by mcdavis3
“I gotta go get ready, remember, tomorrow night.” He gathers his things and starts to leave before turning back once again. “Seriously it’s gonna be awesome, I’m gonna knock on the cute girls door down the street and invite them. Everyone’s going.”
“I’ll try and make it,” I lie compassionately.
After Corky leaves I turn to Mia. “You should write a book Mia, about the… What did they used to call you guys?”
“The musketeers.” She says. Why can’t I remember that? I smoked myself dumb. You’re not dumb, Marco, people forget stuff. Just yesterday you remembered the name of that song when no one else could. You’re really smart. Relying on the internet has probably made your memory lazier than anything else. Plus, the brain is constantly producing new brain cells, even into your 90’s. Oo, that’s a good one.
Feeling like I just solved a puzzle I subtly reach my hand over my shoulder and lightly pat myself on the neck. Good job. I imagine striking a big blow to the cranky gremlin living in my brain. I imagine a white knight cutting off his head. I imagine him getting smaller and smaller.
“Ya. God, could you imagine how great that’d be?”
She laughs, “I don’t remember any of it.” That’s what I keep hearing over and over again. I’m tired of hearing it, the exact same thing. From all the legends. She says it with the same stunned vacant look they all say it with.
“We used to get so drunk and go to assemblies, it was so wild...” She begins, and then pauses in thought. “..I just don’t remember any of it. We didn’t even take enough pictures.” I imagine if Mia had kept a diary, how much it would be worth.
“Do you have any regrets?” I ask her, old soul to old soul.
“I don’t regret shit,” She snaps. Just when you think she’s deep down really sweet, Mia’s sour scowl burns you. You can see the gears in her mind working. Something about me bugs her. What ground does she have to judge me on? Her skin’s disgusting. Would I still hit it? I ask myself. She’s definitely kinda chubby, but I mean it’s Mia Illy, what an epic spirit. No, I couldn’t even hit anymore. She probably still thinks I like her. That I’m hitting on her. Why am I still so nervous around her?
“I regret like some nights,” Mia says after staring away from me for a while. “Like some nights, I’d get home at 4 in the morning after doing an eight ball or whatever. And just stay up all night, in my bed, tweaking out.” The frustration creeps across her face as she can’t get it out quite right. “Like my parents knew what I was doing. But what were they gonna do? They’d tell me, ‘We know that you’re partying Mia, but what can we tell you? You get better grades than we ever got.’”
Her words tug at my own pain. Tapping into my own nights spent up all night high in bed, on all kinds of different drugs, by myself. I look around E-Rock’s deteriorating house. It used to be paradise. One of the greatest hits from my childhood begins playing on the stereo. “If you wanna go and get high with me, smoke an L in the back of the benz-y.” The kick snare over the sample calls out something inside me. The exhilaration of playing hide and go seek in an empty school while my mom was in a parent teacher conference. Struggling to stay standing in some circle of older kids while triumphantly hugging a shiny forty. My nostalgia’s all messed up, I conclude. My past is broken, I’m broken.
I breathe into it. Some of the best moments in your life are still to come, Marco.
I look over at E-Rock across the pool, shirtless in his pajama bottoms. Eric can approach a group of 20 total strangers and fearlessly befriend them, I remind myself. He can dance. He can jump out of a plane. He still has like 60 friends that adore him, way, way, way more than most people. The last time we hung out we had a great time. His friendship’s still valuable and even without him I have 5 best friends that are great, have career opportunities. Plus, I can make new friends, I’m very friendly. And even if I never make another friend again I made more in high school than most make in their whole lives. I start to feel better.
“What’s Kate up to?” I ask Mia. Kate is Mia’s bff for life. You could write a whole other three books on Kate’s life.
“We’re not friends anymore.” The way she says it, it’s cold enough that I don’t ever expect them to be friends again. Mia’s different from me.
I’m shocked. “Didn’t you guys just travel across South America together?”
“I found out she’s been talking mad shit to everyone about me behind my back.”
