I’m supposed to be at a party right now. A small party, I imagine around 25-30 people. It was to take place in a popular downtown restaurant. But instead, I’m sitting at home with my dog, writing you. Not because I decided not to go. Not because I don’t feel well. But because of panic and “guidelines”. Guidelines being a nice way of saying restrictions.
One week ago, last Tuesday, America was aware of this “flubug” called Coronavirus. We felt bad for China, and we were really examining our spring break plans. We had enough sense to know we didn’t want to go to big cities with international airports. We weren’t too keen about getting on airplanes or cruise ships. But we’re not China. So we laughed and joked and shared memes about beer and face masks made from bras.
Wednesday. I look back on this day now and wonder how long it will be before I’ll have another day like it. Because that was the last time I had dinner out with friends. We laughed and teased our friend who stayed glued to her phone. She travels a lot, and her panic rose substantially as the night wore on, no matter how much wine she drank. She was in communication with a coworker in California, who said she was praying. In case you’re new to America, let me tell you…California is different. I understand they pray to the Sun God. At any rate, maybe this will lead some of them to Jesus. I’ll drink to that. So, now it’s like seeing that night as a movie. All of us at Aubrey’s, like any other weeknight, having a good time, sports on, but the news running along a bar at the bottom. We’re all huddled up and sharing secrets and food. There were hugs around the neck goodbye. This is how the movies always begin. With a normal day. One last one before the end of the world and the crippling of civilization.
That was the night the NBA announced they would not be playing to live crowds. It felt ridiculous, but not ominous.
At first the CDC recommended limited gatherings to less than 250 people. As a suggestion, they said.
Concerts began to be cancelled or rescheduled. People were ready to riot. Don’t take away our fun! If you don’t want to catch it, stay home, we told each other.
Friday came. Schools closed. Parents really started looking at this then. This could be an issue. Better buy plenty of toilet paper. Statements from every retailer and restaurant were being issued via email about how Covid-19 (as it was now being called) was being addressed. Restaurants were stepping up cleaning procedures and removing non-essential items off tables (like Cracker Barrel’s peg game). What was most distressing is that you may not even exhibit symptoms. And when and if you did, it was probable that you had carried the virus for as long as two weeks. I hadn’t been in the grocery store in weeks, and wouldn’t be going then except that I was out of tomatoes, and tomatoes are a driving force in my life. And I was also out of chili, but I had hot dogs and buns. I needed chili, beer, tomatoes, chicken, and cheese. I knew that the stores were experiencing a much higher volume of shoppers than usual, so I went early, with a list of other errands to run.
The post office was mercifully peaceful. Our post office is many things, but peaceful is not an adjective I would EVER use to describe it. On to Food City. The store was busy, people in every aisle, but again, this is not unusual. Especially for a Friday. I went down the TP aisle just to say I did. Signs up to notify shoppers only two packs at a time were allowed. There was some left, small packs of off-brands. So, hopeful. But I was rattled. I kept envisioning all the apocalyptic movies I’d seen….just like this. This doesn’t happen in my small town. This was for Los Angeles, New York, Chicago. This was for books about the end of time. This wasn’t for reality. I was not amused. I thought that it would be a good time to get out. I’d come back later, maybe early next week, and get the things I was missing. I found a line that seemed to be moving. It reminded me of their midnight madness sales. The people in front of me had two huge packs of TP, six pounds of hamburger meat, several cases of water, I don’t know what all. I looked at my buggy a little forlorn. Surely it was an overreaction. These people were baby boomers. A lady got in line behind me. We made eyes. We began to hash it out. It was her regular shopping day. She had normal stuff in normal amounts. We talked to a guy in a county uniform the next lane over. He had a whole bunch of boxes of Little Debbies and two cases of Dr. Pepper. Here were my people. We talked about books. We laughed. It felt routine.
Later, I reflected that what if I had taken off Facebook for Lent like I normally do? I can’t bear to watch the news, and I’m not known for checking my email regularly. Is it possible I could have walked into that mayhem unaware? Possibly.
By the weekend, they were saying the number 50 was safer. Within three days, that number has dropped to ten and we all know they’d be most comfortable if we just isolated ourselves individually. One family member per room, with private bath, completely stocked with Clorox. They called it social distancing. Six feet, people. Pretend you’re all wearing hoopskirts.
Disney World closed.
Libraries closed. Museums and parks followed.
Churches suspended services and programs, opting instead for Facebook Live videos.
Theatres, gyms, and bars shut down, including many planned events.
Hospitals patients are limited to one family member to stay with them. People in jails and nursing homes are off limits to visitors.
Grocery stores and Walmart began to limit their hours to allow for restocking and cleaning measures.
Drive thru only or takeout from restaurants, and they’re delivering it curbside.
And finally, the Casinos.
The Kentucky Derby will not be run until September. It’s normally scheduled for the first Saturday in May. I’m not sure why we’re already postponing events that are that far away.
And that was it. Suddenly, you couldn’t buy things in stores. The meat department was woefully barren, the toilet paper aisle was picked over, hand sanitizer long gone, and the bread was ravaged. Fortunately, in my part of the world, while the stores were busy at checkout, people were still friendly and helpful and we smiled ruefully from a distance that we always maintained. I went by the Co-op and gave and returned hugs with a dozen of my old friends. We laughed and scoffed and shook our heads. We’re farmers. We’re feeding America. We know how to hunt and fish. It’s fine. Luckily I know how to cook dry beans over a fire, and I can make cornbread with little trouble and few ingredients. I shan’t starve. But I want to scream “I’m NOT FOLDING!!! And don’t try to tell me this isn’t political!!!”
I have read too many books on this type of situation. But I’m still not scared, because I check the numbers every day. I still trade texts with other friends who are taking this in stride. I can hear the eye rolling as we discuss the chaos we have witnessed, the arguments on Facebook, what our employers protocol is for this situation. We’re still working. We’re still maintaining our relationships. We’re still eating out and not cooking. We’re planting gardens…but we’ve always done that.
