Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

stories

XBF3

by

As ex-boyfriends go, Elise has decent enough taste. After all, they were all her boyfriends once.

When I got home the other night, after a grueling 12-hour day at the office, I was met by Elise plus her most recent ex-boyfriend, who was visiting before he takes off for a semester in London.

Having never met this boy, he who had dated Elise for the year directly preceding our relationship, I spent my first fifteen minutes in the apartment satisfying my animalistic urge to mark my territory. I walked into all the rooms, picked up guitars, slid my fingers across my keyboard, and opened up a bunch of cabinets.

I felt like a bit of a gorilla.

It’s funny – meeting someone for the first time after having two and a half years and just one blurry snapshot to form your seemingly indelible mental image of them. He was smaller than I expected, and meeker, but quippier, and more charming. Half of me could see why they had been together in the ease of their interactions – movements around each other in the kitchen as if choreographed, subtle innuendo exchanged as if scripted.

Even as I witnessed this obvious synergy with half of myself, the other half wondered how it could have ever happened at all. After the quips had ended, their conversation seemed to drift into the room from somewhere far, far away as I sat quietly and played my guitar. Her personality seemed to expand to fill the room while his contracted into something more obscure. With all my introspection I perceive change in myself easily, but it took meeting this boy to see the changes in Elise, and that we have grown to complement each other.

I liked him, the ex-boyfriend, but hidden beneath our blithe conversation and my invitation for him to stay just a little longer I was ever so crushed. Crushed for snatching her away from him so quickly, and crushed that if we were ever to end I would be that boy, sitting on the same couch as her but never able to touch her again.

Only A Test

by

Fire drills bring out interesting aspects of people.

The opening of my cubicle directly faces one of two fire exits on our floor. During yesterday’s fire drill, I felt as if I was entertaining – there were dozens of associates clustered around my desk, awaiting word from the droning alarm system that we could return to our desks, rather than flee in terror down the stairs. I felt as though I should be whipping hor’deurves, as if fresh from the oven, out of my file drawer.

A heavy-set woman with dazzlingly long curly hair, who I did not recognize, leaned against the wall across from my cubicle. “Probably another drill,” she sighed in my direction. “I hope they don’t make us take the stairs.”

We are three dozen stories above the ground.

A woman’s voice broke into the pre-recorded pre-alarm alert that was droning over the loudspeakers; “We are investigating the cause of alarm. Please remain at your fire exit.”

Associates continued to queue up for the fire door, leaving the sighing woman at the front of the line. She turned, to address her queue: “Did you hear her? She sounded nervous.”

I turn back to my monitor to clean out my inbox. Two minutes of pre-recorded pre-alarm alert later a man’s voice broke in, repeating the previous message to word for word.

“They wouldn’t let her get back on; she sounded nervous. Do you hear sirens in the background? I heard sirens.” The woman smiled brilliantly while fidgeting madly with her silver bracelets.

Shortly after, from the loudspeaker, “The Philadelphia Fire Dept is on scene so that we may issue an all clear.”

“You know, they sent them back to their desks from the elevator lobby in the World Trade Center.” She glance from the line, to me, and back, looking for something – assurance or agreement – in our eyes. I pointedly typed in CNN’s address, comforted by its loading (I famously was unable to load any major news services on 9/11).

Finally, over the speakers, “The Fire Dept has issued an all clear. You may return to your desks.”

Associates began to disperse, muttering, while the woman’s face brightened as if a cloud had passed away. “Does anyone want to go to the caf?”

Once again, proving that the average person tends to employ their powers of cynicism during the course of a potential emergency, but not anytime before or after. Meanwhile, yesterday’s Metro lead with a story on Smarty Jones’ premature retirement, with further revelations about possible terrorist attacks on page two. Good thing I get my revelations from the internet.

RE: You Rock

by

I expect Saturday mornings to be loud in the apartment. It’s a day off, a day to wake up early with too much energy, a day of errands and industriousness. Upstairs they are vacuuming, here we are learning harmony, and there is a wonderful rock coming from downstairs. So wonderful, in fact, that i was sure that i recognized it.

