Thursday, September 3, 2015

The Run Down





She breezed into the bar, kind of late at night for a society dame.



Gliding toward my booth in the back, she raised one of her sleek eyebrows and smirked at me.

“Good evening, Ma’am”

“Ma’am?  You make me want to look over my shoulder to make sure my Mama isn’t here”, she drawled, in a thick southern accent that sounded like molasses poured over hoe-cakes.



It took me a minute to take her in.  Glossy, black hair, skin that looked like sweet cream, and eyes that looked like someone chipped them out of a northern glacier.


Her lips looked like a couch I wanted to sink into…soft, pillowy, lush…



You expect some broad that looks like Snow-White-come- to-life would be wearing something red hot – but she was dressed in black.


Her gams were amazing….. this gal had legs to make a man weep.


“Mr. Olson, I hear you are a man that can…..arrange things.”


“I arrange business matters, ma’am, what sort of business are you interested in, Mrs. Williams?”


 “You know me, then?” she asked—still smirking.


“I had some business with your husband.”


“I am aware of this Mr. Olson, which is why I have come to you—you are a man that…fixes thangs”


I can’t believe she said “thangs”.


This broad looks like New York Society.

 Ice cold. White hot.

She sounds like Scarlett O’Hara over ice.



“I was sorry to hear of your husband’s untimely demise”, I offered.


“Yes, well, these things happen.”  She allows.


“What can I do for you Mrs. Williams?”


“You can arrange an accident”, she smiles, eyes turning into chips of flint.


“I need someone’s knees busted, and I hear you are the one that can make that happen”


“Why would I do that?”


“Cash.”  She intoned.  “100, 000.00 dollars.”


Now we’re talkin’….


“I could…”


 “Mr. Olson, I am not interested in ‘maybe’, ‘possibly’, or ‘perhaps’.  I need a certain whore on the ground, with broken knees, at the corner of 12th and Larsen at 9:00 Sunday.  Barneys is having a pantyhose sale, and that bitch loves her hose”


Again, those ice-chip eyes.


“I could do that, lady," I say, so taken aback I forget to call her ma’am.


“Good.  Do it.” 

Voice like a whip-crack. 

“Morgan Stone”, she says, naming a VERY famous escort - favored by most of my colleagues; mostly famous for breaking up marriages.

  
“Done”.


She smiles, and those eyes warm up like a summer sky.


“What for?” I ask—breaking one of my cardinal rules.


“I’m gonna run that bitch into the ground,” she says, smiling and showing a bit too much teeth.


I take one more look at that mouth.


That Mouth.


I nod at her…



She leaves a brown bag, presumably with $100, 000.00 cash, on the bar and spins around like a dancer.


I watch her leave the bar.


I look at the pumping arms, spinning the wheels below her dead legs and dead heart.

 I am suddenly glad  I am not Morgan Stone.

That Other Life




Janice sat up, gasping.
Looking for threats, as always.
She was in a clean, white bedroom - clearly furnished for a couple.
Ok….
Not the first time.  Occasionally, for blow, meth, or ANYTHING, she had been the third party at a kink-fest....
Not today.
Today she felt...clean.
  Literally.
No aching head, no pounding heart, no cement-caked sinuses or glass-filled lungs.
Her head was clean.
Why?
Why was today different?

"Mom!" A boyish voice -not cracked, but husky- called.
A knock, and the door burst open
It was Shawn...her baby.  Last seen at the age of 5, crying as the police car rolled away; reaching for her and screaming, “Mama!”
She would know those Arctic Blue-grey tinged with periwinkle- eyes anywhere.
"Mom, you gotta sign this permission slip for the Gorge!"
She sat back and held out her (unshaking) hand for the paper – ready to sign anything to keep looking at her grown boy.  Her son.
The lump next to her stirred; turned over.
Colin? Husband? (Ex)
The man who restrained her crying babies as the police dragged her off?
The man who killed her Happily Ever After when he caught her?
Pills. Drugs.
Colin who consigned her to days and nights of Sex, Drugs, and Flophouses, when he cast her out?
She turned; ready to scratch his eyes out….
Adelaide walked in, flipping her caramel hair over her shoulder.
"Ew. Get a room, guys, or just get up. Feed me!"
Huffed out – flipping that hair again.
Addie, no longer a 7 year-old cherub, but a gorgeous long-limbed woman. 

