I have a confession. I used to silently judge these women that would come into Co-op and not know anything about killing weeds or, conversely, growing grass. They would ask me to put their $10 one gallon sprayer together before they left. “My husband always did this,” they would explain, sometimes glancing a little forlornly at their empty wedding ring finger. I would try (and often fail, I’m sure) to avoid rolling my eyes. I would instruct them on how much herbicide to mix, frequently using my ever-present mountain dew can as a prop. (I also did this for the men, because 100% of people carry the misconception that the more weed killer you use, the better. So wrong. So, so wrong.) Anyway, I haven’t mixed up or sprayed herbicide in ages and found both my sprayers gommed up because the last time they were used they didn’t get cleaned out. I was not the last one to use them, tyvm. So I had to prance in Co-op yesterday and buy a new one. I was on a cake delivery, anyway. I got my new Chapin sprayer out of the box this morning to use and was instantly assaulted by memories of the dozens I assembled for ladies. 
I had almost forgotten what a joy it is to spray herbicide. I felt like the Terminator. I hope that every woman I ever helped felt just a little bit more empowered after she killed all the weeds in her fencerows.
I had NOT forgotten how terrifying it is to be on the roof on the backside of my house cleaning out gutters. But I did that today, too. Because I’m able and because no fairy is going to come in the night and do it for me. Because stuff has to get done. The world keeps on turning no matter what’s going on, be it pandemic, divorce, death, or a hundred other misfortunes.
My work will tell on me in less than a week. I think it will be ok. If not, I still know my way around sprayers and herbicides. 
Now, if somebody wanted to come mop my floors or wash my car, that’d be great.
These old men Mountains Men of the mountains Mountains made these men The ground cold into May Wet till October And then the gold is abundant Don't pan- just look up Salamanders scurry And squirrels scold And bear chew Lazy, arrogant Brides with wildflower halos And dulcimers on the porch Chicken and dumplins on Sunday After Bible thumpin' amens Old baying dogs with black patches Flogging roosters Rusted tools hanging forgotten But don't kill the black snake Didja hear about Shorty Gonna run 'em a cobbler Porch swing's squeakin' What to do with all this squash Yes ma'am And thank you Please don't trouble yourself Prettiest quilt I ever laid eyes on There's watermelon And sweet tea Cousins are all comin' too Just wanna drop in this heat We're headed to the lake To the funeral home Just want to set a spell All we do is run run run Rain's on the way Mail's late Kids comin' in for Thanksgiving Can't wait to get to the beach So green it'll hurt your eyes So humid you can wring the water off of you So slow you think you'll never get there And everybody's talkin' 'bout football
Stay Southern, y’all
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
I’ve fallen super far behind on these writing prompts (shocker) but when I was looking at the topics this morning for ideas (I’ve got the itch again) this one jumped right out.
I’m a great example of a person you would come to for precisely this kind of advice. “Hey Amy, what’s fun to do in Knoxville?” “Hey, Amy, if you had one day in Pigeon Forge, what would you do?” “Hey, Amy, whatd’ya think about ridin’ this horse?” But the monumental worst decision I tend to make is….”Yes! Cotton Eyed Joes sounds like a FANTASTIC IDEA!”
It’s not. It never has been. And I’ve not even been in more than ten years, but it was a terrible idea then, too. Cotton Eyed Joes is a bad idea of catastrophic proportions. It sounds like fun, let your hair down a little, have some beers, laugh at some drunk folks trying to dance or ride the mechanical bull, and then…..then it’s two o’clock in the morning and you’ve had two fishbowls, nine beers, and a line of cocaine and you’re the drunk girl on the bull….or you’re hunting “the queer in the yellow vest” to go the hell home.
See how it deteriorates? QUICKLY. And then you’ve gotta pretend to be sober long enough to get past the bouncer and then there’s always a cop out at the road so it’s just a train wreck all the way around. I’d hate to think how much vomit has been spewed in that gravel lot.
