Ninth Night

It was all planned out!  Weinerfest, we'd dubbed it.  Backyard Shenanigans!  It was a breakthrough idea!  Well, it was for us anyway.  Let me give you some background.

You see, my roommate Alexis and I are perhaps the only ones in our group of friends who do not live with our parents.  This makes our house the de facto party house.  Any big shindig or hullabaloo or even minor get-together that didn't take place at a bar or club or restaurant happened at our house.  And it was always a mess.  The house, that is.  The parties were great but there would either be something in the kitchen like a pile of unwashed dishes or a counter still dusted with flour or sticky from some spillage; that we would hope everyone could just completely ignore, or the kitchen would start off clean and come to be in some disastrous state through the course of the night's events.  And do you think anyone showed up to help clean?  No.

But its still our place.  And we still want to chill out there from time to time with our friends.  So, one breezy day we got the bright idea to invite a bunch of people over for drinks, but lock the front door!  We took tables and seating from inside and placed them in a convenient, conversation friendly circle.  We took baskets and emptied them of their display fruits, and instead filled them with peanuts and cheese puffs.  We took the cooler and spread down a bed of ice, and propped the bottles of rums and mixers and beers in it, and another pitcher that held just ice, and we set that in the center of the circle.  And it worked.  Like a dream.  The first few times were all guys, so there were even a few odd instances where I wound up begging them to go inside.  Don't piss on my wall just outside my bathroom or bedroom window, please?  And for the love of God, don't continue talking to me while you're doing so!  I know the conversation might be rich and engaging, but unless we're in some kind of intimate relationship, you should let the conversation pause while you attend to your bodily functions.

And that goes for you too, ladies.

And so, as weekends came and went, the intricacies of the Backyard Shenanigans developed.  Until finally, September was upon us.  And this time, instead of a completely random gathering, we had a reason.  Ninth Night!  The eve of the Celebration of the Battle of St. Georges Caye!  The eve of Carnival Weekend!

When I came home I set out to sweeping.  Then mopping.  Then cleaning the sink and toilet in the half bath near the living room.  Then changed exterior light bulbs and making sure there was toilet paper in the bathroom.  Then I filled a pitcher with ice and let the ice maker take its time in replenishing the fridge door stock.  You will notice, I did nothing with the kitchen.  That is the beauty of the outdoor party.

Later Alexis brought over the grill.  Then the coal.  Then a bottle of rum and a pack of 'Sausage on a Stick'.  I balked at it and ran out to get spicy itallian which, cut to the right length, made an awfully good foot long.  By the time I got back Alexis had the grill lit, the coals getting ready for their night's work.  Meanwhile I cleared some stuff out of the yard and chained up the dogs.  By the time I was finished putting food down for them our first guest, J, had arrived.

Oh, the simplicity of the Backyard Barbecue.  Why didn't I think of this sooner?

I offered J a drink.  She only drank beer.  I was about to get her one of the Amstels we got specifically for September Celebrations when I realized...she's gonna drink them all.  I must hoarde.  I must keep my beer supply safe.  There are twenty other days in September, and about half of those are days when I can sit back and enjoy a cold one.  I had to pace myself.

"I'll take a quick shower."  I told her.  "And we can go get some."
"Get some?"  She asked, and gave me a bit of a smile.
"Yeah, some b--" I started to say and then suddenly realized...this could be a very good night for me.

After my shower we went in J's jeep, stopped at the bank, and then to the only store I knew of that still sold alcohol after nine.  I'd only found this place a few months ago and in fact it had only opened a few weeks before that, but in walks J and up goes the proprietors mood!  "J!" called the Chinese woman behind the counter, as if Jam was some relative she was glad to see.  J also calls her by name, Miss Helen, I believe.  Its impressive, not only for the fact that its actually happening (I hadn't started drinking by then) but the fact that she called her Miss Helen.  Miss Helen.  Not just Helen.  And certainly not China or Chiney Gial.  There was an affectionate, respectful tone to her voice as she tacked on the that universal Belizean title of elderly respect.  I liked that.  A lot.

Then she slid a fifty dollar bill across the counter and said 'How many Heineken can that get me?'

