Ben and Jamie are brothers. Ben is eight years old, Jamie is six. Their parents are Alex and Millie. Before Ben was born, Millie suffered two miscarriages. The family lives in a modest one-story home in upstate New York. On Sunday mornings they attend mass at their community church. While the boys attend Sunday school, Millie teaches the confirmation class and Alex gives rides to the elderly and stranded. The boys go to a Catholic private school, but also participate in recreational soccer and baseball.
Ben and Jamie are close.
They have to be.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Follow me?
In my typical fashion of being extremely observant, I just noticed I have followers!
Touched I am that you would want to follow me, when I don't know where I'm going.
Don't flip though, I always take the scenic route.
If you would, however, tell me what it means to be a follower? That'd be awesome. I make better decisions when I'm well-informed.
Although I make my best decisions when I'm drunk.
More on that later.
When I'm drunk.
<3 LB
Touched I am that you would want to follow me, when I don't know where I'm going.
Don't flip though, I always take the scenic route.
If you would, however, tell me what it means to be a follower? That'd be awesome. I make better decisions when I'm well-informed.
Although I make my best decisions when I'm drunk.
More on that later.
When I'm drunk.
<3 LB
The River Rats
I love finding things on my computer that I don't remember writing. A few days ago I was telling Dorothy and Tali the story of my near demise... and look what I just found!
****
February 20, 2009
Three nights ago a charter bus carrying the Albany River Rats turned over on the Massachusetts Pike. Three of the rowdy hockey players sustained serious injuries, but all made it off with their lives in tow.
When I was nine, a hockey puck shot by a River Rat came within inches of taking my life. I haven’t been to a hockey game since.
There is an inexplicable beauty in narrowly avoiding a life threatening accident. A victorious sensation. A rush of adrenaline. The excitement that comes with cheating death. And then there is sadness. While the excitement is fleeting, the sadness is forever.
That inevitable question seeps into thoughts during quiet moments, self reflections, at the sight of random memorabilia, after a painfully familiar sound. “What if?” What if. What if…that stranger in the seat in front of me had not shot his hand up into the air, at the last moment? What if.
Would it be nothing? Or perhaps, everything.
***
Also, I just wrote a love letter to my garbage can. I miss being 14.
ALSO. This is my twelfth post. Show some love for 12!
ALSO ALSO. Update: Nelson was NOT behind the fridge, nor was he behind the stove, nor the dishwasher. Rasto, our super, thinks he's under our floor boards. Looks like the stench of good ol' Nel will be with us for quite a bit longer.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Nelson is...dead?
You may remember Nelson.
He was/is our tiny friend who likes cheese. Though I've never seen him, I know he's there. Much like Santa or the tooth fairy, he leaves evidence of his existence. However, rather than presents or money, he likes to leave little dark pellets under our sink. I've yet to discover their significance, for I refuse to touch them. Out of respect for Nelson, of course.
Nelson liked/likes Sesi the best. He visited her often, poking his tiny little head out of her curtains at night, greeting her home after a long day at work. Sometimes Sesi would scare Nelson, though, and he would scurry across the floor into his hiding place. Sesi didn't mean to scare him--she's not bigger than many things, but she's a lot bigger than Nelson.
Some nights, Nelson would be brave enough to wait for Sesi in the kitchen. Knowing she likes midnight snacks when she returns home late from the office, he'd prepare a little something for her. She would show her gratitude by running into her room, curling up in bed, and leaving the light on so Nelson could find his way home.
Nelson and I aren't as close. From what I hear, neither are he and Meghan. Sometimes, though, Nelson plays music for Meghan by scratching on her walls and stomping his feet. This lets Meghan know he's safe and close by.
This past Saturday, Sesi and I decided to be productive by getting up early and starting the day off right. We assumed Nelson was sleeping in, or had gone on vacation, since Sesi hadn't seen him in a few days. A sweet, yet foul, stench reminded us we needed to take out the trash.
Later in the day, Sesi and I returned home determined to clean house and then have a restful evening. The powerful wind and rain made us want to stay inside.
While I was cleaning dishes, Sesi was putting a DVD in the player for us to watch during dinner. She suddenly let out a piercing scream, that of a child who discovers a monster in her closet. Her steps were so quick that by the time I had turned around, she was already there, preparing to hide behind me. In a panic I had dropped the dish I was rinsing. When I didn't see a burglar or the appearance of imminent danger, I scolded her for scaring me half to death.
She managed to whisper "Nelson." I was infuriated. For starters, I thought they were friends. By observation I had learned that Sesi may not care for Nelson as much as Nelson cared for Sesi, but her scream at his presence surprised me.
While I sushed her and asked where he was, she grabbed my arm and stared in my eyes. "No. Nelson is DEAD."
Oh.
OH.
She pointed to the living room. "On the chair. Congratulations--you hate that thing, now it's gone!"
I smirked. I do hate that chair. It's broken and awkward. I'm sure in its prime it was lovely, comfortable, appealing. But next to a couch? No question.
I walked over to the chair and was immediately stopped in disgust. Keeled over on the black cushion was a large gray mouse. His little mouse eyes were closed. His little mouse arms folded on his little mouse chest. He wasn't sleeping. He was dead.
"Also..." Sesi called from ten feet away in the kitchen. "That's not Nelson."
Her descriptions of Nelson came back to me. "Really? Are you sure?"
She nodded her head vehemently. "Yes. Nelson is brown. And small. That thing is not Nelson."
"Well, that's good!"
She gave me a wary look.
"Not good?" I asked.
She used her head to point behind her.
"I don't get it," I said.
She knocked on the wall.
"Still nope."
"I think he's in there," she said. The sweet stench returned.
"Oh God."
"MHMM!" she exclaimed. "Nelson."
***
To be continued...after we move our fridge.
He was/is our tiny friend who likes cheese. Though I've never seen him, I know he's there. Much like Santa or the tooth fairy, he leaves evidence of his existence. However, rather than presents or money, he likes to leave little dark pellets under our sink. I've yet to discover their significance, for I refuse to touch them. Out of respect for Nelson, of course.
Nelson liked/likes Sesi the best. He visited her often, poking his tiny little head out of her curtains at night, greeting her home after a long day at work. Sometimes Sesi would scare Nelson, though, and he would scurry across the floor into his hiding place. Sesi didn't mean to scare him--she's not bigger than many things, but she's a lot bigger than Nelson.
Some nights, Nelson would be brave enough to wait for Sesi in the kitchen. Knowing she likes midnight snacks when she returns home late from the office, he'd prepare a little something for her. She would show her gratitude by running into her room, curling up in bed, and leaving the light on so Nelson could find his way home.
Nelson and I aren't as close. From what I hear, neither are he and Meghan. Sometimes, though, Nelson plays music for Meghan by scratching on her walls and stomping his feet. This lets Meghan know he's safe and close by.
This past Saturday, Sesi and I decided to be productive by getting up early and starting the day off right. We assumed Nelson was sleeping in, or had gone on vacation, since Sesi hadn't seen him in a few days. A sweet, yet foul, stench reminded us we needed to take out the trash.
Later in the day, Sesi and I returned home determined to clean house and then have a restful evening. The powerful wind and rain made us want to stay inside.
While I was cleaning dishes, Sesi was putting a DVD in the player for us to watch during dinner. She suddenly let out a piercing scream, that of a child who discovers a monster in her closet. Her steps were so quick that by the time I had turned around, she was already there, preparing to hide behind me. In a panic I had dropped the dish I was rinsing. When I didn't see a burglar or the appearance of imminent danger, I scolded her for scaring me half to death.
She managed to whisper "Nelson." I was infuriated. For starters, I thought they were friends. By observation I had learned that Sesi may not care for Nelson as much as Nelson cared for Sesi, but her scream at his presence surprised me.
While I sushed her and asked where he was, she grabbed my arm and stared in my eyes. "No. Nelson is DEAD."
Oh.
OH.
She pointed to the living room. "On the chair. Congratulations--you hate that thing, now it's gone!"
I smirked. I do hate that chair. It's broken and awkward. I'm sure in its prime it was lovely, comfortable, appealing. But next to a couch? No question.
I walked over to the chair and was immediately stopped in disgust. Keeled over on the black cushion was a large gray mouse. His little mouse eyes were closed. His little mouse arms folded on his little mouse chest. He wasn't sleeping. He was dead.
"Also..." Sesi called from ten feet away in the kitchen. "That's not Nelson."
Her descriptions of Nelson came back to me. "Really? Are you sure?"
She nodded her head vehemently. "Yes. Nelson is brown. And small. That thing is not Nelson."
"Well, that's good!"
She gave me a wary look.
"Not good?" I asked.
She used her head to point behind her.
"I don't get it," I said.
She knocked on the wall.
"Still nope."
"I think he's in there," she said. The sweet stench returned.
"Oh God."
"MHMM!" she exclaimed. "Nelson."
***
To be continued...after we move our fridge.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Into the Wild
When I first heard about the Amazon Kindle digital reader, I was a skeptic; there is such magic in holding a book close to you—smelling the musty pages of a worn favorite, the factory stench of a new release—running a finger along a crisp page, preparing to turn before finishing the sentence you’re reading—losing a post-it, a ticket stub, a receipt among the pages meant to mark a meaningful passage, and finding both the item and the meaning at a later date—falling asleep with an open spine across your chest, words seeping into your dreams, waking in the morning to a waiting story. How can you not love a book? So yes, when I first heard of the Kindle, I shunned the idea.
