I walk by the Cherry Tree every time I head to the subway. The signs on the windows promising nights of trivia, Guitar Hero, and karaoke in a setting that looked like a comfortable place where everyone would eventually know your name. Unfortunately, that dream is now gone from me.
Sure bartender, I'll buy your story that your boss won't let in groups of people if the females are under 23 and the males are under 25, as if your boss was creating some modern hybrid of ladies night and the law. Then I'll further buy your story when you are pressed for details and explain that if any one of us were there by ourselves, it would be OK. I sure can't wait for that magic age of 24, when my female friends become the epitome of classy social drinkers, while all my male friends will suddenly become violent and destructive drunks (but only when in groups)!
Trying to keep out immature kids so they won't "tear down your signs"? Advertising 5 dollar beer bongs and nights of beer pong is really a good way to do that. For Christ's sake, Cherry Tree, you have Big Buck Hunter. You can't fool me into thinking you run the swankiest lounge in Brooklyn with your garbage stories.
Want to know what is actually "immature"? Your bartender pulling out his cell phone and making a fake phone call to his "boss" to check to make sure that the "ladies night" policy is really in effect. If you don't want us there because you have never seen a Maine ID before and you are confused by the pretty colors, then man up and kick us out. Don't give some fake apology and BS story then give your buddy a high five as we walk out the door. This isn't some one horse town. I don't need you.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Sugar Mommas (Choose Your Own Adventure)
“Just open up a little wider for me, honey,” he said, yanking my back molars over towards my cheek. My father was British and didn’t believe in dentists, so this was my first appointment in years. The dentist packed up his tools and I reached down to re-cuddle my cup of coffee. I asked him if I could leave.
“Um, let’s see,” he said, his hands shaking as he placed my X-rays on a monitor. “It seems as if you have te—no, eleven cavities.” I stared through him. “And see these clumps of bacteria—here, here, here, and here—floating towards the nerve...” Worry and pain were in his eyes. I looked towards the door. “If you don’t get those ones filled, in the next…ten days… you’re going to need root canals. Here, here, here, and here.”
“Yeah… I’m not sure about the whole dental insurance thing. Let me call my dad.” My stepmother picked up the phone, and hung up after not understanding “father. fa-ther. can I speak to my father.”
But hey! What would you do? Do you:
Pick up an insurance brochure on the way out, and start gathering claims of negligent guardianship in terms of dental healthcare. Proceed to Mother #2.
Agree to stay on to receive immediate dental work. Proceed to Root Canal #1.
Mother #2
All the Colombians were over for Maria’s fiftieth birthday. Tequila bounced from one to the next, licking the men and women as high as she could on their faces. One of the women held a three year old whose lip never ended on one side, the opening stretching all the way up his face to his nostril. Maria owned an adoption agency, so there were always kids around her mansion in Potomac who looked straight out of the files. A serious Colombian pushed the weimaraner down, yelping as her head hit the floor, but she sprang back up and ran into the kitchen. Someone’s little blonde child kept grabbing my hand and leading me in a loop around the first floor. “Vamos,” she said, “vamos.” I was done vamosing; I was done before we started. My sixteen-year-old stepbrother Santiago was mixing drinks for the guests at a bar built into the side of the dining room. I hid behind him for awhile.
Santi’s favorite childhood stuffed animal, a two-foot Dino from The Land Before Time, sat, a relic, on top of the kitchen fridge. I reached in for a Coke, my seventh since nine that morning. Tequi waited for the refrigerator door to close, then jumped up and down, trying to clamp down on Dino’s tail. The only image I had of Santi as a kid in Bogota was his long black hair down his back, one hand clutching this dinosaur, smoking a cigarette, salivating over the local drug scene that lay a few years out of reach.
We sang happy birthday en Español as my father issued in a huge white cake from Giant with a Kodak imprint of Maria’s face on the icing. The supermarket could now copy over every part of the original photograph, from her lipstick-stained teeth to the red-eye camera glare. Santi snickered, my older brother Stephen following suit, as one of the nerdier Colombian men “ooh”ed at the cake. Maria, all business, ready to blow, waited for the last “feliz cumpleaños a ti.” As she finished off the candles, her face was pushed down into her sugary mirror, lipstick-stained tooth to lipstick-stained tooth. So that was his surprise.
Glasses were thrown against walls, so I slipped out, through Maria’s bedroom to get to the garage. Her television was on. Star Trek, always, on some channel that agreed to loop Star Trek all the time. In the garage, I made an obstacle course out of ping pong balls, a bike helmet, and old horseshoes for whoever would play. Noticing that someone had tested a can of gold spray paint over a tri-billed poster board, my science project from the year before, I spiraled into depression. What melts fastest on ice? the poster board asked in puff paint, testing the melting points of Milky Ways and M&Ms when placed on an ice cube. But now no one would know.
Santi stormed into the garage, holding a clump of wispy cotton in the air. Dinosaur intestines. “Where is that fack-eeng dog?”
“It’s just me!” I said, holding my hands in the air from my squat under the workbench.
“Oh. What are you doing in here.”
