Katya looked around at the office of the Immigration and Naturalization Service; she liked the officer who was assigned to interview her. Behind him was an official seal of the United States. She wanted asylum from her native country, Russia. She had been in Los Angeles for about two and a half years, but her interview had finally arrived; this was her chance to become a citizen.
Her friends had convinced her to pretend she was gay, and put, on her application, the fact that she had been persecuted back in Russia. This strategy had been working for Russians, they said. They had found people who knew how to fill out the application, knew what kinds of stories worked, knew what to say. They had helped her with the application. She tried to concentrate on the stories that they had put in there together, involving being persecuted for her sexual orientation. She couldn't go back to Moscow, she would say, because it was known there that she was gay, and they would persecute her.
The problem was, she wasn’t gay. She had come to LA originally to be with Ivan, a guy she had met back in Moscow. She liked the place, liked the lifestyle, and the beach, and the nightlife; however, the relationship with Ivan hadn't worked out. Some of her friends had advised her to simply fall in love with an American guy, get married, go that route. She had her eye on a few American men, and a few Russian guys too, but nothing serious had materialized. Actually, she hadn't thought much about being straight vs. being gay; LA was surely different from Moscow in that regard, but until today it hadn't been her concern. Now, ironically, her ability to stay here depended on it.
Her interviewer was a friendly young guy named Anders, but he set about asking questions in a businesslike way, and asked her to tell about her life in LA, her job, her apartment, her friends, her future. She remembered the story that she had put on the application and tried to stick to it. He asked questions quickly, trying to trip her up or find signs of a memorized story or scripted answer. He wanted to make sure that she genuinely needed asylum for reasons of persecution in her home country; if she was merely here because she liked it, that wasn't a good enough reason to let her in.
The afternoon sun set through the window behind him and she could see the haze of the city, and hear city noises out the window. Why did she want to stay? She had work, and friends, and it was light and warm all the time, unlike Moscow, which was dark and bitterly cold.
Moscow wasn't completely dark, of course; she thought about the warm glow in the butcher's shop and the colors of her aunt's kitchen. There were parts of it she missed, like the food, the seasons, the television; she even missed the snow, sometimes. But when she got to LA she'd noticed how the beach and the sun made it lively all the time, and she didn't miss Moscow's long winters that turned into long springs and just kept everyone inside and miserable for months on end. In LA everyone was out there, out there all the time, running to the beach, shopping, texting, going outside, and it went on 24 hours a day. No time to get depressed. Perfect for Katya.
And then there was the dream. Lots of people, herself included, had come to LA with the dream of "making it" in television, or movies, or whatever. Looking at Anders, she was sure he was familiar with the dream, but she wouldn't mention it to him, didn't want him to think it was part of her reason. To her, it was a small thing, maybe; she was pretty sure, by now, she wouldn't be discovered, and might not know what to do if she were. But the dream, she thought, put everyone on their best behavior. A friend of hers had made a disparaging comment about the dream, a broken dream, a nightmare, but she tried not to think about it. She tried to focus on the situation at hand.
Anders started asking questions about her sex life, romance, that kind of thing, and now she became more uncomfortable and had to work harder to hide her discomfort. She didn't like talking about this stuff anyway, and it got worse when she was pretending to be gay. She tried blushing and just apologizing for not wanting to give away details. But he kept on. He wanted proof that she really was gay.
As the pressure in the room rose quickly, images flashed through her mind, of friends here in LA, of the butcher in Moscow, of romantic encounters in both places. She tried to concentrate on her story of being gay, but couldn't. Finally she exploded. "I'm not gay," she said, "I don't even like gay people." Anders was shocked, but he had his answer here; the interview was over. He reminded her gently that she should, in a general way, begin packing her bags to go back to Moscow.
She stood up, looked around, and again saw the sun, and haze, out the window. A wave of emotion came over her. She'd told the truth, and, as a result, lost LA, lost the dream, lost everything. It no longer mattered, though. She was on her way home, finally.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
Q-demon
Carmella Quinn's life was turned upside down one day when her husband, a Methodist minister in a small town in Minnesota, was killed at his church by a crazed gunman who then killed himself. Who was this boy, who had come up from the Cities one Sunday? What was going on? Carmella herself was in Fargo that weekend taking care of her elderly mother, but rushed back to town, of course, as soon as she heard the news.
The kid had yelled "Q-Demon!" as he shot and just by chance, an investigator googled it; he found that "Q-Demon" had a huge online reputation and was discussed in various forums throughout the internet. Apparently the Reverend Quinn had gotten online as "Q-Demon," found his way to a place where virtual people killed each other, and was the most ruthless of all killers; he was a master of the game. He was hated and despised by everyone who played the game; he was virtually unbeatable.
Carmella knew that her husband had had this passion for online gaming. In fact it was a part of Second Life, an online universe, that he would go to, and, as he explained it, everyone who found their way to this place knew the rules of the game. You went in there, and you tried to survive, and people tried to kill you, and it was all a game; if you died, you merely had to start over, make a new "avatar," which was an online persona, and jump back into the place. It was humiliating, of course, for the losers, when somebody would kill them, because their avatars were now dead and they would have to go through a process to build a new one which often included getting decent virtual clothes.
Carmella thought back to a time when she had been at a party with her husband, and, in a small group that included a teenager and a couple of ministers who were discussing online games, he vainly mentioned his involvement in this game; the teenager, rather than being impressed, recoiled in horror when he found out that her husband was actually who he was. It struck her as odd, even then, because one would imagine that success in these games would be something that would be mutually admirable; anyone who played it would admire someone else who had achieved some measure of success in it, and maybe even ask him for some insider tricks. Not so in this case; the guy had actually backed off and disappeared, and she didn't see him again in the party. The party had been some function of Methodist ministers and movers and shakers, in the Cities, and she had forgotten about it until this moment, when she was trying to recall what she knew of her husband's involvement in this game.
As she told the investigators, he'd play maybe an hour or two a night, mostly after she herself had gone to bed, she didn't really know. She was aware of it and asked him, at least once, about the inherent contradiction of being a Christian minister and at the same time, killing people, albeit virtually, at night. He had shrugged it off, basically, by saying that it was just a game. Everyone knew it was a game. You went in there knowing someone could kill you.
It was not just that he was good at it, the investigator said. He was great at it. He was unbeatable. And, he said, it's not just that you kill people. Apparently you taunt them when you do it. You say, "Got you, Newb," or some variant, with "Newb" referring to a newbie or someone who is not as good at it as others. And people can get pretty good at this taunting, or rather, they can taunt in such ways that it really stings.
"This is not to say that your husband was in any way responsible for what happened", the investigator pointed out. He wanted Carmella to rest assured that the young man who had killed him had simply gone over the edge, mentally, and that it literally could have happened to anyone, people like this lash out almost randomly, it seems, or at least there's no accounting for it really. The investigator, satisfied with what he'd figured out already, was ready to drop the case; it really wasn't all that complicated.
This didn't help Carmella, though, who had two problems. The first was what to tell folks in the small town, who all knew the Reverend Quinn as a kind and gentle minister, but who had no inkling of his dark side, or his apparently unresolved issues with anger. The second had to do with forgiveness. It was one thing to forgive a mentally unbalanced kid, who got online, confused the game and reality, and somehow found a gun; it would be another to forgive her husband.
