Salvaging Grapes (Playlist)

by Michele Dunlap

  Salvaging Grapes

  Playlist

  by

  Michele Dunlap

  copyright 2014

  by Michele Dunlap

  USA

  Dedicated to my first true love...Music.

  Table of Contents

  Introducing...................................................................................................................................5

  The Playlist...................................................................................................................................6

  Chapter One: Dot.........................................................................................................................7

  Chapter Two: KC.........................................................................................................................13

  Chapter Three: Frizz....................................................................................................................18

  Chapter Four: The Library...........................................................................................................20

  A Sneak Peak at Part Two: Salvaging Grapes California Tour

  Chapter One: Cue Life.................................................................................................................23

  Introducing...

  Let's face it, music runs out lives. It shapes us into the people we are and want to be. Music is magic. It's finesse, it's excitement, it's violence. It's sweaty nights behind a drum set, behind a mircrophone, baking in the stage lights. Callusses and cuts, blisters and bruises. Music can calm us, music can enrage us. It forms the very structure of our souls. Our direct connection to creation, music shapes our perception, shakes our spirit, and ignites the fire in our belly.

  The Playlist

  When you're trapped, music can free you. The Grapes can prove it! Gather music online to listen along.

  The Playlist

  Seneca Falls by The Distillers

  24,900 Miles An Hour by 7 Year Bitch

  Suck My Left One by Bikini Kill

  Mysteries by Yeah Yeah Yeahs

  Past In Present by Feist

  Home by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

  Mercedes Benz by Janis Joplin

  Dot

  I'm not the only one who has taken candy from babies or pissed her pants to get out of trouble. Who shoved hundreds of dollars of merchandise down her pants, down the underwear if necessary. I'm not the only one who ran away from home, took money from unattended purses at the grocery store, and bought a plane ticket to Los Angeles. They detained me in Texas. I was changing planes, trying out some salt and vinegar flavored crickets, which, oddly enough, tasted like pistachios. The guards snatched me up at the terminal. One security guard offered me dental floss to get the little cricket legs out of my teeth. Point is, this is all kid stuff, and that's what I was, a kid.

  Now that I'm 17 these things apparently aren't cute. Now they call it misdemeanor.

  My aunt eventually grew tired of the cops rapping on her door to bring me home. She easily gave up custody and sent me packing into the loving arms of the state. I was eight.

  They call it kleptomania.

  Kliptomeaniea?

  Kleptomania.

  Kleptinazia?

  Yes.

  The day before my sixteenth birthday my parole officer took me to meet my biological mother. I never really inquired about her or cared to meet her. It was a waste of a Saturday; there were so many good movies on TV. I would rather have laid around in my pajamas on the couch.

  I feel like I have no actual connections, like I just dropped out of the sky.

  They call it reactive attachment disorder.

  radioactive attcatment dillorder?

  Reactive attachment disorder.

  relaxive asscrackment disorder?

  Yes. 'RAD' for short.

  It was a cold room made up of solid cinder blocks painted white, cafeteria tables, and two vending machines-both out of order. She sat across from me and dodged eye contact. She'd look down at her feet

  or at her veiny hands. Her hair was long, blonde, and stringy, not at all like my short black hair. Her lips were thin and all dry and cracked, again, unlike my full, fat lips.

  I asked her why she was in jail. It was more of a polite conversation starter than anything else. The only reason I said anything at all was because my parole officer kept nudging me with her boney elbow.

  My mother, the prisoner, told me about the day I was born.

  It was a warm evening in the beginning of June. Stars already began speckling dimming skies and pre-prom energy was vibrating in the heart of every Adams High senior. The limo, white with red leather interior, picked them up promptly at seven. Her date, not my "father", pins a corsage to her dress and they ride to the prom in style. They shot back piss-ticklers and drank the rum she took from on top of her mother's dresser.

  She felt cramping. She shat me out. She went on dancing. They played Joan Jett; they played Eryka Badu; they played Radiohead; they played Luscious Jackson: they played Beck; they played Madonna; they played Chumbawumba; they played the Cranberries; they played Notorious B.I.G. The disco ball spun colorful beams of light around the dance floor and the speakers blasted the music. She and her friends danced, they celebrated. In a few short weeks they would be graduating high school. In a few short weeks, they would be free.

  I can imagine it. Ugly brown paint peeling from the metal walls of the stall. Maybe someone wrote profanity with a black marker: fuck you, or, eat shit, or, for a good time call...

  The cleaning ladies found me the next morning, those brown recycled paper towels crumpled and piled on top of me. I was meowing like a lost kitten and was sticky with dried blood and gooey afterbirth. I was barely alive.

  They call it child abandonment.

  Child abandilent.

  Yes.

  They call it child endangerment.

  Child enchantenment.

  Yes.

  And it's twenty years to life.

