I’m at Adrian’s house right now. It’s Saturday and he doesn’t have to work so we’re driving into the desert to shoot things with guns. He has never shot a gun before and for some reason I always thought I had. Now, I finally have something to make fun of him for; I consider him more machiste than I am and yet I’m the one who knows more about guns. Somehow, however, I feel as if making fun of him for not having experience in something simple like this unfair and I feel cheap when I think of some clever witticism to use on him. I hate being made fun of when I don’t have the grounds to defend myself but I hate being cheap even more. The truth is, however, that he would almost be offended if I didn’t make fun of his poor marksmanship this afternoon. I’m sure I’ll manage some way.
It’s been weeks since I asked George out when I was rolling balls on ecstasy. Three days ago I called George and asked if she’d mind if I pushed the date back because I promised my parents I’d be in town for their 25th anniversary—an attempt at demonstrating to George that one: although I like her, there are things more important to me than she is and; two: that I can make and have things in my life like commitment and responsibility in regards to maintaining a family. In other words, I’m boyfriend material, which I am even without all this fluff. I learned years ago that I am certainly capable of being an entertaining, thoughtful, and caring boyfriend. Also in other words, I’m totally making this event up. My parent’s anniversary was months ago. I used to believe that all I needed was a girl who could see me for all this and just take me up my offer for once instead of ignoring me for someone more boring and that was all it would take for me to show her a more interesting life, but women with those kinds of cojones are few and far between. Also they don’t congregate so it’s hard to see a bunch of them all together. Now I’m beginning to think that girls, like so many things in this world, are ultimately and invariably unreliable and although I’m used to withstanding disappointments like this (I’ve had lots of practice), my patience is wearing thin and I’m beginning to hold contempt for anything that stands in my way. I’ve been good and patient my whole life and I’m done. I see no reason why I shouldn’t have things just the way I want them. Things are so much more enjoyable when you do things your own way so why shouldn’t I have mine? I don’t have to hurt anyone and I never asked anyone to do something they wouldn’t do already so how can anyone complain when things are my way? My way is fun. However my way usually involves stealing, eating some kind of hallucinogens, getting good and personal with strangers, and maybe a grenade (you can get them at most any Army/Navy Surplus store), so I guess I can understand why my way doesn’t exactly interest your average girl. This is why I end up with neurotic girls and fat girls. Fat girls I don’t mind so much. Of all the fat girls I’ve dated, all but one of them said they like me because I’m like a cat. Those three girls each own several cats, and in manifold varieties. The girl who differs from the other three had no cats, no dogs, no pets of any kind, in fact. We had sex three times before she told me I remind her of her dad—instead of a cat. “Do you think of your dad when we have sex?” I asked her. When she said no I supposed it was okay for her to be reminded of her dad by me so we had sex again. You know all those things you wished your girlfriend let you do? We did that. She was by far my favorite girlfriend. She was also the fattest. If only I had discovered ecstasy with her.
So far I’m in a good mood today since I think my phone call to George had the desired effect; she seemed to appreciate the gesture. This is how it went:
S.C.: I hate calling people. I’d rather just be able to look at whomever I’m talking to and address my business to them in real time and watch their reactions. (George hasn’t picked up the phone yet, by the way. I’m not talking to anyone.)
George: Hello?
S.C.: Hey! George. It’s Skelton. (She knows who it is. This is what I hate about phone calls these days, most of the time the person you call knows who it is but you tell them who it is anyway because it’s polite and so you sound like a dope)
George: What? Sorry, hello?
S.C.: (Ugh. I hate repeating myself) H—hi. George, it’s Skelton. How’s it going?
George: Hang on I can’t hear you.
S.C.: Oh. Okay (I try to talk more clearly) Can you hear me now? George? Is this better?
George: Oh that’s right, I can’t hear you because this is my voicemail! You’ll have to leave a message so I can call you back. Bye!
S.C.: God damn it. I hate those voicemails.
Two hours later I get a call back from George and I am immediately cheerful again.
S.C.: Hello?
George: Hi, Skelton. It’s George. Sorry I missed your call. I was in the shower and my phone was charging. What’s up?
S.C.: (A shower. Oh, the things to think about, but not right now, got to stay focused). Oh well I was just calling to see if you’d mind if I pushed our date back. It’s my parents’ 25th anniversary and it would mean a lot to them if I went back home and saw them.
