Chin Up Baby!

Downtown Date

  “I’m down stairs” he says, “I’ll be right down” she replies into the phone. As she tosses her cell into her bag she smiles and grabs her coat. It’s been a warm spring day but she knows in a few short hours the Manhattan evening will bring a cool breeze. As she waits for the elevator she applies a dark red lipstick to her mouth, her teeth are freshly brushed and her long chestnut hair back in a ponytail. She is wearing new gold sandals, her favorite pair of jeans and a navy top she bought for a first date, not theirs. Down three floors, the door of the elevator opens and she struts down the hall hoping no one is watching her on the buildings overhead security camera.

                When she opens the door of her building, she is met with a warm breeze that carries the sweet smell of her perfume out into the downtown air. He is sitting in his dark green Jeep, the top is down, he has a baseball cap on, and 90’s mixed CD blaring. Their eyes meet, he smiles, she smiles. She climbs into the car and gives him a kiss on the cheek and then she gently rubs the lipstick from his face using her thumb. “You ready Joan?” he asks. She laughs and with full sincerity replies “with you, I’m ready for anything!”

               They drive east, turn right and head further downtown. They park down the street from his apartment where he has left his wallet and jacket. They climb one flight of stairs and he unlocks the door to his studio. She walks into the kitchen, pours herself a glass of wine, red, turns on his ipod and steps out onto the balcony. With the sun just starting to set over the Hudson River, it seems everyone from nearby Wall Street is in need of a drink. While she watches the people pass by, she feels content, happy; she silently wonders how she got so lucky. She hears him talking from the kitchen but it’s all mumbles under the construction from across the street. When she beings to return inside for a better listen, she pauses, thanks God and reminds herself to breath. Back inside he walks over and meets her at the foot of the bead. He kisses her on the forehead and declares “I’m ready.” He smiles, she smiles.

        They leave the building and turn right as he leads her down a tiny street filled with restaurants that now spill over onto the cobblestone street. Most people here have just gotten off of work, and there is hardly a tourist in sight. The tables are all so similar it is hard to tell where one restaurant ends and another begins. They pick a place and are seated amongst the suit and tie crowd. They order from a Brazilian waitress. She is tall, has long curly brown hair and a killer smile. She is not gorgeous, maybe not beautiful but still attractive. Her accent is thick and she seems overwhelmed. She remembers their drink orders, it’s simple, a beer for each but needs to write down their food selection. He orders a burger, medium well and fries, she has the cheese ravioli. As the sun continues to set they people watch, share found memories of their short time together and anticipate were the Friday evening will lead.

               When the bill arrives she offers up cash but he declines. As they collect their things to leave her eyes are met by a man who has been dinning a few tables back. He looks to be in his late 20’s, brown hair, black suit, light blue button down and a dark blue tie. He reminds the girl of a man she used to date. He smiles at her and for a split second she is flattered. The man is sitting with a woman that the girl has not noticed until now. The woman is blond she is wearing a tan suit with a cream silk top. The girl can’t see the women’s feet but guesses she is wearing brown pumps. The woman is ordinary; she blends in with the light wooden tables. The woman notices the man staring off and turns to see what he is looking at. The woman looks around for second and then catches the eye of the girl. Her stare is stern and cold, the girl looks back at the man and notices his wedding ring, she shakes her head and turns back to her date. He smiles, she smiles. He offers up his arm and she takes it.

They proceed down cobblestone street, the search is on for a hole in the wall they stumbled into months ago. He asks her to wait while he uses the restroom inside his favorite bar. As she stands alone, she searches the crowd of people not sure what she is looking for. She breaks her own rule thinking too far ahead, she wonders how she will be able to give the area up if she losses him. That’s how this city works, after a break up there are certain places each person claims. This street now acts like friends and family in a relationship, if she loses him she loses it too. The thought is too overwhelming so she shakes it off just in time from his return. The sunlight has almost run out entirely but not quite. He leads the way as she follows him onto a paved sidewalk. He reaches back to hold her hand and she feels a rush of warmth run through her body followed by a chill. He turns back to look at her, he smiles, she smiles, the city is theirs

A Lost Shell

I hate that when I tell people I am a Nanny they ask me what my “real” job is. Rasing children, the future of our world, is not only one of the most difficult jobs I can think of but it is one of the noblest ones. While as a childcare provider the majority of teaching falls into your hands, every so often a child can teach you a great lesson.  In the summer of 2007 my five year old charge Luke did just that. 

We decided to take an evening walk down the beach to collect shells and kill some time before bed. As Luke took off towards the waves crashing into the shoreline, I smoothed out my beach towel on the cool sand and sat down. I kept my eyes on him in the ocean. I let my mind go, truthfully I had not been able to stop it for weeks. I had been overanalyzing one particular relationship the past few days. While my head raced about relationships past, present and future, I zoned out.

The sound of the waves crashing into the shore, drowned out the sounds of  children playing in the water. I sensed something was wrong so I focused in on Luke.  The look on his face when he turned towards me sent me into a panic. I sprang up and ran to him as quickly as my legs have ever traveled. He was screaming at the top of his lungs “It’s gone, I lost it, I lost it.” I knelt down into the cold water of the ocean and put my arms around him. “Bear, what did you lose?” I asked. He took a deep breath “My shell, it’s GONE!” Relieved he was not hurt or had lost something of real importance, I smiled and offered to help him find a new shell. Silly me. My offer was not well received. He went on to tell me that it was a special shell and that he tried to scratch an itch and then dropped it. I explained that the waves carry things away very quickly and it was impossible to find it now. I offered a hug and again to help find a new shell. At five years old he just could not understand that his shell was gone for good. He continued to cry and refused to move from the spot he lost it in. While the waves knocked into his small body, he kept his head down. His tears were sliding down his face, and into the already salty water. I only stood there for a few minutes pretending to help but there was nothing I could do to make this better.

 When I returned to my sandy beach towel, my thought was Luke would quickly forget about his lost belonging and move on; I was wrong. Something I saw to be easily replaced, he saw as irreplaceable. Something a dime a dozen to me, he found the rarity in. I realized he needed to learn this lesson on his own. He might not get it right away but he was bound to see clearly sooner or later. His heart would soon hurt less and he will find another shell that will make him just as, if not more happy. He just needed more time before he was ready to come out of the water, so I waited. I sat and watched him search for that shell for over half an hour. It was painful at times because I could not stop his tears. I sat their helplessly watching him knowing he would never recover something he loved then lost.

