Holy Mysteries

            As a child, I was no theologian. I was a devout follower of Sunday school, but rather indifferent to the inner workings of an invisible, transcendent, and omnipresent God; I liked it when we played duck-duck-goose. It was to such an extent that when my sister was baptized in the large blue hot-tub one fine Sunday morning, I faked getting saved. Now, I do not know if I was aware of my wickedness— I was five at the time—but I did know that I wanted a chance at a holy dunking. I’d often thought about the baptismal. My first church was funded from the pockets of multigenerational good Southern families. There were four buildings in all, two attached to the “new” building (I say “new” because it was old by the time I got to it). The first building was split into two parts, which included more than thirty rooms on the first floor, and a well-developed nursery and children’s church on the top. I never knew why they wanted so many rooms. The second housed our sanctuary and bathrooms that had lounges with carpet in them. Then of course there were scads more rooms that I didn’t care to count, since this was the adult building, and there were no toys or pictures on the walls.

            The old buildings were a thing of mystery. There was an old Sunday school building with catacombs off abandoned rooms and an old sanctuary. The sanctuary was truly old. It was a thing of history museums and backward southern towns.  It had a dome like the Capitol building with a stained glass window inside of it. Most southern churches have stained glass windows, which I have always loved. I’ve neglected many preachers’ sermons to stare at the windows. It was the characters and lights that attracted me the most. But this window, set up high above the nodding heads of the congregation, was a thing of fear. I never dared to stare at that one. 

It was an eye stretched open to observe the congregation. And when the sun hit noon, the great eye glared and burnt with holy wrath. I thought as a child that it might have indeed been the very eye of God. Now, I knew that God wouldn’t show up like that, since that sort of thing has been out of style since the Old Testament, but I also knew that he watches us. And he never sleeps. This large unblinking orb affixed in the decaying building could well be one of God’s spy cams; it could be watching for me.

I would hide in the dusty classrooms and peak out, ever so silently, at the dome window. When I could no longer stand the gaze, I’d jump back into the room, heart racing at from how close I’d come to being stricken down. If I were daring, I’d lay on my stomach and creep army-style to the door and squint from the floor. I would behold in reverent six-year-old wonder, God’s glass eye. And when I was full of sufficient conviction, I’d scoot back and pray a quick apology. I spent my childhood fantasizing about that building and its holy mysteries. I don't think the building is till there, thought I can't imagine they'd tear it down. I suppose I’ll never get the chance to wander back into the hall and let God see what I’ve become over the past fifteen years. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing. 

Fe-Fi-Fo-Fum: A Writer’s Tale

            My family keeps photo albums. Well, my family tries to keep photo albums. The only extant ones taper off somewhere between Anna coming out of side-ponytails and baby dolls, and Kayley getting into high heels and boys. There’s a gaping hole between this time and my early college years because my mother, bless her heart, wiped out a hard drive by accident. I think it was a blessing. A providential keystroke snuffed out my awkward adolescence and ushered me straight into profile pictures and posing.

            I’ve been thinking a lot about my childhood recently, the time before the great blackout. In one of the albums, there is a picture of me sitting on an old couch. In my lap there is a think pink book the size of a dictionary spread wide and resting between my legs. I used to read stories to my brother and sisters. Not that they couldn’t read, we were all wonder children and bright little academics. But when I read, I did voices. If it was a favorite of mine, I’d do motions. And if it was Jack and The Beanstalk, there was no couch that could contain me.

            I would open the book reverently, the pages crackling with age and dust. Tape bound the edges of the spine where the old laminate was slowly peeling away. I had to be gentle with the pages, and not pull them out of the jury-rigged binding. The story began without much excitement or violence, but I got to make a few animal noises and twang out an Alabaman peasant[1]. The peddler’s voice was hard; I went as low as my seven-year-old lisp would allow. Formalities, really, all this beginning stuff. My sisters and brother would listen and look at the pictures, but we all knew it was just a means to an end. They were waiting for the giants.

This particular picture was taken during the “fi-fie-fo-fum” portion of the story. In the picture, my legs are high in the air, kicking straight out from under me. My siblings cower in the cushions mostly to evade the dramatic thrashing, but also from fear of the camera. I have no such fear. I stare at the camera, mouth agape in a giant roar, teeth scattered at random like jutting Styrofoam cups[2] in my cock-jawed thespian epiphany.