“I come out here… to think,” I said, tossing a ping pong ball and missing the inside of the bike helmet.
“Oh. Did you get a Coke?”
WWYD?
A. Take what I need and proceed to “Mother” #3.
B. Nod and smile. Submit, submit, and ask for more. Proceed to Mother #4.
“Mother” #3
The one written in pencil. Mischio tapped her pen against her desk and stared me down as I paused to take some notes. “Um, what exactly do you need me for? What does my citizenship have to do with anything?”
“Please, I came all the way here. One last question.”
“No offense, but this was like ten years ago.” She had given me the pearl earrings when I didn’t have pierced ears. And she bought them in Tokyo, where everything is ten times more expensive. Prancing around her and waving my oil pastels, I accepted the gift and confessed to her that I wanted to be an AA, an actress and an artist. She told me to speak to my father about AA. “He’s not…dying? Or something?”
“No, no. Well, he did have a kidney stone last year. Okay, so. Why didn’t you go through with the wedding?”
She shifted in her chair and gave me a challenging look. “It was like ten years ago, and I’m thirty now.” Her business profile had read thirty-five. And I needed a clean dental insurance application. My comment section was getting long anyway, so I felt confident enough crossing out this sugar imposer.
WWYD?
A. Leave her office, grabbing a butterscotch candy on the way out, and head on over to Root Canal #2.
B. Disciplined and set on making the insurance claim, journey to Mother #4.
Mother #4
A year after my dad and Maria were divorced, he believed in something beautiful again, and asked for another’s hand in marriage, an Emma. Stifled in the smell of something between boiling cabbage and burning oil, my brother and I sat on Emma’s basement couch. We watched Sub Zero ice Scorpio to death as Levan K.O.’ed his brother Irakli. A napkin that one of them scribbled “To Steve and Caroline: Please do not leave the Playstation on for over eight hours” still lay on top of the console, unmoved since they had written it the weekend before when they were out of town. A lacrosse ball bounced over my head and landed back into Stephen’s net. The thoughtfulness of my new brothers was very welcome after all of Stephen’s personal failings. “Care-line? Want to?” Levan asked, stretching out a controller. “Goldeneye?”
Irakli’s English remained non-existent, so he opted to never speak. He was either playing video games or working at Giant, where he learned to laser photographs onto birthday cakes. Levan was either playing video games or arguing with his mother in Georgian. Emma came halfway down to the basement. She pressed her thick cream jacket and matching skirt against the stair handle. Her suits always looked like they were made out of curtains, stately curtains. She already knew the scene, and squinted, focused only on her youngest. “Le-van.” Levan’s hands kept clicking away and he grunted, his eyes never leaving the screen. “Levan. (Loud, incomprehensible Georgian.)” Irakli didn’t look up from the screen either, but his mouth and eyes twisted into violent disappointment at whatever she had said. Levan da-ed her away.
She squinted in my direction. “And your father needs to know if there is still Coke down here.”
Sunk between two couch cushions, I couldn’t muster getting anywhere near up. “Da. I mean—yes, there’s another case left.” Stephen’s lacrosse ball stopped thumping and rolled under the sofa. He tried balancing his stick on the palm of his hand.
“Okay,” she said, reaching down to pick up a bowl and two glasses from the bottom stair, and nodded to herself. “Okay.”
“She said we can’t go upstairs. Her student is here,” Levan said. Irakli clicked and clicked to send a barrage of paintballs against a factory wall, writing his name in PS2 paint while a patient Xenia, a poised machine gun in hand, waited for him to finish.
“That is so punk rock,” I said, staring at the vanishing “Irakli.” The lacrosse stick slipped and Stephen decided to slam it down on my already bruised arm. We heard some clinking from a piano above our heads. Suddenly the soda settled and I really had to use the house’s bathroom. Blast.
WWYD?
A. Hold it. Wax nostalgic and proceed to Mother #1.
B. Reach for a nearby letter opener and stab the blade into Stephen’s thigh. Suffer the consequences, placate injuries with a Coke, and proceed to Root Canal #1.
Mother #1
They were quieter, from more introverted to not even speaking the language, as they ranked in number. But my mom had always been the quietest. Until she lost all that weight.
“Are you still consuming?” she asked as I twisted open a Diet Coke.
She had just taken me out for a birthday lunch, and I turned on the television as she checked the phone messages. A hazy enactment of my parents meeting clouded Friday’s Passions cliffhanger. Their eyes met and a sparkle hit the roof as my mother handed him, the last British import, a tee-shirt with a close-up of a haloed Sun Yung Moon. My father, grabbing her hand and leading her out of the basement door of the Moonie cult premises, stole a long kiss in the freeing sunlight. Then came the scuba diving. The divorce was less vivid: my dad had decapitated my brother’s Paddington Bear at some point, and I was constantly being bribed with Cheerios.
“This one’s for you,” my mom said with a haughty smile, and put the phone receiver on speaker.