Many retail stores have closed through the end of the month. While I understand it’s being labeled as a precautionary measure, it has come after they reduced their hours….and now there’s very little business. Some are paying their employees during the time off, which is WONDERFUL…I think the rest are hoping for a bailout when all this comes down. After all, it’s cheaper to have a store making zero dollars than it is to have a store going in the hole, while they’re paying employees to disinfect when there’s not been anyone there to spread germs in the first place. And paying for arriving products that won’t sell for a month or more. The effects of this virus reach much further than our lungs. This will impact every industry out there. Truckers, mechanics, servers, small business owners, everybody. Thank God for those who still work, and those in leadership roles dealing with the fallout and the tough decisions as the community leans on them for answers and direction.
If I had children, I would probably eventually have grandchildren. And this is what I would tell them about. I would tell them about the Space Program, NASA, and the Shuttle Challenger- where I was when it exploded. How I was a little girl, myself, and how the nation mourned for decades. I would tell them about 9/11, and how I was scared, how we were all scared, and how we bunkered in, because we wanted to, but also because we had to. I would tell them how we grieved and solidified and prayed for each other. And how in twenty years it seems like we’ve forgotten. And I would tell them about this. How a whole nation panicked and splintered instead of holding hands (figuratively) and forgot that there is always something out there trying to kill us, and eventually something will. But it more than likely won’t be this virus.
So now it’s a new normal. Now, when we come into work, we don’t put the coffee on first thing. Now we disinfect everything that could have been touched overnight. Now we check the news before we look at our email, if we weren’t watching it at home. They warned us that it was going to get worse before it gets better. They warned us that the numbers would rise significantly as the tests became more available. They told us not to panic.
So yesterday, when the updated number of cases came out and the number had doubled since Friday night, what did everybody do? Did they shrug and approach it analytically, as we were told to expect this increase?
Of course not.
They freaked out and went and bought more toilet paper.
For me, life goes on. It hasn’t changed much. I work alone, I live alone. I’m just not meeting friends after work anymore. I’m washing my hands more frequently. I’m reading more books and thinking about how this will all be over as soon as we have some sustained warm weather, and how even then the Doomsday Population will claim it’s because of all our precautions to “flatten the curve”. No, you sheep. It’s because it’s a respiratory illness and with warmer weather, those all but disappear. If you want some funny memes about socialism, come see me. I’ll even HUG you!!!! I know it’s not about me. I know that the risk is almost non-existent to me. But I know that for my uncle, for my best friend’s dad, for many others I love, it IS serious. I’m not trying to diminish that. I’m not saying it isn’t contagious. I’m not saying we shouldn’t try to avoid getting it and be diligent about keeping surfaces disinfected and our hands washed. What I AM saying is the flu is deadly too. As are diabetes and heart disease and lung cancer. And I’m saying the media has caused this circus and it’s blown completely out of proportion. There are not even 10,000 cases in the country yet. That’s of a total of 327.2 million in our total population. By comparison, last year’s flu season wiped out 80,000 in the US alone. You can Google at your leisure the numbers on diagnosis. That should boggle your brain.
Oh, and my friend whose party was cancelled? I stopped by to give him his present (liquor, multi-functional) and we exchanged two hugs.
It’s my second favorite holiday, and here I sit. Slainte.
***At the time of this post, the death toll is still under 100 for America
All I knew was he went by Rod. I found him through a friend of a friend of an acquaintance after I couldn’t find a granny witch. Everybody said I didn’t want to open that door, and I tended to agree. So straight-up murder, no magic, then.
I assumed he came from a neighboring county that had, shall we say, less stringent laws? The authorities would turn a blind eye to lots of misdeeds…especially if you feathered their nest if the public got to lookin’ too close. But I wasn’t going to ask him about his family and politics. The less we knew about each other, the better.
It’s surprisingly easy to put a hit out. And cheap! Less than what you’d pay for a mediocre used car. The details were simple: meet in a corner booth in a Mexican restaurant. Wear a black shirt (how original, I know). Order a burrito with extra sour cream. Slide the money under a stack of napkins at the earliest convenience. Finish the meal, and get the heck out. Leave first and don’t look back.
So that’s what we did. Rod was sturdily built, with a goatee. He looked like any number of guys in these parts. Not a killer. He was wearing a plaid shirt with pockets and blue jeans. Lace-up boots. A pack of cigarettes in one pocket, sunglasses in another. He was just a blue-collar guy with blood on his hands.
He didn’t ask me why. I guess he gets gigs like this regularly, jilted women with enough pocket money to make it happen. For my part, I was willing to forgo my annual Coach bag for the next few years. I was willing to eat bologna sammiches and ramen noodles for the next six years if that’s what it took. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I was dry-eyed when I passed the money over. He ordered water and taco salad. Cheap date, I thought, with a hint of irony. He tried to make small talk about the weather. For anyone looking at us, they may have hypothesized that we were business colleagues. Which, when you think about it, they would be quite right. When I looked into his eyes, I expected ice blue ones to meet my own. But they were a surprisingly warm tone of brown. I knew a few merciless people with brown eyes, so I guess I shouldn’t have given it a second thought. One minute they would look like melted chocolate, the next beady, like a mud turtle’s. I wanted to give him some pointers. He wouldn’t even have to shoot him or stab him. Really, he could walk away clean, other than his conscience. Just lace his drugs with something extra lethal. That’s all it would take. But something told me he’d done his research before ever agreeing to this hit. I wondered how many people he’d killed. I wondered what was the easiest way. I wondered if he attended church and if his momma was still alive, and if so did he sit at her table on Sunday afternoons and eat fried chicken and drink sweet tea? I wondered what he told people he did for a living. Is this what he did, or did he have a legitimate job, where he paid taxes? Was this just a side hustle? How long had he done this? How’d he get involved? What was his first hit? Did he have any close calls? Did he always succeed? Had he ever been suspected? There was no tell-tale teardrop tattoo, and I couldn’t exactly ask for a resume, but my brain itched the longer we sat there. And he could tell. We called for the check quickly.
Yes, he’d be missed, but no one would be surprised. There would be a funeral at his neighborhood funeral parlor, and everyone would remark that he’d shown promise for those years he was married to “that girl”. Got his life straightened out, shed his old skin for a better life. But then a wandering eye. Excitement. And so began the first in a long string of bad decisions, leading him back to his past. Ashes to ashes. Life is but a vapor. Rest in peace.