  Much of the rest of my visit was silence. I didn't have anything to ask her. I knew she abandoned me and it isn't my style to want a mom and dad. I don't cry myself to sleep every night. I don't wonder what life would be like if this and that. I get to do what I want and I don't have to worry about impressing anyone, or disappointing anyone for that matter. The only person I have to keep off my back is fat Wendy. I wouldn't call her fat if she wasn't such a bitch all the time. After tonight I won't have to worry about her because I'm running away.

  "Cuckoo birds lay their eggs in any nest they can find and abandon their young, too," I told her, "so don't feel bad. It's the same thing."

  "I don't," she said.

  "Oh," I said, "well, good then."

  At the end of our meeting the parole officer gathered her things and got ready to take me back to the group home. She had been scribbling notes the whole time and kept asking me if I was okay.

  "Of course I'm okay," I told her.

  "Are you sure?" she would say.

  "Yes," I said, "what is with you? I'm fine."

  "You don't have to act like a robot all the time," she said.

  "Do you want me to be excited to meet the person who left me in the garbage?" I said

  That shut the ugly bitch up. God, she was ugly. She reminded me of a wicked witch, her laugh especially. Her shrill laugh literally set me on edge, it irked me right up the spine.

  Her white, polyester dress suit was too tight and must have cut off the circulation to her brain. She had long, curly, black hair and I could tell by looking at her that she spent way too much time in the mirror. Her eyeliner was caked on
thick and black and she had on so much mascara her eyelashes clumped together.

  "Put on all the make up you want, you'll still be left with that snaggle-tooth and hairy mole," I told her.

  She asked if I had any questions for my "mom" before we left.

  "What color was your dress?" I asked.

  "Green."

  There are no moms in a group home. There are twelve other girls just as unclaimed as me, wards of the state, degenerates. We're not like family, we're not like sisters, it isn't like the movies. No one learns any big life lessons, we live here until we're 18 and then we get the boot. Sure, they give you a little bit of money and point you in the direction of jobs as waitresses, secretaries, and grocery store clerks. Some end up as strippers, hustlers, addicts. Most end up incarcerated.

  They help you find an apartment and push you into a mediocre, boring existence. Unfortunately, that usually doesn't pay the bills. If you can't pay the bills anyway, why not go off and do what you want? That normally doesn't pay either, but at least you'll be happier about being broke.

  Wendy, our house mother. Weighing in at about 340, doesn't do much but sit around, eat, and boss everyone. I hate her. Her brown, thinning hair, her blue eye shadow, her arm fat. The way it hangs over her elbows. The way it hangs over the chair. How does she even stand up? How does she drive? How does she wipe? I have so many questions for fat Wendy, but she never wants to answer any of them.

  She has questions for me too. Why am I such a drain on society? Why didn't they just throw me away with the tampons? If my mother didn't love me, why would anyone else?

  I've been sitting at this table for the better part of three days, living out a grounding period for, you guessed it, stealing. I couldn't help it. While everyone was in the band room I snuck away with an baby blue electric bass guitar. No one can find where I hid it and I'm definitely not giving it up.

  This week I'm grounded to the table, last week I was on shit shoveling duty at the barn. While I was cleaning out Lightning Jack's stall I noticed a loose, rotting board. I was able to pull enough of the board from the wall and peek in. I really couldn't believe it. For a kleptomaniac the best thing, aside from stealing things, is to have the perfect place to hide things they've stolen. Everyone's been looking for that guitar for three days; they'll never find it. As long as Lightning Jack keeps dropping those mountainous shit piles no one will go near it.

  I have been sitting here with fat Wendy waiting for the girls to bring back dinner. When they walk in with a box full of salami sandwiches Wendy watches my disappointment in delight. I'm watching the bottom of her chair bow. I hope it breaks and she lands on her ass.

  "Well if you want a hot meal any time soon you will have to tell us where you hid the guitar. You took away something that benefits all these young women to keep for yourself. That's pretty selfish," Wendy says. The chair creaks and cracks as she muscles her mushy ass out of it.

  Wendy has a spaghetti sauce stain on the front of her shirt. Who knows if its from today, yesterday, three days ago, a week ago. Maybe she actually bought it from Goodwill like that. I can't take anything she says seriously. How could I? She's got the eating habits of a toddler. I'm surprised it isn't crusted throughout her hair. Her arms are covered with gross black hair that look like pubes all over and her skin is flaky and white like an uncooked buiscuit. The fat on her arms is full of motion as she shakes her finger in my face. The movement makes waves in the hanging fat. The smell of her cheap perfume literally makes me nauseas and mixed with smell of the salami; I feel sick.

  "God dammit! I hate fucking cold cuts," I say.

  I take the salami out of the sandwich and throw it to the ceiling. It sticks on the first try and I hurry up and choke down the dry cheese sandwich before Wendy can grab it off of me. I pop up out of my chair and run down the hall to my room singing Seneca Falls by The Distillers.

  Wendy chases me into my room. I jump on the bed and sing at the top of my lungs. I sing right to her into my hairbrush. Her face is beat red with fury and her chins wag along with her mouth. I can't hear what she's saying; probably, get down from there, or you're grounded, or you'll be sorry.