What WAS this?
A second chance?  A crank-led delusion?
What?
Over the next few weeks, she settled in. 
Making pancakes, checking homework.
Momming.
But there were DREAMS.

The last 10 years of drugs, degradation, and desperation were a bad dream. 
Right?
But she kept having them, no matter how obvious it was, there was no truth to them.

No spiral into addiction after copping Shawn's Ritalin to cope with 50 hours a week at work, two kids, and a husband that spent too much time with The Blazers.

No blowjobs and begging.  No achingly pathetic life, wondering about those babies.
Just this.  Other Life.  Clean, shining, right.

Just this life.

Except for the DREAMS.

Of that life.
Waking up from those dreams, she needed a few shots of vodka.
Waking up from the dreams, she needed a handful of pills.
Waking up from the dreams, she needed to smoke a rock.

Waking up from the dreams, her beautiful babies were miraculous people, and her life was sane.
Clean.
Whole.
For Colin and Shawn and Addie, she stayed clean.  Whole.

One Saturday, as she was cleaning Shawn and Addie's bathroom, she saw it.
White cap, orange bottle.
OxyContin
Seduction in a bottle.  Salvation in a pill.  Spoliation in the palm of her hand.
On Wednesday, she opened the bottle.

On Thursday, she palmed two.

In case.

In case the dreams were too much.
In case…..
In case this life was too much.

In case.

Monday, August 31, 2015

From a Fictional Standpoint...You Drive Me Crazy





They called him The Bear. 







 Whether it was because of his stature, the thatch of black hair that covered the backs of his nimble hands and tufted out the top of his V-necks, or his stoic silence, punctuated by roars of rage –when pushed; it was the name all of the thugs, crooks, and thieves knew to invoke when they needed a Driver. 

Any schmuck could sit in a getaway car with ‘borrowed’ plates…..

The Bear had systematically and shamelessly outrun law enforcement vehicles in every major (and many minor) cities across the Eastern Seaboard for the last decade.

Hinckley (in a Reagan mask), sat shotgun, watching The Bear flex his hands above the steering wheel….


Flex. Snap.  Flex. Snap

Hinckley hadn’t wanted to use Presidential masks, and he hadn’t wanted to use The Bear.  His cousin Shawn was a great driver. 


When he wasn’t high….

Hinckley had wanted to wear clown masks like the badasses in the Batman movie.  He also wanted to use someone a little less volatile behind the wheel for this job.  The Bear had a reputation.

For fast driving, yes.

But also for mayhem...


There were stories.

Stories about rollovers, and crashes, and vomiting (oh my!), and one story wherein The Bear threw an unwilling payee out the window into the Fall River on a flooding February day.




Monica (Clinton mask), The Boss, insisted on both the Prez masks and The Bear.

There was never a better, faster, more reckless driver than this Mad Aussie, he proclaimed.
The stoic, silent Bear, turned into a mother-fucking GRIZZLY behind the wheel, he said.
So, The Brotherhood agreed to it.
Sitting in the alley, watching The Bear; Snap, Flex, Snap, Flex……unnerving.  Hinckley could smell his own sweat, acrid with adrenaline.
Suddenly, in a burst of machine gun fire, 5 guys exploded out the back of The First Dartmouth bank, swarming at the car like wasps…
The Bear started the engine of his 2015 Hellcat….dropped it into gear, and peeled out of placid Main Street, penetrating the silence of the summer day with a growl then a shriek…


Nixon, Obama, JFK, and Lincoln threw their bulging gym bags in the car, and then were left in the dust.  Dazed. 

Rolling in the dirt.



Hands up!!!



The Bear felt a surge of satisfaction at the dismay clearly telegraphed through their eyeholes.  

 Monica (Clinton mask) was halfway through the back driver’s window when The Bear  yanked the wheel hard right and watched him barrel roll  out of the rearview.
“Shit!!”  Hinckley screamed. “Shit, motherfucker, this wasn’t the deal!”
He pulled out his Lorcin, a cheap toy bequeathed by a cheap man.


Pointed it at The Bear.
The Bear reached out, broke Hinckley’s wrist, tossed the cheap gun out the window, and reached past Hinckley to unlatch the door.


BYE. Felicia!!!



“No, man!” Hinckley shrieked.

The Bear pushed.  Accelerated.

Drove.


He did not look in the rearview; that was the past.