George: Yeah, that would be fine. Listen, do you want to meet up for tea in about thirty minutes? I don’t really have time to talk right now.
S.C.: Yeah, sure. (I know which tea parlor she’s talking about. We both do.)
George: Okay, see ya.
Later at tea,
S.C.: Sorry, I should have mentioned my parents’ anniversary before I made plans.
George: Yeah, it’s okay. I’m glad you told me before it was too late. I hate when you make plans with someone and you wait for them and at the last minute you call them to see if they’re ready and suddenly they’ve changed their mind.
S.C.: No kidding, right? I hate that too. I really do want to go out sometime though. If you still want to I think two weeks from now would be good.
George: Umm, like when?
S.C.: Oh, I don’t know, weekends are always good for me but I kinda like to be alone for most of the weekend. What’s your schedule like the week before then?
George: Pretty busy, actually. I have class Tuesday through Friday and Monday I work all day.
S.C.: So that leaves the weekend and little time on the weekdays. Do you have class morning to all-night on the weekdays? Are you studying for the FBI or something? (I know she’s not, I’m just attempting friendly teasing even though I’m not good at it)
George: Pretty much. It’s exhausting.
S.C.: Well…um do you think you could just ignore all your homework for a day and go out with me instead? All of that studying you’re doing sounds really boring, not that I don’t want you to get into the FBI and all but I can think of better ways to spend an hour or so…namely, going out for a bit with me.
George: Oh yeah? And what do you have in mind?
S.C.: An adventure. Maybe we’re touring a chocolate factory but maybe we’re going to the moon instead. (I Pause) Actually I thought I’d just invite you over for dinner with my friends and cook for you at my friend Adrian’s place. (The other truth is I have a fascination with watching people eat, especially the ones I have a crush on. I ate a brain once. If I can get George to eat a kidney or a pancreas or something then I’ll have a good laugh. Also I probably need medical attention, and not because I want to see the girl I’m trying to court eat some organs but because it doesn’t bother me at all.) We’ve been planning this dinner for about a month now and we’re all inviting someone so I’m inviting you.
S.C.: (George considers, hesitates, worries me, stuns me, and then angers me. I start bargaining with all the outcomes I can imagine and from then I enter the last remaining stages of grief until finally she drops her answer and I wonder if she can tell what I’ve just endured waiting for her answer or if she can only recognize embarrassment).
George: Sure, I’d like that.
S.C.: (I don’t deserve this. There are so many things that can go wrong. She has no idea how much of a weirdo I am. She has no idea that during college one year I quelled my boredom by stalking the streets until breaking into a seven-bedroom house while their tenants were away, I think. Actually, I have no idea how much of a weirdo I am. I do countless weird things that I have little to no awareness of and the only reason I know this is because there are bastards out there who have no qualms about telling me straight. If George only knew a hint of the extent to which I obsess over her she would run and never—)
George: —but you have to promise not to be creepy.
S.C.: Say what now?
George: You know what I mean; you act like a creep sometimes and a good few people are uncomfortable around you.
S.C.: (Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance, jump) Mmmm I think I know—
George: I mean I don’t care, it doesn’t bother me or anything, in fact it’s almost cute but I think you’ll find that people take you easier if you tone it down a bit.
S.C.: (Kiss me. Kiss me right now. I’m gonna fucking eat your face whole. Kiss me like you’ve never kissed someone before. Kiss me like a monster. Give in. Give up. Put out. Run. Chase me.) (I lean in) I’m not the one with the problem. (What I really mean is “whatever you say,” or alternatively “fuck you.”)
George: Well, I know that but other people don’t have the imagination to see where you’re coming from.
S.C.: Ha. Yeah, maybe there’s a good reason. After all, the people I get along with the most are junkies, freaks, and psychos. (We both laugh, sort of). Alright so I’ll call you in two weeks and give you the details. Good?
George: Good. I have to go. Two weeks.
S.C.: (I smile) See ya.
George: Bye.