 And then it hit me. I had lost something I could never replace and deep down I was too afraid to walk away and admit I was defeated. I stood up and walked down to the water. I knew I needed to tell him something he (and I for that matter) did not want to hear. I walked close to him with my heart racing. This time I did not notice how cold the ocean was. I looked down and bluntly said “Luke, I love you and I am sorry you are hurt but you are never going to get that shell back, come out now!” Luke was shaking when he lifted his head and said “Will you please come get me?” I walked a few more feet in and scooped his tiny body up into my arms. I walked back to where I was sitting and wrapped him up in a beach towel. We both cried for a while.

Luke and I both learned lessons that summer night. He learned the ocean swallows shells quickly. I learned that if you stand alone in one spot looking for something you have lost, it proves how much it meant to you but it does not necessarily mean you are going to get it back.

Girl on the Train

      As I approach the holding area in Penn Station a voice echoes “ Hamptons and Montauk track 19”

       That’s the cue to scurry as fast as you can to your track and hope you get a seat on the train. I try to keep up with the anxious stampede of weekend vacationers and the summer Friday crowd that ended their work day at 1:00. As a true New Yorker, I don’t wait for the passengers to exit before thrusting myself onto the overcrowded car near the rear of the train. I find a seat on the aisle across from an older gentleman wearing a blue striped shirt, no tie. His legs take up most of the space between us. I catch my breath and sigh, it feels good to sit, comfortable until we switch train in Jamaica Queens.

      “Excuse me” a woman towering over me says. The man and I move our legs to the center aisle so she can pass; her dress brushes my knee sending chills up my spine. She sits next to the man with no tie. She opens her tan bag and pulls out a light blue book. The letters D V are on the cover in a whimsical font just above the name Diane Vreeland. There is a picture of a woman with gray hair wearing a brimmed hat with a white flower over her left ear. I look down to make sure my US is not sticking out of my bag, pull out Downtown by Pete Hamill, and place it on my lap. I am trying not to stare at her; do I love her or hate her?

      She has on tan sandals that match her tan bag perfectly, the two inch heels make me feel better about standing shorter than her in my flats. Her toes are painted a deep orange; her fingernails are short, coated light pink, colors I could never pull off. The hem on her knee length dress is ruffled, it dances on the air she parts with her body as she gilded to her seat. I can picture her in a department store dressing room examining the dress. She runs her fingers over the silk fabric; it makes her feel delicate, feminine. It’s a beautiful blue dress with tiny patterns of purple flowers with dark green stems. She has belted a dark blue ribbon around her waist that is tied perfectly in a bow at her navel. She holds her book between the thumb and pinky of her left hand. She listens to her ipod while running her right hand through her hair; it’s the lightest shade of brown before you would call her a blond. The ruffle that hems her dress also lines the V of her cleavage just where her right hand ends with every stroke through her mane. The small diamonds resting on her chest form the shape of an “S”, I want one in the shape of an “M”.

            She has a normal build, not stick thin, not voluptuous. Her breasts are in proportion to her frame, I guess a 34 B. Wrapped around her left wrist is a silver watch with a square front that makes it look masculine, the last thing I would accessorize the dress with. Maybe it was a gift, something that makes her feel secure. I stare at her makeup free, sun-kissed, freckle face while she continues to read her book. I always wanted freckles. The song on her ipod distracts her from reading. She begins to jester her right hand as though she is playing the drums. She doesn’t fool me. I know she can’t play the drums. I bet she’s been drunk at an Ivy League Frat party, using twizzlers as drum sticks for her air drum, trying to keep the beat.

             I have assumed she is heading for the Hamptons, no doubt she is not a Nanny but she carries no weekend luggage. Her piercing blue eyes do not hold the anticipation of dinner at Della Famina, or shopping on Main Street between lying on the beach and paddling around Georgica Pong. I can’t figure her out but I am drawn to her.

            “Next Stop Jamaica, transfer here to track 8 for the Montauk train making all stops in the Hamptons” , I finally break my stare. I need to collect my things; I dry my palms on my cotton shorts and begin to worry. Will she transfer with me? A bright yellow index card falls from her book to our feet. The man and I both rush for it but I win. I hand it back to her with a smile, like a proud child trying to win my parents praise.

“Thank you” she mouths.

“You’re welcome” I shout trying to project over her earphones.

            I collect my belongings and exit the train, she stays put. I stare at her from track 8 through the tinted window. The train pulls out of the station and I am left wondering what the hell just happened.

Ruth’s Ducks

“Shelly, just pick something. Anything,” my mother mumbled in a toy aisle at Walmart, trying not to sound frustrated.

 “I know but I want it to be really good,” I said, followed by a closed mouth smile to highlight my dimples, something she found irresistible.

 This around- ten-dollars-gender-neutral-grab-bag-gift choice was more pressure than my eight-year-old decision-making skills could handle. I combed the aisle examining the prices. I finally decided on a Lisa Frank Art kit, explaining to my mother that there were only a few boys in our class and that I would trade with them if they picked my gift. My mother, eager to get home and make dinner, reluctantly agreed.

It was my first year at Awana, a weekly bible study for kids. We met on Wednesdays in the basement of a local church where we were divided into age groups. Aside from religion the program also included music and gym class. I started Awana halfway through the school year in 1990, and though I hadn’t made any friends yet, everyone was warming to me pretty quickly. For the last class before Christmas break, we were instructed to bring a wrapped gift worth ten dollars for a grab-bag exchange. The Lisa Frank Art kit was actually thirteen dollars. My mother was worried about breaking the rules, but I convinced her “lots of kids do it.” I wanted that art kit so much; I put it at the top of my Christmas list.  Every girl I knew wanted the same art set full of stickers, markers and stencils. I was pretty sure my mother was going to get it for me but had high hopes I could work this grab-bag out in my favor allowing me to be surrounded in sparkling sticker heaven a full week before Christmas.

When I arrived at Awana that Wednesday night, free time turned into “What did you bring?” time. I made the conscious effort to talk my gift down to my classmates.  We were unsure of how the exchange would work and I didn’t want anyone to know what I had brought, just in case there was a chance I could pick my own gift. “I don’t even know what mine is, my mom picked it and then wrapped it,” I told the kid next to me. “It’s probably pretty lame.”

After the opening ceremony of songs, my age group had gym. This was the only week where gym went by too slowly. Gym was followed by snack and Bible study. We would spend the second half of our Bible time for the grab-bag. When we arrived at our room, we were told to put our gifts on a long brown table in the front of the classroom and sit down. My assigned seat was in the last row. We all stared intently as the teacher put little yellow post-its on each gift and then held up an elf hat.