“Appy birfday tooyoo, appy birfday tooyoo, appy birfday dear carorine, appy birfday tooyoo,” my new stepmother sang into the message machine, and I could see my father give her a nod and hang up the phone for her. The first five entries in my father’s speed dial read #1, #2, #3, #4, #5, mostly used as intermediary numbers between credit card companies. Today he must have pressed #1 and handed the phone to #5.
WWYD?
A. Return the call and proceed to Mother #5. Naturally.
B. Say “I am sick of your sticky maternal love” to #1, kick over the phone table, and sulk over to Root Canal #1.
Mother #5
My crew team scheduled a race on Easter Sunday, and the regatta’s meeting on a family holiday provided a mixing of worlds that helped up my lactic acid. My dad wore his straw Easter boater hat and bowtie in celebration, and Ding stood looking out the window of the boathouse to the Potomac River. Behind us a team pulled at the ergs in unison.
“So this is what you kids do,” my dad said, giving me a proud look, as one of the girls collapsed off her rowing machine. He handed me a bag spilling over with Cadbury’s chocolate that he had ordered online. I tugged at my spandex unisuit, looking around the erg room for the rest of my team and queasy at the thought of my upcoming race, but my dad was beaming at his Easter gift. I fumbled through the different candy bars and thanked him over the collapsed girl’s dry heaving and piercing screams.
Ding look excited and pointed out the window of Thompson’s Boat Center. A crew eight turned all their oars square to stop their boat as a yacht, insensitive enough to mess up the team’s practice starts during the Georgetown Regionals, charged through their projected path. Ding had been a doctor in China, but legal issues, such as her entering the country, kept her from doing anything un-black market. She sold snow globes and candy in a small shop in DC’s Union Station. She never really dealt with the customers, because she can’t speak English.
“Ding Dong, c’mere,” my father said, giving her butt a little shove towards his stomach’s bulk. All smiles, she giggled as he placed his boater on her head and it fell over her eyes. I felt uncomfortable. Turning, I saw my coach running towards me. She looked annoyed and pointed towards the rest of my boat just as they sprinted around a corner, beginning a warm up loop around the Watergate. “But…but He is risen!” I said. She shook her head and looked back down at her race day notebook. I placed the bag of candy in front of a red-faced erger and ran, bow-legged, after my peers.
WWYD?
A. Skip ahead, past the race and into the future—today is that day! Proceed to Root Canal #1.
B. No way out, suckah. Proceed to Root Canal #2.
Root Canal #1
“I can do two of them for you today,” the dentist said, slipping in a needle to pump three rounds of anesthesia into the far corners of my mouth. I mean, it was a Wednesday. My tongue dried and was squirted down and re-dried over the next three hours, and the dentist prodded me whenever my sleepy head gave up and threatened his instruments. He charged me and thanked me and released me, and I grumbled at the number of zeros on the bill, insurance abandoned before the surgery. My bag vibrated and my father’s name, Dad, popped up on my phone. “I saw that you called,” he said, cars honking in the background.
“I can’t really talk, Dad. I just had a root canal, I feel like the elephant man.”
“At a dentist’s? Huh. Listen. Your mother wants to bring the boyfriend to your graduation. I don’t really think that’s a great idea, to rub shoulders for the first time at your event?”
“Oh. I don’t know.”
“But Ding can come, right? I mean, she’s family, right?”
“Oh, of course. Mmhmm.”
Avoiding my apartment, I found a spot of grass around the back of the dentist’s office building and plopped down against a metal fence with my fresh cup of coffee. A mini tricycle, locked to the side of the fence next to me, was missing its seat and back wheel. How cruel. I pulled at the little bike’s stub, trying to yank the whole thing free of its padlock, but it slid down lower on the fence and fell down, hopeless. I laughed and played with my still-anesthetized bottom lip, letting hot drips of coffee roll off without feeling the burn I should. A new tooth started throbbing on the other side of my mouth, as the dentist had predicted, but sooner than expected. Clutching the side of my face, I rested my head into the pillow of my skirt until the throbbing stopped.
Root Canal #2
I glared at the woman waiting across from me as she sucked on a Pepsi, but grew more curious as I made out the side of her bottle, which read “no refills.” Someone called my name and I headed for my chair.
Out of the corner of my eye I watched the dental student prepare a long needle of anesthesia. I pleaded to be put under, but the girl laughed in my face, telling me that they were not allowed to at this clinic, and that, well, she didn’t know how.
“Oh hey, Cynth. Forgot to say congratulations,” a younger student called from one chair over as the needle entered my mouth. My dentist stood up to give him a cheery thanks. She looked to sit back down, a little too hastily, and stumbled over the cup of coffee I had rested below my chair. The needle plunged through my cheek and hit my jaw bone. Bone marrow surged through my blood vein, but I only understood that this was the moment I should be cursing someone. Damn you, Maria! as my dentist’s tray of instruments clattered to the ground and she let out nervous cries for help. Damn you, Emma! as the lights became spotty and atmospheric. Damn you, Ding Dong! as the numbness of the anesthesia spread, too late, making my cheek heavy. My head rolled to one side, and Mr. Squirtee, still balanced on my lip, cleaned out my bloody mouth with a steady stream of water until death did us part.