Do I go on and mind my own business? What do you think? Hell no, the seat I picked happens to have a good vantage point and now I’m going to watch her get in her car and leave. What she does is walk within ten feet of her car before an orange cat crosses her path. She stops. The cat stops. They look at each other. George reaches in her pocket and pulls out a piece of something I can’t identify but what I guess is probably food because she then bends down and sets the morsel on the ground at arms length for the cat and stands up and steps one step back. They are ten feet apart. The cat approaches the morsel and inspects it before halfway eating it like cats do. While the cat does this, George looks around the parking lot both ways before bending down again and stretching her hand out, palm down, so maybe the stray cat will make a friend. The cat considers her hand, decides, and moves in to smell it. George looks around again. Before she can react, George seizes the cat and carries it to a dumpster six yards away where she drops it inside and leaves it. I continue to watch her when she picks up the other half of what she gave to the cat and eat it. Next she promptly gets in her car and starts the engine. She shivers (I think) and then covers her mouth with her fingers. A smile grows between her cheeks. She’s giggling. A pinky meets her lips and she chews on the nail, tonguing it. She giggles harder. She removes her hand from her face and replaces her grip on the gearshift to put the car in reverse and performs an unusually graceful backwards maneuver across two parking lanes, changing directions twice, until gliding her car, still in reverse, into traffic. I have never seen a girl control a car with such skill.
I feel deep, rich warmth in my chest and my mouth begins to water. I am reminded of the first time an older woman hit on me. This visceral response I’m having this instant is comparable. I feel light-headed as electricity courses through my veins. George is a weirdo too. George is like me. I tip my head back and close my eyes. I try to suspend this image in my memory for later reference. After I open my eyes I gaze out the window for an amount of time I cannot measure. What else can George do? Can she scare me? Can she be scared? Can she admit she’s as weird as I am? Is she aware? How well does she know herself? How many more ways are there to like this girl? I pray that there are many and that I discover them each.
I leave twenty minutes later, and in the middle of the same parking lot George may or may not have murdered a cat in I come across a beggar who approaches me timidly and asks for “some change, man? I’m just coming through town and my girlfriend and I, our car ran outta gas and, look man, I know you’re busy but if you could just spare like a buck or anything I would definitely appreciate it.” He has lots of energy and sounds like he’s practiced this more than once. So I reply, “Only if you punch me for it.”
Beggar: You said what now?
S.C.: I said if you can stand to punch me in the face then I will give you a dollar. Five dollars. Do it.
Beggar: (He raises his eyebrow) Hey brother, look—I ain’t gonna punch you in the face for it. (He starts inching away, shuffling) I’m just looking for some help, okay?
S.C.: Pussy. What’s-a-matter, you don’t want a dollar so bad? You ain’t poor enough to do something ballsy for your meal, is that it?
Beggar: Well you have a blessed day, my friend. May God redeem you on your search. Namaste, or however they say it in your church. I can tell you need the money so much more than I do. I hope you have a most pleasant life. I hope you have just the most comfortable life.
I just stare at him. I suppose it goes to show that some people won’t do everything it takes to get what they want. Thank you, indignant beggar. Revelation comes in the most curious forms. How different am I from this beggar? Would I react like he did? Do I really think I’m so different that I am beyond such a reaction? Who can say? We’ll see when I’m homeless. Hopefully I’ll still have enough moxie to endure.
What lies at the heart of ambition? Is it desperation? Is it toil? Is it fear of mediocrity? Does mediocrity stain like juice? Am I doing everything I can to get what I want? Is there anything in my way—and do I cower at it? Alright, suppose there is. What is there in my life that I am afraid of? If I can stand to say that I cower at things, perhaps I can stand to look deeper. What are they, in essence? What do they do? What has happened to me so far that has tensed me? Do I remember apprehension in a recent memory? Do I withhold fear?
As I sit in my car taking rips off a pipe conveniently concealed in my breast pocket I can’t think of anything. Instead of putting an answer at it, I let the question hang there unanswered like a rest between notes, but rhythm continues. Rhythm always continues.
It turns out I’m a much better marksman than I remember. I thought for sure that my talents had dwindled from disuse and I had become rusty. In fact the opposite had occurred. It also turns out that Adrian knows even less about guns than I imagined. Perhaps I give him more credit than he deserves.
