Theme 10: Nothing Better To Do

I felt as if someone was following me and convinced myself otherwise. A knock on the door told me I should have trusted my instincts. I ascending up the stairs misplacing my trust again;  in public service and the fact that I did nothing wrong.

The stranger in the doorway barrages me with questions. I do as I am told and answer them as truthfully. Honesty was not the best policy. Note: I ask what I am being questioned for, at my home, and receive no answer.

The cold of the pavement on my bare feet is startling. So are the screaming headlights of the running car and the tears streaming down my face. A concerned crowd gathers at the window inside the yellow house and seeing them makes me cry. I try my best to cooperate nonetheless. Someone tells me not to call me sir because he “is only a few years older” than me, as we ride into the night. 

The two of us are alone in a cold concrete office/ parking garage. I take a deep, deep breath and blow into a plastic tube connected to a big gray computer. I’m tortured by the forty minute wait.

As the cold metal bracelets are taken off my wrists, I’m told that eating starches soaks up alcohol, which is something I already knew. I don’t have as much of a warning to return with. My parting gifts: bad memories and broken faith.

Doesn't matter where you begin, you'll end up back here.

A newly-turned twenty one year old girl was lying on my massage table, at Harrah’s Casino. I’ve probably seen a million celebratory young women like her and will see many more.  They all do the same things: walk down the strip with those big plastic souvenir cups temporarily filled with frozen daiquiris and go to the clubs at night. I must know this because I like to make small talk with my clients, while they are trying to relax, throughout their entire massage.

Even though this girl had told me that she was having a wonderful time celebrating her milestone with her family, when she mentioned her aspirations to move to California I couldn’t help but give her my two cents. It was my place, after all, being a complete stranger to give her words of wisdom.

She patiently listened as I told her that I too once had dreams of moving to the Golden State. I never told her where I was from, probably New York or New Jersey, but I did tell her how I regrettably settled down here in Las Vegas. I didn’t give her any specifics as to why I never tried to move out there but I did tell her about my unplanned pregnancy that stopped me from ever trying.

I’m miserable here and hopefully I discouraged this young girl from trying to find happiness and follow her dreams. She should listen to me, after all, I am a licensed therapist.

You write a story which ends with the words, "...and then I woke up and it was only a dream." And then you wake up.

There was raining pouring through the gaps of the white and yellow tents.

There was a square-one layer grocery store specialty made cake. I didn’t bother to read what was transcribed on the culinary masterpiece.

There was no floor. There were rented chair covers that were getting soiled from the mud. There were to women getting their heels stuck in mud, trying to get to their seats.

Flash to an older gentlemen in a classic black and white tuxedo. With a fog machine. And a strobe light. There were cheesy 80’s rock ballads.

There was a very formal boyfriend in a white tuxedo and I tell him that I can’t. Not like this. There were sighs of relief.

There were two people, very underdressed, on their own special day. There were favorite old tee shirts and jeans. “Is this the worst wedding you’ve ever been to or what?!” There was laughter.

Then I opened my eyes.

The pin pricks your skin. You feel nothing.

You sit and you wait. There are too many people in this room, waiting for the same thing: to get stabbed or get their results. The hot breath, belonging to the stranger to your right, on your neck makes you almost vomit. That and the thought you can’t help but replay over and over again. It’s always the same small talk, then the latex gloves come on and then it happens again.

The voodoo doll impatiently squirms around in the chair. Thinking it wouldn’t take anytime at all, she brings her lunch guests. She’s not alone for the first time. She feels thankful, scared and a little ashamed. “We can’t get anything from your arms, so we have to use the veins in your hands”. Everyone turns away but her. This time she watches, not knowing that this would be the final time. The usual pinching sensation is much more severer but she remains brave. White and red blood cells filter out and days later will give her the answer that she wanted.

Once we’re in the parking lot I pull out the half piece of orange paper I brought with me.

“Draw as many as you can and I’ll pick one.”

“But I don’t have a pen?”

“I got it.”

I shuffle the things living in my purse around until I find a marker. He draws several hearts and I circle the worst looking one. It’s uneven and far from perfect but it’s exactly what I want and everything I needed. We walk in; tell the coloring page of a man what I want and he gets the needles ready. The walking art gallery has me lay down and the pain begins. I choose for this pinching sensation and I love it.

Now it’s all over. Now she’s got a choice. The voodoo doll can choose who, what, when, where and how. At least for now.