Bitch and Pieces

This Bug is starting to realize that her existence must be for the sheer entertainment of one (or many) who sits on high, rolling the tape and pressing pause on my most jarring and hilarious moments (well..to them, anyway). That may seem ridiculous- but so does my life lately. The past few weeks have been nothing short of trying. I'll spare you the sordid details but the morsels are worth sharing.



From the Clunker Chronicles comes yet another tale of woe. Yes, I knew the car needed oil. That little genie-in-the-lamp light thingy on the dash told me so. Yes, I bought two quarts, poured them in and went about my business that day. When the car seemed to be smoking from under the hood hours later, I was puzzled. I bought some Antifreeze and popped the hood. Then I popped the trunk when I remembered that the hood doesn't stay open without being propped up by my trusty 'Peacemaker'. I think it was a broomstick in a former life. Just then, a stranger asked me if I knew what I was doing to which I haughtily replied that I did. Then I saw that I never screwed the oil cap back on from earlier that morning. The sad truth? That's not even the first time I've done that. I should just park up the jalopy and break out the mountain bike. No. I have no idea what I'm doing.




Up until this morning- I had no idea I subconsciously feared growing old. Then I woke up from a dream where I laid down, sans bra and my breast rolled and came to rest comfortably in my left armpit. I mean, even the nip was to the side instead of facing forward (upward?). I dunno. It was hella disturbing and I consider it a nightmare of epic proportions. Up there with when I was being stabbed in an alleyway while acid rain was melting my skin off. It's all pectoral flies and bench pressing from now. And lots and lots of moisturizing. Lots.



I'm so ashamed. Well, not quite. Suffice to say I dabble in the libations a bit. 3 Ciroc bottles. 2 Absoluts. 1 six pack of Heineken. 1 Guinness stout bottle. 6 empty cans of Dole pineapple juice that blend so perfectly with the coconut vodka. And oh, I almost forgot. One telling blue bottle of Reisling. And a partridge in a pear tree. You get the picture. The Hefty bag sounds like the circus is coming to town...or just left.


Um..New York City cops tend to disagree. Unless you have a hack license. That's next on the to-do list after I pay that blasted ticket.



Just so you know, This Bug imbibes more than grapes and grains. Thanks to Will Ferrell in The Other Guys I discovered how wonderfully refreshing a few slices of cucumber can be in ice cold water. Lemon water is so passé. Try it now. Thank me later. And Will, too.



Call it covetous. Call it unethical. Call it what you want. But there is only one pair left in my size at the side gig and I'm hiding them until the price inevitably gets marked down. Now, I know that in some way, shape or form this causes the company to lose money by preventing the common man from purchasing them full price. I get that. But I don't give a fat frog's ass. I've never owned anything so frivolous and over the top fashion-wise and perhaps never will again. Don't judge me...'til you see me sportin' them with some liquid leggings and a gorgeous blouse.


So last weekend my father goes into a popular Superstore that rhymes with Schmalmart. He picks up some coffee creamer and two sets of clothes hangers. Once the cashier rang him up- the total sounded unusually high. It turns out he picked the hangers up from an area they didn't belong in and was mislead about the price. So politely, he asks the cashier to remove the items based on the quality of the hangers in relation to price. Nothing more. She does this quickly and by herself as there was no need for a manager or the ever necessary 'key' at the register. Then she looks at my dad, scans the Coffeemate and says blankly, "You think you can handle that?" All I can say is that the Creator in His infinite wisdom saw to it that I was not there to witness this. She'd still be picking teeth along with whatever else she swallowed that day out of her shit right now.



Anyway, it's been a wild and sometimes taxing ride these past few weeks. I just wanted to share the bits and pieces...and maybe bitch a little. But even after all the frustration- something like this comes along and reminds me that there's always something to smile about:



"Well a very, very heavay ah, heavy dua, bertation tonight, we had a very derst, dereson, bite, lets go head terest tazon lusht to the vet to have the pet."