“You will each pick a piece of paper out of this hat and then in order of the numbers from lowest to highest you will approach the table. I will help you find the gift that has the matching number. Then you will return to your seat. DO NOT open your gift until everyone has gone and I have told you it is OK.”

I was one of the first kids to go. I approached the table with nervous excitement, my number smudged from the moisture of my hands. I held out my square not saying a word. Our teacher was sweet, her voice was soft and her eyes were warm. She had long brown hair with little strands of grey that peeked through. She always wore long skirts that came to just above the top of her sneakers allowing her socks to show. Her sweaters had iron on Precious Moments dolls with puffy paint around the edges in bold colors. I flashed my dimples at her, using them to beg for something good. She picked up a gift that was not the one I brought, but equal in size. She pulled the post-it off of it and handed it to me. Overwhelmed, contemplating what kind of holiday goodness waited for me inside, I spun around. Walking back down the aisle, all eyes were on me. While she called out the next number, everyone in my class sat up straight and stretched their necks out to see what I was carrying. Kids base how good a gift is by the size of the package and how it is wrapped. I took my seat with a good feeling. Christmas, the holiday of gift giving, was officially upon us.

When the last student had gone the teacher said, “Oh No! Ruth has gotten her own gift. Will someone please exchange with her?” I looked over at Ruth; she was holding a box that was twice the size of mine. The wrapping paper was gold and it glistened in the florescent lights. It had a large green bow, not the stick-on kind but one made from real ribbon wrapped vertically and horizontally and tied neatly in the center. There were no takers. I stared down at my tiny package with dull Santas on the wrapping and cheap curled ribbon tapped on the top. I greedily decided I needed to have what was in Ruth’s hands. My hand shot up into the air and with a smile that showed all of my teeth I shouted, “I’ll exchange with her!” I hoped no one would challenge my offer, the class grew quiet. My teacher smiled and nodded. I walked over to Ruth and held out the gift with my right hand and placed my left hand palm up in front of her with a smirk of victory. 

“Michele, that’s nice of you, but that’s Rebekah not Ruth,” my teacher whispered in my direction. I looked over my shoulder and saw Ruth standing in the front of the class. Her clothing was too large for her small frame. Her whites were yellowed, her blacks were grayed and the foul sneakers on her feet once belonged to her older brother. She was holding tiny ball of newspaper. Then I remembered. Ruth was the home schooled girl that no one spoke to. She had four siblings and smelled funny. I stood there wishing I could take back my offer as the class filled with giggles. Ruth practically skipped to me and held out her ball of newspaper. I tried not to cry as I handed over the Santas who didn’t seem that dull after all.

I went to the back of the room and took my chair once again. The teacher gave us the OK to open our gifts. I un-wrapped the ball of paper and found two tiny wax ducks connected with a small wick about three inches long. The white ducks had yellow beaks and blue bow-ties  Everyone moved around the room showing off their gifts, I looked over at Ruth. She was hugging what she had opened when someone said, “Ruth! We got the same thing! Lisa Frank Art kits!” I wanted to die.

In the parking lot I buried my face inside my coat waiting for our blue station wagon to arrive. The other kids removed their gifts from their packages and were showing one another what awesomeness had been brought into their evenings. The adults wished the teacher’s happy holidays and talked about vacation plans. I heard our car enter the parking lot. Ours was the one that had the loud engine and a muffler that dragged on the pavement when it hit a sudden incline. My mother always had a smile on her face when she picked me up. The size of her smile was bigger when she was running late. I got in the front seat and slammed the door. I burst into tears holding out my tiny candles.

“There is no way these were ten dollars. Right mom?”

            “What is that?”

“My grab-bag. That home schooled girl brought it.”  

 “Shelly, I think that is probably something she had at home already.”

“WHAT? That is SO not fair,” I said beating my head against the back of my seat.

On the way home my mother tried to make me feel better by praising my good intention of offering to exchange with Ruth. Once home I threw the ducks in the trash and stomped to my room. Shortly after, my mother called me downstairs.

“I’m disappointed in you. We may not have as much as others, but we do have a lot. Ruth’s Ducks are going to be our reminder that some people have a lot less than us.”  She placed the ducks over a branch on our Christmas tree as an ornament and said, “Shelly, one day you will understand.”

            The next year while our family was unpacking our Christmas decorations, my mom came across Ruth’s Ducks and asked if I would like to hang them up.

“Toss them out!” I whined.

“One day Shelly, one day you will understand.”

The struggle of Ruth’s Ducks became a holiday game. We would all gather around our fake tree (my mom is allergic to real ones) and open our Christmas decoration boxes. When the ducks came out my mom would ask me if I would like to hang them up. I always said no. Throughout the holidays I’d hide them in the back of the tree. I would refuse to acknowledge them when my mother would tell guests how they came into our lives. I hated those dumb ducks.

When I was eleven I managed to throw the ducks in the garbage once again but my mother fished them out, rinsed them off and returned them to the tree. That same year my stepsister Kirsten and I acted out a skit one night after dinner. She was my Awana teacher, I played myself and Ruth.

“Teacher! I got my own crappy ball of news paper with stupid ducks inside!”

“Oh no! Will someone give up a real gift so Ruth does not have to take her crappy ducks back home with her?”

“Not me! I have x-ray vision and I am happy with what I just know is a Lisa Frank Art kit!”

We thought this was hysterical. Our mom? Not so much. We were both sent to our rooms without dessert or TV for the rest of the weekend. Kirsten never made fun of the ducks again.

In the fall of 1994, my paternal grandmother passed away. Her wake was on my twelfth birthday. It was the first time in my life I did not want to get out of bed. I knew how hard the day ahead of me was going to be. No kid should ever have to hear, “Happy Birthday, sorry about your grandmother.” She was not the first person I had lost; I was actually quite adjusted to death at a young age. My best friend when I was four was an elderly neighbor who didn’t make it to my fifth birthday. My family had lost several members (mostly grand and great-grand parents) while I was in elementary school. I had a particularly hard time with this grandmother’s death because I knew how much my father had depended on her after my parent’s divorce. They helped support one another emotionally and financially and I worried about what he would do to make ends meet. My father moved from his house to a much smaller apartment.  He worked two jobs and always had car issues. His muffler didn’t drag, it roared. He took us to church every Sunday and told me that we always needed to thank God for all of our blessings.