It was during that conversation with the investigator, though, that she saw a picture of the shooter, and he looked familiar. In fact, as time went by, she became more and more convinced that he was the teenager at the party. She could find out for sure, simply by asking questions in the Methodist community; was this the same boy that was at that particular party? Rather than finding out for sure, though, she avoided the situation; the less she knew, she figured, the better. It was a small town, and she was well aware that people were talking behind her back, and often bold enough to just approach her and ask her. It seemed as if people would bait her, asking what on earth would make a kid from the Cities come up here and do such a thing, but she would just shrug her shoulders, and avoid the question. "It was just one of those things," someone once said to her, and it kind of stuck in her mind, but most of the time she couldn't even say that.
The kid had yelled "Q-Demon!" as he shot and just by chance, an investigator googled it; he found that "Q-Demon" had a huge online reputation and was discussed in various forums throughout the internet. Apparently the Reverend Quinn had gotten online as "Q-Demon," found his way to a place where virtual people killed each other, and was the most ruthless of all killers; he was a master of the game. He was hated and despised by everyone who played the game; he was virtually unbeatable.
Carmella knew that her husband had had this passion for online gaming. In fact it was a part of Second Life, an online universe, that he would go to, and, as he explained it, everyone who found their way to this place knew the rules of the game. You went in there, and you tried to survive, and people tried to kill you, and it was all a game; if you died, you merely had to start over, make a new "avatar," which was an online persona, and jump back into the place. It was humiliating, of course, for the losers, when somebody would kill them, because their avatars were now dead and they would have to go through a process to build a new one which often included getting decent virtual clothes.
Carmella thought back to a time when she had been at a party with her husband, and, in a small group that included a teenager and a couple of ministers who were discussing online games, he vainly mentioned his involvement in this game; the teenager, rather than being impressed, recoiled in horror when he found out that her husband was actually who he was. It struck her as odd, even then, because one would imagine that success in these games would be something that would be mutually admirable; anyone who played it would admire someone else who had achieved some measure of success in it, and maybe even ask him for some insider tricks. Not so in this case; the guy had actually backed off and disappeared, and she didn't see him again in the party. The party had been some function of Methodist ministers and movers and shakers, in the Cities, and she had forgotten about it until this moment, when she was trying to recall what she knew of her husband's involvement in this game.
As she told the investigators, he'd play maybe an hour or two a night, mostly after she herself had gone to bed, she didn't really know. She was aware of it and asked him, at least once, about the inherent contradiction of being a Christian minister and at the same time, killing people, albeit virtually, at night. He had shrugged it off, basically, by saying that it was just a game. Everyone knew it was a game. You went in there knowing someone could kill you.
It was not just that he was good at it, the investigator said. He was great at it. He was unbeatable. And, he said, it's not just that you kill people. Apparently you taunt them when you do it. You say, "Got you, Newb," or some variant, with "Newb" referring to a newbie or someone who is not as good at it as others. And people can get pretty good at this taunting, or rather, they can taunt in such ways that it really stings.
"This is not to say that your husband was in any way responsible for what happened", the investigator pointed out. He wanted Carmella to rest assured that the young man who had killed him had simply gone over the edge, mentally, and that it literally could have happened to anyone, people like this lash out almost randomly, it seems, or at least there's no accounting for it really. The investigator, satisfied with what he'd figured out already, was ready to drop the case; it really wasn't all that complicated.
This didn't help Carmella, though, who had two problems. The first was what to tell folks in the small town, who all knew the Reverend Quinn as a kind and gentle minister, but who had no inkling of his dark side, or his apparently unresolved issues with anger. The second had to do with forgiveness. It was one thing to forgive a mentally unbalanced kid, who got online, confused the game and reality, and somehow found a gun; it would be another to forgive her husband.
It was during that conversation with the investigator, though, that she saw a picture of the shooter, and he looked familiar. In fact, as time went by, she became more and more convinced that he was the teenager at the party. She could find out for sure, simply by asking questions in the Methodist community; was this the same boy that was at that particular party? Rather than finding out for sure, though, she avoided the situation; the less she knew, she figured, the better. It was a small town, and she was well aware that people were talking behind her back, and often bold enough to just approach her and ask her. It seemed as if people would bait her, asking what on earth would make a kid from the Cities come up here and do such a thing, but she would just shrug her shoulders, and avoid the question. "It was just one of those things," someone once said to her, and it kind of stuck in her mind, but most of the time she couldn't even say that.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Trial and error
Barbara bought a ticket and boarded a plane for central Florida before she could have doubts or undo it. She heard about the case because she was watching a lot of television; here was this woman, who had allegedly killed her own daughter, looking impassively into the camera as if nothing had happened. It made Barbara's blood boil. She herself had no daughter, only an eleven-year-old son and a husband who may or may not be able to handle things with her gone, but they were understanding; they hardly objected when she left. Be sure to bring in the mail, she told her husband; I'm expecting a small check. Don't forget to feed the cats.
Central Florida was steamy and she made her way to the center of town where the courthouse was, and checked into the nearest motel she could find that had a vacancy. She had to try two or three, but one was acceptable, not full, not too pricey, and as soon as she'd freshened up a bit she made her way back to the courthouse where a line had formed to gain entrance into the trial the following morning. She had a spot in line that was between an older gentleman and a young foul-mouthed tattoo-covered young lady; the line wasn't moving at all, but there was plenty to watch as it seemed fights might break out over the earlier places in line. A policeman watched warily and tried not to intervene. The sultry sun put everyone on edge. To live here, Barbara decided, one must have air conditioning, a television and lots to drink.
In this time, which was actually about three hours, she made friends with a woman named Joan, who apparently was from this very city, but a little out of town, and invited her over to lunch. You may have to buy some of the supplies, she said, but you'd be welcome to come over to our house and sit with us for a while you're here in town. Seems pretty lonely to be in a city like this all by yourself, she said. Barbara hadn't thought of it.
Her sense of outrage against the mother who had killed her young child was still with her that night when she turned on the local news. The local news had the story on in much more detail, and was fully aware that the nation was watching this particular trial because of its sordidness, and a grim fascination with someone who would apparently kill her own daughter so she could go out and party a little more.
Barbara took ice from the machine outside her room, and turned on her own room airconditioning unit on full blast as she watched the news. She thought about her husband and son briefly but was soon brought into the news story again, and fixated on the young woman. The motel was full and there was a lot of noise, both in the hallway and in the courtyard outside the room, but the airconditioner and the television drowned it out and she focused. Finally she fell asleep. She had gotten sunburned standing in line, and it hurt when she rolled over.
In the morning she was let into the trial with her little entrance ticket stub, and picked a seat near the back. The trial was actually somewhat boring from back there, but she soon developed a fascination for the prosecutor, who was her main ally in delivering justice to this woman. It was as if she, Barbara, had come all the way to central Florida to ensure that justice be done to this woman, who seemed, as she sat in her seat, the epitome of evil. The prosecutor hammered away, trying to prove she did it. The defense attorney was equally aggressive; he of course was the enemy. And where did all the spectators come from? She could only guess. The trial had drawn her, all the way from south Texas; she had dropped everything; she had flown here, rented a motel, and stood in line just to be here. What were their stories? She could only guess.
She found it interesting to compare the evening news, back at the hotel, with what she had seen. What she considered important was not exactly the same for them; however, most of what they said was true. Their camera also had a different angle; however, it was all the same people.
So it went for several days; it settled into a routine. She stood in line to get tickets, sometimes for several hours; she attended as much of the trial as she could; she left only for lunch or to call home. She never missed the evening news or the recap of the trial. She didn't venture out much to see the city, or go out at night in search of anything, even a movie. When she called home everyone was ok; they were living on pizza and stale cookies, and her husband had wrecked his truck, but aside from that, it was life as usual. They missed her. They'd fed the cat at least once. They wondered when she'd come back.