But now, I admit, I have fallen in love with my classy white digital book reader. The space for 10,000 books, but the weight of barely one, travels everywhere I go. The instantaneous satisfaction that comes when hearing of a new book and having it in your hands seconds later…is almost unimaginable. The freedom to choose books based on moods, yet to carry them all with you at once, is gratifying.
I still love my books. I love studying them on my bookshelf, quantifying all the words read. I love flipping, not clicking, to a desired page. But I love reading more. And that, I have learned, is not because of the smell, the weight, the feel of the pages, or the title on the shelf—it is because of the words.
************
I recently finished reading Into the Wild by John Kraukauer. Into Thin Air has been sitting on my dad’s bookshelf for years, but I’ve never once thought to pick it up. I’ve seen Into the Wild dozens of times in the bookstore, but never really given it a second glance. So why I suddenly became interested in the story of Chris McCandless, I don’t really understand.
I found myself consumed by his life and death. His desire to rid himself of all that is meaningless, his frustration with superficial values and company, his simultaneous pursuit of grandeur and simplicity…these are all feelings I find familiar.
And yet, his curiosity, his naivety, his “fuck-you” to civilization led to his death—a death that was neither sought nor necessary. A death that, besides bringing his story to the forefront, did not change the world in any way. Nor did his end provide the salvation McCandless sought, for he died a long, painful, and extremely avoidable death.
Beyond the relatable story of Chris McCandless (except for the whole ‘live in the Alaskan Bush, eat moldy potato seeds and die’ thing), Kraukauer presented some noteworthy literary quotations throughout his book.
“Wilderness appealed to those bored or disgusted with man and his works. It not only offered an escape from society but also was an ideal stage for the Romantic individual to exercise the cult that he frequently made of his own soul. The solitude and total freedom of the wilderness created a perfect setting for either melancholy or exultation.”
--Roderick Nash, Wilderness and the American Mind
How true. How amazing it feels to sit on the summit of a mountain, to lay down in overgrown grass, to crack sticks beneath your steps in the woods…to be free from cars and buildings and money…to walk in silence among pictures that could have existed thousands of years before your existence, exactly as they appear before you. To take a deep breath and inhale nothing but fresh air. To yell at the top of your lungs and receive only an echo for an answer. To smile for the sake of smiling—to think for the purity of thought. To be a philosopher, no less important than those granted fame by the circumstance that they came first. The wilderness definitely appeals to the wandering mind. But it can also drown you in solemnity. Remind you of how alone you are in the world. Break your spirit as you try to match its power.
“McCandless was candid with Stuckey about his intent to spend the summer alone in the bush, living off the land. ‘He said it was something he’d wanted to do since he was little,’ says Stuckey. ‘Said he didn’t want to see a single person, no airplanes, no sign of civilization. He wanted to prove to himself that he could make it on his own, without anybody else’s help.’”
--John Kraukauer, Into the Wild
Here is where the connection is drawn between McCandless and every other human being. The strife of making it on our own, to prove not to them, but to ourselves, that we have what it takes. The tragedy of McCandless’s story is that he DID have what it took to make it in the most dire of circumstances. When he met his end, he was less than a mile from a camp where he could have found rescue. Unaware of this, he died alone, not because the harsh elements of an Alaskan summer did him in—but because he stupidly ingested an undetected toxin that stripped his body of all nutrition, rendering him weak and starved. Had he avoided that toxin, eaten seeds that were without it, he would most likely be alive today.
I, as stated in my last entry, dove head first into a challenge—not to impress others, but to impress myself. Sick of backing off out of fear, I ignored all warning signs, all thoughts of doubt, all indicators that I was not ready for the path I had chosen to follow. It cost me an entire year, most of my sanity, and a large part of my ego—but I made it out alive. I didn’t prove to myself that I could make it on my own. In fact, I proved the opposite. I proved the need for a support network, social time, friends and family. I proved that nothing is worth the pain I felt, no matter how prestigious, original, or philosophical it might seem.
“Oh, how one wishes sometimes to escape from the meaningless dullness of human eloquence, from all those sublime phrases, to take refuge in nature, apparently so inarticulate, or in the wordlessness of long, grinding labor, of sound sleep, of true music, or of a human understanding rendered speechless by emotion!
…And so it turned out that only a life similar to the life of those around us, merging with it without a ripple, is genuine life, and that an unshared happiness is not happiness…And this was most vexing of all.”
--Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago
The greatest lesson. For McCandless, it was too late learned. For myself, just in time. I found it utterly impossible to be happy without the happiness of others around me. I found it insanely frustrating to be happy without anyone to share with. I once thought grades, jobs, things, money, prestige, fame were ways to happiness. In the last two years I have discovered that while these things may accelerate celebrations, they are not the cause nor the sustainer of true bliss. People, friends, family, idols…these are what harbor happiness. These are what make life worth living.
But now, I admit, I have fallen in love with my classy white digital book reader. The space for 10,000 books, but the weight of barely one, travels everywhere I go. The instantaneous satisfaction that comes when hearing of a new book and having it in your hands seconds later…is almost unimaginable. The freedom to choose books based on moods, yet to carry them all with you at once, is gratifying.
I still love my books. I love studying them on my bookshelf, quantifying all the words read. I love flipping, not clicking, to a desired page. But I love reading more. And that, I have learned, is not because of the smell, the weight, the feel of the pages, or the title on the shelf—it is because of the words.
************
I recently finished reading Into the Wild by John Kraukauer. Into Thin Air has been sitting on my dad’s bookshelf for years, but I’ve never once thought to pick it up. I’ve seen Into the Wild dozens of times in the bookstore, but never really given it a second glance. So why I suddenly became interested in the story of Chris McCandless, I don’t really understand.
I found myself consumed by his life and death. His desire to rid himself of all that is meaningless, his frustration with superficial values and company, his simultaneous pursuit of grandeur and simplicity…these are all feelings I find familiar.
And yet, his curiosity, his naivety, his “fuck-you” to civilization led to his death—a death that was neither sought nor necessary. A death that, besides bringing his story to the forefront, did not change the world in any way. Nor did his end provide the salvation McCandless sought, for he died a long, painful, and extremely avoidable death.
Beyond the relatable story of Chris McCandless (except for the whole ‘live in the Alaskan Bush, eat moldy potato seeds and die’ thing), Kraukauer presented some noteworthy literary quotations throughout his book.
“Wilderness appealed to those bored or disgusted with man and his works. It not only offered an escape from society but also was an ideal stage for the Romantic individual to exercise the cult that he frequently made of his own soul. The solitude and total freedom of the wilderness created a perfect setting for either melancholy or exultation.”
--Roderick Nash, Wilderness and the American Mind
How true. How amazing it feels to sit on the summit of a mountain, to lay down in overgrown grass, to crack sticks beneath your steps in the woods…to be free from cars and buildings and money…to walk in silence among pictures that could have existed thousands of years before your existence, exactly as they appear before you. To take a deep breath and inhale nothing but fresh air. To yell at the top of your lungs and receive only an echo for an answer. To smile for the sake of smiling—to think for the purity of thought. To be a philosopher, no less important than those granted fame by the circumstance that they came first. The wilderness definitely appeals to the wandering mind. But it can also drown you in solemnity. Remind you of how alone you are in the world. Break your spirit as you try to match its power.
“McCandless was candid with Stuckey about his intent to spend the summer alone in the bush, living off the land. ‘He said it was something he’d wanted to do since he was little,’ says Stuckey. ‘Said he didn’t want to see a single person, no airplanes, no sign of civilization. He wanted to prove to himself that he could make it on his own, without anybody else’s help.’”
--John Kraukauer, Into the Wild
Here is where the connection is drawn between McCandless and every other human being. The strife of making it on our own, to prove not to them, but to ourselves, that we have what it takes. The tragedy of McCandless’s story is that he DID have what it took to make it in the most dire of circumstances. When he met his end, he was less than a mile from a camp where he could have found rescue. Unaware of this, he died alone, not because the harsh elements of an Alaskan summer did him in—but because he stupidly ingested an undetected toxin that stripped his body of all nutrition, rendering him weak and starved. Had he avoided that toxin, eaten seeds that were without it, he would most likely be alive today.
I, as stated in my last entry, dove head first into a challenge—not to impress others, but to impress myself. Sick of backing off out of fear, I ignored all warning signs, all thoughts of doubt, all indicators that I was not ready for the path I had chosen to follow. It cost me an entire year, most of my sanity, and a large part of my ego—but I made it out alive. I didn’t prove to myself that I could make it on my own. In fact, I proved the opposite. I proved the need for a support network, social time, friends and family. I proved that nothing is worth the pain I felt, no matter how prestigious, original, or philosophical it might seem.
“Oh, how one wishes sometimes to escape from the meaningless dullness of human eloquence, from all those sublime phrases, to take refuge in nature, apparently so inarticulate, or in the wordlessness of long, grinding labor, of sound sleep, of true music, or of a human understanding rendered speechless by emotion!
…And so it turned out that only a life similar to the life of those around us, merging with it without a ripple, is genuine life, and that an unshared happiness is not happiness…And this was most vexing of all.”
--Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago
The greatest lesson. For McCandless, it was too late learned. For myself, just in time. I found it utterly impossible to be happy without the happiness of others around me. I found it insanely frustrating to be happy without anyone to share with. I once thought grades, jobs, things, money, prestige, fame were ways to happiness. In the last two years I have discovered that while these things may accelerate celebrations, they are not the cause nor the sustainer of true bliss. People, friends, family, idols…these are what harbor happiness. These are what make life worth living.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
A Solemn Reminder
Today I was cleaning out my Google Reader Feed when I came across my old blog on LJ. I haven't updated it in over two years. It was largely an outlet for incoherent thoughts--a place to procrastinate when I was feeling silly.