I stepped into my favorite restaurant bar at a quarter to five, seated at what I’ve come to think of as “my” table, since it seems I get it nearly every time. Maybe I should see to getting a little plaque made up. I ordered a cosmo and settled back to wait on my friend. I surveyed the people at the bar and what I found was a goldmine. I couldn’t get my WordPress account opened fast enough.
Left to right:
Balding man, grey hair trimmed short. He was in blue jeans, a black hooded sweatshirt under a jean jacket with white tennis shoes. Describing his appearance makes me feel that his best days were the 80’s. He stayed absorbed in his phone the few minutes I got to observe him. I’d wager he’s still figuring it on, maybe navigating YouTube. He polished off his light beer and left abruptly. Maybe to drink PBR’s in his buddy’s garage while bangin’ some drums and smoking a little weed.
He was replaced shortly after by a heavyset dude in his 30’s, clearly fresh off a construction job, but obviously he’d taken the time to change his boots. Otherwise, they would still be sweeping up mud. I didn’t notice what he’d ordered to drink. Maybe sweet tea, maybe a dark draft, I dunno. His friend came from a booth on the far end to collect him. He and his wife had arrived just moments before and had probably been getting situated when he came in, so they didn’t notice him. Funny. Cell phones, what a marvel.
He was eventually replaced with two late twenties brunettes. One knew several of the employees, which made me think she was dating one or maybe worked there herself. Her friend stayed enamored with her phone for the most part. They drank some Moscow mules and then ordered a “Love Martini”. Phone girl drank hers, Friendly did not. And I don’t blame her. While aesthetically pleasing, they are thick and sickly sweet.
Next in line at the corner we have a young 9not that young, probably early 30’s) blonde with a fake bun, wrapped in a long, vibrant headscarf. Her Patagonia jacket was draped over the back of her stool. Blue jeans, camo socks, striped Toms shoes completed her ensemble. She steadily drank coffee with Baileys, but left more than a dreg each time. She attempted to stay deeply engaged with the man seated next to her in a red and black flannel, Carhartt work pants, pull-on work boots. He was more interested in talking to the guy on his right, whom I thought was a woman for some time, due to his hair. More on that in the next paragraph. Two lesbians strolled in languidly after awhile, and he became engrossed in talking with them. They stood between him and hippie, one tall, blonde, in camo jacket and leopard high tops, looking bored. One had an arm brace. I don’t even know what happened. They sat beside the two brunettes on the other side of the blonde, but none offered conversation. Flannel wearer became animated showing off his Chandler/ Joey style “Best Buds” bracelet, and I caught sight of a diamond stud twinkling merrily. Oh yes, I was having a GREAT time. Blondie was giving off some serious “You’re-peeing-on-my-territory” passive-aggressive vibes, but neither the lesbians nor the lumberjack seemed to notice. The normal thing to do would have been to relinquish her seat to one of the new girls since he seemed to know them better, but she wasn’t giving an inch. I could sense her glare as she typed texts into her phone rapidly as the night progressed. The lesbians didn’t stay, but she did. She probably works at Gap, but is going to school part-time, on and off, for her esthetician’s license. Or maybe palm reading.
The next patron was a solidly built man with a moustache and long curly steel gray hair secured with two plain black bands placed at even intervals. He never removed his gray Carhartt coat, and he sat there for hours. He was wearing jeans and tennis shoes that he had also clearly changed into before coming into the bar. They were much trendier and less white than the first guy’s. He had aviator sunglasses stuck into his collar. And imagine my surprise to see he was drinking Michelob Ultra from a bottle. There’s no accounting for taste. I pegged him as an electrician.
Next was a trim lady with stick straight dirty blonde hair. I don’t mean that it was in need of a shampoo, I’m simply describing the color. Her black leather jacket was across the back of her chair and she wore a plain green cotton shirt. A sensible black crossbody bag lay on the bar, just between her and ponytail. She struck me as very wholesome and LL Bean shopper. She clearly didn’t want to draw attention to herself, only talking to her companion and drinking red wine. They were well matched. He helped her into his jacket as they departed. I am under the impression they were off to dinner in front of the fire. She probably works from home as a medical transcriptionist. Low drama.
I don’t have much to say about her companion. They both kept a very low profile, even though they were front and center of the bar. He had silver hair, a bald spot, and wore silver-rimmed glasses. Blue shirt, lightweight khaki jacket. Sensible. He might be an accountant. Maybe a Realtor. They probably breed Labradors or Springer Spaniels.
Then we have Mr. Muscle. Clearly has boosted his size with some help from a syringe at more than one point in his life. Coming to the realization over his draft beer that he’s not 25 anymore and his back hurts. And his knees. And you know, things just aren’t as clear as they used to be. He probably drives a new model Mustang or Camaro. He was actively working on the woman next to him. She was a curvy one with blonde highlights. She drank white wine. Black puffy vest. She humored him but seemed to be more interested in the elderly woman to her right. She kept turning her head quickly to acknowledge when he spoke but really liked talking to the older woman. Probably not a bad call. At first, I thought that’s who she had come with, but the longer I watched I realized it wasn’t so. And after my waiter found out what I was up to, he verified a few key points.
Granny was sporting a butter yellow collared sweater. She had a heavy denim shirt across the back of her chair that is embroidered with many pink roses. She’s having a great time, and I just know she has a grating Yankee accent. No Sothern woman conducts herself the way she is holding court over there. One can sense these things. Her hair was grey, but you could tell she’d bleached it to the color of her sweater for many years. It was rounded like a fluffy football helmet. She also wore black-rimmed glasses. I was completely sure she was a Very North Yankee but has lived here awhile. Probably since her husband retired from an automobile manufacturer or tire factory. I was also under the impression that she was a regular here (all this confirmed to be true by our waiter). Under her rose embellished jean jacket hung a tan canvas bag with her name embroidered across it in two lines of cursive. A navy stripe ran across the top printed with lighthouses. This is where my dear Rhonda stepped in. For whatever reason, we couldn’t bear not knowing what was printed on the navy stripe. So off she trots to find out. I was two drinks in and giggly. The stitching read “Udder Mudder”. When she received this gift, she thought it was referring to cows, which thoroughly perplexed her. Rhonda described her as sassy and saucy, and me in Northern form. I tried not to take offense, as I understood the implication. She wasn’t too up to date, though, and chatted on her flip phone for a few moments. I’m sure she was wearing sensible shoes in case something happened and she had to hustle. Or maybe she was a mall walker. She was accompanied by a man in a cream shirt who cannot keep her attention. She and the younger girl had too much to discuss. At first, I wasn’t even sure they were together, she paid him so little mind. He attempted to hold a conversation with the meathead while the “girls” talked about cosmetics. Oh, I guarantee Granny was a Mary Kay pink Cadillac saleslady. He struck me as the type to be into politics. Seems a little vicious. Maybe he’s mad because his wife has ignored him for the last fifty years? Wears glasses, probably begrudgingly. Arms crossed, maybe nobody was agreeing with his opinions when he got a word in edgewise. He was drinking a light beer, but I bet he would have preferred a whiskey. His wife was putting away the wine, but he was of the era that insisted on driving their Buick everywhere. They did eat before they left. A salad for Granny. Gotta maintain that girlish figure. Bet she’s got a pound cake on her counter right now.