We headed back and put another bottle of rum and some soda water in the cooler, along with J's eleven Heineken (just in case you were curious).  Coming out of the store I'd seen my friend Keino, who'd just gotten back from studying medicine in Cuba, and basically told him to head over to our house.  By then others had arrived too; Leon and his date for the night, Diane.  And Leanne and Jorge, one of the cutest couples I know (when they aren't fighting.)  And, as they were instructed, each of these people brought a pack of hot dogs, whatever they wanted to see on the grill for that night.  And the grill itself was quite loaded.  The party was in full swing.

But it wasn't enough, was it?  So I sent a text to all the folks I knew in town.  Male or female, it said the same thing.  "Weinerfest at my house!  Come on over if you're hungry for some sausage!"

Because who doesn't love getting a suggestive message after nine o'clock?

We drank, we ate, we talked, about nothing in particular.  At some point I realized I'd had too much to drink when I stood in the middle of the yard with Leon and Timo arguing the merits of the Barbados economy and workers unions at the top of my lungs.  We were the last three there.  The party was over and i didn't even realize it.  But there existed within me a sense of something incomplete.  "Should we head to Cabana?" Leon asked suddenly.  The yard had gone silent.  Sausages cooled and shriveled and the very last of the coals glowed orange in a bed of ashy white.  I nodded once, firmly, and then began putting all our yard paraphernalia back into the house.

Now, I should point out that I'm really rarely this eager to go out, but it was indeed a really nice night.  I wasn't fall down drunk.  I wasn't thinking of depressing, sober things.  I'd been flirting all night with a girl I would slot neatly into the cute category, and in fact, here she was at the Cabana.  J found us out of the crowd and immediately started grinding her short, chubby body against mine, in particular her sizable ass.  She pumped her arms in the air when they weren't holding on to my belt loops pulling me closer, and flung her red, orange, and yellow dyed hair around.  She was on fire!  Alive and young and fully aware of it.  And it was exciting to be around.  Sexy without trying to be alluring.  Just like her nose ring.  She went to join her friends after that, and one of my friends came over, goading me in her direction.  "No."  I explained to him "I'm not gonna chase her.  I'm just here to have a good time."  And I wasn't gonna chase her because I wasn't going to give her the idea that I wanted her.  Or more to the point, that I wanted to keep her.  I like having her around, that much is obvious.  And if something were to happen...well.  But I'm single now.  I'd rather not get involved with something as fiery and volatile as that just yet.

I was even talking to Merri's dad at one point, and she swooped down as if from the sky, booty shaking and hair throwing and fist pumping.  All in good fun, he seemed to take it.  He laughed and gave me a slap on the shoulder.  "You have a good night."  he told me at 2 in the morning.

I didn't intend to meet J at Club Twilight after that.  It was, once again, one of those things that just happened.  The music was so loud, and the drinks kept coming, and she kept up her manic fun-time dance.  She dragged at my shirt collar until my ear came to her lips and shouted what sounded to me like 'My eggs are in my side and it hurts.'  Later on, when my ears stopped ringing from being crammed inside the giant speaker box that is Twilight, I realized that what she was saying was probably something like "My ex is here tonight.  Lets flirt."  There goes another train I missed.  No matter.  There's always next time.

Somehow I wound up on top of the highest hill in Belmopan with Dianne (Leon's 'date') and Karteek.  We watched the sunrise, tried to identify which direction it was coming from through the cloud and fog.  Instead we just noticed the gradual brightness.  Felt the heat descending on us like smoke from the sky.  It really wasn't as romantic as I make it sound.  We were still drunk, and kinda tired, and acutely aware that there might very well be a pit of vipers lurking somewhere in this knee high grass. 

"You wanna get breakfast?" I asked the others.  Dianne looked at me incredulously and asked "Where the hell do you get breakfast at this hour?"  Karteek nodded knowingly.  He smiled at the thought of hot beans and hotter fried jacks.  Eggs.  Cheese.  Piping hot coffee.  No one else around to bother you.  "Market."  He intoned, and headed off to the cars.

Only, as we descended, Karteek took off like a flash, racing down the hill ahead of us.  And by the time we got to the market, he wasn't even there.

