Listening For an Exit

            It had been nearly twenty years since Angela and I first saw Satan patiently waiting by the elevator and for the sake of our mental health, we spent most of our young adult lives never discussing it.  Up until now, I mostly was convinced that I was cursed; I admit that I spent the majority of those twenty years obsessed and angry over the affair, and wanted nothing less than a vigilante style battle to avenge what the “Thief of Joy” had taken from me.  After all, immediately after the elevator episode, I told John (my boyfriend and other best friend) about the incident only to have to attend his funeral one year later. For all its fire, this rage never left my so-called therapists’ offices, and over the years had been reduced to late night alcohol-induced mumblings in the dark.  Angela, on the other hand, had filed that encounter under the “18 year-old and Ridiculous” tab in her brain’s central planner.  She simply refused to believe that it was anything more than a generalized creepiness that one sometimes feels for no apparent reason, and rationalized it away with dinner not agreeing with her.  This, of course, is the safest, least confrontational way of coping, and Angela (ever since we were in elementary school) hated confrontation. 

            “I cannot believe we’re back here,” Angela said while surveying the campus as a hawk might scan a field for a mouse.

            “I know, twenty years feels like forever and just yesterday all at the same time, but I’m really glad you came,” I said hopeful that Angela could sense my need for closure, but I just couldn’t quite verbalize it to her yet. 

            A few weeks ago, I informed Angela that I would be up near Kalamazoo visiting family and suggested a long overdue catch up session.  The thought of hanging out with my old friend again was both exciting and terrifying.  Much of this inner turmoil centered on the fact that I had craved answers to who or what was behind the Satan episode, but perhaps more importantly, I just wanted Angela to listen to me.  And, while it looked to me that Angela appeared to have successfully compartmentalized herself into two kids, a loving husband, and an overreaching suburban-ness, my two decades revealed a job hopping journey, a collection of beautiful and ugly boyfriends, and a lack of home ownership.  I think I had a good reason to be apprehensive.  I mean, maybe I was just a touch envious of her ability to tune out the damaging events from the past.  Thinking that a walk around campus after lunch to some of our old stomping grounds would help build courage, I was somewhat surprised when Angela so readily agreed.

            “Oh god, I remember this place,” Angela said while sweeping her arms like an orchestra conductor over the Lawson Ice Arena building.  “We watched some good hockey games here.”

            “You mean we watched some good hockey asses here,” I said grinning wildly.  Both of us burst out into our 18 year-old style giggles that temporarily put a cover of ease over our reunion.  It isn’t always the easiest thing to pick up a conversation with someone after 20 years even when you’ve spent the first 20 years of your life with them.  After checking the back parking lot sidewalks, I was pleased to find that my initials were still next to John’s, and had not been erased by newer concrete.  In a way, it was if he was still guiding and protecting me through twisting and wrenching paths much like a Sherpa would for a mountain climber.  

            Making our way to the center of Western Michigan University’s campus, our walk was punctuated by multiple sighs, laughs, “Oh my Gods,” “Nothing changes,” and “Everything has changed.”  Finally, we reached the exact center of campus which was marked by a large circular raised concrete platform surrounded by American and WMU flags.

            “Remember when you ran up on that platform and screamed ‘MOOOOORTAL KOOOOMMMBAT!’”  Angela said with her face crinkled up from laughing so hard.  I’m pretty sure she was remembering my video gamed display of public nuisance from back before we ever had to question our sanity.  

            I briefly entertained the thought about replaying that scene, but couldn't because this was also the spot where I had finally told John that I loved him.  The flags flapping in the wind sounded like skin being slapped, and I stiffened and recoiled from that circular stage quickly. The thought of running and laughing in that space felt like desecration.  “C’mon, let’s keep going, there’s one other place I want to check out before we go drink ourselves silly,” I encouraged Angela to follow me, which had never been difficult to do.

†

            Between Aikman Hall, which sat atop a steep hill, and Eldridge Hall, was a cement staircase.  Pausing at the bottom, I looked up the sharply vertical grade.

            “Do you remember these stairs?”  I asked in an overly controlled tone.

            “Well, duh, of course I do!  We used to take these stairs as a shortcut to Aikman to visit John, and his roommate…ummm, what was his name again…”  As Angela consulted her mental filing cabinet, I became increasingly aware that my good friend was not responding to the cue before her. 

            Agitated, I finally blurted out, “The cat! Remember the cat!”

            With this seemingly misplaced outburst, Angela’s face grew sullen as though the devil himself had reached into all of her mental files and shredded them like a potato ricer. 

            “I have tried not to remember that.”

†

October 21, 1993

Thursday night

            “It’s kinda warm out here tonight for this time of year.  It feels good to go one more night without a coat,” I said.

            “It could be minus ten degrees out and you’d be all warm and fuzzy inside.  You know you should tell John how you really feel about him sometime before hell freezes over or something bad happens,” said Angela with the required eye rolling.

