Februberry

I don’t believe I’ve every proclaimed to be of any dense substance. In fact I’m profoundly shallow on and within the surface. I have an oceanic lack of knowledge with a bleak horizon on the edge. I know I come off big to people but I’m not. I have a hard time being clever. If anyone wants to know what goes on up in my head they could be waiting forever.

But what are you willing to admit? Was that being vague? Maybe you should go first.

I don’t like the situation anymore than you. but it’d be much easier if you’d remember who you are.

One part: breezy, two parts: free and easy, a little umbrella and serve

I once strode forth like the thunderous gallop of the tides with an answer before a question. Only one fluid ounce of yearning; half for wielding the best questions in my right hand and the other half to yield the best answers in my left. A swift silver tongue to fool them all into thinking me a fool and nothing more. The snicker of a man.

But waning in time left me only to lurk in the doorway between the deafening past and the deafened future. The raging waves of my finesse became blind raging waves and I had been nothing beyond a mere jester.

I climbed off the stolen mare in the marketplace, and watched the merchants, orphans, lambs, gamblers, liars, thieves and travelers. I shut my eyes and covered my ears at the thought of being one of them. To the right of the square was nothing, making it an ideal place to be. I shuffled a coin between the slits that were my fingers to ponder. A festive murder of crows squawked in the distance accompanied by the howl of a wolf in the other direction, paying homage to the rituals of moonlit nights. Except that night, the wind didn’t speak it’s lonesome tongue. Murmurs accompanied. Gibbering echoes like they were from the bottom of some magnificent cave. ”mine yesterday, not mine before, not mine today, mine after,” I heard at dusk.

At once, I rose forth like an engulfing field of daisies with pollen for the bees. I wielded and yielded both questions and answers in one hand and held the hand of the blind future with the other. Though, one hand on the water vase for the blossoms. The grin of a woman.

Men kill beasts. Woman kill beasts without bloodshed. I whistle with the murder, howl with the mangy mutt, waltz with the wind, snickered as a man and grinned as a woman. I see no beasts to kill for I can now see.

fecalosophy

There were better things to do than to feel upset over something I couldn’t control. I needed to regain my composure. I also needed to find better things to do. There was no way I could have predicted the morning sun to take a hot dump on me. Then, very calmly, I went to the bathroom to smoke a cigarette as I took a serious, sunny shit of my own.

There was no point in complaining. If we had been aboard an airline flight, then maybe. But we couldn’t to be upgraded into a better seat in life. There were the people like me: certain never to get out of coach. Bullshit is unsavory and ubiquitous -this is a fact- and it is and will be delivered fresh evermore. Even to first class. The shapes and smells were all from the same variety. A better seat on your flight furthest from any form of feces could never exist. Wrong flight if you believed otherwise. The turd’s transcendental tyranny threw the truth to those that were still alive: as long as their worlds’ continued ticking alongside their dreams, it’d still be full of the shit that riled us into kicking alongside our screams -construction of all worlds were erected on amorphous foundations of perpetuating poops. Your shit fueled life. ‘shit is all around me, it’s everywhere I go! if you’re really shittin’ me, come on and let it show!’ It’s foolish to be angry at the steaming glory of it. Someone who despised defecation confused me as much as a someone who loathed love. There was as much love as there was shit all over the world. passion’s a funny thing! best not to question it!

In the past, I would try frantically to avoid bullshit. I’d be lathered in feces quite often. Caked in crap. A tiered wedding cake of crap I couldn’t pop out of. I didn’t think I deserved anymore, naturally. Tried everything I could think of to avoid shit because it made me abhor living. Shit and life were one in the same. Both were mandatory. And both always tracked me down. It was the world bequeathed to me. This fact followed me everyday and everywhere. Bullshit and I were practically best buddies and it kept me too busy to make any real ones. Then, a strange epiphany came to me during one of our outings. A burning bag of a blessing, even. -I happened upon the sight of some old guy trying stomp out a flaming bag of poo.

There was a genuine fondness I had for the witnessing of clichés in real life. I remembered feeling as though nothing could have been more gratifying than watching the old guy’s shitty struggle.

stomps with such passion! kicking at it too! kicked the turd too far..? mail is thrown at it for recovery! good save! coupon catalogs! and a lingerie one too..? got a ton o’ mail! ..tons o’ shit to throw! at the shit! ain’t as easy as it looks! it takes skill! he spits at it! here and there! outta ammo…? boom! hot coffee comin’ through! beatin’ the bag with a shoe! his own! finally he brings out the trump card! the welcome mat! smoking turd, flattened! crap ain’t welcome! evicted!

It made me think of Benny Hill. I was still standing there watching him with my buddy. The old guy pulled out a cigarette, lit it, turned to me and gestured with his head as if to say, ‘what’s up, kid?’ I was trying to hold myself back from laughing. I didn’t think he’d have been too keen had my laughter escaped. Then he spoke,

“The best thing to do is to leave it alone, unless it came in a bigger bag. It just burns itself out, otherwise,” he said exhaling the smoke. I stood frozen from the shock that he had said anything to me at all, then continued, “it was funnier for me to fight the shit… right? …I saw you watching, kid. It’s alright to laugh.” I stood there aghast with my own idiocy. Then something strange happened; a smile slowly erected on my miserable mug of a chubby face as one grew on the old guy’s. Then he began a contagious chuckle immediately infecting me and we both laughed. The old guy finished the rest of his cigarette back in the house, his porch still covered with shit. It was alright to laugh. Then I realized it was never a matter of whether or not bullshit was deserved.

It never singled me out. Shit is sporadic, shit’s spontaneous, shit’s feeble, shit’s fucked up; and it could happen to anyone. Everyone and everywhere. I learned to laugh at the sight of it. It’s everywhere. stink lines steaming from the scattered poo! From my humility, I salute the hilarity of nature. I salute the person who takes a dump in a paper bag. for those about to shit, I salute you!

The natural order had never once made a promise to anything. Never planned on it. no passion toward futile indulgences! The hopes and promises we’ve convinced ourselves to have, seemed no more significant than a flaming bag of poop. There weren’t any better seats than the one you’ve already had. By the poo. Best seat in the house. I giggled gleefully as an arresting aloofness floated to me like a helium balloon as I witnessed and realized the solitary certainty that morning. Good things can happen, bad things can happen, but something happens because nothing never happened, and you can always laugh, learn and or move on. This fecalosophy was smeared all along existence.

The odds rationally were never in your favor should you attempt to act on your repulsion to the spicy poo you were going to step in. Nor for the steamy poo you’d already stepped in. The poos weren’t leaving. Ever. They’re by the best seats and also by the shitty seats. Flaming bags of poos were essences in life, rewards -a life without poo had no flame. A flight without a first class. A game show without a prize. A joke that didn’t get a laugh. hour and a fucking half late! …ha! you sunny rascal! you and your sunny balls! It truly was alright to laugh.

Walking through the busy main street made me feel like a ghost. A ghoul that haunted the pavements watching everyone walk hurriedly in all directions, worriedly checking their watches. Time terrifies us though it is a terminal disease of which we’ve all been blessed. We make the most of each ticking moment, and never remember to treat it as if they were our last. Postponing the possibility of our last moments by stretching our yesterdays through a quick pace by constantly checking the clock. Learning from history was never a skill mankind could crochet into it’s web of life. We were crocheted to repeat ourselves.

I walked into the vintage store I’d recently begun to frequent. Something about old worn clothing seemed to have collections of bits of soul threaded into every button. There were brand name items on the racks every now and then, but I couldn’t care less about those. My generation was a collection of nic-nacs left over from preceding generations. Some of us knew that. Of who were the ones collectively conscious of their birth into the wrong decade. What little soul there was left in this salvaged new world, could be unearthed among the tattered trinkets from the days of old. This belief, silly or not, this was evident: this world didn’t need anymore shit to ignore.

[p.13-15. The Alexandrian Condor, book in progress.]

mirrors have seen many things

my love is tardy but bold
my vessel only ever punctual
almost a quarter of a century old
my heart beats as if love was still functional

I may be fickle in my dating and mating leisure
a fool whom watches clothes dry on the line
however I see naught tidbits of pleasure
in trying to make every woman mine

barter your hearts amongst each other
denounce thy loneliness aching within thine bone
my taunted fickle heart only beats for one lover forever
and patiently watches your dominoes topple the next down the row

Mine will know the days
(Whomever mine may be)
where two listless hearts could dance
to a single loving beat

and we don’t care about the young folks, talkin’ ’bout the young style

One day I wanted Coco Puffs, the next, Apple Jacks. I was eight or nine, and this was a prelude into my future as an indecisive assface. At that age, an identity crisis happened as often as I saw my dentist and what kid would know how big of an impact either of those would be? Puffs or Jacks, I was lactose intolerant anyway, but c’est la vie.

