Liquor? I don't even know 'er!

Slow time in the store – that seems to be when the best encounters take place.

Me, sitting on a stool behind the counter, taking notes on neolithic religious practices for a project/story. Disc one of Stevie Ray Vaughan's greatest hits playing Voodoo Child in the background.

I was startled out of my reverie by the drunken ramblings of a customer who'd just popped into the doorway. “Sorry?” I asked aloud, thinking she'd addressed me personally. No response, so I tried again: “What did you say?”

She was dressed in all black – black pants, heavy black coat belted around her waist. A bit of overkill even for a brisk summer evening in Southern California. Dark hair, pulled back. Cute, from where I stood, but I couldn't see much of her besides her profile as she walked to the beer cooler.

“It's cold,” she said, responding to my question. “It's not that cold,” I said as I stood up and walked over towards the register.

“I'm from Detroit,” was her non-sequitur response.

“So this really isn't cold for you, then.”

She looked over at me and smiled, “No, it's not. I'm just here on vacation and was expecting 80 degree weather.”

Then she turned back to the cooler, searching intently. “Do you sell bottle openers?”

“We do, when we've got them in stock,” I quipped. “Which we don't at the moment.”

“Which of these beers can you open without one?”

I headed over to assist. Truth be told – there weren't any I could think of with twist-off caps. “I've heard that if you roll up a dollar bill tight enough, you can pop a bottle open.”

She was only half-listening to me. “I'll just get a can instead,” she said. “Do you have Miller Lite?” Not waiting for my response, she spied what she was looking for and grabbed a six-pack. Then she turned and walked away from me towards the chip stand. I went back to the register, since she didn't seem to need my help any more.

“You don't have firey-hot Cheetos?”

“Sorry?” She was definitely a little inebriated. That last line was spoken in the hyper-fast, semi-slurred drunk pidgin known throughout the world of bars and clubs.

Grabbing a bag of Cheetos hot fries, she came at last to the counter to check out. “You don't have the firey-hot Cheetos,” she repeated. A statement this time, not a question.

“Those aren't hot enough for you?” I pointed at her purchase.

“No,” she smiled as I began ringing her out. “And can you tell me how to get back to the Hyatt downtown?”

I looked at her admiringly as I considered. “You driving?” Small nose, brown eyes. Probably mid-20s or so. My first impression was right. She was cute.

“I'm taking the bus,” she said. “The A or the D, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, either one will take you downtown. You can pick it up at the end of the block, by the Bank of America.” I pointed vaguely in the direction of north. “It'll drop you off on Pine Avenue, then you can just walk south past the convention center to the hotel.”

She suddenly looked self-conscious beneath my assessing gaze. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I'm a little drunk.”

“That's okay.” I grinned at her. “I've never seen anyone drunk in here before.”

“Really?” My sarcasm was apparently lost on her in her condition.

“No, I'm kidding.” We smiled at one another for a moment. “It's $1.20. The bus, I mean. You owe me $8.08.”

She handed me a twenty. “I know, I took the bus here.” Beginning to reach into her purse, she added, “I think I have 8 cents.” Absentmindedly, she rifled through her purse as I took the twenty from her.

“Look how tan you are!” she said, looking at my hand. “I'm so pale.” She held her arm up next to mine. I was flattered, since no one's told me I'm tan in ages. I told her so.

“I'm not really that tan. I used to be, way back when I lived in Arizona.”

“Well, compared to me. You can really see it in your face.” She looked into my eyes as we talked.

She seemed to have forgotten what she was doing with her purse, so I jokingly reminded her. “You were looking for eight cents?”

“I know.” She was nonplussed, as she dug out a quarter and a penny. I took both and pulled two pennies from the “take-a-penny” dish.

“Tell you what, I'll take the quarter and the penny, and add two of my own. So you get twenty cents back.”

“That's fine, I don't mind the change,” she replied as I proceeded. I gave her back the change – a ten and two ones.

“And two dimes for the bus.”

She smiled gratefully as it dawned on her what I'd done. “Oh! That's right!” She set aside a dollar and the two dimes. “I'll put this away for the bus right now,” she said, placing the rest of the money back in her purse.

“So are you here with a convention? Work?” The Hyatt downtown caters to a lot of conventions, so I felt it was a pretty safe question to ask.

