.
“Oh just sign, honey,” the intake nurse had crooned just four hours earlier. “We never had anyone have any problems with that. That’s just a legal formality, you know?” Sign I did. How could I resist? She afflicted me with intonation so silky, so smooth. Wooed me with her syrupy-sweet disposition; quelled my rightful concerns over the contents of the medical liability waiver and release forms. If I had a clacker or some foo gas right now I would have buckled the co-cong, but I felt like I was going to hurl.
And let’s face it; I really wanted the damn things anyway. Having been inflated for nine months and sucked dry for thirteen, I was overdue. Tired of them flapping around like two deflated water balloons, compulsion drove me. I needed an upgrade. Now, for the second time in my life, I was a casualty of war.
My scars are well hidden. I have two of them, one on each side. They are not very large. You would never know they were there, unless you knew me intimately. Even then, not unless I told you. Of course, you would wonder. It’s obvious they must be somewhere. But you wouldn’t ask me unless we shared a couple shots of tequila and swapped war stories. Some don’t like them. Some think they are expertly crafted. It’s a matter of opinion. Running my fingers across my battle wounds evokes vivid wartime memories. I have a feeling they won’t’ be my last.