“Um, let’s see,” he said, his hands shaking as he placed my X-rays on a monitor. “It seems as if you have te—no, eleven cavities.” I stared through him. “And see these clumps of bacteria—here, here, here, and here—floating towards the nerve...” Worry and pain were in his eyes. I looked towards the door. “If you don’t get those ones filled, in the next…ten days… you’re going to need root canals. Here, here, here, and here.”
“Yeah… I’m not sure about the whole dental insurance thing. Let me call my dad.” My stepmother picked up the phone, and hung up after not understanding “father. fa-ther. can I speak to my father.”
But hey! What would you do? Do you:
Pick up an insurance brochure on the way out, and start gathering claims of negligent guardianship in terms of dental healthcare. Proceed to Mother #2.
Agree to stay on to receive immediate dental work. Proceed to Root Canal #1.
Mother #2
All the Colombians were over for Maria’s fiftieth birthday. Tequila bounced from one to the next, licking the men and women as high as she could on their faces. One of the women held a three year old whose lip never ended on one side, the opening stretching all the way up his face to his nostril. Maria owned an adoption agency, so there were always kids around her mansion in Potomac who looked straight out of the files. A serious Colombian pushed the weimaraner down, yelping as her head hit the floor, but she sprang back up and ran into the kitchen. Someone’s little blonde child kept grabbing my hand and leading me in a loop around the first floor. “Vamos,” she said, “vamos.” I was done vamosing; I was done before we started. My sixteen-year-old stepbrother Santiago was mixing drinks for the guests at a bar built into the side of the dining room. I hid behind him for awhile.
Santi’s favorite childhood stuffed animal, a two-foot Dino from The Land Before Time, sat, a relic, on top of the kitchen fridge. I reached in for a Coke, my seventh since nine that morning. Tequi waited for the refrigerator door to close, then jumped up and down, trying to clamp down on Dino’s tail. The only image I had of Santi as a kid in Bogota was his long black hair down his back, one hand clutching this dinosaur, smoking a cigarette, salivating over the local drug scene that lay a few years out of reach.
We sang happy birthday en Español as my father issued in a huge white cake from Giant with a Kodak imprint of Maria’s face on the icing. The supermarket could now copy over every part of the original photograph, from her lipstick-stained teeth to the red-eye camera glare. Santi snickered, my older brother Stephen following suit, as one of the nerdier Colombian men “ooh”ed at the cake. Maria, all business, ready to blow, waited for the last “feliz cumpleaños a ti.” As she finished off the candles, her face was pushed down into her sugary mirror, lipstick-stained tooth to lipstick-stained tooth. So that was his surprise.
Glasses were thrown against walls, so I slipped out, through Maria’s bedroom to get to the garage. Her television was on. Star Trek, always, on some channel that agreed to loop Star Trek all the time. In the garage, I made an obstacle course out of ping pong balls, a bike helmet, and old horseshoes for whoever would play. Noticing that someone had tested a can of gold spray paint over a tri-billed poster board, my science project from the year before, I spiraled into depression. What melts fastest on ice? the poster board asked in puff paint, testing the melting points of Milky Ways and M&Ms when placed on an ice cube. But now no one would know.
Santi stormed into the garage, holding a clump of wispy cotton in the air. Dinosaur intestines. “Where is that fack-eeng dog?”
“It’s just me!” I said, holding my hands in the air from my squat under the workbench.
“Oh. What are you doing in here.”
“I come out here… to think,” I said, tossing a ping pong ball and missing the inside of the bike helmet.
“Oh. Did you get a Coke?”
WWYD?
A. Take what I need and proceed to “Mother” #3.
B. Nod and smile. Submit, submit, and ask for more. Proceed to Mother #4.
“Mother” #3
The one written in pencil. Mischio tapped her pen against her desk and stared me down as I paused to take some notes. “Um, what exactly do you need me for? What does my citizenship have to do with anything?”
“Please, I came all the way here. One last question.”
“No offense, but this was like ten years ago.” She had given me the pearl earrings when I didn’t have pierced ears. And she bought them in Tokyo, where everything is ten times more expensive. Prancing around her and waving my oil pastels, I accepted the gift and confessed to her that I wanted to be an AA, an actress and an artist. She told me to speak to my father about AA. “He’s not…dying? Or something?”
“No, no. Well, he did have a kidney stone last year. Okay, so. Why didn’t you go through with the wedding?”
She shifted in her chair and gave me a challenging look. “It was like ten years ago, and I’m thirty now.” Her business profile had read thirty-five. And I needed a clean dental insurance application. My comment section was getting long anyway, so I felt confident enough crossing out this sugar imposer.
WWYD?
