Come Dancing

(Way Cooler Big Sister sandwiched between a Hurshman and Greener)

Come Dancing

It’s fortunate that I didn’t learn the art of making friends from Way Cooler Big Sister, but, I’ll get to that in a minute. When I was nine years old, she was nineteen. This meant she was finally able to enter the bars legally to see Rock Star Brother’s band play. Being legal didn’t prevent her from going before she turned nineteen. In those days, she just grabbed her best bud, a guitar case, and strutted her feathered bangs in alongside Rock Star Brother’s swanky shoulder pads. I envied her more than I can describe. I wanted so badly to go with them. I’d go to sleep and wish when I woke up I was of age, so I could hang with them, like a grown-up instead of just being the lonely pipsqueak who stayed up all hours of the night just to hear all their stories of the exciting nightlife, pulsing somewhere beyond the thick trees of Cow Bay. They’d come home reeking of wine coolers, cigarette smoke, and adventure. The first hint of their returning home, taxi headlights in the drive, the late-night laughter coming up the side steps snapped me wide awake, all the sand from the Sandman rubbed from my innocent eyes, sitting with the bedside lamps on, waiting for them to pour through our shared bedroom door to regale me with tall tales of the evenings events. I hung on their every word, aching to be older, in the circle, somewhere in the center, right where they all were, in the thick, instead of living vicariously.

Way Cooler Big Sister’s lifelong friend and crazy sidekick, Greener, would keep me up until dawn hooting and hollering. It’s a good thing that our bedroom was in the basement, Brother Bear’s old room where his epic stereo and gruff growl once lived, or else they/we’d have had the whole house awake. Greener’s laugh, more a cackle, it boomed and echoed. If my Mother heard it, she didn’t say anything, but then again, when she was down for the count, logs were sawing.

This one night, as told by the Terrible Two, they were ravenous after copious amounts of Ten Penny beers. Way Cooler Big Sister ducked into a pizza joint a stone’s throw from the bar, and bought a full size pizza. She doled out slices of the pie to the band which left two left, one for her, and one for Greener. Greener, sitting on the bench just inside the side door, was busy flapping her lips. She had her hand out for her slice but wasn’t paying attention to Way Cooler Big Sister handing it over. It fell from Way Cooler Big Sister’s hand and landed cheese side down on the greasy van floor. Greener, still deep in conversation, didn’t notice that Way Cooler Big Sister picked it up, wiped off some of the gunk that may or may not have stuck to the greasy goodness, and put it in her hand. Greener, oblivious, none-the-wiser, chowed down. It wasn’t until that night in our basement bedroom, the same one that once housed Brother Bear’s most excellent music collection, after the pizza was partially digested, Way Cooler Big Sister confessed to dropping it on the floor and let her eat it anyway. Greener’s reaction was an ear-splitting, “Ohhhhh my GOD, Kellllly!” Way Cooler Big Sister erupted in gut-busting laughter. That jolted my Mother who pounded her heel on the floor above and bellared for them to settle down. That only made them laugh more. I was in acquitted awe.