Fin

Water Song

Yesterday, I made a concerted effort not to draw attention to the obvious.  It was Sunday.  The day after Christmas.  Boxing Day.  It means little to some- but to my father? Everything.  43 years they would have been married.  When I spoke to him on the phone I made it a point not to mention their anniversary.   For the better part of five years I wore her solid gold band on my left ring finger.  Engraved inside are their initials and the date he first slipped that ring onto her finger. 26-12-67  She was a gorgeous bride- all ninety-nine pounds of her.  She had a smile that was beckoning and all knowing.  A smile that invited you to her mystique if you dared- but she never told her secrets.  Her nails were always prettily manicured.  Her attire and accessories looked as though they'd been handpicked by Anna Wintour. And when she first married my father she could only bake banana bread flawlessly.  By the time she left, she was a better cook than he was.  I was thirteen when she waded on to other waters.  A part of me always knew we only had her for a time.  She was so otherworldly. Always aware that there was an invisible world. She belonged somewhere between this world and that.  A Pisces in the true sense.  Wistful. A dreamer.  Full of charm. A showstopper devoid of conceit. She was supportive and content to let others shine while she floated somewhere in the background. That was her glow.  I was 10 years younger than her final year when I gave that ring back to my father to wear around his neck.  It never seemed right for me to wear it.  Not because my own marriage dissolved but because it wasn't placed on my hand with a fraction of the love that placed it on hers. Theirs is a timeless love.  This is for my mother- who no longer swims in earthly waters but I feel her just the same. This is for my father.  I peer through time portals and see a banner that reads: His wife was a mermaid. He is inconsolable. This is for Lady T.  So ironic that on the anniversary of something so great, something that brought forth my very existence; another Pisces went swimming through heavenly waters.  She was born one day before my beautiful mother and sang with a duality I know now is essentially theirs.  Wild and Peaceful. This is for my own water sign love who just last night,  gave me this song.  Because of them I am ever grateful.  Ever knowing.  Ever loving. Thank God.

Not so long ago

I fell in love for the first time when I was five years old. He was tall, dark and handsome. He had hands that could heal every hurt and words that made everything that was wrong with the world right in an instant. One day, I went to the bank with this man. There were velvet ropes sectioning off the line. Heavy, U-shaped velvet ropes that sometimes keep club goers in line on the street. Not the straight elasticized ones you see in banks nowadays. I detached my hand from his just long enough to entertain myself by skipping back and forth over these ropes. Hop. Hop. Back. Forth. He trained his eyes on me and said, "Jayne, stop that." There was no discernible anger in his voice. Not even the slightest bit of annoyance in the warning. It was simply an instruction. For some reason I took it as my cue to jump over one last time- and then I'd surely find something else to satisfy my idleness. But one inexact movement was all it took. On my final skip, my foot hooked the bottom of the weighty rope and brought down the poles which the ropes were suspended on. Down one by one. Like dominoes. Like giant, Stone Henge dominoes. Everyone stopped and stared. My face grew hot and the tears spilled immediately. I felt an embarrassment that was so new, so foreign to me at such a young age. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole. At least then, I'd be out of sight from so many appalled pairs of eyes. My shame was quickly eclipsed by the abject fear of the consequences of not listening to this man standing before me. But not for long. In one swift movement he scooped me off my feet where the last pole lay on its side. I bawled. I was inconsolable. When I could finally speak- I could only manage to wail, "I....Sorry Daddy...I'm sorry." There, at the teller's window, impervious to the toppled poles and judging eyes... he said calmly into my hair, "It's alright, Dahlin'. Yuh wit me. With me."

Happy Father's Day, Daddy.

The Greatest Thing

He didn't walk me down the aisle. Because there are no aisles at the Town Hall. But he was there. Five years later, when it all went from sugar to shit- he never once said 'I told you so.' Instead, he bore it all in silence. The way a man does when there is nothing he can do about his little girl's pain- other than share it while wishing he could eradicate the source. He wanted more for me than he could give but he gave what he could. His all.

They say I'm the most like him. There are times when I wonder how different it would be with us, had we not pelted one another with stone-heavy words. Fought each other tooth and nail. Those were some of the darkest days I have ever known. I was the only one of his three children to look him in the eye and say "I'm not afraid of you anymore." I was fifteen. That alone tipped the axis. There were no more beatings. Only equally matched brawls. Now I know. He wasn't angry so much as desperate for better times. Brighter days.