The best way to cope and make sense of it now was to take the guise of the jester. Lighten the load of the heavy stuff. Showing you were conscious of the matter at hand, even mocking it, shows you know something. That something you know, regardless, allowed you to look like you felt less shittier than everyone else. I knew what that something was, I always did, never told a soul, cause I’d look less cool if I let you have my cigarette.

Maybe I didn’t know how to tell it. I didn’t know all the words in the language to convey it or shit, would you take a vague analogy instead? I’m better at those, but they’d seem like a joke in itself, got room for comic relief while you’re in a pit of despair? Of course you do. It’s one of the most important roles in the movie, and you’re not going to audition. Everyone was Don Lockwood, but not me, I was everyone’s Cosmo Brown. I was good at it.

I’d never feel comfortable as Don Lockwood, and I couldn’t be both. Cosmo Brown would never be allowed to sing in the rain because of Kathy Seldon. The things that make us happy; you can have that and it’s fleeting nature. (Sometimes, I think Cosmo should have gotten Kathy, but can you imagine how history would’ve turned out if the ginger won the girl?! Once was a good movie, but I couldn’t exactly believe it’s not butter. Worse, what if Cosmo was an oriental, Jackie Chan bloopers during Make Em’ Laugh.)

Fuck, I’m going off on a tangent now. Are we agreed the multiple identity crisis I braved in my youth has affected me? Good back to the weird Singing in the Rain analogy.

I’ll goad my syllabus further in defense of my bigotry in stating I hate all races equally,  indiscriminately. Happy face. I’m even surprised sometimes when someone reminds me (they remind me) of what my race is supposed to be. Identity crisis can start here.

Tell me one good reason why it’s important to classify one by their race, and I’ll tell you why the human race is my favorite joke. Smoking cigarettes and smoking barrels, mama Earth’s got a smoker’s cough; going green and choosing the diet of a bunny ain’t gon’ cure her cancer. We are the cancer. Sad face.

I think Dracula would make a great candidate as Surgeon General. Remake the Karate Kid and Singing in the Rain with Jackie Chan. And Daniel Day-Lewis would bring back the spirit of the World Wrestling Federation, make the people believe again. Alright, I’ll go to bed.

Last Note from a Wine-Stained Diary

Morale at the Meyer’s house became almost non-existent. Emmaline had received a settlement from the divorce and the kids stayed with Edward. Emmaline had shown no signs of unhappiness, gave no clues to her eventual departure leaving the kids blindsided, and shocked. Topped off with Edward’s new penchant for brandy.

The day I got my license, I drove straight over to the Meyer’s. I ran into the house excitedly only to find no one there. It was as if no one wanted to be in that house anymore, gas lines of hypocrisy seeping through the vents and floorboards, and memories of a dream overrun by a nightmare. I heard voices coming from the other room, lo-fi voices, from a television set.

I opened a door to find Craig sitting on the floor watching a tiny television. I had no idea the Meyer’s even owned a television set, but there it was, on the floor in front of my screen-fixated boyfriend. He was watching his parents’ wedding tape. ‘Poor baby,’ I thought, ‘he misses his family as a unit.’ I held off on telling him about my drivers license and sat beside him with my head on his shoulder. When I looked at his face, I realized it wasn’t a face of lore, sadness, or nostalgia. It was a face of anger. Without facing me he said, “I’m trying to find the black guy who ruined my family. My dad said he was at their wedding.”

Emmaline had always had an obsession for black men. African American, to be specific, because she had no interest in the black men back in her home country of England. She’d often follow them for a distance while driving her car, unbeknownst even to those, also, in the car with her. She even walked down grocery aisles, any aisle, that had a black man in it. After the divorce, she relocated to Alta Dena, a city highly populated by African Americans. She was infatuated with them and had been caught with black men on two occasions by Craig’s father himself, only to be kept quiet due to the embarrassment that would ensue. The main culprit, the Dracula of black men, was said to be in the Meyer’s wedding tape.

A few months after the divorce, Edward gathered the remaining family members for another announcement. This time, with a small Mexican woman next to him.

“This is Gabriella. She’s going to be your new mom. Gabriella, these are going to be your mihos. Except that one.” Edward pointed at me. I waved. I wasn’t offended by his outbursts anymore, nor was I shocked. Craig put his arm around me.

“Dad! What’re you talking about?! She is NOT moving in here!” Yelled Vincent.

“Yes she is. She’s my wife and your new mother.”

“She isn’t going to be my mother! Besides, mom is just the next town over, have you even talked about it with her?” Vincent said as Gabriella stood there with her hands clasped in front like a child being introduced to a new playmate by their parents.

“I don’t have to talk to your mother about squat. Look at this one,” he pointed at Gabriella with his glass, “she’s not pretty, and her English isn’t very good. She’s going to make a wonderful wife and mother. She cleans too! I’m not sure if she cooks, but hey, I don’t have anything against burritos.” the former-Furor said, then took a sip from his two thirds full glass of brandy. Vincent rolled his eyes.

“Hi Gabriella, I’m Diane.” said Diane.

“No! Stop right now Di.” Vincent yelled.

“Both of you guys, stop,” said Craig, “dad, are you really going through with this?”

“Show them the ring sweetheart,” Edward said to Gabriella as he gestured toward us. She stood there. “Ringo, El Ringo. Show.” She nodded and stuck out her left hand. She had it easy with a language barrier, it protected her.

“FUCK! I’m out of here if she’s moving in.” Shouted Vincent as he stormed off to his room.

“Vinnie, come back! Jeeze dad, when are you doing this.” asked Craig.

“Ola, Diane.” Interrupted Gabriella. Diane smiled.

“I got an appointment scheduled for tomorrow at City Hall.” said Edward, taking another swig.

“FUCK!” echoed Vincent through the hall. Followed by the slam of his door.

“Wait, what’s going on?” Donnie said suddenly. He tuned out often.

“New mom, Donnie.” Edward said as he motioned his head toward Gabriella.

“Oh, okay. Ola, mi amo Donnie. Estas divirtiendote?” said Donnie. Everyone looked at him. Surprised.

“Ha ha. Eso es divertido. Yo quiero vino.” replied Gabriella.

“Ah, esta bien. No te preocupes.” said Donnie. Then he walked off to the kitchen without a word. We looked at each other, then at Edward who shrugged his shoulders and mouthing the words, ‘I don’t know.’ Edward took another sip, as we all stood around until Donnie came back with a glass of wine in his hand. He handed it to Gabriella.

“Muchos gracias, Donnie.” said Gabriella who took a gulp out of the glass.

“De nada.” Donnie then walked back to stand where he was next to Diane.

“Since when did you learn how to speak Spanish?” asked Diane. Donnie thought about it for a moment.

“I don’t know.” he said sincerely. Then he walked to his room.

The next morning, Donnie went to City Hall with Edward and Gabriella as a witness. That was also the morning Craig discovered his younger brother Vincent had run away in the middle of the night. The note he left on his bed read, ‘LIVING WITH MOM.’ Emmaline called the house and spoke to Craig. She wanted to let us know Vincent was safe with her, and that he refused to go back for the time being. I didn’t see Vincent for a couple of years.

Things weren’t actually as strange as we thought it would be with Gabriella in the house. She was just like a maid, and we had doubts Edward had even slept with her, seeing as how he considered half a fifth of brandy as his nightcap, every night. Any familial advantages Edward thought would be achieved by marrying Gabriella passed under the radar, and nothing was ever said about it. It was the equivalent of getting a tattoo of the Los Angeles Angels symbol on your foot after a night of ferocious drinking. Craig disliked the way his father now threw the act of marriage around whimsically, and was determined to do it correctly. So he signed himself up for the U.S. Army.

“Do you love me?” asked Craig one night sitting on the couch with me on the front porch.

“What the fuck are you talking about? You know I do.” I said.

“Katie, seriously, even if I had to leave for a long time, and you wouldn’t see me?” Craig said in a sterner tone.

“Why would you be gone? You’re tripping me out now. What the fuck is going on?” I turned towards him. Craig got up off the couch and reached into his pocket for a little white box and proceeded to his knee. ‘Holy shit,’ was my first thought. Then my eyes started to water.

“You had to know this was coming, but you might not have known that I had signed up for the army today. I know I should’ve said something, but you couldn’t have stopped me,” I covered my mouth my with hands, “Katie, I love you, and I don’t want us to end up like my parents, or your parents for that matter, and ever since you came into my life, with that mouth of yours, your eccentricities, your shortcomings, all of which makes you seem imperfect to the world, but to me, and my shortcomings, and my eccentricities, you make up for it all just by being… well, Katherine, the right shape of the puzzle piece that fits snugly next to me in my life. You’re the squeak in my bedroom door, the corner of the desk my big toe likes to hit, the line at the grocery store, the car keys I can never find, the pineapple on my pizza. These things are so normal in my life, and if any one of these things were to disappear, I’d be lost, but if you were to disappear, I’d crumble completely. I not only love you, but I know, for a fact, that I need you, Katherine. Will you marry …” I tackled him.

“Yes! Cheeseball! Fuck! Yes!” I shouted and cried, kissing him between every one of my words.