            She had a point.  I had been secretly, and sometimes not so secretly, in love with him since high school.  While walking across the fluorescent glow of the parking lot to the top of the cement stairs, little snippets from our first date back in 1992 played back in my head like an old film spliced to show only the good parts.  He had taken me to see Sarafina! at the Morris Civic Theater and was embarrassed by the rusted Dodge Caravan he had to beg his parents to drive.  I remember purposely not wearing my piercing stilettos even though he was 6’4”.  I liked his tallness and the way it protected and enveloped me like a warm fleece blanket that comes out of storage during the first snowstorm of the season. 

            “Oh my god, you are smiling like a damned Cheshire…”  Angie stopped mid-sentence, and we were both stunned by what had leapt out before us.

            We had started down the long flight of stairs when an ink-black housecat leapt onto the first landing.  It had pounced onto the cement from the left side of the maples and oaks that flanked either side of the staircase.  Instantly, its head swiveled to meet with our open-mouthed scream-less expressions revealing a set of yellow puke-tinged pupils that could have bored holes into our skulls.  The cat opened its mouth and instead of a normal hiss heard from domestic felines in distress, a low man-like growl emerged from deep inside its belly as though the cat was something, or someone, much larger.  Pivoting its head back, the slick black creature bounded across the rest of the landing and vanished. 

            Frozen on the third step down, I became acutely aware of a sharp pain on my left forearm.  Angela’s knuckles had turned white from their grip, and when we finally looked at each other, I realized that her lips had also turned a death-like pale closely resembling chalk.  At some uncoordinated, yet pre-ordained time, I grabbed Angela’s arm and half ran half flew down the rest of the stairs.  Crossing the first landing by jumping over it, I hoped we weren’t breaking some supernatural barrier or law by intersecting the path that that cat was on. 

            Exploding through the doors of Eldridge Hall, we rounded the corner to the elevator bay like a couple of wounded zebras sited by a lion.  And, after punching the “up” button a bazillion times, my breathing finally slowed to just under full-blown asthma attack proportions.  The color had started to come back into Angela’s face as well. 

The Jamaican man behind the front desk yelled over to us as we were waiting for the slowest elevator on earth, “Ya mon, you two might want to lay off de nose candy next time you go out.”  His deep tobacco soaked laughter was anything but funny. 

Once inside the cinder block cell style dorm room, I verbally replayed the cat scene with Angela until nerve fraying waves swept into pure exhaustion. 

“It was just some sick feral cat that’s running around the outskirts of campus.  I’m sure of it.”  Angela said this in such an unsteady tone that it did nothing except fill me with even more hesitation and doubt. 

“It was more than just a cat!  If you really believe that, then why did your lips turn white?  Didn’t you see how that thing looked at us?  Didn’t you hear that…”  I let the last part of that sentence fall like an asteroid to Earth, very much like something that starts out as a speck of space dust and then burns into so much more.

“I don’t know what came over me.  I will admit that the cat startled me, but I’m sure it was nothing more than that.  I’m tired and I’m going to bed now,” Angela said while pointing to her ear. 

This gesture of pointing to her ear had become code for bedtime between us as once she removed her hearing aid; the world went truly quiet for her.  Ever since we were seven years old, I had held both fascination and resentment toward that flesh toned plastic hook draped over Angela’s ear.  In a curious way, I was always intrigued by her ability to flip a switch and practice a kind of selective hearing super power.  On the other hand, I hated the fact that whenever I was around Angela, I became the de facto protector.  Seriously, who else was going to warn her against bad mouthing bastards in the lunch line and fire drill alarms? 

Lying with my legs coiled around the bed sheets mimicking the mattress springs, I stared at the ceiling and counted my glow in the dark stars I had affixed when we first moved in.  The elevator was continuously humming and many people lived up here on the top floor so there was constant noise coming from the hallways.   Back in our hometown, it was quiet.  We didn’t live in buildings with elevators or screeching teens and twentysomethings.  I want Angela to hear this noise, commiserate with me, and talk about home.  Instead, I hear a deep inhalation and a slight groan of a snore.  After several hours of staring and counting, the elevator stops making its infernal buzzing and the whole residence hall becomes a pit of silence.  I want to scream.  I want to wake Angela to “hear” the silence, but realizing the complete absurdity of this, I remain still.  Slipping on headphones, I let The Cranberries and INXS sing me into dream world.  Decades from now, I will fully understand the beauty in “turning off” the world the way she flips a hearing aid switch, but right now, tonight, I am scared, nervous, and increasingly lonely.  And, I want my best friend to hear me.

†

Present day

“Look, I know you don’t want to discuss the stupid cat incident, but there was some information that you never received.  Besides, I’ve been your best friend for how long?  The need to impress me with your logic and sanity has long since passed,” I said, effectively alleviating some of the tension that had swollen like a bee sting site. 

“What do you mean by information I never received?” Angela looked incredulous. 

“I know you heard the cat make that weird growling sound, but it’s the sound the cat didn’t make that has been gnawing at me all these years.”  I spoke carefully as we made our way to our old residence hall before rounding out our not so normal WMU reunion.  “You remember it was October when we saw it, and the leaves were mostly down, and fairly thick just under the trees on either side of the stairs.” 

“Yes,” said Angela nodding in anticipation.