I look back on those days and see now that we needed those times. I had to remember that I was still his child. And he had to learn how to let go. Widowed and worn but by no means broken, he showed me the definition of strength. His eyes are softer now. With the slightest halo of blue-gray around the iris, but a fire still glows in the pupils. I could live to be twice his age and never fathom what has put that look in them. That world-weariness and dignity all at once. A look that says he has seen more than he cares to talk about- and lived through more than I could ever fictionalize. Trinidad in the sixties. New York in the eighties. And God knows what else.

He has never been a wealthy man. But if you were to ask him what his riches are- he would tell you in a heartbeat that we are his treasures. My sisters, my nieces, my nephews, the great-grandchildren. Myself. More precious to him than the jewel encrusted Taj Mahal. His pillars of pride. I look in those eyes and see a thousand devoted sojourns. Just so we could all be here.

No Coincidence

My father hates policemen. Always has. Always will. In 1958 there were constables installed on President Wiseman Avenue in Port of Spain, Trinidad- donned in crisp khaki shirts and black shorts that stopped just below the knee. At 10:15 p.m. a solitary telephone rings at 45 Duke Street. Stella does not have long, it seems. An aneurysm they say. To my 13 year old father it is no different from a heart attack or hearing that she has been hit by the Number 2 bus. He is alone in the house. Dashing about, he grabs his paperboy hat and a poem he wrote for her earlier at school. Hopping on his bicycle, he races down to the hospital to kiss the grandmother I will never meet.

Curfew has been instated to curb recent gang activity. Since then- bottles no longer rain from the roofs of local Rum Shops along Wiseman and Maraval Avenue. He is nearly out of breath and approaching Pitch Lake when Constable John stops him in his tracks. "Ay boy, whuh yuh doin' out pas' curfew on a Wednesday?" It is not so much a question as it is an accusation. My father gives pause to slow his heartbeat. He has already ridden three miles nonstop. "Is meh muddah, Sir. They tell meh she catch a stroke an' cyah move. But..." More gulps for air. "She wake up askin' for meh, Sir." He eyes my father dubiously. "Name, Boy?" My father has no time but obliges. "Neverow, Sir. Kenneth Neverow." Before I am a twinkle in his eye, the distrust for uniformed officers is already forming in my DNA. Constable John glowers at him. "Please Sir. They say she don't have long. An' she askin' for me at the hospital." The air is still- save for distant tires rolling on pavement two blocks over. "You ain't goin' to no friggin' hospital dis time of night! The closest one is a next five miles into town. Who you wit', Boy?! Silk Hats? Desperados? Nah- yuh look like one of dem Renegade boys." A droplet of sweat trails down my father's arm- shocking him into perfect posture. His despair is taking root. "No gang, Sir. I promise you. My mother is sick. That is the only reason I am out past curfew. Perhaps you may accompany me, Sir. Then you'll see." His invitation to the truth only agitates the constable. For a moment his scowl softens to a smile...but it is a mockery. "An' yuh speak the Queen's English when yuh ready, eh? Impressive."

"Alright Renegade. I believe you. Yuh have to go and catch yuh dyin' mother. If you willing to ride, you must be willing to run." In a swift motion he knocks my father off the seat of his bike. His knee opens up from breaking the fall. White flesh first, then tiny beads of red. Twenty-nine years later I will nurse a similar but very different wound while learning to ride my first two-wheeler. I will howl through tears- but he feels no pain upon impact. With one arm the officer lifts the bike and hurls it into the lake on the outskirts of Savannah Park. It sinks quickly. Only soft ripples give any indication of the malice that put it there, taking most of my young father's faith in mankind with it. "I thought you was in a rush, Boy? Run! You can run the rest of the way." With no hesitation my father takes his dismissal and bolts, blood now coloring his left ankle sock. He runs into darkness lit occasionally by garish orange street lights that still blink on at dusk in Trinidad. Heaving, he swings blindly into St. Mary's Hospital- mangled knee and all. A stabbing pain in his side from not stopping. He will not feel the sting on both palms where gravel was embedded until he looks down at his hands two hours later.

Stella Neverow expired at 12:12 a.m. With her she took line-dried Indian Cotton tablecloths, an all-knowing smile and meat pies at Christmastime. No goodbyes were exchanged between mother and son. There is no exact science. It may be Osmosis; or through some loyalty with no name that I inherited this strange conjecture, this deep-seated resentment where lawmen are concerned. Years later he coolly tells me why he believes in miracles. "...because I'll walk on water before I walk on eggshells for some arrogant cop son-of-a-bitch." My father hates policemen. Always has. Always will.

