Nightshift

Nightshift

            Everyone who knows me is well aware of the fact that I’m basically afraid of my own shadow so imagine the shock and awe inspired when I announced to my small circle of friends and family that I took on a seasonal gig as a ‘haunted house actor’.  Mother said: “Now Nomi Rickles, why would you go and do something so foolish? Silly girl. I know you’re saving for a camera but this job is not a good fit for you, darling.” Best friend #1 said: “Are you fucking kidding me?! You’ll have nightmares for LIFE!” Best friend #2 said: “Ten bucks says you won’t last day. You’ll be a haunted house drop-out.” Best friend #3 said: “No way! That’s SO cool. Can you get us free tickets!?” I expected my mother to be aghast; I was frightful out of the womb. As for my friends, obviously I got them tickets and they had a spooktacular tour through ‘Murder Hall’.

            My first night on the job some poor schmuck wearing a bloody pig mask in the kitchen scene got kicked in the balls repeatedly by a soccer Mom he scared the bejesus out of. He popped up in front of her and let out an earsplitting high-pitched squeal and her knee mashed his junk black and blue. The whole premise of these haunted house things is prey on people’s worst fears and phobias, soccer Mom had a severe aversion to swine I guess. Needless to say that guy never did come back to work.  They did warn me that their employees often bore the physical brunt of the resulting terrors, an occupational hazard, “We’ve seen some of the toughest looking guys shrink into weeping children when confronted by their worst fears. Some of them even shit their pants.” My only hope was someone didn’t have a heart attack in front of me. So far, no one has. Well, almost.

            I was the last one hired so I got to go through the house to experience it for myself before suiting up. I wandered through behind a gaggle of cheerleader types which was a mistake because they screamed just for the sake of it at least until we reached the dining room. One of my soon-to-be co-workers acted as a severed head, a mangled center piece for a ghastly last supper in the middle of a long planked dining table. One of the cheerers, giggling, sidled up to the table and leaned close to the plated face, “She like looks sooo freakin’ real, like oh my God.” The other girls closed in around her shoulder at the table’s edge and foolishly marveled. My soon-to-be co-worker, who looked very much like a twice possessed Linda Blair in ‘The Exorcist’ snapped open her eyes at the same time psychotic strobe lights started flashing and a loud split second blast of death metal sounded. Her eyes were wide and crazed, teeth gory and snapping ravenously, tongue flapping like a demented demon. It petrified the first girl so bad that she toppled the others like dominos. One of them left crying with a sprained pinky finger.

            A few weeks into it the front of house supervisor asked if I’d go survey the line for the tough guys to toy with a little more and those already super terrified so we didn’t mess with them as much. I was disguised in a black reaper cloak mostly to hide my facial characteristics I wear inside. While perusing those queued in line, I felt my heart skip a dangerous beat and the long scar on my back blister at the sight of my childhood nemesis. Brandy Vance once lived three doors down from me in junior high school and was a year older. She tortured the living hell out of me every chance she could and then maimed me. If it hadn’t been for her father coming home early from work with a migraine no one would have witnessed me barricaded in her backyard while she slashed me across the back with a length of barbed wire. Her poor fragile father, beyond horrified at the act, asked her why she would ever do something like that to me. While knelt on the grass sobbing and holding my bleeding flesh, she leered down at me and then over to him, shrugged her shoulders casually and said, “Aw you know Daddy, for shits and giggles.” Fucking bully. They shipped her off to God knows where but I didn’t care because she was gone. I’d hoped forever. I’m pretty sure her parents split up after that and her father had a nervous breakdown. Her witch of a mother still lives three doors down but she keeps to herself. Brandy must be visiting. There she was, in line for ‘Murder Hall’ cozied up to some beefy troglodyte in a too small varsity style jacket. I snuck back into the employee only area with one thing on my mind, revenge.