I was a precocious little snot.

I quickly grew out of that stage. My mother thought it was cute enough the first, second, and even the third time. After that, Jack and the Bean Stalk became a lot harder to find. But, I found other books. I found lots of other books. My mother liked to decorate the house with vintage quilts, pictures, and books. The shelves and flat spaces of my home were littered with books of no particular genre or subject. She bought them at yard sales, auctions, and markets, not ever expecting anyone to open them again. They’d serve as makeshift coasters and end-table arrangements to the end of their days.

Not if I had anything to do with it.

I started in the upstairs hall. There was one collection of large brightly colored leather books. I believe it was for meant for children in a sturdier generation than mine. There were Grimm’s fairytales (the actual bloody versions) and myths, and wives stales, and the superstitious suppositions of dead secret societies. I devoured the books in the corner of the hall and in my large bean bag chair. Next, I went to the basement where I found a treasury of Poe. I knew I liked him, because he made my mom shudder.

Oh, no, you don’t have to read that.

What, mom?

Just ignore this assignment, we’re skipping Poe. His stuff is just creepy and dark. Y’all don’t need to think about those kinds of things.

As my teacher, she vetoed poor Poe, but now I sucked him down along with Jack London and Edgar Rice Burroughs. We used to listen to audio books in our car as we drove about our day. They were best for road trips. We listened to more than thirty books over my childhood.  It was just a matter of time.

I began to write stories in my head, though I didn’t write them down. I acted out my stories with little plushie animals and plastic horses. I repurposed any small object I could get my hands on, down to my actual hands. If I wasn’t telling, showing, or seeing a story, I felt like I was dying. That’s when I began to notice there were stories happening all the time. Cars whizzed by, and right there inside the cab, was a ten second soap opera. The mall was Times Square and there were plays in abundance.

It got harder as I got older and staring was no longer cute and unobtrusive. I’ve scared a lot of people. But the selling point for me was that, in all of those stories that I saw and acted out alone in my room, the people were the same. Even as a seven-year-old I knew that there were stories written on the bones of the universe. They’re written in the very blood of human kind, and something that powerful and intimate doesn’t deserve silence. I don’t know how people don’t explode from all the wonderful things inside of them. I just know that I saw them as a child, and I see them now again as an adult. I have to keep writing for the little girl sitting on the couch screaming Fe-fi-fo-fum! She’s got to be allowed to scream to the world, “Come; come back to the place you used to be. Come, come to the place you’ve never been, where you’ll never be again.”

---

[1] My mother was from Alabama and it was one of the few dialects I could mimic along with a very racist French accent.

[2] There was a good amount of space between my two front teeth and neither of them had neighbors.

It's a Crazy Duck Filled World

Ok, I haven't been ignoring my blog... ish. I have been writing, it's just been plays. Namely the first 5 of 31, it's part of the 31plays31days challenge, but that's not the point, the world is the point.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

Recently I was asked by a wide-eyed six year old, to draw a duck. Ladies and Gentlemen, that is harder than it sounds. I've been asked to draw a lot of things, to carry a lot of things, to "watch me" do a lot of things, and to explain a lot of things. Ladies and Gentlemen, it's harder than it sounds.

All jobs are hard in their own way, even a job you really do like. And I have found nannying to be no exception. It's the first job I've had where it is possible to have a very crappy day and it not be metaphorical. I've watched everyone from 11 months to 13 years and folks, it is a crazy duck filled world.

You take a broad sample, of just two year olds, and I can guarantee you, they are as different as night, day, and perriwinkle meltdown. But of course you already know this, all people are different. But, there is an honesty in children, the little ones, something that hasn't been stamped out yet. There is some ancient spark of understanding that you see in their eyes that transcends the Dora the Explorer mind mush being shoveled down their throats. Children Understand. When a child asks you a question, they're storing and shaping their mind around your answer. It may be as trivial as "Why do fish have gills?" or "How do I know my prince is a good prince?" I've been asked both, and a lot more. Believe you me, the hot seat is a few shades warmer than the center of the sun.

Now, I'm not going crazy, not yet. I've just been struck over the summer by the honesty and receptiveness of our tiny counterparts. When did we start teaching them that they are dumber then they are? That they need only rise to Backyardigans and Wiggle Time?