“Why?”
“Cause that’s all she does. Like honestly, when I think back on it. All we did during our ten year friendship was talk shit about other people. Like 80% of the time, that’s all we did. I’ve never met someone who spent so much time criticizing other people. She’s just a mean person. I don’t know anyone more into status.”
I’m enjoying the gossip. Picturing Kate scowling at me with her nose in the air the last time I tried to talk to her.
“Like this one night a few months ago,” Mia continues. “She slept with this guy at the compound. Dude wasn’t even cute, he was just some ugly random. And they stayed up all night doing molly together. After that she went on a molly binge for like two weeks. It was crazy.”
Listening to Mia, tingles of pure euphoric joy start crawling up my back. It’s been happening a lot lately. It first came a few months ago, towards the end of one of my mediations in the woods. Out of nowhere, euphoric emotion began bubbling and exploding up my back. It was so powerful it overwhelmed me to tears. A few days later it came again while I was walking around Greenlake, then again at the soup kitchen. Now it’s been happening almost every day, at the end of dorky emotional T.V. shows and commercials, it happens a lot when I listen to music, workout and read. Usually after meditation. Sometimes randomly.
“I think she’s back on oxy…” Mia continues.
The tingle is bubbling over into euphoric rushes pulsing through my whole body. All my nerves shiver with pleasure. It feels like I’m close to god. I want this feeling to last forever. I’m addicted, I can’t get enough. I take another deep breathe of the fresh air, it intensifies the feeling. I have to hold back my tears it feels so amazing. I feel like I just did a 10 day meditation. I can feel my body healing, my bodies producing feel good stuff again. I’ve been so calm lately, so engaged. My wit has been getting better, jokes and punch lines have been popping into my head quicker.
Life’s an acquired taste, enjoy the good sensations for what they are, brief powerful moments, and the rest of the time keep focusing on the present moment until you fall into a groove. Steer your little row boat against an ocean of sensations and impulses. Keep spitting out all the seeds.
Just when I think the tingles can’t get any stronger a positive thought causes them to explode for a few heavenly seconds. I feel really good, I think. Without a doubt, I positively feel amazing.
45. It’s Art, Get Off Me
I know writing this won’t get me Oakley. Even if… Well, no. I have to radically accept that. You don’t have to put off your happiness until you accomplish some great magical dream.
But there’s a conciliation prize–she’ll read this. When someone writes a book about you, chances are you read it. And these sentences will bring a smile to her face, a scowl. As she busily combs through my words some will find permanent homes in her rich mind. And it won’t bring me enough satisfaction for a lifetime, but for a quarter of a lifetime, it helps.
Besides, this is only a prequel to a classic, to Oakley’s book. Now that’s a book I’d read. All her important life moments, her thoughts, her beliefs, her anxieties. Her favorite trends, her beauty routine. Her stories are 50000 times better than mine. You can’t learn how to be great from me, but from her, you might learn something. I’d buy the first copy.
46. “Driftwood Annie,” published by Puget Soundings magazine in May 1969. Junior League of Seattle Creative Writing Contest, First Prize. Author, Barbara Caldirola. Age 18.
The cross-state highway runs taut as a clothes-line from Western St
ate College inland towards Helm Lake. I usually can drive it in four hours without turning the wheel, but this clear December morning I find myself taking the first exit and doubling back towards the coast. I’ve had the feeling since Wednesday. It draws me now, as I skate the car over the back gravel roads and through the evergreens, until, finally, from the top of the last hill, I sight the town. It lies, as always, an irregular stepping-stone between the great green forests and the vast grey ocean. The glass, A-framed summer homes are unfamiliar to me, but the white-washed colonials in the center of town seem peacefully the same. And as I drive down the two tiny blocks called Main Street, I feel the same chills through my stomach that I had felt the first day we came to this town.