Most of their stories, or the ones I remember most vividly, and the ones Way Cooler Big Sister and Greener would often reminisce about, revolved around food. Another similar story came from a night they arrived home late from some bar in the wild. After a night of drinking, dancing, and minor damnation, they were famished. Greener, was chilling with the radio on in our room, sideways from hooch. Way Cooler Big Sister asked me to come up to the kitchen with her to help her make food and carry it downstairs. Obviously, I was agreeable. Anything to be in the fray. I poured them each tall glasses of chocolate milk while put together two fried egg sandwiches. Way Cooler Big Sister, half sideways herself, kept laughing at them in the frying pan, “Look at them, they look like two deep fried tits and big yellow nipples!” I’m sure my face turned ten shades of red. I stood guard until she plunked the rubberish eggs inside fresh white buttered bread, “You carry down the milk and I’ll carry the plates.” I went on ahead slow to steady the frothy milk. She followed behind in a bit more of a hurry and lost her balance a few steps down the two million that led downstairs. In her topsy-turvy state, the plate in her ‘Breakfast in America’ pose, stacked with both sandwiches, teeters. The top one drops to floor, one piece of bread flies and the deep fried tit hit the striped stair carpet. We had a cat and a dog then, so you can imagine what that rubber boob looked like when she picked it up and tossed it back between its bread. She was laughing her fool head off, “I ain’t making another one! Shhh don’t tell Greener!” Better her than me I thought. Poor Greener. We made it downstairs in one piece, me with the sloshing milk, Way Cooler Big Sister with something akin to food. She passed the blasphemous top sandwich to her supposed best friend who was so hungry I’m not even sure she tasted it, in fact, she may have swallowed whole. Once she finished it, Way Cooler Big Sister exploded in a fit of giggles. Greener gave her one of those beady side-eyed ‘whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout Willis’ looks. That made Way Cooler Big Sister laugh harder. What do you want to make a bet my Mother’s heel met the floor above when she revealed the truth, that her fried egg sandwich’s condiment was cat dander? Never a dull moment with those two.

Now, can you see why I’d never take cues from her when it came to the art of friendship? I kid. Despite the fact that they tortured each other on a regular basis, they had each other’s backs. Thick and thin. And boy, for the two of them, there was a lot of thin. In it all, furry food, rip-snorting fights, and everything in between, the friendship lasted a lifetime. That’s something to emulate. I may not feed my friends spoiled wares but I put my heart and soul into caring for them, standing shoulder to shoulder, being a shoulder, shouldering their burdens, and loving the snot out of them. That is what I culled from Way Cooler Big Sister and Greener’s union. Ride or die. Even in death. It rings true.

The day came when it was my turn to carry guitar cases and dance until the sun came up. My turn to venture out beyond the suburbs and taste life. And, Way Cooler Big Sister, while she’d accompany me sometimes, there were many a time she didn’t, and in a reversal of roles, she’d wait up for me to hear the goings on. I made a point of making my own snacks though!

‘Come Dancing’ by The Kinks is one of my all-time favorite songs from back in our video-obsessed youth. Way Cooler Big Sister and I loved the video, and, in many ways, the meaning paralleled our life. The video, set in pre-rock music-halls days, is about how through the passing of time, things and people change, yet, certain things remain the same. We may have grown up and in lean ways, grew apart, but there was always love and music and laughter and friendship. Regardless of the trials, the bond was intact. Until she took her last breath.

***

I sat for a good while this evening writing this small piece of creative non-fiction for my little project, enjoying the memories of my dearly departed sister and a friend she’s had her whole life, who is like my other crazy sister. I’d been thinking of these little stories but couldn’t get the first line out for the life of me. Mom said something in passing and it sparked, so I sat down to write. I was almost finished when I received a message that Greener requires all of our good thoughts and positive vibes tonight into the coming days. It brought tears to my eyes, to think of her and Kelly the way they were when I was young, and know she’s in a delicate way. Maybe the Universe felt it important work tonight?

If you’ve got a spare prayer, please pay it forward to the consumer of furry food. I know she’d appreciate it. With all her heart.

In propinquity,

Nic

Sleep with One Eye Open (A Splice)

Sleep with One Eye Open

I had a small Gaggle of girlfriends in elementary school who stuck throughout much of junior high. Through growing pains, birthday parties, awkward school photos, pimples, perms, cafeteria lunches, crushes, school dances, even the big hair/hammer pants phases. Perhaps we were nerds of epic proportions in our own individual rights, but we were ‘Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants’ cool. The kind of cool like JH who choreographs a dance routine with you to Stacey Q’s ‘Two of Heart’ and then climbs on a stage to perform it while lip-syncing it in front of the whole student body for the talent show. We were all very different, but we stuck together like glue for a short period of time. I mean, because of them, I graduated to that kind of cool. Prior to having friends like them, I was the hermit with the headphones, poking protruding frog bellies in ponds, running through the woods without a care in the world about my hair, about make-up, or boys. And, to be honest, I still don’t think I care about boys. Such as they are.