I'm not bashing children's programming, I mean, I am, but I'm not. It's all fun and games on the surface... but why, why would you give your children a leg up into the world over the back of a middle aged actor doomed to blue face paint and falsetto for the rest of his life? It confuses me.

On the same note, when did we start telling ourselves we need only rise to the American formula? When did that become okay to check off your checklist and not care that you were doing motions? Your job means nothing, the small talk, the movies you go to see, the endless vanilla parade. How can you live your life knowing that only playing at it?

This doens't categorize everyone, but for the people it does, I ask you... Why?

Okay, I think I've used up my question marks.

Anyway, today's post isn't really funny. There aren't even pictures. But, if you get anything, get this.

You need to live life with the wisdom of an adult and the passion of a child.
Anything else is just motions.

P.S. If you want to follow my ever spiraling scripting, please, treat yourself to my insanity over the next 31 days.

http://www.scribd.com/my_document_collections/3734898

The Girl Who Could have Cured Cancer But Didn't Cause She Was Too Pretty

I hate fairytales. This could be my bitter inner cat-lady coming out, but I’m getting to the point where I can’t stand them. 

 It’s all the same at the core: There’s the girl, who is always the most beautiful thing to ever grace the world with her dainty fart-free presence. 

And then there’s the Prince (or man who is as wealthy as a prince by the end) Who is always single and whose one criterion for marriage, is beauty. No, really, he asks to marry her on the spot.  Yeah, real freaking smart there buddy, have fun being married to that gorgeous serial-killing, taxidermist. Don’t worry, her pieces are real conversation starters.

 I mean, c’mon, dude!

Naturally, the girl fills this one requirement and you know, thank God there’s only one. The angelic little ditz is usually too stupid to do anything for herself.

Oh, help me! Come to my aid, fair prince!

I faint with womanly virtue, I fear that I will be taken and wronged sorely by

people who think I’m pretty but are themselves unattractive.

Sweet prince, what am I to do? Words are so long and difficult to understand!

 I’d better not do anything intelligent or remotely useful for the next twelve pages.

Okay, I’m being a little mean. Not all fairytale women are like that. Some are quite brilliant, you know, the wise nurse, the plain but intelligent sidekick. Too bad they don’t grow flowers with their voice or slay dragons with giant glistening doe eyes. Nope. Heaven forbid somebody look twice at that girl.

By the way, I’m not pulling an “all men are evil” card. Men, this isn’t your fault and you’re just as screwed as we are; anybody who isn’t a prince, or as wealthy as a prince, by the end of a fairytale, doesn’t get the girl. In fact, you’ll most likely be dismembered.

You can put anything into a fairytale formula. Anything.

Let me prove it; I give to you,

The Girl Who Could have Cured Cancer But Didn’t Because She Was Too Pretty

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a maiden who did not take much time to look into her family background and was therefore oblivious to the fact that she was daughter of a dead king. She was beautiful, because she was actually a princess. She was graceful and delicate unlike the maidens around her because, please, they weren’t princesses.

One day, as she was walking down to the river to get some water because the evil unattractive women told her to, she began to sing. The sound of her voice was lovelier than anything ever heard before, which was a real shocker because it’s not like there were singers or music or anything like that before her. The sound of her voice floated along the river down to where a prince was letting his horse take a drink of water.

Upon hearing her song, the prince said to his horse, “Horse, I’m going to marry whoever is singing that song. Now that I have heard it, I must hear it every day or I will pine away and die. I assume from the beautiful sound that it is a beautiful woman. You know that in all my days inside the royal palace or travelling over the land, that I’ve never seen one of those before. By the way, if it’s a dude, this never happened.” And with that, the prince mounted his noble steed, and rode toward where the maid, who was actually a princess, was figuring out how to get water into the round part of the jar.

Meanwhile, a nice, but unattractive, guy was sitting at the other end of the river, doing things that unattractive people do, like work. Upon hearing the maiden’s voice, he noticed that flowers started growing all about him. You see, the princess, of course, had a magical voice because a bunch of fairies didn't think it was enough that she was more beautiful than flowers. Now she could rub it in by making ‘em jump up out of the dirt.