A. Leave her office, grabbing a butterscotch candy on the way out, and head on over to Root Canal #2.
B. Disciplined and set on making the insurance claim, journey to Mother #4.
Mother #4
A year after my dad and Maria were divorced, he believed in something beautiful again, and asked for another’s hand in marriage, an Emma. Stifled in the smell of something between boiling cabbage and burning oil, my brother and I sat on Emma’s basement couch. We watched Sub Zero ice Scorpio to death as Levan K.O.’ed his brother Irakli. A napkin that one of them scribbled “To Steve and Caroline: Please do not leave the Playstation on for over eight hours” still lay on top of the console, unmoved since they had written it the weekend before when they were out of town. A lacrosse ball bounced over my head and landed back into Stephen’s net. The thoughtfulness of my new brothers was very welcome after all of Stephen’s personal failings. “Care-line? Want to?” Levan asked, stretching out a controller. “Goldeneye?”
Irakli’s English remained non-existent, so he opted to never speak. He was either playing video games or working at Giant, where he learned to laser photographs onto birthday cakes. Levan was either playing video games or arguing with his mother in Georgian. Emma came halfway down to the basement. She pressed her thick cream jacket and matching skirt against the stair handle. Her suits always looked like they were made out of curtains, stately curtains. She already knew the scene, and squinted, focused only on her youngest. “Le-van.” Levan’s hands kept clicking away and he grunted, his eyes never leaving the screen. “Levan. (Loud, incomprehensible Georgian.)” Irakli didn’t look up from the screen either, but his mouth and eyes twisted into violent disappointment at whatever she had said. Levan da-ed her away.
She squinted in my direction. “And your father needs to know if there is still Coke down here.”
Sunk between two couch cushions, I couldn’t muster getting anywhere near up. “Da. I mean—yes, there’s another case left.” Stephen’s lacrosse ball stopped thumping and rolled under the sofa. He tried balancing his stick on the palm of his hand.
“Okay,” she said, reaching down to pick up a bowl and two glasses from the bottom stair, and nodded to herself. “Okay.”
“She said we can’t go upstairs. Her student is here,” Levan said. Irakli clicked and clicked to send a barrage of paintballs against a factory wall, writing his name in PS2 paint while a patient Xenia, a poised machine gun in hand, waited for him to finish.
“That is so punk rock,” I said, staring at the vanishing “Irakli.” The lacrosse stick slipped and Stephen decided to slam it down on my already bruised arm. We heard some clinking from a piano above our heads. Suddenly the soda settled and I really had to use the house’s bathroom. Blast.
WWYD?
A. Hold it. Wax nostalgic and proceed to Mother #1.
B. Reach for a nearby letter opener and stab the blade into Stephen’s thigh. Suffer the consequences, placate injuries with a Coke, and proceed to Root Canal #1.
Mother #1
They were quieter, from more introverted to not even speaking the language, as they ranked in number. But my mom had always been the quietest. Until she lost all that weight.
“Are you still consuming?” she asked as I twisted open a Diet Coke.
She had just taken me out for a birthday lunch, and I turned on the television as she checked the phone messages. A hazy enactment of my parents meeting clouded Friday’s Passions cliffhanger. Their eyes met and a sparkle hit the roof as my mother handed him, the last British import, a tee-shirt with a close-up of a haloed Sun Yung Moon. My father, grabbing her hand and leading her out of the basement door of the Moonie cult premises, stole a long kiss in the freeing sunlight. Then came the scuba diving. The divorce was less vivid: my dad had decapitated my brother’s Paddington Bear at some point, and I was constantly being bribed with Cheerios.
“This one’s for you,” my mom said with a haughty smile, and put the phone receiver on speaker.
“Appy birfday tooyoo, appy birfday tooyoo, appy birfday dear carorine, appy birfday tooyoo,” my new stepmother sang into the message machine, and I could see my father give her a nod and hang up the phone for her. The first five entries in my father’s speed dial read #1, #2, #3, #4, #5, mostly used as intermediary numbers between credit card companies. Today he must have pressed #1 and handed the phone to #5.
WWYD?
A. Return the call and proceed to Mother #5. Naturally.
B. Say “I am sick of your sticky maternal love” to #1, kick over the phone table, and sulk over to Root Canal #1.
Mother #5
My crew team scheduled a race on Easter Sunday, and the regatta’s meeting on a family holiday provided a mixing of worlds that helped up my lactic acid. My dad wore his straw Easter boater hat and bowtie in celebration, and Ding stood looking out the window of the boathouse to the Potomac River. Behind us a team pulled at the ergs in unison.
“So this is what you kids do,” my dad said, giving me a proud look, as one of the girls collapsed off her rowing machine. He handed me a bag spilling over with Cadbury’s chocolate that he had ordered online. I tugged at my spandex unisuit, looking around the erg room for the rest of my team and queasy at the thought of my upcoming race, but my dad was beaming at his Easter gift. I fumbled through the different candy bars and thanked him over the collapsed girl’s dry heaving and piercing screams.
Ding look excited and pointed out the window of Thompson’s Boat Center. A crew eight turned all their oars square to stop their boat as a yacht, insensitive enough to mess up the team’s practice starts during the Georgetown Regionals, charged through their projected path. Ding had been a doctor in China, but legal issues, such as her entering the country, kept her from doing anything un-black market. She sold snow globes and candy in a small shop in DC’s Union Station. She never really dealt with the customers, because she can’t speak English.