What I know now

The best piece of advice I ever received was, “One hand don’t clap.” The source was my father. Yes. My resilient and seemingly all-knowing father gave me this furtherance. I remember it clearly because it came at a time that marked the end of my puppy love and the onset of self-diagnosed, incurable heartbreak. Lost in short-lived memories, I sat at the kitchen table staring blankly out of the sliding doors leading to our deck. My coffee sat, half-drunk and tepid before me. I felt just like the cup, well on its way to emptying itself down the drain. At least, that’s what I thought.

He walked into the room quietly, careful not to yank the hostess from her grand pity party. This was the hardest morning I had awoken to in a very long time. An ache had settled itself in my core. A stubborn lump rested in my throat and I dared not speak. I feared an ocean tears would be triggered. I feared crying myself blind. He lifted the kettle to fill it, only to replace it having seen that I had left just enough water for him. As he stirred his coffee, he never looked up. He sat across from me and then looked me straight in the eye. “You know, there’s only one thing that makes me sad in this world. And that is when any one of you all is feeling pain and there is nothing I can do to take it away.” By ‘you all’, I knew he meant my two older sisters and me. He was, with all of his being, ready to lay his life down for any one of us at a moment’s notice. I knew this, understood it wholly, but it brought me no comfort given my current condition.

I tuned out his presence to examine my plight. What had gone wrong? My thoughts on love were so simple at this green age. I thought that as long as I gave what was needed, I would get the same in return. Instead, I received a mountain of unfilled promises. I likened it to watching a ticker tape parade marching by from inside a desolate house. The whole world was going on gleefully, and I had no one. I was too young to know that love was not necessarily an even exchange. Sometimes, it was far more taxing than it was rewarding. That a partnership or relationship of any functionality required effort on both parts, but was not guaranteed. So many nights I lay, clutching my heart overwhelmed by the depths of unrequited love. It just wasn’t fair. Entranced by a slide show behind my eyes, I saw moments of firsts replaying themselves. First meeting, first kiss, and the first time to share myself with another human being. I would never be the same. Instantly the tears welled and I began to quake. Inconsolably, I sobbed for ten minutes that seemed everlasting. He allowed me to cry, knowing then what I know now; that this was all part of healing my heart. A good cry refreshes the soul and replenishes the spirit. It was the first of many to come.

Finally, he rose from his seat to leave me in my despair, but not before he poured these words over my hair as salve. “Sweetheart, one hand don’t clap. Remember that.” As he walked out of the kitchen, I ingested what he said. No sweeping exits or off-stage lines. I thought I heard the fanning of a solitary hand, seeking out another that simply was not there. The curtain was closing on my devotion after the dance and I could hear nothing.

These days, that sage advice holds true to this day. When I find myself giving a tireless effort to a lost cause, my father's words return to me. Anything worth having is worth fighting for, but there are times when you have to accept that if you are doing it all by yourself- perhaps it just should not be. It is true: One hand indeed cannot clap, but to append to my learned words of wisdom, all you have to do is be still. Listen closely, because that silence may tell you all that you need to know. It is one of the bravest things you can do.

The Man with The Child in His Eyes

His capacity to love always exceeded his ability to praise. You just had to know what he meant. Of all the darts he threw, I never quite figured out what to hurl or what to hold. I kept it all. With gentle eyes that could cut you in half when you weren’t in his good graces. His resilience unmatched, I watched as he buried his own dreams to make mine come true. A proud man and hard man but loving all the same. He remains the one unwavering thing in my world.
Daddy’s new ways are his old ones. He still wakes far too early, still smokes a pack a day and still boasts that I’m the closest thing to a son he ever had. “A good right hook will beat any style of martial arts…but you have to land it first.” And I did.
My father gave me his temperament more than his neatness. He taught me to be sure of myself, to not seek approval. He wanted me to be tough and beautiful all at once. And punctual to a fault.
“Better to be an hour early than one minute late.” I wish I had taken that from him, too. But alas, I am my mother’s child. Or so he says.