The man thought to himself, “Hm, this magical sound might have useful purposes, like healing people or something.” The man was living in an area rife with plague and cancer, so the man asked for some time off, and traveled down the river.

By this time the princess had finally found out that water went in the top before it got in the bottom. As she filled the jar she began to sing to herself.

One day, my man of superior wealth and status shall come,

because obviously I’m too pretty to marry any of the kind men from the village.

They aren’t wealthy enough for me to ignore their ugliness.

I can’t wait until my wealthy or equally attractive man does come.

Water jars are hard to figure out, and so are brooms.

As she began to repeat this for the fifth time, the prince rode up. Upon seeing her face, he was instantly struck with everlasting love. It is to this day, uncurable.

He lept from his still moving horse, breaking his left femur in the process, and grasped the maiden in his arms. “Fair maiden, I love you! And if we ever part, I shall surely die!”

The maiden was about to scream, but when she saw the crown on the prince’s head (which was easy to do because one of its points was in her eye) she cried, “You are wealthy and attractive, so I love you too!”

The two were embracing, when the man finally got of the public transportation cart and got to where they were standing. “Pardon me, I don’t mean to interrupt, but, did one of you by chance sing a song that made flowers grow?”

The prince instantly rounded on the man, bolstered up on the power of love. “Hands off, knave! She is in my embrace and we deserve to be together since we’re both pretty!”

The man put up his hands, “Woah, man, it’s cool. I was just coming to see if the girl’s voice would heal people.”

“Well, it can’t, just go away.”

“Um, you okay buddy?”

The prince was quickly going into shock, but he nodded and said, “I’m fine,” just before keeling over at the man’s feet.

The princess gasped and looked particularly cute frightened. The man quickly checked the prince’s pulse and made a make-shift splint out of stick and strips of his own shirt. The princess noted that, while the man’s face was nothing to write stories over, the dude was cut. Like, ripped.

She blushed.

The man extended his hand to the princess, “I can’t save him, I think he’s in shock, but your voice could, I think. Please sing, it’s the only way we’ll still have a functioning government.”

The princess began to sing, she sang about how she met the prince, how he’d broken his femur, and how they’d love each other forever. So it was a pretty short song, but informative.

A rose shot up under the prince’s ear, cutting his neck with thorns. It then bent its head, filled with inexplicable dew, and dribbled a few drops over the cut. Instantly the prince was healed and leapt off the ground. The rose began to give instructions on the proper care for his wound, since the song was too short to have healed everything, but the prince accidentally stepped on it before it had a chance to get more than “Ok, now-” out. The prince clasped the princess in his arms and whispered into her ear how beautiful she was and how they would be married the very next day.

The man walked closer and looked into the girl’s face as she peered over the prince’s shoulder.

“Ma’am, I know I’m not wealthy, or attractive, but I’m here on behalf of a lot of people’s lives. I think you could do a lot of good with your voice. With a little work, you could probably single handedly cure the population. I can’t offer you anything other than the gratitude of a nation and my own undying loyalty. Would you please save us?”

The girl looked back into the man’s face, even though it was unattractive. He was kind and somehow something deep down inside of her responded to that and to his protectiveness of the people he cared for. And he was cut, did we say that?

The prince whispered in her ear, “I’ll buy you a pony from Ferrariland.”

The maiden kissed the prince, and together they rode off into the sunset. Their wedding was held without any questions a few days later. Not many people came, on account of being dead, but the ones with wheel chairs got a good view of the castle wall.

The prince and the maiden lived prettily until the end of their days.

. . . Which were few because the prince never did get that femur properly set and infection soon set in.

The End.

Fairytale love, it’s not real. Real love hurts and is good at the same time. It’s life long commitment to years filled with bad hair days, long hours, and at the same time, amazing rewards. I think people hate the idea of never being able to escape. Holding another heart and letting someone else hold yours. There's a lot of trust involved. Not to mention the idea of your person being a representation of yourself, and you being theirs. Do you want the burden of being a 24/7 billboard to your spouse's life choices?

We want the ability to cut the cord whenever we see fit, to cut and run with no damage. But then there’s the other shoe, we also don't want break someone else’s heart. Well, the good ones of us. 

What’s the solution? One is to keep a distance. Someone at arm’s length is an easy enemy. Someone curled around your soul is heart surgery with no anesthesia.