Opening the door to our stairwell i discovered that Zoe, our downstairs neighbor, was playing my traditional airplane-landing accompaniment, PJ Harvey’s “Kamikaze.” This from the same neighbor who was blasting Madonna the day we moved in, and whose best friend is an abnormally pretty drag-queen named Dave, who occasionally chats with me in the hall.

Basically, she is the best downstairs neighbor ever. To show my appreciation, I left the following note, written on leftover coochie-snorcher-pink paper from the Vagina Monologues in red sharpie, taped to her door:

From: Upstairs

RE: You Rock

I noticed you were playing my favorite PJ record. I have everything PJ has recorded; feel free to borrow some. -Peter

ps: It’s nice to have neighbors with good taste!

Hurt Me So Good

by

I had missed what Vincent said, my head cupped back into the green porcelain bowl while his massive fingers roamed my jungle of hair. “Hmmm?,” i let drift up from my near-hypnosis, enjoying the warm water and the dull pain of the massage of my scalp.

“I said, am i hurting you?”

Vincent has a funny lisp of an accent, and newly acquired Key West tan that makes me think of limes when he talks about it. Funny, him shampooing my hair; five years ago he was writing a letter to Brown on my behalf, informing them that my father would not be bearing the financial burden of my tuition.

“Oh, not, not at all. I have a high tolerance, anyhow.”

Moonlighting on a rare Thursday from his other job (presumably as a Social Worker, as that’s why he wrote me the letter in the first place), Vincent is content to allow me to enjoy my scrub in silence, simply nodding my affirmation to his offer of extra-special conditioner. As he finishes, a thought occurs to me:

“This must be terrible for your hands.”

Vincent takes a thoughtful pause from wringing the water from damp wisps of hair dripped on my neck. “You know, no one ever asked me that before. It’s hard. They get sore.”

I nod in quiet affirmation, remembering the highschool pothead who used to wash hair to fuel his addiction, and how angry and red his fingers looked after his first week. I feel rare and different in the salon, even though it’s owned by someone who was at my mother’s wedding and the receptionist is practically my aunt. I recognize people there. A woman walks past, and i squint. Did she anchor for channel ten?

It is my first time back since graduation, with my mother footing the bill. I have made an effort to fit in with the clientele, all of whom some combination of affluent, metrosexual, and of a higher social class than my own. I am bedecked in two-day stubble and bikini underwear that do not show over the top of my low-rise jeans.

Last time i felt more out of place, but this time the underwear seems to be doing the trick. I sit up straighter, conscious of my non-abs winking out from the window of shirt open at my waistline. Still, my voice is unrecognizably indoor and polite, my glance meekly averted from the obvious power-person being lead towards the stairs. She looks like Cheri Oteri, who is from the nearby suburbs. Whoever she is, she whisks past with a high pitched male friend in all black with brown sandals yapping in a gratingly high tenor while waving a limp wrist to and fro like a flamethrower.

I just made a pun, i thought, because i think in italics tags. Even i would not dare mix brown sandals with black clothes; i quietly salute the yapper’s blithe disregard of conventional fashion wisdom. Vincent is done with me, and i wander up through the antiqued hallways to the main room for my cut. It has the same fireplace my apartment does, only mine was a cool million less.

The lengths i will go to for a good haircut.

by

When i was younger TGI Fridays was a fun restaurant to go to; it was a slice of Americana, with red and white striped server shirts and electric blue drinks. It was a restaurant nice enough to consider “eating out” but cheap enough to go to with high school friends.

Tonight we were looking for that sort of bargain eating, and so the bunch of us attractive twenty-somethings drove to a Fridays in the city. In a nod to the TGIF uniform of my youth i was in the red striped shirt i had coveted for months, and upon arrival i had a fishbowl sized Sunset Strip in hand. Feeling attractive and pleasantly tipsy, we were seated.