One Saturday night, many moons ago, the Gaggle got together for a sleepover. Father Mine took me to Chickens (aka Lloyd’s Supermarket) so I could gather treats for my pals and rent a movie from the video store. I arrived at SM’s house with my pillow, a blanket, toothbrush, and pajamas in a big black garbage bag and joined them in her rec-room. I was the last to arrive but was greeted with cheer since I held all the provisions and our evening’s shenanigans. SM’s parents ordered us pizza. We each sat on our makeshift beds with giant pizza wedges flopped on paper plates gabbing about everything and nothing. Those were the things that made sleepovers great. Making your bed on the floor next to your best buds. The camaraderie, the ease. Well, for the most part. I don’t know about them but as a kid with a poop problem, I was also a pre-teen/teen with one too. I prayed to be constipated until my arse got home and met my own toilet seat again.

So yeah, pizza, monkeyshines, girl talk, music, dancing, and then finally it was time to curl up with our movie. When asked what I rented, I knelt up gleefully, produced the clunky black VHS case and said, “Feast your eyes on this! Evil Dead.” Nothing but shrieks and groans from the peanut gallery. CR ceased fishing something stuck in her braces to hide her head under her pillow in protest and let go of a muffled, “Noooooooo!” AS grumbled under her breath that her Mother would kill her if she found out she watched that kind of movie. I had to wait to press play until every one of them emptied their bladders out of fear they’d pee themselves from fright. For a Gaggle of cool gals, they were wusses I thought.

To refresh your memory, ‘Evil Dead’ (now a shagged-out horror trope) was a low-budget wonder of the early 1980s. A group of young people hike to a deep-woods cabin for a weekend getaway where they find an old book, ‘Necronomicon’, whose text reawakens the dead when read aloud. And, guess what, they read it aloud! Inadvertently releasing a flood of evil. If I remember it correctly, the single girl, maybe even the fifth wheel of the group is the one violently pillaged by the insidious trees. When her friends realize she’s three sheets to the evil, they lock her down in the cellar and chain the hatch door. Afterward, horrors abound. And continually, near shits, giggles, and gross-outs permeated the dank rec-room. I traumatized my pals. And, even though I didn’t admit so, I distressed myself. I played like I was unaffected, an Oscar-winning performance no less. Truth be told, it was a near-cauliflower pants incident. To this day, I still have creeped out flashes of the possessed friend railing against the cellar hatch, opening it enough to stab an exposed ankle with a pencil. I didn’t have any use for erasers anytime soon after that sleepover. My stomach pained like the dickens. I was constipated for days after. LP puked so I guess I wasn’t the worst. CR whimpered in her sleep, and SM ended up sleeping in her own bed, safe and sound under the protection of her own covers. It was a little unfair that the rest of us had to toss and turn enduring the stale stench of well-brought up pepperoni pizza and sour cream and onion chips. I was lucky they still loved me the next day. I mean, I think they did. I hope.

Speaking of scary movies, Rock Star Brother brought me to the brink of sheer terror twice in my young life. The first was when he made me watch the 1979 film adaptation of Poe’s ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’. I remember it like it was yesterday. Our living-room was pitch black except for the eerie TV glow and the smolder of dying flames in our fireplace. I was wearing a new nightgown, fleecy white with a frilly collar, laced up in the front with bright red silk. Rock Star Brother and Most Beautiful Girlfriend were snuggled up on the chesterfield. I was sitting, quite literally petrified, in the rocking chair that was not rocking unless you counted my extreme trembling after witnessing Marlene Usher’s crazed white hair. I can’t say what it was about her demented appearance exactly that crippled me with fear. I pretended not to be scared in front of the Royal Couple but when I went to bed, I was sure she was slinking down our hallway, the shadow of her wild hair growing bigger and bigger with each tiptoe. I let out a scream in the dark that sent my Mother running in, “Lord Moses, child! What’s the matter!?” I told her Madeline Usher was in the hallway and was coming to get me. She sighed, “You’re going to curdle my blood into a Jesus clot! My kidneys are too close to my eyes for this!” She told me no more scary movies with Rock Star Brother and scolded him for letting me watch in the first place. I could hear him chuckling all the way in in my room.

