untitled.

disclaimer: this is a very very old and loooooong piece that i had written back when i was in high school. it is not very good at all & is in MAJOR need of editing. hell, i don't even know if it's finished yet. i wasn't really sure where i was going with it when i first started writing it & i sure as hell don't know where it would go if i started to work on it again. some people who have read it think that it's a good ending where it is but who knows? i doubt many people will read this one because it is so long (& possibly quite boring) but if you do, feedback/critique is very welcomed. i figured i'd post it up here just for the hell of it. cm.
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72399

He sat across from me and stared, making the silliest face I had ever seen on him. I couldn’t quite make out what must have been going on inside of that enormous head of his. I’m not sure if he was shocked, confused, happy or even upset. I was wondering if he was even breathing. I tried not to focus on his face too much though. It wasn’t the silence that was awkward. I was more uncomfortable with the fact that the salt and pepper shakers were not completely in line with the center piece of sugar packets, menus, and miscellaneous avenue advertisements which were arranged there on the table.
I decided to grasp my old black ink pen once again in my left hand and get back to trying to compose that letter to my old friend in Virginia which I had been putting off now for over two weeks. Procrastination is actually one of the areas in which I excel. Maybe it’s because I work well under pressure or perhaps it’s because I am a Pisces. Honestly, I blame my own lack of self-motivation. There are too many distractions.
My pen slid under my fingertips when I felt the table move. My ink was shaky and I lifted my eyes to see Drew who had just then made the decision to move. He sipped his beverage and lightly wiped the moisture off his lips before he took another breath and spoke.
“So, what are you doing tonight?” These were Drew’s most famous words. That’s about as far into the future as Drew ever thinks.
I stared back at him in complete amazement for he knew exactly what my plans for the evening would be. But I could see the anticipation in his eyes and so I sighed and I responded, “Probably just hanging out and surfing the net or something.”
“Your computer! That’s all you ever do anymore,” he snapped as he quickly grabbed my pen out of my hand.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Kerri, you’ve turned your computer into your entire life,” Drew said in a “listen to me, I’m your best friend. You’re pathetic and need help” sort of tone.
I couldn’t help the burst of laughter that exploded from my chest just then. Drew looked towards me with disgust. “Look who’s talking! Drew, what exactly is it that you’re doing right now, huh?”
“That’s not the point!” he shouted. He ran his hand through this messy blue hair, which has been looking much better since he took a dip in the swimming pool down the shore. It wasn’t as bright. Drew always tries his best to be different and unique, but what he fails to realize is that deep down inside, he is probably just like me.
“Well help me out here. What exactly is the point you’re trying to make Drew?” I questioned without much hesitation. His eyes became very sympathetic. He pointed the pen towards me and leaned into my direction.
“Do you do what you do because you want to be your father or is it what he makes you do?” his whisper was so soft but the rage inside of me was so loud. “You’re a lot like him in many ways, Kerri.”
How dare he say what he’s saying to me right now! How dare he? Who does he think he is to insult me like that? My teeth were clenched so tightly that I could hardly even speak.
“What is that suppose to mean?”
“Nothing, forget it.” Yes, forget it, I thought to myself. But don’t forget I have a grip like my father too, punk. I leaned forward and grabbed my pen back from Drew’s tightly clenched fingers. I think I caught him by surprise. He backed up against the booth and raised his hands to surrender. “I’m out of here.”
He reached into his pocket and placed a ten-dollar bill on the table, grabbed his bag and coat, and left the diner. I watched him through the window as he crossed the crowded street and then became lost in the rushing people and noisy traffic that flew by.
It took me a while to move from where I was sitting in that booth. I felt like all my energy had been drained from my body and I was left there for dead. Yes, left to die in that diner. Along with the greasy burgers, cigarette smoke, and coffee stains. The clinking silverware, and dirty dishes. Mashed potatoes that globbed and hung off of those old plates. I could just wait until the last person leaves, which will probably only be some old man who is just trying to escape the nags of his wife for at least a few hours out of the fifty years they had been married. I could wait until the busboy finishes cleaning the last booth and “Flo” grabs her coat, turns out the lights and locks up leaving me to slowly die in the spotlight of the silly sign out front that reads the hours and I finally notice, “Open: 24 hours.”
We are never alone. As much as we feel it or as much as we want it, no one will ever be alone. We are lonely but never alone. I realized that as I packed my bag and left the diner that Wednesday night. I roamed the city streets aimlessly. Aimlessly? No, I was going home. That’s right. Home.
There is always someone watching us. They are making sure we are keeping busy and just when you get yourself down so low, you can always count on that same person to leave their footprint on your face as they kick you down even further. But we know the routine by now.
It’s amazing how repetition can make things lose their meaning. A word of compassion, a kiss, a smile. But I think those things are fake to begin with anyway. Actors and conartists surround us. And I am guilty as well. Those artificial things come in handy. Most people see a smile and assume everything is O.K. and the dangerous thing is that the victim actually starts to really believe that everything is O.K. but still, there’s always someone else to take the blame. God Bless cause and effect!