Which finally brings us to the guy on the end in a cream shirt, pretending to be the intellectual type, concentrating solely on his phone. Turns up his bottled beer ever so often. Not engaging with anybody for anything. He’s totally missing out. He’s on the end where the waiters hang out, waiting for their tables’ drinks, exchanging complaints about diners’ requests and plans for when they get off. And I wonder too.
Me, I’m there with my good friend, steadily drinking an assortment of pink drinks with clear liquors. We didn’t have a deep conversation tonight, but we had a dang good time. The company is the best. Try to stay off your phones, people. You might meet someone worth talking to. Oh, to be a bartender.
An electrician, a felon, a lawyer, and a secretary were crammed in a booth, gobbling chips and salsa.
Nope, this isn’t a joke. You’re probably wondering what they all have in common. I ask myself the same thing. The electrician and the felon had grown up together, and we might as well say they were the best of friends, even though the felon had stolen his identity. That was sometime back, and not what he’d gone to prison for. The lawyer was the felon’s girlfriend. You probably thought I was gonna say lawyer, didn’t you? Because that would make a sight more sense. But life doesn’t make sense, don’t you know anything by now? The secretary was just along for the ride, wondering what she’d married into most of the time. She would wonder for the rest of her life.
The felon had been free for one whole day. He’d spent some time re-adapting to “normal” life in a sort of halfway house in Nashville but today he was officially “out”. And celebrating by eating the food of his people. Just kidding. He was a white guy.
The electrician was pointing out the finer points of manners, becoming agitated when the felon rushed off to the head before even ordering his drink. You would think the lawyer would have schooled him, but she probably had her hands full. She didn’t look like much, anyway, in the secretary’s estimation. Bad teeth, cheap purse, tacky shoes, trashy manicure. Nothing about her was polished. But the secretary had pretty strict standards. What kind of lawyer dated a felon, anyway?
It was to be a night of re-acquaintance, and a mild celebration, too. Nothing was going to get out of hand. We were gonna eat some chicken and rice and tell old war stories. That was the plan.
But the best laid plans…
It started innocently enough, the electrician asking the felon what his plans were for work. The felon was more concerned with transportation. He was also looking at an abnormally wide picture for somebody that was required to have a very small life for awhile, remaining on probation for at least two years. The electrician reminded him to be practical. Before you can have a farm, you need a job. The felon found this demeaning. Squashed dreams and all that.
It doesn’t take much tequila to turn a convict into a raging maniac. All he’d had in the five years of his incarceration was some sort of lethal home brew and evidently it just rented space. The conversation turned ugly quick, with accusations and, shall we say, recommendations on how to reenter life out of the big house. Namely, don’t down half a pitcher of margaritas while everyone else is still on their first glass. And it only went downhill from there. The lawyer was shocked into silence, the secretary trying to retain a sense of placidness; she knew all along this was going to happen. Nothing good ever comes from eating supper with a convict. And the telling of old times only led to hurt feelings of neglect and why he couldn’t be given “one more chance”. Glory days aren’t always so glorious when they indicate precisely where your went wrong the first five times. When they show you exactly when you had the opportunity to change your path. When you think again how much you’ve missed. It’s chance and luck that any of us are here, but some choices will get you to the ever after quicker than a hiccup.
And so it went, tempers flaring, salt shaker overturned (who even uses salt in a Mexican restaurant???), until at last the waitress brought the checks. It was feeling like a Chris Ledoux song. The secretary kept her hand on her husband’s leg, a gentle reminder that this wasn’t their concern, they were leaving, and that he had tried. Best to walk away. Best to let his life turn out the way it would: a spiral right back down to where he came from, one bad decision leading to another. She didn’t want him being swept away with him. And she knew that the temptation was stronger than he was willing to admit to himself. He had a knack for not looking the truth in the eye.
They shook hands in the parking lot and the lawyer promised to do her best to keep him on the straight and narrow path. None of them were convinced. But it wouldn’t matter. In three years, nothing would be the same. One would be at death’s door thanks to methamphetamine. One would vanish into obscurity. One would be a Union laborer. And one would be shattered and glued back together and more guarded than ever.
“Anybody down that way got 1000 tacos and margaritas?”
I read the text and rolled my eyes. That was just like him, incommunicado for a month and then pop back into my life like two hours had gone by.
I typed out a witty response, smirked, and hit send.
The problem was we were both in denial. But I was wearing a new dress and the fact was, I didn’t have dinner plans. So why not?
He pulled in about an hour later. We left right away, with me behind the wheel because I knew where we were going. And because he drives slow and it makes me a little crazy.
It was the first time we’d gotten together for supper in a Very Long Time. Lunch, yes. But lunch is somehow different. Broad daylight doesn’t make for sliding glances and double-entendres. Daytime lunches are for catching up and griping about work issues. But take away the sun and replace it with a moon…things take a more serious note.
So we slid into a booth with all the things left unsaid between us. Things we hadn’t discussed at our lunches. and it was going to be said because enough is enough and I’m not known for my passiveness. We broke the ice by tormenting our poor hapless waitress, who, as it turned out, could hold her own.
“What can I get y’all to drink?”
“Margaritas,” we said simultaneously.
“Monday for y’all, too, huh?”
We smiled.
“And maybe some better lighting?” He said, trying to adjust the lamp overhead. It swayed on its brass chain.