Back in the courthouse her fascination for the prosecutor grew; she studied his ring trying to convince herself that he wasn't married. He was everything her husband wasn't; he was educated, well-dressed, methodical, articulate, polite; of course, part of this was his job. Sometimes she'd realize that she was deluding himself; what would he do, fall for her? She doubted it. Nevertheless the details of the trial itself were less and less interesting to her; she was already convinced that the woman was guilty. Only the prosecutor held her attention, and even he was beginning to not look as good.
Standing in line was, in some ways, more interesting than the trial itself. The police's attempts to keep order were sometimes futile. Joan came back, however, and had a long talk with her. Apparently Joan was not interested in this particular trial, but was at the courthouse because her husband had been thrown in jail about a month ago; she was having trouble supporting her daughter and elderly mother; in desperation she came to the courthouse hoping to resolve the husband's case, but unsuccessfully. Again she invited Barbara over for lunch. Maybe Saturday? Barbara agreed to the possibility; she was taking it one day at a time.
By Friday, though, she was pretty sure she would stay through the weekend, and agreed that Joan would pick her up Saturday morning for the long bus ride out to Joan's house. In order to stay through to the next week, she had to make some calls back in Texas; one was to her workplace, where they readily agreed to give her a few more days, and another was to her husband, to make sure it was ok with him also. He was beginning to get a little edgy, but so far no big disasters.
On Saturday Joan arrived at her motel, though not until ten thirty, and they got on a bus and rode all the way through the city to a god-forsaken part of it where Joan lived. Somewhere in the middle of the bus ride, looking out at the empty corners of the city, Barbara did some soul-searching. As the trial had increased its national exposure, she had become less interested in that and more just curious why she herself had been drawn all the way here, so far from where she belonged. Whereas at first it seemed necessary that she be here as witness, to make sure justice was done, now that seemed like a totally futile objective. Joan listened patiently to her story of her frustrations with her husband but Joan was clearly jealous that she even had a husband, free and clear of the prison system and all the baggage that hers seemed to have.
When they got off there was a small convenience store and they went shopping for lunch supplies; Barbara paid, and they walked the last seven or eight blocks to Joan's house. Joan's house was a tiny two-room bungalow on a crowded street. The single living room was dominated by a large television; on the show it was tuned to, talking heads, involved parties, were discussing the trial, of course, and the people in it. A shy, hungry-looking little girl appeared in the doorway of a bedroom; she appeared to be about six, and was introduced as Joan's daughter. Joan's mother, unable to move easily, watched the television impassively. They spread out the groceries on the table; it was Barbara's contribution. It might keep this hungry young girl from starving one more day, she figured, as she watched the girl eyeing the food carefully.
There was a pot of macaroni and cheese from boxes, bread and lunchmeat, milk, chips, soda, and some fruit; it seemed like a feast to the young girl, who wolfed it down. They kept the television on as they ate. Outside it was steamy and uncomfortable; they didn't even try to take anything outside, even the sodas. In the cool airconditioned living room they watched them discuss the trial, over and over, back and forth.
And somewhere in there, Barbara had her fill; she decided that she didn't want to hear another word of the trial, and didn't even care how it turned out. As she watched the young girl eat, she realized, maybe this is why I'm here, so this poor girl gets one good meal; it doesn't seem she's had another for quite some time. After they'd finished and cleaned up, she said goodbye to Joan, took the long bus back to town and checked out of the motel; she took the next flight back to Texas, and, when asked what she'd been doing in Florida, she said she was just visiting friends.
Central Florida was steamy and she made her way to the center of town where the courthouse was, and checked into the nearest motel she could find that had a vacancy. She had to try two or three, but one was acceptable, not full, not too pricey, and as soon as she'd freshened up a bit she made her way back to the courthouse where a line had formed to gain entrance into the trial the following morning. She had a spot in line that was between an older gentleman and a young foul-mouthed tattoo-covered young lady; the line wasn't moving at all, but there was plenty to watch as it seemed fights might break out over the earlier places in line. A policeman watched warily and tried not to intervene. The sultry sun put everyone on edge. To live here, Barbara decided, one must have air conditioning, a television and lots to drink.
In this time, which was actually about three hours, she made friends with a woman named Joan, who apparently was from this very city, but a little out of town, and invited her over to lunch. You may have to buy some of the supplies, she said, but you'd be welcome to come over to our house and sit with us for a while you're here in town. Seems pretty lonely to be in a city like this all by yourself, she said. Barbara hadn't thought of it.
Her sense of outrage against the mother who had killed her young child was still with her that night when she turned on the local news. The local news had the story on in much more detail, and was fully aware that the nation was watching this particular trial because of its sordidness, and a grim fascination with someone who would apparently kill her own daughter so she could go out and party a little more.
Barbara took ice from the machine outside her room, and turned on her own room airconditioning unit on full blast as she watched the news. She thought about her husband and son briefly but was soon brought into the news story again, and fixated on the young woman. The motel was full and there was a lot of noise, both in the hallway and in the courtyard outside the room, but the airconditioner and the television drowned it out and she focused. Finally she fell asleep. She had gotten sunburned standing in line, and it hurt when she rolled over.
In the morning she was let into the trial with her little entrance ticket stub, and picked a seat near the back. The trial was actually somewhat boring from back there, but she soon developed a fascination for the prosecutor, who was her main ally in delivering justice to this woman. It was as if she, Barbara, had come all the way to central Florida to ensure that justice be done to this woman, who seemed, as she sat in her seat, the epitome of evil. The prosecutor hammered away, trying to prove she did it. The defense attorney was equally aggressive; he of course was the enemy. And where did all the spectators come from? She could only guess. The trial had drawn her, all the way from south Texas; she had dropped everything; she had flown here, rented a motel, and stood in line just to be here. What were their stories? She could only guess.
She found it interesting to compare the evening news, back at the hotel, with what she had seen. What she considered important was not exactly the same for them; however, most of what they said was true. Their camera also had a different angle; however, it was all the same people.
So it went for several days; it settled into a routine. She stood in line to get tickets, sometimes for several hours; she attended as much of the trial as she could; she left only for lunch or to call home. She never missed the evening news or the recap of the trial. She didn't venture out much to see the city, or go out at night in search of anything, even a movie. When she called home everyone was ok; they were living on pizza and stale cookies, and her husband had wrecked his truck, but aside from that, it was life as usual. They missed her. They'd fed the cat at least once. They wondered when she'd come back.
Back in the courthouse her fascination for the prosecutor grew; she studied his ring trying to convince herself that he wasn't married. He was everything her husband wasn't; he was educated, well-dressed, methodical, articulate, polite; of course, part of this was his job. Sometimes she'd realize that she was deluding himself; what would he do, fall for her? She doubted it. Nevertheless the details of the trial itself were less and less interesting to her; she was already convinced that the woman was guilty. Only the prosecutor held her attention, and even he was beginning to not look as good.
Standing in line was, in some ways, more interesting than the trial itself. The police's attempts to keep order were sometimes futile. Joan came back, however, and had a long talk with her. Apparently Joan was not interested in this particular trial, but was at the courthouse because her husband had been thrown in jail about a month ago; she was having trouble supporting her daughter and elderly mother; in desperation she came to the courthouse hoping to resolve the husband's case, but unsuccessfully. Again she invited Barbara over for lunch. Maybe Saturday? Barbara agreed to the possibility; she was taking it one day at a time.