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I try to forget about the time I fell in love. It seems like it was so long ago. I knew what it was when it was here, no matter what any of the older people say. But me, I just agree. It’s easier for them that way. I smile, and then I turn my face away, fearing to meet anyone’s eyes ever again--afraid that all my secrets would just spill out. Or Heaven Forbid, I should fall again.
But that’s in the past now and that’s where it will stay. The secrets, the love and all…

I made my way home safely that night. The building stood as tall as it always had did. You can never see any real stars in the city. I often spend time on my walks home wishing on street lamps, headlights, or lit windows in tall buildings…anything that gives a little hope.
I made my way through the house and up the stairs into my bedroom. I placed my hunter green army bag on the floor and undressed. My nightly ritual always included a quick change into my plaid boxers and a tank top. I wanted to leave no time in between for fear that I might catch a glimpse of my naked body in the mirror. It was a sight that always disgusted me for some reason. I mean I wasn’t obese and I wasn’t exactly ugly. But I guess I was a bit self-conscious just like any other stereotypical female.
I didn’t have enough energy to walk into the bathroom and wash my face so I just laid down in my bed and stared into the darkness. My eyes were beginning to adjust and I could just make out the glowing of my cherry wood headboard that shone off of my ceiling.
The ceiling. Sometimes it seems as if all the answers lay there, doesn’t it? Nothing.
Unless your eyes allow you to see deeper, there is nothing really there. However, I usually see so many things trapped inside of the “nothingness” of the ceiling, such as the shadow of my window’s blinds creating transparent cell bars across my ceiling from the moonlight. My gaze rests upon the crack in the white paint that has been longer than I have been. The ceiling fan shifts the breeze that could almost feel as soft as the wind would feel on the beach if I could just close my eyes. Instead, my glazed stare focuses straight upwards and I am surrounded by the glorious tint of a lavender haze from the glow of the four walls that encircle the island of my bed. And I hear the man across the alleyway play his piano. A gentle melody performed only for me. He composes only for the ears of such a passionate soul as himself. We are not alone.
The cars screech, the glass bottles break, the stereo systems blare and vibrate, the sirens scream, the dogs bark, the babies cry and the ice cream truck sings in the distance, but all I hear is the beautiful instrument though the dimly lit window. My own private concert. And the sounds of Mr. Piano Man cause me to drift. And I slowly nod into a dream.

And then the morning comes.

A refreshing new day! I have yet to discover the refreshment though. The sights, sounds and smells are exactly the same as the night before. Nothing original. Nothing creative.
I suppose it could be own damn fault. It’s so difficult to find creativity even in my own raging soul these days. Do souls vacation too? If so, I wonder where they go. Of all people, I would think I would be able to find the answer to this question first hand. All I’d have to do is ask one of my clients…
“Excuse me, Mr. Artman. Where is your soul off to now?” I giggled, feeling slightly silly as I stood staring down at the corpse lying in front of me. I grew up unafraid of death. It’s part of life…the final part. It’s going to come when it comes and there is nothing we can do about it. Day in and day out, I would fix up these bodies, attempting to make them look better than they ever did when they were alive. It’s amazing how most of the time, I couldn’t even tell the difference—if they were dead or alive. Most of the time, I felt as if the people that walked and breathed around me were deader than the ones that I made to look so radiant. Yes, my father ran such a quaint little funeral home in the middle of our city.
I touched Mr. Artman’s cold flesh. I ran my fingers across his wrinkled cheeks. His skin was very rough and coarse. He had been many places during his life. I could tell. He had cute little freckles along his neck that kept his presence youthful yet experienced. He was writing a letter to his daughter a few minutes before he passed away. His paper cut on his left fore finger could not have fully healed yet. I never covered those marks of life with make up. They were part of Mr. William Artman and deserved to be seen.
Is it morbid to say that the dead somehow inspired me? If I was ever creative, it was when I was with a lifeless hunk of flesh. But they never seemed so lifeless to me. Maybe they only appear that way to people who knew them when they were alive, but it didn’t seem as if their spirit had completely left yet to me. Maybe they were screaming to me, “This is what I have done in my life and I am so proud! Make me look the best I have ever appeared!” Maybe it really was their souls speaking to me. And so, I began to keep journals and sketches of these amazing moments. I would keep them secret and hidden in the closet. It’s amazing how much can be created in years worth of fifteen minute breaks. And I was grateful.