“I’m sorry, he’s old,” I explained with a shrug.
You could tell she wasn’t sure who to side with, but was dying to laugh.
He exhaled and looked at me over his glasses.
“I really had trouble getting in this booth, too. Are there not any tables I don’t have to climb into? That step is dangerous. If I fall, I’ll break a hip,” he went on and I had to hee-haw.
“I apologize, sir. I’m sure your lady friend will be glad to offer you some assistance getting around. I’ll send the owner over so you can voice your concerns to him,” she countered amicably.
“You just worry about bringing us the tequila.”
In this manner, we flirted. Harmlessly. The waitress, who didn’t know what she’d gotten herself into, returned with our drinks and was poised to take our orders.
“Do you have anything that’s not too spicy? I can’t eat anything spicy this late. Gives me heartburn,” he explained.
“He’s on ulcer medication already, we don’t need to aggravate it further,” I added.
“Maybe a bean burrito?” she suggested.
“Oh, Lord, he’s too gassy already!”
This was so much fun. I was getting a lot of amused looks from over the top of his spectacles. I was enjoying myself immensely. We’d always had this friendly banter and it was nice to pick right back up where we’d left off ten years ago.
“Why do you put up with him?” she asked.
“Well, see, he’s got a whole lot of money. I mean, look what I’m driving.” I gestured to the parking lot. “I’d say he’s worth it, wouldn’t you?”
A low whistle. “Damn girl.”
“Now wait just a minute. I’m not that much older than you!”
“It ain’t the years, it’s the miles!” I crowed.
“Careful, I’ll trade you for two twenty-year-olds.”
“Go ahead and try. They wouldn’t put up with your crotchety ass. And you can’t handle me, let alone someone half my age.”
He winked at the waitress. “The truth is, this is our first date.”
“No way,” she said immediately.
I nodded. “It’s true.”
“Well, truthfully, we’re not dating.”
“He’s married,” I told her.
“Wellllll….”
“And I bought that car myself.”
“I’m gonna go get y’all a refill,” she said, darting away.
And we about split our guts laughing. His eyes twinkled and it hit me how much I’d missed him, and I remembered how easy it had always been to talk to him. I missed the talking. I missed all of it.
Sometimes we eat Mexican because there’s nothing else to do. And it’s cheap.
I don’t understand these people who get hung up on the menu. It’s all the same: beans, rice, cheese, and either chicken or steak. Just randomly point, it’ll be fine. I’m looking at a girl, maybe 25, clearly at a loss on what to order. She’s dithering. All the advice I have is probably don’t try the molcajete. it comes in a cauldron and has tiny squid in it. I feel a little sorry for her boyfriend, but not too much, because it looks like he’s accustomed to her level of pickiness. He looks bored and slightly stressed because the waiter is having to answer fourteen thousand questions about rice, beans, and cheese. The boyfriend is probably thinking their food will be spit on. I would spit on it if I was their waiter. Heck, I might spit on her. That’s why I’m not a waiter.
She looks kinda high maintenance. She’s got one of those “I need to speak with the manager” haircuts and a big nose. I hear hear say, “No guacamole. Nothing green,” with a cutting off motion of her hand. She’s wearing some very fancy shoes for this kind of establishment. The boyfriend is wearing a ball cap, cargo shorts, and a t-shirt. I watch their exchange for a few more moments, then turn back to my friend. She knows what I’m thinking, she’s been eyeing them, too. We chat about the latest drama at work and then her vision goes back to the picky girl in sparkly sandals and she lifts her eyebrows. I turn my attention back to them as well.
“You know, Erin…” he began in a tone that wanted to sound wheedling but really told us that he was fed up. “I am so tired of you taking up my time, the waiters time, the time of people who will come in this restaurant wanting a table but instead of us being ready to leave after an hour of dining and conversation, we’re still waiting on your food after you’ve requested no cilantro, your tomatoes be diced, not sliced, and tortilla chips that aren’t broken!! You’re worse than a toddler!”
With that, she promptly burst into tears. And wouldn’t you know it, she was one of those beautiful criers, daintily dabbing at the corners of her artfully made-up eyes, her mouth still smiling as though this was all a big misunderstanding, and not a hair coming out of place as she shook a manicured finger at her date.
“Trevor!”
Of course it’s Trevor. He couldn’t have a normal name like Mark, or John, or Andy.
But she didn’t say any more. She just snatched up her Michael Kors or Louis Vuitton or whatever the heck designer bag it was, rose like a newborn colt on those stiletto strappy sandals and stalked out in a cloud of perfume.
“Wow,” Mandy said.
Trevor looked around, stunned, then turned up his beer. I kinda wanted to salute him, but figured that was bad taste. He had just made a girl cry, after all. We’re supposed to be team women and everything. But if you ask me, she had it coming. I studied my fingernails that I had painted two days prior. They were already chipped. I was a low-maintenance babe. I didn’t like cilantro, but could never remember to mention it to the waitstaff, so I merely scraped it into a pile to the side. I’d eat pretty much anything else. And I was wearing flip flops from Belk. I got them on sale for $15.
I would love to segue into Erin’s point of view, here, and all her reasoning for being picky and difficult but unfortunately some women are just immature and needy and unfortunately that is the case with Erin. She just wants attention wherever she can get it, at any cost. I don’t know what happened with Trevor, Mandy and I finished our guac and margaritas and hugged goodbye outside. Erin was nowhere in sight, I guess she called an Uber, because she didn’t strike me as the type that would be willing to meet her boyfriend anywhere. I’d probably never see her again, but I would see her everywhere. Because the Erins of the world are plentiful.
I’ve been super scatterbrained lately.
I went to the mailbox last night for the first time in about a week. I tend to forget about mail. Snail mail, email, whatever, all of it. It was stuffed, but half of it was junk, so I still don’t count this as notable.
This morning, I was just driving along, thinking about Cookeville, and all the differences citizens have in their commute today. That is, if they’re even able to go to work. And I put my turn signal on to go around the curve at Indian Warpath 🤦
A few minutes ago, I’m washing my hands and I’m looking in the mirror above the sink. My face looks different. Something isn’t right. I realize I’m not wearing eyeliner. More than that, I’m not wearing mascara. For a redhead to be without mascara…well, the term “pig-eyed” comes to mind.
