Monday, June 24, 2024

Wicked Spell, Fever Dream

I'm an easy target.  Yea, yea. . . there were guys at the wedding, too.  There must have been.  I didn't do it consciously.  I just don't like guys.  I only see them as competition, as challenges.  I have my brohemes, but the rest of guys are just the other team.  I don't even like my brohemes all that much.  I like girls.  I don't know why people want to change them.  I've always thought they were the better part of life.  If there are a bunch of guys around, something bad is sure to happen.  If you are young man walking down the street alone and you see five guys sitting on a car, you don't think, "Oh, good. . . there are some other boys."  Fuck no.  Your ass gets tight and you prepare for whatever is to come.  As you walk past them, you might give a wave of acknowledgement, and if they do no more than say hello, you are relieved.  I can't imagine what it is like to be a woman in that situation, but I am guessing most don't think, "Oh, good. . . there's a bunch of guys," either.  When men get together, no matter the age, the shit talk begins.  It doesn't matter if they are from the barrio or the boardroom.  And the insipidity of a group of Progressive Male Feminists and their verbal aggressiveness is ever so annoying.  Me?  I'm a real femme, but I've done all the butch things in life because I really don't like men.  I just want to beat them at. . . whatever.  

The bad shit guys do is reflected in the warning a kid gave me at the bar about going into the men's bathroom in flip flops.  Guys are just disgusting.  Some jerky boy will do something awful and then give an evil laugh.  His buddies will all call him a fuckhead but will laugh with him.  

"Jesus. . . Mason just took a shit in the pisser. . . holy fuck!"

I just wrote all that in a fever dream.  I know how awful women can be, too.  I guess it's just people in general.  And maybe the aggressive behavior of women can be equally egregious.  I'm sure there is equal blame.  O.K.  I'll concede.  

There are just things I like.  I'm flawed.  

So yea, there must have been men at the wedding.  I don't know.  They just weren't all that.  

And, of course, I have taken a beating over my ludicrous claims.  People, it seems, want to deny me love.  They enjoy my whiny complaints about being alone in  a life that is a mere hum.  They want to make sure my life is no better than theirs, better when it is worse.  It reflects the human condition we all suffer, but it is better if I suffer it more.  It somehow makes their own lives more exciting and enjoyable.  

To wit: I had plans to eat with my mother yesterday, but something went haywire.  I'll never know.  But I got a call in the late afternoon from my mother's across the street neighbor inviting me to come to dinner at their house for chicken and dumplings.  I didn't answer the phone, of course.  I got this in the message that was left.  

"Your mother is coming to dinner at six, and you are invited."

WTF?  I'd just talked to my mother an hour ago.  She was making one of my favorites for dinner, salmon patties.  No, I am not kidding.  I love her salmon patties.  So I was very confused when I called my mom.  

"I just got a call from your neighbors saying you were going to dinner at their house at six and that I was invited.  What's up?"

"What?  I don't know anything about that.  She was over earlier and said something about having us over sometime.  I don't know what she is talking about. She is getting confused a lot.  She talks in circles."

"Well, if she comes over to ask you, let me know."

I was sitting outside at the cafe with a large mimosa that I didn't have to order.  Fuck you haters.  The girl at the counter smiled and knew what I wanted.  The place was packed.  It was hot.  She was working like the devil, but she still chatted me up, wanted to know what I had done that day, all weekend.  She was sweet.  I don't want to hear any of your mouthy shit about it.  You're starting to piss me off.  

In a bit, my phone rang.  It was my mother.  

"She just came over.  She said she told me this morning she was cooking dinner.  She never said anything about us coming over.  She was angry.  I guess we're going.  You need to call her and let her know."

Shit piss fuck goddamn.  I didn't want to go to dinner at the neighbor's house, and definitely not at six.  I just wanted to have a quiet dinner of salmon patties with my mother.  I was still suffering from my weekend.  I had the whiskey palsy and needed to slow down.  Early dinner and home on the couch for an evening's movie.  

I called the neighbor.  

"Hey.  I got your message.  I'll be there, but is there any way we could do it a bit earlier?"

The crazy lady went off.  She told my mother. . . yada, yada, yada. . . . It was four, "and I haven't even started cooking yet."

WTF?  She hadn't started cooking?  So what was the deal?  She was being super bitchy to me.  