“Ding Dong, c’mere,” my father said, giving her butt a little shove towards his stomach’s bulk. All smiles, she giggled as he placed his boater on her head and it fell over her eyes. I felt uncomfortable. Turning, I saw my coach running towards me. She looked annoyed and pointed towards the rest of my boat just as they sprinted around a corner, beginning a warm up loop around the Watergate. “But…but He is risen!” I said. She shook her head and looked back down at her race day notebook. I placed the bag of candy in front of a red-faced erger and ran, bow-legged, after my peers.
WWYD?
A. Skip ahead, past the race and into the future—today is that day! Proceed to Root Canal #1.
B. No way out, suckah. Proceed to Root Canal #2.
Root Canal #1
“I can do two of them for you today,” the dentist said, slipping in a needle to pump three rounds of anesthesia into the far corners of my mouth. I mean, it was a Wednesday. My tongue dried and was squirted down and re-dried over the next three hours, and the dentist prodded me whenever my sleepy head gave up and threatened his instruments. He charged me and thanked me and released me, and I grumbled at the number of zeros on the bill, insurance abandoned before the surgery. My bag vibrated and my father’s name, Dad, popped up on my phone. “I saw that you called,” he said, cars honking in the background.
“I can’t really talk, Dad. I just had a root canal, I feel like the elephant man.”
“At a dentist’s? Huh. Listen. Your mother wants to bring the boyfriend to your graduation. I don’t really think that’s a great idea, to rub shoulders for the first time at your event?”
“Oh. I don’t know.”
“But Ding can come, right? I mean, she’s family, right?”
“Oh, of course. Mmhmm.”
Avoiding my apartment, I found a spot of grass around the back of the dentist’s office building and plopped down against a metal fence with my fresh cup of coffee. A mini tricycle, locked to the side of the fence next to me, was missing its seat and back wheel. How cruel. I pulled at the little bike’s stub, trying to yank the whole thing free of its padlock, but it slid down lower on the fence and fell down, hopeless. I laughed and played with my still-anesthetized bottom lip, letting hot drips of coffee roll off without feeling the burn I should. A new tooth started throbbing on the other side of my mouth, as the dentist had predicted, but sooner than expected. Clutching the side of my face, I rested my head into the pillow of my skirt until the throbbing stopped.
Root Canal #2
I glared at the woman waiting across from me as she sucked on a Pepsi, but grew more curious as I made out the side of her bottle, which read “no refills.” Someone called my name and I headed for my chair.
Out of the corner of my eye I watched the dental student prepare a long needle of anesthesia. I pleaded to be put under, but the girl laughed in my face, telling me that they were not allowed to at this clinic, and that, well, she didn’t know how.
“Oh hey, Cynth. Forgot to say congratulations,” a younger student called from one chair over as the needle entered my mouth. My dentist stood up to give him a cheery thanks. She looked to sit back down, a little too hastily, and stumbled over the cup of coffee I had rested below my chair. The needle plunged through my cheek and hit my jaw bone. Bone marrow surged through my blood vein, but I only understood that this was the moment I should be cursing someone. Damn you, Maria! as my dentist’s tray of instruments clattered to the ground and she let out nervous cries for help. Damn you, Emma! as the lights became spotty and atmospheric. Damn you, Ding Dong! as the numbness of the anesthesia spread, too late, making my cheek heavy. My head rolled to one side, and Mr. Squirtee, still balanced on my lip, cleaned out my bloody mouth with a steady stream of water until death did us part.
the bs series: part 4a
April 27th, 2007
To Whom It May Concern at Fete:
Please consider my application for your Associate Planner position in New York.
I am flexible, hard-working, and naturally maintain excellent organization, but can cloak all of this with energetic interpersonal skills. With the extensive detail that goes into social planning, I believe I can adapt quickly to the challenge. Upon graduation from the University of Pennsylvania in two weeks, I will have completed two research-heavy degrees, in Classical Studies and American History. While I can manage many individual tasks at once, I also love working with other people and contributing to a group effort. I have a relentless passion for both literature and popular culture.
I believe my experience in sales, administrative duties, and editing will help your office run smoothly, and the environment at Fete described in the job listing seems perfect for fostering creative energy. I would love to contribute to your company in any way I can. Please contact me if you need any professional references.
Thank you for your consideration, and I look forward to further contact with you.
Sincerely,
Caroline Henley
To Whom It May Concern at Fete:
Please consider my application for your Associate Planner position in New York.
I am flexible, hard-working, and naturally maintain excellent organization, but can cloak all of this with energetic interpersonal skills. With the extensive detail that goes into social planning, I believe I can adapt quickly to the challenge. Upon graduation from the University of Pennsylvania in two weeks, I will have completed two research-heavy degrees, in Classical Studies and American History. While I can manage many individual tasks at once, I also love working with other people and contributing to a group effort. I have a relentless passion for both literature and popular culture.
I believe my experience in sales, administrative duties, and editing will help your office run smoothly, and the environment at Fete described in the job listing seems perfect for fostering creative energy. I would love to contribute to your company in any way I can. Please contact me if you need any professional references.
