Ghost

I am realizing that I am actually nervous. I am leaving for Los Angeles in just 2 days. It’s strange; it used to be home. Seems like a lifetime ago. And for the first time since I left, I am going to spend time with the people who were part of my everyday life. I left that life in 2000 and never looked back.

They knew me as a “we”. They never knew me outside of this definition. And when I lived in Los Angeles, I was a grad student; buried in books and working a full-time job. And on the surface, it all looked fine. I kept everyone at an arm’s length because just like the proverbial impressionist painting, my life looked fine from afar. But if you got really close you would see how fucked up it really was.

I guess the most difficult part of seeing these guys is that they did really know. They really saw all of it. And just like me, they were powerless. We all watched him slowly killing himself. Well, they watched. As for me; this was my life. I think I spent much of it with my eyes closed, hoping that when I opened them I would see a different picture. It was my sick secret. As long as I never spoke about it, it wasn’t real.

I remember the day I left. I just walked out the door, got in my car and drove. I knew then I would not be coming back. I was done with Los Angeles. I never told anyone I was leaving. I just left. I remember the ride up the Grapevine. I remember pulling over because I was crying so hard I could barely breath. And I remember going down into the central valley as the music was blaring on my stereo and thinking I had escaped.

Quote of the Day...

Thank you random homeless guy for screaming this. I still can't figure out what it means.

"He's a muffdiver driving a single bed on a double wide"

X-mas Tales from a Tenderloin Stripclub

So it's that time of year again when you start thinking about how you will be spending your holidays. I couldn't help but think about how I spent last Christmas...

Jim Beam, St. Ides and I had a wonderful time slipping ones down the g-strings of toothless "exotic dancers" in my favorite neck of the woods. Now, my intention was to have an evening of x-mas cheer visiting friends. And my night even began that way. An old friend and I decided to bust out the skateboards and toodle door to door and say hello to friends bearing gifts of home-made marmelade and lemon bars. And while back in the day i was a pretty good boarder, I was now equipped with a helmet and pads. I felt at home with the comforting smells of x-mas, St. Ides and weed. Now bear in mind I had not celebrated the holidays with Jim before and I am not sure I will again. He turned out to be not such a good influence. Or perhaps it was the rush of the oh so "cheerful memories" that shifted the tides for me.

Either way, happy holidays to the Aborigine who played pool worse than me and remembered me from a bar brawl in Indonesia and happy holidays to my new friend from Chicago who told me that she was looking forward to living in SF so she could have an ass as tight as mine. And happy holidays to my favorite heavy-metal skater for kickin' it with me in between screamin' calls with his ex. I was thrilled to be a part of your holiday love for one another last year. And I am sure she was thrilled to know we ran out of ones. I hope this holiday brings lots of love and throat lozenges.

And thank you to Peaches, Cheri, and Loqueesha (sorry if mispelled). I truly appreciated the pole dancing lesson and dating advice. I truly hoped you ladies had a wonderful holiday. And while at the moment I am not planning to make it down to the club, if I do, I know you will let me take a turn on the pole in my bike helmet and knee pads.

Free

The knock came earlier than I expected. I could hear my coffee pot gurgle as the last of the coffee brewed into its carafe. The two of them stood out on my doorstep dressed in mostly black. The slight peak of their badges became apparent to me as I opened the door. As I let them in I noticed the unmarked vehicle in front of my house. I had expected them last week.

The last time they had showed at my doorstep was in 1997. I was living in San Francisco then with my first love. It was my birthday and we were late to meet my parents for dinner. It was to be the first time he met my family. I naively told the men in black I had to go, that people were waiting for me. To which they let me know I was detained. The last time I had heard the word detention was in high school and similarly, I had no rights. I had to stay. I remember excusing myself to call the restaurant. My parents were waiting. This was before cell phones when you had to rely on the kindness of a stranger on the other end of the phone. I spoke slowly to my father telling him I would not be able to make the meal. I asked him not to come: I had no rights to an attorney. I had no rights at all. The taller man in black stood over me as I explained to my father who the men in black were and what they wanted. I was instructed to hang up.

I remember sitting on my bed since I lived in a studio as small as a closet. I reached for my partner’s hand as the questions began. Hours went by. I grew hungry and tired yet my answers remained the same. I couldn’t help them. The questions turned into accusations and I still couldn’t help them. Then came the threats; loss of home and freedom. I was numb. They grew tired. I remember their last words as they left, that I would be watched and that my world was no longer my own.