“And the army thing?” Craig said after he stopped me for a second.

“We’ll figure it out, I’m sure.” We kissed again, slow this time, for reassurance, and he placed the ring on my finger.

His father didn’t like the idea as expected, but everyone else was happy. I called to tell daddy.

“Are you sure sweetie?” said daddy over the phone. Craig was standing at the door as we exchanged smiles.

“Of course, it’s Craig!” I said in a reminding tone.

“Well, I know my little girl, and if Craig thinks he can handle you, and you do too, I’m one hundred percent behind you.”

“Dad! You’re making me sound like a basket case!”

“Ha-Ha, I’m not saying that, I’m saying I’ve always been proud of you, princess, that also means no matter what decision you make, I’ll always believe in you, I’ve been and always will be proud of you.”

“I love you, daddy.” I smiled warmly.

“I love you too. Tell Craig I said congratulations for me okay?”

“I will. Tell Jenifer I said Hi.” Jenifer was daddy’s new girlfriend. “Bye daddy.” I hung up the phone and smiled at Craig.

“So that looks like a go? We’ve got McClane’s blessing! May I?” Craig gestured for the phone. The kids had pointed out daddy’s resemblance to Bruce Willis’ character John McClane from the movie, Die Hard, more than once.

“Yup! Who’re you gonna call?”

Craig took a breath, “Mom.” and he started dialing. I walked around the door where he stood, almost hiding behind it, waiting for an answer.

“Hello?” asked Craig. “Who am I speaking with? …Well is Emmaline in? …She’s my mother. …Sure.” He looked at me briefly then back at the desk. “Mom, it’s Craig. …I’m fine, who was that? …Jef… with one f? …your fiance!?” Craig raised his voice. “Why didn’t you tell us anything?! …I don’t know, maybe because it is important! …I’m fine, look, I guess I called to tell you Katherine and I are engaged too. …He  hasn’t said anything but we can tell he’s not big on it. …Before I ship out to the military. …Yeah, that was the other thing I was going to tell you. …I’d say that makes us even. Love you, bye.” Craig hung up, then looked at me. I walked over without a word and put my arms around his neck.

A few weeks later, I went over to the Meyer’s to pick up Craig for a night out at the movies. Inside the house, I heard Craig talking in the kitchen with a man in a suit. Edward sat on the other side of the man, glass in hand. I walked in.

“Hello.”

“Hey babe. Give me one second.” said Craig.

“And all she has to do is sign these pages, and everything will be set.” said the man.

“Okay then.” Craig picked up the papers.

“Is this the young woman now?” asked the man, looking at me.

“Yes this is Katherine Harvey. Katie, this is my dad’s attorney, Kenneth Silverstein.”

“Hello.” I said.

“Hello, and congratulations to you, young lady. Well, I better be on my way. Edward, always a pleasure. Craig, again, congratulations, and should you have any questions, you have my card.” With that, Mr. Silverstein shook our hands and left. Edward got up and did a mildly tipsy walk into the living room.

“Craig, what’s going on?”

“Um, my dad… well, he just gave you one of his stores.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, you gotta fill these out, and you get it as soon as the next day after our wedding.”

“Is this a joke?” I asked suspiciously.

“No, babe, it’s legit!” Craig said. I stood there, dumbfounded, by the fact Edward would even do such a thing. Especially for me.

“I don’t know what to say. I should thank him.” I started walking to the living room, but Craig stopped me.

“No no no no no, not yet, he was fighting his conscience when he decided, I think he needs some alone time right now. We can thank him later.”

“But…”

“Stop babe, we’re gonna be late for the movie.”

The smoothness of the entire situation was a change from the usual hectic instability. It not only felt relaxing, but at the same time, made me feel even more suspicious. The way my life had been going in the last 4 years surrounding this family, didn’t exactly allow me to let terms like easy and simple waltz into my life, not without an X-Ray scan and cavity search. It felt like I was borrowing someone’s four-leaf clover, and it had to be returned sooner or later.

Craig called me one day to cancel on a date we had planned. I was fucking pissed whenever he cancelled on me, but he explained saying his mother had invited him over to meet Jef with one f. He and Emmaline were to get married before Craig and I were, and Emmaline thought it best if Jef with one f and Craig met.

Later that night, a rapid and terrified knock rapped at my window. I jumped out of bed, scared, and saw it was Craig. I opened the window and his 6’4 frame tumbled in. He laid flat on the ground breathing fast and heavy. I handed him a glass of water I kept on my nightstand, and he gulped it down.

“What the fuck happened?” I asked rubbing his chest. He waited for his breath to calm before told me what happened.

Craig had driven to his mother’s new place in Alta Dena earlier that night. Emmaline opened the door.

“Hello, Craig!” she opened her arms for a hug.

“Hi, mom.” they hugged awkwardly. But Emmaline pulled him closer anyway, not letting go until he hugged her back. He did after a moment.

“Nice place. It’s smaller than I thought.” Craig said as he looked around, taking a few steps in.

“It’s all the space I need, dear. Jef is in the loo, he’ll be out in a moment.”

“Okay. Is Vinnie here?”

“Oh no, he stays with his girlfriends these days.”

“Girl-friends? How many does he have?”

“I’m not sure, he’s quite the heartbreaker.” Emmaline said it as if it were normal. Craig didn’t respond. “Tea, dear?”

“No, thank you. I don’t think I’ll be here long, Katie and I are going to have a late dinner later.”

“You should have brought her along!”

“I don’t think that would have been appropriate.”

“Why’s that?” just then toilet flushed. The sink wasn’t used, but the door opened. Out walked a six foot black man with a husky build. The famous Jef with one f. He was wearing a red t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, gray sweatpants, and brand new sneakers. Jef with one f breathed through his mouth, never through his nostrils, and Craig could hear it getting louder as Jef walked closer. This was the bloke that was shagging his mum, this was the man his mother was going to marry.

“Sweetheart, this is my son, Craig. Craig, Jef.”

“S’up?” Jef said as he reached his hand out. Craig remembered he didn’t wash, but didn’t want to seem rude. He reluctantly reached out and shook Jef with one f‘s hand.

“Hi, nice to finally meet you.” said Craig, in full composure. Jef shook his hand hard.

“Baby, did you offer him some tea yet?” Jef said to Emmaline.

“I did, he didn’t want any.” replied Emmaline.

“You don’t want no tea? Whatchu want then? We got everythang, you know wha’m sayin’?”

“Oh, it’s alright, I’m good.” Craig assured him.

“Nah y’ain’t. You want a beer? Whatchu drink?”

“I’m only 18…” Craig said informatively.

“Oh-Whaaaat?! You 18? You’s a big fella fo an 18 year old, shit,” he looked at Emmaline, “girl, whatchu been feedin’ him?” Emmaline smiled. “Okay, first order of bi’ness, you gonna have yo first beer wit me, you know wha’m sayin’? No buts. Baby, two beers.” Jef put his arm around Craig and walked to the couch with him. Emmaline went to refrigerator.

“I really don’t think I should drink. I have to drive later.” Craig reiterated.

“Boy, listen, just one beer is all I’m askin’, and if you don’t like it, you don’t have to have anymore. But you gots to have that one beer, know wha’m sayin’?” Emmaline came back with two beers and handed them to Jef with one f and one to Craig. Craig looked at the can, then his mother, wondering why she allowed it. “Now, the thing is, if you gon’ drink just that one, you have to drink it fast, I mean chug that mu’fucka down, know wha’m sayin’? Like a race, you know what a shotgun is?”

“Uh… Besides the gun, I don’t think so.” Craig said almost nervously now.

“There it is. We gon’ do some shotguns. Gimme that.” He grabbed Craig’s beer and made a small incision to the side corner of the can with a key on the coffee table, then widened the hole to the size of a quarter. He handed it back to Craig and did the same to his can. “Okay, now, this is how you do a shotgun, son. You put yo’ mouf over the hole, then you turn the can upright while turnin’ yo’ head at he same time while poppin’ the top open, you know wha’m sayin’? The beer will shotgun in yo mouf and you swallow that sucka down. Got it?”

“Umm… I think so, but…” Craig said nervously.

“It’s quite simple, once you do it Craig.” said Emmaline from the kitchen.

“You’ve done this? But you don’t drink, mom.” Craig said with the can by his face, Jef with one f, doing the same.

“You kiddin’ boy, yo’ mom is the best at doin’ shotguns.” said Jef. Craig was flabbergasted but distracted by the cans to question. “A’ight, 1,2, and 3, go!” Jef with one f and Craig popped the top and tilted their heads. Craig didn’t like the taste of beer. What was worse was the coldness of the beer masking the taste and gliding icily and sharp down his throat. Craig finished first with three and a half gulps.

Craig belched. “Oh my god.” Craig belched again. Jef with one f did one long belch.

“Damn boy, you almost as fast as yo’ mama. It’s gotta be in the family, know wha’m sayin’? You play sports, Craig?”

