97 days until I get an Albert hug

Some of you might remember, I was having some issues using up a credit from Alaska Air from last summer. I found they were a lot more expensive for my flight out to Portland than booking my ticket online, but after talking to them, I found I could fly out to DC on that credit and to Portland on another airline, for about the same amount of money as it would cost me to fly to Portland with them. So I booked my flight to Portland and made some tentative plans to head to DC.

When I called to book my ticket to DC they informed me that I couldn’t use the credit after all. What followed was several round and round arguments, with me continually saying I wouldn’t accept their terms and ask for the next person up. I finally called their corporate office, ready to bargain: I wanted them to waive the rebooking/name change fee, and extend when I could use it by. That way, Tag could use the flight home for Thanksgiving or Christmas, and just pay me for it.

Instead, I actually got this great guy who as soon as I started to explain my situation just said, “How about I just refund your money?” I wasn’t going to turn that down, so in the end, once that credit was applied to my credit card towards my new ticket, I did end up spending about $60 (of new money) on my flight to Portland. (My trip to DC is on hold.)

Several weeks ago, we were trying to book hotels (when you travel on holiday weekends to areas with limited hotel accommodations, you do that early), I said we should see if Albert was going to be back in Eugene or if he was staying in Death, going back to Hawaii, or just where he was going to be. The last time either one of us tried to call him we couldn’t get through, so I left a message for him on MySpace asking where he was going to be for the summer and informing him that we were going to be in Oregon for Labor Day weekend, so to let us know if he was gonna be around for us to swing by to see.

A couple of days later, he sent me a message. The subject read “bartender @ Crater?” I opened it up to find he had to be at Crater by May 14th and the lodge was opening on the 21st.

I was so excited that I called Tag and left her a voice message, sent her a text message and sent her an email. I think I may have danced around my desk as well – and I don’t dance. It’s been four years since I’ve seen him (yes, I have a thing for the number four: it’s a nice, symmetrical number… or something) and I cannot wait.

Albert’s one of those guy friends that every girl should have. He’s funny and sweet and crazy and brutally honest and… he gives the best hugs I have ever received. Those of you who know me know how much I love hugs. Honestly, I’ll take hugs over kisses [almost] any day of the week. I’m a “touchy-feely” kind of girl, and Albert’s always up for a hug.

We met at a party one of our first nights at Crater when Tag pointed him out and asked me if I thought he looked like Matt, one of the bartenders we’d worked with in Denali. I told her no, she argued yes, we stared… and he noticed us staring. It could’ve should’ve been awkward, but instead, it was the start of one of those friendships that can survive even a four-year absence.

He’s seen way too much of me. He’s interrupted Tag in moments that she’d have preferred he not be around for. He’s literally vaulted down a hallway as fast as he could run to jump in my arms, wrap his legs around my waist… and alternately tell me he knew I wouldn’t drop him and saying he couldn’t believe I managed to keep upright. He’s mixed drinks a little too strong for our own good, fallen asleep on my bed in the middle of the afternoon while I packed around him, and shoved snow down my shirt. Oh yes, and he’s told me he can’t imagine seeing me with long hair (I’d cut hair that was halfway down my back and donated it five days before he met me). Guess he’s finally going to get to see that this summer.

And I, I’m going to get an Albert hug. In just 97 days.

He just better hope I don't decide to try and tackle him in the lobby of the lodge.

Priceless

Kids’ Brewers T-Shirt: $20
Women’s Brewers Shirt: $32
Half tank of gas: $26
Dramamine: $6
Tickets to the “family section”: $21
Cracker Jacks: $3.50
Kids’ Meal (hot dog, chips, small drink, Ryan Braun baseball card): $3.75
Brat: $3.25
Medium pop: $3.50
Popcorn: $4.50
Boys’ logo socks: $8
Souvenir baseball: $10
Spending the day at the ballpark with my nephew: priceless

My brother, sister-in-law and niece were in South Dakota last week, so I got the immense joy of spending the week with my favorite little guy. If you think I was in Heaven on Earth, you’d be right.

Thursday morning we hopped into my Cavalier and headed to Milwaukee. He got a good cat nap in on the drive (I actually pulled over once and balled up my fleece to put under his head so that he wasn’t fighting the bob so much) and I got a little sun on my arms. For some crazy reason, I had it in my head that the game started at 1:05 p.m., when in fact it started just after noon.

