My family along with Meggan’s best friend Amelia—and excepting Jessica and I—took of for Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, for a vacation, making me something of a single mother.
I got Jessica out of bed at six a.m., dressed her, fed her, and sent her along to school.
I then went to work to open up shoppe. The Chicago soundtrack was playing over the store’s speaker system. I really enjoy waking early and opening up shoppe, especially while listening to music.
Cellophane, Mister Cellophane should have been my name. Mister Cellophane, ’cause you can look right through me, walk right by me, and never know I’m there. . .
I totally want to bring in the soundtrack to Annie, Marry Poppins, The Sound of Music, Oklahoma!, Camelot, Newsies and all that jazz. Start the top o’ the morning right.
The other gal phoned in sick so I was manning the counter alone all day. It was constantly busy. My kitchen began to fall into a messy state of disrepair and espresso got everywhere. Chris The Token Gay Guy and Viv came and pieced it back together, though, which was lovely of them.
At one point a guy came up to me and asked me if I were either Dutch or Irish.
–Nope, nope, I said, I am Welsh, Swedish, Finnish, Slovak, German and French. Why? What’re you?, I asked, wondering if I had found some soulmate who was of the above ethnicities and was constantly asked if he was anything but.
Someday I think I shall start a commune where only people who are Welsh, Swedish, Finnish, Slovak, German and French can live in peace. I think I’m about to have an identity crisis – perhaps some dark family secret from a couple generations back has made itself manifest in me. All that rises must converge. Manifest destiny, baby!
–I totally had you pinned as Irish or Dutch. That is odd. I’m…I’m about as many ethnicities as that, a European mutt, he said shrugging, left it at that, and walked away.
I got off work at four and picked Jessica up from school and went grocery shopping for the week. Got to buy the sorts of food I like and all people in their right mind would like. I miss grocery shopping. Back when I worked with brain injured adolescents I got to do the shopping for the week. Budget: $1,200.00. It was a blast. I’d march into Kroger with whatever adolescents (imagine the teens on television talkshows who are sent to bootcamp, magnify their vileness two times) I had selected to help and waltz out with four shopping carts of food. Cooking for them was a lot of fun. When I moved back home my mum criticised me for not using coupons and for cooking too much food. Guess I’d become too used to having an astronomical budget and shopping for five adolescents and three staff and preparing meals for five growing boys and two male staff. I’ve since got everything under control.
Went and picked Jessica up from school. This fulltime student-parttime barista-single mum business is a tough stint! I pity and admire anyone who does it.
K— rang me up and reminded me that she was singing at a bar that evening. Long story, but here is the short of it. She can sing and goes to karaoke bars every now and again. Last fall we were at a karaoke night at a bar Downtown and she decided to sing “Strawberry Wine” by Deana Carter. The song in some way started to remind her of her ex-boyfriend, an erring cousin of mine (with a penchant for wrecking girls) who did a grievous wrong by her some years ago. Though we were very close growing up, I have coldy observed him from a distance ever since I caught wind of what he’d done. Though it is unspoken between us, he is smart enough to deduce that I know. Our families, who know nothing of what happened, have looked at us curiously. I really have no idea the proper action to take with him. I mean, you can’t defraud one of a girl’s best mates and expect things to carry on as they were before, all peachy keen, can you? Of course not. However, am I supposed to act like this towards him the rest of our lives? Perhaps when were forty—and he has amended his ways and things are somewhat more removed—we can go golfing and carry on as before. As it is now, I disapprove of him from beginning to end. Anyway, Kels gets up there and starts to sing the song and loses it: voice gets shaky, teary-eyed, turns red, and as soon as it’s over walks out of the bar. I gathered our things and followed her. She hadn’t been back to a karaoke bar since.