The next day on the news they caught the man in the dress in a Denny’s in San Diego. It was barely daylight as he stole a restaurants’ sense of security. He did not survive the arrest. I noticed the unmarked car go away, only to return now, 12 years later. My answers remained the same, I couldn’t help them. This time was different though. There is no one to hold my hand. There is no one waiting for me and there is no delusion of rights. I began to wonder if I were to be taken in, who would know I was gone and how long would I be gone for? They paced through my home as I sat on my couch. They asked me about my painting by a man who had achieved freedom after 40 years. The one with the darker eyes reached out to pet my cat. I did not reveal her name as she lay like a puddle on the couch.

After several hours of questions came an offer to drive me to work, I was late. I declined. I closed the door behind them as they made their way to the black car out front. This time I wasn’t numb. I waited at the window watching the car slowly pull away. I knew that this would be the last time I would see the men in mostly black. I also knew that for the first time in 20 years, I was truly free.

Something in between

I couldn’t help but think about the bitter man who ran away. I was never sure what he thought he’d find in a town as cold as the one he left so many years ago. As I walked on the beach in Boipeba over a month ago, I came upon a dachshund playing in the sand. I couldn’t help but think that I had never seen a happy wiener dog before. I watched as he buried his snout in the sand trying to capture the elusive crabs. The sideways walkers teased the pup by darting in and out of their homes and all the while the dachshund let out little barks. I called for the dog as he came running to me with sand on his nose. I giggled as I watched the skip in his step. As he came closer, the wave lightly licked at the shore and the dog was distracted as he chased the sea.

I remembered my days on the train in the same dark town. Sent away in the hopes I would change. And I did. As I sipped red wine and coke in darkened bars with the boys with the long hair, I learned that the beauty of the night was caught in the naked trees as the seasons began to change. I heard it in the whispers of the wind as the branches gently swayed. I no longer knew where I was after late night train rides to stone cities on the outskirts of that same cold town. I changed. As I sat on cobblestone walls and looked out into the night, I cherished the in between time. It was summer turning to fall, as the moon grew tired and color started to return to the sky. And I was in between, still a girl. I was too tired to sleep. My mind awake with thoughts like puzzle pieces, waiting to find their place.

I wondered if it was me as I read the words on the screen and blushed with uncertainty. Perhaps I simply wished they were. Or maybe I just wanted to believe like the sun warming the little dachshund running in the sand, memories of me would sweeten the taste of a sour town.

Knock Knock

For years and years, I would come home and within minutes there would be a knock at my door. Did I want to hear about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints? For a long time, I would politely say no. Now don’t get me wrong, I have no issues with anyone’s freedom to practice religion. I just prefer that others keep their religion to themselves. I have yet to knock on anyone’s door asking them if they want to hear about Agnosticism and my worship of caffeine.

All this knocking would remind me of being a teenager attending a high school with tons of Mormons. I remember being the Jewish kid and being asked to attend church services. Knocks and notes on my locker daily. For a long time I didn’t understand why I was getting so much attention until I learned that Mormons get some special star in the sky for converting a Jew. While I was friends’ with some kids that were practicing Latter-day Saints, I never did go to temple with them.

I don't know if it is my proximity to the Mormon Temple, I actually have a splendid view of the place I affectionately call Disneyland North, but the knocks were happening at least once a week and some weeks, daily. My patience with the boys in suits grew thin. I went from polite, “no thanks” to curt “no”. And the very next day the knock would happen again. I started to contemplate how I could make this incessant knocking cease. At first I ignored the knocks, thinking that perhaps if I just didn’t answer the door, they would stop coming around. This didn’t seem to help. I even tried reasoning with the guys, letting them know I would never be interested and that they don’t ever need to return. The very next day, a new set of guys would show. I was done; it was time to make this stop.

Just like clockwork, a got home from work and then came the knock. As usual, the question was posed, “did I want to hear about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints?” This time I answered, “Yes, if you want to hear about anal sex?” The young man at the door looked at me and said, “What makes you think we don’t learn about anal sex.” So I answered that I really had no clue what they learned about. He responded that he knew all about anal sex and would be happy to share the churches perspective on this. Damn, foiled by the Mormon! I had no witty response and told him I wasn’t interested. And, of course, a couple days later, the knocks continued.

I had to try something far more extreme. I really didn’t know what I could do. It’s not as if there is a “do not knock” list for Mormons. I was angry and this time when the knock happened, it was a lone, attractive man in the suit and tie. I invited him in to teach me all about Jesus in exchange to listening to my presentation on safer sex. We sat very close to one another as I spoke about sex. The tension between us was palpable. As we got closer and closer, I began to think about how he gets star status for converting me. I started to wonder what I would get if I had sex with a Mormon. Apparently I get peace and quiet. I don’t know what happened to my friend in the suit and tie, but I do know that it has been great; I haven’t had a knock in years.