“No, I'm here on vacation.”

“Kind of a strange time of year for a vacation, isn't it?”

She shrugged. “Well, it's Spring Break.”

“Ah,” I replied sagely, though she didn't strike me as the Spring Break type, nor was Long Beach a major Spring Break locale. Apparently I was right:

“I'm a teacher,” she elaborated. “I'm not really into Spring Break. Not college Spring Break.”

“Gotcha.”

“I'm here for two days, then Phoenix, then Las Vegas. I'm making a whole tour.”

I nodded my understanding. “You should have started in Hawaii and made your way back east. Long Beach is kind of a weird start,” I joked.

“I wish I could go to Hawaii,” she said, seriously. “Long Beach was a lot cheaper.”

It would be, in ore ways than you know, I thought to myself. But it was time for another drunken non-sequitur from my talkative visitor, albeit a not altogether unpleasant one:

“You're really sexy,” she said.

I could feel the flush rising to my cheeks at her compliment. “Thanks,” I somehow managed to reply. “You are, too.”

“Do girls tell you that all the time?”

“Sometimes.” Once in a while, and somewhat more in recent memory than at any other time in my personal history. Not so often that the flattery doesn't still make me a bit shy and self-conscious. Which is fine by me – I may have a bit of an ego but at least I'm not too jaded to still appreciate and be humbled by a compliment from a beautiful lady.

“I'm sure you do,” she continued. “Your eyes, your goatee...” I lost track of her compliments as she admired my face.

“Well, thank you very much,” I said sincerely.

“Would you like to kiss me?”

I may do a remarkable impersonation most of the time, but I'm not actually a eunuch. So...

“Of course,” I replied, leaning in and kissing her lovely mouth.

Hell, it had been almost two and a half months since I'd kissed a girl last, and I don't even want to think about how long my dry spell had been prior to that.

So what else can I say? Her lips were soft and compliant; she smelled great; and I was only partially aware of how this would look on the security camera over my shoulder should my boss get an urge to review the tapes when he returned to the store.

As is customary when I have great moments at work, someone showed up to ruin things. A bespectacled stoner walked up to the counter as I was still mid liplock with this sexy stranger.

“What can I do for you?” I pulled away, not missing a beat. To my great relief, the woman didn't suddenly bolt out of the store in a fit of embarrassment.

“Got any zigzags?” he asked. Rolling papers, for the uninitiated (as I once was.)

“Think we're all out,” I said, as I pulled open the drawer beneath the register where we kept them. To my chagrin, I saw that somebody had restocked since the last time I worked. Fortunately, Stoney didn't see notice, so – “Yeah, still out.” I shrugged, feigned sympathy, and quickly shut the drawer. He muttered a disappointed response and put his wallet back in his pocket.

“What are you rolling?” my new friend asked him as he walked away. Apparently he was in no mood to talk, as he didn't respond. Good riddance, I thought, but two other customers walked in and begain looking around the store. Moment lost, it seemed.

So...

“What's your name?” I asked her, so that I could at least associate an appellation with the evening's auspicious assignation.

“Karen,” she replied. “What's yours?”

“Drew,” I answered, because that's mostly what I go by these days.

“Would you like to kiss me again, Drew?”

“I would love to kiss you again,” I said without hesitation. So I did. Screw the other customers.

Much more lip action the second time around. I think Karen wanted a bit more—at least she leaned back in for more kissing when I pulled away a few seconds later. Tempted as I was, I felt that might be a little too unprofessional.

No, seriously, there are levels to these sorts of things. Flirting at work—perfectly acceptable; kissing—brief contact on lips allowed in the presence of other customers or coworkers; tongues—right out, unless the store is completely empty and you are in the dry storage or freezer. Or something like that. Pretty sure it's in the employee handbook.

“I should catch my bus,” Karen said, a little disappointed.

“When do you leave town?” For my part, I was none too eager to say goodbye either.

“Tomorrow,” she answered sadly.

Ah, well. “Enjoy your trip, Karen. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

She smiled, gathered up her groceries. “You, too, Drew.” And she left, to catch her bus and return to her vacation, leaving me with the taste of her lips on mine and a pleasant memory. I hoped she'd recall our brief encounter as fondly in the future as I would.