            I admit that because knowing Brandy Vance was coming through I didn’t elicit the number of bone chilling frights I’d been getting in the days previous. One guy jumped back so hard he dented one of the makeshift walls. I got a bonus for that in the form of a gift card. It’s the only kind of job where you are rewarded for damages incurred. If I’m being honest, ‘Murder Hall’ is just as daunting in broad daylight as it is in the pitch dark. It’s fashioned after a 19^th century decaying mansion that feels more like an creeped out asylum and home of the best startle scares, my room has a two tier terror. The room I work out of is an upstairs bedroom. There’s a fog machine, a cracked mirror and it looks as though the paint is peeling from the walls. Across from an old brass bed with browning linens is a dilapidated bassinette, sort of in the middle of the floor, the focal point in the room. Inside of course is an animatronic demon babe that springs up when someone nears it or attempts to look inside. That’s the first tier. Once the morbid nursling sinks back down into its bed, I step out from the shadows in whatever disguise I choose that day. People think the scare is over and then I emerge from the shadows for tier two. I’m fairly tall and big-boned so my presence tends to loom large in the foggy haze of the darkness and depending on my mood sometimes I’ll drag myself across the floor to grab people’s feet and legs. I am so surprised I haven’t been kicked in the face yet. Because I was out monitoring the line-up awhile I had to rush to get ready and couldn’t find my usual garb which looks a lot like the girl from ‘The Ring’, a pink dress with a long black wig draped over my dead looking make-up’d face. I’m tall and big-boned but flexible so I can contort. It’s how I landed the job in the first place, that and my theatre background. I’m proficient in voices. Instead, I stole an ugly pair of mechanic’s overalls and stuffed a cushion in the chest area to make myself look ominously large, threw on a pair of heavy work boots sitting by the sofa, covered my head in an old gas mask, wound my way to my usual room, and waited. It seemed like a shame I had to cover up a particularly excellent make-up job but in the end, it was more than worth it.

            Throngs of thrill seekers entered my room and the more they poured in the faster my heart pounded. One unfortunate soul landed hard on the floor crying in the fetal position just from the baby. I didn’t have the heart to surface from the shadows and make it worse. I have no balls to mash but there was no way I was getting a beat down before I avenged my own oppressor.

            Brandy Vance and Meat Head entered the room alone, the first after a long lull in traffic. They slopped into the room, giddy and crass, striding over the gaps in the creaking floorboards, the scritch of tree branches scraping at the windows sounded behind long dusty ripped drapes. The sound of her pitchy voice made my mouth go dry and sour. It made me wish I was stationed in the hall closet so I could have pushed her down the old warped staircase and watch her tumble until she was twisted like a pretzel at the bottom. Violet daydream aside, I went into terror mode when Meat Head loomed over the baby. I triggered its rise and he let out a blood curdling scream, “That fucking baby just scratched me!” My favorite parts of the baby’s anatomy are the razor sharp teeth and matching fingernails but they are mere rubber and in no way harmful should a paying customer come in contact with them. Brandy Vance rolled her eyes at her companion, “Yeah, I’m sure. It’s a fucking rubber doll, nitwit.” She reached in and pinched the doll’s hand unaffected. He shook his head, “If you’re going to keep being a bitch like that, I’m out.” Brandy Vance cocked her hip and sucked her teeth in contempt, “There’s the door, asshole.” Meat Head followed her lead and stormed out muttering expletives under his gruff beer addled breath. Somehow the stars aligned. Meat Head abandoned her in my room and the traffic lull persisted. We were alone. I surveyed her from my dark corner while she poked around unfazed. She looked slight and I felt potent. I never thought I’d ever have the upper hand with Brandy Vance but there we were, her prowling around like she’s above it all and me dressed as an unhinged serial killer with a shiny butcher knife prop in my hand.

            Meat Head was long gone and there was no time to waste. Brandy Vance pulled at the tattered curtains and twirled herself around. I stepped antagonistically out of the shadow a mere step behind her. She smelled like stale cigarette smoke and perfume. I inhaled inside of the gas mask and it hissed just at her earlobe. She froze. “Babe, is that you? Babe?” Without thinking, I wrapped my cold gloved hand around the back of her neck and squeezed tight bending her neck leftward. Her body tensed. I teased her jugular with the fake blade of the knife and I growled at her ear, “Tell me why I shouldn’t slit your throat ear to ear … Brandy?” The sound of her name raging out of the mask jolted her. She tried to free herself from my stranglehold but the more she tried the tighter I squeezed. I couldn’t help myself. I felt the slash of the barbed wire flailing against my skin all over again and the urge to snap her like a twig grew stronger, “How do you know my name!? Let me go!” She urged me to set her free, her voice cracking, my heart raced so fast I thought it might lurch out of my chest and punch straight through her back. “See you in Hell, bitch …” The blade grazed her neck. Brandy shrieked so loud her voice gave out. I heard others coming for the door. I shoved her forward by the scruff of the neck. I heard her bare knees crack against the floor. She whimpered and rubbed the back of her neck, “You psychopath! You’re not allowed to touch me! You’re getting fucking fired, asshole!” I was overcome with a conflicting permutation of wrath and euphoria. Rage for her cross my path again and conjuring up the abuse I endured and elation because while I only intended to frighten her when she was in my grasp the desire to really hurt her intensified, payback for the scars she left on me mentally and physically. Before she could get up off the floor, I bound across the room and blew through a large crowd of teenage boys with my knife held high and menacing. I scared them shitless. As powerful as the sensation was, I wasn’t a bully, I wasn’t Brandy Vance. But, it terrified me at how tempting it was to cause harm.