Or, it’s to plunge in anyway. To dive into an endless sea knowing that you’ll never be rid of the beauty or danger of the ocean you are swimming in.

I’m sure I’m off base with this, but I prefer love as an ocean to love as a pair of pretty people.

And hey, maybe out there, there is some man who can make a splint out of his shirt and just wants to make the world a better place with me.

The ripped abs thing too, abs never hurt anybody..... 

Chasing Cars with Huck Finn

You want to know how to torture someone? Put them in a car and say "Drive." That's how it seems anyway when you're carting four children, three under the age of eight.  When you, a free-range adult, get into a car, you see miles of open road just littered with opportunity. Try explaining that to a hyperactive three year old who has been sitting in the same spot for two solid hours. But, you know what? Even being a traveling veteran since the age of two, I still don't know what people are talking about when they bring up these pictures. My van was my steed; the gas stations my castles, and the mile markers? Target practice.

When I was knee high to nothing, our family often took long trips. Being in a large southern and extended family is a great thing, but the scattering of it was hard on the gas tank. Nevertheless, every summer found the Cromwell's fifteen passenger van in the nearest parking deck; at least the ones that cleared seven feet. I remember those trips better than I remember the places we were going to because for me at least, the real adventure was getting there.

Mothers are geniuses, don't let anybody tell you different, and mine was no exception. She knew those hours in an iron cage, albeit one as large as ours would be unbearable to our hardwired action-addicted brains. Believe me the Spanish Inquisition has nothing on fifteen hours of trees and billboards. But, she also knew that we could see our adventure and have it too, all from the safety of our seatbelt, something that she was constantly checking to make sure we had not evaded. We weren't in a van driving past dirt, we were caught in a sinking ship being chased by pirates, our Conestoga wagon was being peppered with arrows by Indians; we were atop a massive elephant as we battled the clock in a race to get home: we were anything and everything that we could read.

When we left our North Carolina home, we packed our van full of drinks, snacks, and books. Dad chucked the suitcases into the back where we had removed a seat to make room and mom squared off for departure with The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. We knew that after a quick systems check and last minute potty run, mom would crack open the giant plastic folder of cassette tapes and solemnly pry out number one, and feed it into the player. We had our favorite readers, you get attached to stories in a different way when you hear it. I will always hear Huck Finn in one voice. Anything different is just wrong.

Now at twenty-one, I’ve counted all the books I listened to on those car trips. It’s upwards of 40. For thirteen years we listened together, until we were too old to agree on anything.

But every now and then, when I’m alone, I’ll fish out those old cassettes and listen to the whir of the tape rewinding, the click of the shutter, and the three seconds of static before the old familiar voice floats out.

“YOU don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer: but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth.”

            I learned to love books in the back of a fifteen passenger, and I’ve never forgotten. 

Don't Cross the Streams

Friendship is a lot like coffee: easy to get addicted to, the good stuff will keep you up at night with hyper irresponsibility or studying, and it comes a variety of flavors. Yes, friendship is awesome and friends are awesome. However, like with coffee, two really great flavors do not always mix. Likewise, your friends will not always mix.

You’d think that because you’re in the middle there would be some amount of common ground between you and the people who consider you to be a decent human being.

But while your good friend Hazelnut is a lovely addition to your morning and good ole Lemonade is great to hang out with at lunch, a Hazelnut Lemonade brunch is Hell.

But surely Lemonade and Hazelnut know that, while they are a dysfunctional couple, they both love you. Surely, they’d behave if you ever decided to eat at 10:30 right?

..... No.

I was on a coffee run with these two, when Lemonade went citric acid on Hazelnut. For the sake of diplomacy, I’ll refrain from telling you what Lemonade was being a grade-A jerk over, and simply leave you with this: Lemonade can be witch with a capital B.

You see, while some people understand that they have differences and respect that. . .

Others people use those differences like giant sticks.

It seems some people have a fetish-like love for driving other people insane. Why? Because Lemonade thinks it’s hilarious when Hazelnut gets defensive and Hazelnut wishes that Lemonade would fall off a cliff and die. Differences. Sticks.