"I guess he went home for his own breakfast", Dianne said.  We laughed about it, stopped circling and parked, and made our way past the bleary eyed fruit vendors just setting up, ourselves still bright and smiling and slightly tipsy and smelling of club smells.  Cigarettes, booze, and sweat.  We found one woman who was open.  We asked her if she had breakfast.  She said it would take a while.  I frowned and asked her if she had tacos or burritos.  That would take a while too.  "Well then we'll wait for the breakfast."  Dianne said, taking charge.  The little while was hardly a little while at all.  It was just enough time to scald my tongue on some coffee and have her laugh at me for it, as well as get to know one another a little better.  When you've watched the sunrise with someone and moved on from there to coffee, modesty sort of flies out the window.  We asked tough questions, getting right to the meat of things.  And the alcohol and lack of sleep tends to make you honest.

Sadly, it tends to make you stupid too.  By the time I'd finished breakfast I'd already started yawning every three minutes or so.  By the time I dropped Dianne off, my brain had gone sent every part of it that didn't need to drive home into shutdown mode.  Which is why I sat there for about five minutes while she asked for my number.  And why I didn't think to ask for hers back.

Sleep never felt so good.  But damn, that was a good night.

The Sky is Still Blue

If you read through this blog, over most of the entries going back a year, two years, more, you might get the impression that I'm a terminally sad, angry, morose fucker.   I mean, just look at the labels list.  Other than the catchall label of 'emotion' and the nearly the omnipresent honesty (And Merri) there's mostly labels like fear, shame, loneliness, risk, and of course 'the last thing that made you cry' (Though, that's really not as depressing as it sounds.  Honest.)  I realized that this is because when I'm happy, I'm not writing.  At least not here.  When I'm happy I'm either too busy actually enjoying life, or even too busy with other writing, to come up with anything I feel I need to share here.  This is bad therapy.  Especially since, for those that actually read this blog, I'm not only sharing events, but emotional weight tied to those events.  (See, emotions already)  It can be a pretty heavy load for me to bare on my own, and that's why I share it with you all, but where does that leave you?  Its been selfish of me not to think of this until now, and I'm heartily ashamed (Shame.  Right there.)   As a way of apologizing, allow me to tell you about a pretty damn good Sunday.  One in which I was happy!

In order to understand this Sunday, I have to start from Saturday night.  This, I think is what really set my Sunday into gear.   I don't usually like going Cabana, but it probably is Belmopan's only place for late night entertainment.  And this night, for a change, I only had to pay 15 bucks to go in and pay again for over-priced drinks, an acceptable discount from their usual twenty dollar door charge.  And once inside, there would be no wandering around, tapping your feet under a table to whatever stale musical selection the bartenders wanted to hear.  There were guest DJ's there.  Entertaining ones too!  With fresh music, some of which I hadn't even heard before. (Side Note: I don't get what the big deal is about that 'In my Cup' song, but whatever!) There were also friends there, already assembled.   Friends that knew one another and knew me!  Friends that had no problem sitting at one big table together, so that I wouldn't have to play that tiresome game of wandering from one segregated, non communicative clique to the other.  I even danced a little.  With other people.  Of the opposite sex.  And then, when Saturday Night started turning into Sunday Morning, I danced a lot.  By my self.

Here's one last interesting highlight from Saturday Night.  The Intern asked me if She was my girlfriend.  Now, this is the same intern who, just a day before, stood at my office door asking me a question.  And as the air around her wafted toward me, the scent of her struck my senses afire!  My heart was racing and behind my eyes but before my brain I could only see myself grasping her in my arms and tugging aside the bothersome fabric of her clothes to root out the source of that sent on her flesh, where I would set lips to kissing and tongue to tasting.  A moment later she was out of sight, and after that, the smell had gone, and so had the urge to ravage her.  She is a beautiful creature, and dangerously so.

We are also talking about Her, who I've repeatedly had similar compulsions toward, but based more frequently on the things she said and the way she angled her supple limbs.  This, however is balanced by our miscommunications and my more frequent lack of communication.  And, sometimes, its overridden completely by the occasional realization that we're not as compatible as we want one another the be (because, by now, I'm certain the feeling is mutual.) 