Perhaps I should explain what Cotton Eyed Joes actually IS. It’s a club, as you’ve probably gleaned. They teach line dance lessons until the sun goes down, then the older folks go home and by ten the place is throbbing with Luke Bryan wannabes in cheap cowboy hats and cowboy boots that have never been on either side of a horse. Used to, there was a van that you bought longnecks from as soon as you made it through the door. Turn right, coat check, then pool tables. In front of you is the wooden dance floor with a tiny elevated stage in each corner. Evidently it’s bad form to put dollar bills in their exposed g-strings as they gyrate in a very unladylike fashion. The whole smoky, dimly lit warehouse is anchored by bars on each end, with 2-P neon signs right off the edges. Tall round tables are scattered throughout, while benches covered in cheap vinyl line the walls. There used to be a smoking porch behind the mechanical bull in the back right corner, and beer pong nearby. Things have probably changed. But not too much. Lots of 21-year-olds that can’t hold their liquor, overly made-up girls acting dramatically, and some swerving going on from all walks of life on every square foot of space. The DJ, Boy Bill from Maynardville, as I recall, dispatched country remix tunes via a converted 18-wheeler cab on the back wall. It was just over the top redneck. And people circled, spilling their drinks and screaming they’d lost their friend, a contact, the love of their life. The bathrooms were a catastrophe, girls vying for space at the mirror, no toilet paper, just a damn mess.
It’s awful, every time, without fail. No matter who you’re with, you end up picking a fight. It’s hot, it smells, and it’s crowded. If you want to go to a place and just forget your cares, or if you want to feel pretty good about your life, this is still a bad idea. Go to Wal-Mart instead.
I do not stop for him I will not even pause But if he gives chase I will give him a smile over my shoulder I will flip my hair And arch my eyebrow And maddeningly For both he and I I will pretend that he's the one Even though I know better And he should, too But I trust my name in his mouth And I love when he tells me little things It's like Drops of nectar from a honeysuckle flower Never enough But sweet all the same What I offer him Is myself Uncensored Honest Bare I don't know why But I don't need a reason
Day 2. Some place you are grateful for.
Oh myyyyyyyyy.
Right now I’m grateful for all the places. All the places I can go (home, work, Food City) and all the places I used to could go. (Yes, that was intended to sound redneck. Cause I AM.)
I know.
I’m grateful to Holston’s. Sevierville needed them so badly and we didn’t even know. We needed a sit down lunch spot on this side of town, without having to go plumb up to Pigeon Forge or getting out on 66. We needed a place that served good food for a reasonable price, nothing fancy and some different dishes from what Ruby Tuesday’s has had for a thousand years. We needed a place to gather for a relaxing drink after work and a good spot for little groups and still private enough for a dinner date. Holston’s remains virtually undiscovered by the tourists, so you’re bound to run into someone you know when you go. The waitstaff doesn’t have a huge amount of turnover, and so they learn your preferences on where you want to sit and your favorite libation. I always feel welcome and appreciated under their care.
It seems like I’ve eaten there at least once with nearly everybody I know. It’s my go-to. I like their catfish and coleslaw better than anywhere. Any time someone is unfamiliar with our city and best lunch spots, I feel safe recommending Holston’s fare to them. It’s a little dark in there, and seems like everything is polished concrete, but it’s still so warm. At Christmas, there’s a tree up front and the mood is light, and the waiters dash around with big smiles from (hopefully) big tips. But no matter the season, there’s always a burst of laughter from someone every few minutes.
Aubrey’s didn’t seem to put too bad of a hurtin’ on them after they opened, so that’s a good sign, too. I’m glad they finally expanded their parking lot (what were they waiting on all these years? I’ve had to park plumb across the street at the church more times than I can count). And speaking of signs, they got a new one of those! So, judging from the looks of things outside, it looks a tad highbrow, but I promise you it’s not. You can sob in the corner of your booth and slide off the bench and nobody will bat an eye. Other than to give you a fresh napkin. I’m pretty sure I lived on their turkey & cranberry wrap for a solid two weeks there a couple of summers ago. I love sitting on their patio, sipping drinks and giggling with girlfriends, I love hugging goodbye out front next to the fire pits. I love sitting on the back wall and surveying the groups in the room, there for a date, for a birthday, for just a night out with a friend. I love Holston’s. And I can’t wait for them to open.
Well. All this did was make me miss them more than I realized.
Wouldn’t it be nice to remember things as you wished they happened, but not as the actually did? Well, one of the small joys of being a tortured writer, is that I can rewrite history to my liking and visit it at will.
I’m not usually one to bide my time. I like carpe diem and all that jazz. Dessert first. Explosive. But that’s not always wise, as I’ve come to learn.