“Well, normally we could hear squirrels, and God knows what other rodents rustling in the leaves, but that cat made NO sound when it jumped on the landing.  And, even creepier, when it jumped to the other side of the stairs, there was still NO sound.  Angela, I practically gave myself ear strain trying to listen for the crunching leaves, but there was NOTHING.  I’m telling you that that cat was not of this world.  It seemed possessed.  It seemed more like a demon or something.  I know you don’t want to really talk about it, I mean, hell, even back then you kept quiet after that night, but I couldn’t.  I know that what we saw wasn’t natural.  It bothered me so much that I told John about it.”

The finality of that statement was swift and decisive like an exclamation point or a period at the end of a sentence.  We now found ourselves in the lobby of Eldridge Hall staring at the elevator that had been used and abused repeatedly during our time there. 

“You’re right; I was too frozen from that cat’s expression to pay any attention to a lack of sound.  And, this growling that you heard didn’t register the same way for me, but you’re not crazy.  I just didn’t want to remember that night because it makes me remember the day we saw him just a few weeks later.  Here, actually, right by this elevator.”  Angela’s voice trailed off, and I realized that it would’ve been the perfect time to say something in sign language.  Unfortunately, the only words and phrases that Angela had taught me were pick-up lines and swear words, neither of which was appropriate here.  I ruminated on how to tell her that most people thought I was crazy because I was sure Satan was behind not only the devil-cat, but the subsequent blood clot that travelled to John’s heart the following year.  I wasn’t certain if this whole reunion had been a giant mistake, or exactly what our friendship needed. What was clear, however, was the fact that Angela’s wall had started to crumble.

†

November 14, 1993

“God, that test was brutal,” I complained while pressing the “up” button multiple times like I always did.

“I know, when I get to the room I’m gonna curl up and sleep like death,” said Angela.

“At least we don’t have to worry about any more Biology tests until the final exam, and by that point we should know everything, right?”  I couldn’t keep a straight face and I knew that even though it was a hard class, it was comforting to share the pain with my best friend.  “Damn this elevator!  Slower than snail shit!”

“You know pressing the button and cussing isn’t going to make it get here any faster,” said a young man who had been waiting patiently the whole time we’d been bitching about Biology.

Startled, we turned around to face this guy.  He was wearing blue jeans and a pale pink Ralph Lauren shirt with the ubiquitous polo playing pony on it.  His hair was a thick mop of jet black that had sheen to it from an expert application of hair gel, and what really set him apart from the other college boys, was his shoes.  Made from soft caramel colored leather, his driving moccasins appeared to be hand-stitched and Italian and completely out of place in this environment. 

Angela made eye contact with him before I did, and as her lips started turning white like the other night with the cat, I felt compelled to follow my friend’s gaze.  What I saw next would be chiseled into my brain permanently like commandments on stone tablets. 

When his sick, jaundiced eyes finally locked onto mine, it was as if I had been punched in the solar plexus.  It was almost as if he could sense that I was the questioning one.  I was the one who would stop his rape-like eyes with every firing of my nerve synapses.  Trying to position myself between his laser stare and Angela’s frozen form, my feet barely budged.  Not only had this man sucked all the oxygen from my system, but gravity had somehow multiplied and compressed the air around us making my bones feel like steel bars swimming against a current.  And, just when I felt I couldn’t withstand the pressure a minute more, the doors slid open.  Smirking, the devil man slinked into the elevator, and purred, “Perhaps you should take the stairs.”

After a brief moment that felt like years passing, Angela and I regained the ability to move and speak.  The lift was quiet and did not whir and ding to signal that the man had ever left the first floor.  Several residents, including a star track athlete who lived on the fourth floor, gathered in the hall to wait for the blasted machine.  We moved toward the stairwell, but kept an eye on the group.  When the doors opened again, quickly this time because the elevator car had never moved, there was no one inside.  As the group began to file into the empty elevator, I grasped Angela’s hand and led her to the stairs. 

“We will take the stairs,” I blurted, aware that Angela was apprehensive to go anywhere at that particular moment.

“What if that creep is up there?  Was that a man we just saw? God, this sounds crazy but his eyes looked like that cat we saw a few nights ago.  I don’t know what to do.”  Angela’s thought process was flying apart in slow motion.

I just wanted to get to our room so I could call John.  I’m sure there was nothing he could do about devil-boy, but I remembered that after I told him about the cat incident, he walked with me everywhere on campus, especially at night.  And, I knew that as a young, independent college woman I wasn’t supposed to accept, much less enjoy that type of behavior, but I did.  

When some of the other residents started up the stairs, I encouraged Angela to follow them.  “We can use them as a barrier, but I don’t know how I’m going to protect Angela if Polo shirt wearing creepo meets us on the sixth floor,” I thought to myself.   There had been many times over the years where I fought on behalf of Angela, and many of those times Angela was completely unaware of what was going on.  Back in ninth grade some punk called Angela “deaf and dumb,” and she didn’t hear him.  So, when he started laughing at her for not hearing his original insults, I became unglued.  I remembered how it felt to punch his face – how my knuckles and fingers burned while they created black and blue bruises on his eyes –how I had grabbed his testicles through his khaki pants and pulled and twisted until he crumpled to the floor – how there were still tufts of his blonde hair in my fingers when I was pulled off of him by teachers.  But, that was a ninth grade boy, and this was a full grown man who didn’t subscribe to the regular laws of nature. 