He did not worry about repercussions.  Why?
He just pushed the accelerator and drove.

Fast.


Sunday, August 23, 2015

Pimpin' Ain't Easy....Or Why I Decided to Start a GoFundMe Account For Someone I Don't Know



I need to start this by saying the following:


Fuck. Cancer.


I have a couple of stories to tell you, so pack a lunch, guys.


Scenario 1.   I had one uncle.  In my Catholic-based, rapidly reproducing family, the XY combo didn't happen all that often.  

He had 6 sisters....and not any sisters, mind, but 6 wild sisters.  And "Sonny" was the cherished boy.  Cherished by his parents, cherished by the wild sisters who adored the one person in the house that didn't "borrow" clothes, makeup, or jewelry.  In a houseful of emotional and crazy women, my uncle maintained a sweet, kind, caring, and laid-back demeanor.  As the siblings went into adulthood, the wild women started having babies with men who didn't stick around.  My Uncle Al stepped in for us kids all the time. 

 He was a surrogate father to vast number (you know the Catholics don't do the birth control) nieces and nephews that were born between 1969 and 1993, he was the sweet brother that his wild sisters counted on to be the Yang to their Yin craziness. He was father, brother, uncle, and friend to all of us.  
In January of 2014, he dropped the news that he had cancer, but that he was ready and willing to fight it.  
He fought for 10 long, hard months.......And then cancer beat him.  He went into the hospital, slipped away, but hung on to life until his biggest sis (my mother) showed up and told him it was ok to go home.

On November 19, 2014, my precious, sweet, selfless uncle gave up the struggle and cancer won......for now.

The devastation of that loss reverberates through my family on a daily basis.  None of us really accept that our sweet "Sonny" is gone.  It's unreal.  The 'girls', his sisters, careen through life like planets whose sun has vanished....clumsily, with no gravitational center.



Walking his sister down the aisle 6 months before he left us

It sucks.

The last time I spoke with him, he reminded me of the sunny summer day that he got his foot caught under water at the Yuba River.  I saw his hands flailing, and swam to him and yanked him out of the water by his hair.  I saved him from drowning that day, but couldn't pull him out of cancer.....

I. Couldn't. Fucking. Save Him.  No one could.

I talked to him on the phone on his last day, he was unresponsive and never answered, but I told him over and over how sorry I was that I couldn't save him one last time.  I told him that I loved him, and thanked him for being who and what he was.  To me, to all of us.

And then I said goodbye.








Scenario 2.  I have a friend that, after a lifetime of fast living and debauchery, was diagnosed with colo-rectal cancer.

Chemo, surgery, and radiation brought him back from the brink in a seemingly effortless series of moments.  Colostomy bag, nausea, no loss of hair....it was like he was just dealing with a mosquito bite.

When he got his clean bill of health, he went right back to drinking, smoking, whoring, and partying.....but he has changed.  He has panic attacks, chronic insomnia, and he pulls his hair out in his sleep.  

Because he doesn't trust cancer.  

He feels like he is on constant watch for it to come back, harder and stronger than before.  People judge him for how nonchalantly he treats his second chance.....friends shame him, family tells him the next time they won't show up and rally round to help him, since he clearly is squandering this second chance.....

But I see the reality.

Cancer took away his peace of mind. 

 Took away his sense of invincibility.  

He waits, daily, for symptoms.  He gets up every morning and vacuums the hair he ripped out off his sheets and floor.

He waits....terrified....and self-medicates the only way he knows how.



He waits...





Scenario 3.  About 13 years ago, I had an opening in one of my offices.  My boss sent me this glorious, gorgeous, fine-boned blonde.  She walked around as if lit by some obsessed but skilled lighting technician...glowing...gorgeous, magnificent.

The rest of us looked at her - askance - at first.  Here we were, dealing with the daily craziness of providing housing to people whose previous residence was a box under a bridge. 

 Schizophrenics, alcoholics, and ruined people.  

These were the people we were charged with providing clean and safe housing to.  It was hard to imagine this fabulous, feline, female explaining why pissing in the stairwells and letting their homeless friends sleep in our rooftop garden was verboten

She was a champ, though.  Caring, compassionate, and charismatic, this Denise-Richards-crossed-with Kylie-Minougue-crossed-with-Mother-Teresa stepped up and saw into people far more than I ever could.  Within weeks, all of us were claiming a chair in front of her desk, waiting for her special brand of tough-love and gorgeous smiles.