That same year my step-father, Gene, underwent major surgery. He spent several months on our sofa recovering. My mom worked two jobs to make ends meet. At the time it didn’t seem like a big deal. Our neighbor took us to and from school. We would see our mom between her jobs when we got home after school. We never did without. My mom made sure we had everything we needed and wanted (within reason). Often times this meant she was the one who did without.

That Thanksgiving Gene called Kirsten, my brother Jay, and me into the living room just after dinner. He spoke while my mom kept her eyes every place but on ours.

 “Your mother and I love you kids very much. As you know I have been sick this year and not working. So we don’t want you to get your hopes up too high about Christmas. We are still going to exchange gifts, but there will not be as much as what you are used to. You are all getting older and need to remember what Christmas is really all about.”

 Mom waited for our reactions. She must have heard us making our lists for Santa. I was ashamed. All those years my poor behavior and selfishness had gotten the best of me. Sure I loved the gift part of the holidays but as I got older, I understood the real meaning of Christmas. It was not until I saw how devastated my mother was that I realized no gift could ever outweigh or undo the look on her face. Nothing mattered more to me in the moment than wanting to explain to her what I loved about Christmas.

My favorite part about the day before Christmas (which we spent with our dad) was spending all day making hundreds of tamales with his side of the family. It was a tradition and all the girls were required to help. I was always in charge of soaking the husks (the wrappers) in the bathtub. Back then I thought it was great and I was a key part of the process. Now I realize it just kept me in the bathroom and out of everyone’s way. Then after we had dinner, all the cousins would put on holiday skits and have dance competitions. We all got to stay up late and go to Midnight mass with grandma. She would help me get ready and I got to wear a dab of her perfume. Sure I smelled like an old lady, but it made me feel special. I always got a new dress for this occasion and shoes that clicked when I walked. This drove Jay crazy.

“She’s making them make that noise on purpose.”

“No I’m not!” I’d say taking exaggerated steps.

 After mass grandma would convince my dad to take us to a diner as a treat for being so good, even if we weren’t. Grandma was awesome.

            My favorite part of Christmas Day was that Kirsten came to our house. We were allowed to eat whatever we wanted. Anything at all. One year the three of us kids had a challenge to see who could eat the most Hershey-kisses. We all got stomachaches and spent the rest of the night fighting over the bathroom. Lesson learned.  I loved that we were together as a family. We played games and made home movies. Normally Jay was the camera guy while Kirsten and I pranced around trying to see who could get more camera time. No one had to go to work or school or a friend’s house. I loved that we went sledding in our hilly yard and that every time the phone rang someone wanted to talk to us kids. We always watched A Christmas Story as we not only grew up in Hammond Indiana, where the movie takes place, but we also went to Warren G. Harding Elementary School. 

While Gene went on about the small Christmas in store for us, I sat there watching my mom, feeling terrible inside. Those family times were the things that really mattered to me and no one knew because of my childish behavior. If those things were taken away I would be devastated. It was then I realized that it would be my first Christmas without grandma.

My siblings didn’t seem phased by Gene’s speech. Jay wanted to go back to his video game and Kirsten asked if we could still help make Christmas dinner. Gene assured her there would still be food, which was sufficient enough for her. Family meeting adjourned.

Later that evening I found my mother alone in our living room. She had pulled out the Christmas boxes and fake tree by herself. The room was filled with songs from “The Children’s Bethlehem Choir.” I could tell she had been crying. I sat down next to her not knowing what to say. Sitting between us was our well loved family copy of ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas’, on top of the book were Ruth’s Ducks sitting on their sides. I picked them up and dangled them from my finger.

 “Can I hang the ducks this year mom?” I asked. My mother’s eyes filled with tears as she nodded.

Ruth’s Ducks never went into a box again. They hang in my mother’s kitchen the 11 months they are not on her Christmas tree. Every year I have to remind her that one day, when I have my own family, she will have to part with them. After all, Ruth gave them to me.

I’m a Writer

Why I Write

 On the first day of a creative writing class I was asked to answer a question, “Why do you write?” My mind went blank. I could not think of anything but the question itself. It wasn’t that I didn’t necessarily know the answer to the question; it was that no one had ever asked me that question before, why do I write?

Suddenly a bunch of reasons popped into my head, I think its fun, it keeps me sane, I’m good at it, but could I write that?  Was it OK to admit that writing made me feel in control, it motivated my education and I simply just like to tell stories about myself? I wondered what was everyone else was going to write. Would we have to read them out loud? Would they be collected? What was the point of this assignment?

                I write because I’ve had a lot of things happen to me. I’ve slept on Bill Joel’s boat, hung out with the cast of Sesame Street, had a play date with Alec Baldwin. I’ve had a private tour of the West Wing, I’ve babysat a Supreme Court Justice’s grandkids, I’ve had Easter had dinner with Ross Pero, and once I fooled around in a Senators office. When I was accidentally locked out by the people I nannied for, a little old lady let me stay in her Park Avenue pent house guest room for the night. I have explored every inch not privately owned in The Dakota. I’ve performed on Broadway. I’ve gone spear fishing in the British West Indies. I won an Elvis impersonating contest at a high school football half time show and won year supply of Coke products. I grew up in a lower middle class family outside Gary Indiana with parents who gave me the best childhood they could offer. I have step-siblings, Latin and Greek family members, an older brother with a learning disability, many failed relationships and a bunch of dead pets. I have stories.

            I write because when I do I get to make the choices. I’m in control of the words used, the punctuation, the subject matter. I make a shirt blue, a conversation vague, the day sunny. I write because it puts me in control of what information is reviled. Who was there, what was said, how it ended.

I write to make a point. I write with no point. I write on cocktail napkins while sipping red wine at bars where there is always an interesting subject to watch, to track, to document. I write to find answers, to ask questions, to challenge authority. I write to glorify the things that make human and connect us as a community. I write so that there is evidence I existed. I write to the future generations of my blood line so that they know where they are from and that my life mattered even if only to give them theirs.

I think the bottom line is that I write because I hope that someone will care. That someone will pick up something of mine and think “this is good, this is interesting.”

 I hope that one day I have children or grandchildren that will find a box of my stuff with my old writings and decided not to “just toss them out.” I hope that I convey an accurate image of the people I write about, the situations I describe and details about myself. 

In Joe Wenderoth’s Essay “Things to do Today” number 77 reads “practice saying something.” Throughout my personal journey that semester I made the decision that I would practice saying, “I’m a writer.”  Before January of 2010 I was not sure what I would have to accomplish to consider myself a writer, but then I answered a question. “Why do you write?” Not “What do you write,” not “Who do you write for?” Why do you write? And it became clear to me. I write because if I don’t tell my stories no one else will.