By Friday, though, she was pretty sure she would stay through the weekend, and agreed that Joan would pick her up Saturday morning for the long bus ride out to Joan's house. In order to stay through to the next week, she had to make some calls back in Texas; one was to her workplace, where they readily agreed to give her a few more days, and another was to her husband, to make sure it was ok with him also. He was beginning to get a little edgy, but so far no big disasters.
On Saturday Joan arrived at her motel, though not until ten thirty, and they got on a bus and rode all the way through the city to a god-forsaken part of it where Joan lived. Somewhere in the middle of the bus ride, looking out at the empty corners of the city, Barbara did some soul-searching. As the trial had increased its national exposure, she had become less interested in that and more just curious why she herself had been drawn all the way here, so far from where she belonged. Whereas at first it seemed necessary that she be here as witness, to make sure justice was done, now that seemed like a totally futile objective. Joan listened patiently to her story of her frustrations with her husband but Joan was clearly jealous that she even had a husband, free and clear of the prison system and all the baggage that hers seemed to have.
When they got off there was a small convenience store and they went shopping for lunch supplies; Barbara paid, and they walked the last seven or eight blocks to Joan's house. Joan's house was a tiny two-room bungalow on a crowded street. The single living room was dominated by a large television; on the show it was tuned to, talking heads, involved parties, were discussing the trial, of course, and the people in it. A shy, hungry-looking little girl appeared in the doorway of a bedroom; she appeared to be about six, and was introduced as Joan's daughter. Joan's mother, unable to move easily, watched the television impassively. They spread out the groceries on the table; it was Barbara's contribution. It might keep this hungry young girl from starving one more day, she figured, as she watched the girl eyeing the food carefully.
There was a pot of macaroni and cheese from boxes, bread and lunchmeat, milk, chips, soda, and some fruit; it seemed like a feast to the young girl, who wolfed it down. They kept the television on as they ate. Outside it was steamy and uncomfortable; they didn't even try to take anything outside, even the sodas. In the cool airconditioned living room they watched them discuss the trial, over and over, back and forth.
And somewhere in there, Barbara had her fill; she decided that she didn't want to hear another word of the trial, and didn't even care how it turned out. As she watched the young girl eat, she realized, maybe this is why I'm here, so this poor girl gets one good meal; it doesn't seem she's had another for quite some time. After they'd finished and cleaned up, she said goodbye to Joan, took the long bus back to town and checked out of the motel; she took the next flight back to Texas, and, when asked what she'd been doing in Florida, she said she was just visiting friends.
Friday, June 24, 2011
plains speaking
I was staying in southeast Kansas for a while, helping clean out a great aunt's possessions for the family, and thought I'd drive down to Texas for a weekend to visit an old friend. While I was down there tornadoes passed through the area, up around Tulsa specifically, allegedly moving a semitrailer from the westbound rest area to the eastbound; this kind of caught everyone's fancy, and it was all over the news at my friend's house.
The main question, though, I thought, was whether that trucker had some business to get turned around, like he'd left a wife back east or something, or had some personal drama where somehow God would be telling him, you're going the wrong way, turn that truck around. We'd kind of had that discussion a lot; my extended family was all from Kansas, and they'd often talk about how a tornado would hit one church and leave the other intact, or would only hit one street of a town, or something like that. There was a general agreement that it wasn't random and yet if you tried to pin anyone down they'd get offended, as they all knew someone who'd been affected, and you didn't want to imply that that person was somehow deserving of God's wrath or more likely somehow to get it than someone else.
My great aunt, for example, had been driving through the middle of this tiny town in Kansas, when the street caved in, and the car ended up about fifteen feet down a deep hole that had at one time been made by mines; the whole area had been mined heavily. Now she was all right, and so was her passenger, another old lady friend of hers, but the city spent a few hours trying to extract them and her car from that hole safely, and everyone was a bit traumatized by the event. The other old lady in particular rarely went out driving after that; she got her younger relatives to do it for her, and my great aunt always felt a little responsible, although we'd tell her, there's nothing you could have done; how could you know when that street was going to cave in? It could have happened to anyone.
Could have, but didn't; it happened to her. And that hung over the whole situation, unexplained, as if, like the tornado, maybe someday you'll find the reason it would do something the way it did. So, I was reflecting on this as I was driving back from Texas, and as you might know it's a long way through central Oklahoma with not much to think about, and generally the signs that tell you not to drive through smoke make it worse, not better. But I decided to stop for gas and coffee and ask around a bit about that trucker. I couldn't find out anything, though; the only person who'd even talk to me admitted that, yes, it had happened right near here, a truck moved from the westbound to the eastbound rest area, but they didn't know anything about that trucker, whether he had any good reason to be turned back around and headed back the way he came. "Sure ain't random, is all I can say," this guy said, but even that didn't explain much, though it sure was in agreement with what all my relatives would say.
A surprise was waiting for me, though, when I got back to my great aunt's house, and was looking through some old papers that she'd had stored away. It seems a distant ancestor, might have been mutual ancestor, hers and mine both, had sold quite a bit of land throughout that area to the mining companies. And his wife didn't agree with it, and told him so in a brittle letter I held in my own hands. She said, in so many words, that wasn't a good idea; they'd dig up the coal, or bauxite or whatever, and leave those huge gaping holes under everything and ruin it forever, which was pretty much true, I suppose. But the money was too good, and he did it anyway, sold off lots of land, and his descendants, people like me, lived all the better for it.
I could have stayed another month or two reading those papers, but life called, and I had to get back to work, which was up in the cities up north. What struck me was that those mines had pretty much been shut down for years, and the area would have died altogether if it weren't for this ammunition factory that had been put near there a few years back. We knew there were big holes under lots of the houses in the area, big old mines that had never really got filled in, My great aunt accepted it, like it was just part of living there; you felt like anything might cave in at any time, and that incident out on the main street of that little town just goes to show. It's part of life, and you can't avoid it.
Her friend, the one who was in the car at the time, died while I was in town. But I didn't know the family well, and never got to hear her version of the story. She also was probably related to those old coal barons, almost everyone was, in some way or another, but I'd never know; I had to head back up home and I was kind of glad to do it. the storms were still raking up the area, coming up through Oklahoma, and causing serious damage to these small towns, which always seemed random, but in some wierd way, surely wasn't.
The main question, though, I thought, was whether that trucker had some business to get turned around, like he'd left a wife back east or something, or had some personal drama where somehow God would be telling him, you're going the wrong way, turn that truck around. We'd kind of had that discussion a lot; my extended family was all from Kansas, and they'd often talk about how a tornado would hit one church and leave the other intact, or would only hit one street of a town, or something like that. There was a general agreement that it wasn't random and yet if you tried to pin anyone down they'd get offended, as they all knew someone who'd been affected, and you didn't want to imply that that person was somehow deserving of God's wrath or more likely somehow to get it than someone else.
My great aunt, for example, had been driving through the middle of this tiny town in Kansas, when the street caved in, and the car ended up about fifteen feet down a deep hole that had at one time been made by mines; the whole area had been mined heavily. Now she was all right, and so was her passenger, another old lady friend of hers, but the city spent a few hours trying to extract them and her car from that hole safely, and everyone was a bit traumatized by the event. The other old lady in particular rarely went out driving after that; she got her younger relatives to do it for her, and my great aunt always felt a little responsible, although we'd tell her, there's nothing you could have done; how could you know when that street was going to cave in? It could have happened to anyone.