Now I’m trying to decide how vain I am, if I’m going to run to Walgreens to get a tube of cheap-o, because I have a new Clinique one at home.
I’m pretty vain, but I don’t want to go to Walgreens. And who knows what might happen to me if I vary my routine today. I’m crazy enough already.
~~~~~~~
If anybody needs somebody to pray for, the list I have just keeps growing. Two friends have lost close family (a dad and a brother) in the past week, friends of my bestie have had significant house and business damage due to the tornados, the family of the DC in our neighboring county lost their homes and vehicles in the tornado event, three employees of the library are caring for next of kin that are battling serious health concerns, and another friend has a grandbaby that’s been at Vanderbilt Children’s hospital for a month now with a heart condition. She’s had a very rough go but seems to be on the mend.
Yes, this is what insurance is for. But for anybody that’s ever had to deal with an insurance claim, you know exactly how helpful and quick they work to get you back on your feet. 🙄 I just can’t imagine any of these problems. People say all the time in conversation, “oh, to go back to {insert Glory days here} …”
No. Not me. I’ve scratched and clawed and suffered and rejoiced and hoped and begged and prayed to get me this far. I wouldn’t go back for a day of any of it. Press on. And go down swingin’.
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
Hard to handle. Direct. Ruthless. Stubborn. Impulsive. Selfish. Strong willed. Bossy. Sassy. Confident. Outspoken. Snobby. Bold. Too-smart-for-your-own-good. Assertive. Uncompromising. Unapologetic.
Did these words cause you to stiffen? Did they make you feel defensive? Would you feel more at ease if I had started with meek, ambivalent, selfless, passive, harmonizing, delicate, reserved? What characteristics would you rather have at your side as a partner? Or what about in an active shooter confrontation? Don’t you want the stronger willed person fighting for you?
I don’t even know how to be anything else.
Now go back and read it again but picture those words being applied to a man (well, maybe not sassy and men are somehow exempt from bossy, too. And nobody ever thinks of “handling” men, only women require handling 🙄). Because the first time you read it in my voice and you knew I was talking about myself. So read it again. In a male, isn’t that what they look for and call them “leadership qualities”? Yeah, I thought so.
Why aren’t all women “difficult women”? I’ve asked myself this ever since I realized I had been branded with this label (around the time I went to work for the Co-op). I don’t mean to imply I dislike the branding, quite the opposite. To me, it just means I have a backbone and I express my (sometimes wildly unpopular) opinion. Like I’m doing right now. And I make no apologies. It came up in discussion among friends the other night that guilt isn’t an emotion that figures into my conscience very often. I didn’t disagree. And I wasn’t offended.
But back to why aren’t all women this way.
I think it’s what you’re raised with. If you’re raised in a home with both parents, and your mother is constantly deferring to your father for every little decision, that would give you the mentality that it’s necessary to depend on a man. But if you’re raised by a single mother, or any strong woman figure, one that has made it just fine for decades and the only time she’s bothered to ask a man anything is when her car is broken down or she needs medical advice. Maybe not even then. (And don’t get your panties in a bunch. Three of my four doctors are women). When that’s who’s raising you, well, you just follow suit. And if you don’t have a strong woman in your life, just go watch Gone With the Wind. Scarlett will teach you.
I simply don’t know how to be any other way. I don’t know HOW to be the type of girl who is so obviously vulnerable. How do you even DO that??? I absolutely refuse to be seen as needy or clingy. I guess it has to do with always earning a paycheck, too. And not having children. Because if you went from being a student to being a housewife, you may not think you could do it on your own. If I had children, I would be a very different person. And that’s why I don’t. I didn’t want saddled with the responsibility.
This brings me around to a controversial subject. Abortion. I’m going to be very clear. There are three instances to me in which abortion should be considered. One, if a girl or woman (of any age) who is not sexually active and therefore is not taking contraceptives is raped. Technically, I suppose, the morning after pill would apply here. And hopefully she would have the wherewithal to take it. Surely doctors suggest it? But she shouldn’t be forced to carry a child for nine months, jeopardizing her health (do I need to pull up statistics of deaths and trauma related to childbirth?? Not to mention the health concerns simply by carrying a child?? It’s incredibly dangerous), constantly fending off questions about the father/ rapist, ultimately raising or adopting out this child that was formed from a crime. <<<See my period, there? Many people believe babies are a gift from God. You’re entitled to that belief. I just wonder if you’d feel the same if it was your body, or your 14 year-old straight-A daughter’s body. Second scenario: a health issue that would seriously endanger the life of either the mother or child. I will also include handicaps into this equation. God bless those people who have special needs children. But lets be honest with ourselves: most people have a hard time caring for a perfectly healthy child to the 18 year mark. With the handicapped ones, you are front seat for the life of that child. Hospital bills are astronomical, and they have a multitude. Testing, specialists, equipment, the list is endless. Maybe the doctors even tell you the child won’t live out of the womb, so you decide to deliver instead of aborting, that way you’re not feeling quite as guilty. But, as we know, doctors are wrong all the time and then the child lives. But it’s not much of a life, hooked up to a dozen machines, unable to draw breath or process nourishment or a hundred thousand other health related issues. These sort of issues could also be due to a woman taking hormone type birth control and still became pregnant. It happens. They tell you to stop once you become pregnant, but you don’t always know in time. And there you are. On the flip side, let’s say the mother has a health issue. Maybe she didn’t know that she even had one until she became pregnant. She’s a diabetic. Or she has a calcium leaching issue. Or a defect in her heart. Her doctors have told her it will likely kill her to give birth. No, she shouldn’t have to put her life on the line. And thirdly, if a woman has been told she cannot get pregnant for one reason or another. Some women have cysts or other reproductive issues. So they’re not “careful” because they don’t have to be. Again, doctors are wrong all the time. And now what. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Your husband just booked a month vacation to Italy and the South of France. You’re making progress on paying down your student loans and you love your fast paced career. You just bought a sweet little sports car and you love meeting your girls for wine once a week. A baby? Sure, babies are cute but you’d never counted on one and instead filled your life with everything else and you’re content. More than content, you’re happy! Maybe it’s selfish, but how about raising a child that clearly feels neglected and burdensome? Kids aren’t stupid. They know when they’re loved and wanted.