I found out about the indiscretion through his own stupidity. Isn’t that how it goes? These cocky men, underestimating the intuition of the woman they’ve been sharing a life with. They also tend to underestimate our cunning vengeance, thinking we are much to sweet to react with such murderous contempt.
And so, after I talked to my attorney and realized that, yet again, it had not served me well to be a self-sufficient woman for so long. Because I had always had a steady income, and the lodgings originated in my family, and we had no children, I would get little to nothing from the man who had so easily taken my trust and reputation and totally wrecked the illusion I had of our marriage.
I decided I would get it all, anyway. And the sooner the better, because no doubt he was squandering every dime on that crack whore.
It was coming up on my birthday, and of course I preferred to celebrate out of town. But I didn’t want to ruin any of my favorite places for future travels. So I chose a quaint little German-esque town about three hours away that everybody just goes on and on about. He likes all things German, so let’s see about making this his final resting spot.
As I researched the town, I found that nearby was a famous gorge. Well, that would be even easier. Imagine my delight in learning about the suspension bridge that spans the gorge, 80′ above some wonderfully sharp rocks. Failing that, there were some 300 steps into the basin that he may easily miscalculate.
Tallulah, indeed. Or was that Tawanda? No matter.
But it didn’t work out like I wanted to. I was weak from lack of sleep due to planning, and I hadn’t been eating much the past few days, either, as I questioned what his motive had been in the first place. And, alas, the park was crowded and the bridge had many safety features in place. Very unfortunate. I would have to endure him for a few more hours, at least. I wasn’t too keen on a crowd, as I was sure I would be unable to hide my smile as he plummeted to his death. It was a private matter. Problems between a man and wife should be kept behind closed doors, at all costs. I hadn’t even told my best friend of my plans. She would have wanted in on the bloodshed. I would carry it out alone.
So I was labeling this trip as a way to rekindle our passion, in addition to it falling on my birthday. I sold it to him that way, as well.
We rolled into town (slowly, as traffic was a nightmare, even for a girl who has lived in a tourist trap her whole life), pointing out quaint buildings and places that looked like fun.
Just kidding. He alternately played on his phone and snored. I kept my eyes narrowed and added it to the list of reasons I would be glad to be shut of him.
I checked us into the hotel while he sat in my new car texting his mistress. Plenty of room at the Baymont Inn in Georgia….bring your alibis, ready for his lies…he can check out any time he likes, but he will never leave. I was pleased to see there was a pool. Not ideal, as it was looked on from one whole side of the hotel but it might work in a pinch.
We took a little walk around town. Not hand in hand, as we would have typically traveled, but he put in his earbuds and tried to look cool in his black Under Armor shirt that highlighted his frame. I fantasized about pushing him into the placid river. Or getting run over by a truck. I pointed out a few spots serving traditional German fare that he might like for (his last) supper. He seemed totally uninterested, and I wasn’t eager to partake in schnitzel, myself. There was a place right next door to the hotel that promised to be a happening little joint with free-flowing booze. Excellent.
We got cleaned up for dinner, had a beer on the balcony, watched the sun set over the river, and pretended with each other that things were fine. I applied a final coat of lipstick, and out the door we went.
The bar was more crowded than I had expected to find it, but that played in well to my little scheme just fine. Instead of talking to me, my dearly beloved husband struck up conversation with the couples seated nearest to us at the bar. I was at my most charming, not daring to raise suspicion, keeping my hand on his leg or gently touching his arm in practiced devotion ever so often. I was the damn portrait of love and affection, if I do say so myself, even going so far as to brag on his powerful arm muscles and unrelated drinking ability to his new friends. The night was going exactly as I had hoped. He was preening under the new attention from the strangers, flexing both his brawn and brains, while demonstrating how much Jack Daniels one southern male can put away in a few hours time.
I mentally licked my lips and rubbed my hands together. Very nice, very nice….
It was almost too easy. He leaned heavily on me the short walk back to our hotel. He weaved through the lobby, in full view of other vacationers and the front desk staff, and sagged against the elevator wall as we rode to the top floor.
He slumped in bed, and halfheartedly surfed through channels. Then his gaze fell on me, as I set out two glasses and produced a bottle of Jameson. After all, good girls are made of sugar and spice, Irish girls are made of Jamesons on ice.
Note red hair, fair skin, and freckles. He always thought I had more German heritage. He was wrong about that, too.
“Where’d you get that?” He asked, eyes sparking.