We got there, parked in general parking, and took off to purchase our tickets. We’d just gotten to the sausage house and I had to go to the bathroom. I knew that waiting in line for tickets and then getting inside wasn’t an option, so we stopped. As we came out, Hunter held up his arms and asked, “MéMé, will you carry me?” I picked him up, and as he wrapped his arms around my neck and legs around my waist I said, “It’s a long walk for a little guy, isn’t it?” “Yeah. Is it a long walk for a big girl too?” As I contemplated carrying him, my full bag and myself, I laughed and told him yes, it was a long walk for a big girl too. But I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

He was pretty patient while we waited in line for our tickets, mostly because I think he was a little overwhelmed by the sheer number of people. When we got up to buy our tickets, I told the lady that I had called and they said that up in the 400 level seats there was a family play area. She said she could put us in the family section, but there was no alcohol allowed. I told her that was okay, I wasn’t planning to drink anyway. She had a good sense of humor and responded, “Well, I didn’t figure it would be a problem for you, but I wanted to make sure he’d be okay with it.”

As we’re headed up the ridiculously long ramps to the 400 level (I probably wouldn’t have thought they were that long had I not been carrying a three-year-old), I realize the game had actually started. We got to our seats in time to see the bottom of the 1st though, so we barely missed anything. I bought Hunter a bag of Cracker Jacks right away, which he loved. Tagster had hung out with us the day before, and told him that on top of a hot dog, he had to have Cracker Jacks at the game, so he was pretty pumped to try them.

Going into the game, Sheets had been my star pitcher for my fantasy baseball team: Thursday marked his first loss of the season. When Prince Fielder first went up to bat, I looked at Hunter and said, “Okay Buddy, he’s on MéMé’s fantasy team, so we have to cheer really loud for him okay?” The woman next to us started laughing at me, but I really wasn’t kidding. (Princy, incidentally, really hasn’t done much for me so far.) And after like the third time I’d told Hunter what players were on my fantasy team, she was as unimpressed as he was. (Given how they played, I’m kind of unimpressed too.)

Between the 2nd and 3rd inning, we went to get some food. Hunter got the idea that his “kids’ meal” was actually like a happy meal from McDonald’s and was kind of disappointed at first that he didn’t get a toy. I showed him his baseball card though, and told him how cool that was. He kept trying to tell me that the picture of Ryan Braun was actually him, and I finally gave up. The next time they announced Braun though, he looked at me, pointed at his card and screamed, “That’s my guy!”

After our lunch of ballpark food, Hunter started to get a little antsy. He wanted to go play, so just before the top of the 5th, we headed to the play area. Well, he had to have socks on, and I hadn’t brought any (actually, I had, but I didn’t remember that). We went to the store conveniently located near the play area and found a pair of Brewers socks. He also found a ball he wanted, so I bought that as well. We checked out and headed to the play area.

He always wants to play in them, but will never go down the slides or anything. Still though, he had a good time and I couldn’t get him out of there. I wanted him to see the 7th inning stretch because every time they announced the players and played their individual songs, he started to dance, so I knew he’d love it. Alas, I didn’t get him out of there in time to enjoy that.

While he was playing, I shared a few moments with some of the parents. There was a little Asian girl who got somewhat stuck at the top, and her Dad and Grandpa (I’m guessing here) started screaming at her. The one Dad and I were just like “Dang, sure glad I’m not the one getting yelled at right now!” It took them over 15 minutes to get her down. Then, this adorable toe-headed little boy, I’d guess 10 months old, came tottering over to me, one hand outstretched and a big grin on his face. I put my hand out for him to give me a high-five as that looked like what he wanted. Instead, he came up and wrapped his arms around my left leg, then looked up at me and kept smiling. I started to laugh and talk to him, saying, “Kids usually like me, but this is new even for me.” His Grandma came up and pulled him away, telling me “You look a lot like one of his aunts: I think he thinks you’re her.” It didn’t bother me at all, and he smiled and came after me a few times that afternoon. (Oh if only that draw worked for men old enough to be his father, huh?)

Before we could leave, Hunter insisted upon popcorn. Now I know the kid loves popcorn, but he shocked even me with his sheer obsession with it. (When his Mommy was asking him where he went to the baseball game on Saturday he told her "Where they have popcorn.") After we got the popcorn, Hunter had to eat it… all the way to my car. He took a step, took a bite. Took a step, took a bite. Literally the entire way. He walked the whole way though, and never complained: a total trouper.

It was a fabulous day. The weather was sunny if cool out, and while I’d been frantic that morning trying to find sunscreen, we got to Miller Park to find they’d closed the dome. Hunter and I both had a great time: it was his first major league game (his first baseball game in general I think) and it didn’t matter to him that the Crew got killed. I had such a blast sharing things with him that it barely even bothered me… much. Taking a day off and spending it with him at the ballpark was priceless to me and I’ll never forget it… even if Mastercard® never makes it into a commercial.