Could have, but didn't; it happened to her. And that hung over the whole situation, unexplained, as if, like the tornado, maybe someday you'll find the reason it would do something the way it did. So, I was reflecting on this as I was driving back from Texas, and as you might know it's a long way through central Oklahoma with not much to think about, and generally the signs that tell you not to drive through smoke make it worse, not better. But I decided to stop for gas and coffee and ask around a bit about that trucker. I couldn't find out anything, though; the only person who'd even talk to me admitted that, yes, it had happened right near here, a truck moved from the westbound to the eastbound rest area, but they didn't know anything about that trucker, whether he had any good reason to be turned back around and headed back the way he came. "Sure ain't random, is all I can say," this guy said, but even that didn't explain much, though it sure was in agreement with what all my relatives would say.
A surprise was waiting for me, though, when I got back to my great aunt's house, and was looking through some old papers that she'd had stored away. It seems a distant ancestor, might have been mutual ancestor, hers and mine both, had sold quite a bit of land throughout that area to the mining companies. And his wife didn't agree with it, and told him so in a brittle letter I held in my own hands. She said, in so many words, that wasn't a good idea; they'd dig up the coal, or bauxite or whatever, and leave those huge gaping holes under everything and ruin it forever, which was pretty much true, I suppose. But the money was too good, and he did it anyway, sold off lots of land, and his descendants, people like me, lived all the better for it.
I could have stayed another month or two reading those papers, but life called, and I had to get back to work, which was up in the cities up north. What struck me was that those mines had pretty much been shut down for years, and the area would have died altogether if it weren't for this ammunition factory that had been put near there a few years back. We knew there were big holes under lots of the houses in the area, big old mines that had never really got filled in, My great aunt accepted it, like it was just part of living there; you felt like anything might cave in at any time, and that incident out on the main street of that little town just goes to show. It's part of life, and you can't avoid it.
Her friend, the one who was in the car at the time, died while I was in town. But I didn't know the family well, and never got to hear her version of the story. She also was probably related to those old coal barons, almost everyone was, in some way or another, but I'd never know; I had to head back up home and I was kind of glad to do it. the storms were still raking up the area, coming up through Oklahoma, and causing serious damage to these small towns, which always seemed random, but in some wierd way, surely wasn't.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
luncheon
The Ozark sun was high in the sky when Meredith decided to sit on a park bench in the center of town, and nurse her baby. The baby settled in quickly and she sat back to enjoy the peaceful spring weather. But a young woman, clearly agitated, walked over to her and almost immediately told her she should not do this in a public place like this. Couldn’t she go home or go to some restroom somewhere?
Meredith immediately began to tense up and this, of course, was noticed by the baby, who began fussing and inexplicably being unable to find the target. It was like the baby immediately tasted nervousness and didn’t even want to eat until it had passed. Meredith, herself, was somewhat tongue-tied. She knew all the arguments: why should she go use a bathroom, which was unsanitary and isolated? Breastfeeding was legal, healthy, wholesome, and proper, so what was the problem? The woman, however, was adamant; her veins seemed to show in her neck as she got wide-eyed and confrontational. She took the stand of someone who was protecting the public sense of decency and modesty, and was not going to let this young girl undress even partway, in public.
Suddenly Meredith got an idea, though, and took a deep breath. In her mind she decided to focus entirely on the baby, and tell the baby that everything was going to be ok, and she started her plan immediately. She simply repeated to the baby, silently, “everything will be ok, you just eat and relax, you’ll be fine.” In her mind she focused on the baby and soon, quite easily, the baby was back on track.
But to the woman, what she said was more like this: “You sound like that man from the Tally-ban. That man wanted me to cover up completely, head, neck, cheek, mouth, everything.” She drawled it out, and slowed way down; she knew how to pronounce “Taliban,” having served in Afghanistan; but, using a more Ozarky twang helped her slow down, concentrate, and keep talking silently to the baby. The woman’s jaw dropped in shock. Nearby Meredith could see another woman, also young, also dressed up, approaching them, as if to help her friend in this confrontation.
“That man seemed to feel that all women should be covered up in all ways, at all times, and that it was a man’s job to make sure everyone followed that way...”
“I am not the Taliban,” the woman said, “and there’s a difference between your cheek and your...your...” By now, the friend had joined her, but she was unable to finish the sentence, since it involved a word she was clearly uncomfortable with.
“I told that man he could do as he wanted with his country,” continued Meredith, “since I was going back to mine anyway.” By now the baby was asleep, and making a huge light-hearted sigh of pure contentment. The morning sun shone through the trees. She thought of other things to say, but stopped; she’d said enough. She gazed peacefully at the women, unflinching, and, eventually, they left.
Meredith immediately began to tense up and this, of course, was noticed by the baby, who began fussing and inexplicably being unable to find the target. It was like the baby immediately tasted nervousness and didn’t even want to eat until it had passed. Meredith, herself, was somewhat tongue-tied. She knew all the arguments: why should she go use a bathroom, which was unsanitary and isolated? Breastfeeding was legal, healthy, wholesome, and proper, so what was the problem? The woman, however, was adamant; her veins seemed to show in her neck as she got wide-eyed and confrontational. She took the stand of someone who was protecting the public sense of decency and modesty, and was not going to let this young girl undress even partway, in public.
Suddenly Meredith got an idea, though, and took a deep breath. In her mind she decided to focus entirely on the baby, and tell the baby that everything was going to be ok, and she started her plan immediately. She simply repeated to the baby, silently, “everything will be ok, you just eat and relax, you’ll be fine.” In her mind she focused on the baby and soon, quite easily, the baby was back on track.
But to the woman, what she said was more like this: “You sound like that man from the Tally-ban. That man wanted me to cover up completely, head, neck, cheek, mouth, everything.” She drawled it out, and slowed way down; she knew how to pronounce “Taliban,” having served in Afghanistan; but, using a more Ozarky twang helped her slow down, concentrate, and keep talking silently to the baby. The woman’s jaw dropped in shock. Nearby Meredith could see another woman, also young, also dressed up, approaching them, as if to help her friend in this confrontation.
“That man seemed to feel that all women should be covered up in all ways, at all times, and that it was a man’s job to make sure everyone followed that way...”
“I am not the Taliban,” the woman said, “and there’s a difference between your cheek and your...your...” By now, the friend had joined her, but she was unable to finish the sentence, since it involved a word she was clearly uncomfortable with.
“I told that man he could do as he wanted with his country,” continued Meredith, “since I was going back to mine anyway.” By now the baby was asleep, and making a huge light-hearted sigh of pure contentment. The morning sun shone through the trees. She thought of other things to say, but stopped; she’d said enough. She gazed peacefully at the women, unflinching, and, eventually, they left.
Monday, September 21, 2009
omg wtf tmi
Erin kind of slid into it accidentally, unnoticeably. She ate lunch with Kevin almost every day, because he was friendly, non-threatening in a kind of goofy way, and never had anything else to do at lunch. She’d sit at the table with him at the Wisconsin Student Union, with their sandwiches, or whatever- sometimes he’d get french fries- and he would often share the details of this chat scene that he had joined. He’d pull out his laptop and then try not to get french fry grease on the keys as he’d answer his friends on there. “lol”, he’d say (laugh out loud). “omg,” - Oh my God. “wtf” – What the f-! Or, “tmi”- too much information.