Two entries in particular jumped out at me. If words could physically move you, I'm sure I would have fallen out of my chair.
I don't know what's more disturbing--the fact that these words are still true 2 1/2 years after the fact...or the fact that I seemed to have known...all along...that I was making a mistake.
See below:
**********************************************************************************
Una Domanda
Monday, October 15, 2007, 12:18:01 AM
What would happen if I failed?
Like really failed.
It's always the beginning
Sunday, September 23, 2007, 5:41:37 PM
Inevitably, I keep stumbling upon the same realization over and over again: I don't know who I am or where I'm headed.
The more time I devote to discovering answers to these questions, the more confused I become. I try to begin with my likes versus my dislikes. This should keep things simple and organized. The main problem here is that I don't even know what I really like anymore. I'm finding that my opinions are easily influenced by those of others around me. I admire strength in others, but feel it is lacking in my own life.
Perhaps I'm being too philosophical about everything, missing what is right in front of me while looking for the big picture.
What I fear is that I'm really losing myself in this world. I used to pride myself in knowing that I hadn't yet discovered my identity. Now I am questioning whether that pride was an excuse to stop looking. Perhaps I've always believed that my destiny would find me--that is the whole point of destiny, isn't it?
I don't know what I believe in. I desperately wish it were clearer to me.
My thoughts go round in circles. I cannot explain my reasoning to anyone. I remember for what I used to be passionate, but I forget the whenwherewhyhow.
I never wished more that I could go back in time, or at least stop it from moving forward.
The future--the real future--the future that comes after school--is in sight. I have never been so afraid of making a colossal mistake.
I don't want to go down the wrong path. I don't even know if there is a right path.
Teenage me was incredibly adamant about going to grad school right after undergrad--finishing my education as soon as possible in order to begin my "real" life. Just that I thought this way says so much about how I feel about school--while I love learning, it doesn't feel like living. I've been waiting for life to begin. I've been hiding behind homework. I can't picture what life without grades will look like.
Part of me wants to make teenage me proud--to go onto grad school, to be one of those people who knows what she wants and to achieve it at a young age. The rest of me knows that I have no idea, or at least incredibly mixed ideas about where I see myself in the future--so how could I possibly justify spending three or four more years and countless dollars on training...for something that confuses me so?I don't want to be a screw-up.
I don't want to be unhappy. I want to be great. I want to be successful. I want to be loved.
This is not the first time I've had these thoughts. It's a dysfunctional cycle. I come to the same conclusions, but I never do anything to change the process. I think I have no clue how to change things. I think I am too scared.
Applying to Teach For America is scaring the hell out of me. That's partly why I'm doing it. I'm not sure I actually believe I'm capable of teaching children one year from now. But at some point, I need to stop doing things that I know I can do, and start doing things that will challenge me. I guess that's the only way to grow...
I'm taking a web class for my journalism-media major. It makes me want to buy laurenbaideme.com. I want a blog. I want to use it to write about my interests. Maybe this will help me categorize and get to know myself better. It seems silly, doesn't it? But it also seems like it might be fun. I need something creative in my life that has nothing to do with homework. Maybe this can be it.
Of course, I'm not actually going to buy laurenbaideme.com. That requires money. For now I'll just use LJ.
I'm not sure if anyone will read this--if you do, feel free to throw your 2-cents in. Similar concerns--useful strategies--comments of any and all kinds.
KIT
LB
**********************************************************************************
I think I just found the beginning of my book. Thoughts?
<3
LB
Two entries in particular jumped out at me. If words could physically move you, I'm sure I would have fallen out of my chair.
I don't know what's more disturbing--the fact that these words are still true 2 1/2 years after the fact...or the fact that I seemed to have known...all along...that I was making a mistake.
See below:
**********************************************************************************
Una Domanda
Monday, October 15, 2007, 12:18:01 AM
What would happen if I failed?
Like really failed.
It's always the beginning
Sunday, September 23, 2007, 5:41:37 PM
Inevitably, I keep stumbling upon the same realization over and over again: I don't know who I am or where I'm headed.
The more time I devote to discovering answers to these questions, the more confused I become. I try to begin with my likes versus my dislikes. This should keep things simple and organized. The main problem here is that I don't even know what I really like anymore. I'm finding that my opinions are easily influenced by those of others around me. I admire strength in others, but feel it is lacking in my own life.
Perhaps I'm being too philosophical about everything, missing what is right in front of me while looking for the big picture.
What I fear is that I'm really losing myself in this world. I used to pride myself in knowing that I hadn't yet discovered my identity. Now I am questioning whether that pride was an excuse to stop looking. Perhaps I've always believed that my destiny would find me--that is the whole point of destiny, isn't it?
I don't know what I believe in. I desperately wish it were clearer to me.
My thoughts go round in circles. I cannot explain my reasoning to anyone. I remember for what I used to be passionate, but I forget the whenwherewhyhow.
I never wished more that I could go back in time, or at least stop it from moving forward.
The future--the real future--the future that comes after school--is in sight. I have never been so afraid of making a colossal mistake.
I don't want to go down the wrong path. I don't even know if there is a right path.
Teenage me was incredibly adamant about going to grad school right after undergrad--finishing my education as soon as possible in order to begin my "real" life. Just that I thought this way says so much about how I feel about school--while I love learning, it doesn't feel like living. I've been waiting for life to begin. I've been hiding behind homework. I can't picture what life without grades will look like.
Part of me wants to make teenage me proud--to go onto grad school, to be one of those people who knows what she wants and to achieve it at a young age. The rest of me knows that I have no idea, or at least incredibly mixed ideas about where I see myself in the future--so how could I possibly justify spending three or four more years and countless dollars on training...for something that confuses me so?I don't want to be a screw-up.
I don't want to be unhappy. I want to be great. I want to be successful. I want to be loved.
This is not the first time I've had these thoughts. It's a dysfunctional cycle. I come to the same conclusions, but I never do anything to change the process. I think I have no clue how to change things. I think I am too scared.
Applying to Teach For America is scaring the hell out of me. That's partly why I'm doing it. I'm not sure I actually believe I'm capable of teaching children one year from now. But at some point, I need to stop doing things that I know I can do, and start doing things that will challenge me. I guess that's the only way to grow...
I'm taking a web class for my journalism-media major. It makes me want to buy laurenbaideme.com. I want a blog. I want to use it to write about my interests. Maybe this will help me categorize and get to know myself better. It seems silly, doesn't it? But it also seems like it might be fun. I need something creative in my life that has nothing to do with homework. Maybe this can be it.
Of course, I'm not actually going to buy laurenbaideme.com. That requires money. For now I'll just use LJ.
I'm not sure if anyone will read this--if you do, feel free to throw your 2-cents in. Similar concerns--useful strategies--comments of any and all kinds.
KIT
LB
**********************************************************************************
I think I just found the beginning of my book. Thoughts?
<3
LB
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Dream to Sleep
I never remember falling asleep. Even though laws of sequence, cause and effect mandate that there must be a final conscious thought before the transition into a state of unawareness, it is never memorable. Perhaps memory collapses into sleep before the stream of consciousness follows suit, eliciting an ever-transient period of time (maybe minutes, maybe seconds) when you are still thinking, but not registering for later retrieval. What a disappointment to be laying awake, eyes closed and body curled, actively trying to fall asleep. As long as you’re trying, you know it’s not coming anytime soon. Try as you may to locate the moment when you feel yourself drift off into Neverland, if you are aware enough to feel the drift, you inadvertently break the sequence. Awake again.
When this process, falling asleep, works effortlessly, it is a magic. Lucky ones don’t realize this magic until waking in the morning—able to consciously appreciate that, though no memory of it exists, they must have fallen asleep.
But the process isn’t flawless.
Decades, centuries…millennia have passed with tortured, sleepless nights haunting the undeserved. Tossing. Turning. Counting sheep. Mumbling. Sighing. Stretching limbs. Shifting. Cursing. Midnight snacks.
And then what of dreaming? That mystical version of life that steals you away to a part of your subconscious you cannot control—finding your collapsed memory, taking hold of it, twisting it, shaping it, mangling it, ripping it to shreds so that only scraps of the story remain upon waking, if any at all. All while you lay lifeless, peaceful, still. The horrors, the happiness, the sorrows, the fantasies, seeming within reach but having no bearing on reality—presenting no threat to your existence—no risk of rejection, injury, or failure. Dreaming is fantastical—when you are asleep.
I was drifting…I could sense that. I was still in control of my body, though—still able to flutter my eyelids and let the world reenter, if I chose to do so. I assessed my comfort level, sighing into my pillow. My right cheek was warm against a crease in my blanket. My arms wrapped around a pillow, providing a sense of security I had grown to need. My toes tingled. My consciousness dispersed ever so slowly…
Present again. My hands were numb. They felt cold and lifeless, as if they had fallen asleep before the rest of me. Suddenly I was frightened. I was flipped on my other side without moving. My old roommate (now I lived alone) was crouched by the side of my bed, her head leaning in toward mine. Her face was dark but her eyes glowed. “You’re about to enter Hell!” she hissed. I strained to shake myself awake. My eyes were open. She was gone. A dream? She looked so real. I could almost touch her.