"O.K.  See you at six."  

Did I say I prefer women to men?  

My life was not my own.  The whiskey palsy may have been a blood sugar thing.  I hadn't eaten anything all day.  I don't think I'd even drunk a glass of water.  I hadn't moved from the house until almost three, and then only to drive to the cafe to get a mimosa.  I hung up the phone and went back to my journal.  An Arab fellow of unkown origin came outside to talk on his phone.  He paced around like a fellow on a crack withdrawal speaking loudly into his phone.  He paced and paced and his voice was getting to me.  Did I tell you I don't like guys?

"Hey, fellow. . . shut the fuck up," I wanted to yell, but of course I didn't.  I tried not to look at him nor at the pretty woman sitting at the table next to me.  I could feel her looking over at me once in awhile, but I didn't know if it was out of curiosity, fear, or disgust.  I was trying to write, but nothing was coming.  I'd write a sentence, but another wouldn't follow.  

When I looked up, the Arab fellow was making Muay Thai moves, throwing a one/two at the back of a car window followed by a knee.  I couldn't take it.  I packed up my bag and got in my car.  

It was a long way to dinner.  

By the time I got to my mother's house, I was crashing.  I needed food.  I had brought a bottle of Vouvray to dinner.  My mother was ready.  We crossed the street.  I had no idea what we were going to walk into.  

"Look.  Her friend is there," my mother said pointing to a car in the driveway.  

We walked in to the regular greeting.  I handed the wine over and glasses were poured.  

"Oh. . . this is nice," said the husband.  

"I like it in the summer, a bit light and sweeter but not sweet.  Should go well with the chicken."

Dinner was ready and we all went to the dinner table where the husband said a blessing while I petted the dog begging for food at my feet.  


I tried to carry the conversation, but the air was dead.  There was the passing of platters and bowls as people plated the fried chicken, black-eyed peas, ears of corn, biscuits and rice.  What happened to the chicken and dumplings, I wondered?  When I bit into a chicken leg, it was cold and unseasoned.  There was blood near the bone.  Holy fuck. . . what was I going to do? It was awful.   I nibbled the surface of the horrible chicken and ate the vegetables.  I thought about giving the chicken to the dog.  

To break the awkwardness of the night, I told the story of the stolen cameras, the detective, the State Attorney's Office, and the criminals.  The husband was most interested in the price of the cameras.  Why he had a Nikon in the closet that didn't cost. . . blah blah blah.  

"Oh, that's a good camera."

He had an art degree and he apparently had taken a photography course back then.  He started telling me about cameras.  

"I remember when I was in the photography class a few people had large format Leicas. . . ."

"No," I said, "Leica never made a large format camera.  They invented the 35mm camera and only made those until the first digital."

But no, I was wrong, he said.  They had large format Leicas.  

"No they didn't.  Leica never made a large format camera."

So Mr. Certain broke out his phone to do a search.  He tried over and over and over with different search terms.  

Did I tell you I didn't like fellows? 

And that is how we ended dinner.  My mother said she was ready to go.  Mr. Certain would be up all night, I guessed, trying to find that Pooka.  

Home.  I hadn't been home in the evening, it seemed, in months.  Nine o'clock.  I poured a drink and fell into the couch.  I had no love notes texted from any woman, nothing but some sarcastic comments from a few "friends."  Sure, I was delusional, but I suffer my delusions and don't need any help in feeling like a loser, thanks.  I've had a better time since I recognized that women didn't like me, since I no longer cared.  But when you enjoy seeing a man down, I guess, you don't really want to see him get up off the ground.  

Oh. . . where is my own. . . ha!!!

I have to get straight this week and out of my liquored up fever dream.  I'll see if I can get down some water.  Back to veggies and fish and tofu.  I have so much work I need to do.  Maybe I'll do some of it.  The weather will be awful.  It is everywhere. We live on a poisoned planet and must pretend that everything is o.k.  People are only going to get meaner.  Our bodies are full of microplastics.  There are few fish left in the sea.  Flooding and extreme heat have spoiled the crops.  Cows, pigs, and chickens are being slaughtered due to new contagious viruses that might be passed on to humans.  Trumpers rule the land.  

Despite all that (or is it in spite of?), you want to pick at me?  

Dear Mona. . . .

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