“Gittin’ place on Got Street,” I quipped. He narrowed his eyes. “The liquor store, where do ya think?” I sneered.
“No need to be a smartass, Anna.” That tone. It set my teeth on edge.
I wanted to brain him with the bottle, but that wouldn’t do. But he was going to find out why this would be his final drink. I wouldn’t let him slip into his unconsciousness thinking he got away with it. Oh no. So I went to the ice machine and filled the bucket, as normal as could be. I hadn’t even broken a sweat. I had no second thoughts. I simply acted out the scene.
By the time I made it back to the room, he was already gently snoring. I plunked some ice cubes into the square glasses and poured a generous helping over them. I considered it, then poured to the top. He would drink whatever was in his glass, just like he’d eat whatever was on his plate.
I zip tied his feet first. Then I took off my shirt and pants and flopped down on the bed, pretending not to notice he’d been asleep. He stirred and looked at me, holding his glass. He took it from me and drank it down, just as I knew he would. I slung my leg over his waist, straddling his torso. He smiled. Cocky as ever, in his final moments. I leaned over, giving him his final view of my ample cleavage, and drew his arms up over his head, where I secured them with a real pair of steel handcuffs, then threaded the scarf through the chain and over to the bedposts. And then I smiled.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your little getaway,” I purred close to his ear.
“Yeah…it’s cool.”
“Too bad it’s the closest you’ll ever get to The Fatherland.”
I raised up so I could look in his ice blue eyes. Those eyes once held a undeniable potent attraction to me. Now they just looked cold. He raised his eyebrows.
“What should I tell your mother to do with your body?”
The eyes got even icier, and fear began to creep in, just at the corners.
“What are you talking about, Anna?” It was barely a hiss. He was very, very angry with me. No going back now. I’d be no match for those steroid induced muscles.
I began to trace his lips with my finger. “You got too arrogant, just like you always do. I know about your whore, I know what she likes and I know what she’s ultimately after. And I know what you like–what you’ve always liked. You faked it as long as you could, you can’t help what you’re comfortable with….you’re trash, and if I gave you the opportunity to live through this, you would always be trash hunting more filth to keep you satisfied. But I won’t allow it.”
At this point he lunged for me but he was quite secure in my web. I smiled, just baring my teeth slightly.
“It’s a shame….you were a good husband. And as far as anyone will ever know, that’s how you’ll be remembered. But not by me.” I rolled my head, relishing the popping. “The wife always knows. Here, have another drink.” I poured a little in the side of his mouth. And the stupid motherfucker DRANK. He really didn’t think I would kill him.
I sighed heavily. “I do wonder about your insurance policy. I hope it’s enough to see to your funeral. And of course I’ll need a new dress…and hat.” I put my finger to my mouth and rolled my eyes in dramatic fashion. “And of course new heels. Then I think I’d like to take a trip. Somewhere tropical”
I let him have another pull from the bottle. He was losing interest, unbelievably enough. His eyes fluttered a bit. I slapped him right across his cheating mouth that had fed me lies for months now. His eyes cleared. “Dammit, Anna–“
“Don’t you even. I get the last say. This was supposed to be my happy ever after. I loved you, I doted on you, I did everything I could to keep you happy. Instead I would up with a shitty hand because I married a black-hearted fool. I know you like it hot. Drink up, motherfucker.” And with that I turned the bottle straight up. And I laughed as he choked, gurgling, eyes bulging.
It didn’t even take the rest of the bottle. He spewed me with the atrocious whisky and then he began to vomit. I sat on his chest till it was over. I watched the clock. Seven minutes ticked by with no movement from his body. I got up slowly. Slowly…..I told myself. I took stock of the scene. Bottle on its side in bed, what was left slowly draining out. I hurriedly removed the bindings before they could leave marks that could be determined by the Forensics team that they were there at the time of death. I was still under the ten minute mark, should be fine. I left them there, though. No reason to hide a little fun bondage. I looked at myself in the mirror. I’d like to say there was naught a hair out of place, but let’s face it, it’s me, I always have a hair out of place, homicide or not. I didn’t want to take a shower but I did need to wipe the vomit from my face and chest. Shit. Why hadn’t I thought about clothes? Think….if it had been a typical (non-murderous) weekend, we would have came back, maybe had a drink, had sex, and he would have passed out. I would have been suspicious enough to check his phone and then been over the top irate and devastated, and fled in the night, leaving him in this stupid little tourist trap, passed out and none the wiser til about six a.m.