Dear Younger Me,

Your path in life will not always be easy, or clear, or feel like it’s going anyplace good, but you will always know that you are loved. You will be optimistic and make the best out of every situation (with the exception of a few teenage years when you are convinced everyone is out to get you. But I can assure you, they are not). You have to experience a situation to really benefit from it, to learn from it.  Most situations that you will be presented with, you will handle in ways you will not regret, for even the bad choices offer a lesson. The situations in which you cannot chose the outcome will be both wonderful and dreadful. These words are not meant to change your path. This letter is more of a guide to help you through the days ahead.

On Siblings 

            You will one day have a sister (this will be explained better around age seven). Some days you will hate her and other days you will not think it’s possible to love anyone as much as you love her. Here is what you need to know:

1)      When you find her missing Seal CD “Kiss From A Rose” in the attic, open it up before you return it to her. There are 200 dollars inside the liner notes that she received for Christmas which she forgot she hid in there.

2)      There will be a night your parents tell you two to stop doing flips on the sofa. Listen to them because if you don’t, your sister will break a family heirloom that you will be sick about for the rest of your life. 

3)      There will be a time the two of you accidentally set something on fire inside the house. This is a good story so I am not going to tell you when or how but you should know that you do get away with it. So don’t fess up because you think your parents have caught on you will be ratting yourselves out. This will only lead to weeks without TV or dessert.

4)      This sister will not always be in your life (this will be explained better around age nineteen). You can’t change this part. So hug her, kiss her, and love her as much as you can while she is still around.

As for your older brother Jeronimo, the extreme downs and not so often ups will never end.  Throughout your childhood you will often hear, “When you get older it’s easier to have a relationship with your siblings.” For you two, it is not about the amount of time that passes, it is about the situations you are presented with and how you deal with them. This should help:

1)      No matter how convincing he is, you were not adopted.

2)      He loves you. You will often question this because he has trouble expressing it. Be patient with him. Over time he will prove to you how much you mean to him. 

3)      There are no unicorns in Mario Brothers. Pushing ABABAB really fast as you jump down the holes will never work. He wants you to lose all your turns so he can play Nintendo by himself. Despite this, later in life you will both agree those times playing together are some of your fondest childhood memories of one another.

4)      He likes to weld and is really good at it. Someone needs to nourish this much sooner in his life. Suggest it. Uncle Frog will help.

5)      In high school he intercepts the boys who stop by to see you. He takes the things that they bring like flowers and candy and gives them to his own girlfriends. This is the only reason why your biggest crush does not ask you to the prom. 

6)      Though you feel like your brother is your parent’s number one priority, he feels the same about you. If you spend time talking about this as a family you can resolve many childhood fights that are totally unnecessary.

On Parents 

      They never stop being amazing and incredibly supportive.  They both live well into your adult life so stop worrying that they won’t. You are going to make yourself sick always going to the worst place possible if they are a bit late picking you up from school or if they forget to call when they are out of town. Relax. Besides, the love you share is expressed enough while they are alive to last you a lifetime, even when they are gone.

            You will always be your father’s little girl no matter how old you are. He will tell you this every time you say goodbye to one another. He will not only be your father but your friend. No matter how far apart you live or how much time passes between when you see one another, you will always have a close relationship. He wants you to be happy, whatever that entails. The worst moments your share together will be when you know he is hurting.

            The very first time you see him cry will be when your parents tell you and your brother that they are going to take a break for a while. Previously, your brother will have told you, “We will never see dad cry.  Men do not do that.”  He is wrong. You will watch your dad and brother desperately try to hold back backs tears and think, “That’s silly, if a man wants to cry, he should cry.” 

The second time you see him cry, he will be on a sofa in a living room. When you get out of the shower you will be wrapped in a bright white robe with a towel on your wet hair. He will be sitting in dim lighting and will look like a small frail boy. The tears will run down his face and fall from his chin quickly.  Just by looking at him you will know his mother has passed away and at the young age of 28, he has lost both of his parents. While you sit there you will think that he will never stop crying. You will wonder if it is OK to watch him. All he is thinking about is how much his heart hurts. This will be the moment he needs you the most.

            The third time you see him cry it will be your fault. You do not choose your words wisely nor do you understand how powerful and hurtful they can be. At this point in your life, you think you know everything, but you don’t. There are emotions you have not yet felt, so you have no idea what they can do to a person, how they can change a person. You will not understand the conversation that takes place in a blue Ford in a parking lot at Dunkin Donuts until you are 20 and have your heart broken for the very first time. His tears show you how much he loves you and that he will do anything to make you happy.

            The fourth time you see him cry you are in New York City. Out of the corner of your eye you see the tears stream down his face, under his glasses as he holds the chain link fence in front of him. Most people cry when they stand in that spot in lower Manhattan for the first time. His chin quivers and his head drops. You make an effort not look at him. You both stand in silence until he is ready. He turns to you and says, “Everything changed that day, Chella.” His tears are for other people. You will learn compassion from him.

                                                                        ***

Fact: you will never receive one report card that does not mention how much you like to talk. Fact: you get this from your mother. She is a person who can approach any situation with a clear head and good intentions for everyone involved. She is a problem solver and genuinely loves helping other people. She is quick to make friends. You will learn many things from her like sewing and carpentry, but talking will always be your strongest bond. Embrace it. There is something people love about hearing a well told story.

            When you are about to turn nine you will be on an outdoor deck on a beautiful fall day. Your mom will have her camera, snapping pictures of you. Your long brown hair will have lost most of its curls and it will be perfectly messy. Your mom will want you to sit down, “Just stop moving for a second. Stop talking. Shelly. Stop. Talking. Thank you.” When taking this picture it will seem like just another afternoon, but as you get older this photograph becomes one of your favorites from your childhood. You frame it and keep it on your desk as a reminder of that fall afternoon and the woman behind the camera. The kind of mother you want to be one day, the kind of mother she already is.

This woman, who you get the privilege to call mom, loves you more than you will ever know, more than she can describe. She will do things many mothers do for their daughters. She will make birthday cakes and attend choir recitals. She will wait up for you to return from school dances.  She will stash extra money in your purse before leaving on a date. “Shelly this is mad money. You get mad, you leave. Let him pay for dinner, but never rely on him to do so. You should always have enough to cover yourself.” 