Back safely in our room, there was no sign of the demon.  “I guess Satan has left the building,” I said with nothing but nerves showing. 

†

Present day

“We should start heading back to the car.  My stomach is growling, and I think we both require cocktails at this point,” said Angela.  Her face revealed a mixture of ambivalence and child-like mischief at the thought of drinking so early in the afternoon. 

In a way, I’m glad we had grown apart because I think had she stuck with me during the years following John’s death; Angela’s authentic innocence would’ve been damaged like a middle-aged woman consistently drinking vodka tonics at the wrong time of day.  “I agree, we should probably start walking,” I said, somewhat relieved to exit Eldridge Hall and the heavy baggage it contained. 

There were so many times over the years that I wanted to reach out to Angela, and re-connect with her the way we were right now.  However, the steady progression of jobs and boyfriends promoted an ever present procrastination, and while talking to counselors and therapists was somewhat comforting, I could never escape the feeling that they were much more interested in the $140.00 that seeped out of my wallet like a puss-filled wound at the end of 75 minutes.  Besides, Angela had carefully crafted a barrier during this time which allowed her a certain amount of peace, and who was I to punch a hole in that? 

“You know, Ange, I’m not sure what I was hoping to find.  When I was driving over here, I thought I actually wanted to meet up with that demon cat/man again to confront…to hurt…to…” My mouth could not coordinate with my mind, and all I could hear was the relentless beating of my feet and heart in a syncopated mess. 

Stopping just a few yards away from the flagpoles, Angela turned to me, her eyes searching upwards toward the sky trying to hold back the onslaught of tears.  It was futile.  “You lost a lot more than I did back then,” she said.

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry you had to be the one to deliver the worst message of my life.  I’m sorry I stopped watching your back.  I’m sorry I fell apart.  I let you down.”  I could barely get the words out.  Words become so much heavier when lugged around for so long. 

†

November 14, 1994

1:30pm

After performing the ritualistic key jiggle and twist, the door opened and Angela was standing by the window looking out over the lower rooftops of Eldridge Hall.  I assumed she didn’t hear me open the door, and so I just started talking loudly.  I was hoping to avoid an awkward moment like we had last year when I had to come back to the room unplanned, and she in the middle of a marathon blow drying session.  I had stood a little off to the side of her for at least five minutes debating with myself on how to announce my presence without scaring the living crap out of her.  Finally, after realizing that just standing there was eerie in its own right, she turned off the blow dryer, looked in the bathroom mirror, and screamed like a banshee. 

“Class was BORING!”  I said, loudly. 

Angela put her palm to her chest and took a few deep breaths.  Something was terribly wrong.  Angela’s face was all red and splotchy as though she’d been crying for hours, and when she finally looked at me, another wave of salt water and snot came flowing down.  Instinctually, I headed over to comfort her and listen to what I thought was news of one of her grandparents passing or a family pet.  However, some unseen force stopped me from completing that action.

“There was a blood clot.  It went to his heart.  John died this morning,” Angela whispered quickly, getting all the words out as fast as she could before another wave. 

There are moments in your life that are imprinted so deep within the center of your brain that even diseases like dementia cannot deafen them like ear muffs on a windy day.  Later on I will learn that psychologists and therapists call it a “flashbulb memory,” but all I know right now is that my boyfriend, best friend, lover, and protector is gone, and Angela is the messenger. 

†

Present day

A few weeks later, I was back in the therapist’s chair recounting the campus reunion and drinking debauchery with Angela.  In half an hour, I had managed to clarify my closure and offer assurances that I wasn’t always fixing all of my problems through booze.  With 45 minutes left to spare, I leaned back in the squishy wingback and announced with alacrity that this was going to be out last session together.

“Do you think that is wise?  I mean, you’ve made huge progress, and I can’t help but feel you are simply telling me what you think I want to hear.”  His face tried to remain neutral, but I can smell a drop of pity in an ocean of good wishes.

“Listen to me now; I am not a cursed woman.  I know this.  I’m going to keep my $140.00 and start a vacation fund so I can visit Angela.  I know that if I should need to talk about seeing a demon cat, she won’t try to prescribe a bunch of pretty purple pills.” Letting that statement follow me like a rolling wake, I made my way to the front door of his office.

“Try to be careful,” he said slightly dejected.

It is much easier to blame Satan for broken friendships and the death of a loved one than to work through the grieving process in traditional steps.  While it may appear that I’m running away from troubles once again, this time I understand that devils travel.  More importantly, I have my friend back, and I am worthy of her ears, at least the left one anyway. 