But as Erin read over his shoulder, she noticed that he was kind of a wimp. People were lively, but he had little to say, or said it in such a wooden way that basically their social scene hopped along with him as a kind of background, watching, noticing, yet not really participating. In fact he was kind of like that in their class- they were in an English class together- and it bothered her. When he’d complain about not having any dates, or many friends, she felt like slapping him. It’s your own fault, she’d like to say. But she was patient with him. He was a nice guy. And she didn’t have that much of a social life anyway, besides this other guy, Mark, who was always calling her in her dorm room. The lunch hour would pass, often with her reading over his shoulder, drinking a slow cup of coffee. Then they’d go off to afternoon classes.
On Friday, though, something strange happened. A saucy girl known only to them as “Rose” was chatting with Kevin, and Kevin was doing his usual wimp thing. Erin grabbed the keyboard with his permission and started talking to Rose herself. In her mind she was showing Kevin how it was done: how one would flirt with a girl, and actually attract the girl; how one could be a little more aggressive, get what one wanted, be successful. She saw herself as shaking Kevin out of his doldrums, showing him something useful. She carried on a lively banter with Rose, all under Kevin’s name “Kev”- and this carried on for much of the lunch hour. They talked about classes, Wisconsin football, Halloween, drinking, driving on I-94. She was unexpectedly good at pretending to be a man- she could feel a kind of joy in acting out the aggressive male role- though it occurred to her that she had no more certainty that Rose was a woman, than Rose had that “Kev” was a man. Very quickly she was into territory where she didn’t know how Kevin would react; for example, Rose asked if she/he had ever been to Chicago. She had, but didn’t know if Kevin had. Kevin was right behind her, but at that moment he wasn’t even paying attention; he’d become engrossed in a football game on a nearby television, so she just blithely answered that he had. And he loved shooting down Lake Shore Drive in his convertible, she said. And, in fact, he’d be there in eight days, she said. Going for a Shock Monster concert. Shock Monster was a popular band at that time; this would give Rose a little jump, she was sure . Time for class, she told her; “c u” later, she said, and logged off.
But something about the chat climbed under her skin and stayed there. Something about Rose’s persistent interest, flirtatious nature, or something; she wanted to talk to her again. She met Kevin later in the weekend for a study session for the very English class that they shared. She tried to get a sense from him whether these chat friends meant anything to him; they didn’t, as far as she could tell. He had no girlfriends, but didn’t seem to care. With the exception of Erin, there wasn’t anyone he even talked to about it. He was sad, kind of pathetic. But he knew most of the answers on the English study sheet.
On Monday, after the test she looked over Kevin’s shoulder again and there were all the chat friends, Rose included. She practically jumped on the keyboard and started chatting with Rose again, inviting her into a private room where they could have more privacy. Kevin watched over her shoulder for a while, noticing perhaps the lively banter, the spirit of the conversation, but soon wandered off, even though it was his laptop. He didn’t seem to mind; he trusted her, and wasn’t going far. But in that short time the conversation got even livelier. They had very little in common, “Kev” (Erin) and Rose, yet they got along well and spoke quickly, covered a lot of ground. Rose, it turned out, would be at the Shock Monster concert also. Rose had a husband/lover who was domineering and didn’t want her to go. This guy would slap her around and get loud and mean when he was drunk, which was often, including now. But it’s only noon, Erin thought, and then she thought, she needed to save this woman from a very bad situation. She knew none of the important details- Rose’s true name, her true location, her age, her marital status- yet she was ready and willing to find her straightaway and get this guy out of the picture.
There was a garden in the story. She’d grown all these beautiful tomatoes, and squash, and a pumpkin, and spent a lot of time out there. She could see the garden from where she sat at her computer, in a small house in a small town not far from Chicago.
I need to talk to you sometime this evening, Erin told Rose, around eight (when Erin would be in her room, safely by her own computer). They set up a time. It was easy enough- she knew Kevin’s logon and password, from watching- and could do this easily, away from the noise of the Student Center. Rose agreed. At eight, the husband would be at work, apparently. At eight Erin logged on, and there was Rose- they took up where they had left off. Rose lived in terror of the man, whose name was Jeff, it appeared; he was her husband; he was now at work but was expected home later at night, around 11; he could very possibly be still drunk, or drunk again, when he arrived, as he often was these days. Rose was 19, had thought she was pregnant, but wasn’t- that’s what set Jeff off on this drunken rage- and, impulsively, Rose sent Erin her picture. She was redheaded, beautiful, but young, like Erin. Erin gulped as she looked at it; she also was 19. Her heart felt like it was in her throat. In love with a woman- this was not something she would have predicted for herself. Impulsively she blurted out the whole story to Rose. She was not “Kev” but was Erin. Erin, who had taken the computer out of Kevin’s hand, and had pretended to be Kevin not twice but three times. She sent her own picture.
Rose, oddly, did not appear to feel betrayed, or even the least bit hurt. She continued telling about life in the small house, bad marriage, drunken husband, car with persistent muffler problems, motorcycle gang in small-town bar, her life as she saw it from her keyboard. Erin told about her two boyfriends in high school; one, Roger, had felt like her life match, so perfect in every way, but apparently he had a mean streak in him, and he’d done something sadistic to her dog, so she dumped him, even as she was crying, for several days even; the next, Rob, had broken her heart, made her jaded, angry, resentful toward men, unwilling to reach out, really, to anyone, even harmless Kevin. She told Rose also about Mark, here at Wisconsin, a young business student, who was calling, even now as she chatted, calling somewhat persistently. Omg, wtf, these were flying back and forth as they discussed men, chatting back and forth rapidly, getting more and more involved in conversation. Finally, she told about the real “Kev,” who, of course, Rose at least had met, albeit online. All four of them meant nothing to her, she assured Rose, nothing. She was going to Shock Monster on Saturday in Chicago. That’s all that mattered. Rose, on her side, told of falling in love with Jeff, how she was never good enough for him, how he always compared her to another girlfriend he had, one he liked better; how she lived in fear, her poetry stained in tears and her laundry stained in blood. They poured out their hearts to each other; they told everything.
As she typed quickly on the screen, though, it went unexpectedly blank on the other end. Rose stopped, absolutely, completely. One minute the “omg”s, “lol”s, and “wtf”s were flying, the next, absolutely nothing. Erin froze in horror. The husband: she looked at her computer clock; it was past eleven. She pounded away at her screen: hello? Hello? Nothing. She was crushed. She couldn’t sleep that night. She imagined all the worst things, all the violence Rose was worried about. She waited a while, checked her Facebook, and her email. When she went to bed, she tossed and turned, and had bad dreams. In the morning, she had a hard time concentrating on her classes, and was distracted when people spoke to her.
At lunch, of course, she could look to see if Rose appeared in Kevin’s chat. She looked over his shoulder but resisted the impulse to grab the laptop again. Kevin chatted blandly to other people, but noticed her obvious agitation. At night, still no Rose; Erin went online, bought Shock Monster tickets, and planned her short trip. Her parents lived in Chicago; it wouldn’t be hard to stay there. She had an old car that ran well. It woudn’t be complicated.
Wednesday night, like Tuesday, she logged on: nothing. She’d lost interest in her classes, though there was an English test on Friday, and Kevin kept talking to her about it. She still couldn’t sleep; she took out the picture occasionally, still not believing that she was in love with a woman, a woman who accepted her completely and without reservation, and then disappeared entirely.