You need to understand something about me and restaurants: i can’t focus on anything written on the menu. It’s a sort of site-specific ADD … too many people, too much movement, too much smoke and clinking glasses. Though i may peruse, i either have a specific favorite in mind or i just flip through and choose the most verbose description.

Here i should mention that Fridays, inexplicably, has joined forces with 7-11 to become part of the low-carb Atkins revolution. The way Atkins re-entered the zeitgest has left me bewildered, especially as i watch people throwing away the buns to eat twice the hamburger.

Does anyone see where this is headed? In my quick perusal i chose the most colorful picture, a chicken dish, and when it was (finally) brought to the table the waitress bellowed “Atkins Diet Chicken!” I laughed, heartily, that she had mistakenly brought this diet dish to our table. When she proffered it to me i joked, “Do i look like i would order the diet dish? Look at me?” The description had made mention that i could “save five carbs by leaving off the peppers,” i calmly explained, but i did not opt in. I had opted out of the Diet Chicken

I was sober now, steely and serious, as if the drink had never existed. I wasn’t on a diet, i told her. This was the third annoyance of the night, i stated coolly, on top of the pineapple in the drink and the slow service. I’d really just like to mention it to the manager. I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just that i’m not fat. I will explain it to your manager; i didn’t order a diet dish.

Or, well, maybe i did. I thought i had ordered the tasty looking chicken with cheese and broccoli. Instead, i inadvertently turned to the page, the one where we are all in on the hip trend, and we are all on the hip and trendy diet. It’s been around for years; South Beach was so mid-2003. I’m not really fat, it’s just these pants.

I delivered a brief but ultimately trite complaint to the manager, who offered to replace my broccoli with carb-rich mashed potatoes, and then silently choked down the food, ignoring my friends. I could hardly taste it, could not feel it in my mouth. Instead, i was feeling it sinking inside me, bloating my stomach, rising in my throat as soon as it left the back of my tongue. The room was suddenly contracted; too small, too loud, my side of broccoli shrub-like in it’s massiveness on the plate, my chicken the cardboard cover of a lean-cuisine box.

The conversation from the table across from me suddenly rose, punching through our table’s idle chatter. I heard the man speaking to the waitress (“Oh, make sure that i get the diet version of that beer. Make sure you take your time with it, i want you to bring it slow.”) and to the inexplicable pimply balloon-sculptor (“Can you make me a light balloon? It’s got to be thin. And can you give it red on the shirt? A really gay red.”)

From there it is a blur, screaming something over Lindsay’s head to the man across from me and his rambling reply floating back at me as i stood and pushed Ross out of the side of the booth, pausing only to throw down all of the large bills from my wallet. I was not gay. I wanted to leave. I was not fat. I wanted my non-descript flannel clothes back, and the underweight body from beneath them. I wanted my fingers flirting seductively with my epiglottis, head resting on the side of the bowl. I wanted to escape.

I walked around and around in the slowly drifting snow, 17th, Chestnut, Walnut, helping the small woman hail her cab, 16th, Chestnut, smiling at the strangers walking to and from the pricey bars, Market, calling Ross to ask him to get change for my big bills, lying easily, “No, no, the bus is only two blocks away,” 16th, 15th, Waiting to let the gorge slip solidly to the bottom of my stomach, the rage lie still.

I take my life for granted sometimes. I live, have lived for five years, in a calm bubble, where the only one judging me is myself. I have allowed my figure to fill out, supressed my irascible nature, embraced the wispy charm of my character, and just made sure to stay calm. Now i have a dozen dozen days of that left until my bubble is burst, one hundred and forty four days from here until i step off that stage into the real world. Everybody judges. Everybody hurts. Sometimes i need to open my mouth. I need to make myself happy a little more often.

I know that wasn’t especially interesting, but it’s what happened to me tonight. I’m always told not to apologize for my art, but it didn’t feel that artful. Thanks for reading. To cheer up, you should check out the bit about S&M in the last post.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2004/01/107440033006968402/