  I never saw a fat lady run so fast! Hilarious. I have nothing else to do for entertainment. I wish I could play that guitar right now, but it's hidden away in the perfect spot waiting for me. Waiting for tonight.

  I'm done playing with Wendy so I sit down calmly on my bed and wait patiently for her to shut up.

  "And don't even think about coming out of this room, you're grounded!" She spits when she yells.

  Good. That's what I want. Now no one will bother me. I need time to think about my plan.

  I lift my mattress to see the little green square attached to my ear buds. I tuck it down into my pants so it doesn't get confiscated and I hide the wire under my shirt. When anybody comes I just shove the headphones down into my bra. I'm grounded from everything but if I don't have music to listen to I will literally go crazy in here.

  Lying in my bed I can hear Wendy going berserk on the phone, she echoes down the hall. I can hear the girls still squeal and burst with laughter. I hit play on my iPod and forget all about them. Because I know that in just a few short hours I will be miles away from here.

  I turn the volume up to the maximum and close my eyes. Suddenly, I am nothing, I'm non-existent. It's like I don't have a body. I'm just consciousness floating away on the sound waves. 24,900 Miles An Hour by 7 Year Bitch plays in my ears. Even though I lay totally still in my bed, in my head I smash car windows and televisions with a baseball bat.

  Things quiet down, the girls are all in their rooms. All the lights are out, except for the hallways dimmed florescent lights. This is the only time it ever feels like a home. The midnight staff clicks the door closed behind him and Wendy is free to leave and feed her fat face for the night. She'll be furious to find me gone in the morning. Almost wish I could be here for that. Almost.

  I hear the television turn on in the living room but it's turned down low so all I can hear is mumbling. The midnight staff walks down the hall to do a nightly bed check. I can hear his jeans swishing as he walks and I pretend to be asleep. He walks past and shines the flashlight over my bed then he moves along to the other rooms. I know he won't be back to do another check for a half hour. I pull out my back pack from under my bed and strap it to my back. I sneak down to the laundry room, hop on top of the dryer, remove the screen from the window, and drop it in the space behind the dryer. I jump down, its only about a five foot drop but the bottom of my feet sting from the landing.

  Then I run along the buildings as much as I can, hiding in the shadows all the way down to the barn. I pull the saddle off the wall and mount it on Lightning Jack. I grab the bass guitar from my hiding spot and close the hole back up. I wish I could sit here and play it, but there isn't any time. I tighten the strap so the guitar is snug against my back and then secure it by putting my backpack over top.

  As Jack and I walk toward the woods I hear voices in the distance calling my name. They've got their flashlights pointing in my direction, but they are too far away to see me. I kick my heels into Jack's ribs a little and he begins to gallop into the woods. He is good at navigating through the trees on his own and I'm basically just hanging on.

  I reach down into my bra for my headphones, Suck My Left One by Bikini Kill plays in my ears and for once in my life I am finally free. Jack is running so fast through the trees and there are millions of butterflies flying around in my stomach. The song makes me feel invincible.

  Jack is gallops and it isn't very long before we reach the end of the woods. I see lights through the trees and pull on the reigns for him to stop. There is a parking lot ahead, dimly lit by yellowing street lights. I hop down off Jack and walk him closer to the edge of the clearing. The parking lot is empty; no tanning bed customers, no dental customers, no liposuction customers.

  I nudge Jack's nose, "get!" I say. He walks back off into the woods aloof. I duck into the shadows an
d scooch along the buildings of the town.

  A police patrol car comes around the corner slowly. He shines a spot light around the area and a crackling dispatcher chatters over the radio. I feel my heart skip and I squat down around the corner of a huge brownstone building. I see the window opened outward and slide down it like it's a laundry shoot. I drop onto a cold marble floor.

  It's dark inside but I still have enough light from the EXIT signs to see where I'm walking and I make my way upstairs. The ceilings are almost as high as a cathedral and the walls are made of books from top to bottom. It's so quiet that I feel like I'm beside myself for a moment. Then, Crash! I knew the storm was coming, I could smell it in the air and the leaves on all the oak trees were turned, exposing their lighter undersides. The sound of the rain and the loud thunder crashes are much better than complete silence. The storm rattles old windows in their frames.

  I rummage through the librarian's desk to look for anything interesting to take when I hear shuffling in the hall. I hurry up and crouch down beneath the desk. Chills go up my spine when the back of my ear touches the cold, metal desk. A jolting shiver surprises me and my guitar pangs against the desk. The shuffling in the hall stops abruptly. I hold my breath and freeze.

  KC

  "There's only one way to the top," they say. "Hard work and perseverance."

  I say, "to the top of what?"

  They say, "don't get smart. See you in June."

  Instead of raising me, my parents are training me. I've been in Catholic boarding schools since third grade. I go home for holidays and for the summers, where I endure more life lessons and lectures.