She asks you to stop smiling for this photograph. This will seem like an impossible task. “No, it is not stupid Shelly, you will see. It is going to be artistic. So stop smiling.” She does not know that the very next summer you will knock out your front tooth on your brother’s skateboard and your smile will never be the same. This will eventually lead to a mouth full of caps. When you call her from a dentist office when you are 27 to tell her you not only just broke another cap, you broke the actual tooth and it needs to be pulled, she will stay on the line until it is over and you are calm. “It is a tooth that can be fixed. Shelly, this is not cancer. This is not a missing limb. It is a tooth and they will fix it just like the others.”

            The gash on your still tan nose will not scar. The photograph will be the only memory of it thanks to the anti-scar cream she rubs on it repeatedly no matter how many times you tell her it is not necessary. The bangs you make her cut really short were a bad idea. She tries to talk you out of them. You will need to listen to her advice as you get older. She is a pretty good judge of situations involving you. “Shelly, let’s wait a few more years and if you still want an eyebrow piercing we can revisit the situation then.” “Shelly that boy is trouble and is going to break your heart.” “Shelly do not ignore the change oil light on your dashboard.” 

But one piece of advice she is going to give you will change your life forever. You are going to listen to her, but later she will tell you it was the hardest thing she has ever said to you. “Yes Shelly, yes. New York sounds like a wonderful place to live. I think you should go.”

So when you get there, don’t forget to write home. Calling will not be hard to remember. You will have many wonderful and not so wonderful things happening that you want to share with her. But it is going to be hard to slow down and write her letters. Don’t forget that part. Fly home whenever you can. It is not going to be very often so you will have to make the effort to choose home over vacations in warm exotic places. Send pictures. She wants to see all the places you visit, the ones she can only dream about.

On New York

New York is a huge step. I know you are wondering how the heck you end up there but don’t worry, it happens quickly. The move feels like the right decision in many ways but being in a big city so far from your childhood home feels scary. Don’t get those feelings confused.  In the long run, it is right and the scary part goes away. So don’t feel guilty, your family and friends are proud of you but you will have to keep ontop of your relationships. It is not going to be easy, work and finances will often keep you from travelling, so savor your time at home.

The basic thing you need to know about NYC is that when you are scared or confused, step back from whatever is going on and remember who you are, where you are from, and who you want to be. You are in charge of the decisions you make. In these years make sure to stand up for yourself more. Find your voice and your footing right away. Don’t be passive. Drink less. Write more. Watch your purse. Always carry a camera. Do more NY things. Write letters and never stop being polite.

New York will change you. You will walk faster, talk faster, judge more, and sleep less. You will meet interesting people who offer ideas and possibilities that seem unfathomable right now.   You will attend many events. Any weeknight can rival your prom. You are never socially awkward. You can pretty much hold your own in any situation thrown at you. New York is just a lot of networking which you will be good at, so take advantage of it.

                                                 On Life in General

1)      None of the boys you will meet before you are 20 will make any difference. None. So stop wasting your time and study more.  

2)      Punching the kids in your neighborhood is not OK. Even though you think they deserve

it. Find another way to deal with your anger and stress.

3)      Don’t wait till 10^th grade to start wearing clothing that fits better. At the very least don’t wear your dad’s Bulls tee-shirt on the last day of eighth grade, some of those photos surface years later and you regret it.

4)      Hair products were invented for a reason, learn to use them.

5)      Your sophomore year you and your best friends will take a road trip during school hours. You call the school office pretending to be your parents reporting each of yourselves sick for the day. Your mistake will be calling Amy as her mother who is out of town and has notified the attendance office she is away. Pretend to be Amy’s Aunt Cindy, who is in charge while her mom is gone. If you get caught you serve an hour detention for every class you miss, your personal phone line is shut off immediatly, and your mom makes you return all the clothing you bought.

6)      Don’t ever lose touch with Dan Connor . On June 27, 2008 do whatever necessary to stop Dan from driving home.

7)      Start following college football more closely. As you get older you will wish you could recall more classic games. This will be good for picking up guys later in life. 

8)      Wait till you are ready. This pretty much applies to everything.  

9)      Valarie Harper will give you some of the best advice you will ever receive (Yes. You meet Rhoda, and she loves you). “Never apologize for how you feel.” 

10)   Don’t pierce anything other than your ears.

11)   Don’t stress the math thing. Eventually you will have a mini calculator in your purse that will be sufficient for all your math needs. 

So there you have it. A collection of things that will hopefully guide you, motivate you and inspire you to be the best you can be. Again, it is not an easy life, but that is what makes it wonderful, that you work for it. The people you meet will greatly contribute to who you are as an individual. The people you choose to surround yourself with will be the family you pick for yourself.  So, “Chin Up Baby,” everything will be OK in the end, if everything is not OK, it is not the end.

Popsicles

My senior year of high school I entered a vocal competition as a soloist. The week prior to the competition my choir teacher, Mrs. Steege, arranged an after school rehearsal with my accompanist. When I arrived at the choir room I found a woman in her early 20’s sitting behind the piano with long red hair. Her smile illuminated the room, she stood up walked over to me and stuck out her right arm.

            “Hi! Michele Garza right?” She said a bit more eagerly than I had anticipated.

            “YES! I said trying to match her enthusiasm.

“I’m Heather Bowen, you might remember my mother she taught eighth grade English and History at Starbuck Middle School”

 My heart froze. No. No. No. This was NOT happening to me.

            “I remember, I’m…uh…I’m…”

            “Popsicles!” She said not even trying to contain her laughter.

    “Yes, popsicles.” I mumbled.

***

Eighth grade was a challenging time for me. We had moved from northwest Indiana to southeast Wisconsin in the middle of my seventh grade year. Then at the end of my seventh grade year we moved again within our city. This placed me in another school district forcing me to start an all together new school for eighth grade.  There is nothing like three middle schools in three years to boost a preteens self of steam. One of the most important people in my life during this time was my best friend Candy.

Candy and I met because we shared a back yard. The only thing that divided our grassy playgrounds was a grey chain linked fence. We climbed over the four foot obstacle several times a day against our parents wishes. We were constantly being yelled at us for giving the fence a beating. Eventually we had smashed down an entire section of it and our moms swore to the high heavens that one day we would have to pay to have it fixed.

            Candy and I did everything together, including walking to and from school. We would meet on the corner of her block in the mornings, it was too risky to jump the fence in the when both of our moms were home. On our way we would talk about school and boys and life in general, there was little we did not tell one another. We had all the same classes and teachers so we kept one set of books at home to study with the other at school to take to class. My before lunch classes were her after lunch classes and vice-versa. At lunch we would swap books, class notes and gossip.