“Yeah, Baseball and Football.” Craig said after a moment. He belched once more, his stomach finally settling.

“Damn, you prob’ly on the varsity team, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Whas the matter? You okay? You a big guy, one beer ain’t gon’ kill ya.” Just then, Craig felt the effects of a shotgun, he got a head-change, and grinned. A slight sense of euphoria came over him.

“…Can I have another one?” asked Craig.

“Ha-HA! Yo’ Baby, get me and your boy two mo’ cold ones!”

Craig and Jef with one f drank and talked with each other the rest of the night. Craig drank 3 beers and Jef was on his 6th, however, Jef with one f wasn’t tipsy at all while Craig’s eyes started to blink separately. They kept talking.

“Wait, hold up. If you lookin’ for speakers, I got ’em! Yeah, my son is tryin’ to sell his, and come to think of it, he’s gon’ yo’ brother too! Let’s go get you some speakers and meet yo’ brotha!”

“Really? Now?”

“Yeah, it’s only what, 10 o’clock? He’ll be home. You got a car right?”

“Uh, sure I do. I just don’t think I should drive right now.”

“It’s a’ight, I’ll drive, I’m a great driver. Baby! Ain’t I a great driver?” Jef yelled towards the kitchen.

“He’s a great driver, Craig.”

“See?” said Jef.

“Well… if my mama says so, I guess it’s true.” Craig gave Jef his keys and they both got up and walked out the door.

“Baby, we’ll be right back.” Jef said to Emmaline.

“Alright, you two be safe.” My mother said while going back to the newspaper.

Jef with one f was now driving his car north, further into Alta Dena. Craig was starting to sober up, becoming more aware of the situation. He was going to buy speakers from his brother-in-law-to-be, in Alta Dena, and was being driven there by a husky black man, who was his father-in-law-to-be.

When they arrived, they both got out of the car and started walking toward an apartment complex. Just before they entered the gate, Jef with one f stopped and turned to Craig.

“A’ight, we gon’ have to be quiet. Kids be sleeping, know wha’m sayin’? So just follow me.” Craig nodded his head in compliance, but was slightly confused because they were just standing at the front gate, the complex itself was 30 feet beyond that. Jef then wiggled the handle a certain way and propped the door open. He walked in and Craig followed. They turned a corner and went up a flight of stairs. Then Jef with one f stopped at a window and wiggled the screen off. Then started on the glass window itself.

“Whoa, what are you doing, Jef?”

“Oh, I always forget my key, so I have to get in this way. It’s a’ight, I do it all the time.” Craig didn’t understand why he couldn’t just remember the spare instead, because Jef wasn’t exactly a small guy. Jef was still breathing heavily with his mouth.

Jef finally wiggled the locking mechanism on the window loose, and slid it open. He climbed in and waved Craig to follow. Against all better judgement, he followed. The room they climbed into was tiny and had scraps of paper and candy wrappers everywhere. There was a mattress without covers in the corner on the floor. A moment later, the door opened and in walked a young black boy in his teens.

“What the fuck are you doing here dad!? You’re not supposed to be here!” Yelled the boy.

“It’s coo, look, aye, I got someone to buy those speakers from you. And he’s gon’ be yo’ new brotha!”

“Hi…” said Craig nervously.

“S’up.” said the boy.

“You still got the speakers, Junior? I told him you was sellin’ ’em for a hundred.”

“I’m not, they’re 250, and they’re my speakers.”

“Nah, I told Craig a hundred.”

“They’re my speakers.”

“Well, where they at? Can we, at least, see ’em?”

“They in Shawna’s room.”

“Oh shit, Craig, you gon’ meet yo’ new lil’ sista too!” He then walked over to another door while Craig followed. Jef pounded on the door. “Shawna, open the door, you gon’ meet yo’ new brotha!” a tiny voice came from the other side.

“I don’t have any clothes on yet.” It sounded like an 8 year old girl. Jef with one f suddenly kicked the door open. “Daddy, stop! I don’t have any clothes on!” Shawna screamed.

“You do what I tell you! Now come out and meet yo’ brotha!” Jef had Shawna lifted in mid-air, dangling by one arm. Craig froze in place, terrified and thinking, ‘Holy shit! What is happening!?’ Just then Junior ran into the room.

“Let my sister go!” He shouted then started flailing his fists at Jef with one f. “Let her GO!” Jef, then, dropped Shawna, grabbed Junior by the side of his head, and slammed it into the wall, making a crater twice its size. Shawna started crying, and Junior fell to the ground, unconscious. Craig’s mouth dropped, his eyes widened, now thinking, ‘Holy FUUUCK!’

“Aye, we gotta bounce, Craig. NOW!” Jef started running out the front door. Craig wasn’t sure what to do, he looked at Shawna crying, the hole in the wall, Junior’s lifeless body. He couldn’t say a word, and ran outside following Jef. They jumped into the car and sped off into the night.

“What the FUCK was that!?” Craig shouted.

“It’s a’ight, I’m gon’ call the cops later.”

“What?! On yourself?! Is Junior even alive?! Are you listening!?” Jef didn’t answer.

“Listen to me,” said Jef in a calm tone, “something’s wrong. Fuck. FUCK! Somethings wrong.” Craig just looked at him, infuriated, and at a loss for words. Jef sped around the corner Emmaline’s street was on and came to a screeching halt. “I’m sorry about yo’ speakers, we’ll get ’em next time, a’ight?” He then popped out of the car, ran into the apartment and shut off the lights, leaving Craig’s car door open and running.

“I can’t fucking believe this is happening. This is the guy my mom is going to marry.” Craig said under his breath as he switched into the driver seat. He started driving, when suddenly, he heard police sirens in the distance. He then sped off to my grandparents house in Pasadena, where I was staying. He left his car in a store parking lot, and ran the rest of the way, and eventually through my window. Craig did not attend his mother’s wedding to Jef with one f.

Graduation finally came along, which meant Craig and I were about to be married soon. He was finalizing his paperwork with the U.S. Army and had just finished the paperwork for my ownership of the grocery store. I was working out a deal with Edward to by a Mustang GT from him. It was a fucking amazing car, and I’d worked on it with Craig a few times. Growing up with two boys, I held my own in terms of mechanics. Edward kept raising the price, then lowering it slightly, so it was sure to be a long negotiation.

By that time, daddy had also remarried to a sweet woman named Jenifer. She was quiet, but not in a shy way, she understood daddy’s sense of humor, and basically dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s. She was simple. As long as daddy was happy with her, I would be too.

Craig stressed often over the wedding. He tried to get his mother, Emmaline to go to our wedding, but she kept saying how she’d have to ask Jef with one f. Then remind Craig of his absence to her wedding. In which, Craig’s retort would be because he did not condone her marriage to Jef with one f and declined to further state what had happened that one evening he went over. After a conversation with her, he often started drinking alcohol. I started drinking with him soon after. There was plenty in the house, and when Edward was out and about, Gabriella would join us, teaching us a bit of Spanish. Donnie never noticed, Diane, was never home, and Vinnie had moved back in. Vinnie couldn’t stand Jef with one f just as much as Craig couldn’t, but he didn’t drink. Vincent took to marijuana instead, and was stoned much of the time.

At our wedding, Emmaline surprised us all by attending. Then surprised us all again when she left after only half an hour. During the father and bride, mother and groom dance, daddy and I were the only ones on the floor, while Craig sat and watched. The guests didn’t say anything, but everyone knew. Then Jenifer grabbed Craig and forced him to dance with her. My brother Jack came up to me later in the day and said to me, ‘good job, Katie,’ and walked back to the table where daddy was. Daddy gave him a pat on the back, and Jenifer smiled. My husband, Craig, shipped out two days later for basic training.

The Meyer’s kids switched off manning a camcorder that day. Watching the tape, I discovered my father-in-law, Edward had already sold the Mustang, for much cheaper than what I had offered. I can hear Vincent arguing with Edward about it. Then towards the end of the tape, Craig and I were holding each other on the front porch while the kids filmed from the inside, through the window blinds. We were both crying because he and I knew we were going to miss the fuck out of each other.

“Craig and Katie are shiny, a majestic translucence.” said Donnie.

“Yeah, they deserve each other.” agreed Vincent.

“Oh my god, look how in love they are.” said Diane.

“Oh yeah? Just wait twenty-five years when she divorces your brother and runs off with a black guy, we’ll see how in love they are.” slurred Edward.

“Dad, shut up.” said Diane and Vincent.

A few years later, I was living on the base with Craig. We threw parties, I got myself a military I.D., and the drinking continued. Most nights filled with belligerence accompanied by hoots and hollers. I often made out with other girls, at the encouragement of Craig. He in turn, slept with some of them, without my encouragement, or knowledge for that matter. We had become alcoholics by then. Hangovers 5 days out of the week. I’d often hide whiskey inside coffee cups and watch movies at the local theater alone, and when I’d wake up, I wouldn’t be able to remember what movie I had seen the night before, let alone, how I even got home. Our lives adopted a one-day-at-a-time basis with a complete bleakness and nonchalance towards the future. It went on like this until one day Craig disappeared.