That was Karen.

Mirror, Mirror

“Scott and I have been brothers for almost 22 yearsnow, and we've been friends for about half as long.”

Laughter. A good sign. I was nervous about having to speak at my brother's wedding reception.

“Actually, we spent almost as much time playing as fighting while growing up, but at some point – I don't exactly remember when – our relationship changed. We became something more than friends, more than brothers. Something deeper...”

POW! My shoulder ached. The pain didn't register, though; all I could see was red. I was so pissed off. Scott and I had been playing G.I.Joe in the living room, and getting along fine. I threw one at him, playfully, and accidentally hit him with it. That set off his notorious temper, and the fight was on. He punched me in the arm, hard. I hit him back, and we rolled around slugging one another for a few minutes, both of us pissed off at the other beyond rationality now.

I hit him again; I think I might have punched him in the face this time. Scott fell over next to the big green chair, and lay on the floor, unmoving. I sat there for a minute or two, waiting for him to get back up and resume fighting, letting the adrenaline drain from my body.

“Scott?”

He still hadn't moved.

“Get up.”

We often got into fights over the stupidest things while growing up. I suppose it's just the sort of thing brothers do. Now, though, with him lying on the floor insensate, I was beginning to panic. Neither of us had ever really hurt the other before. He didn't seem to be faking, though. Or breathing.

“Come on. Get up,” I ordered. “This isn't funny.” He just lay there, eyes open. Unmoving.

How long this went on, I can't recall. One minute? Five? It seemed eternal. I started to freak out. I shook him. He didn't move. If he was breathing, it was so shallow, that I couldn't tell.

“Scott!”

I jumped up and began running around the house, looking for our mother. “Mom! I think Scott's hurt bad!” I yelled. I couldn't find her anywhere. I ran back to the living room to try and wake him again.

I shook my brother again, and this time that face – near mirror image to my own – grinned back at me in laughter. He had been playing dead, and far more convincingly than I'd ever seen him do. I was shocked.

“You jerk!”

Scott laughed as he sat up.

“I had you fooled,” he said, with self-satisfaction in his voice.

But I wouldn't concede. I shook my head. “I knew you were faking it.” Deny, deny, deny. “I was just playing along.”

We both knew he'd gotten the better of me, though. We went back to playing with our G.I.Joes, argument forgotten.

I'm certain that we fought many times after that, but that's the last time I remember actually getting into a serious physical altercation with my brother.

One day, a few years later, my brother and I were playing Euchre in that very same living room with two of his friends—Jen and Heather. It was a Midwest card game of choice. The two of them were a team, while Scott and I were on the other team. I had only played Euchre a couple of times, while the others were all old hands at it. Nevertheless, Scott and I were of one mind we were taking tricks left and right, setting them up for one another like we were old pros.

I stared across the playing field at him. My face, but different. Chocolate brown hair, brown eyes to my green, mole on his upper lip. He smiled back at me; one of his wide-mouthed, toothy smiles. Jen asked him what we were smiling at.

“We're exercising our psychic bond,” I replied.

In response, Scott scrunched up his face as if he were concentrating really hard, to further illustrate the point. As we were winning seven to two, it wasn't hard to believe that we were “psychic brothers.”

On the next hand, though, my brother reneged, failing to follow suit when one of the other girls threw down a club. That scored them six points, and lost us the game.

“Way to go, craphead!” I remarked. Scott gave me an “I'm such an idiot!” expression.

We both laughed. So much for our psychic bond.

“I'm going over to Joe's later for a party, Crapper.” He used his nickname for me. “Do you want to come along?”

Scott was home from college for the weekend. I was just a sophomore in high school at the time. He occasionally invited me to hand out with him and his friends – I think because he was concerned for my social development, or lack thereof – and of course, I eagerly accepted his invitation.

It wasn't much of a party. The high point was seeing Joe and Clark again, two of my brother's closest high school friends and two really fun guys. There was some drinking, which I wasn't into at the time since I was still dealing with issues about my mom's alcoholism and how that related to me. As such, it wasn't a topic much discussed among my siblings. Given that, I was pretty surprised that my brother brought it up on the way home from the party.