            I rushed to the dressing room area and disrobed in the middle of the shift. I put everything back where I found it and sat in my plain clothes trying to catch my breath, the make-up on my face smudged, my hair matted. The site manager ran in and asked me where Devon was, eyeing his work boots and overalls in plain sight, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him all night. Everything okay?” He threw up his hands exasperated, “No everything is not okay. I’ve got a customer out here claiming he practically strangled her. His ass is grass.”

            Sorry Devon.

***

I started writing this little exercise one evening sitting at Kelly’s bedside. I intended a little something chilling to post for Halloween but I couldn’t get back to it. It’s still needs some work but the draft is here one day shy of one of my favorite holidays.

I didn’t do a thing for Halloween except write this story. I was too sick with a cold yesterday to pass out candy. Zoe did it for me. Bless her heart. Maybe next year Erica and I will dress up and have some fun.

Hope you had fun reading this little tale. I got the idea on my way to work one morning passing by the haunted house thingie at Alderney Landing. This little story evolved in my head and I started pecking at it in bits and pieces. This, aside from a proper edit, is the result, blogged for your review.

In propinquity,

Nic

Careen Serene

Careen Serene

            it’s like riding

a bicycle with no hands

careening serene straight

into the soft manifesto of

a Ballet troupe

plie

tendu

            failli

across a gleaming floor

under entrancing chandeliers

where

an awkward

but sometimes clever

wallflower cowers in a cozy

corner

where three keening voices

compete for free admission

to a much darker disco

            it’s like wishing

the delicate intensity that

brews between dancers was

your own ritual of intimacy

instead of sitting alone with

your legs dangling into an

empty orchestra pit tempted

to pry open the privacies of

strangers as self-sacrifice &

befriend a woman named

            Lucretia

an ample under-study who

will

never

properly pirouette

***

This poem is an elephant. I had fun writing it but can’t make heads or tails of it. I think that’s why I love it so much: an out of the blue mind meld.

All in a day’s work, eh? An attempt to write something creative as a distraction.

In propinquity,

Nic

           

Big Sister

Big Sister

My Big Sister passed away a week ago today. She died on the first anniversary of Gord Downie’s passing at five minutes to one. It was a glowering October afternoon, with sullen clouds twisting perfect autumn colors into a seasonal knot outside of the hospital window.

It’s all a blur. The whole day, the moment life left her, the weeks she spent in hospital while we conferenced with our doctor trying to make sense of what was happening inside of her body and her brain. We didn’t expect this outcome, to lose her. We held on to the hope that we’d finally get some answers and figure out why her body was rebelling against her. Once something started to work, a medication, a treatment, whatever, something else broke down and then she did and before we even had a minute to think, she was gone.

My Big Sister was my first friend. I’m the youngest of six kids and she was next in line, ten years my senior. I learned a lot from her at an early age, first to walk and then in later years to stand on my own two feet and do what I wanted without the worry of what others might think. I wish she had followed her own sound advice. She always worried. And, because she did, she often made mistakes. She protected herself so much that sometimes she missed the good stuff. If only she’d known it was good stuff. But then, she was only human. Aren’t we all.

My Big Sister taught me how to shave my legs. I used to sit in awe of her with her basin and soaps and razors, watching the sharp edge nip the flaxen hairs from her skin, “soft like a baby’s bum” she’d say. As you can imagine, I was nowhere near as graceful as she was the first few times. I had cuts and scrapes to match the ones I’d gotten wiping out on my bicycle. It wasn’t until she taught me how to curl my hair that I’d gotten the hang of it.

My Big Sister was there for me when I was curious about the birds and the bees. She took out a book and read the whole thing to me. I winced and squirmed from looking at the diagrams but she told me with a maternal calm that there was nothing she showed me I’d ever need to be ashamed of, especially when it was time for my period. I got mine when I was in grade 5. It made me so sick I failed the easiest language arts test in the world. I was wearing my favorite pink jeans. I almost passed out. When the school bus let me off at the end of my drive-way I bolted straight into the house, whizzed right by my Mother in search of my Big Sister. She calmed me down and reminded me what I needed to do and where to find the ‘supplies’. This of course was all to Mom’s delight. She never knew quite how to broach the subject of ‘womanhood’ with me.