Not much speaking occurs now. For that matter, not many sounds are heard either. Aside from my brief instructions on gun anatomy, the only sounds are the nuances of rifles and pistols firing between us. We take turns with each of them and every time I feel .357 inches of copper-covered lead escape from the muzzle I forget sadness, guilt, regret, and self-pity. I replace all these with stillness, serenity, and well-temperedness. This is the most amount of high-quality time I’ve spent with Adrian in months. We actually don’t get along very well. Driving back, we share calmness. He actually pays me a complement without insulting me first. This happens just once. We’re actually have a good time. This is novel. I got drunk with a homeless man the following week. Actually I should correct that he wasn’t homeless but simply living in the basement of a bar without paying rent and invited me down for a drink and we helped ourselves to the open liquor cellar. I take ice-cold showers on purpose. I recommend doing this in the dead of winter so that the only comfort you can afford is your will to endure. In a way, this is like the friendship I have with Adrian.
A week has passed and I begin preparing for the dinner that will host an evening I’ve been looking forward to for a month. I had to think of a dish that can satisfy most anyone except me since my diet consists mostly of curry, tuna fish, raw carrots, and lots of bananas for Hypoglycemia, so I make spaghetti and meatballs. Of course this is not an extraordinary dish by any means but compared to, say, an ordinary dinner-and-a-movie date she should be pleased I’m cooking at all even though I’m not very good at it. Basically I’ve chosen a dish I couldn’t fuck up. There’s nothing special about the noodles and the sauce; I just add chopped onions and some balsamic vinegar to a can of Ragu and I steep the noodles in a broth of butter, thyme, and lemon. Meatballs, however, I insist on making from scratch; I use lean ground pork because it has more fat than beef and therefore holds flavor more easily and I like the salt. I add ½ Cup chopped celery, 3 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce, 1 tsp. of brown sugar, cayenne pepper, cumin, Red Delicious apples (which I later remove), plus a splash of brandy and massage these ingredients thoroughly into the pork. I bought some mushrooms from my dealer last night and I debate seriously whether or not I should add them to this concoction. At last I decide to just eat them myself and I set the meat aside in a plastic bag for 30 minutes, I think. I have no idea how any of this will taste.
The other part of this meal I pay special attention to is tea. I’ve prepared a considerable tea ceremony for pre-dinner refreshment. Tea prepares the stomach for improved digestion and any kind will do. I’ve chosen a very fine Japanese green tea ($19.95/ 50 Grams) because it has a simple, yet elegant flavor and silky texture. I’m serving butter and biscuits too. I didn’t mix mushrooms into the meat but I did mix marijuana into the butter. I used about a gram. Marijuana butter requires a lot of product. I also take into consideration that George may or may not eat a lot of this so I have to choose amounts judiciously because I want her to have a fun time without suspecting anything. I don’t want her to get too high, just a little fuzzy.
While Adrian and I are still preparing, George arrives. There’s nobody else joining us for dinner. Adrian’s girlfriend dropped out just before we began to prepare. George arrives much earlier than expected; I haven’t even started making meatballs. I’m still tending to the noodles and the sauce. Thirty or forty years ago this interjection would have been both intrusive and unwarranted but these days it is not only acceptable, but almost expected. Having planned for this, Adrian cleaned the house which means the place looks as though no one actually lives here. The living room has next to no personality—it only serves a function, that’s all. It is long and rectangular, uncarpeted, and equipped with a television that spans the width of the room—or most of it, a fireplace that needs to be cleaned and is therefore not functional, and a square stainless steel coffee table that sits an uncomfortable foot from the two old green couches facing the television. I think the couches were stolen from a hotel lobby. It looks like it. Behind the couches is a tall glass table accompanied by three high chairs which also face the television. The chairs are so high that you are no shorter when you sit down in them than when you stand. You’d never guess four of Adrian’s friends, myself included, had snorted coke off a stripper’s stomach on the very coffee table where George just sat her purse. The stripper’s name was Diamond and when I asked her what nationality “Diamond” is she didn’t laugh. Drugs-a-plenty have happened in this house.
I introduce George to Adrian,
S.C.: Adrian, come here. I’d like you to meet George. (I’ve since stopped referring to George by her pseudonym in public and I think it makes her uncomfortable since she seems to wince and her eyes widen and she becomes somewhat more alert. Fight or flight instincts kick in but she does neither.)
Adrian: Hello. Skelton’s told me a lot about you.