I was eleven then, with long, pale blond hair and the innocence of an only child who has spent all of the few years of her life moving from one big-city apartment to another. I remember swallowing hard to keep my stomach down as we drove into town, and sitting high as I could between my parents to make sure that my eyes missed nothing. It was an evening in early summer, and the last clear, glowing light of the sun lay on the rooftops, waiting to be caught by the shadows from the street. People were closing the tiny shops along Main, all except for the empty mahogany-and-glass one tacked onto the last corner.
“There’s my shop,” Dad said as we turned the corner. “Nelson’s Realty—for Oceanside Park. The first realty in these parts, would you believe.”
Our new brick home lay on the edge of town, with only a gravel road and marsh between it and the ocean. That first night, as I stood on a packing-box and stared out my window, I fell in love with the quiet ocean. I also saw some kids on the next block. Excitedly, I buckled on my new skates, and skated up the street towards them, showing-off as best I could. They stared at me for one long, lonesome minute, and then they all stood up and went inside a house. Only the oldest boy turned back, “Get out of here, ya dumb city-sissy,” he taunted. “We don’t want you.”
I pulled off my skates and walked aimlessly, until an eight-year-old with buck teeth rode up on his trainer-bike and stopped next to me.
“I’m Jeff,” he said. “You’re pretty.”
“Get out of here.” I kicked his bike. “I don’t want you.”
“Hey, don’t do that.”
“Why not?” I said, and kicked it harder, until he almost fell off.
“Because if you do, I’ll tell Driftwood Annie, and she’ll get you.”
“You’ll tell who?”
“She’s the crazy lady that lives in the marsh.”
“Show her to me.” It sounded as good as a T.V. show.
“Well, I’m supposed to go in now–”
“So am I. C’mon, show me, and I’ll never kick your bike again.” My blond hair must have fascinated Jeff because he agreed.
“O.K.,” he said, pushing his teeth in with his fingers. “I’ll show you her house, but that’s all.”
The house was on the same side of town as ours only much farther up, where the beach widened and stretched for miles. We left our skates and bike at the edge of the marsh and trudged cautiously up to the shack. It was small, square, and dirty-grey, except for the remnants of green paints and the white droppings of seagulls. The stone foundation rose above the marsh, so that a makeshift ramps had been laid up to reach the door.
“I’m going to knock.” I whispered.
“No, she’s probably not in.” Jeff was nervous. “We better get home, anyway. It’s almost dark.” Suddenly a light came on and someone called, “Who’s out there?” Jeff ran for his bike and the safety of home, but I waited, then climbed the ramp, and knocked. She came to the door and invited me in, but I stood mute, half sliding back on the ramp. Her eyes overwhelmed me. My years of watching grown-up parties alone from my bedroom had taught me to recognize the pouched eyes of an alcoholic. She had those eyes, but she rolled and widened them magnificently.
“Well, do you want somethin’, kiddo?”
“Uh-uh. I mean I just wanted…”
“What?” She leaned out a little farther.
“N-nothing,” I said, terrified, and turned and raced for home.
The next morning I started out again for her house.
“You’re crazy,” Jeff said as he caught up with me. But I only laughed. I couldn’t explain to myself, let alone to him, the fact that other children frightened me more than any adult ever could. Jeff left me at the marsh, and I squished across it until I found her on the other side of the house.
“Well, hello, kiddo.” In the daylight, she looked very small and thin. She wore a dirty, tight sweater and a too-long skirt with a pair of pink high-heeled slippers. The veins stood out from her pudgy feet and the toes showed—all painted bright red. She smiled pleasantly enough, but her strange eyes still fascinate me.
“You’re the new one in town, huh?”
“Uh, uh.”
“Well, my name’s Annie. What’s yours?”
“Renee.”
“Well, if that don’t sound like a movie star’s. I don’t know what does. Oh you’re lucky, honey. I mean what can you do with a name like Annie?” She walked ahead into the sand and stopped to kick off her slippers. “Renee…yes, I like that. Well, are you coming? I go down here each morning, you see, to see who’s come up during the night. I’m still looking for Marla, dear thing. Hasn’t come to rest yet though.” We were quite far up the beach now. Driftwood covered the sand, so that it was difficult to walk, and I followed Annie as she carefully climbed over it. Every now and then, she would examine a piece or turn one over. Bored after ten minutes, I picked up a long white piece and threw it as far as I could.