            After school on our walk home we talked about whatever had happened since lunch. Normally this was about the boys we liked in our late afternoon classes. But then in the middle of the year the conversations took a turn. Mrs. Bowen, who we each had for History and English, back to back, was becoming the focus of my life.

            Mrs. Bowen was a larger than life character. She towered over all the boys, even the ones who had hit puberty. She was significantly overweight and I am pretty sure she was a smoker. Mrs. Bowen had one outfit, in five colors. Back, orange, navy, teal and pink (which I think at one point was actually red). The outfit was simple, a long sleeve cotton top and elastic waist cotton pants that hit just above her ankle. She always wore two different color socks. It dumbfounded everyone and sparked questions of possible colorblindness. Her natural jet black hair was too dark against her pale worn skin. She always had it slicked back into either a rubber band or a scrunchie. The ends of her hair were over processed.  The hair that escaped the elastic holder was a mix of yellow and white, it did not look like hair, it looked more like matted fur you would find at the end of a lions tail. Despite what she looked like she was a nice persona and a fair teacher.

            My relationship with Mrs. Bowen had always been a normal student teacher relationship until one day I came to class unprepared. I had not completed a History reading assignment but Candy managed to brief me on it someplace between bolognaise sandwiches and flirting with Tim Voll. When I took my seat at the front right corner of the class I was thinking about how glad I was we never had pop-quizzes. Mrs. Bowen interrupted my thoughts when she announced.

            “Put your books under your chairs and take out a blank sheet of paper, pop-quiz.”

WHAT? We don’t get pop-quizzes, no way. Why didn’t Candy mention this? I was seriously confused and more importantly why was Mrs. Bowen smiling at me? After class I found Candy waiting for me by her locker.

            “Hey! You could have warned me about the pop quiz!”

            “What pop-quiz Michele?” She asked looking confused.

This was the first Mrs. Bowen incident I can remember but there were many more.

            One day I was in class and feeling ill. Mrs. Bowen told me I didn’t look good and asked if I needed anything. I assured her I was fine but as class went on I was positive I was going to puke. I didn’t want to be “that kid” so I just pretended everything was ok. At one point I totally stopped listing and was thinking about where the closest garbage can was in the hallway or if it would just be better to take the can by the door into the hall and hurl. I was so zoned out I failed to realize Mrs. Bowen was yelling at me.

            “MICHELE! MICHELE! GO! You can go!” Mrs. Bowen cheered from the front of the class.

I ran down the hall and made it to the bathroom but it was close. I began to wonder if Mrs. Bowen and I shared a bond. Sometimes it was as if she could read my mind. Most things could be explained, but then it started to get plain weird. 

Mrs. Bowen would comment on things that I thought about.  Sometimes this was as simple as the weather but other times I would be thinking about pizza for dinner and she would say, “My kids are getting pizza for dinner.”  Once I watched two cars collide outside the school window during free reading time. Mrs. Bowen had no way to see what was going on but she said “Gee, I hope everyone is OK.” 

            Then everything changed. It was just after winter break. Candy and I were no longer walking to or from school.  Candy had broken her leg when we tied our shoelaces together for a three legged race. This may or may not have been my idea.  Her cast meant we got driven to and from school. At the end of the day we both had a ten minuet early release so I could get her safely out of the building before the halls filled with kids. It was a Tuesday. During eighth period we had a fire drill. Upon our return to class, Mrs. Bowen said we could have free time for the last fifteen minutes of the day. She was having trouble breathing after the climb to our second floor class. I watched her puff on her inhaler. I sat there thinking mean things about her. It was awful to watch her struggle but I thought about her weight and how because she smoked it was her own fault. Then Mrs. Bowen started to cry. CRAP! She could read my mind.

            After school I told Candy what had happened and although she assured me I was insane she agreed it was a little bizarre. That night I told my mother the latest incident and we came up with a plan. I would pick a word and repeat it over and over until it drove Mrs. Bowen nuts. I wouldn’t tell anyone the word, not even Candy.  For no reason at all we pick the word “popsicles.” I could hardly wait for school.

            It was Wednesday. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the only secret I had ever kept from Candy. I arrived at seventh hour History and took my seat. In my mind I chanted. Popsicles. Popsicles. Popsicles. Popsiclespopsiclespopsiclespopsicles. I looked around the room. Pop-sicles. POP. POP. POP. SICLES!  This went on for two straight class periods. I made sure I never ever said it out loud.  It was exhausting. When the clock ran down to the last ten minutes of the day I raised my hand and spoke for the first time in almost 2 hours.

            “Mrs Bowen?  Can I go help Candy now?”

            “Yes.” She said with a smile.

As I collected my things, Mrs. Bowen went over and sat on the ledge of the window.  As I was walking to the door she began talking so I turned back to look at her. She was still looking out the window.

            “You know class. With all this ice and snow I really want some….” 

And then. I swear on everything in my life she turned to me. She dropped her head as though she were looking over a pair of glasses on the tip of her nose and annunciated  “POPSICLES.”  

            OH. MY. GOD. I flew down the hall and hit the stairs so fast I almost lost control of my body. Candy was standing at her locker just below me. I was shaking so hard I couldn’t talk. Candy’s eyes were wide with concern.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

 “POPSICLES!”  was all I could say. So I just kept saying it. “She Popsicles. Popsicles. I  have to quit school. She said it. She DID. I AM NOT CRAZY. Ohmygod.  Have to go. We have to go. Candy  I can’t go back there. Popsicles. She said popsicles.”  I just kept pacing the hall talking to myself. I had never felt so violated. I got Candy out of the school and asked out carpool mom to floor it home.

The first thing I did was call my mom. She had warned me to never call her at work sounding distressed because it scared here. I gathered myself as much as I could.

“MOM!” I burst into tears. “She knows I think she’s fat. She knows everything.”

“Shelly, breath. What happened?”

“MOM. She. Said. Popsicles. I swear I swear and she paused on the word and she looked at me and she smiled and she said POPSCILES”

“Shelly, did you tell Candy the word?”

“NO I SWEAR. I SWEAR. I am never going back to school. We need to call someone. We have to tell someone. Mom help me.
            “There has got to be a misunderstanding. Let’s talk about this tonight.”

I felt helpless. I felt out of control. I felt embarrassed she knew my most personal thoughts. But if she could read my mind, could she read all of our minds? I needed to warn my friends. We had to stop thinking. I started calling everyone I knew. I told them to call everyone they knew. We needed to stop this mad woman. I spent the entire winter afternoon telling my story over and over. I told my friends to tell their parents and to tell their friends. At one point I went to my elderly neighbor’s house to tell her. Everyone needed to know. POPSCILES.