I was on my back, my hands at my sides, staring at the white ceiling. A faraway buzzing noise, like the hum of a beehive, located itself somewhere above me. A small yellow point of light appeared on my ceiling over the foot of my bed. It grew bigger. It swirled with color, orange, red, purple, green—it was soon the size of a basketball, round and tangible. It hovered high above my feet, the buzzing now more prominent. I stared in awe. Then it moved rapidly toward me, the buzzing growing louder as the blob got closer, changing its shape from round to flat and back again with fluid movement…like a drop of oil in a glass of water. Before I could shield myself it was on top of me, pressing on my chest, smothering me, pushing the life out of me. The buzzing was everywhere. A loud, explosive sound muting my thoughts. I struggled to push the blob off of me, but I couldn’t move my arms. They were plastered to my sides, as my legs were to the mattress. My head vibrated in paralyzed fear.
Suddenly it was gone. The room was empty. Silence. I used my hands to pull the blanket up to my chin. Despite my new ability to move, I was frozen with fear. I contemplated making a run for it—escaping whatever evil entity that was trying to steal me. I could slip into my suitemate’s room. Explain to her what had happened. What time was it, anyway?
I couldn’t get up if I wanted to. I stared at the spot on the ceiling where it had all began. Impossible. But so real. My eyes had been open. I had been looking at my room. It had all happened right in front of me.
And yet, my body had been rendered motionless. I remembered my hands. The numbness. As if they had fallen asleep before my mind had. Could it have been a dream? Could part of my mind have been asleep, while the other, the perceiver, the eyes, the ears, the nerves…remained awake? Present? Able to…remember?
I remained alert for what seemed like hours, lying still, afraid to close my eyes. Every few minutes I flexed my hands, refusing to let them surrender to fatigue. When the sunlight fell on the back of my eyelids in the morning and I woke in a new, more natural position, I knew I had fallen asleep. I couldn’t remember how…
As it was supposed to be.
When this process, falling asleep, works effortlessly, it is a magic. Lucky ones don’t realize this magic until waking in the morning—able to consciously appreciate that, though no memory of it exists, they must have fallen asleep.
But the process isn’t flawless.
Decades, centuries…millennia have passed with tortured, sleepless nights haunting the undeserved. Tossing. Turning. Counting sheep. Mumbling. Sighing. Stretching limbs. Shifting. Cursing. Midnight snacks.
And then what of dreaming? That mystical version of life that steals you away to a part of your subconscious you cannot control—finding your collapsed memory, taking hold of it, twisting it, shaping it, mangling it, ripping it to shreds so that only scraps of the story remain upon waking, if any at all. All while you lay lifeless, peaceful, still. The horrors, the happiness, the sorrows, the fantasies, seeming within reach but having no bearing on reality—presenting no threat to your existence—no risk of rejection, injury, or failure. Dreaming is fantastical—when you are asleep.
I was drifting…I could sense that. I was still in control of my body, though—still able to flutter my eyelids and let the world reenter, if I chose to do so. I assessed my comfort level, sighing into my pillow. My right cheek was warm against a crease in my blanket. My arms wrapped around a pillow, providing a sense of security I had grown to need. My toes tingled. My consciousness dispersed ever so slowly…
Present again. My hands were numb. They felt cold and lifeless, as if they had fallen asleep before the rest of me. Suddenly I was frightened. I was flipped on my other side without moving. My old roommate (now I lived alone) was crouched by the side of my bed, her head leaning in toward mine. Her face was dark but her eyes glowed. “You’re about to enter Hell!” she hissed. I strained to shake myself awake. My eyes were open. She was gone. A dream? She looked so real. I could almost touch her.
I was on my back, my hands at my sides, staring at the white ceiling. A faraway buzzing noise, like the hum of a beehive, located itself somewhere above me. A small yellow point of light appeared on my ceiling over the foot of my bed. It grew bigger. It swirled with color, orange, red, purple, green—it was soon the size of a basketball, round and tangible. It hovered high above my feet, the buzzing now more prominent. I stared in awe. Then it moved rapidly toward me, the buzzing growing louder as the blob got closer, changing its shape from round to flat and back again with fluid movement…like a drop of oil in a glass of water. Before I could shield myself it was on top of me, pressing on my chest, smothering me, pushing the life out of me. The buzzing was everywhere. A loud, explosive sound muting my thoughts. I struggled to push the blob off of me, but I couldn’t move my arms. They were plastered to my sides, as my legs were to the mattress. My head vibrated in paralyzed fear.
Suddenly it was gone. The room was empty. Silence. I used my hands to pull the blanket up to my chin. Despite my new ability to move, I was frozen with fear. I contemplated making a run for it—escaping whatever evil entity that was trying to steal me. I could slip into my suitemate’s room. Explain to her what had happened. What time was it, anyway?
I couldn’t get up if I wanted to. I stared at the spot on the ceiling where it had all began. Impossible. But so real. My eyes had been open. I had been looking at my room. It had all happened right in front of me.
And yet, my body had been rendered motionless. I remembered my hands. The numbness. As if they had fallen asleep before my mind had. Could it have been a dream? Could part of my mind have been asleep, while the other, the perceiver, the eyes, the ears, the nerves…remained awake? Present? Able to…remember?
I remained alert for what seemed like hours, lying still, afraid to close my eyes. Every few minutes I flexed my hands, refusing to let them surrender to fatigue. When the sunlight fell on the back of my eyelids in the morning and I woke in a new, more natural position, I knew I had fallen asleep. I couldn’t remember how…
As it was supposed to be.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Mary Ruth
Mary Ruth looked as if she could be 102 years-old, with brittle salt-and-pepper hair resting on her broad, yet feeble, shoulders. When she was upright she nearly reached six feet tall, and that was discounting the intricately decorated ladies hat she wore atop her head. An infinite amount of wrinkles pinched her skin, and yet, something about her was youthful. Her face was so perfectly structured that through thinly squinted eyes, you could almost see back into her younger days, when she was no doubt a stunningly beautiful woman. As I stared, I wondered in what decade she had been my age. As she gazed back at me, I swore her eyes revealed that she was imagining the same thing—viewing her younger self through my eyes—the young girl that she would always identify with.
In the day and a half I had been at the hospital, I had managed to eat alone at every meal. Well, I managed to sit alone, as I can’t say that I did much eating. The same shyness that consumed me on the first day of junior high school found me in the lunchroom on the 8th floor of Lennox Hill, as I kept my eyes down on my “food.” But when Mary Ruth entered the cafeteria on this day, there were no more empty tables, and mine was the only one lacking conversation. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her making her way over to my table, moving slowly, her strides no longer as confident or stable as they once were. Instinct told me to keep my eyes down—that if I didn’t make eye contact, she would feel uncomfortable and choose another table. Manners told me to meet her gaze, to smile and welcome her, insist that she join me. The internal battle lasted only a few seconds, as I’ve never been good at being impolite.
I reached for my water glass, lifting it to take a sip, allowing for my eyes to smoothly transition to hers without abruptly acknowledging her presence. I swallowed, pressing two fingertips to my lips signifying that I wanted to speak, but was delayed for just a moment. I set my glass down and smiled. Finding no words, I tilted my head toward the empty chair and nodded.
“You don’t mind if an old bitty like me joins you for lunch?” She crooned. She hesitated over the chair, clearly waiting to set down her tray.
“Not at all,” my better half replied. “Please, have a seat.” A huge grin overtook her wrinkles, and I felt instantly rewarded to have put it there. Her shaky arms lowered her lunch tray to the table, and her shaky body followed suit until she was seated across from me, the grin still prominent. Social Skills 101 replayed through my head and I was instantly “on.” While lifting my fork and picking at the blue Jello mold on my plate, I introduced myself. “My name is Lauren. I just got here yesterday.” She smiled and nodded as she uncovered her tray (when I first arrived, the plastic dome covers on the food trays enthused me—until I realized they didn’t protect anything worth excitement). When she didn’t speak, I hesitated. Maybe I had been wrong about her desire to engage in conversation. Maybe she was hoping to find an empty table herself, and I had been the next best option—a quiet girl at a table who clearly wanted to have nothing to do with anyone else. For a moment I thought about reverting to my introversion and ignoring her. But she had interrupted me, and I was on autopilot. I couldn’t stop myself if I tried. “What is your name?” I continued to play with the Jello, feigning disinterest.
She kept her eyes down on her food, but smiled. She glanced up to meet my eyes and cleared her throat. “My name is Mary Ruth, dear.” Her eyes were back on her plate but the smile was still there.
“Mary Ruth,” I repeated. Mary Ruth. What a perfect name for the oldest woman in the world. I imagined a faded black and white photo, slightly sepia due to antiquity, curled at the edges, a small baby girl in a lace gown and a day cap, Baby Mary Ruth sprawled in delicate cursive on the back.
She shook her head in instant denial. “My girlfriends call me Ruth.” Her voice was excited, and I took it as an invitation. I nodded, while conjuring images of her and her girlfriends sipping tea around a bridge table, serving finger sandwiches on silver trays, discussing their adult children’s pastimes and laughing delicately at one another’s jokes.
“Ruth, then,” I corrected. We both grinned. And my smile faded as I realized I had nothing else. I had a million questions I wanted to ask. Why are you here, Ruth? How long have you been here? Who visits you? How old are you? Will I be here until I’m your age? None of them seemed appropriate, and my manners won again. I defaulted to a social trick I learned at an early age. When lacking anything deeper, use superficial cues to drive the conversation. “Your hat is beautiful, Ruth.” And it was. The hat not only looked out of this decade, but out of the last century. The wide circular rim and the round bucket were a pretty pale green. A purple ribbon wrapped around the crease where the rim and the bucket met, tying into a bow in the back. A small bouquet of brightly colored dried flowers was tucked into the ribbon on the right side.