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I began to realize that most of my time was often spent alone. I didn’t mind it much myself. I was more concerned with what other people must have thought of my isolation. Isolation? Perhaps “solitude” is a better word. I often couldn’t tell the difference anyway. Is it possible to be isolated in a loving family environment? I suppose so. Isolation in front of a television, isolation at a computer monitor, isolation in a den…I’m sure all of these things are possible.
Have you ever bought or found a new pen and think to yourself, “Wow, this pen really kicks ass!” and then you want to write something completely brilliant with it just because of the simple fact that the pen rocks? This was the case for me Friday afternoon. I had picked up a new purple Marvy GT-700 for 88 cents in the local Wal-Mart while waiting in line to pay for my other miscellaneous items which included a stack of writing paper, hairspray, natural beige cover up and a box of tampons. I could tell Drew felt awkward standing beside me. I don’t understand what the big thing is. A woman’s menstruation cycle is just as natural as a man’s daily erection. But for some reason, that just isn’t as awkward.
We walked from Wal-Mart to the diner and sat in our usual booth. The routine aggravated both of us but there wasn’t much we could do about it right now.
The famous question was uttered. “What are you doing tonight?”
I sighed but decided to release my frustration as I exhaled and saw the anticipation in his eyes once again. I figured I should answer more carefully this time. “I’m not exactly sure, Drew. What about you?”
He rolled his eyes and brushed his hand through his hair. He seemed more nervous today than usual. “Probably just cruisin’ down South Street with Theo and Jay.”
“Cool.” I was beginning to think Drew and I felt the same about some things. But what was the difference? What was the difference between the way Drew decided to handle it and the way I did? We both did things to distract ourselves, but what was the difference? There had to be a difference. We are different.
Later that night while I was laying in bed and writing, I decided to put down my new kick ass pen and meet up with Drew and some of our other friends down on South Street. I quickly combed my hair and grabbed my jacket. I made my way though the sewage steams and artificial bodies glowing in the gross colored lights of the sex shops and music stores. I sometimes wondered if I was the only one who saw the beauty in street lamps.
I made my way finally to the corner of Fourth and South and that’s when I saw him. I saw them all, but my eyes could only focus on him. I saw him with his lips wrapped around hers and his hands rubbing her thighs. Their bodies looked as though they belonged together. And I stood there, frozen. I had never seen my two best friends kiss like that before. You see, the object of his affection was Paige, my best friend since the age of four. We always knew they were meant for each other, but they had never admitted it until this past year. Yes, Paige and Drew were both stubborn mules. I was happy for them, but now the idea was so concrete and tangible, I still had to get use to it.
In a way, I guess I was jealous too. I remember what Paige had said to me when she began to feel she was in love with Drew. She said she really didn’t want it to happen. It’s not like her character to be a hopeless romantic. “That’s you, Kerri,” she said to me with a sympathetic sigh through the telephone wires.
Yep, that’s just like me. A hopeless romantic. But to whom? I always kill the interest before he even becomes interested. And I can’t help it. I wish I could but I can’t. It seemed the closer and more intimate Paige and Drew got, the further I was pushed away. They said nothing would change and I could always nod my head and agree, but what they didn’t understand was, a lot had changed. If only they could walk around in my shoes for just one day. Not even a day. One hour is all they would need.
Paige had noticed my distance a few weeks ago. She said I spent so much time in isolation. Isolation. There’s that word again. She thinks I have been spending too much time alone as well on the Internet. She fears I’m going to fall in love with some AOL Romeo in California only because I like the attention. And I say, so what if I do? He gives me more attention than anyone does around here. And the best part is I don’t ever have to face him or look into his eyes. I would only kill him eventually anyway just like all the rest, so what’s the difference?
I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to stand there much longer and watch them suck face anymore. They have to realize how uncomfortable it makes me. But it isn’t about me. It’s about two lovers expressing their affection towards each other in public. I turned and walked away.