As we pulled out of the driveway, an inebriated Joe and Clark waved good night to us both. My brother turned to me as he drove. “Clark isn't having an easy time adjusting to college,” he said, out of the blue. “He doesn't go out and party or anything. Joe and I wanted to try and help him loosen up a bit. He's never been out drinking.”

“Yeah?” I remarked, dully. I was rather taken aback by the turn of conversation, which had become rather serious out of the blue.

“I think Joe drank too much tonight,” my brother added, apologetically. “He was starting to become a jerk. I hope he didn't bother you.”

I shook my head. “No,” I said, soberly. “I don't drink, but some of my friends do, and I've accepted that casual drinking is okay, you know?”

Scott nodded as he watched the road. “I like to have a beer or two on occasion, as a social thing. For the longest time, I couldn't stand alcohol, knowing about mom. But I think it's okay, as long as it's done in moderation. Joe went over his limit tonight, I think.”

I didn't have any suitable response. This was the first real “adult” conversation I could recall having with my brother, so I was a bit taken aback. That it was happening, and that he would confide in me this way. We drove home the rest of the way in silence, but nothing really needed to be said. We were simply sharing one another's company. It was the first time I realized my brother and I could share anything with the other.

“... It is truly an incredible feeling, knowing that there is someone out there you are so close to, that you can share your life, your experiences with. That's why when Scott asked me to be his best man, I was honored beyond words, to be able to share in this experience with him, the start of a new chapter in his life.”

“I'd like to wish Scott and Melissa all my best, and hope that they live a long and happy life together.”

I raised my glass in a toast to the newlyweds, as applause broke out across the room.

Looking Glass.

“The voyeur is masturbator, the mirror his badge, the window his prey.” – Jim Morrison

I am a voyeur.

Much of my life, to my great mortification, has been spent observing others go about their lives, living their dreams, making choices, having careers, relationships, families. Doing all the things that people are supposed to do. Being fulfilled.

Doing the things that I am not.

Earlier tonight, while making another ill-fated attempt to clean my room/cell, I came across an old cast list from a stage production I was once in. Nostalgia and pride had prompted me to save it for these last 18 years, and my voyeuristic nature led me to Google some of my former castmates, to see what they had been up to all this time.

One in particular resonated with me- Tanya- who had been one of the lead roles in the show. She and I were only a year or two apart, and going through similar phases of life at the time we were in the show together; going to college, young adults away from home for the first time. Figuring out what we wanted to do with our lives. We weren’t particularly close during the run of the show, casual acquaintances, locked away in our own showmances with other castmates.

After the show wrapped, I partnered with another castmate of ours, Heather, in a business venture she was embarking on. Tanya ended up moving in with Heather, and so the three of us became fairly close at that time. When the summer ended, though, and school started up again for me, I gradually lost contact with the two of them.

Long story short, my Google-fu revealed that Tanya had, in fact, moved to Hollywood and pursued her dreams of an acting career, doing several movies and tv shows. Subsequently, she went on to reimagine her life as a mother, wife, and LA fashionista. All in all, a very full life, and knowing her, just the beginning.

In point of fact, several friends and acquaintances in recent years have gone on to find new careers, new relationships, new goals; to redefine themselves in life.

While I just watch from the sidelines, a voyeur in the increasingly small world that I have defined for myself (if only through inaction). Literally and figuratively, my world feels like a prison cell, a tiny studio apartment from which practically my sole release is a weekly 9 to 5 work furlough at a dead-end job where I do little more than push buttons for a living. That my prison is only a block from the beach is small consolation when most days I can barely muster the will to open my blinds to allow the natural light to brighten my day.

Bitterness aside, it isn’t jealousy that compels my voyeuristic tendencies. It’s admiration.

“Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor.” – old Norse proverb

On a recent trip to Hawaii to see my father, one night found us watching the finale of the reality show/singing competition “The Voice.” To put it mildly, the show is not exactly my dad’s cup of tea, so at one point he asked me what it was that I liked about it.

“I enjoy watching people pursuing their passions,” was my response.

There is something utterly compelling about people who follow their dreams, take a chance on life. Whether they succeed or fail, it takes a tremendous amount of courage and faith in oneself. To do it more than once? To redefine yourself, your career, attempt a different dream in life a second, third time? Astounding.

I have yet to do it even the once.