3WW - Scavenger Hunt

Since I didn't participate in last week's 3WW until Sunday night, I decided this week I should write a little sooner. Feel free to write your own post with the words Bone selected:

Delayed
Edge
Focus

“The rules are simple: you have 48 hours to complete your mission and return with every item on scavenger hunt. If multiple teams bring in all the items, the first team in will win. If no one finds all the items, then the team with the most items on the list wins. Everything you need to find can be found here in the city. You may use all modes of transportation to get to locations that you need, but you may not ask anyone to bring items to you. That’s it. You must report back here by 16:00 hours, Sunday afternoon.”

When Jeremiah finished speaking, eight individuals stared back at him. This was his last year teaching and he knew this group could do what no other group of students had accomplished before: find the answers. Oh not the answers to the stupid scavenger hunt, but the answers to life along the way. He’d had a couple of winners in past years, a couple of kids who’d gotten the fact that it wasn’t really about what they managed to bring back Sunday afternoon, but what was inside them. But he’d never had an entire team get it. This group though, he knew they could do it. They had an edge over the previous years: he’d chosen this group personally, and knew they had the heart to get it done.

He looked out at the students he’d carefully chosen and considered them. Kim was the spoiled little rich girl who had abandonment issues: her parents had never been around and instead had paid nannies to raise her. Joshua was the jock who’d never had to work hard for anything in his life… until he met Kim, whom he’d been working hard for since the first day he met her, during Freshmen Orientation. Matt was the overly shy mathematical whiz. Give him a spreadsheet and he was in heaven, but ask him to talk to girls and he clammed up. Crystal was the daughter of two researchers and had been raised in a really strict household. When she hit her mid-teens, in order to get her parents to pay attention to her instead of the rats in the laboratory, she started acting out. She’d had her first abortion at 17, and there was open speculation as to how many more she’d had since then. Michael, older than the rest of the group because he’d delayed applying to college to take care of his dying mother, had an intensity that often had other kids calling him “freak.” The type to take life too seriously, Michael’d spent most of his life making up for his dead-beat father who hadn’t been around. Kristine was head cheerleader for the football team, and most of the students didn’t take her seriously because of that. They all assumed she was an airhead, and she perpetuated the myth by being the ultimate “good-time girl.” Jason was like a son to Jeremiah: always helping out others and caring for them. His parents were missionaries and had taught him the importance of helping others. Unfortunately, they’d failed to teach him sometimes you needed to take care of yourself first. Heather was the dreamer of the group, and an exceptional artist. She could always be found with either a book of poetry, a new song to learn on her clarinet, or working on a sketch of yet another mythical creature, be it a fairy or unicorn. She kept others at bay by focusing on the other world she lived in.

“Professor Williams?”

“Yes Michael?” If he’d had to guess, he’d have said Michael would be the one to ask questions first. He knew he’d be the one to focus in on the fact that he’d left out one of the most important details.

“You said ‘teams.’ What are the teams?”

Jeremiah hid his smile. This very moment was what he’d been working for the last 30 years. “Excellent observation, Michael. I did say teams. I’m going to pair you off into four teams: you’ll complete this mission in partners. It’s not against the rules to help other teams, but be advised that you and your partner are still responsible for bringing the item in yourselves, so four of you finding one item will not count. Shall we get started?”

He waited for them to nod in agreement, then proceeded to name the teams he’d been envisioning for the last two years with this group. “Michael, you’ll be working with Kristine. Jason, you and Heather will be a team. Joshua and Kim, and then lastly, Matt and Crystal. Any questions?”

As they said no, he smiled. “Let the game begin then. Good luck to all of you. I’ll see you Sunday.” What he didn’t add was that he’d be monitoring their progress from vantage points throughout the weekend. Some things it was best to just keep to oneself, and besides, he really did have faith in this group. They were all going to be winners in the things that counted in just under 48 hours.

3WW - Operation Anna

Yes, I know it’s Sunday: I was otherwise occupied by my two favorite people in the world Wednesday. Priorities you know, and well, Bone’s 3WW didn’t rank up there, as I’m sure ya’ll could guess.

Average
Neck
Scratch

“For God’s sakes, Anna. It’s been a year since douche-bag Derek dumped you.”

“I agree with Mindy. You need to go out and get laid.”

“Exactly what Mindy and Tamara said: you’ve got an itch, go scratch it.”

I listened to my three best friends go on about my sex life as if it was really their business with a resigned sigh. I knew they were trying to help me. I knew they thought it was in my best interest, that this early Sunday morning three-way call was meant to bolster my spirits and get me back out there, meeting men.

What they didn’t seem to get was that I just wasn’t interested in the shallowness of the dating world. Of course, I wanted to meet a man and get married and raise the typical 2.5 kids, but the rest of it? I was over it. Truthfully, I think I’d been over it since about my third date when I was just a teenager in high school. Dating had never held that thrill for me that it did other girls: I found it more awkward and scary than fun or exciting. I guess I just didn’t believe in the games that go along with dating – what’s wrong with being interested and just saying it? Who cares if your friends are sitting there talking about you? If they are really your friends, they won’t be gossiping about you.