            When my mother arrived home I went over everything from the start. Every time I remembered something that I thought about in her class I began to cry. I explained to my mom that I was never going back to school. Ever. I was officially done. My mom kept asking me who knew about the word, which made me more frustrated. I really never told a single person what I was doing. When my step-dad Gene came home he took my side. He was the voice of reason.“We can’t send her back there. It’s all too much. Michele, she knows you think she is ugly and fat. She knows when you don’t study. She knows when you are not paying attention. She knows everything.”

            I skipped dinner that night. I was too sick to eat. Candy came over to tell me at least four people called her to ask her if I was making all this up. I just didn’t understand why everyone was so calm about what had happened. I decided I would go to the principal. YES. I would tell him I needed to be put in different English and History classes immediately. They could not make me go back to her class. When I told my mother this she informed me I would not be switching classes. Gene was beginning to backing out on me as well.

            “Michele, I was kidding.  She can’t read your mind. You have got to calm down.”

I started screaming at my parents. My face was hot and snot was running down my face. “ I (gasp) AM (gasp) NEVER (gasp) GOING (gasp)” was all I could get out before I puked on the kitchen floor. My mother told me to go take a shower and that she would clean up kitchen. After my shower I put on my pajamas and got into my bed. The world was against me. I knew what I knew and that is all that mattered.  There was a knock on my door.

            “WHAT?”

            “Shelly. I am sorry you are so upset. I really didn’t think you would react like this.”

I sat up and looked at her.

            “Mom. I want to die.”

            “Shelly, I need to tell you something. I called Mrs. Bowen during her lunch break today and asked her if she wanted to play a joke on you. Gene was in on it to. I didn’t think you would be this upset. It’s funny right?”

            I eventually spoke to my mother again but I refused to talk about the incident with anyone, even Candy. Mrs. Bowen never mentioned any of it to me and I pretended like it never happened. I blocked it out of my memory and I assumed everyone else did too.

                                                            ***

“When Mrs. Steege gave me the list of students I would accompany your name stuck out right away. My mom tells that story all the time. She said the look on your face when she said POPSICLES was priceless.”

Great.

“Anyhow, it is so nice to finally meet you. My mom said you were one of her favorite students. She really loved you”

“Your mom was an excellent teacher. Please give her my best.”

            I never saw or spoke to Mrs. Bowen after eighth grade graduation. Heather is an amazing pianist and helped me earn a metal in my competition. Candy and I are still friends. It has taken thirteen years but now she will finally know what really happened that snowy winter afternoon

Taxi?

Have you ever seen a New Yorker be passive when hailing a cab? Neither have I.

Be honest, have you have tried to steal a cab from another person? Picture it. A busy corner in the Meatpacking on a Thursday night, its 2 am and just remembered you have a 9am staff meeting. Suddenly you semi-regret the last two shots of tequila (definitely not the first three, I mean come on, it’s Thursday. Hell, would it matter if it were Monday?). You find yourself standing behind a suit and a cocktail dress on a busy street corner. You look uptown into traffic and though all the yellow you do not see one free cab headed your way. You check the cross street and that looks less promising. After a few changes of the traffic light you hear a girl behind you slur into her phone “I’m trying to get a cab.”

The first thing you do is step further into the street. This marks your territory. I am not sure how, but it seems to be some sort of New York code. As if to say with body language “I am looking for a cab, I was here first and you have to wait.” The only trouble is that the suit looks even more frustrated. What more is that he’s annoyingly more sober than you and is now standing in the middle of the road as if to say “I will kick your ass if you think you are getting a cab first.” What is even more disturbing is that the right-place-right-time people just one block up are holding the door of a cab for two frat boys who still have several hours of left in them. You remember those days.

Here is when you have your brilliant idea. That corner only has one person waiting and is also lucky, the corner that will rain open cabs (that’s the tequila talking). It seems to have much more potential than you current corner where the people who were originally across the street are now face to face with the suit. You have to be cool. You stumble back to the sidewalk and casual walk against traffic to the lucky corner only to find that the guy, who was just here, is now one more block ahead of you on the corner holding the door of a cab for three exiting girls.

What is my point? If a New Yorker needs anything, especially a cab, we will stop at nothing to get one. So why is it that if I am walking down a street where there are open cabs as far as one can see, they honk, or pull over or slow down and yell, “need a cab?” Seriously? Yes. Yes, I am here on the sidewalk strolling through town, (more often than not texting) and I am just willing and waiting for a cabby to read my mind, pull over and come to my rescue.

“Can I take your order?”

I have been ordering the same cup of coffee, at the same location, from the same woman, at practically the same damn time for almost a year. The conversation goes something like this…

“How may I help you?”

 “Good morning, I would like a small cup of coffee with 4 creams, that’s it.”

“How many sugars?”

“None.”

 “No sugar?”

 “Nope, I’m sweet enough as it is,” I say with a smile before reiterating “just a small coffee with 4 creams and I do not need a bag.”

Though I have this conversation with her every day, I am sure this woman could not pick me out of a lineup. She walks over to where the coffee is brewed. She pours the cup to the top, snaps a lid on and places it into a clear plastic bag designed to hold two large fountain drinks. She drops some cream into the open pocket of the bag. She turns to me, “How many sugars did you say?” she asks. “None,” I reply just as her coworker interrupts us about something that has nothing to do with their job.

When I finally receive my coffee there are 3 creams and 15 sugars inside my bag. You think I am joking? Well I’m not. Though sometimes I have 5 creams and 4 sugars with no bag, or 2 creams and 1 sugar in a bag or no cream and no sugar and no bag. Never in a year has this woman or any of her coworkers ever once given me what I have ordered on the first try.

I take the coffee out of the bag, I hand her back all of the sugars and ask for the difference in cream. Then the conversation goes something like this…

 “Oh, you don’t need no sugar?”

“Nope, I have never taken sugar in my coffee.”

“Oh,” she says as she takes the sugar and the bag from the counter before she returns to the refrigerator to retrieve more cream.

 Why do I keep going back you ask? Because I like the coffee, it is the closest place to my apartment to get coffee and because I would like to believe that one day, one fine day someone will get it right. It is almost like a game to me. Perhaps there are too many variables. One thing is for sure, I leave needing the coffee more than did when I arrived.

The only time I have ever asked for anything else was when my mother was in town. We ordered 2 cups of small coffee, 8 creams and 2 sugars,no bag. See pic.