Seeing my friends and even strangers doing, being- LIVING – is invigorating, uplifting. It touches a part of me that I know, even in spite of my jadedness, is very much within me. I’ve even managed to tap into it once or twice in days long gone.

Ultimately, it is my own lack of a sense of self-worth that keeps me from sharing the same pursuit of fulfillment that I so admire in others. That keeps me locked away from the world.

I feel like a fraud, and live on perpetual edge that at any second, everyone else will realize it, too.

“If we undervalue ourselves, then we allow others to undervalue us as well.” – Dr. Emma Ryan, Common Law

I heard that quote on the new USA cop/comedy show recently, and it resonated with me. “Yeah, that’s so true. It’s been a constant problem all my life,” I thought.

But the more I pondered it, the more I realized it is anything but true, at least for me. Not in my life. If anything, the truth is completely opposite- time and again, inexplicably to me, my family and friends have exhibited more belief in my value as a person, in my abilities, than I ever have. In spite of what seems to me to be evidence to the contrary – a lifetime of conscious underachievement – their faith and trust in me has been almost universally unfaltering, whereas my own is… inconstant, at best.

I know that is one reason why I tend to be distant, withdrawn, uncommunicative much of the time. How can one possibly live up to that level of hopefulness, I think to myself. Yet they have never asked me to do anything, to be anything more than what I could be, if only I had the courage to do so.

Where these feelings of unworthiness arise from, I couldn’t truly say. I’m sure that I could point to dozens, hundreds of events in my life that have contributed to or reinforced those feelings – the curse of memory. But the roots of my lack of self-esteem run deep and are a tangled morass so thoroughly engrained in me at this point that analysis of the whys and wherefores may not even matter quite so much as simply confronting the underlying emotion behind it all.

That emotion, of course, being Fear.

Stealing Yoda

“I think memory is a curse.” – Dr. Tachyon, Joker’s Wild.

The Empire Strikes Back had just recently come out, so I must have been in the 3rd or 4th grade at the time. It was recess, and as usual, my friends and I were playing on the wooden fort in the playground at Desert Cove Elementary in Phoenix. We were playing Star Wars, and one of our group, a kid named Aaron, had brought his Yoda action figure with him to class that day. It was a brand new release in the toy line, and none of the rest of us had it yet- I’d only seen it in the Sears store at the mall. It was so awesome; Yoda was such a great character in the movie. We were all jealous of his new toy, me so much that I just couldn’t resist the temptation to swipe it when no one was looking. Just grabbed it, put it in my pocket, and reveled in my covetousness.

The recess bell rang, and we all collected our toys. Aaron looked in vain for his Yoda, but couldn’t find it, obviously, and never suspected that one of us might have taken it. He seemed a bit dejected, but in retrospect, probably wasn’t too broken up about it.

After school that day, I went over to my best friend Sean McArdle’s house to play. I confided in him that I’d taken Aaron’s Yoda, and we had fun playing with the toy and our other Star Wars action figures in his back yard.

Gradually, our consciences got the better of us, and we began to feel guilty over what we- I- had done. Together, we resolved to right my wrong and return the toy to it’s rightful owner.

I did that the very next day at recess. Once again playing around the wooden fort in the playground, I placed Yoda in what I felt was a strategic location- somewhere in a crevice where he could be seen, but was relatively hidden from a casual inspection. I let a brief time pass, and then I called out to Aaron that I’d found Yoda and motioned him over. He seemed relieved that his toy had been found, and wrote the whole incident off as just having missed Yoda the other day when looking for him. I think I was more upset about the whole incident than he was. All was well in the world. My conscience was relieved.

Somewhat.

To this day, more than 30 years later, I still feel guilty about stealing Yoda. Does that make me a moral person, or just someone who can’t let things go?

Ephemera

I cry at sappy love stories on television, because I cannot connect in real life. Fantasy touches me in ways reality cannot, does not. I yearn for the feelings of attachment and the bonds of closeness that fictional characters share, even knowing that relationships- real, honest, and actual- do not resemble the characters and caricatures onscreen before me. Mine is a duality of emotion and emptiness, being touched by nothingness.