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I never said I was a strong person nor has the thought ever crossed my mind. I am fragile and sensitive, but very rough and indifferent on the outside. My father raised me to be very agreeable and I never caused him any trouble. In school, the teachers always liked me and I usually received academic honors. I was a typical bookworm geek. I never really hung out with the “in crowd” and I was never popular with the cute guys. It never really bothered me much though. I was beyond high hair, name brand labels and cheap cosmetics in elementary school.
I learned to be happy with whatever I was given. I agreed with whatever anyone said to me and kept my opinions and feelings to myself. But I wasn’t bothered by it. It’s just the way things were.
What exactly was I feeling though?

*
I decided to take the backstreets home that night. I walked through the small inner city homes, which included the projects and illegal squats. I had to watch my step. I couldn’t allow the corner drug gangs, lovers panting, babies crying or the odor of piss distract my concentration on dodging homeless people and dog shit. These are the streets that most people fear, including myself. But sometimes, you just have to work with what you have. These people are obviously doing just that and I have two legs that can run if I need them to.
These streets have more venders than local carnivals or even the stadium parking lots after a concert. Survival means selling. The selling of everything you have from drugs, car parts, condoms, shoes, guns, your own body, someone else’s body, and children. YES, children. That’s just the way it works around here.
My heart pounded with fear and my blood rushed through my body as I walked through those streets. Sometimes your mind just makes you do things before your bones and skins are even able to agree. I stumbled over bottles and I could feel a piece of broken glass had penetrated through the sole of my right shoe. As I walked further, I could feel it pierce my skin and a puddle of blood began to form at the bottom of my shoe.
I limped to the corner and thought, “Only eleven more blocks home. I can make it.” The pain was excruciating. I began to sweat and my mouth was so dry. I had to endure the rest of this midnight stroll. I know I tend to exaggerate, but I feared bleeding to death. I am such a baby about some things. “Toughen up, sissy. Walk it off!” I thought to myself. “Now is not the time to be a drama queen.” Just when I thought the wells in my eyes were about to burst, I felt myself lose my balance as I fell to the ground over a broken body by the corner.
“Hey! Watch where you’re goin’ bitch!” I heard the harsh voice scream. I stood up again and brushed myself off. I was speechless. I continued to make my way down the noisy and crowded streets. They were so stuffy, I thought I was going to suffocate. I began to feel sick to my stomach. The knots and curls in my gut were twisting every way around and I could feel chunks of vomit build up in my throat.
I flinched when the woman touched my arm. “Are you ok?” she squealed as I pushed her away. I was trembling terribly and I could feel the tingly sensations crawling around beneath my clothes.
My whole right leg was becoming numb. The pins and needles sensation was beginning to take place in my left. I pulled my sleeves of my jacket down over my hands in an attempt to fight the chills. My nose was running. I was ugly. I fit right in.
And just then, I had felt it. I wanted to run and hide in an alleyway or perhaps a dumpster somewhere. But I couldn’t. My stomach then hurled back and I gagged. At first I could hear the laughter of some children, but it only lasted a few seconds until I had released everything and I dropped to my knees in a puddle of my own vomit. My own waste. Right there in the middle of the street. And the people just kept on walking right by me. No one had noticed. The zombies continued on and had shown no signs of disgust. And had I become one of them? I sat there and I felt no shame.
I leaned against the brick, graffiti stained wall and rested my ass on the hard concrete with my vomit steaming before me. And I felt no shame. Once I caught my breath, I stood and limped back home.