At the hat’s mention, Mary Ruth looked upwards and touched her fingers slightly to the rim, as if to remind herself that it was still there. “Thank you!” she exclaimed, appearing thoroughly complimented. Her fingers fell slowly to her face. As she touched her cheek, her smile faded to a pained grin. I looked behind a cloudy cover into her blue-gray eyes, which took us both to another world. I felt her sorrow as nostalgia emanated from her gaze. Her hand still on her cheek, she turned slowly toward me and looked as if she might cry. She pursed her lips and shook her head as if to push down whatever negative thoughts were surfacing. She let her hand fall to the table and met it with her other. “You know,” she began, “my father was a milliner!”
My blank look must have given my ignorance away. Either because she expected a reaction as enthused as her statement had been, or because she suddenly realized the age gap. She laughed a healthy laugh and reached for my hand. She gently pressed her cold fingers to the top of my hand and leaned across the table. “You have no idea what a milliner is, do you?”
I didn’t. My first thought was milliner—like mill, as in some sort of construction or farm. But that truly would have lost me, because I could find no connection between mills and hats, at least one derived by a sane train of thought. “Umm,” I hesitated, not wanting to appear stupid, but doing just that. “No, I don’t,” I admitted.
She clapped her hands once as if she had just stumbled upon some great joy and was delighted to find it. “Well,” she started, “a milliner is a hat maker! A hatter, if you will.” An image of the boy who played the Mad Hatter in my fifth grade production of Alice in Wonderland flashed in my mind’s eye. My automatic look of understanding must have pleased her, because she continued emphatically. “My father was a creative man. His hands were so gentle, so precise. The millinery, his shop, was on the first floor of our house. We were lucky enough to live in town.” She was staring into space, living in her memories. I listened, eagerly growing interested. “Did you ever watch the Little House on the Prairie?”
Did I ever! “I was obsessed with that show! I used to want to be Laura Ingalls Wilder.” I felt warm.
“Our town looked like Walnut Grove, and everyone knew our family. My father’s hats were coveted by all the lady folk. He also tailored men’s suits and fixed dresses for the women. He was very good.” It was clear that Ruth loved her father, missed him terribly.
I asked what I thought was a safe, simple question. “Where did you live, Ruth?”
She refocused her eyes to shoot me a strange look. A sly grin overtook her face. “Don’t be silly!” she exclaimed. She laughed and replayed the funny joke over in her head.
Okay, Ruth…I chuckled in my head. I suppose speaking with someone who had probably seen both world wars and was currently in a psychiatric ward warranted its fair share of crazy. “Oh I’m sorry,” I apologized, though I wasn’t sure for what.
She nodded in acceptance. Her eyes closed. She continued. “Daddy seemed to favor me to my brothers, who were always causing trouble in school and getting in his way in the shop. Before Grace died, he used to take us with him to the shop and let us help to pick out the ribbons, feathers, and beads for the hats.”
I wanted to ask who Grace was, but I didn’t. To satisfy my curiosity I decided to believe it was her older sister. Mary Ruth and Mary Grace, perhaps.
“Then when Grace died, I wasn’t allowed in the shop for more than a year. At the time it made me angry. Everything changed. Everyone was sad. Mother didn’t let me help with the house chores because she said I was too wild.” She laughed at herself again. “She meant that I loved to play in the dirt with the boys. When Sam let me, I’d wear his overalls out in the yard. Not too many girls could get away with that then.” Ruth placed both her hands on her hat and straightened it out. With the hat she looked like a proper lady, but I could see the tom-boyish spirit behind her eyes. I just then noticed the hospital gown she was wearing. She couldn’t have been here longer than a day, two at most. They were supposed to give you your clothes back after your first visit with the doctor. It took persistence on my part to convince an orderly to open my locker and retrieve my things for me, just that morning. She looked vulnerable and even frailer in her smock. I empathized. I wondered how she was able to keep her hat, imagining some supernatural bonding.
“When I was about twelve years old, Daddy took me on as his apprentice. Every day after school, he would give me lessons in weaving, sewing, and gluing. When I had advanced, he let me design, finding in me a talent for sketching.”
I debated whether to speak. She was swept up in her story, and I was fascinated. But now she sat, her voice paused, her thoughts in this past world. I bit my lip and returned my gaze to my mostly uneaten plate of food. I decided to go for it.
“Ruth, did you make the hat you are wearing now?” I forced my eyes to meet hers, wondering if she would think me silly again.
She didn’t come back from her other world, a brightness in her eyes focused in the invisible distance. “No, Dear,” she responded softly. “I haven’t made a hat since 1922. That’s the year Daddy died.” She was quiet.
I shivered, and then replayed her story in my head. 1922, her father died. She was twelve when he taught her to make hats. The latest she could have been born was...1910, which would make her at least…98 years old! I watched her in disbelief. Could she really be that old? Sure her face was weathered and experienced, her body frail, her voice ancient and cracked…but she was young. She was with it. She could walk, slowly, but surely. She could converse, reminisce, only the slightest of quirks revealing themselves. Then again…maybe the entire thing was made up? Maybe she had created a world surrounded by her favorite hat, where she could live behind her eyelids with her loved ones and be happy in her old age. I had, in fact, no idea why she was sitting across from my on the 8th floor of Lennox Hill. I had snapped. Maybe she had too—not from a sane person into a crazy one—but from a real person into a fictional one. My thoughts got away from me. Mary Ruth watched my face.
“I didn’t have many girlfriends when I was younger,” she said. This was an unexpected turn.
“Why not?” I encouraged her to explain.
“Well,” she laughed embarrassedly, as if she hadn’t meant to reveal this truth to me. “I suppose they didn’t like me very much. I was odd.”
I could see that. She was odd. Not in a frightening way, though. I considered telling her about my girlfriends. I was lucky in that department. Even though I hadn’t spoken to most of them in months, they were my sisters. They would enjoy hearing about Mary Ruth.
“Lauren,” she began. I got Goosebumps when she spoke my name. I knew I had introduced myself, but she seemed so disinterested at the time that I assumed she hadn’t committed it to memory.
“Yes?”
“You remind me of my girlfriends.” Okay. Back to crazy. Didn’t she just say she didn’t have many girlfriends?
“In what way?” I asked.
“You’re so young. You’re quiet, but I can tell you are thinking.” I was now a little frightened. “I didn’t have girlfriends when I was younger, but as I got older, younger girls flocked to me. I never had children of my own, but I always had a group of women, some twenty years behind me. We’d talk and laugh and discuss life. They made me feel young.” She clasped her hands and stared down. She looked again like she might cry. In that moment, she reminded me of the way my grandmother looked, tears in her eyes, right before hugging me goodbye. Sadness encroached on our small table.
“It’s nice that you have such good friends, Ruth. I don’t know where I would be without my friends. Life isn’t much without them.” I smiled, assuming my words would be helpful.
Her melancholy didn’t lift. “So many of them are gone. And Janice won’t talk to me.” I was confused again. Gone as in, dead? Twenty years younger, and deceased? I suppose that would still put them around 80, if Ruth’s story had suggested her actual age. My grandmother was only 78 when she passed. I could see the physical pain writhing through her body now. I began to feel very uncomfortable. I was enjoying the nice story—a peek into an ancient world, a time I’d never know. But I was barely capable of holding it together myself, hence my presence. I didn’t know if I’d be able to watch the world’s oldest woman lose it because she missed her friends.
Just then, the same orderly who helped me retrieve my clothes approached our table. A few feet from our table an empty rocking chair swung gently, and I gathered that he had just been sitting there. He touched Mary Ruth’s arm lightly, and she looked up. “Mary Ruth.” He spoke her name smoothly. She looked up abruptly, as if waking up from a dream. “It’s time for your visit with Dr. Newman.”
Mary Ruth clapped her hands together once again. “Oh, lovely! Always so punctual.” She stood almost effortlessly, and reached for her tray. The orderly picked it up with one hand, and placed the other on her back, ready to lead her away. Mary Ruth smiled at me, and turned away. The orderly looked back at me and winked.
I sat slightly stunned at the table for several minutes. I wondered how long the orderly had been listening to our conversation, and what he expected to hear. Had he heard it? What would have happened if he hadn’t walked over to retrieve her? I smiled to myself, relieved that I could be on my own once again, only now with something other than my own broken spirit to consume my thoughts. Mary Ruth! I gathered my tray and hurried off to my room, before anyone could recruit me for the after lunch social activities.
In the day and a half I had been at the hospital, I had managed to eat alone at every meal. Well, I managed to sit alone, as I can’t say that I did much eating. The same shyness that consumed me on the first day of junior high school found me in the lunchroom on the 8th floor of Lennox Hill, as I kept my eyes down on my “food.” But when Mary Ruth entered the cafeteria on this day, there were no more empty tables, and mine was the only one lacking conversation. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her making her way over to my table, moving slowly, her strides no longer as confident or stable as they once were. Instinct told me to keep my eyes down—that if I didn’t make eye contact, she would feel uncomfortable and choose another table. Manners told me to meet her gaze, to smile and welcome her, insist that she join me. The internal battle lasted only a few seconds, as I’ve never been good at being impolite.
I reached for my water glass, lifting it to take a sip, allowing for my eyes to smoothly transition to hers without abruptly acknowledging her presence. I swallowed, pressing two fingertips to my lips signifying that I wanted to speak, but was delayed for just a moment. I set my glass down and smiled. Finding no words, I tilted my head toward the empty chair and nodded.
“You don’t mind if an old bitty like me joins you for lunch?” She crooned. She hesitated over the chair, clearly waiting to set down her tray.