           

           

There’s No Toast in Paris

There’s No Toast in Paris

            Jet lag will not suck any precious second I have from Paris.  Internally, I may have repeated that mantra about a million times before the plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport.  Apart from the reading, drooling, and Nutella gorging I participated in on the flight, I was pretty sure that all of that mediocrity was about to be eliminated the minute I placed my neon pink Pumas on French soil.  Anticipation is a fickle bitch.  Sometimes it works out like an upper middle-class childhood Christmas morning.  Other times, well, it’s like an upper middle-class childhood New Year’s Eve with Dick Clark.  For several years, every 30 minutes leading up to the ball drop, I would hope that this would be the year that something magical would happen, some mind-blowing epiphany, or at least some hot guy to kiss.  After all, the people in New York (or at least in Times Square) seemed to receive all of these things and more!  As the airplane taxied to the gate and several passengers made the sign of the Cross, I decided that all those New Year’s Eve “parties” were just a bunch of camera and editing tricks designed to make Mid-Westerners feel bad.  I’m from Michigan, and currently I’m sixty miles away from Paris, and New York can go to hell.

            “Do you need a ride, mademoiselle?”  A short middle-aged Indian man was suddenly beside me.  By the looks of his sympathetic face, I became painfully aware that I was completely unprepared on how to actually get from Charles de Gaulle to downtown Paris. 

            “Ummmm, sure,” I said worse than sheepishly.  I knew this was not one of my more brilliant moves here.  After all, wasn’t it drilled into my head not to talk to strangers, much less accept rides from them?  So, what happens when everyone is a stranger? 

            “My name is Dr. Rahman Patel,” he said calmly.  “I am a cardiologist from Oklahoma City, but I was born and raised in Paris.  I have dual citizenship.”  He spoke this last part proudly and quickly added, “It’s just like the noodle – my first name.” 

            It wasn’t until we were entrenched in the Hertz rent a car lot that I realized what he meant by noodles and names and what an idiot I had turned into.  Rahman had acquired the keys to a Citroën.  Never mind the fact that the brand’s name is too close to the word for lemon, it was clear that this sorry looking car was the only choice available. 

            “Do you know any French?”  He still remained calm even while driving a nearly Flintstone tin can on a bazillion lane expressway into Paris.

            “Un peu,” I said with snarky enthusiasm.  This feeling quickly diminished when his response was rapid French with an Oklahoma accent that was nearly impossible to understand.  I had never heard French spoken like this before, and quickly I was starting to become queasy.  The rolling in my stomach was more than likely the result of lack of sleep, anxiety over signing divorce papers the night before the flight, and realizing that minoring in French in college still does not prepare one to read street signs fast enough to know where the hell to go. 

            Slowly, and with as much concentration as I could muster (because I had to prove to myself that even under dire circumstances I shouldn’t so weakly fall back on English), I asked Rahman, “Avez-vous un petit sac?”  But, this was a rental car and unlike the airplane, there were no neat little bags available to spew into.  So, I chose the smallest bag within reach, my purse. 

            After wiping my mouth with my sleeve, I was grateful that Rahman was as serene as a bodhisattva sitting by a pond.  I mean seriously, here I am hitchhiking to Paris with a French-Indian-American cardiologist, knowing just enough French to get into trouble, and vomiting into my purse like some sort of drunken sorority whore.  What an entrance.  My mom would be so proud. 

            “Are you alright now, Miss?”

            “Yes,” I nodded, forgetting about French altogether.

            Somewhere within the haze of the nerves and the jet lag I found it.  I found a semi-peaceful slight smile curling up on my lips like a cat to a patch of sun.  I don’t care that I sound like a moron when I speak French, and I don’t care that I just threw up in my purse in front of a strange man. 

            “I can’t take you all the way to your hotel because it is too far out of my way from where I live, but I can get you to a taxi station that’s close by.”  After multiple apologies and appreciations, he refused any sign of payment perhaps finding that distasteful from a woman.  Giving me his business card and hailing a cab all at the same time, I realized that not only had I been embarrassing, but rude too. 

            “My name is Emily,” I stammered.  I quickly wrote down my name and number on a piece of paper that he supplied because there was no way I was going to open up my purse to see the second coming of Nutella on the interior.  He smiled gently as he hopped into the lemon car and drove away.  He hadn’t even merged into traffic yet and already I was missing his peaceful demeanor.  But, I had to get to my hotel because I needed to brush my teeth, and buy a new purse, and oh yeah, pass out. 

€

Apparently, Parisian hotel light switches are nothing like American ones.  After five minutes of fumbling and cussing, I finally figured out that the hotel key card also operated the electricity within the room.  Rummaging around piles of luggage, I also discovered that while my purple Oral-B made it safely overseas, the travel-size toothpaste that accompanied it was from ten years ago and had hardened within the tube to the consistency of granite.  I was desperate for fresh breath, so I pried a few minty pebbles into my palm and moistened them as best as I could.  While brushing (if one could call it that), it occurred to me that this vacation was taken more out of a combination of spite and impulsivity rather than in the spirit of rest and relaxation.  Spite because before signing off on my marriage, I had been canned from my mortgage servicing department position due to the “housing crisis,” and mostly, due to other people’s stupidity.  Impulsivity because actually going on the trip that I had bought and paid for already seemed ludicrous considering I “should” be staying close to home, and a phone, and a potential job prospect.  Perhaps, just maybe, karma was exerting her cyclical forces right now during my first few hours in France.  Well, at least my breath wasn’t entirely offensive, and my teeth weren’t furry anymore.