Pros and Cons

I saw something at work today that just turned my stomach. This old guy- 60ish, grey hair and moustache, slight accent (British?), not what I think anyone would consider handsome- came into the store with an escort. Young, maybe 5’2”, pretty, perky, blonde- a little too made up. She seemed sweet, though, when we talked briefly about the Damzl Fuel drink we sell that she enjoys but can never find anywhere.

(As an aside, it sells like crap in my store.)

The thought of this pretty thing coupled with this hairy, ogrish older perv just made me sick. Still does.

She wasn’t his granddaughter or anything like that- I’m certain. I had seen this guy in the store on a previous occasion, that time in the company of a brunette pornstar I recognized. Acquainted with her body of work, so to speak.

Now, despite being in So Cal, Long Beach is still pretty far from the porn capital of Chatsworth, much less Los Angeles, so I was fairly certain the pornstar girl wasn’t just in town visiting an older relative. Especially when the guy made a ribald remark to her about using the licorice rope he was holding as a whip. Complete with demonstration. She looked nearly as uncomfortable as I felt. I tried not to compound her unease by staring and letting on that I recognized her.

For some reason, though, the pornstar and the old perv didn’t unnerve me quite as completely as the young blonde and the dirty old John did. I did think it somewhat odd that the pornstar might be resorting to escorting (though I am given to understand that even the porn industry has been hit hard by the economic downturn in the country). Still, I suppose it was more the association of her porn background with the notion of “sex for sale”, as opposed to the facelessness of the blonde that made the difference to me.

In one of life’s little ironies, I was just discussing porn and the damage it can do with a friend a few days prior. She was remarking on how terrible an effect it can have on perceptions of the female body – both to women and to men’s expectations of what they should look like. For my part, while I agree that porn is pretty degrading in its depiction of women, I shy from giving too much credit to the industry’s ability to dictate how people regard sex and women. To me it’s just as slippery a slope as saying that video games and television cause violent behavior. There are always other factors involved, and it’s foolish- in my mind- to try and pin the blame solely on one thing, as if rectifying that will somehow serve as a panacea for your social ill of the day. Foolish and unrealistic.

Still, though, I can’t deny a correlation. Not a one-to-one causality, but a connection all the same. Aside from the aforementioned geezer and his objectification of women via use of escort services (and I could probably speculate for pages on the foundations of that urge), my friend had some other interesting comparisons to make to me.

She talked a little bit about how she could tell the guys who’d gotten all of their sex advice from watching porn by the way they behaved in bed. “Tired of guys wanting to do the Jackhammer,” I believe was how she put it. We joked a bit about the silliness of porn embalmed guys in today’s society, but I really wondered at the absurdity of it all.

I’m not very sexually experienced, but even to me, it seems common sense should dictate that most porn sex is ill-suited to real world applications. Unless you’re trying to get a camera in there, most of those positions are at the very least awkward, and more likely are downright painful and uncomfortable- especially to the women involved. Maybe pornos need disclaimers like you find in stunt shows and deadly magic acts- “These performances are for entertainment purposes only, and are performed by professionals. Do not attempt these positions at home?”

Ultimately, I imagine it is the rescuer complex in me that was most touched by the thought of that pretty girl selling herself to that old guy. I am a bit awkward when it comes to sex- discussing it, having it- and I know that my values aren’t quite in step with the times. Add to that, the girls in question was clearly consenting and cognizant of the choice she was making (and presumably of legal age). Yet still I can’t help but feel for someone engaging in sex for money. It seems like such an intimate thing to share, even in spite of more relaxed values of the day. I just wanted to tell the girl she is a beautiful person and… what… save her from herself, maybe?

I just can’t quite wrap my head around feeling such a need for money that you’d be willing to do almost anything to get it. Then again, I guess we all prostitute ourselves to one degree or another, don’t we? Maybe it is a slippery slope after all.

School Teacher

We've talked only a handful of times. Flirted? A little, perhaps.

Would it be too tacky to ask you out- clerk to customer? Am I afraid of your rejection? Or do I fear complications in a romantic sea that already tosses me between many vexatious shores?

Whichever, you and I have remained distant, going no further. I've no emotional stake in you.

Why, then, this tightening in my chest, this darkening of my mood when I see you with another? It should mean nothing; I fear perhaps it means far more than the obvious. Shades of a deeper void within, having nothing to do with you at all.

The hearts meanderings continue to baffle.