“Not at all,” my better half replied. “Please, have a seat.” A huge grin overtook her wrinkles, and I felt instantly rewarded to have put it there. Her shaky arms lowered her lunch tray to the table, and her shaky body followed suit until she was seated across from me, the grin still prominent. Social Skills 101 replayed through my head and I was instantly “on.” While lifting my fork and picking at the blue Jello mold on my plate, I introduced myself. “My name is Lauren. I just got here yesterday.” She smiled and nodded as she uncovered her tray (when I first arrived, the plastic dome covers on the food trays enthused me—until I realized they didn’t protect anything worth excitement). When she didn’t speak, I hesitated. Maybe I had been wrong about her desire to engage in conversation. Maybe she was hoping to find an empty table herself, and I had been the next best option—a quiet girl at a table who clearly wanted to have nothing to do with anyone else. For a moment I thought about reverting to my introversion and ignoring her. But she had interrupted me, and I was on autopilot. I couldn’t stop myself if I tried. “What is your name?” I continued to play with the Jello, feigning disinterest.
She kept her eyes down on her food, but smiled. She glanced up to meet my eyes and cleared her throat. “My name is Mary Ruth, dear.” Her eyes were back on her plate but the smile was still there.
“Mary Ruth,” I repeated. Mary Ruth. What a perfect name for the oldest woman in the world. I imagined a faded black and white photo, slightly sepia due to antiquity, curled at the edges, a small baby girl in a lace gown and a day cap, Baby Mary Ruth sprawled in delicate cursive on the back.
She shook her head in instant denial. “My girlfriends call me Ruth.” Her voice was excited, and I took it as an invitation. I nodded, while conjuring images of her and her girlfriends sipping tea around a bridge table, serving finger sandwiches on silver trays, discussing their adult children’s pastimes and laughing delicately at one another’s jokes.
“Ruth, then,” I corrected. We both grinned. And my smile faded as I realized I had nothing else. I had a million questions I wanted to ask. Why are you here, Ruth? How long have you been here? Who visits you? How old are you? Will I be here until I’m your age? None of them seemed appropriate, and my manners won again. I defaulted to a social trick I learned at an early age. When lacking anything deeper, use superficial cues to drive the conversation. “Your hat is beautiful, Ruth.” And it was. The hat not only looked out of this decade, but out of the last century. The wide circular rim and the round bucket were a pretty pale green. A purple ribbon wrapped around the crease where the rim and the bucket met, tying into a bow in the back. A small bouquet of brightly colored dried flowers was tucked into the ribbon on the right side.
At the hat’s mention, Mary Ruth looked upwards and touched her fingers slightly to the rim, as if to remind herself that it was still there. “Thank you!” she exclaimed, appearing thoroughly complimented. Her fingers fell slowly to her face. As she touched her cheek, her smile faded to a pained grin. I looked behind a cloudy cover into her blue-gray eyes, which took us both to another world. I felt her sorrow as nostalgia emanated from her gaze. Her hand still on her cheek, she turned slowly toward me and looked as if she might cry. She pursed her lips and shook her head as if to push down whatever negative thoughts were surfacing. She let her hand fall to the table and met it with her other. “You know,” she began, “my father was a milliner!”
My blank look must have given my ignorance away. Either because she expected a reaction as enthused as her statement had been, or because she suddenly realized the age gap. She laughed a healthy laugh and reached for my hand. She gently pressed her cold fingers to the top of my hand and leaned across the table. “You have no idea what a milliner is, do you?”
I didn’t. My first thought was milliner—like mill, as in some sort of construction or farm. But that truly would have lost me, because I could find no connection between mills and hats, at least one derived by a sane train of thought. “Umm,” I hesitated, not wanting to appear stupid, but doing just that. “No, I don’t,” I admitted.
She clapped her hands once as if she had just stumbled upon some great joy and was delighted to find it. “Well,” she started, “a milliner is a hat maker! A hatter, if you will.” An image of the boy who played the Mad Hatter in my fifth grade production of Alice in Wonderland flashed in my mind’s eye. My automatic look of understanding must have pleased her, because she continued emphatically. “My father was a creative man. His hands were so gentle, so precise. The millinery, his shop, was on the first floor of our house. We were lucky enough to live in town.” She was staring into space, living in her memories. I listened, eagerly growing interested. “Did you ever watch the Little House on the Prairie?”
Did I ever! “I was obsessed with that show! I used to want to be Laura Ingalls Wilder.” I felt warm.
“Our town looked like Walnut Grove, and everyone knew our family. My father’s hats were coveted by all the lady folk. He also tailored men’s suits and fixed dresses for the women. He was very good.” It was clear that Ruth loved her father, missed him terribly.
I asked what I thought was a safe, simple question. “Where did you live, Ruth?”
She refocused her eyes to shoot me a strange look. A sly grin overtook her face. “Don’t be silly!” she exclaimed. She laughed and replayed the funny joke over in her head.
Okay, Ruth…I chuckled in my head. I suppose speaking with someone who had probably seen both world wars and was currently in a psychiatric ward warranted its fair share of crazy. “Oh I’m sorry,” I apologized, though I wasn’t sure for what.
She nodded in acceptance. Her eyes closed. She continued. “Daddy seemed to favor me to my brothers, who were always causing trouble in school and getting in his way in the shop. Before Grace died, he used to take us with him to the shop and let us help to pick out the ribbons, feathers, and beads for the hats.”
I wanted to ask who Grace was, but I didn’t. To satisfy my curiosity I decided to believe it was her older sister. Mary Ruth and Mary Grace, perhaps.
“Then when Grace died, I wasn’t allowed in the shop for more than a year. At the time it made me angry. Everything changed. Everyone was sad. Mother didn’t let me help with the house chores because she said I was too wild.” She laughed at herself again. “She meant that I loved to play in the dirt with the boys. When Sam let me, I’d wear his overalls out in the yard. Not too many girls could get away with that then.” Ruth placed both her hands on her hat and straightened it out. With the hat she looked like a proper lady, but I could see the tom-boyish spirit behind her eyes. I just then noticed the hospital gown she was wearing. She couldn’t have been here longer than a day, two at most. They were supposed to give you your clothes back after your first visit with the doctor. It took persistence on my part to convince an orderly to open my locker and retrieve my things for me, just that morning. She looked vulnerable and even frailer in her smock. I empathized. I wondered how she was able to keep her hat, imagining some supernatural bonding.
“When I was about twelve years old, Daddy took me on as his apprentice. Every day after school, he would give me lessons in weaving, sewing, and gluing. When I had advanced, he let me design, finding in me a talent for sketching.”
I debated whether to speak. She was swept up in her story, and I was fascinated. But now she sat, her voice paused, her thoughts in this past world. I bit my lip and returned my gaze to my mostly uneaten plate of food. I decided to go for it.
“Ruth, did you make the hat you are wearing now?” I forced my eyes to meet hers, wondering if she would think me silly again.
She didn’t come back from her other world, a brightness in her eyes focused in the invisible distance. “No, Dear,” she responded softly. “I haven’t made a hat since 1922. That’s the year Daddy died.” She was quiet.
I shivered, and then replayed her story in my head. 1922, her father died. She was twelve when he taught her to make hats. The latest she could have been born was...1910, which would make her at least…98 years old! I watched her in disbelief. Could she really be that old? Sure her face was weathered and experienced, her body frail, her voice ancient and cracked…but she was young. She was with it. She could walk, slowly, but surely. She could converse, reminisce, only the slightest of quirks revealing themselves. Then again…maybe the entire thing was made up? Maybe she had created a world surrounded by her favorite hat, where she could live behind her eyelids with her loved ones and be happy in her old age. I had, in fact, no idea why she was sitting across from my on the 8th floor of Lennox Hill. I had snapped. Maybe she had too—not from a sane person into a crazy one—but from a real person into a fictional one. My thoughts got away from me. Mary Ruth watched my face.
“I didn’t have many girlfriends when I was younger,” she said. This was an unexpected turn.
“Why not?” I encouraged her to explain.
“Well,” she laughed embarrassedly, as if she hadn’t meant to reveal this truth to me. “I suppose they didn’t like me very much. I was odd.”
I could see that. She was odd. Not in a frightening way, though. I considered telling her about my girlfriends. I was lucky in that department. Even though I hadn’t spoken to most of them in months, they were my sisters. They would enjoy hearing about Mary Ruth.
“Lauren,” she began. I got Goosebumps when she spoke my name. I knew I had introduced myself, but she seemed so disinterested at the time that I assumed she hadn’t committed it to memory.
“Yes?”
“You remind me of my girlfriends.” Okay. Back to crazy. Didn’t she just say she didn’t have many girlfriends?
“In what way?” I asked.
“You’re so young. You’re quiet, but I can tell you are thinking.” I was now a little frightened. “I didn’t have girlfriends when I was younger, but as I got older, younger girls flocked to me. I never had children of my own, but I always had a group of women, some twenty years behind me. We’d talk and laugh and discuss life. They made me feel young.” She clasped her hands and stared down. She looked again like she might cry. In that moment, she reminded me of the way my grandmother looked, tears in her eyes, right before hugging me goodbye. Sadness encroached on our small table.
“It’s nice that you have such good friends, Ruth. I don’t know where I would be without my friends. Life isn’t much without them.” I smiled, assuming my words would be helpful.