“Hurry”, my mind said.
So I hurried, collecting the majority of my things, leaving my uncomfortable shoes and toiletries in the shower. I put my fingerprints all over his phone, swiping and typing in his code. I opened all his media, scrolling and reading one last time. I’d done the right thing. I couldn’t live with the scandal. This way there would be no fallout. I’d just have to act like a grieving widow for a year or two. I could do that. Child’s play.
Looking back one last time at my cheating husband, I let the door slam behind me and I forced myself to cry hysterically. I even went to my knees for good measure. I made my way to the elevator and out to my car, where I pretended to regain momentary control in case anybody was watching. I was sure they’d be pulling security footage, so I made myself lean my head back and wail one good time. I rooted around for Kleenex.
And then I put it in drive.
Of course there was a toxicology report. All it found was enough alcohol in his bloodstream to kill a water buffalo. Clearly, he died from asphyxiation (fancy word for saying he choked on his own vomit). The cameras in the hallway, elevator, and parking lot showed a clearly distraught wife fleeing her philandering husband.
The good thing about being a good girl your whole life is you can get away with murder.
When you’ve worked at the same job for fifteen years, front and center of all variances of wealth and poverty, and you do it all with a bubbly attitude and genuine smile…when you actively serve on a library board for a decade…when you’ve had spotless credit and a decent driving record your entire adult life…when everyone knows without a doubt how much you love your husband….
Nobody looks twice at foul play. It’s just a damn shame that he was cheating and died in such a humiliating way. Best to protect the grieving widow from the media. Just a damn shame. They could have probably worked it out of he hadn’t drank his fool self to death. Damn shame. Sweet girl, you can just tell.
You ever feel like enough is enough? As Gus says, “That. Is. E-NOUGH.” I can’t take one more quarantine post. Not one more. Whether it’s funny, political, informational, factual, or pure made up CRAP, I’m DONE.
So. Here is my reprieve. And yours too, if you want it.
Day One (too bad I’m not starting this on the first, but that’s just like me, a day late (or six, but who’s counting?) and a dollar short).
Someone you are grateful for.
Well, I’m grateful to a lot of people but in the spirit of keeping this light, I’m gonna be grateful to the writing team on the Greatest Sitcom Of All Time: FRIENDS. Bright/Kauffman/Crane. I mean, they’ve kept me going all these years, through good times and bad. You could always depend on them for a laugh a minute. Still, to this day, I will laugh out loud watching that show. And I’ve seen every episode at least three dozen times. It wasn’t always squeaky clean jokes, but it wasn’t nearly as raunchy as what’s on now and passes for comedy at prime time. Chandler, Rachel, Monica, Joey, Phoebe, and Ross keep me in stitches no matter what they were doing. And they did A LOT in ten years. They played endless games of foozball, got married, got divorced, got drunk, got locked out of cars, raised a chick & duck, moved furniture (PIVOT!!!), cooked Thanksgiving (including, but not limited to: Chanberry Sauce and a Traditional English Trifle), entertained siblings, visited relatives, hosted parties, been hired and fired, changed jobs, went to museums, plays, and concerts (‘that would be the work of a blowfish’), moved, had run-ins with firemen, had babies, had breakups, went on road trips, drank endless cups of coffee, went on vacation….it was a good time, every time. My all time favorite episode is when they are late to Ross’ big event. “We could not, would not, want to wait.” ~Phoebe. “That’s right. I’m takin’ the essence!!!” ~Joey Ross, tapping his watch frantically, “The–the dinosaur’s tail has stopped going around—” “You were gonna drink the fat???” ~Rachel ….I think I know every word.
I would like to think I’m Rachel (“What? You just click when they click”), but if I were being honest, I’m most definitely Monica. Neurotic, squeaky clean, barely controlled hair, ultra competitive, fat and happy Monica. Phoebe drives me crazy, as does Ross. I love Chandler and his super sarcastic jokes. Joey is hilarious, too, but Chandler has my heart. He’s a transponster, you know. That was probably my second favorite episode, where the girls lose the apartment.
Thanks to the whole Friends team. They shaped my teenage years and showed me what I wanted my twenties and thirties to be like.
Who’s your favorite friend? And what was your favorite episode?
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.