Now, I'm not gonna lie and say she is something that she isn't.  At the same time I didn't want to give the impression that I was only saying no just because the intern was asking, which is exactly what i did when I hesitated before saying no.  Why did I hesitate?  I honestly can't tell you.  Though...perhaps the inquirer and subject have something to do with it.  Or my mind was clouded once again by the smell of her.

The night was extraordinary in that nothing really happened.  I didn't get too drunk, and I wasn't sober enough to sense any great disappointment at being shot down several times that night.  It was the ideal Caribbean Night out:  Good Rum, Good Company, Good Music.  In the theater of my mind, that's just the way it ends too, the lights dim on the scene of close to a hundred people swaying, and grinding, and jumping, balancing perfectly their multicolored drinks, and continuing that way until the curtains close.

The next day I woke up at ten.  Six hours sleep and a clear head, I started on breakfast, but didn't actually finish it until almost twelve.  By then  I'd already showered twice, and walked the dog.  All this stuff is secondary, of course.  B-roll stuff.  If the club scene from the night before was the ultimate fade out, then the ultimate fade in would have been a blue sky peeking out between green and brown branches, and the sound of cicadas singing in the heat, coupled with distant laughter.  The only trouble with movies and plays is that they lack the fully emmersive sensations.  I think that if more people managed to spend a few hours every weekend floating on their backs in pristine rivers and creeks, letting the water wash over their entire bodies, then we wouldn't be so damn cruel to one another. 

Cities.  Cities cause cancer.  And stomach ulcers.  And strokes and heart attacks before the age of fifty.  I was once asked, if I could choose the moment i died, what would it be.  My Sunday afternoon is exactly what I chose.   Soaking in cool water on a hot day, staring up at the beauty of creation, and feeling...happy.   What a blessing it is to have the privilege of choosing to become lost in the wilderness upon occasion.

Sunday Evening Coming Down

Its after nine.  I smell like Spicy Italian Sausage, onions and sweet peppers.  Oh, and menthol cigarettes and body butter.  I'm a glutton for punishment.  Why smoke?  So I can sigh freely.  What's it to you?

I've spent all day sleeping, waking occasionally to change locations or the speed on the fan.  Felt sick at the end of the day so I started cooking savory things for supper.  That wouldn't usually be the case except I had a feeling that a day with nothing but sleep and blackberry wine on the stomach probably wasn't a good idea.  And, in fact, there was very little sleeping involved.  It was mostly laying there, thinking.  Lacking the motivation to get out of bed sounds kind of scary to me.  There might be something wrong.  If only it were an easy thing of placing a finger on this feeling and saying 'Aha!  There's the button.'  If only fixing it were as simple as pressing a button.  There's loneliness, certainly.  Which sounds easy to fix, right?  Find other people.  Problem solved.  Except I hate the idea of my happiness being dependent on the whims of other fucked up, fallible people, especially those with their own selfish motivations. 

That sounded harsh, I bet.  Fuck 'em.

Right now there are two editors in two different places reading separate examples of my writing.  I should be excited.  Instead I'm just anxious.  And a little bit angry.  its been year two of this 'plan' and I'm no closer to a school or getting paid than I was to begin with.  I've got more in me.  New ideas every day.  I'm just too frustrated to write any of them down. 

Somewhere, also, in a land far, far away; there's someone thinking of me.  Not the way that I'm thinking of them, of course.  Some hours ago she was probably having one last beer for the weekend, along with the cigarettes she insists she doesn't smoke anymore.  But she needs something to shakily bring to her cupid's bow lips.  She needs to sigh freely.  She might play with a bottle cap, and remember a time when she suggested we collect them.  And then she'll toss that one away, just like the rest.

And there's no way I'm going to sleep anytime soon.  What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

On Comparability

In my ceaseless search for new and better ways to waste time, I happened upon Geoffrey Philip's blog post about the I Write Like website.  This seems like something fun and pointless, but there's no way they can peg me by just one poem or Short Story, right?  So, keeping that in mind, I went for multiple results.

I write like
Vladimir Nabokov

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Got this one for the latest in my Rainy Season Series.   Nabokov's the guy who wrote Lolita.  I've never actually read Lolita, or any othe Nabokov work, so I'll withhold my judgement.