S.C.: (I have not, fucker. George is even more uncomfortable but she maintains her composure well.)
George: Hi. Skelton hasn’t told me anything about you.
Adrian: Probably a good thing then. (He laughs, kiddingly)
George: (She laughs too) Probably.
S.C.: You’re actually just in time for tea. I’m about to cook meatballs. Dinner should be ready in about fifteen minutes. You can…(I look around for something to amuse her while she waits but because Adrian cleans like a realtor I find nothing)…keep Adrian company while I finish. I’ll go put the kettle on.
Now that George is here and spending more time with my charming friend while I’m at the kitchen I realize I’d really prefer it if she came later but the water boils quickly and I discover that I can serve tea and converse while the meat balls are on low heat so everything is fine and I’m cheerful once more. Mood swing averted. I gather my tea set and bring it to the table in the living room and set cups in front of everyone. To a layman, this display might seem complicated but to a connoisseur (and I don’t pretend to be one) this is a right proper tea set.
George doesn’t know I haven’t told Adrian that she goes by Trixy. I pour water into the teapot but do not steep the leaves. Instead I open a window and toss the water out. This is called rinsing. It washes dust out and makes tea taste cleaner. Adrian and I practice this regularly and we are very good at tea brewing. While I’m tending the teapot, a brief, faint bell jingles at the sound of small, powder-soft thuds. George sees it first. From the kitchen an orange cat with a new silver collar, bell attached, joins us at tea. I’ve found that cats don’t much care for tea but they cannot resist sneaking a taste of butter. Adrian leaves for the bathroom.
S.C.: Oh hey Grape Nuts. Have you come to bogart my butter again like you did last night before I caught you?
Grape Nuts: Meow. (His voice is small and unrestrained and still. He looks back and forth between me and the butter begging for even the littlest morsel.)
George: (Says nothing. She sees Grape Nuts and tries not to stare at her though she does not look elsewhere. She does not appear to breathe.)
S.C.: That’s Grape Nuts. Don’t let him get to the butter when I’m not looking or he’ll think it’s okay to make a mess of it. He’ll also wander to the neighbors’ houses and they let him in and give him treats so he thinks their house is his home too, which it’s not. Huh, Grape Nuts?! He’s a little fucker. (I dip a butter knife into some butter and hold it out for Grape Nuts He can jump high. I learned this when I lured him out of the tea parlor dumpster with stinky cheese and now he uses the same skill to jump up on my lap. I watch him dine on hash butter and scratch him behind the ears and smile serenely.)
I glide my gaze from Grape Nuts to George and let her watch me. I let her react to this façade and when she does, when knowledge of the significance of this gesture germinates inside her I smile warmly. Light crackles in her pupils. I project glee as subtly as I can muster and she shudders. Do you know, George? Do you see me now the way I have presented myself and this occasion to you? Do you understand this is an invitation? Don’t you see that you are welcome?
Adrian Returns. I coat two biscuits with a generous helping of butter and eat one whole, the other one I offer to Adrian, which he takes. I don’t remember whether or not he knows this is marijuana butter. I can feel the mushrooms start to kick in because I can taste marijuana in the butter whereas normally I can’t. I’m not completely tripping yet and I wonder if George can taste it too.
S.C.: (I’m done staring) Let’s see how this turned out. (I pour tea into our cups which are all completely mis-matched and we taste tea by slurping. George watches both of us—maybe for guidance. I’m watching Adrian as this happens and after he tastes I ask—) What do you think about this one?
Adrian: (Eyebrows raised, affirmatively nodding) Really not bad.
George: Yeah, it’s really mellow. It’s nice.
S.C.: I like brewing tea here at home but I think I prefer brewing it at the parlor—I like it at the parlor if I’m feeling social. Lately I’ve been more social than not.
George: It has a good atmosphere.
S.C.: Better than a coffee shop anyway. I hate coffee shops. Really I suppose there’s no difference though.
Adrian: Yeah, coffee shops tend to attract yuppies—a whole lot of yuppies.
S.C.: (I laugh with Adrian and grin crookedly at George. George has told me she has an avid interest in painting. Between painting and yuppies, Adrian sees no difference and his brand of taunting is unyielding, unbearable to some. This exchange happens just as I replace my cup on the table. I feel something amiss. I reflect and gaze at the tea settled in my cup and it speaks to me)
Cup: God, totally. Can you believe it these days? Friggin’ art school central up in there! Can’t go ten feet without eavesdropping on some trumped-up ninnies going on about Ansel Adams or friggin’ black-and-white spoons like anyone gives a damn.