Of course, Rock Star Brother was a bit of a rebel and didn’t heed our Mother’s warning. It wasn’t long after that he sat me down with a cold glass of chocolate milk, a bowl of popcorn, pulled the TV in the basement inches away from the downstairs chesterfield and fired up the ‘The Exorcist’. I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I agreed to his suggestion of snacks and a movie. No idea. There, in the darkness of the bottom level of our house, I watched an innocent girl take on a Demon that made her snarl and spit and growl and levitate and stab herself in the bird with a crucifix. I almost cried when she spewed, “Your mother sucks cocks in helllll …” I looked at Rock Star Brother, wide-eyed and mortified, “What the HECK did she say!? Sucks a what!?” I was aghast, scared stiff, certifiably horror-struck; all Rock Star Brother could do was laugh. Looking back now, it is as plain as the nose on my face, his goal was to scare the living hell out of me. Also, I spilled half of my chocolate milk on my housecoat so there’s that. It didn’t help that he had the volume turned alllll the way up. He had rock ‘n’ roll ears even back then and he was just as much of a spring chicken as I was. It might be one of the greatest horror films of all time but even to this day, after ‘Insidious’ and ‘The Strangers’, the possession of Linda Blair and the subsequent exorcism still chills me deep in my bones. As an adult, I’d see it on the TV grid while channel surfing and consider it a defiant act to dare turn it on for the quick fright I knew would come. No one wished more than me, even now, that I could be just as oblivious of her possession as she was in the end.

The power of Christ compels you …

***

Another wee bit for my creative non-fiction project. I really wish I had time each day to sit and write a little bit on it. I guess I do, I just have to make sure I make the time. It's been hard of late, but I should be better, for art's sake. Right? Maybe I'll write tonight before bed instead of reading. Although, reading is helping me sleep now that a small bout of insomnia has set in. 

Until the next installment! 

In propinquity,

Nic

In The Wreckage

In the Wreckage

in

the wreckage

 of poetry

heeding music made

too loud

too lurid

sentences me to ruinous

tumult

***

Been a little obsessed with tiny poems of late. I appreciate their punch, the brevity, and their form. So much fun.

In propinquity,

Nic

He Knows

He Knows

on a slate grey morning in winter

I sat at the kitchen nook with him

listening to the sound of rustling

paper & the cool intonation of his

bitter insights – I can only offer a

series of rueful laughs

            he knows that he is adored

***

Scribbled a little something down while eating my breakfast today. It’s one of those stolen moments where I pecked without remembering I even did it. I love the feeling of coming out of those little creative hazes to discover a verse or a paragraph or a story before me. Nothing like it.

In propinquity,

Nic

Some Nights

Some Nights

some

nights

you dance

w/ tears in your

eyes

***

My bud came around with a little prompt for me. A one-lined poem. I got fancy and formed it like a poem but it’s basically one little line, standing alone, like the Cheese. A small but mighty writing exercise and outcome. At least it was for me.