            “I will buy a purse and toothpaste tonight,” I thought out loud to myself as though making yet another mental checklist.  Carefully washing and then placing the puke-covered contents of my first purse on the coffee table to dry, I glanced out the window to see something that made all of this nausea and nerves worthwhile.  In the distance, slightly blurred from the dirt on the window and city pollution, the unmistakable spire of the Eiffel Tower pierced the sky and then my heart.  I laughed and cried all at the same time as I laid down on the humble double bed, and then blackness.

            I’m not sure if it was utter stubbornness or the sick sweet smell of rose perfume that woke me from my cavernous slumber.  My mantra concerning jet lag had obviously failed, and now I may be missing dinner with my tour group.  Yes, it was true that during a moment of weakness (desperation?) after being fired and divorced all within three weeks, I signed up to go to Paris and meet up with a tour group.  Now they assured me at the time that this group would be composed of younger people and everyone on board would also speak English (God, please don’t let me be stuck with a bunch of Americans).  The travel representative also assured me that while I was free to wander about individually, I should really try to stick to my group for “safety and security.”  I wanted no part of either of those two things.  Besides, since I was pretty sure there wasn’t any safety or security left in my life back home, the thought of hanging out with other American touristy sheeple felt positively defeatist.  However, I am not an unfair person.  I should at least give these people a chance because dinner is in thirty minutes (according to my immaculately organized schedule of events), and I am hungry.  Furthermore, I absolutely must leave before my hotel neighbor’s rose bath causes me to throw up again. 

            When it’s mid-July in Paris, it is simply foolish to try and sit inside at a café.  It is equally foolish to tote around a cumbersome backpack as a purse, but having left my vomit-bag in the hall for my rose-drenched neighbor to find, this was my only option. 

            “G,day, you must be Emily! Welcome to the Holidays Away tour group!”  Dumbstruck by the sheer thickness of this man’s Aussie accent, I nodded and performed the perfunctory introduction gestures.  After going through a whirlwind of names and interests/hobbies (and remembering exactly none of them), I took the only seat left in the café.  Sitting somewhere between the inside and outside boundary of the café, I learned that my dinner companion was the only other American in this group.

            “How y’all doin’ t’night?”  Apparently, the look on my face must have suggested that I clearly couldn’t remember him during the “getting to know your neighbor” hazing that just took place.  “The name’s Brian – from Tulsa…”

            Then I remembered.  Of course he was from Tulsa because after all, my big tour group which consisted of Londoners, Aussies, Afrikaners, and French-Canadians (Quebecois, if one is feeling particularly sophisticated) wouldn’t be complete without at least one person from the fanfuckingtastic state of Oklahoma.  “Hi, yes, I’m sorry my mind is elsewhere and I’m famished!  It is nice to meet you.  I’m Emily.”  For a split second, I thought about tagging the words “and I’m an alcoholic” to the end of that awkward greeting, but thought better of it.

            “And, for you mademoiselle?”  The server (no, he was le garçon because that is sexier than “server”) was really French, and not from Oklahoma! 

            I had been waiting for this moment for years, actually, nearly two decades.  Before ordering, I allowed my mind to briefly visit eighth grade French class.  I had earned multiple A pluses, handled irregular verb tenses with ease, and won many “magnifique”s on my pronunciation.  I had even practiced ordering dinner at a French restaurant for a skit I had performed in front of the class, and now my moment had arrived.   “Oui, I would like…no, I mean…Je voudrais…”

            “Git on with it already – I’d like tuh eat sometime this year,” the Oklahoma bonehead interrupted me at one of the most important milestones of my life.  Luckily for him, the cutlery had not been placed on the table yet. 

            “I’ll have the lemon-herb fish,” I said with such sadness that I think the entirety of Paris frowned for a fraction of a second. 

            “Gimme a big ole plate of sketti with plenty of garlic toast.”  Brian looked downright pleased with himself and oblivious to the fact that our garçon was confused about what the hell “sketti” was.  

            “Did you seriously just order s p a g h e t t i for your first meal in Paris?!”  I made sure to sound out the word “spaghetti” slowly and deliberately so le garçon could recognize it.  Before turning back to the kitchen, he gave an almost imperceptible wink and smile for my “translation.”

            “Whut’s wrong with sketti?  I’m hungry fer it.” 

            I couldn’t even bring myself to respond to this scene unfolding before me.  I am sure that my face must have been a true blending of the theatrical comedy/tragedy masks with large amounts of disgust thrown in for good measure. 

            After diving into my fish dish, and not really coming up for air, it wasn’t until I heard Brian’s booming Oklahoma tone that I realized he hadn’t been given his god-damned garlic toast. 

            “Hey there! Waiter! Ummm, yeah…y’all forgot my garlic toast!” 

            The weight of the stares and hushed voices was enough to push me into a semi-permanent slump in my seat.  For a moment, I could’ve easily slid all the way down into the Paris catacombs and eaten my fish with the dead.  They would’ve made better company.