He had gone to his father Edward. Craig had noticed the downward spiral and sought advice from his father, who in turn, convinced Craig to divorce me. I then went into a state of bottomless depression, broken and nurtured only through the teet of a bottle. Tons o’ fucking fun, when I moved back home with daddy as a complete mess. I stayed that way for months until one day, I got a call from Vincent. He told me my ex-husband, Craig, remarried. She was legally a midget and former stripper, who later became a typical bible mother. After that, I decided I had two choices. One was to either, remain in the grave, drinking a haze around me to keep me from seeing the reality of the world I inhabited, never to confront it. I chose the second. I checked myself into a rehabilitation center.

I don’t regret that period of my life, neither Craig nor I were the same people we once were. Those two had died long ago, and we became something like ghosts, floating through a fog we called life without our bodies. I was fortunate enough to find mine, and I don’t regret having to go through the grueling and tedious process to earn it, not one bit. The way I see it, Craig and I had good seats to the show. The solace was in knowing it wasn’t going to be the last show.

The Wine-Stained Diary series (A Note from a Wine-Stained Diary, Another Note from a Wine-Stained Diary, The Last Note from a Wine-Stained Diary) is based on a true story. Character names have been changed to protect the individuals identities and any similarities amongst the names are purely coincidental. Any reproduction of the work must provide full acknowledgements to the author, as well as a trackback to the site.

Another Note from a Wine-Stained Diary

My body was unusually tense, elbows locked in, looking with my eyes first before safely turning my head in any direction, as I walked through the Meyer’s house. Craig stayed outside. He was a pussy for not going in, but that didn’t make me feel better. I walked towards the kitchen where I was supposed to see the Furor. I really hoped to not hear any cupboards being slammed. The Furor was sitting at the table ahead. He looked calm, blank, and silent, as he always was. I tried to convince myself I was just paranoid and over-analyzing the situation. “Katherine Harvey, calm down. He just wants to have a talk with you.” I told myself. Then I started thinking, “Katherine Harvey, that man is going to stab you in the throat with a salad fork.” I always did that, assumed people had the worst intentions if I didn’t have a clue to any of their intentions. No matter what I did or told myself, seeing Craig’s dad sitting so composed, so placidly made me feel like a freshly cooked meal, walking itself to the kitchen table.

“Have a seat Katherine.” said Edward as he stood up, directing his hand to the chair next to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Meyer.” I said as I hung my purse on the chair’s backrest. The kids were in the living room doing their own things. Donnie was watching Vincent, who was cutting the seams off stuffed animals, then neatly pulling out the internal cotton with a plastic fork. Diane was having a conversation on the phone. Edward’s wife, Emmaline, was having tea and was immersed in a biography on Fredrick Douglass, the African American speaker and slave abolitionist. The scene was as normal as usual, except it seemed like I was watching them through a glass, and not one of them noticed me in the kitchen next to their father. Edward, the Furor. I was overwhelmed with questions.

He looked deeply at me and nodded slightly, as if he had decided to ask me a question. “Can I, ask you, a question, Katherine?” he said as he looked at me whilst making small gestures with his hands like a politician giving a speech. Edwards hands were clenched as if his hands were handing out business cards.

“O… Okay. Sure.” I gave a little cough to clear my throat which suddenly dried.

“You’re too pretty.” he said. No movement. I began feeling more confused, waiting for a question. “You’re too pretty. Okay?” The skin on my forehead crinkled in befuddlement. I had deduced he was referring to me when he kept using the word pretty. I’d always been passive about that word being directed towards me. I was a tomboy growing up with two males, spitting contests, surprise farts. Fuck, shit, cunt, and bitch, were regulars in my vocabulary. I had only started wearing make-up a year before. Was, ‘Okay?’ his question? I thought to myself, ‘This can’t be the first fucking conversation I have with this man.’

“Too pretty? Are you talking about me, Mr. Meyer?” I asked in the most courteous way I knew. Edward nodded his head, and did nothing else. I might have had a slight ugly duckling syndrome, but I couldn’t believe that this momentous occasion was initiated because the Furor thought I was pretty. The was like humans and aliens making contact because Earth, intergalactically, had the best surf spots. If he was trying to make a point, then I was miles away. It annoyed me terribly when people didn’t get straight to the point. Their A.D.D. clashed with my own A.D.D. The worst part was; after I figured out what he’s saying, I’d probably have to figure out why he said it.

“I don’t think I’m too pretty,” as I said that, I realized the only logical explanation had to be this: he was paying me a compliment! Over-analysis never did help, “but thank you very…”

“You’re too pretty for my son. You know he’s been in love with you for an entire year right?” interrupted Edward. His business card hands were really distracting.

“Which son?” I cleared my throat again, drier than before.

“Don’t pull that with me, I can see that you’re pretty, but the fact is, you’re too pretty, Katherine. P-R-E-T-T-Y. Too.” he sternly said. Emmaline and the kids turned towards us. I couldn’t understand why he kept saying I was too pretty, and as if wasn’t already lost, he’s made me sound like I was a criminal for the crime of being pretty, which, made no sense because I was fairly sure I’d be found not guilty. I’d been in weird situations before, but the conversation was getting out of hand. I waited patiently for him to talk to me for so long, clenching my fists when he’d walk by, biting my lip shut to to prevent a sudden outburst, pistons in my heart on all 8 cylinders, and he’d just keep walking by, until the next time I see Mr. Meyer. Him talking to me would’ve felt like winning the lottery. But now that he had, I felt like I was being taxed for it. I became so mystified with the direction of the conversation that I didn’t realize my jaw just dangled off my face.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying to me. What are you saying? Are you talking about Craig?”

“He has to pretend not to be in love when he’s around you. You’re always here forcing my son to lie.”

“We’re just friends, Mr. Meyer. Craig knows that.”

“You’re too pretty.”

“What? Why do you keep saying that?”

“It’s the truth. You also come from a broken home.”

“What?!” I was more shocked than I was angry he said that. My family had nothing to do with this situation, but he’s attacking them.

“Your family,” he paused, “is broken. Statistically, people from those homes will go on to break other homes. And you’re too pretty.”

“Wha…” I had no idea what to say. I thought the Furor thought I was going to destroy his home, I wasn’t sure. I also wasn’t sure why the pretty part was such a fucking big deal. However, I did know one thing; it hurt so much to watch Mr. Meyer, my best friend’s dad, someone I waited so long to befriend, vilify my entire family without any reason other than I was too pretty. I felt exhausted, I wanted to leave, my chest got tighter, my eyes started to water. I didn’t want to talk anymore. I wanted to go home. Out of this kitchen.

“Katherine, do you know where your mother is?” my heart stopped. Ravaged with a powered chainsaw, I didn’t stand a chance. Why are you saying this, what did I do? I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know! The pain was excruciating, then exacerbated because I didn’t know why it was happening. My face crinkled into a frown, but the last and only thing I could humanly do with the little bit of dignity not stripped of me, was to try not to cry. Not in front of the Furor. I stared outside the window, incapable of responding, I couldn’t even summon the strength to stand. Why? I was so exhausted, every cell, every atom, fighting a single teardrop. If words could hurt this much, inside out, I’d rather the sticks and stones.

“Do you know why she left?” asked Edward. Every cell and atom within my being, simultaneously exhaled in defeat.

“…SHE… DOESN’T … WANT …ME…” I felt the teardrop making a run for it down my cheek, its friends following after. An alarm sounded in a mixture of whale and seal noises. “WHY…ARE…YOU…DOING…THIS!?” I whimpered out, having to inhale a pocket of air before each syllable.

“You’re. Too. Pretty,” the Furor said, one syllable at a time, while stamping those syllables with gestures of his fucking business card hands, “and what level-headed person would live on the beach, I can only imagine what kind of person your father is.” His derision of my father ushered the last bit of strength I had into defense.

“MY FATHER IS A GOOD MAN!!” I roared back at him with the viciousness of a lion. Or an asshole not caring about flaring a hemorrhoid.

“Mr. Harvey is a good man, dad!” yelled Vincent as he ran through the back door.  Donnie and Diane joined in to defend daddy. Craig had taken them all down to my house a few times for a beach outing. Daddy knew how to have a good time and more importantly, he knew how to bring it out in others. I started crying again, though this time, it was because everyone in the Meyer family helped defend me against the fucking Furor.

Just then Vincent burst through the door and pointed at me, behind him was Craig. He took one look at me, and bolted towards the kitchen without any hesitation, leaping over obstacles. Why did he look so… majestic? What was he going to do? Why was he running in slow motion? I could watch his cheeks jiggle with each step all day. It felt weird during the last few seconds, but as it turned out, I was blacking out and eventually fainted.

Was I really hurting Craig? Did the Furor let this build up an entire year before finally firing a cannon at me? This fucking sucks, I thought  to myself. It only does after discovering someone so close to you had been harboring a repulsion towards you, while you simply enjoyed yourself. It seemed like there there was one of those in everyone’s circle.