On Thursday though, Rose got on for just a few minutes. There she was; it was her; Erin could tell by the patterns, with the “omg”s, “lol”s, etc.; it was clearly her. But she was considerably less lively. There had been a fight, she said. Jeff crushed tomatoes all over her, threw the pumpkin through the window, cut her lip, hit her. He did some other damage also; she (Rose) was now at her mom’s house, while Jeff, as far as she could tell, was in jail or worse. She couldn’t talk. When Erin asked if she would be at the concert, she didn’t answer. “c u” later, she said, and she was off. It took all of a few minutes.
Erin went to the concert, alone, in spite of everything. The music was too loud, and pounded her eardrums. She thought about Rose, and all she knew; she tried to let go of it. Toward the end of the concert, she was near the entrance of the place, on her way out, when who did she see, but Roger, her first boyfriend ever, Roger the sadist. A dry, arrogant character, he walked right up to her and said hello. But then he said, “Rose says hello; she couldn’t come;” he said this, turned on his heels, and walked off into the crowd. This totally rattled Erin, and she practically broke down in a rage against him. But, as he was almost gone, disappearing, she would have had to run after him, and she didn’t. He had given no indication of who she was to him, or how he’d known her. Perhaps he was Jeff? Or he was Rose himself? Or, he had just known her, casually, as a friend? She never found out. She ended up just going back to Wisconsin, getting back to her life, moving on. Kevin was understanding, as usual; if he was in on it, she never learned how. “Rose,” he said, never reappeared in their chat. Years later, she found the picture she had kept, in an old box, but she threw it away. She heard from a friend that Roger had been in trouble with the law, and she wondered about that week; she was sure he was involved. But by then quite a bit more had happened to her also; she was different, and wondered how she’d ever come to fall in love with a chat partner, or feel the way she did, about someone she had never, in fact, even seen.
9-09
But as Erin read over his shoulder, she noticed that he was kind of a wimp. People were lively, but he had little to say, or said it in such a wooden way that basically their social scene hopped along with him as a kind of background, watching, noticing, yet not really participating. In fact he was kind of like that in their class- they were in an English class together- and it bothered her. When he’d complain about not having any dates, or many friends, she felt like slapping him. It’s your own fault, she’d like to say. But she was patient with him. He was a nice guy. And she didn’t have that much of a social life anyway, besides this other guy, Mark, who was always calling her in her dorm room. The lunch hour would pass, often with her reading over his shoulder, drinking a slow cup of coffee. Then they’d go off to afternoon classes.
On Friday, though, something strange happened. A saucy girl known only to them as “Rose” was chatting with Kevin, and Kevin was doing his usual wimp thing. Erin grabbed the keyboard with his permission and started talking to Rose herself. In her mind she was showing Kevin how it was done: how one would flirt with a girl, and actually attract the girl; how one could be a little more aggressive, get what one wanted, be successful. She saw herself as shaking Kevin out of his doldrums, showing him something useful. She carried on a lively banter with Rose, all under Kevin’s name “Kev”- and this carried on for much of the lunch hour. They talked about classes, Wisconsin football, Halloween, drinking, driving on I-94. She was unexpectedly good at pretending to be a man- she could feel a kind of joy in acting out the aggressive male role- though it occurred to her that she had no more certainty that Rose was a woman, than Rose had that “Kev” was a man. Very quickly she was into territory where she didn’t know how Kevin would react; for example, Rose asked if she/he had ever been to Chicago. She had, but didn’t know if Kevin had. Kevin was right behind her, but at that moment he wasn’t even paying attention; he’d become engrossed in a football game on a nearby television, so she just blithely answered that he had. And he loved shooting down Lake Shore Drive in his convertible, she said. And, in fact, he’d be there in eight days, she said. Going for a Shock Monster concert. Shock Monster was a popular band at that time; this would give Rose a little jump, she was sure . Time for class, she told her; “c u” later, she said, and logged off.
But something about the chat climbed under her skin and stayed there. Something about Rose’s persistent interest, flirtatious nature, or something; she wanted to talk to her again. She met Kevin later in the weekend for a study session for the very English class that they shared. She tried to get a sense from him whether these chat friends meant anything to him; they didn’t, as far as she could tell. He had no girlfriends, but didn’t seem to care. With the exception of Erin, there wasn’t anyone he even talked to about it. He was sad, kind of pathetic. But he knew most of the answers on the English study sheet.
On Monday, after the test she looked over Kevin’s shoulder again and there were all the chat friends, Rose included. She practically jumped on the keyboard and started chatting with Rose again, inviting her into a private room where they could have more privacy. Kevin watched over her shoulder for a while, noticing perhaps the lively banter, the spirit of the conversation, but soon wandered off, even though it was his laptop. He didn’t seem to mind; he trusted her, and wasn’t going far. But in that short time the conversation got even livelier. They had very little in common, “Kev” (Erin) and Rose, yet they got along well and spoke quickly, covered a lot of ground. Rose, it turned out, would be at the Shock Monster concert also. Rose had a husband/lover who was domineering and didn’t want her to go. This guy would slap her around and get loud and mean when he was drunk, which was often, including now. But it’s only noon, Erin thought, and then she thought, she needed to save this woman from a very bad situation. She knew none of the important details- Rose’s true name, her true location, her age, her marital status- yet she was ready and willing to find her straightaway and get this guy out of the picture.
There was a garden in the story. She’d grown all these beautiful tomatoes, and squash, and a pumpkin, and spent a lot of time out there. She could see the garden from where she sat at her computer, in a small house in a small town not far from Chicago.
I need to talk to you sometime this evening, Erin told Rose, around eight (when Erin would be in her room, safely by her own computer). They set up a time. It was easy enough- she knew Kevin’s logon and password, from watching- and could do this easily, away from the noise of the Student Center. Rose agreed. At eight, the husband would be at work, apparently. At eight Erin logged on, and there was Rose- they took up where they had left off. Rose lived in terror of the man, whose name was Jeff, it appeared; he was her husband; he was now at work but was expected home later at night, around 11; he could very possibly be still drunk, or drunk again, when he arrived, as he often was these days. Rose was 19, had thought she was pregnant, but wasn’t- that’s what set Jeff off on this drunken rage- and, impulsively, Rose sent Erin her picture. She was redheaded, beautiful, but young, like Erin. Erin gulped as she looked at it; she also was 19. Her heart felt like it was in her throat. In love with a woman- this was not something she would have predicted for herself. Impulsively she blurted out the whole story to Rose. She was not “Kev” but was Erin. Erin, who had taken the computer out of Kevin’s hand, and had pretended to be Kevin not twice but three times. She sent her own picture.
Rose, oddly, did not appear to feel betrayed, or even the least bit hurt. She continued telling about life in the small house, bad marriage, drunken husband, car with persistent muffler problems, motorcycle gang in small-town bar, her life as she saw it from her keyboard. Erin told about her two boyfriends in high school; one, Roger, had felt like her life match, so perfect in every way, but apparently he had a mean streak in him, and he’d done something sadistic to her dog, so she dumped him, even as she was crying, for several days even; the next, Rob, had broken her heart, made her jaded, angry, resentful toward men, unwilling to reach out, really, to anyone, even harmless Kevin. She told Rose also about Mark, here at Wisconsin, a young business student, who was calling, even now as she chatted, calling somewhat persistently. Omg, wtf, these were flying back and forth as they discussed men, chatting back and forth rapidly, getting more and more involved in conversation. Finally, she told about the real “Kev,” who, of course, Rose at least had met, albeit online. All four of them meant nothing to her, she assured Rose, nothing. She was going to Shock Monster on Saturday in Chicago. That’s all that mattered. Rose, on her side, told of falling in love with Jeff, how she was never good enough for him, how he always compared her to another girlfriend he had, one he liked better; how she lived in fear, her poetry stained in tears and her laundry stained in blood. They poured out their hearts to each other; they told everything.
