Off the Record

As we bowled (each game $1.50, each shoe rental $1.50, each draft beer $1.50) we looked at the people around us–all black, all occupied in either bowling, pool, or (get this) CHESS. Nora talked up the cashier, who told her he once served Tina Turner when he worked at a restaurant downtown, we drank our beers and bowled our games whose scores ranged from 45-160, and the bartender, a woman of 62 by the name of Francis, came over to see if we needed anything else.

I stepped into the bar to buy my DD (ha!) another beer and a man, 6 gold teeth proudly displayed right up in front, asked me a question, the words not quite clear.
“What’s what?” I asked, straining.
“Damn, girl, why you talkin’ so loud?”
“I can’t hear you, sir.”
“I said, ‘You lose your man tonight?’”
“No,” I said, looking away to the tip bucket hanging almost unreachably from the top of the bar.
“Hmm. Well, can I leave you a number or somethin?”
“Nope,” I said, looking at him in the eye (but ever so distracted by those teeth…).

He eventually walked away and the man next to me said, “He’s gone–you can smile again, honey.”
I rolled my eyes and laughed in agreement with him, paid for my beers and returned to my lane, only to falter in my bowling skills.

ROB, my friend, thank you for the wonderful night. Let’s go again. But next time, let’s stay til 3am.

I owed the USA approximately $1000 this year after my taxes were done. $1000. That makes my yearly income even lower than I thought it was. I could be on food stamps. Or unemployment. I could be swiping my EBT card at the grocery instead of digging into my savings, which are, by now, miniscule.

“The second I get a check in the mail, I’ll let you know,” my dad told me via voicemail yesterday afternoon. I believe him, but I also believe that I will never ever get such a call.

1) Fellow humans. I don’t trust them.

In these situations, I’ve considered spying. Vandalism. Aimless wandering. Breaking and entering. Speeding. Pranking. Public drunkenness. Streaking. Stealing. Trespassing. Arson.

I equate the feeling to finding out that someone you like really likes you in return. It’s a high. It’s an energy. It’s something that can easily keep you up on a Friday night, feigning sleep, your mind reeling, unable to close your eyes without smiling and plotting for the next adventure.

But maybe, with time, this feeling will fade. I will, by the age of, say, 28, have experienced everything there is that incites such an intoxicating reaction. I will get bored. And perhaps I will discover that what I was doing was childish and immature and kneejerk and indicative of unhealthy, addictive behavior. I will want to stop.

Or maybe I won’t.

I wish my mind was like a pair of shoes so I could just take it off and set it next to my bed.
-Yeah, and give it some air.

-I was at the Red Sox game.
You hate the Red Sox.
-I know.
Why did you go? Some big shot parishoner take you?
-Sorta…he bought me pretzels and beer.

Today I lost my journalism teaching job.
-Wow. That sucks.
Yes, it does.

How ya been?
-Good, but very busy. How about you?
Miserable.
-Why miserable you?
Boredom. Heartbreak. Boredom.
-Ok. Those do suck…

Trip #1: I go for a reason which escapes me now. I show up on time but am not attended to until it is time for me to go back to work. I reschedule for the following week.

Trip #2: Ahh yes, I remember now, why I went. Ear infection. Chronic, for about, oh, 23 years now. Last time I had them looked at, the doctor said, “Nevar use Q-Teeps agAINE!” So I didn’t. I was weighed (ringing in at a whopping 156lbs! (pure muscle, mind you)), given a blood pressure test and measured around my waist, a routine that, for some reason, is mandatory at the DR’s offices now. I saw the DR, she gave me a prescription for nasal spray (oh boy!) and I was released, with enough time to get back to work.

Trip #3: Two months after the initial one. Follow-up for ear medicine. Hadn’t worked. I beg for something else. I get in on time again and she tells me, after looking at my weight and height that I have the perfect Body Mass Index. Well, hot dog. She gives me some ear drops (which, by the way, have worked fantastically) after flushing out my ears with an alcohol/hot water mix. If you’ve never had it done, I highly recommend it. “Dare is a hare in dare,” she said, after inspecting them quite thoroughly. “I am goinc to try to getit out.” Yessss.  I’m assuming she did, because I can hear better.

Trip #4: Today, one week after the last visit. I call this morning in a rather urgent tone, as my UTI has gotten worse after having gotten better then worse then better again. Kegs of Cranberry juice, water overloading and meditation hadn’t done the trick, so I was in some wicked need of an anti-biotic. I go through all the motions again: blood pressure, weight, BMI, pulse, etc, etc. Am I allergic to any medication? When was my last period? What are my symptoms? yargh. DR comes in, looks at my urine test, scribbles something on her notepad, feels my abdomen (which induces an urge to go to the bathroom), hands me a prescription and shoos me out. BAM.

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