And we all have those friends right? The ones we know we will NEVER introduce to each other. I often have this dream, maybe a nightmare, where a selection of friends from each of my people groups are thrown  in a locked room where they have to figure out what's the common denominator them. AKA, me. Let me tell you, it’s hard to watch a Garlic-Hazelnut-Lemonade-Jack-Coffee-Pop-Tart smoothie being made.


 Let me break it down.

Garlic friends are dear to you and strong flavored; but they also drive off the other friends with their pungency. 

You have to be careful with them, too much is too much, but life is sad without Garlic.  

Hazelnut friends are off-beat and quirky; usually better taken with Coffee. 

You don’t hang out with them all the time, and after you do, you wonder why you don’t more often. Then you remember it’s Hazelnut.

Coffee friends are the ones who pick you up when you fall over, give you a kick in the pants when you need it, and leave you caffeine deprived in their absence.

They may be an acquired taste, but once you have it, there’s no letting go.

Jack are the I’m in a weird or crazy mood, friends. Get with them and you’re a completely different person, unrecognizable to your other friends.

 You aren’t sure why you like them, but you know you do. Huh, weird.

Lemonade is an easy group, good for a summer’s day, but you best not be mixing them with anything other than pop-tart. 

They’re nice, even fun, but the can be acidic, or sour, really not an everyday kind of deal unless you like that sort of thing.

Pop-tart friends, these are the ones that take you back to the time of mud-pies and bake tassels. 

They’re just fun, pure, innocent fun that doesn’t carry judgment or sadness. They’ll give you cavities though, and reality is the only filling that works.

All of these friends are good and the odd day comes when Garlic can take a stand and be coffee or Pop-tart takes on a Hazelnut flavor, and lemonade sloshes around in your glass laced with just a touch of Jack. But there are also the days where the smoothies of nightmares come to life and threaten to eat your soul.

I beg you, dear reader, to mix your friends carefully. Stir, DO NOT shake. 

Check back for a new post on Wednesday!

First Class Failure

I do not belong in first class. I'm the kind of plane partner that makes a little small talk and then looks out the window for the rest of the ride. That’s all I want. It's not that I don't like you, but there's a kind of unspoken agreement on planes, "If you are nice, and leave me alone, I'll be nice, and leave you alone. I promise not to tell you about my personal life if you promise not to tell me about your fungal-itus toes, or three-eared aunt."

I digress.

Last Thanksgiving, I flew home for the first time with Delta Gold Membership. It’s nothing fancy, it basically means you get to skip a few lines and get a pair of free headphones. The miles that got me the membership weren't even mine, they were my dad’s.  Now he would fit in well in first class. 

Him with his trim beard, tailored suit, and deep “Dr. William Cromwell” whenever asked his name. I do not fit in first class.

The morning I set out was a continuation of the previous night. I had not slept. I had not eaten. I had barely showered. My dress code was aimed for a comfort. Amidst the starched collars, name brands, spotless cardigans, and pressed suits

 I stood out like a zit in my “Green Eggs and Ham” T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, the ones with a hole in the knee. I don’t know why I didn’t get dressed that morning. I told myself it would be too hard to open my suitcase and repack after I’d tousled everything trying to get out an outfit. No, I was being lazy, and I paid for it.

You see, the membership didn’t only get me crappy headphones. Occasionally, when the stars aligned and the gods felt benevolent, I could get bumped up to first class. And it was today, of all days, that the gods stuck my sorry-faced, pajama-wearing, obnoxiously-damp self in first class.

 I could tell I was a foreigner.  

            The people around me were crisp. There just isn’t another word for it.  Each outfit was flawless. The old couple across from me could have been professors of philosophy, wealthy charity runners, art gallery owners, they could have been British.  I suspect the woman was a judge or a lawyer. 

She gave me one look over before cocking her eyebrow and dismissing my general existence. She made me feel very un-crispy, downright soggy actually.

            At first I hunted for someone else in a soggy, heck even a damp, outfit and thought for a moment I had found one in the man behind and to the left of me. But the hole in his jeans looked artsy, and he was wearing cool European artist glasses.  I shrank into the hood of my jacket, a grey oversized thing, happy at least to be alone in my slobby solitude. And that, dear reader, is when my fellow row 3 resident came along. She was crispy. No, she was deep fried Barbie. 

Well, except that she looked like she had never touched a fried thing in her life. She smiled perfect teeth boarded by fresh glossy lipstick.