Furthermore, men shouldn’t get a say over what we do with our bodies. They’re not in any danger, other than the mother squeezing his hand black and blue during labor. They can quite literally walk away from it once he fertilizes the egg. And all too often, they do just that. Of course, in a perfect world, all this is a moot point. Couples that so dearly wish to conceive could. Couples would talk about whether they are capable of raising a special needs child and have a clear plan in the event that is reality. Women with bodies not suited for childbirth would miraculously not have to worry about it. And everybody else would practice safe sex. But we don’t live in a magical kingdom. You will never convince me late term abortions are okay. You’ve carried it this far, have a c-section and give it up for adoption. You should have made your mind up in the first few months.
Now that I’ve presented you with the scenarios where I would find abortions acceptable, let me define clearly when they are not. There are too many options out there for women to use abortions as a birth control method. There are clinics that offer free exams, condoms, and birth control pills. If you’re responsible enough to have sex, then you’re able to walk your happy ass to the doctor or pharmacist. And if you’re caught in the heat of the moment, the aforementioned morning after pill is much more affordable than raising a child or getting a procedure a few months down the road. I’m forty years old and I’ve never been pregnant a day in my life. And for that, I’m called selfish. But I’ve never been called stupid. I’ve been told I will regret it. Funny thing, I haven’t yet. I’m not one to generally change my mind once it’s made up. And my mind has been made up for a Very Long Time.
My long term readers already know this story, but it’s appropriate for this post, so I’m gonna tell it again. My grandmother, mother, and I were sitting on the front porch stringing and breaking beans. This was years ago, Sometime between 2001-2007. There was talk of a draft. My mom says, “You better hurry up and get married and have a baby, they’re saying it’s liable to be women, too.” My Grandmother looked at her, aghast. “Jody! Do you not know your own daughter at all? She’d rather get shot than have a baby!” And I about fell off the porch laughing because she was right. I don’t know why she thought I’d be the one getting shot, instead of doing the shooting, but either way. I’m reading this book, In Praise of Difficult Women, by Karen Karbo, and it’s probably why I felt led to write about this in the first place. In one of her chapters she’s talking about Martha Gellhorn, author, journalist, war correspondent, and travel writer. But what she’s most known for is being Ernest Hemingway’s third wife. *eye roll* Anyway, the passage reads, “She wasn’t afraid of getting shot, blown up, or crushed amid rubble. This is probably a little mental, but she would rather be afraid than bored.” Me too, me too. I don’t do well in captivity.
Thank God for the women who fought for our right to vote. 100 years ago, they made a lasting impact on women everywhere. It’s hard for me to be sympathetic to anybody who doesn’t practice this right, but most especially women. We’re a minority, in case you’ve forgotten. We, too, are discriminated against. But we’re overlooked because we allow ourselves to be. Not those women. Those were all difficult women. Women who would not shut up and sit down. Good for them.
I’ll end with this: instead of calling a woman beautiful, even if she is, call her sensational. If you want to call me pretty, please call me entertaining in the same breath. Call me cute, but back it up with fearless if you don’t mind. Witty, sharp, articulate, or my most recent favorite, “effervescent”. Because these are qualities you become, not something you’re born with. I wish I could be described as kind, but it’s too late for me to aspire to that. I had to become just a little bit hardened in order not to be crushed. And so now I’m guarded and cautious instead. There’s nothing wrong with being pretty, but there are so many more things that are so much better. And they will serve you long after your looks have faded.
Lisa and I have this game we like to play when we’re out. All we do is try to guess the occupation of the people around us. Sometimes we even ask the ones we’re talking about if we’re not in agreement. I don’t like that part, because I understand that not everybody is approachable. Also, after so many years in a retail environment, I don’t fancy striking up a conversation with strangers. But Lisa has virtually no filter and she really likes talking to new people (and subsequently challenging them to a debate). Additionally, she likes telling people she teaches kickboxing. But anyway, it’s a fun way to pass the time and speculate. We get it right more than you would think. I’ve played a version for years in my head everywhere I go. But mine is more of a first date/ just friends/ work colleagues/ affair/ married an eternity version. Careers typically don’t enthuse me. And you know what I see the most? People sitting across the table from one another, on their phones. Completely ignoring the person they’re with. This drives me mad. Surprisingly, you don’t see as much of it at the bar. Patrons watch sports on the TVs, or they’re engaged with the people around them, strangers or not. There is a camaraderie. Blame the alcohol or praise it; I know I prefer interaction however it comes about.
So yesterday, in honor of National Margarita Day, my friend Rhonda and I decided to partake. You know, in the spirit of the holiday and all 😉 We’d sat at a wobbly table at La Cucaracha for a few hours, talking about big things and little things, as our conversations are wont to do. We were making our meandering way out, she looks over her shoulder at me and says, “I think you should write a book of short stories that take place in a Mexican Restaurant. Like, tell about the people at each table in every chapter.”
And the more I thought about it, the more I liked it. So here I am.
Some will be true, some will be 100% fabricated. I hasten to say many of you will recognize yourself, even though I plan to modify names.
Installment One.
“Sometimes girls are so theatrical,” I said to Jennifer, absently dipping a corn chip into the never-ending bowl of salsa. I was watching a tableful of overly made-up, former Tri-Delt looking, trophy wives laugh hysterically every few minutes after one sleek blonde head would lean forward conspiratorially to share wisdom in a hushed tone. And then they would cackle. It wasn’t enough they were in the center of the room, they had to be the center of attention, too. One swept her mane of curly blonde hair over her shoulder before sucking the bottom out of her drink.
“Yeah,” Jennifer agreed, never looking up from scrolling Instagram.
“I bet, between the six of them, five have an eating disorder.”
“You’re probably right.” She was still hunkered over her phone.
“Do you even know who I’m talking about?” Exasperation was setting in.
She finally looked up quizzically. “Those obnoxious sorority broads over there. I’m sorry, I’m trying to win this cashmere scarf. I tagged you, I hope you don’t mind.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes. “Whatever. How’s your margarita?” Maybe I was jealous because at least the blonde bimbos had friends that were engaged in conversation.
Meanwhile, at the table full of blonde shrieking women:
“He thinks I don’t know. How could I possibly not know?” I sucked down a swallow of the green potion and idly wondered if they had any of those fun crazy straws I used to drink chocolate milk through.