I remember the day my mother left. My daddy, my anchor, was hurt. After that day, I told myself I won’t let anyone I love, hurt like that ever again. It was idealistic at the time, but I really hadn’t cared about anyone who wasn’t in my family. Not until Craig. I had forgotten what I told myself, but here he was. I did love Craig, and I was the one who hurt him.

I had written him off so many times, that I never realized he never quit. He  was always doing these little things to make me feel like royalty, and I had never even noticed. And I was supposed to know, more than anyone, that it was the little things in life that mattered, nothing could ever be bigger.

When I came to, I was in the passenger seat of a moving car. It was Donnie’s car, but Craig was driving. No Surprises by Radiohead was playing and the sun was setting over the pacific coast highway. ‘What the fuck is going on? Waaas it a dream?’ I said to myself. ‘Such a pretty house and such a pretty garden. No alarms and no surprises.’  said Thom Yorke over the radio.

“Hey, what the fuck is going on?”

“We’re going to Canada, don’t tell me you forgot.” said Craig. I punched him in the arm.

“Stop joking around.” I took a breath, “Did that really just happen at your house right now?” he didn’t respond immediately.

“Yeah.” he said after taking a deep breath. “I’m taking you to your dad’s.” I nodded, because I already knew. The car was silent as the rest of the song played. I looked out the passenger window at the ocean leaning against the headrest. I had plenty of questions, but I didn’t want any answers. I just wanted to grab the steering wheel and steer the whole debacle back home into the sea. Maybe a bath, or a shower to wash it off. I gulped down Craig’s water bottle without a word, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“I always feel relaxed when I see the ocean. Like jumping into my own bed after a long day at school then practice. Just looking at the water was instant satisfaction. You know what, Mick Jagger could finally get some satisfaction, he just needs to go to Orange County.” said Craig suddenly. I wanted to respond. I wanted to tell him I agreed. I wanted to laugh, despite the joke not being particularly funny. I wanted to laugh because I realized how happy I was to be exactly where I was. The ocean, the random car I’ve never been in, Thom Yorke, the hijacked water bottle, the ordeal, me, and Craig. No alarms and no surprises. The joy burst through my tightened lips into full blown laughter.

“Geeze, for a second there I really thought it was a stupid joke, crickets.” Craig exhaled. I kept laughing. “Katie, it wasn’t that funny… Was it?” The laughing dimmed with bits of aftershock chuckles then a smile as I looked at him. I just stared as he looked forward. Then I caught his eye. He smiled. I felt so relieved to see that smile. No Surprises ended. I wanted one more.

“Pull over here!” I shouted.

“What? Why?”

“Do it! NOW, BITCH!”

“Okay. OKAY!” he pulled over in a state of panic.

“Get out of the car. Quick!” I shouted as I unbuckled and hopped out. He left the radio on and the car running and ran after me. “I gotta show you this, I haven’t shown anyone this in a long time.”

“What is it?” Craig asked as we neared the edge of the highway that peered over the beach, fifteen feet below. He looked over the edge and saw shattered glass, fast food cups, and other crap atop the beach sand. I watched him as he stared at the California shore. “I’m so… so… OH! It’s just too darn beautiful for words!”

When he turned towards me, I leaped into his arms, and he caught me as I knew he would. We stared each other in the eye, dissipating every molecule of doubt, then shipped it all away with a first class kiss. Expensive, but it’s a guaranteed satisfaction. The rest of the world kept spinning, but in our world, it didn’t matter. The pacific ocean cheered louder than the ocean of cars passing by, the orange mango smoothie sky with scattered clouds of whipped cream, stopped to take our picture. I didn’t know what song was playing on the radio in the car, but it sounded like Maple Leaves by Jens Lekman. The ocean of applause, the random car I’ve never been in, Thom Yorke, the hijacked water bottle, the California smoothie sunset, the ordeal, me, and Craig. No alarms and no surprises. Maybe one more.

“Katie.” Craig said, looking at me. “I gotta tell ya something.”

“Shh… don’t fucking ruin this, I already know.” I leaned forward on my tiptoes to kiss him but he pulled his head back.

“I don’t think you do.”

“What is it?”

“When I got you out of my kitchen and into Donnie’s car to drive here, I didn’t exactly have time… well… here.” Craig reached to the ground and picked up a piece of a mirror and showed me my reflection.

“You fucking asshole! I look like a fucking coal miner! …Mining for crack! Why didn’t you say anything?!” I grabbed the piece of mirror from his hand and pushed him. The eyeliner had dribbled down my entire face, some of it had smudged and smeared. “I can’t believe you didn’t say anything. But I’m too pretty!” I mocked the Furor. Craig kept laughing, then walked over, and shut me up when he held me. Then kissed me slow.

We started dating after that for a couple of years and I still went to the Meyer’s house. The Furor had rescinded his radio silence and started giving a simple ‘hi‘. Only every now and then though, but it’s still pretty good improvement. It wasn’t until I was much older, before I finally understood what he meant that day he kept saying I was too pretty. Nevertheless, everything seemed pretty good until one fatefully ironic day, Edward had all the kids in the living room, including me. His hair was uncombed, which never happens, and he looked terrible, distraught, wearing the same clothes for days, and might have been drinking a little.

“Here ye. Here ye! Attention ladies and gentlemen, gather ’round! I, Edward Meyer, have an announcement to make on this unfair day on September the 10th, 2001!” he said as he held up a glass of something. He definitely was drinking. “You’re mother, Emmaline Meyer, and I, drum roll please,” he mimicked the drum roll by blowing raspberries, “are getting a divorce! …Cheers!” Everyone was confused and shocked.

“What?! Why?!” Shouted Diana.

“Becaaaaaause, your mother doesn’t love me anymore, and insteeeeead, she wants to fuck black people!”

“Dad! What are you talking about?!” Shouted Craig.

“I have love letters and documentational-izing…? Eh? Proof! Of your mother’s new hobby, which wasn’t so new after all! Just get ready for the party tonight.”

“Dad, what party are you talking about? Where’s mom?” asked Vincent

“She’s prooooobably in the ghetto looking for her knight in sweaty and slash or shiny black armor. But thank you Vinnie, attention, your brotha just reminded me of the party being held tonight! Bring your friends, buuuuut,” the Furor whispered, “not the dark ones.”

“Stop dad! There isn’t going to be a party, and stop saying those things!” shouted Diane, “David  is half black.”

“Oh that’s right, I’m sorry sweety, tweety bird, I didn’t mean to make you go… BANANAS!” Edward proceeded to laugh uncontrollably. Then he started coughing and flung half his drink on his pant leg and carpet. “Yo mama loved this carpet, but boy did I love these pants too.” His face was flushed, his eyes couldn’t focus, he then suddenly erected his posture straight and froze there. We all watched in horror and disbelief. This man, the Furor, has never been like this. His body slowly tilted backwards but he regained his balance, but suddenly fell down. Faced down in to the stain on Emmaline’s beloved carpet. The boys dragged him to the couch and tossed him on top of it. I never pictured the Furor making an exit like that. That day turned out to only be a prelude…

Final Intermission

A Note from a Wine-Stained Diary

I’m not saying I’m mentally equivocal when I say I come from a family with more issues than the European Vanity Fair magazine. In fact, My father, Buck Harvey, raised my older brother Jack and I the best he possibly could by himself. I loved my father more than any Beatles song could ever convey. Daddy will always be an anchor in my sea. Jack was a bit off growing up, not in a weird way, unfortunately, he was just normal. Typical even. He was possibly the most ignorable guy you could ever meet. We rarely spoke to each other, unless we wanted the hot sauce. The only thing my brother Jack and I had in common was a love for hot sauce. Daddy (I will never call my daddy anything else) was a successful investor, but he never acted like it. He was a strange one though, for instance, I’ve never once, in my existence, seen him with hair. He can grow hair, and I never quite understood why I never questioned him about it. He was riding a bicycle down the beach when he met my then free-spirited, hippie mother. She was fresh flowers, and vibrant rainbows, sunshine and lollipops. I remember some nights when daddy would say to me before bed;”That day, the sun couldn’t warm or make me sweat as much as your mother’s glow, her smile, and she gave it to you, Katherine.”

Then one summer when I was 3 years old and Jack was now 7, daddy’s work ran into a slump, and a sizable amount of our savings had to be used to bounce back. By then, my mother had assimilated into the life of champagne glasses, couture dresses, and rehearsed laughs. The rainbows, rabbits, flowers, sunshine and lollipops, were surrendered in a treasure box in the cellar of her heart. She yelled at daddy every other night, and Jack would start to awkwardly make funny faces at me. I think he was trying to get me to laugh as a diversion from the commotion. He only look awkward because we always seemed like strangers to one another, acquainted siblings, and he was improvising. It worked. Sometimes they didn’t because of the kitchen cupboards. My mother would slam them so hard, they sounded like balloons being popped all around me. I’ve disliked balloons since then, and knew my brother secretly loved me, but with Do Not Disturb signs. Despite the severity of verbal shark attacks from my mother in the kitchen, daddy never once raised his voice. His voice was like a smooth baritone saxophone or like that song, Fly Me to the Moon. He kept his composure and since the kitchen was downstairs, it sounded like my mother growled and snarled at Frank Sinatra.