I write like
Ursula K. Le Guin

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

This one was from one of my recent favorites, also from Rainy Season.  Its becoming clear to me that this isn't going to work out quite as I expected.

I write like
David Foster Wallace

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Another recent favorite. Again, no idea who this David Foster Wallace guy is but apparently he hung himself in 2008. Isn't that special!

I write like
Charles Dickens

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

FINALLY someone I actually recognize. This for The Fortunate End of Jonas Black. Awesome. Who do you write like?

On Bleeding

When I woke up this morning I was fairly certain that it was going to be another Ho-hum day.  The sun was shining, the birds were doing that bird thing that they do, and my eyes were barely open.  A Friday, which followed a Thursday night spent between computer screen and television screen at different intervals until half past twelve.  I woke up unprepared to take on even the monotony of the day.  And then, in the midst of my backward and forward shuffling my roommate awoke.  He came out of his room equally blurry eyed and stared at me for a while.  Then he asked me to donate blood. 

His aunt was in the hospital and they needed more blood than she'd already been given.  The hospital did have blood, but they ration it in most cases.  You get a certain amount, but because they have to share with the rest of their present and potential patients, they can only give you so much.  They don't get paid for it Unless, that is, someone decides to replenish the stock with a donation.  This was what Alexis was asking me to do.

People around here aren't in the habit of giving blood.   I don' t know if they're afraid of the needle, of the tests, or of the nurses.  Maybe they think they haven't got a pint to spare.   And that's all you have to give.  A pint.  Many Belizeans today who are in the prime donor group, the healthy, able-bodied young men and women, can't quite conceptualize what a pint is.  They see it as some amorphous amount that they might need, just in case they have to balance their humors or accidentally swallow some poisonous love apples.  In reality, we have a very clear reference for how puny a pint is.  Its a coke.  You're taking thirty minutes out of your day to donate a coke.  And it may save someone's life.

Mind you, I knew all of this in advance, but that didn't stop me from being more than a little nervous.  i was in auto pilot driving up to the hospital.  My body was going through the motions of pulling up, finding parking, listening to the last few bars in whatever was on the radio while I rolled up the windows.  All the while I was thinking 'Really?  Is this really happening?  I'm really gonna do this?"  I tried to play it cool, walking through the corridors of the hospital, saying good afternoon to everyone I went by.  All the while I was thinking of reasons to stop.  To turn back.  To just go have lunch and later tell my roommate 'Yeah, I went by.  We're good to go.'

I walked by a lady, old and wrinkled and perpetually frowning.  She had her hands on her lips as if she were holding them shut, as if any moment now she'd start screaming in pain.  'Good Afternoon.' I said, and I thought of my roomie's Aunt.  I'd never met her, had only heard about her the weekend before this for the very first time. 

I went by a duo of girls more lazing than waiting.  They were wearing...lets call it casual clothing.  One of them folded her legs as she saw me coming.  The other one was reclined on a wooden bench.  In a spaghetti strap tank top.  I tried my best to let my eyes go to her eyes and not her c-cups when I said "Good afternoon."  They both smiled knowingly.  I wondered, after I'd gone past them, what they were here for.  Why were they waiting outside a doctor or nurse's office?  I wondered how long it had really been since my last Aids test and my mind went to the same thought I'd had at my first Aids test, and every test after that, actually.  What if I had something.  I thought I was healthy, felt healthy but...what if?

Maybe I'll have a nice nurse, I thought.  Someone that could keep me distracted.  Maybe Id get turned down or turned away.  That, somehow, seemed even worse than not going at all.  When I finally got to the little room there was someone sitting in an odd sort of recliner, eating out of a Styrofoam container.  I told him I was here to donate blood and he hopped up out of the seat, brushed it off, and told me to sit down.  The nurse that he called to attend to me must have been younger than I am.  "Twenty...three." I'd guessed later.  They all laughed.  The young man I saw before, A volunteer named Bryan, said "Tell the truth, you said that because of her shoes, right?"  She was wearing these round toed flats with a thin buckle strap.  The kind my little sister used to wear in primary school.  And pink cotton socks with puppies on them. 