A week or so ago she was driving somewhere around her apartment in one of the north east suburbs and sees a bar that’s having a karaoke happy hour and decides what the heck, demons-be-conquered, I don’t know anyone there, good place as any. She goes in, orders a drink, and watches. She sees a guy reading a book who she described to me as “in-his-forties-Asian-really dorky-pocket protector-polo shirt” and decides to pull up and chair and sit with him, as they both are in a bar alone during karaoke hour, and probably both feel really out of place. The Asian Guy gets up on stage, whips out a harmonica, and sings Neal Young’s “Heart of Gold” perfectly, beautifully. K— is awestruck and cannot believe it. She gets up on stage and sings “I’m Alright” by Jo Dee Messina . When the lyrics I’m all, I’m all, I’m alright / It’s a beautiful day not a cloud in sight / so I guess I’m doin’ alright / O - oh, o - oh, I’m alright / Got a good old friend here with me tonight and I guess I’m doin’ alright she points at and sings to the peculiar Asian Guy. He dies laughing. K— ends up winning some contest and advancing to some final round to be held the evening of Friday, March 28. A couple days ago she showed me her wrist in the car: the Asian Guy had written “Heart of Gold” in Japanese in magenta permanent marker.
I had to be there. I thought about bringing my little sister, but decided against it as the repressed Baptist guilt of my grandparents seems to have resurfaced in my parents. Babbysitter, babysitter, babysitter. I called up my grandma and she said she’d be happy to take Jessica, not only for today, but for the entire weekend. Bingo. Surprise.
I called K— and asked her what she was planning to sing. A Shania Twain or a Britney Spears song. Ouch. I told her it was a horrible idea, and that if she was going to do modern country songs she ought to do the Dixie Chicks. I picked up the first Dixie Chicks album at a music store on the way to her house. I rang the bell and she let me into the building. I walked the stairs to her door and knocked. She opened, singing and using a brush for a microphone.
–Bill Caxton!, I swore. You look exactly like a Dixie Chick! Clothes, hair, and all! Bravo.
We went into her room and I sat down and tried to choreograph some moves as she practiced “I Can Love You Better”. Kels told me she went out with Patrick Simmons the night before and talked about God. I told her that he—though he broke my heart with his car accident story—hadn’t proven himself trustworthy yet and she ought not to go places alone with him. She agreed after a little persuasion and decided that she wants me along at all times. We briefly made plans to take him to church.
The queer thing about K— is, that for all her sunny brightness and innocense when it comes to the vile ways of the world, she is actually related to one Edgar Allan Poe. I am eternally jealous. She doesn’t deserve to be related to Poe, I deserve to be related to Poe! I ought to marry into her family.
We went to the bar. A lot of the E— showed up—her cousin, N—, due to have her first baby in five weeks. I also hadn’t seen her aunt J— E— in years. She chaperoned our springbreak to Mazatlan and stayed in with me and read when the other kids went out to clubs, the guys somehow acquiring Mexican girlfriends who couldn’t speak a word of English.
Kels got up and sang her song well and the bar erupted into a sea of turbulent applause. She was glowing.
I was sitting at a table with K—’s mum and her (i.e. K—) stepfather J—, who has been something of an uncle to me through the years; I’ve known him since I was born. I remember watching him play softball with my dad and the other men from church when I was a little girl, at the fields belonging to Fort Snelling. K—’s dad died spontaneously of heart failure when she was thirteen. Five years ago J—’s wife went insane, had a midlife crisis, fancied herself Edna Pontellier and left him and their three children and started seeing other men. I say insane because that’s basically what it was. She packed up and pretty much said So-long-and-thanks-for-all-the-hats! It was absolutely peculiar. Though she’d probably never tell anyone, domineering woman that she is, I’m sure she regrets it something awful. I didn’t think she realised that if she was going to throw J— out the window most of their acquaintances would jump out the window after him and extricate themselves from her life. So then, there was Kels mum who had been looking for another husband, and J— whose wife went AWOL. The Lord doth provide.
–There is a book I should like to borrow from you, J—, I said.
–Eh, oh yeah? What book is that?
–I saw it on your shelf once. Called Dust something. By a man with the last name Guinness. Parts of it talked about the Beats. Most Christians don’ t know jack about the Beats, or, if they do don’t care to comment.
–Dust of Death ?, said J—.
–Yes! That’s the one, I replied.
J— then told me some story about when he became a Christian and about a family friend that—a lady who used to watch me while my mum and dad were at work—introduced him to Guinness’ work. We talked about things people talk about, and I asked him how his eldest daughter, S—, was doing. I’d heard that John Piper’s son, who she used to date, was back in town. I see him at shows from time to time.
