Off the Record

I shot a gun. It was spontaneous, but it was controlled and safe. With walls between me and them, the paper target about ten feet away. The outline of man's body, the center of his chest red and spotted with numbers indicating his mortality and rewarding you for your aim. Pop. In the neck. Pop. In the heart. Pop. In the heart. Pop. In the heart. Pop. In the heart. Pop. In the heart. Clear the shells, reload, do it again. Pop. Pop. Pop. The cold gun rested uncomfortably in my hands, much like the discomfort of people who don't know how to shoot a 35mm camera with a lens. It's awkward. It feels wrong. It feels slightly illegal. But exhilarating. And scary. And edgy. Yet slightly illegal. I laughed and laughed and laughed when I hit the targeted man in the chest five times. One round gone, another one to load, but I laughed and laughed and laughed. I couldn't stop. The gunmen called me a natural and told me to change my stance. The man with the hat looked longingly at me, like I had just made his dreams come true. All with a hairpin pull of the trigger. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. My ears rang with each kickback and my hands shook while I reloaded. But once it was in my hands, the crotch of my left hand placed oh so softly on the side of gun, the cold metal combined with the sweat of my nerves, and the whole world at my fingertips, I felt smart and able and unwilling to use this in any other circumstance. Why do these exist? Why are the targets outlines of men? Violence breeds violence, no? It still doens't change the fact that I'm the best female shot west of Manchester.

So I guess I'm that dork that sits in bars with her computer and reads political blogs while sipping her whiskey. A man looked at me with the look on his face that he knew me, that we had talked, that some connection was made, but he never approached me, probably scared of my reaction or my lack of recognition or something. He blantantly stared as he walked out the door, even turning back to get one last glance. I have shortish hair, pulled back halfway. I wear a brown shirt on my body with a black sweater covering up the naked parts. My jeans are tight, my shoes and ankles sticking out of the bottoms. I wear a nice black coat and sit down with conviction, with one goal in mind: to drink my whiskey. Usually people don't allow me to do that, but tonight, carrying the mood I'm in, it's made possible. And here I sit, typing, thoughful and slightly pensive, wondering if what happens next is what should. So I guess I'm the kind of person who sometimes screams in her car while she's driving because that's usually the only privacy she can get. Never out of anger or ire or disappointment; it's more from relief. Or excitement.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/45317614@N00/

I poured her a glass of water, 3/4 of the way full. "Enough of this half-assed stuff," she said. "Well...half YOU!" I retorted. "Zzzzing!" she responded. We ate our posole, beer bread, enchiladas and summer sausage while talking about Spain, kitties and monkey bread. I finished slicing a pear and Karen asked for the peel: "Pear core Baltimore. Who's you friend?" As she held the remains in her hand I could tell a launch was soon to take place. "Huh?" "Pear core Baltimore. Who's your friend?" "You?" I said meekly as I ducked past the doorway and felt a pear core whiz past my head. She wore produce stickers on her sweater and served herself enchiladas directly from the spatula to her spoon. As the parents were discussing, she started an off-beat air drum solo to the Nutcracker Suite. She's fabulous. And she's my sister.

I can't remember half the creative things we said last night; about beer head, scrod and how it sounds like scrotum, insecticide, bisexuality and its infrequency, how women aren't funny but that's the only thing men have going for them, the fact that putting bologna (pronounced incorrectly by the British) in your shoe actually makes you FEEL funny, how ugly Robyn Duke is, your rat named Steve and your cell phone named Cell Phone, and how, because I don't have a microwave, it makes me all the more cool.

You can call me Miss Truckey. A substitute teacher. A form of consistency and scheduling in my life. What a concept.

I had only been through Baden occasionally, as I took it as a short cut to get home. To Alton. It used to be filled with white Germans and still bears the sign, "Wilkommen a Baden." We drove to a strip mall whose parking lot held dozens and dozens of Escalades, Volvos, Cadillacs. We rested far away from the door and made the walk to the overhang without first seeing many many men in three piece suits and hats. Upon entering I was shocked to find that this rundown place was actually extremely classy and well-decorated inside. Reds and blacks and pinks covered the walls and furniture. A long bar took up the back wall just in front of the VIP seating, which was where we were headed. Busts of Nefertiti, Greek gods and knights in armour stood on platforms. The stage was large and the main act took it as we sat down at a table already supplied with Crown Royal and Skyy Vodka. Neighbors dressed in these suits and women with their Saturday night best brought over crackers and some cheese thing with nuts. I excused myself after my second pour of Crown Royal for the restroom where I found a long line of about 10 women shifting from foot to foot in an effort to expand their bladders just a bit more. Out of the six stalls, only about three of them would flush, and, some women conscious of what they would leave, refused certain toilets because of this fact. They fixed their hair, screamed loudly and commented on the dresses of the others. I'd never seen that much camaraderie in a restroom before. Bobby Bland crooned on the stage as women held up their hands and shook every part of their body to the beat of the music. We just sat back and enjoyed our Crown and crackers, confident that the extreme heat that filled the room was a result of the many hott bodies. I think I'm going to start wearing sequins all the time now. Just in case.

This chai tea tastes like Christmas. I mean, it tastes like what I think Christmas would taste like if it had a taste. If you could bottle up the poinsettias and the spice racks and the gingerbread and the pine needles, this chai tastes like that. And what an amazing day in St. Louis! Two interviews in two days, both very very promising. I expect to get the kitty call today, also. Holiday parties galore this weekend. That means free booze and food, but it also means you should probably bring something. I'm no scrooge. Check out the newest edition of the Arch City Chronicle for one of Sarah's more recent rants.

Two interviews this week. AND I get a kitty kat. One is at the STL Public Library for a homework helper position. The other is at Crossroads School for a substitute position. These being my first interviews ever, I don't think I'll return that $40 blazer I just splurged on. Both of these positions require working with kids (ages 7-18) who need some academic guidance, if not something more. I'm very excited to have these opportunities. And, of course, I hope something great comes out of them.

Flirting v. teasing. Is there a difference? I'm convinced there is. But, either way, as someone recently pointed out to me, I am prone to identify with both forms of female prowess. I take slight offense to that, but, when paired with the explanation that I'm charming and sociable and wear nice hats, the blow is a bit less severe. Teasing is something someone does when she is NOT interested in the guy but simply wants attention from him. One may do this at political functions or at a job interview when trying to impress or work her way inside the system. Flirting is done when she has a genuine interest in the guy and is set on getting to know him better or to simply loosen up around him. Flirting can also be done in a platonic way, even with members of the same sex. It's a charm you may have inherently and unable to turn off, unlike that of a tease. Flirting is a way of exposing yourself to another person, to welcome them and let them know you are not a threat. Some females use this unwisely and tell men lies only to get in their pants. But REAL women, who like substance and intellect and stability and danger in men will only use flirtation in its most honest form. Trust me on this.