            “So sorry, monsieur,” le garçon said quickly placing a bread basket on our table with eyes averted (I wouldn’t want to look at us either).  The basket before us contained an assortment of real French breads probably baked last night or early this morning while we had been 35,000 feet over the Atlantic.  And while this same type of bread basket was on just about all the tables in the café, it decidedly was NOT garlic toast.

            Before Brian could finish clearing his throat in preparation to throttle le garçon again, I had reached my maximum weight capacity.  “Just stop!  We all know that this bread isn’t the garlic toast you ordered.  We all know that you fancy yourself some loud-mouthed confident man in charge, but (my voice was rising in pitch with every word) in reality you are merely a moron probably overcompensating for a penis the size of a twig and you don’t even know that they don’t eat toast in Paris!” 

            Completely unaware of the people watching my tirade, I left a significant portion of uneaten fish on my plate in my rush to exit the Parisian café from hell.  As I stepped onto the sidewalk, the salty tears stung my eyes like mini sparks flickering up and down my face.  I distinctly heard the sound of clapping.

€

            I am unsure how long I walked in the wrong direction before realizing that my hotel room was the other way.  By this time I had stopped crying and had parked myself on a bench.  Somehow I had missed the sunset and now found myself watching “The City of Light” do just that. 

            “Eet was me who did zee clapping, mademoiselle.” The man’s voice was soft and comforting even though I nearly squeaked from being startled.  Turning around quickly, I was surprised to see it was our garçon. 

            “Oh, hi… garçon…umm..ehhh,” I said blushing, smiling, and deflating all at the same time. 

            “Ehhh, I am Jean-Michele LeMieux, and you missed dessert, non?”

            Ok, I admit it, I was utterly enchanted by this man’s voice, but then again, it could’ve been low blood sugar too.  Damn I’m good at fighting with myself.

            “Yes, I missed dessert, and I’m sure they all had some delicious treat without me, and that’s just fine because I’m NOT going back anywhere near that bonehead.”

            “Zhis group ees gone now, come back with me to ze café, s’il vous plait with many peaches on top, non?”

            Feeling the blush rising like lights coming up in a theater, I chuckled a little.  “You mean cherries on top.”

            “Cherrieeez – peaches—ehh, no matter.” 

            Back at the café, I was relieved to see that, indeed, my tour group had gone, and really there were only a handful of people continuing dinner conversations well into the night as the French are prone to do. 

            “Open your mouth,” he said.

            “What?”

            “Open your mouth,” he repeated as this was the most natural thing in the world to ask a stranger.  Seeing that I wasn’t readily playing this game, he leaned in closer and said, “I can tell you are a woman already unafraid – adventure ees easy for you, non?  Ze problem ees with being lied to – you feel everyzing ees faux, especially ze people around you?”

            Jean-Michele’s assessment was both uncanny and uncalled for, but he was right.  Paris shouldn’t be treated like a chore to get done, no it should be…

            “Open your mouth – try zhis.”

            Cool pear ice cream mixed with warm brandied pears in dark chocolate drizzle filled my mouth, and suddenly finding purses and toothbrushes meant nothing.  I no longer felt stressed about throwing up in front of Rahman, and I no longer cared about bonehead Brian.  Actually, I was even starting to feel goodwill towards the state of Oklahoma again.

            “Sweet Christ,” I whispered. 

€

            Seduction via pear crème glacée is something both liberating and ridiculous.  Something my now ex-husband would never think of doing, and I highly recommend it.  Watching Jean-Michele sleep in my bed with his body bowed out into a permanent letter C was deeply satisfying and irksome at the same time. 

            “You have to go,” I purred while fumbling for a lamp switch.

            “What ees wrong, I not make you happy, Emilié?” 

            Somewhere between changing my mind and having another round of wicked hot sex, and throwing Jean-Michele out on his perky French ass, it occurred to me that no one could make me happy at that moment.  All the sex and food in France could not cure me of me. 

            Sensing my internal agitation, he methodically got dressed and then paused.  “You are overzhinking zhings.  Your nerves – zhey are setting mine off too – breathe.” Smiling in that warm peaceful way that Dr. Patel did, he added, “Maybe you come back to ze café for breakfast and I feed you…ehhh…how do you say…pain perdu…non, French toast.”

            I hung on the word “toast” in all of its absurdity and glory, and as for breathing, well with every inhalation the notes of fuck musk and rose perfume became increasingly empowering and calming (if that can even be a combination).  “Maybe,” I said feeling smug and hyper aware of being at once polite, professional, and naked. 

            “You are très belle, and I will show you ze reeel Paris ahftear breakfast.  Zhis ees good, non?”  Not waiting for my reply, he kissed my cheek with a soft sliver of lips, and slipped out the door as quietly as a bank robber on Labor Day.  I was pretty sure that I would not be seeing Jean-Michele again.

            After facing the mint pellets in the bathroom again, I decided to quickly throw on some clothes and hunt down fresh toothpaste.  While it was irritating to carry around a backpack everywhere, I could get by; however, not having proper toothpaste was a deal-breaker.  I thought I might check with the hotel lobby night receptionist, that is, if I could find one.  