After a month everything seemed fine to me, the fights kept going, but I didn’t cry anymore. When they started, I would practice ballet, while Jack drew pictures of clocks. As long as we knew daddy was going to be daddy, we’d be OK.. Then my mother disappeared one day. She wasn’t in the kitchen making breakfast because she had it delivered by this little bistro the Harvey’s used to go to when the roster was just Daddy, Mother, and Jack. I’ve never been to this bistro. Incidentally, that was the first and last time I heard daddy sob. Sob Day. I didn’t know what to do. I stood there, stunned and in my pink tutu and tights (I never took them off) I got from ballet, watching him from the door of his study, his sanctuary. It felt like my fault. Not because mommy was gone and daddy sobbed, I felt bad because I’d wanted my mother to leave, out of a child-like fear and loathing. I felt guilty because I did not think at all about how daddy would feel. I may not have been keen on my mother, Jack may not have had an opinion about anything either way, but that only meant daddy was the only person that loved my mother.

I loved daddy, and that day showed me one thing: if you love someone, their feelings should always filter your actions. Love is a word, but sometimes we forget love is a verb.

When he finally realized I was there, he quickly wiped his tears, made airplane noises, spun in a circle, and the next thing I knew, I was lifted off the ground and placed onto his shoulders.

“All aboard Flight 184 to Ice cream land! Jack!! You scream, I scream we all scream for…”

“ICE CREAM!!” screamed Jack from our room. He ran into the hallway jumping up and down chanting, “Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!” Ice cream always held an influential hold on the Harvey children, that and clam chowder soup. Perhaps it was the beach that did that to us. Maybe it was the beach that was in us. I cheered too, but I really just wanted to hug daddy’s bald head, and say, “I will never want someone I love  to hurt.”

Daddy’s work had picked back up by the end of that same summer. The sunshine reclaimed it’s throne with a hand through a crack in the sky above the S.S. Harvey, just after my mother abandoned ship because of a season of gloom. The first few months following that, I would overhear daddy on the phone using that calm and apologetic voice he used when he spoke to my mother. It was the only time he ever had to use that voice. Everything had gone back to normal. Jack continued to be normally weird, daddy was always daddy, and I didn’t feel any less loved. Even Grandma and Grandpa came by often. They might have been worried about us, but I think they didn’t come by as much because they were afraid of my mother. As for my mother, she made the conscious decision to leave. She placed fortune over family, and intentionally lost the key to her treasure box long ago. Her airline miles didn’t apply to paper airplanes. It taught me an abhorrence towards money. Hated it. I had no idea how I was going to keep hating it, but the fact was this: I always knew that money was and forever will never be more important than the image of a three year old girl standing on the threshold of the study, watching her father cry for the first time because she wished for her mean mother to leave, while wearing a pink tutu and ballerina tights she refused to take off, confused and having an traumatizing epiphany about love. Daddy knew that, even funny-face Jack knew that, at least, I think he did. But my mother chose to drive herself to the party.

I was 14 when I met Craig Meyer. I met him through his friend Nick Chaselli, of whom I was dating at the time. We split up two weeks later, but I wouldn’t go as far as to say my relationship with Nick had any lasting impression on me. Come to think of it, I can hardly recall what he looked like. I’ve always been that girl, the one that was always in a relationship. It wasn’t as if I was constantly, let alone consciously, looking for one. They just happened, like cracks in the asphalt. It did allow a constant flow of companionship, perhaps I was overcompensating, but more importantly, it helped pass the time. It wasn’t until I broke up with Nick that I finally grew tiresome of being dated. It was like letting them copy the answers off my math test; I got nothing out of it, and I didn’t even know if the answers were right to begin with. That’s when Craig slipped into my life. Since he and Nick were friends, he had to do the right thing and slip past him too.

“Hey Chaselli, can I talk to you for a sec?” Craig said as Nick opened his locker during passing period.

“Yeah, what’s up?” said Nick.

“Well, I heard you an Katherine broke up. I’m sorry. You alright?” Craig said, consolingly.

“Thanks, I’m okay though, we just weren’t good for each other, and I’m already talking to Janet. Katie and I are still friends, no hard feelings.”

“You’re seeing Janet Maloney already?”

“Yeah, like the day after. She has way bigger tits.” said Nick, almost nonchalantly. Craig paused for a moment with his mouth about to say something else in regards to the boobs because Janet Maloney did have the biggest boobs in school. Also the biggest ass, thighs, and gut that resembled a 2nd trimester, except it was from high school keggers thrown by juniors and seniors to get at the new meat. Craig wisely pleaded the fifth on the subject.

“Well, would it be cool if I talked to her?” asked Craig, uninspired.

“FUCK. NO.” Nick said in two long breaths, facing him now.

“Well, I have her in my Bio class next, and I’m going to talk to her anyway,” Craig started walking away with a skip-hop maneuver,  “I’m just letting you know now, buddy.” As he skip-hopped towards Biology 1A, possibly the only person in the history of that highschool to skip-hop towards any Biology class, the sound of a thunderclap came from a locker being slammed shut. Amongst the startled chatter in the hallway, a very agitated and distinguishable Nick Chaselli shouted, “FUCK!” Craig kept skip-hopping, nonchalantly.

The first few days, Craig was referred to as Nick’s muscly friend. Normally, that’s the period where I’d give them my phone number when he asked for it, then we’d chit chat about sweet nothings, I’d go along with it, and then we would date for a few weeks. I didn’t give Craig my phone number because I didn’t want to play the same song on repeat, but he was persistent. Craig didn’t get the hint. Or maybe he didn’t want to get the hint. He was handsome, smart, played on some of the teams, and could practically go out with whomever he wanted. I assumed he just got off on the challenge. There were guys like that in highschool, seek and destroy, my Knight takes your Bishop because  the pawns were peanuts. I hated those guys. I wasn’t gonna cave. After about 5 weeks, he was still on it. I figured it was time to let him have the number as a reward, if not just to stop hearing the words “number,” and “call you,” come out of his mouth.

He brought me flowers. Not just once. I had no space to put them in my bedroom, because the other flowers he brought were still there. Either he was really competitive, or he really liked me, because Craig Meyer did this for an entire fucking year. Technically, this was the longest pseudo-relationship I’ve ever had with a guy. He became a kind of routine that I became less and less annoyed with. It got to the point where I enjoyed being around him. It was hard to yawn around him.

By the time I was a sophomore, we were practically best friends. We never argued about trivialities, like what movie to catch, where to eat, who we were with. We liked the same movies, the same foods, and already had the same friends. I’d met his family countless times; His older brother, Donnie (whom reminded me of Jack, except Donnie knew how to smile), younger brother, Vincent (the loveable black sheep), older sister Diane (who’s a real bitch. She was ugly as a child and became pretty later, ugly duckling syndrome I thought, but from what I understand, she’s always been a bitch and no one really knew why that was), his mother Emmaline (A beautiful woman from Sussex, England, with a Martha Stewart swag set), and his dad, Edward Meyer (The Furor). He was special.

I had been in and out of that house for an entire year, spoken and laughed with everyone (including the bitch sister, in which I’ve learned to smile and speak in a higher pitch when I dealt with her), drank tea at 4 0’clock  teatime with Emmaline simply because she wanted to know how my day was. Craig’s dad had never spoken a word to me. As far as I knew, I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I certainly wasn’t planning on it. I had the power of invisibility around The Furor. It was hinted that he was only like that when I was around. I couldn’t understand why, especially after the story Craig told me of how his parents met.

Edward married Emmaline two months after meeting her. She was in the country for a tour of the different colleges and also as a short vacation. When the tour left for home in England, Emmaline stayed behind partly because of a charming and handsome young Edward Meyer, pre-Furor, who happened to own a chain of successful grocery markets, but the main reason she stayed behind was because they were madly in love and had could spare no time worrying about the buckling the seatbelts. Eagerly wanting to start the rest of their lives together. The third month of their meeting, they purchased a house on a hill, lawn large enough for four kids. Ed and Emma remodeled the house themselves to the exact specifications of their love, with a white picket fence, an homage to endangered tradition of happily ever after. It made me think about my mother sometimes, but that only allowed me to appreciate the serendipitous poetry they call their lives, even more.

One day I was over at the Meyer’s, as I often was, I was sitting on a bench with Craig on his front lawn. He seemed a little down that day, which was suspect. The thing about Craig is he’s always the life of the party, loved by everyone around. You rarely ever caught him arrogantly looking up, and never caught him meekly looking down. You know how you can tell when a friend isn’t telling you something because you’ve seen and studied them enough to have the instinct? I knew all of Craig’s faces, and gestures.