In propinquity,

Nic

forgot, forgotten.

forgot, forgotten.

as soon as  

I realized you were lost (to me)

it was too late to fill the blazing void

that dun-colored morning you arranged a

quick departure across a soft sea of clouds

to the home of neon avenues & rolling hills

my eyes brimmed with tears

my heart mourned

as soon as

I found myself looking in from the outside

barred by a great wall of shielding shadows

grievous fair-haired obstacles posing as stern

substitutes for inspiration

            ingenious social butterflies who know

better than you or I (supposedly) – I understood

light no longer inhabits the stone &   

                                                from such darkness

I must survive the sun alone

***

My bud who sends me excellent writing prompts was on an internet hiatus. They went off the grid to travel and write and live and breathe. What a miraculous thing, yes?! I can’t say I’m not envious. That said, I woke this morning to this imagine in my email, a photo prompt. The words came fast. You should have seen the typos in my phone!

Another poem written always makes me feel good, especially since I’ve hit a brick wall with my project. I finished a creative non-fiction piece the other day and quickly started another, true to form with this ‘Family Ties’ project – but when I attempted to work on it. My head was empty. I don’t know what happened. Just suddenly, stuck. And with so much today. This prompt was timely. I likely won’t see another for awhile again but today I made something so yay me.

In propinquity,

Nic

Golden Earring

Golden Earring (A Flashback)

There were many a time I could have easily given my Mother stroke when I was a youngster. It’s bad enough that I lied to beloved nuns about her giving birth to a phantom baby that kept us up all night or that I ran amok half naked all over the neighborhood (and by neighborhood I mean our sprawling front and back yard, maybe through the wooded path) but the day I got my ears pierced was what you might call a humdinger.

It was one of those glorious sunny summer days where me and my Mother piled into the car with First Niece buckled safely in the backseat and First Sister ‘n’ Law, otherwise known as Lead Foot, at the rudder. First Sister ‘n’ Law’s driving style = bat out of hell. My poor Mother, who has never developed a stomach for rapidity, always held on for dear life, her own feet practically pushing right through the floor. It may as well have been a Flintstone car! We four were out and about doing the traditional weekly errands – groceries at the Capitol on Portland Street (which always meant a new Archie comic for yours truly), Pop Shoppe refills in behind Penhorn Mall (which was always a coo because I got to pick out the flavors once my Mother’s colas were acquired and secured in the take-home crate), a quick lunch (probably at the Wooclo lunch counter with an orange Jell-O and a dollop of whipped cream for dessert), and then we hauled ass to Cole Harbour. First Niece had an appointment to get her ears pierced. Something her little heart begged for until Bookend Brother and First Sister ‘n’ Law grew tired of her nagging and relented.