             “Hey I have an overhead, just one second,” she drawled in a gentle southern belle accent. Her voice sounded practiced, like her hair, her smile, and her outfit; she was one giant perpetual performance. I wondered that she didn’t smell like plastic. But she didn’t, she smelled like an expensive bottled flower. After she packed her roll-on in the overhead compartment, she smiled at me, expectantly. I think she was waiting for me to get up so she could slide in. But that wasn’t about to happen. Not that I’m an overly rude person, but I had just run across the entire Atlanta airport due to a delayed flight. My legs ached, and they weren’t moving.

I smiled apologetically, scrunching my legs in, a trick I had learned from years of church services and theater performances. Barbie froze, eyes questioning, smile solidifying. I shrugged and tried to look adorable in the way I did as a child when I’d just stolen a cookie. It didn’t work then and it didn’t now. Her little black dress was made of a nice material from what I could see of the fabric stretched across her backside. Is it wrong I noticed? It was kind of in my face, extensively. I felt a little rejected when she sat down and didn’t ask my name. I mean after the time I spent with her derriere, I would have at least appreciated a hello.

Did you know that everybody in first class reads newspapers? Everybody. I don’t even know where they came from because no one had them when I first walked in. But as soon as we were in the air, 


POOF

Papers.  


No one told me to buy a copy of USA Today before I boarded, but I felt like it was something I should have known. That and to wear some freaking clothes.

            Now during this entire process, I wanted nothing more than a pen. Just a pen so the writer in me could catch the story unfolding before my red rimmed eyes. I fumbled through my giant tote (one that HORRIBLY clashed with my pants) and chided myself for being a bad writer. Not having a writing implement: a faux pas of epic proportions. I considered asking Barbie, but I couldn’t get rid of the image of her sterilizing her tainted pen after I returned it, and I feared the eyebrow of the British lawyer.

As soon as I could, I flagged down a stewardess, a thing much easier to do in first class than coach. 

She smiled professionally and glided away toward the cockpit. 
I dug out my notebook in the meantime, I at least had that. By the time I straightened back up the stewardess was patiently waiting. I guess she doubles as a genie for her night job. She wordlessly passed me a pen and disappeared again. I looked at it in my hand. This wasn’t just any pen. 

It was a made of a beautiful sturdy metal with no scratches or fingerprints. It wasn’t the cheap plastic airline thing I thought I was going to get. I looked for the Delta logo, but it turned out that the pen wasn’t connected to any airline whatsoever, well, except the fact that it was riding with me on a Delta flight some few thousand feet in the air.  

For the next fifteen minutes I scribbled away in my little bubble of contentment, giggling as I immortalized the British lawyer, Barbie, and the rest of the cabin. I had to pause when the refreshment basket came around. Barbie arched her waxed eyebrows, and knitted them in thought. There were a few bananas ringed by an assortment of chocolate candies in the basket. 

I saw her hesitate for a moment over the candy, watched as she brushed her fingers over the wrappers. In the end, she resigned herself to a small banana. I ate a Reese’s Cup, maybe with the smallest bit of devilish glee. Well actually, yes, I did it to spite her. I’m not really a huge fan a Reese’s Cups. But the look on her face was priceless. Take that, Barbie.

            The flight was not a long one. As we stowed our nifty arm-rest trays, I felt a small pressure on my shoulder. There stood the genie stewardess her face a picture of maternal concern and benevolence. She smiled without teeth and puckered her eyebrows in sympathy.

            “You know, you can just hold on to that pen. You don’t have to give it back, Happy Thanksgiving!” She patted my shoulder and walked off; happy she had done her part this year to make the world a better place.

Did I look like a freaking hobo?! Like I needed the pen, or maybe the pen was so sullied by my little hobo fingers that it could never belong to anyone but the little who was using it? Don’t get me wrong, I liked that pen, but I had to wonder why she gave it to me. The second we were allowed, I stood and exited the cabin with the tatters of my dignity rustling about my, now dry, hair.

I still have that pen, the one the stewardess gave me. In fact I wrote this entire story with it. It’s taught me a few things. One: always dress for first class, no matter what. Two: if you ever sit next to a soggy person on an airplane, remember, they might just be a writer. And you could very well be immortalized as a deep fried Barbie, if you don’t say hello.