*
I sat on my bathroom floor when I got home. I took off my shoe and cringed. I could never stand the sight of blood. I carefully removed the sock that was soaked with blood and trembled with pain at what I had seen. I never had medical training and knew very little of first aid, which is bad, I know. I figured removing the glass was most important and so I did. I carefully slid the sharp object through my skin and writhed with intense pain. My muscles tightened up and I could feel small droplets of perspiration emerge from my forehead and slowly drip down my cheeks. It was agony. I didn’t cry.
I washed my cut and feared infection. After I applied pressure and wrapped the bandage around my wound, I noticed the trails of blood on my bathroom floor. The fear of what my father would do if he saw motivated me to wash the tiles. But I had to move quickly for I needed more than anything to just lay down in the comfort of my own bed.
Finally, I laid down and I was at peace. I sighed deeply and began to relax. Except…I couldn’t fall asleep. It wasn’t the loud traffic and honking horns that kept me awake. Nor was it the sirens or dogs barking. Hell, it wasn’t even the piano across the alleyway. It was my own racing thoughts that kept me from my much-needed slumber.
Something had happened back there. Something beyond just me puking all over the sidewalk or getting a piece of glass lodged between the skin of my foot. Yes, it was something much beyond the physical. What had made me go from complete and utter sympathy for these dirty street dwellers to becoming one of them? Was it when my right leg became so numb, I could hardly walk, and I suddenly thought I would have to spend the rest of my life shivering on the ground in puddles of vomit, piss and dog shit? Was it when, for only a short second, I tried to seek somewhere to spew in private so I wouldn’t risk the embarrassment of someone seeing me in my lowest and weakest moment of my life? Why is it that I have more shame looking my loved ones straight in the eyes than becoming sick in front of strangers I have never met? Is it because those strangers don’t care? They will never care. Why do I fear what other people will think all the time? If I’m just doing what comes naturally, should I never feel shame? No matter how many people tell me I’m wrong? Am I living my life for me or am I living my life for everyone else? Why should I fear falling in love? Why should I feel ashamed of our geographical distance? Why should I be shameful of our lack of knowledge of who we are in the physical sense? Why should I deny the nature of what I’m feeling? Can’t I live my life the way it naturally comes to me before I end up cold and in a box in the ground like Mr. Artman or even my own mother? Isn’t life natural? And isn’t falling in love just as natural as vomiting in the street? What is the difference?

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The morning came quickly and unexpectedly. I slept well from exhaustion and I must have overslept because my father was shaking my sheets and yelling about how he was falling behind. I awoke apologizing and not quite moving really. My voice was groggy and my eyes were like slits. Everything was so blurry. I wiped the eye bugs away and I stepped out of bed.
I quickly washed and dressed and ran downstairs to see the one thing I always hated to see here. She stood with my father as he embraced her. He always remained strong for the families. I stood silently on the stairsteps and watched the tears streaming down her face. She sobbed loudly and uncontrollably as her baby daughter buried herself in her mother’s leg. She broke away from my father and they moved over to his desk where they both sat on each end.
Her two children followed. Her baby girl still buried in her leg and her son staring in the background. He was a young adolescent boy. He couldn’t have been any older than fifteen years. I could tell he was the “strong one” because he had shown absolutely no emotion. And his eyes were dry and wide as if he had not slept or even cried in days.
I watched as she and my father discussed her husband’s funeral arrangements. His name was Paul and he had suffered from a heart attack as unexpected as this morning had come to me. Paul’s son watched his mother and baby sister weep bitterly. I wished I could have embraced the boy. I wanted to show him it was O.K. I wanted to show him I could empathize. I know how it feels to lose a parent especially to something so sudden.
My mother had died while giving birth to my baby brother. Soon after, my brother didn’t make it either. So it has just been my father and I ever since. I remember feeling to blame. I couldn’t understand exactly why I should have been blamed but I also couldn’t understand why she had to go. Just like when children blame themselves for their parents’ divorce—it’s because they don’t understand. And I remembered being so pissed off that God would take away my brother without him even being able to live yet. I never knew him, he never knew me. He couldn’t hold my hand at my mother’s funeral because he was in a box of his own!
I don’t remember seeing my father cry either. Why did he have to be the strong one? He had lost his lover, his best friend, his soul mate, mother of his children and his only son. Why wasn’t he allowed to cry? Isn’t death and crying natural? Aren’t they part of life? Why then was Paul’s only son ashamed to cry? Why must he be the strong one? Why don’t boys ever cry?

*
I dressed Paul in his police uniform that his wife had left for him. He was an honorable man. His sandy hair was just beginning to show signs of gray. I remember his son had eyes and a nose just like him. They also shared the same kind of skin complexion. They both had the type of fair skin that usually burned easily in the sun.
I thought about what their family trips to the beach must have been like. I pictured his baby’s eyes squinting at the sun. Paul probably built sandcastles with his son and dove into the salty waves of the ocean with him also. Guys always do silly things in the ocean. But then again, one doesn’t have much of a choice of what they do in the ocean, do they? The ocean tides are always so great and tend to gain control over a body easily. An ocean can be many things from a serene body of water to a raging, monstrous tyrant. It’s nature.
Drew, Paige and I took a road trip to the beach once. Eric came too. We were a foursome ever since freshmen year of high school. We were inseparable and unstoppable. We were best friends. We’ve shared many fun times. I remember how silly we must have looked running all over the beach like little children at eighteen years of age. We had a blast throwing each other into the ocean. I had bruises up and down my arms for weeks after our little excursion. Maybe I should visit the beach again sometime.

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