Her melancholy didn’t lift. “So many of them are gone. And Janice won’t talk to me.” I was confused again. Gone as in, dead? Twenty years younger, and deceased? I suppose that would still put them around 80, if Ruth’s story had suggested her actual age. My grandmother was only 78 when she passed. I could see the physical pain writhing through her body now. I began to feel very uncomfortable. I was enjoying the nice story—a peek into an ancient world, a time I’d never know. But I was barely capable of holding it together myself, hence my presence. I didn’t know if I’d be able to watch the world’s oldest woman lose it because she missed her friends.
Just then, the same orderly who helped me retrieve my clothes approached our table. A few feet from our table an empty rocking chair swung gently, and I gathered that he had just been sitting there. He touched Mary Ruth’s arm lightly, and she looked up. “Mary Ruth.” He spoke her name smoothly. She looked up abruptly, as if waking up from a dream. “It’s time for your visit with Dr. Newman.”
Mary Ruth clapped her hands together once again. “Oh, lovely! Always so punctual.” She stood almost effortlessly, and reached for her tray. The orderly picked it up with one hand, and placed the other on her back, ready to lead her away. Mary Ruth smiled at me, and turned away. The orderly looked back at me and winked.
I sat slightly stunned at the table for several minutes. I wondered how long the orderly had been listening to our conversation, and what he expected to hear. Had he heard it? What would have happened if he hadn’t walked over to retrieve her? I smiled to myself, relieved that I could be on my own once again, only now with something other than my own broken spirit to consume my thoughts. Mary Ruth! I gathered my tray and hurried off to my room, before anyone could recruit me for the after lunch social activities.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Bittersweet
Bitter: Saying goodbye to Machiris :(.
Sweet: Meeting strangers on the train is perhaps one of the most special things about NY. Icy stares make me smile. Shared looks of horror when a fellow commuter does something rude or idiotic are appreciated. And occasionally you meet an interesting person. A person who lightens your mood. A person who reminds you of how small this world really is. This morning that person was named G. Sanchez. Mr. Sanchez and I were doing the subway waltz, careful to not encroach on each other’s “space” while balancing in between other floating bodies. The morning commute is always a bitch. At 96th street, a space in the corner opened up. Mr. Sanchez asked me if I wanted it, but I could tell he really did, and so I waved him on. Appreciative, he made small talk about it being the best place to stand on the train. Then he noticed the kindle in my hands, and said “Ah, so that’s the Kindle!” I smiled and nodded, familiar with this conversation starter, as many eyes are drawn to my shiny white e-book reader. “I’d like to get one of those. Actually I’d like to get 100s of those,” he said. “I’m a librarian at a college and I think our students could really benefit from going digital. Technology is the new world. No one wants to read books anymore.” I pondered in my head whether to acknowledge our chance similarity, or to let it go. On the one hand, I wanted to read my book, and I had no idea how long he’d be on the train. As I was getting off at 14th, it could be an 82-block conversation. On the other hand, how often am I going to meet a librarian on the train, so new in my own library education? “What school do you work at?” I asked. “Oh a small school, very small. LIM, we’re a fashion business school” he explained. Hm. I’m sure I’ve never heard of you but what the hell, “Ah—I just started Library School.” His interest piqued. We chatted about my school, then his, about technology and libraries and books. Strangers on the otherwise quiet train kept their heads down, but no doubt listened to the odd conversation between the sheik older man and the Friday-Jeans young lady. Finally, he took his card out of his wallet and handed it to me, offering to help me get an internship if I called him. I wonder if he saw my eyes flutter when I read “Director of Library Services” at the top of his card. I told him my name, he bid me good luck, and he was off. A sign.
Sweet: Meeting strangers on the train is perhaps one of the most special things about NY. Icy stares make me smile. Shared looks of horror when a fellow commuter does something rude or idiotic are appreciated. And occasionally you meet an interesting person. A person who lightens your mood. A person who reminds you of how small this world really is. This morning that person was named G. Sanchez. Mr. Sanchez and I were doing the subway waltz, careful to not encroach on each other’s “space” while balancing in between other floating bodies. The morning commute is always a bitch. At 96th street, a space in the corner opened up. Mr. Sanchez asked me if I wanted it, but I could tell he really did, and so I waved him on. Appreciative, he made small talk about it being the best place to stand on the train. Then he noticed the kindle in my hands, and said “Ah, so that’s the Kindle!” I smiled and nodded, familiar with this conversation starter, as many eyes are drawn to my shiny white e-book reader. “I’d like to get one of those. Actually I’d like to get 100s of those,” he said. “I’m a librarian at a college and I think our students could really benefit from going digital. Technology is the new world. No one wants to read books anymore.” I pondered in my head whether to acknowledge our chance similarity, or to let it go. On the one hand, I wanted to read my book, and I had no idea how long he’d be on the train. As I was getting off at 14th, it could be an 82-block conversation. On the other hand, how often am I going to meet a librarian on the train, so new in my own library education? “What school do you work at?” I asked. “Oh a small school, very small. LIM, we’re a fashion business school” he explained. Hm. I’m sure I’ve never heard of you but what the hell, “Ah—I just started Library School.” His interest piqued. We chatted about my school, then his, about technology and libraries and books. Strangers on the otherwise quiet train kept their heads down, but no doubt listened to the odd conversation between the sheik older man and the Friday-Jeans young lady. Finally, he took his card out of his wallet and handed it to me, offering to help me get an internship if I called him. I wonder if he saw my eyes flutter when I read “Director of Library Services” at the top of his card. I told him my name, he bid me good luck, and he was off. A sign.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Obsession is a wild thing.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been feeling numb for so long now that I’ve forgotten what physical emotions feel like—or maybe I am developing a super immunity against the chemical receptor blockers that I down every morning—but something is different. Something is stewing, burning, catching fire…
The first time was obvious. Like a slap in the face, it couldn’t be mistaken. I was crouched on a stool in my kitchen hovering over a stack of mail when I suddenly felt the urge to cry. A deep sorrow took hold of my frame, knotting my stomach and stealing my breath. My thoughts soared as they searched for an explanation—a name, a date, a memory—something that could have triggered the sadness as easily as if a button had been pressed. I stood in a daze, about to take myself to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and wait for the tears, when the distress disappeared as abruptly as it had come.
The second time was something else entirely. It began with what may have been a psychic premonition. Seated at my work desk, I was, as per usual, cold. The square shaped office was not exactly inviting, as the painted cement walls and the mustard-color floor tiles were reminiscent of the jailhouse they used to accommodate. Though 150 miles of thruway separated me from my somewhat intimidating and incredibly unpredictable fright of a boss, her icy voice was never far from my thoughts. As I moved my computer cursor across the monitor and toward the icon for my office e-mail, a flush of nerves overtook my senses. This time the sensation was marked largely by nausea—a panic screamed through my veins and stopped at my heart. I could not click on the icon. My pointer finger froze on the left click of the mouse and I stared blankly at the screen. Something felt wrong—dooming. Menacing. It would not be the first time to find a message filled with chastisement and disdain in my inbox. A surge of bravado pressured my finger down and the e-mail client fluttered open. No new mail. I waited for relief that didn’t come. My center churned and my heart rate raced. I felt trapped in a stiff body, afraid to move, as if the impending doom could be elicited by the slightest pulse. And then the phone rang, the piercing ring jolting my body with an awkward spasm. My co-workers stared. Good morning, Downstate Housing Office. The icy voice rattled off a slew of fragmented instructions. My note-taking hand twitched as it tried to keep up with the voice. And then she was gone. I expected the nausea to subside with the disconnection of the phone call, but it lingered. A heavy weight pressed on my chest and I questioned my sanity. Busy work sufficed as distraction, and hours later I realized that at some point, I had found equilibrium. It had ended without notice.
The third, the fourth, fifth, the tenth times have all been slight variations of the first two—always extremely physical, always with a heightened mental awareness, and never with logical cause or explanation. Electric waves of excitement, bursts of inexplicable happiness, hugs of warmth, torrents of anger—these have all found me at the oddest, most seemingly insignificant of moments. While sitting on the train, while putting on eye-shadow, while ordering a drink, while talking to a friend. I have interrupted others midsentence for the sheer fact that I cannot listen. I cannot help but to associate the visceral responses with the words that they speak. She explains the low point of her day and I have the urge to run around the room, overcome with excess energy. He rants passionately about a new project, and I long to hug him. Strangers ask me for directions, and I want join them.
When it first began I was frightened, afraid that I was slipping, moving backward in time toward the darkest of days. As the emotions evolved, matured, expanded, I realized a new expectation—a desire to feel with more power, more passion. Now as my heart flutters and my breath quickens, a smirk escapes my lips. This is not a return to normalcy. This is new. This is life. This is being alive and experiencing everything through everyone. A gift with which I have become wildly obsessed. An experience I wish could transcend every moment, every relationship. A part of me that words will never, could never do justice…but that forces me to try.
The first time was obvious. Like a slap in the face, it couldn’t be mistaken. I was crouched on a stool in my kitchen hovering over a stack of mail when I suddenly felt the urge to cry. A deep sorrow took hold of my frame, knotting my stomach and stealing my breath. My thoughts soared as they searched for an explanation—a name, a date, a memory—something that could have triggered the sadness as easily as if a button had been pressed. I stood in a daze, about to take myself to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and wait for the tears, when the distress disappeared as abruptly as it had come.