“Renee.” She turned around, her eyes wide and terrible. “You go and get that, y’hear. Are you mad?” I ran as fast as I could to pick it up, and she came after me.
“You must never, ever do that again, d’y’hear? You just never know who . . . why, Renee, let me see that.” She grabbed the stick and examined it. “Marla. Why it’s Marla honey. And after all these years, why–.” She hugged me and the driftwood together. “Renee, you are a blessing, you certainly are.”
Frightened, I started crying and tried to pull away. “Let go of me. I wanna go home.”
“No, you can’t, Renee,” she said pulling me down on the sand beside her. “You’ve just gotta listen here. You’ve just gotta understand.” Through my tears, her awesome eyes seemed almost soft and pleading as a kitten’s. “You see, when people die, they don’t just die forever. No, they come back. I mean, not as people again, but something different, like a tree or something. Now, c’mon, Renee, I’m gonna show you something.”
Frantically, she dragged me over the sand behind her, until we stood high on a mound near the edge of the marsh. “Now look out there. See all that driftwood.” She pointed out proudly.
“But, you know, when I first came here, there was hardly a piece on the beach. And since I’ve come—look at it all, Renee, look at it all.” She turned on me again. “There’s just gotta be a reason. It’s the dead, Renee. They come here because they know. They just know there’s someone here to look after them.” She took my hand, gently this time, and laid Maria carefully on the beach. We turned and walked slowly back to the house. “Oh, you probably think I’m crazy like the rest of them.”
“No, I don’t, Annie.” She squeezed my hand.
“Well, there’s one more thing to show you.” About ten yards from the house, growing peculiarly in the marsh, stood a giant pussywillow tree. “You see this tree?” She walked over and patted it. “This is my husband, Len. He was an old fool, but wouldn’t you know, he came back close to me.” She laughed. We went in the house then, which was filled with old clothes, furniture, and magazines. Annie chattered constantly as she offered me some old crackers and poured a drink for herself. We sat down and she pulled out an old magazine.
“Lookit here, Renee. There’s an actress in there that looks exactly like you.”
“Really?” I crossed over and sat on the arm
of her chair.
“Mm-hmm. And don’t she though. You’re gonna be a smasher, kiddo, with your hair and all.” She turned another page. “Oh, lookey here, it’s a Voluptia Brazziere and Girdle. Now wouldn’t that do something for me.”
“Well, I think you look like the lady who’s wearing it.” I laughed.
“Now, you’re some kidder.” She started to pour another drink, then changed her mind. “Nope, I guess I better save some of this for Stew. He’s coming tonight.”
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“Oh, Stew, he’s a wild one. But he keeps me from being lonely since Len died.”
“Annie, what’s in the big peanut-butter jar?”
“Well, that’s all my sea things. You know, I just pick ‘em up. Bring it here, and I’ll show you all…”
Eleven, twelve, thirteen…the years rolled in and out with the tide. Annie became my close friend; and except for little Jeff and sometimes Stew, she was my only friend. I did my homework at her house and together we read stories, collected sea things, and watched over the driftwood. I asked my dad about the driftwood, and he said it wasn’t true—that when we die we go to heaven, but I never let on to Annie that I didn’t believe her. Dad’s Oceanside Park grew and in the summer the town was filled with all sorts of interesting people. I never made friends with the kids my age, though. They didn’t make fun of me; they just ignored me. Eighth grade came and I watched the girls put on lipstick, teach each other to dance, and even go to movies with boys.
Then, one day, as I sat in the lavatory stall, I heard three of the girls talking while they combed their hair.
“She’s so weird.”
“Well, of course. She spends all her time with that crazy lady.”
“She must be crazy herself. I even saw her collecting some of that old driftwood.”