As she typed quickly on the screen, though, it went unexpectedly blank on the other end. Rose stopped, absolutely, completely. One minute the “omg”s, “lol”s, and “wtf”s were flying, the next, absolutely nothing. Erin froze in horror. The husband: she looked at her computer clock; it was past eleven. She pounded away at her screen: hello? Hello? Nothing. She was crushed. She couldn’t sleep that night. She imagined all the worst things, all the violence Rose was worried about. She waited a while, checked her Facebook, and her email. When she went to bed, she tossed and turned, and had bad dreams. In the morning, she had a hard time concentrating on her classes, and was distracted when people spoke to her.
At lunch, of course, she could look to see if Rose appeared in Kevin’s chat. She looked over his shoulder but resisted the impulse to grab the laptop again. Kevin chatted blandly to other people, but noticed her obvious agitation. At night, still no Rose; Erin went online, bought Shock Monster tickets, and planned her short trip. Her parents lived in Chicago; it wouldn’t be hard to stay there. She had an old car that ran well. It woudn’t be complicated.
Wednesday night, like Tuesday, she logged on: nothing. She’d lost interest in her classes, though there was an English test on Friday, and Kevin kept talking to her about it. She still couldn’t sleep; she took out the picture occasionally, still not believing that she was in love with a woman, a woman who accepted her completely and without reservation, and then disappeared entirely.
On Thursday though, Rose got on for just a few minutes. There she was; it was her; Erin could tell by the patterns, with the “omg”s, “lol”s, etc.; it was clearly her. But she was considerably less lively. There had been a fight, she said. Jeff crushed tomatoes all over her, threw the pumpkin through the window, cut her lip, hit her. He did some other damage also; she (Rose) was now at her mom’s house, while Jeff, as far as she could tell, was in jail or worse. She couldn’t talk. When Erin asked if she would be at the concert, she didn’t answer. “c u” later, she said, and she was off. It took all of a few minutes.
Erin went to the concert, alone, in spite of everything. The music was too loud, and pounded her eardrums. She thought about Rose, and all she knew; she tried to let go of it. Toward the end of the concert, she was near the entrance of the place, on her way out, when who did she see, but Roger, her first boyfriend ever, Roger the sadist. A dry, arrogant character, he walked right up to her and said hello. But then he said, “Rose says hello; she couldn’t come;” he said this, turned on his heels, and walked off into the crowd. This totally rattled Erin, and she practically broke down in a rage against him. But, as he was almost gone, disappearing, she would have had to run after him, and she didn’t. He had given no indication of who she was to him, or how he’d known her. Perhaps he was Jeff? Or he was Rose himself? Or, he had just known her, casually, as a friend? She never found out. She ended up just going back to Wisconsin, getting back to her life, moving on. Kevin was understanding, as usual; if he was in on it, she never learned how. “Rose,” he said, never reappeared in their chat. Years later, she found the picture she had kept, in an old box, but she threw it away. She heard from a friend that Roger had been in trouble with the law, and she wondered about that week; she was sure he was involved. But by then quite a bit more had happened to her also; she was different, and wondered how she’d ever come to fall in love with a chat partner, or feel the way she did, about someone she had never, in fact, even seen.
9-09
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The nurse left
The nurse left work at five o'clock. I, however, arrived at the same hospital, same parking lot, shortly after; I was in the back of an ambulance, bleeding profusely, with broken ribs and punctured lungs, being held down by three or four large emergency workers who, to their credit, were doing the best they could to save my life. The nurse, a man of average build and sandy hair, looked up briefly as he crossed the lot; I could tell he was grateful to be off work, have nothing to do with this incoming call; and, in the afternoon light, I recognized that he was the man I had been tracking down for a week and a half.
The workers scrambled inside the cramped ambulance to get the tools they needed to keep me conscious until I could be seen by an emergency room doctor. They spoke quickly, and I, not from this small town in Louisiana, had a hard time understanding their accents as I drifted off into unconsciousness. I had recognized the nurse because I was a police detective, taking time off my job in Arizona to track down a man who had fled with my sick father's identity and credit cards; I remembered clearly the day when, poring over his finances, we found a slow and steady drain from this man who moved across country, first to Florida, then here to Louisiana. It was in Florida where I first saw his picture, and that's why I had recognized him; I jerked in surprise, and that was bad for me, as now the emergency workers were struggling to save my life.
The nurse turned his back and walked off, head down, into the back of the parking lot. Months later, I was to learn that this was his last day at work; he'd quit and walked out that day, somehow knowing he was being tailed, that I was on my way to catch him, even that very day. A week and a half, through Florida, to this small town, and now I was about to nab him, but, backing out of the driveway of my motel, my car was smashed into by a police car, sirens not on, but speeding through town nonetheless. And it turned out that they, too, were tailing him, in their own way; they were on to him and his crimes, in Arizona, Florida and here; they were responding to a call he himself had made, knowing that they would all be over on the west side, while he was on the east, gathering his things and making off; and, because they suspected that it was a false call, they were communicating with each other, the various police of this small town, trading notes as they sped through the town, not noticing a small car backing out of a motel parking lot. My fatal flaw was this: the reason I didn't know what they were doing, what they knew, or where they were going, was that I was on vacation. I'd ended up here entirely on my own, following my own case, working on it myself, and I wasn't inclined to work with anyone else in the process. Now, I was paying the price. Drifting off, I knew that I had seen my man, but, now physically unable to stop him, I was being held down in the back of the ambulance, about to drift into a coma that was to last another two weeks, after which he'd be long gone, of course.
The workers scrambled inside the cramped ambulance to get the tools they needed to keep me conscious until I could be seen by an emergency room doctor. They spoke quickly, and I, not from this small town in Louisiana, had a hard time understanding their accents as I drifted off into unconsciousness. I had recognized the nurse because I was a police detective, taking time off my job in Arizona to track down a man who had fled with my sick father's identity and credit cards; I remembered clearly the day when, poring over his finances, we found a slow and steady drain from this man who moved across country, first to Florida, then here to Louisiana. It was in Florida where I first saw his picture, and that's why I had recognized him; I jerked in surprise, and that was bad for me, as now the emergency workers were struggling to save my life.
The nurse turned his back and walked off, head down, into the back of the parking lot. Months later, I was to learn that this was his last day at work; he'd quit and walked out that day, somehow knowing he was being tailed, that I was on my way to catch him, even that very day. A week and a half, through Florida, to this small town, and now I was about to nab him, but, backing out of the driveway of my motel, my car was smashed into by a police car, sirens not on, but speeding through town nonetheless. And it turned out that they, too, were tailing him, in their own way; they were on to him and his crimes, in Arizona, Florida and here; they were responding to a call he himself had made, knowing that they would all be over on the west side, while he was on the east, gathering his things and making off; and, because they suspected that it was a false call, they were communicating with each other, the various police of this small town, trading notes as they sped through the town, not noticing a small car backing out of a motel parking lot. My fatal flaw was this: the reason I didn't know what they were doing, what they knew, or where they were going, was that I was on vacation. I'd ended up here entirely on my own, following my own case, working on it myself, and I wasn't inclined to work with anyone else in the process. Now, I was paying the price. Drifting off, I knew that I had seen my man, but, now physically unable to stop him, I was being held down in the back of the ambulance, about to drift into a coma that was to last another two weeks, after which he'd be long gone, of course.
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