Thank you for your consideration, and I look forward to further contact with you.
Sincerely,
Caroline Henley
Thursday, December 27, 2007
And now for another one of my favorites! Crazy Train!
she being (NOT SO) Brand
-new; and you
know consequently a
little broken-in i was
extremely careful and mindful of the fact that I would have a lot to go up against.
A whole lot.
So while my hips traced the path of a hyperbolic curve, I closed my eyes and scratched the equations on my darkened eyelids. A complex enough equation complex enough to keep my attention while making it just hard enough on myself that I would momentarily forget what I was doing without forgetting what I was doing. Solve for X. Solve. For. X. Luckily, my equation was in the fourth degree, allowing opportunity for plenty of peaks and valleys and highs and lows and ups and downs and one final. big. sloping. crescendo.
I make a better feminist than mathematician.
-new; and you
know consequently a
little broken-in i was
extremely careful and mindful of the fact that I would have a lot to go up against.
A whole lot.
So while my hips traced the path of a hyperbolic curve, I closed my eyes and scratched the equations on my darkened eyelids. A complex enough equation complex enough to keep my attention while making it just hard enough on myself that I would momentarily forget what I was doing without forgetting what I was doing. Solve for X. Solve. For. X. Luckily, my equation was in the fourth degree, allowing opportunity for plenty of peaks and valleys and highs and lows and ups and downs and one final. big. sloping. crescendo.
I make a better feminist than mathematician.
bukowski - shit, hates it when he has to get serious again
“Three a.m. drunks, all over America, were staring at the walls, having finally given it up. You didn’t have to be a drunk to get hurt, to be zeroed out by a woman; but you could get hurt and become a drunk. You might think for a while, especially when you were young, that luck was with you, and sometimes it was. But there were all manner of averages and laws working that you knew nothing about, even as you imagined things were going well. Some night, some hot summer Thursday night, you became the drunk, you were out there alone in a cheap rented room, and no matter how many times you’d been out there before, it was no help, it was even worse because you had got to thinking you wouldn’t have to face it again. All you could do was light another cigarette, pour another drink, check the peeling walls for lips and eyes. What men and women did to each other was beyond comprehension.” –bukowski, long distance drunk
the never ending mancala turn
The girl sat down with her drink and opened the one piece of play equipment on the table, an old backgammon board. She picked up the smooth pieces one by one and slid them across the felt. The lanky jagged triangles screamed, “challenge me!” and she could only scream back, “how?!” The board game was more high end than she knew; deep wooden pockets and barriers lined the sides of the board, a trait that backgammon would-be’s would’ve appreciated. In trying to make sense of how to combine the circular plastics with the layout of the board, she decided on a game of mini-mancala. With four pockets per side, the girl began dumping pieces one at a time, first on a set of triangles, then on a second set of triangles, then on the side receptacle. She slipped them into their compartments; they all slipped in and compartmentalized. Until she landed her last piece into a full pocket, and scooped up the pieces for another round. The stunted board allowed her move to keep going—she never seemed to land into any of the empty pockets, when they were empty. The four pockets-to-a-side seemed to trounce all three or eight or six laws of physics, as the turn never terminated. She counted and captured all evening at the back table in the bar, thirty seven minutes into the first turn, followed by two hours twenty minutes into the first turn, followed by four hours, two minutes to close into the first turn. The never-ending batters-up; putting in all the highballs and the headbands, the lowballs and the skins; she was going to the island!; and the monotony never made her feel so low, but so stuck. Stuck in some game, huh. The barkeep, a man in dreads they called Magic, shut the board on her fingers and said last call.
Oh, No, Let's Go--Let's Go Crazy!
College Connections: Taking the long-distance relationship leap
Published in the Thursday, September 7, 2006 Edition of "The Heights"
By Jake Bertanza
Luckily, it was a Sunday, so that hour phone call took but a sliver of the minutes allotted to my family by the good folks at Verizon. Countless times, my friends have ridiculed and reprimanded me for phone phobia, so reading the timer thoroughly surprised me. What inspired this change? What caused this epic metamorphosis in my development?
The short answer: It was my girlfriend on the line, I hadn't seen her in almost a week, and would not see her again until I deboarded a plane landing in Denver 19 and a half days from then. I was, and am, in a long-distance relationship.
Beware, readers: this is no ordinary long-distance relationship. This isn't high school sweethearts or college graduates trying to sustain their feelings through a drastic change in scenery. This relationship was never supposed to happen. This is a summer fling gone horribly, horribly wrong.
Allow me to explain and defend my word choice. I am what many call a "hopeless romantic." In fact, in my careful courting of this young woman, I casually mentioned this at least 655 times. She was not quite sold on the idea of turning our "vague friendship from our semester abroad during which I consistently (and unabashedly) confessed my love for her, though she was dating someone else at the time" into "a Facebook relationship."
While she brooded over what it would mean to pitch headlong into an exclusive, common-knowledge relationship for a few months (only to inevitably realize an end to that relationship when the long arm of eventuality caught up with us), it was an easy choice for me. I wanted to date her.