This is my Boo


Immediately, I fell in love and decided to have a sexless marriage with her.  


Sadly, she was dating some muscly hunk with an Aussie accent, so I settled for making her my secret girlfriend (she doesn't even know--it is that secret!!).  She had a baby with said hunk, and I overcame my fear of vaginas by being present for the birth of her son.  I, of course, stayed firmly by her shoulders and passed on glancing at the mirror provided so she could watch her baby's (rather messy) entrance into this world.  A couple of years later, I tried to emulate her calm, Earth-Mother demeanor as I gave birth to my own hot mess of a Roo.....

I failed spectacularly, of course. 

When my Dr., upon hearing me demand an epidural, reminded me of all of the lame crap I spouted out after watching my Anna-Boo give birth -- about how 'labor' was the 'work' between me and my child of bringing new life in this world, about how I wanted to breathe my way through the birth and have my child as calmly and effortlessly as my brave, brave friend had....blah, blah, blah--- I BALKED!!



I threatened to take a cab to another hospital where they didn't have 'Nurse Ratchets' refusing pain meds to women who were obviously in the kind mindless agony that necessitated a dose of the sweet stuff.

I got my GIANT NEEDLE INSERTED INTO SPINAL SAC, and popped out a feral child, but was always reminded of how I had, in no way, measured up to the calm, loving birth process my lovely friend had provided.

Fast forward a bit......My lovely friend is still in Oz, happily running her own business, raising her kids, and being gorgeous, fabulous, and loving.

Didn't work out with the hunk, but they make friendship work anyway for the kiddos.

Enter the Bear.  Cambo. 



This is Cambo...Smiling through the pain.  Staying Strong. Staying Brave.

He is loving, smart, and supportive, and the perfect partner for my amazing  friend.  She slowly relinquished the ramparts around her heart, and they started building a life together.

Until.

[At this point I need to apologize for the length of this post, as well as the lack of humor and Ryan Gosling pictures, but this is too important for me to allow distractions......stay with me for a mo, it will get more interesting and I PROMISE to put some RG in here--not for you, of course, but because I need it!!]

Read the following post from my love..........

 
May 27th
This is a doozy...long and perhaps suited to readers that have run outa data allowance..and maybe waiting for paint to dry....and more importantly those mindful of the preciousness of our lives...and those we love.
I keep my private life private...except for the few of you that are the 'backbone' in my landslide of a life.
You know who you are...and a million times over....thank you...for EVERYTHING.

Really there hasn't been a lot TO tell...guarded heart and what not...but there has been a constant BEAR of a man in my world the last couple of years...Cameron...
and he is beautiful.
He is strong. He is smart. He is resilient. He is kind.
And he is very, very sick.
A few days into April...he was working..and felt a pull in his tummy...he immediately thought a hernia was happening.
But...like many people...he shook it off...work comes first...no time for days off...yada yada.

Few weeks later...he woke up in excruciating pain in his belly button area. And a feeling of fullness in his stomach area.

His skin was the wrong colour..like food poisoning pale. For once...he resigned himself to my bossiness..and I took him to the emergency room.
Xrays...ultra sound...exams...blood tests...ensued.

Possible hernia...and some sort of 'blockage' in the upper bowel area.
Surgeon decides that Cameron will have the hernia repaired in the morning.
Surgeon felt that it was quite a small hernia to be causing so much pain.
Next evening, Cameron is being discharged.

It was mentioned...through somewhat broken English...that whilst repairing hernia...they found a 'lump' in the umbilicus.
Surgeon had seen something like this before...usually the size of a golf ball...so sent it off for biopsy.

The Friday night later...his phone rings. It is the surgeon.
"I need you to come into the clinic. The results of your biospy have come back. Please bring family with you."
Cam says..."Is everything okay?"

The surgeon replied "No. It's not good."

Tuesday we are sitting in the office.. It is May 5th...approximately 1 month from the first moment Cam noticed something wrong.
The Dr turns to Cam and says...
"You have Cancer."
Well...there ya go.
...we had spent the last 3 and a half days mentally preparing for that statement.
But...nothing really prepares you for the harshness of those words...nor the following.

The umbilicus cancer...was secondary cancer.
Meaning somewhere...there was a very sinister PRIMARY cancer of "unknown origin"...and it was very, very angry.