The second time was something else entirely. It began with what may have been a psychic premonition. Seated at my work desk, I was, as per usual, cold. The square shaped office was not exactly inviting, as the painted cement walls and the mustard-color floor tiles were reminiscent of the jailhouse they used to accommodate. Though 150 miles of thruway separated me from my somewhat intimidating and incredibly unpredictable fright of a boss, her icy voice was never far from my thoughts. As I moved my computer cursor across the monitor and toward the icon for my office e-mail, a flush of nerves overtook my senses. This time the sensation was marked largely by nausea—a panic screamed through my veins and stopped at my heart. I could not click on the icon. My pointer finger froze on the left click of the mouse and I stared blankly at the screen. Something felt wrong—dooming. Menacing. It would not be the first time to find a message filled with chastisement and disdain in my inbox. A surge of bravado pressured my finger down and the e-mail client fluttered open. No new mail. I waited for relief that didn’t come. My center churned and my heart rate raced. I felt trapped in a stiff body, afraid to move, as if the impending doom could be elicited by the slightest pulse. And then the phone rang, the piercing ring jolting my body with an awkward spasm. My co-workers stared. Good morning, Downstate Housing Office. The icy voice rattled off a slew of fragmented instructions. My note-taking hand twitched as it tried to keep up with the voice. And then she was gone. I expected the nausea to subside with the disconnection of the phone call, but it lingered. A heavy weight pressed on my chest and I questioned my sanity. Busy work sufficed as distraction, and hours later I realized that at some point, I had found equilibrium. It had ended without notice.
The third, the fourth, fifth, the tenth times have all been slight variations of the first two—always extremely physical, always with a heightened mental awareness, and never with logical cause or explanation. Electric waves of excitement, bursts of inexplicable happiness, hugs of warmth, torrents of anger—these have all found me at the oddest, most seemingly insignificant of moments. While sitting on the train, while putting on eye-shadow, while ordering a drink, while talking to a friend. I have interrupted others midsentence for the sheer fact that I cannot listen. I cannot help but to associate the visceral responses with the words that they speak. She explains the low point of her day and I have the urge to run around the room, overcome with excess energy. He rants passionately about a new project, and I long to hug him. Strangers ask me for directions, and I want join them.
When it first began I was frightened, afraid that I was slipping, moving backward in time toward the darkest of days. As the emotions evolved, matured, expanded, I realized a new expectation—a desire to feel with more power, more passion. Now as my heart flutters and my breath quickens, a smirk escapes my lips. This is not a return to normalcy. This is new. This is life. This is being alive and experiencing everything through everyone. A gift with which I have become wildly obsessed. An experience I wish could transcend every moment, every relationship. A part of me that words will never, could never do justice…but that forces me to try.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Screw Girl
The hard linoleum was cold under her calves as she adjusted her position. Sitting cross-legged among sparse piles of sawdust behind the high school auditorium's stage was quickly losing its perks. Taking a break from pretending to hammer a nail into a two-by-four, she patted her skin, trying to regain blood flow in her numb limbs. Her thoughts were distant from the set design project assigned to her, floating beyond the double doors that were inches from where she sat, out onto the stage. The sound of amateur fingers pounding piano keys, fingers that should have been hers, vibrated through the air. The director's pause to note a flawed line, a line that should have been hers, interrupted the shaky song. And then a faint whimper, followed closely by a husky chuckle, found her ear.
Her interest piqued as she raised her eyes to the double-doors, her hands still flat against her calves. The low rumble of footsteps jogging up the stairs on the other side of the doors pushed her into a slight panic. There was a silent pause, and then a brief knock. The sound of the metal bar releasing the hinge clicked in her ear as the left door pushed slightly open, allowing a paper-thin stream of light to awaken the dark backstage. She crouched in attempt to stand, but her lifeless legs only stung with prickly pain, temporarily frozen in place.
An eye emerged between the two doors. "Hello?" a voice asked cautiously, as hands pushed more forcibly now on the door. His voice. She winced in mild discomfort as the sharp corner of the door nudged her thigh. The eye scanned down to find the object blocking its entry. A sly grin was now visible under the eye. "Excuse me," he whispered. In the same second the left door closed, the right opened. Two eyes now stared down at her, waiting. The grin reappeared shortly, before locks of shoulder-length auburn hair fell before it, covering it from view. He shook his head directing the loose strands back into place, before combing his hair instinctively with his free hand. "Um, I found this inbetween seat cushions out there," he said while placing his hand out in her view, holding a long, slightly rusted black screw. He waited. She stared, her faced flushed in confusion. The grin returned, loosening into a smile. "Well, actually," he started, pausing to glance back toward the hidden auditorium, "Heather found it. She sat on it." He chuckled. The whimper made sense now.
"So..." he hesitated. Her brain jolted to the present.
"Right," she murmured. "Sorry..." She leaned forward and stretched her hand out to receive the metal screw. Rather than handing it to her, he jerked his free hand from his side and clasped hers with his. In a surprisingly smooth movement, he pulled her to a standing position. The blood rushed down into her still sleeping legs. Shock and discomfort fluttered over her face before she regained composure. Act normal, she thought to herself. But the grin, his grin, ruined any chance normalcy might have had. "Right," she said louder now, nodding her head. After brushing off her shorts and smoothing out her shirt, she reached for the screw, realizing her hand was still in his. She pulled it away to take the screw. "Thanks for bringing it back here," she managed, impressed with her ability to speak. "I'll make sure it gets put away." He detected the false importance in her voice and laughed.
"Please, do," he cooed. His eyes, visibly green now, moved together as a look of frustration overtook his face. "You...look familiar," he suggested. Her thoughts ran wild for a brief moment, racking her brain for some non-existent connection that could sustain the conversation. Coming up empty, she shrugged and shyly smiled. He looked down at his empty hands, realizing the screw was delivered and his job was done. He placed his hand back on the door and turned to leave. She shifted her body to parallel his. He coughed. "I'm Jay, by the way," he offered, waiting.
Her lips parted, hesitating while her mind located those two words that should be so familiar by now. "I'm-" she started, interrupted by a loud call from beyond the doors.
"JAY!" The director called. "Line!" Jay's head twitched as he pulled the large door completely open, flooding the backstage in an awkward gold light. As he stepped through, he turned slightly back and grinned.
"See you later, Screw Girl." He chuckled. The dark returned. She smiled, and looked down at the screw in her hand. Screw Girl, she winced. Shaking her head, she stepped forward to throw the piece into a bucket of others just like it. But before she could release her grip, the grin, his grin, flashed in her mind's eye. Smirking, she pushed the screw down into her back pocket and returned to her hunched position over the two-by-four.
Her interest piqued as she raised her eyes to the double-doors, her hands still flat against her calves. The low rumble of footsteps jogging up the stairs on the other side of the doors pushed her into a slight panic. There was a silent pause, and then a brief knock. The sound of the metal bar releasing the hinge clicked in her ear as the left door pushed slightly open, allowing a paper-thin stream of light to awaken the dark backstage. She crouched in attempt to stand, but her lifeless legs only stung with prickly pain, temporarily frozen in place.
An eye emerged between the two doors. "Hello?" a voice asked cautiously, as hands pushed more forcibly now on the door. His voice. She winced in mild discomfort as the sharp corner of the door nudged her thigh. The eye scanned down to find the object blocking its entry. A sly grin was now visible under the eye. "Excuse me," he whispered. In the same second the left door closed, the right opened. Two eyes now stared down at her, waiting. The grin reappeared shortly, before locks of shoulder-length auburn hair fell before it, covering it from view. He shook his head directing the loose strands back into place, before combing his hair instinctively with his free hand. "Um, I found this inbetween seat cushions out there," he said while placing his hand out in her view, holding a long, slightly rusted black screw. He waited. She stared, her faced flushed in confusion. The grin returned, loosening into a smile. "Well, actually," he started, pausing to glance back toward the hidden auditorium, "Heather found it. She sat on it." He chuckled. The whimper made sense now.
"So..." he hesitated. Her brain jolted to the present.
"Right," she murmured. "Sorry..." She leaned forward and stretched her hand out to receive the metal screw. Rather than handing it to her, he jerked his free hand from his side and clasped hers with his. In a surprisingly smooth movement, he pulled her to a standing position. The blood rushed down into her still sleeping legs. Shock and discomfort fluttered over her face before she regained composure. Act normal, she thought to herself. But the grin, his grin, ruined any chance normalcy might have had. "Right," she said louder now, nodding her head. After brushing off her shorts and smoothing out her shirt, she reached for the screw, realizing her hand was still in his. She pulled it away to take the screw. "Thanks for bringing it back here," she managed, impressed with her ability to speak. "I'll make sure it gets put away." He detected the false importance in her voice and laughed.
"Please, do," he cooed. His eyes, visibly green now, moved together as a look of frustration overtook his face. "You...look familiar," he suggested. Her thoughts ran wild for a brief moment, racking her brain for some non-existent connection that could sustain the conversation. Coming up empty, she shrugged and shyly smiled. He looked down at his empty hands, realizing the screw was delivered and his job was done. He placed his hand back on the door and turned to leave. She shifted her body to parallel his. He coughed. "I'm Jay, by the way," he offered, waiting.
Her lips parted, hesitating while her mind located those two words that should be so familiar by now. "I'm-" she started, interrupted by a loud call from beyond the doors.
"JAY!" The director called. "Line!" Jay's head twitched as he pulled the large door completely open, flooding the backstage in an awkward gold light. As he stepped through, he turned slightly back and grinned.
"See you later, Screw Girl." He chuckled. The dark returned. She smiled, and looked down at the screw in her hand. Screw Girl, she winced. Shaking her head, she stepped forward to throw the piece into a bucket of others just like it. But before she could release her grip, the grin, his grin, flashed in her mind's eye. Smirking, she pushed the screw down into her back pocket and returned to her hunched position over the two-by-four.
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