S.C.: (Oh yeah? Trying to pull a fast one on me, eh mushrooms? Well two can play at that game!)
Butter: Oh don’t mind him, he’s been on about it since the cupboard kicked him out!
S.C.: (I keep this hallucination a secret since it amuses me and no one would understand what the hell I’m talking about if I tried to explain without admitting I’m officially tripping.)
I excuse myself to cook the rest of the meatballs and contrary to what I expect, they smell wonderful. I’m pleased. I drain the noodles and dump the meatballs in the sauce. They’ve braised nicely. Maybe I should have made Roulade. No, put that right out of mind. This is good enough. At the table I serve le plate principale to my guests and accompany it with balsamic vinegar since I think it tastes best with marinara. No one but me drizzles it over their noodles and no one but me watches it sink into the noodles, impregnating them with thick acidity. I watch transfixed.
Adrian: So you go to school?
George: I do. I’m in the nursing program.
S.C.: I thought you said you study painting. (I’m impressed at the rapidity by which I recall this small detail)
George: (She hesitates) I did but I need money. I still paint though. Didn’t you say you paint too?
S.C. No, I use charcoal. I haven’t painted since I was ten.
George: Oh, you should paint again. You’re pretty creative, aren’t you? I bet you’d be good at painting.
S.C.: I think I’m probably better at looking at paintings than producing them.
George: You should try anyway. You never know, you might be good at it. Besides, trying to paint and failing is still better than not painting at all. You know how God hates wasted talent; that’s why there’s a circle in Hell for squanderers.
S.C.: As well as seducers and flatterers (which I say while directing an accusatory yet mostly playful smile—liars like you, George?). You make a very good point. So with that in mind what are you good at George? (I lift Grape Nuts to my face and kiss him but I only look at George)
George: (She breathes and holds it, thinking. There’s a pause. She seems distracted) Really I…um…don’t know. I don’t know what I’m meant to be good at.
S.C.: You’re like the decent carpenter who learns he can sing opera but instead he resigns to a life of mediocrity because he’s afraid his talent will require real work; work that he’s not prepared to do because he thinks it means a life of suffering. So he resigns, and learns much later, after his talent has dwindled, that he’s suffered after all because he never exercised his talents. Is that you George? Do you think you’re like that?
George: (Surprised) Maybe! I never thought of it like that.
S.C.: What do you think, Adrian? What do you think George might be good at? (We both consider George, examining her as though her talents are apparent and can be discerned by visual inspection.)
George: What’s your cat’s name again?
S.C.: Grape Nuts. .
George: Can I hold him?
S.C.: (Not at all displeased) Of course! (You mean, can you hold the cat you pitched in the dumpster that I later adopted to make you think it was mine all along just to see how you would react? Yes, you can hold Grape Nuts)
George: Hello, Grape Nuts. (She does not pet him. She simply holds him for thirty seconds. Grape nuts is not as uncomfortable as I anticipated. I am somewhere between disappointed and hopeful for I don’t know what will happen next.)
S.C.: Are you good with cats normally?
George: Kind of. Why?
S.C.: Oh, I don’t know; He seems to have a connection with you. He’s acting like he knows you already.
George: Animals are dumb like that.
Adrian: You think so? I don’t think so. Animals understand people—for the most part. Cats especially can be pretty perceptive.
S.C.: That’s weird. I can count on my fingers how many people Grape Nuts has met and yet he reacts to you the same way he reacts to people he knows. Eerie.
Grape Nuts: She did, she did.
S.C.: (I select a diced chunk of tomato with my fork and rest it on my tongue.) Do you taste that iron-coppery taste in the tomatoes?
Adrian and George: No.
S.C.: Really? You can’t taste the acidic flavor fighting it out against the sweetness? You can’t tell how fragile that is?
George: They taste like tomatoes.
S.C.: Nothing else?
George: Hmm, I can’t tell. (While cleaning her teeth with her tongue she stops at a crevice in her back right molar. She shifts her focus to me.)
S.C.: Nothing, huh?