Fast forward 2 weeks. One blood test done to find cancer markers...one CT scan due on May 21st...one follow up appointment with the surgeon on the 26th of May and a colonoscopy and gastropocy scheduled for June 1st.
May 20 Wednesday.
Cam is shaking...laying on the floor. Something is really...really wrong.
Off to the emergency room again.

Ct scans...blood tests...Xrays...numerous hypothesis and finally a gastropocy and partial colonoscopy...on Friday.
Confirmed late stage metastasized Bowel Cancer.
Now...if you've ever had to stop your child from running into a street...narrowly missing an oncoming car....then multiply that feeling 10 times...and that's the energy that went through my body upon hearing those words.
I looked over at Cam's face...the once amber eyes that had been fiery with hope...and defiance...were now the darkest black/brown...and his face was . ..stoic... Stone.
Without going into too many details over the next few days...he suffered. He had hiccups for days...a result of the gastropocy...and fluid in his bowel.
He was unable to eat any food...
He was writhing in pain...
He was exausted...

No food...no fluid...just pain.

He said..."I'm Sorry"...to me...over and over. Because...he feels BAD that HE got cancer.
A cancer that is so silent...that is so sneaky...that everyday stressors and life...can make you overlook the slightest changes in your digestive system.
It is also...very common to have a family history.
Which brings me to one of my points.
Cam found out this last Monday...that his grandmother had died of bowel cancer.
Monday. Today is Wednesday.
This had never been mentioned to him before.
Had he had this knowledge...he would have been switched on...more sensitive...more aware and quite possibly paranoid about any belly problems.

But he didn't know.
The cancer has taken hold. Apparently there is no "cure". He is now finally in the hands of beautiful people at a great hospital.
Chemo maybe...soon...maybe delayed a month...a month is a long time from now.
He will know more tonight.

But...
He has hope for a tomorrow.

So a few things here...
Tomorrow is not promised...so don't waste time with stressing about how others will react to you living YOUR life. Not anyone's business but your own. If you are not maliciously hurting anyone...LIVE.

This is my Boo II...Sick and Staying Strong
Get your facts straight...ask your parents everything about EVERYONE in your family. These details may save your life. These details may save the life of your babies and your grand babies...
Don't play like you are tough when you are not...a week...a month...particularly in the world of "cancer"...is a lot of time and more importantly...not enough time.
Don't mess around and half ass promise,

"You'll deal with it tomorrow."
You may not get a tomorrow.
Also...love when you can love. And allow yourself to BE loved.
...you may not have tomorrows...but you do have THIS moment.

***********************************************************************************

This is my girl's reality.


I love this woman more than I have ever loved anyone that is not named Erica/Saira/Chloe/Lexi/Sara/Nicole/Allison

I love this woman because she is brave and strong and smart and funny.  

I love this woman because she SEES into people and helps them as much as she can.

I don't even know Cambo, but I love him....because he loves my girl and makes her whole.

I made a joke about starting a GoFundMe, and she told me all the reasons they could not have one---mainly because no one has sympathy for 2 independent business owners who can't work or pay bills due to cancer.

So, I say to you, random friends and loved ones--how much can you spare?

Ann and Cam are suffering.

Ann and Cam have a dodgy roof, a grotty plumbing system in their house, a banjanxed car with a jacked-up engine .

Ann and Cam could handle all of this without batting an eyelash, except all their energy is focused on keeping Cam alive.


If you are reading this, I would hope you can take 2 minutes out of your normal, cancer-free life and donate $5....

The cost of a trip to Starbucks, or the price of a lunch at Subway, Wendy's or Chipotle.   

$5.00

So my friends don't have to stress about not working.

So my friends can have a few moments of peace.

So my friends can not worry about how they are going to fix the roof, fix the car, and fix the plumbing.

So my friends can focus on 'fixing' Cam...

If you have $5 to spare....

Do it for me.

Do it for my Anna-Boo.

Do it for Cambo.

Do it because $5 is nothing, but everything to someone I love.

Thanks.

Good Night.

http://www.gofundme.com/9h2kqxtg



PS - Ryan Gosling wants you to donate as well....seriously.


see???  he's so into helping others....


Sad But True

So, I’ve been reading Stephen King’s 11/23/63 novel the last few days, and I cannot help feeling personally attacked tonight by it. The book...