As a hopeless romantic, I see the potential for a relationship and lose all powers of cognition and semblance of rationale. So rather than understanding her side and considering the consequences, these following "last words" escaped from my mouth:
"Well, I say we just go crazy, dive right in, and hope it doesn't hurt too bad in the end."
Well, things didn't happen according to this plan, and as I stood in the doorway of my Beacon Street office and watched her stride off toward her eventual airport destination, I found myself in a place last visited many years ago: dialing the area code to talk to my girlfriend. Here I was, voluntarily taking a three-and-a-half-week hiatus from a relationship only two months old for the promise of a nine-day vacation that took me from her hometown of Denver to her schooltown of Atlanta.
My friends think I am crazy. I couldn't be happier. Sure, it hurts sometimes - most times - to be that far away from the person you care about, but a hopeless romantic finds solace in the struggle. Is my judgment so clouded that I don't see the challenging circumstances? Of course not.
But in times like these, experience teaches me not to attempt to forecast where this is going, but instead ponder what has brought about this state of affairs.
Why are we (or, why am I) always placing ourselves (myself) in ridiculous situations for love? Well, when faced with an onslaught of television shows and films depicting impossible, logic-defying, circumstance-conquering love every single day, perhaps we start to think that impossible, logic-defying, circumstance-conquering love can and should occur every single day. So why not us?
Believe me, I'm not complaining. I am falling right into step. Rather than rebelling against my media-driven, hyper-accelerated concept of what falling in love means, I can instead find comfort in what Danny Zuko and Sandy Olsson did one summer in 1959. Because although we didn't "make out under the docks," and although we may have initially dismissed this as a "summer fling [that] don't mean a thing," in the end, we could end up "together like ramma-lamma-lamma, ka-dinga-da-dinga-dong." And that is all the hope I need.
Published in the Thursday, September 7, 2006 Edition of "The Heights"
By Jake Bertanza
Luckily, it was a Sunday, so that hour phone call took but a sliver of the minutes allotted to my family by the good folks at Verizon. Countless times, my friends have ridiculed and reprimanded me for phone phobia, so reading the timer thoroughly surprised me. What inspired this change? What caused this epic metamorphosis in my development?
The short answer: It was my girlfriend on the line, I hadn't seen her in almost a week, and would not see her again until I deboarded a plane landing in Denver 19 and a half days from then. I was, and am, in a long-distance relationship.
Beware, readers: this is no ordinary long-distance relationship. This isn't high school sweethearts or college graduates trying to sustain their feelings through a drastic change in scenery. This relationship was never supposed to happen. This is a summer fling gone horribly, horribly wrong.
Allow me to explain and defend my word choice. I am what many call a "hopeless romantic." In fact, in my careful courting of this young woman, I casually mentioned this at least 655 times. She was not quite sold on the idea of turning our "vague friendship from our semester abroad during which I consistently (and unabashedly) confessed my love for her, though she was dating someone else at the time" into "a Facebook relationship."
While she brooded over what it would mean to pitch headlong into an exclusive, common-knowledge relationship for a few months (only to inevitably realize an end to that relationship when the long arm of eventuality caught up with us), it was an easy choice for me. I wanted to date her.
As a hopeless romantic, I see the potential for a relationship and lose all powers of cognition and semblance of rationale. So rather than understanding her side and considering the consequences, these following "last words" escaped from my mouth:
"Well, I say we just go crazy, dive right in, and hope it doesn't hurt too bad in the end."
Well, things didn't happen according to this plan, and as I stood in the doorway of my Beacon Street office and watched her stride off toward her eventual airport destination, I found myself in a place last visited many years ago: dialing the area code to talk to my girlfriend. Here I was, voluntarily taking a three-and-a-half-week hiatus from a relationship only two months old for the promise of a nine-day vacation that took me from her hometown of Denver to her schooltown of Atlanta.
My friends think I am crazy. I couldn't be happier. Sure, it hurts sometimes - most times - to be that far away from the person you care about, but a hopeless romantic finds solace in the struggle. Is my judgment so clouded that I don't see the challenging circumstances? Of course not.
But in times like these, experience teaches me not to attempt to forecast where this is going, but instead ponder what has brought about this state of affairs.
Why are we (or, why am I) always placing ourselves (myself) in ridiculous situations for love? Well, when faced with an onslaught of television shows and films depicting impossible, logic-defying, circumstance-conquering love every single day, perhaps we start to think that impossible, logic-defying, circumstance-conquering love can and should occur every single day. So why not us?
Believe me, I'm not complaining. I am falling right into step. Rather than rebelling against my media-driven, hyper-accelerated concept of what falling in love means, I can instead find comfort in what Danny Zuko and Sandy Olsson did one summer in 1959. Because although we didn't "make out under the docks," and although we may have initially dismissed this as a "summer fling [that] don't mean a thing," in the end, we could end up "together like ramma-lamma-lamma, ka-dinga-da-dinga-dong." And that is all the hope I need.
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