So, she wasn't the bombshell nurse I was expecting, but she did a really good job of making me feel comfortable.  We ran through the questions fairly quickly.  Simple questions like when was my last meal, had I ever given blood before.  Yadda Yadda.  She took a test sample first, giving me a stress ball to squeeze until my vein protruded slightly.  Of course, I only saw a stress ball and heard my own heart and started squeezing maniacally.  So concerned was I that I didn't even notice when she slid the needle in.  I just caught a sudden flash of red in the corner of my eye and suddenly she was filling a small vial with my blood.

Moment later she told me some aspect of my blood that I can't remember now, but she did break it down to me in Layman's terms.   "You're juicy, but not too juicy.  You're just juicy enough."  I smiled at the metaphor.  She laughed at her own joke.

Then she brought out a larger needle, loomed over my vein and said "Just relax."  of course I immediately tensed ever muscle in my body, including certain unmentionable orifices.  She pulled the needle back again, saying 'Seriously, if you don't relax I might mis the vein, then I have to stick you again."  This made me tense up once again, and laugh nervously.  She took a step back, showing me an even, unimpressed face.  I sighed, relaxed my arm, and closed my eyes.

There was pressure against my arm.  I was waiting for her to break the skin, waiting for the sudden pinch.  i was telling myself that I could take it.  I played sports.  I've fallen and scraped skin away from my own flesh.  I've banged my knees and shins into nearly every hard surface imaginable.  I've been hit in the teeth and eyes and nose more times than I'd ever care to.  Every time that pain lasted longer than this one fleeting moment would.  if I could take all that, then I can be a man for this.  And I wanted to see it.  Wanted to look at it in my flesh before she hid everything under a band aid.

But that pressure was the needle.  When I opened my eyes it was because she was adhering sticky, cold band aids on my skin.

"That's it?" I asked.
"Of course not." She answered, and showed me a flat square of plastic attached to a hose, attached to my arms.  The blood was creeping through it all.  "We'll see how long it takes you to fill the bag", she said.

In the meantime we talked.  It was the Taiwanese intern who's name sounded close enough to Susan; Bryan, the volunteer; And Rachel, the nurse, who'd been a nurse at the Western Regional Hospital for as long as I've been living in Belmopan.

"So you're not twenty three?" I asked.  She smiled and said "Nope" in a way that let me know that's all she planned to say on the matter.  I asked how many times a day they had to do this.  It seemed like it was routine for them, but they also seemed pretty relaxed, like they had all the time in the world.  "Every so often" She said.  "Usually when there's an accident or someone's sick."  I remembered that she had indeed asked who I'd be donating to.  For a second I thought she'd be wheeling the woman in and hooking us up to some fluid transfer do-dad.   That didn't happen.  A lot of the time, in fact, the blood wouldn't go directly to the receiver.  "Well we have to screen it first, obviously" she said.  "Your blood, along with the sample I took earlier, goes to Belize City.  They do the testing and the storing and everything else, and they send extra blood here to give to the receiver.  Sometimes we get low on a specific type.  That's the only reason we'd ask for a specific blood type."

I wanted to ask more.  I wanted to find out about her wildest story.  Had anyone ever completely lost it at the sight of their own blood?  What was her most difficult donor like?  Why did she become a nurse?  Why was Bryan here just as a volunteer?  No one volunteers in such a specialized area for no reason at all.  For some reason I'd gotten into a storytelling mood, I wanted to know more so that I could share it.  Rachel had just finished telling me about the journey my blood was going to make, and that I could come back in a couple weeks to find out the results of the screening, when she looked over and her eyebrows raised.

"Wow, you already"  She said, and came over, going through the process of tying off the IV holding up the now distended plastic bag.  She must have seen the amazement in my face because she let me hold it.  I was too busy marveling at the deep, dark red  cushion of blood in my hand to watch her slide the needle out of my arm and fix a cotton ball to the hole, then a band aid. "Hold your arm like this for a while" she said, bending my arm at the elbow.  I looked down, surprised to see she'd finished up already.  "Damn your good"  I said.  She smiled and took the pouch stuffed with my blood from me.

"Go get lunch."  She advised.  "Usually we'd give you a cookie or something, but we're all out."
"I knew this was too good to be true."  I said jokingly.  I said good bye to my new twenty minute friends, relieved.  Not bad, this giving blood business.  I  might try it again some day.