–Oh, she’s great, he told me. She’s got a new boyfriend, a guy from England. Look, there they are.
–Oh yeah? What’s he like?, I asked.
–I don’t really know him, said J—.
–What!, I exclaimed, your daughter is dating someone you don’t know? Haven’t you checked his references?!
–She’s twenty-four, J— laughed, she does whatever she wants.
–You’ve got to put your foot down, old man!, I exclaimed.
Kels came back from the stage and was immediately delayed by a table of guys that had become enamored with her. J— and I sat there and watched. The table was successfully trapping her in conversation. The guys were drinking Skyy Blue. As a rule people, especially men, that drink Skyy Blue are not to be trusted.
–K— is trapped, I said to J—.
He laughed.
One of men put his hand on her shoulder.
–J—!, I exclaimed. Look!
He looked.
–He just put his hand on her shoulder! How horrible! If you don’t push over our table and immediately go toss him some punches, I’m going to think less of you!
He laughed.
–I’m serious! You’re supposed to protect her! This cannot be allowed to continue! Avenge!
He laughed more.
–Look here, J— H—, I said. If you don’t do something, I’m either going to have to get your son to do something, or I’ll have to take care of things myself, and I’ve never really thrown a punch before, so I wouldn’t know what to do. A friend tried to teach me how the other day, but I’m still pretty sure I’d break my thumb. And I need my thumb! I could not be a barista without it. I’d be ruined!
Luckily for me, K— decided on her own that the shady table was not worth talking to. Normal karaoke began. I noticed that the Asian Guy was sitting at the table next to ours. A guy got up on stage and sang “Like a Rolling Stone” which pleased me very much. As I was clapping the Asian Guy grabbed my forearm and wrote something in Japanese in magenta permanent marker on my wrist. I was wearing three-quarters sleeves.
–What’s this?, I exclaimed.
–Like a Rolling Stone, he said.
The Asian Guy got up on stage, whipped out his harmonica, and sang Billy Joel’s “The Piano Man”. Where in the world did he come from, and man, tell me, what’re you doin’ here? He returned to his booth and I congratulated him. Someone got up and sang Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer”. He grabbed my arm and wrote something on it once again.
–What is this?, I asked.
–Tiny Dancer, he smiled.
So yeah, it’s still on my arm. While running this morning I realised it probably made me look like a sorority girl that bought into the Japanese tattoo craze and that people might mistake Like a Rolling Stone and Tiny Dancer for Love, Peace, and Harmony, or somesuch nonsense, and attempted to wash it off, but the ink seems to be firmly established for the time being. It’ll have to fade away.
This morning I woke up and called K— and we both had a good laugh about the night before. Fifteen dollar gift certificates from Express had arrived in both our mailboxes the day before so we made plans to meet at the mall. We went to J.C. Penny’s as they were having a sale of somesort and she was looking for a swimsuit. I was looking at something and heard her say “follow me this way”. When I looked up she was gone, so I walked in the direction from which I thought I’d heard the voice come. She was nowhere in sight and I was surrounded by a jungle of clothes and racks.
–I am lost, I said to the air, hoping she’d hear me.
–Me too!, said a cute little old lady standing behind me—she was shorter than most of the clothes racks!
–These department stores are so big! Like labyrinths!, I exclaimed.
–Yes! I get lost so often, she agreed. Can never find anything. So many distractions!
–I miss the Olden Days, I said. Stores were little and everyone knew everyone. People were nice.
–That is so true, said the little old lady in the labyrinth.
We had a conversation about the Olden Days — which was strange as this woman never let on that I wasn’t from the Olden Days — until K— appeared from around a corner and pulled me into the dressingroom.
–Bye!, I wished her as I was dragged into the dressing room and hoped that she’d eventually find her way out of the quandary.
We then went and spent those gift certificates at Express, that would double to thirty dollars if we spent seventy-five; furthermore we got ten percent off for using an Express credit card. We used one gift certificate, and, between the two of us we got a pair of expensive sunglasses, a necklace, two shirts, and a bracelet for thirty-four dollars. We left the store pretty sure that it was too good to be true and that we’d probably just committed some sort of highway robbery.
To work, to work, to work. Whistle, whistle, whistle.