My Big Sister took me on my first adventure. I grew up surrounded by woods and in Cow Bay. I thought driving just up into Eastern Passage proper for a treat at the store was a big outing but once we moved out of the sticks and into the Passage she took me on the bus all the way to Halifax. It blew my mind. We had a routine: Dairy Queen on the corner of Spring Garden and South Park Street for cheeseburgers, fries and Peanut Buster Parfaits (hold the peanuts – yes, I know, weird), two bookstores, the Black Market, and then to Sam the Record Man on Barrington Street. There we discovered three incredible levels of every genre of music. We fell in love with it all, together. Her early taste leaned toward Bay City Rollers. I thought they were pretty lame compared to my love for the Jackson 5. But, then we discovered Duran Duran; New Romantics with a sound we couldn’t resist, a band with glamorous style and splashy videos and influences that opened up the world to both of us. We quite literally wallpapered our shared room with their posters and pages ripped out of every teen/music magazine you can name. We devoured every tidbit, every clip on TV, every note. We got interested in the fashion world and the art world. My Big Sister was quite enthralled with Warhol as a result of our love for Duran Duran and went on to amass a stunning collection of books and things related to him. Finding Duran Duran was our cultural education. And, it was what cemented our bond even with ten years between us. From there until our adult years, we were thick as thieves. All the trips and concerts and conversations and laughter and collecting – they all shaped me and were some of the happiest days of my young life. I’d give anything to go back and relive one with her.

My Big Sister lost a big part of herself when our Dad died. Despite their often tumultuous relationship, there’s no one on this planet she loved or trusted more. She made us promise, that if something were to happen to her, we had to let her go so she could be with him. We encouraged her in every way we could think of to reconsider. She had always said even before she got sick that she would never want to live in a hospital bed, kept alive by tubes and machines and things. She was an incredibly claustrophobic person but she also said that if she couldn’t live fully and functionally, one hundred percent participating in the world, she’d rather not. It’s a tall order for a woman so young to enact a strict do not resuscitate order. When she landed in hospital back in early September, that very thing kept me awake at night but I convinced myself it’d never come to that.

I lost my Big Sister. Someone or something in the universe out-maneuvered my hope and all the fighting we did for her to try and help her get well. Someone said that God needed her now; he had other work for her to do, important work. I like to believe some version of that is true. I wish I knew. What I do know is that for all of the pain and anguish she endured this past year; especially during her long exasperating stay in a Dartmouth hospital, she slipped away surrounded by love. So much of it that when I think of those who were in the room with me, holding her hand, giving her permission to free herself, it makes me want to curl into a little ball and cry for days. And yet I remember this: it is a privilege to grieve. It is an honour to feel so much heartache, all this hurt because I loved that much. We loved that much.

My Big Sister was there for me at my beginning and I was there for her at her end. I am lucky. I’ll be lost without her, likely for the rest of my life. But there are songs and photographs and memories and people and places and things that will keep her right beside me, inside of me, until some force in the universe sees fit to task me with important work. She’ll save me a seat and show me the ropes. That’s how we roll.

I miss my Big Sister with every fiber of my being. I always will. But, that she was my Big Sister and we shared so much is a gift. It’ll never stop giving.

In propinquity,

Nic

PS – It goes without saying that in the days and weeks and months ahead I’ll be working through this loss in poetry. Once the shock wears off I know the words will come and I welcome them.

11 Pound Novel

11 Pound Novel

in exchange for a peek

at my 11 pound novel

my free-wheeling fiction

& a stack of sepia-toned

still-lifes as prospective

cover art

a rugged tattooed dingbat

sat at my kitchen table to

strum some of the sweetest

strings devoid of the usual

seedy yawps

zigzagged whops of space

prog & sudden swing jazz

he plays for the blacklisted

& alcoholics in dingy dive

bars

it was enough to

make my head spin ‘round

that I near forgot to breathe

            dingbat thumbed his

nose at my chapters as long

as one line of dialogue but

left w/ all of my hit-or-miss

metaphors

hidden inside of his guitar

case

            to use in letters to

his exes

***

And here it is, the early morning clacking for my poetry prompt on this dreadfully inclement and fraught Friday. I was grateful to wake up to a note from my bud this morning, to a little something that helps to keep my head on straight while in this personal season of grueling concern for a loved one whose struggle is becoming quite serious, enough to keep me awake most nights.