            It was late, but not ungodly so.  Finally, after trying not to look too harried, an impeccably dressed woman sauntered over from a back room and immediately sensed my American tourist status like mosquitos to warm, wet carbon dioxide.  

            “Ehhh, yes, how may I ‘elp you?”

            Her English was excellent, but I had made up my mind nearly 24 hours ago that I would try to speak French as much as possible because above all else, I craved an authentic experience.  Besides, I noticed that when I at least attempted their language, a momentary kindness draped over the person like the real linens on the outside café tabletops.  

            “J'ai oublié mon dentifrice…” I was beaming on the inside knowing that I was making a whole string of past French teachers undeniably proud.

            “I’m sorry miss,” she didn’t even allow me to finish asking for it, “Zhere ees a chemist one street over and on ze corner.”  

            I had already started moving to the exit when I shrugged my shoulders, “Merci.”

€

            By the time I returned to my room, now totally soaked in rose, it was close to midnight.  Parisians were already starting to celebrate Bastille Day which was technically in a few minutes.  Looking at my drugstore purchases, I realized that I was lucky the shop was still open.  But hey, Paris is a big city and people need toothpaste, drugs, and condoms at all hours of the day just like in America.  Satisfied with myself for completing my shopping “tasks” without using one English word, I understood that the real Paris I was so desperate to experience had been happening this whole time.

            Peeling off my suitcase wardrobe for the second time tonight, I briefly glanced at the schedule of events for tomorrow, and then, promptly threw it away.  Content that Bastille Day is nowhere near New Year’s Eve, I leaned back on my bed like a Buddha in the shade, or a lion in the sun.  

           

           

           

           

           

           

            

Stiletto

Oxblood leather with gold

cap toes do not sway

a sharp and jarring gait.

Urgency can indeed be

felt through the soles like

a surprise microphone

in front of millions.

She sees she is

a tempest on thorns

attempting to pierce concrete -

knowing her heels

could double as

weapons.

Once a woman under-

stands this spindle of

influence, her walk be-

comes staccato flashes

of lightening.

After a trip down un-

carpeted paths, she

knows the fury sound –

that thwap – thwap

pulse like the beginning

of a disco anthem - or

impatience.

Cease and De-Cyst

It’s not like cancer left

the lump on my wrist like

some malleable fleshy super

ball.  Instead, this annoying

knob is purely courtesy of

neurons refusing to communicate

and years of shelving

heavy Engineering journals in the

library.  I’m sure Shakespeare Quarterly

had nothing to do with this benign

bump. 

The doctor remarks that it used to be

common for people to smash the

swelling with a Bible.  Convinced

only a King James version could drive

out such a painful protuberance,

I inform him that broken bones and

surgery will not be necessary.  Besides,

after spending considerable time waiting and

squishing my little ganglion cyst in the

fluorescent front room, I scanned all

coffee tables only to find that even The

Gideons forgot this

office.

So the Dolphin Decided

Oh stupid scuba man

It’s you again.

Take your tank and flippers and get

Out of my natural habitat – besides –

National Geographic has already beaten you to it.

Of course I know how to speak English

You fucking moron – and if I felt

like being a battering ram today, I’d relieve

you of that ridiculous air contraption.  Yes –

I’d puncture that fucker just for the pleasure

of watching bubbles rise and burst brightly like

(what do you call that thing again…?)

a disco ball.  That’s right, it would be

a god-damned disco down here.

But you would never know

because you’re always running out of air.

You’d better get back to your boat before

my brothers (Frank and Joe) return. 

They've done hard time at Sea World, you know.

Furthermore, I have my own land gadget to test.

Yes – that’s right – I've decided to know

the feeling of dirt on my dorsal.

So I’ll put on my land-suit (designed to keep

my skin moist) and maybe I’ll come

observe you in your home/office/church.

But – I wouldn't hold my breath

(pun intended) because

my sonar senses tell me that the ground

isn't that fucking great after all.  

Laboratory

I swear I can feel my own cilia

fondling intruders

the way a redneck might with ripened

seventeen year old stepdaughters.

Giving nematodes two heads

is easy.  I just have to be steady

and bored.  And no, this parasite

did not consume itself.

So the fetal pig’s heart is in the wrong

place.  It happens to humans too.  Freaks

living normally within the boundaries

of biology.

If I stare at the serum on the slide

long enough, my mitochondria will

make music again like Melissa Etheridge’s

lung capacity.

I've held a scalpel –

I know how important it is

to breathe.

Dermis

And it was anchovies I tasted

As you cock-swabbed the inside

Of my cheek

Calling it science

Epithelial indeed lies

Like icebergs or politicians picking

Arab friends

And there was a slight crust you left

Behind of crystalline semen

On my dress – unless –

I’m calling it armor

Just before that

C’mon press that spot, baby

And I place my thumb to your trachea

 And your eyelids flutter

  Almost epileptic

   As I surface to meet my own skin

    At last level ground

     And I fake it

      And I fuck

       And I fake it

And