“They never think they’ll get caught. It’s just like drugs. Or driving drunk.”
I knew we looked shallow to everyone around us with our two-carat cushion-cut diamonds and artfully highlighted hair. Jetting around with our spray tans to our tennis lessons in our top-of-the-line Mercedes or Land Cruisers. We were often the envy and subject of conversation wherever we gathered. I could spy jealousy at fifty paces. And who could blame them? We looked perfect to those who didn’t bother to examine closely.
We tried to get together every three months. Sometimes it was only a handful of us, sometimes a dozen or more. We used to even pretend to be a book club to justify our luncheons or dinners. But we eventually gave up the ruse. We’re here to drink margaritas and dish.
“I can’t eat another bite,” Annabelle sighed, leaning back from her chicken taco salad and putting a hand across her tiny protruding belly.
“Yeah, gotta get into that cheerleading uniform next month for homecoming,” Christy teased.
“Annabelle, you barely ate five bites!” Traci admonished. “You don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.”
Lindsey leaned in. “Girls, I’m seeing problems with Ansleigh. She won’t touch any red meat these days…”
“Well, you remember we all went through that phase. A moment on the hips…wait–” Denise faltered.
We all burst out laughing. “A moment on the lisps, forever on the hips!” Cyndie sang out.
“But seriously. All I can get her to eat is carrots and celery and occasional boiled egg,” Lindsey continued. “And no dressing of any kind.”
“Have you heard her throwing up? Or found laxatives?”
“No, but…I just don’t like it. You know how vicious that coach can be, and we all remember those days. I would rather her eat and have energy and feel good about herself than think she has to stay tiny. Even I was never that small. I don’t know who she’s competing against. She’s the thinnest girl in her class!”
This was met with shrugs. We all understood the perils of being slender. “Maybe take her shopping and stop for ice cream. Maybe she’ll talk if you get her away. Or take her to Atlanta to shop for dorm room supplies, that way it’s not something she’s wearing,” I suggested. Valerie nodded.
And so it went, all of us sharing the latest. I knew in a few hours, pairs of us would be exchanging texts and Facebook messages, analyzing our visit. Women are catty, it’s no doubt, but we did need each other. And of course, there will be alliances between a few. You’re always the closest to those you have the most in common with. But it’s good for all of us to come together. Annual Christmas cards aren’t enough for relationships to survive. You need your girls. Husbands don’t want to listen to all the minutiae that make up our lives. Co-workers secretly hope you’ll suffer a mental break so they can move into your spot. And families spread gossip faster than a hooker spreads–nevermind. My point is, thank God for queso and girlfriends.
I like to think that my writing is a gift I have. Y’all tell me so, and I want to believe you. You say that reading my words is just like having me in the room with you, chatting. And that makes my heart swell. Because ain’t nothing worse than pretentious writing.
I have a little sign above my desk that reminds me every day to be thankful. It says, “The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.”~Pablo Picasso
I think I do.
Even if I’ve had half a pot of coffee, I can write. Even when I hurt, maybe especially when I hurt, I can still write. I may not be writing about the thorn itself, but I’ll be circling it like a shark circles its prey.
My other gift is my hair. It gives y’all something undeniable on which to blame my crazy. You’re welcome. It’s also a gift to me from God, that way I can shrug and say, “What’d you expect? I’m a redhead.” I think my hair was the gateway that got me here. It’s wild, and people are drawn to it. When there’s nothing else to talk about, when we’ve exhausted the weather, and what we do for a living, conversation will unfailingly turn to my hair.
So what do you want for your gift today? Do you want me to write a love story? My love stories don’t have happy endings, I’ll warn you. Not a single one. Not the new ones and not the ones that are decades old. The purest love ends in death. The rotten ones end in lies.
So perhaps I should tell you about my South today. That’s always a popular subject.
In my South today, it is snowing. Two days ago it was 68 degrees. The snow almost looks like rain, because it’s coming straight down and it’s those wet, heavy flakes that are crucial to a sizable snowman. The snow isn’t laying here, though. The daffodils came up a couple of weeks ago, and bloomed this week. They are bowed to the elements, but bravely holding on. Like people. Sometimes you just have to put your head down till the worst of it passes. Sometimes you just don’t have the strength to face it head on. Not today anyway. Maybe tomorrow.
In my South, everyone is tied to one another. Lately, that’s been a bad thing. I don’t want to put on makeup on a Sunday to run to the gas station for milk. But as sure as I don’t, I’ll run into somebody who’ll tell their mother and their best friend that they saw me and I looked like five miles of bad road, just because I’m pale and I didn’t wear mascara. Seriously, when you’re fair skinned, it really does make all the difference.
In my South, people don’t blow their horn unless you really deserve it.
In my South, we watch the skies and point out a hawk in the middle of conversation so you don’t miss it.
In my South, the wait staff at my favorite restaurants know where I want to sit and bring me my favorite drink before I can request it.
In my South, we hug when we meet and we hug again when we leave.
In my South, we put a little perk in our voice when answering the phone and we tell people to have a nice day, or maybe a blessed one.
In my South, people hold doors and say please and thank you and call you honey, love, sweetie, miss, ma’am, darlin’, or sir.
In my South, we flirt. Sometimes with disaster, but always with each other. Even Yankees. Admittedly, this is one of my favorite pastimes, making Yankees fall a little in love with me and then delivering them backhanded compliments. Bless their hearts.
In my South, deviled eggs are a staple and it’s not Sunday dinner without them.
In my South, we revere football. We play golf to make us feel cultured, but we’d rather be fishing if we were honest with ourselves.
In my South, we drink beer before and after meals, but sweet tea during.
In my South, people turn out for funerals and usually have a good time.
In my South, you leave for at least thirty minutes so you don’t appear to be rushing off. That’s the height of bad taste.
In my South, we have the best dogs ever.
In my South, we ask, “how’s yer momma ‘n’ ’em?” even if we’ve never met your momma.
In my South, we make lifelong friends at the beauty parlor.
In my South, we just take our time. Whether it’s baking a cake, swinging on the porch, calling a store for a part, or enjoying a meal. Because even though we ain’t got plenty of it and we’re not promised tomorrow, we’re here in this moment right now.
All my love from Appalachia,
~Amy