The prompt was the poem’s title. I had no idea where it would go, I just wrote. Like a morning page. I also think it’s why I enjoy waking up to prompts because it helps to wipe the noodle clean of any nighttime residual upset. I do find when I write on the way to work and fuss over the crossword puzzle in the back of the newspaper my days tend to evolve in a positive vein.

Writing and music, they both save. They save me. All the time.

In propinquity,

Nic

Dinkytown

Dinkytown

            when all seems lost

I recall another time when I

dressed in vintage t-shirts &

courderoy flares

wore my hair long & straight

& the scent of sandalwood

curled through the air

                        accidental days gone

by

when I wore floral blouses to greasy

spoons for strong coffee w/ a sugar-

coated bare chested bearded man &

a time when I

brazenly turned to the Dylans both

Bob & Thomas

            for mild mischief

when all seems lost

                        time travel is possible

do not go gentle into that Dinkytown …

***

My bud came along with a prompt this morning, Bob Dylan. Ironically, ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ shuffled on while I was deep in thought.  I considered writing a poem about throwing heavily markered cue cards in an alley but that seemed lazy, no? Where this little ditty came from, I’ve no idea except to note the correlation between the two Dylans and a specific time and place I wish I had witnessed.

In propinquity,

Nic

Lone Figure Wandering

Lone Figure Wandering

so this

breezy character

a lone figure wandering

is indeed condescending

trampled over my T-Rex

records & my brittle bones

w/ demands to be indulged

& adored in a tenor that

verges on preachy

            imagine

harrowing chic flashing

a half smile in oppressive

light prowling backstage

through a cluttered green

room in pursuit of a tawdry

interlude

            if I were

to paint it the scene would

be a collection of agitated

brushstrokes or big blots of

ominous tints to aptly depict

            antagonistic intent

simmering tensions rise &

my gaze becomes unmoving

& hard

watching

wrong-headed

sharp cheeks &

teased out tresses blow brass

horns & pluck delicate harps

believing it will elicit a steady

magic but I’ve already heard

the plum notes

played by someone

mesmeric one jet black night

not so long ago

                        it is impossible

to strive for constant

perfection &

not be muzzled by indifference

            if I were

to sit down & write about this in

detail

I’d squeeze out a parable

that’d require your full attention

& alongside

my countless estimations

I          

wouldn’t shy away from saying

those tassels were too distracting

for an equivocal vagrant to be

twirling in everyone’s face but

never mention my own stockings

& pointed shoes

***

Moral?

Here’s a hint, it’s got a little something to do with judgement. 

Take from it what you will, artistic heart.

In propinquity,

Nic

Canters, Fairfax

Canters, Fairfax

            while on a

standing-room-only

city bus stogged with

indolent soaked-coated

sleepwalkers I wobble &

hold on to the unctuous

steel bar, white-knuckled

my shell whacks abruptly

against bulging back-packs

& my knees knock against

some poor schmuck’s knees

preventing him from being

able to do his crossword

in peace    to escape I day-

dream of a late-night hang

at Canters, Fairfax

Los Angeles

from just the week before

waiting on a friend to wind

her way slowly down from

the perfumed and precipitous

Laurel Canyon

I sat alone in a moon-shaped

mid-century booth under the

hue of sputnik lights sipping

pink lemonade deciding what

to order

            I considered thick-cut

steak fries but you can literally

have french-fries anywhere so

I sprung for an order of stuffed

kishka with gravy & a bowl

of mish mosh soup – the giant

matzo ball was impressive but

the serving was a little chintzy

on kreplach

            my ornery orange-haired

waitron mused drolly they have

served over 10 million matzo balls

“LA’s best since 1931”           

she quipped

I made sure to tip her well when

my comrade finally arrived with

a few other Hollywood dolls in toe

all glittery eyed & sunset stripped

to whisk me off to a rock show that

kept us wild & free until the wee

hours of the morning only to land

back at Canters in the same moon-

shaped booth eating

Huevos Rancheros

while on a

standing-room-only

city bus replete with their drooped

shoulders & dripping hoods

            I dolefully hanker for

my feet to trace the Venice Beach

canals, squiggle on the back of

postcards addressed to the envious

banter with the Rainbow-ed elite

& fall asleep listening to the Pacific

splashing & the seagulls sing

            instead

the hiss of wet brakes & a collective

sigh

***

I’ve been working on this poem for several days. It’s dedicated to those dear few who frequent and belong in the air of Los Angeles. I hope to one day inhale it with them. For now, a poem.

In propinquity,

Nic