“What’s wrong? And don’t you dare lie to me or I’ll fuck you up.” I asked in my run-of-the-mill coarseness.

“It’s my dad. He took my keys.” He said after a strange pause. I ignored it.

“So what? You’ll get ’em back by what? Tomorrow? We’ll just watch a movie here, I don’t care. Why’d the Furor take your keys?” I said. The Furor was a fitting title because he was the only one in the house that wasn’t blonde. I was at least a dirty blonde.

“I called Di, a bitch.” he said. Now he seemed really off. We’d be laughing by now. Strike two. I pitched again.

“Oh? Since when did calling your own sister by her spirit animal become a car-crippling crime.” I joked. He responded with a fake-laughed. My eyes bugged out almost completely out of my skull and I thought, “HOW DARE YOU FAKE-LAUGH ME, CRAIG MEYER! His face flushed pale as he realized that I realized he fake-laughed me, and before I could smack his face and his fake-laugh all over the lawn, I heard the front porch door creak open. I turned around and it was Edward. The car-repo Furor. I quickly turned my right hook into a wave.

“Hi Mr. Meyer!” I said with a higher pitch.
“Hello Katherine, how are you?” The Furor said back. I fought every ounce of muscle and instinct to keep my jaw from dropping. I exerted so much concentration into my jaw muscles that I forgot about my eyes. The two big blue iris’ bugged out as if they had just witnessed the Pope air-guitaring to Stairway to Heaven. I froze up, I felt a chill and a hot flash simultaneously. Visions of the beginning of time in the cosmos, swirling celestial dust, black holes, white holes, the milky way, the non-fat milky way, flashed and shimmered. Simultaneously, visions of the end of time with fire, rubble, toil, and trouble; together, fusing ultimate truths and infinite contradictions into a state of snow white serene desolation, and I was still waving at Edward Meyer.

“…uh… I’m great! Thank you so much for asking!” I couldn’t think of anything to say besides that. And I immediately wanted to smack myself on the forehead  for including the unnecessary attachment and emphasis of “so much” to my pitiful answer of a question I’ve heard every day of my life. That’s at least 5110 days.

“That ‘s good. I was hoping you’d be here today. I was wondering if you’d have a moment, I’d like to talk to you about something.” He sounded so calm and genuine.

“Don’t!” Craig whispered to me, “Tell him you have to leave, meet me on the corner and I’ll steal a car to get you away from here.” I looked at Craig. Then I looked at the Furor. I couldn’t tell which one was joking.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind really. I think this could be my chance to get on his good side.” I told him as I got up. Suddenly, he gripped my arm and held it. The look in his eyes was a look I’d never seen before. It scared me. Something was wrong. I felt like there was a canon being loaded, maybe it’s already been loaded, hidden, and the fuse was about to be lit.

INTERMISSION

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Leaving your baby mama while she’s pregnant means you don’t get to name it when you go back to her in roughly sixteen months. You’re stuck with that. Sixteen months is the average time for fellow hipster dudes to accept fatherhood. Pro’s about that are, they’ve taken the time necessary to restructure the imperative circumstances surrounding their lives, and without feeling like they were pressured into doing so. The con’s are, and I apologize, you ladies’ have to go through the beginning stages alone. Unless you have good friends whom you know the last names of (not through Facebook.) Those are the ones that stick around, not, but don’t worry, if you made a good friend over Facebook, chances are, you don’t know their middlename yet. There’s still hope for you. For guys, if your bro’s haven’t complained to you about a certain girl, (not girls in general) you’re not in yet. Men seem to use women as classificational objects, in this is the easiest way to pinpoint where your head is on the bro’tem pole.

Anyway, I’ve seen plenty of guys shoved into fatherhood, and I’ve seen more battling with the concept. Some relieved to discover and cheer these words: it ain’t mine, muthaf*cka! That already says plenty about the male mentality behind it, especially between the ages of 22 to 32. And no ladies, your man can’t be mo’ mature like your friend, Kim’s man, he’s as mature as you found him. The more single he’s been in life, his chances of being mature are higher. Believe me on this wizardry, and if you don’t, it’s probably because you’re too pretty, or haven’t turned 28 yet. There are tons of great guys you complain about never meeting, while your friend Pete without the vagina is picking up white cheddar Cheezits and his director’s cut copy of In Her Shoes to show up at your cold K-town apartment loft because you were too sick to do anything today. (Yes that loft is pre-baby, have you breathed North Korean air? Korea Town air, I mean.)

For the guys shoved into the pit of fatherhood, you did this, you finish it. If ever there was a bigger wake-up call than this to take hold of your life, this is it. Your recklessness obviously didn’t do you any good, did it? The plus side, your baby momma is probably still a stone cold fox, would you feel good if your kid called another MILF hunter, Daddy? Nah, that would piss me the f*ck off too. Sh*t that don’t make sense piss me the f*ck off. F*ck! Sh*t! Motherf*cker! Wait, you could be that motherf*cker, you lucky son of a f*ck! So suck it up, you’re not the one guy in the world that’s ever gone through this.

(Just catch her cheating and your hands are clean! That’s a more level-headed approach, I think. Just looking out for my boys too. You girls are too smart, it ain’t fair.)

National Geographic is Being Too Graphic

First came the uni-brow, then the club. Kings of bashers we were, then the weird cousin discovered flame, scared the shit out of us, then discovered the shit we bashed the shit out of was delicioso under weirdo cousin’s fire. Open Bashin’ Shit restaurant, and traded for goodies. Got babytooth necklace back once, my baby tooth from uncle Argh. Uncle Argh sad but glad with neanderthal chorizo. Things we live is easy. Take woman, Make tiny-me’s.

After millions of fun-filled years, the hunter-gatherer men spawned us men; brighter, well-dressed and killed with axes and swords, (I’d prefer an axe because that’s just awesome to slay anything with, even Tres Leche cake,) but we still kept our women to ourselves. Like our treasures we find in the sand at the beach only to keep it hidden and protected in a Reebok shoebox in the back of the closet at mom’s place, slowly being disregarded until forgotten and to your surprise, grows feet and disappears. *gasp*

Here’s the thing; women aren’t property or prizes, in fact, it was because of them that we’ve advanced this far. Neanderthals killed to feed their women in order to keep them, (I’m sure there was competition, not because neanderhipstergirl was hot, but when one man wants something, they all want it. The animals do it too, except they killed and killed damn good, gang fights and MMA and/or Mortal Kombat started here,) and if they didn’t, another would. That’s the way it’s always been. Now that the Civil Movement has happened, 19th amendment, and everyone can vote now, women have been on the brink of discovering their superiority. Female praying mantis’ already know it, (killin’ the dude after the best one-night-stand ever,) some spiders break off the male penis to plug up her own fun-holes, to reproduce only once. Human women can take half your shit now, your vintage record collection you just started, the books you didn’t write your name in when you moved in together… and even the dog, the one you brought with you because you needed a best friend to listen to your shit without judging you. Does that sound completely unfair? Or does it sound like karma? Are we as men so desensitized that we act surprised if a girl flexes? They can, you know. Equal rights means they can kick as much ass as us men do, except they’re much smarter than we are.

The next time you immerse yourself into an argument with your girlfriend or wife or top bed share-holder, it’s not because she doesn’t love you. I know this one to be a fact; to us guys, these random fights are random and you think she’s crazy, but these random fights actually happen because they’ve changed in some way, and grew. Men don’t change, we just get older. She probably thinks you’re a pussy. In this reasoning, women have at least million years of growing to catch up on. They’re just smarter and faster, and still us men will find a reason to call it an unfair match.

We, men, only have each other to cheer, but do you think we’ll get anything accomplished with all-male cheerleaders? The answer is a very obvious no, even I would be too distracted. (That’s why I only get my advice from women I believe are the equivalent of generals, maybe captains too, because I know that if I can’t beat them, I’m better off joining them. And also, I have nothing against male cheerleaders, you guys are great, better dancers sometimes too. It’s better just to say you’re on the other team, I think.)

Just find solace in knowing you will never understand a woman, even the one you’ve been with the last four years or two and a half weeks. No record in history was there ever a [straight] man who understood them… and lived. Maybe Chuck Norris or the Dos Equis guy, I think his name is Maxwell. Maxwell and Chuck Norris can do it, but can we ever be like them? Fuck no, so don’t try to understand women but have a flavor-infused Dos Equis beer, which is on sale at your local CVS for $5.49 a six-pack. What a deal!! Two exclamation points! Anyway, admire the gem of a woman you do have like a perfectly cooked steak. Rare, but seared just right on both sides and know that not everyone will see the steak like that, but they’ll eat it if they get a chance. Some want theirs medium, or well-done, but the whole dilio is not guaranteed to appease your taste buds, so don’t expect it to. Move with it or move it. After all, they keep us going, despite the preconceived transgression. Us men seem to grow only after our hearts have been hurt and are left a-bleedin’, but that also means that you were too late. Walk it off.

she loved him till death, because he never tried to understand her.