My Mother opted to stay in the car for a rest and a cigarette while we three were in the salon. First Niece skipped through the front door and proudly announced she was there to get her ears pierced. The Very Nice Lady welcomed us and led First Niece to her station where she climbed up into the big chair, into the kiddie booster seat, and steadied herself while the strong scent of barbicide and hairspray invaded my airway.  The Very Nice Lady let First Niece pick out which pair of studs she wanted. Easy peasy. The Very Nice Lady, for lack of a better phrase, loaded her gun while she imparted easy cleaning techniques to First Sister ‘n’ Law. First Niece sat patiently waiting while the adults above her talked amongst themselves. I watched her carefully watching the gun. I had a feeling in my gut. It wasn’t the Jell-O. You just know when something is about to go awry. Even at that age, my instincts were razor sharp. And then, the shit hitteth the fan. The Very Nice Lady pointed her weird gun at First Niece’s left lobe and pulled the trigger. The caterwauling that ensued set First Sister ‘n’ Law sideways. First Niece went into full meltdown mode. First Sister ‘n’ Law lost her marbles. I watched the whole frenzied scene in disbelief. First Niece held onto her face like she’d been shot JFK style, flat out scream-refusing to get the other ear done. First Sister ‘n’ Law’s voice went up higher than my Alvin and the Chipmunks record. She was that exasperated at First Niece’s revolt she stormed out of the salon, got in the car, slammed the door, and cried to my Mother about how unhinged her child was. So yeah, it was just me, First Niece who writhed and wailed worse than Linda Blair in the ‘Exorcist’, and The Very Nice Lady who hadn’t moved a muscle or taken a breath since she shot the pretty gold jewelry into my kin. She attempted to try and convince First Niece to brave the other ear now that her Mother had gone outside. First Niece wasn’t having any of it. She sassed The Very Nice Lady in such a way her mouth should have been washed out with soap. And, that’s where I come in. To save the day. I made my way to stand in front of First Niece and gently consoled her. I told her that everything would be okay and that one more ear and she’d be done. She pouted and folded her arms tight up under her chin like a defensive pretzel, “I am NOT doing it! I won’t!” Sigh. She was stubborn nut to crack. I had to think quick on my feet. “How about if I get mine done and to show you that it’s not so bad?” Her face softened, she nodded. I lifted her down from the chair and sat in. The Very Nice Lady, grateful for my interception, showed me all the pretty gold studs. I picked out my birthstone, turquoise for December. She loaded her gun and took aim at my ear. First Niece stood close holding my hand. I jumped a tiny bit in the chair when The Very Nice Lady pulled the trigger. First Niece squeezed my hand in terror. It hurt like a mother but instead of reacting I smiled down to her, “One ear down, one more to go! And when you get your other ear done, we’ll match!” I saw her eye twinkle through her tears. She nodded. The Very Nice Lady shot me on the other side, and I was done. I didn’t bat an eye even though I wanted to curse a blue streak. It was enough for First Niece to get back up in the chair to brave the other ear, “Hold my hand!” I held her hand until both of her ears were successfully pieced. At that exact moment, a much calmer First Sister ‘n’ Law re-entered the salon. First Niece ran over to her and proudly displayed both ears. It was jubilant news to her ears. First Sister ‘n’ Law was taken to the cash to pay but didn’t have enough money with her to pay for mine. I ran out to the car, sidled up to my Mother in the passenger seat, exposed my ears, “I got my ears pierced!” Consider for a moment that she had just spent all that time trying to calm First Sister ‘n’ Law down, who was in bat shit hysterics, only to have me waltz up, hand out, looking for money she didn’t have to pay for my ingenuity, “Jeeeeeesus Christ, child! I don’t have money for this today! Suffering Moses!” She rifled through her purse and came up with the amount after scrounging for the change. I didn’t want my ears pierced, there was no plan or desire, but my word, someone had to take control of the situation.

First Niece and I had another similar experience when we were a little older. There was a meningitis outbreak. There was a mandatory vaccination taking place at my high school. First Sister ‘n’ Law, aka Lead Foot, sped us there for our needles. I am not a fan of needles. I wasn’t then, I’m not now. While lined up in the gymnasium, First Niece knotted her arms up like that same kind of pretzel lamenting she didn’t think she could go through with it. First Sister ‘n’ Law told her not to be so foolish and that a needle prick was worth not getting sick and dying. On cue, I volunteered to go first to show her it was no big thing. She entered the triage tent area with me. I sat dutifully on a metal stool, rolled up my sleeve, and smiled at her. She half smiled back even though she was quaking in her converse. The nurse manning our station had stepped out before I sat down so when she bound in, a large German woman in white, I was a little taken aback. She was stern and silent when I sheepishly mentioned I was little afraid of needles. She ignored my comment, snapped on rubber gloves, loaded up the vaccine and aimed toward my bicep. I took a deep breath and flashed a fake brave smile at First Niece who was ashen watching me. Nazi Nurse, instead of moderately injecting me like a sane health professional, jabbed me instead like a serial kille. Blood spurted everywhere from my arm, a violent spray that soiled her uniform and sullied the floor. First Niece shrieked. The sound that came out of her flashed me right back to the salon.

Jeeeeeesus Christ.

***

I’ve been thinking of these little memories for some time, so I thought it was time to write it down. A nice addition to the creative non-fiction project.

In propinquity,

Nic