Which was one thing I loved about my friends. They might be a collective pain in my neck at this exact moment in time, going on about how I just needed to get out there and “get some at the very least,” but I knew I could count on them. While fiercely loyal, they kept their opinions of any men in my life shut until asked for them. For instance, I never knew how much they all hated Derek until I called them all to meet up at Alejandro’s for margaritas in an emergency. I never called the margarita emergencies: that was usually Tamara or Mindy’s job. Beth and I almost never did, but the night he dumped me, I called the meeting.

“I think we need an emergency margarita: we have to get Operation Anna started.”

Uh oh. I heard the words come out of Mindy’s mouth, but unfortunately, I hadn’t been paying enough attention to have a clue what she was referring to. “Operation Anna? I don’t like the sound of this guys.”

That bad news is that once Mindy gets an idea in her head, we’re all stuck with it, for better or worse. Which is how I ended up at Alejandro’s at 9 that night, wearing a slinky black halter dress, black stilettos that I could barely balance on while sober – who knows how I was supposed to walk once I got one of Alejandro’s margaritas in me – and a pained expression on my face. Of course my friends were late: why was I the only one who seemed capable of telling time? Didn’t they teach that in like second grade? We were all between 29 and 31… shouldn’t we be able to tell time?

As I made my way towards our table, I heard a sharp wolf whistle from behind me, and heard Alejandro say, “Well, it’s obviously an emergency margarita night, but I have a hunch this is not your average-every day-ordinary emergency.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Alejandro was as much the draw around here as his margaritas. Just shy of six foot, eyes so dark they were mostly black and his dark Latino coloring, there was usually some drooling going on from the girls in the group. Get a few margaritas in Tamara and she was usually hitting on him hardcore. Alejandro was no slouch in the flirting department though, and returned as good as he got.

“How’s your niece doing in softball these days?” I was probably the only one who knew that Alejandro had been raising his six-year-old niece: he and I usually got a good chat in before the others ever dreamed of arriving, and once the first one did, Alejandro would head away to start mixing our drinks.

“She’s doing well: she loves pitching and her team has only lost twice this year. So what’s the emergency tonight?”

Alejandro always got a kick out of our margarita emergencies, which I explained dated all the way back to our freshman year of college when we’d lived together and all been underage. Tamara’s brother had supplied us with tequila and triple sec, and we’d chipped in a few bucks to buy a blender. We’d never strayed from tradition in the almost 13 years since.

I groaned. “They’re calling it Operation Anna.”

“Operation Anna?” Alejandro laughed. “Oh this is gonna be a good one.”

“Not so much, Alejandro. The others have decided that since it’s been a year since Derek dumped me, that I need to go out, pick up some random man and have sex with him.”

Alejandro stared at me while considering. “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea.”

I dropped my head in my hands. “I’m not that girl. I’m boring, regular Anna. I mean, the only thing exciting about my name is that it’s a palindrome, otherwise it’s as mundane as you can imagine. I’m the same way. I don’t go out and pick up strange men, just to have an orgasm, much as I might want one.”

“Maybe you need to be that woman for a night. Change your name if you have to, though I personally think you have a beautiful name. Then again, maybe you just need to open your eyes and realize the one you’ve been waiting for has been under your nose a long time. Here comes Beth: I think I’ll go start on those margaritas.”

As Alejandro slipped away, I considered his comment about the one I’d been waiting for. I didn’t really have many guy friends – I’d lost touch with most of them over the years, and the older I got, the more difficult making any friends seemed to be. But as I sipped my margaritas that night, and listened to the girls carefully concoct the plan to bring “Operation Anna” to a head, I found myself watching Alejandro – watching me.

I felt my cheeks flush, and I had a hunch it wasn’t all because of the alcohol. I realized my friends were right: I was in desperate need of sex, but not with some random man. The only one I wanted in my bed was presently coating the rim of a margarita glass with salt. I watched him finish making it, then he brought it over to me.

“But I didn’t order another one.”

“The gentleman who ordered it for you said to tell you to enjoy the drink, and to take a chance. Oh, and that he thinks you’d make a lovely Anita.”

As he walked away, all four of us watched in appreciation. “Dang, that man has a fiiiiiine behind,” Tamara sighed with only a mild slur given and the rest of us nodded appreciatively.

“Ladies,” I said, “I don’t think I need ‘Operation Anna.”

As the three of them started to disagree and tell me how wrong I was I held up my hand to silence them. “I don’t need ‘Operation Anna,’ I need “Operation Anita.’”

Two hours later, when Alejandro got off work and climbed into his car, I waited until he leaned over to start the ignition before putting my hands over his eyes from my perch in the backseat and whispering, “Guess who?”

Now hiring: a new travel partner

Do you love to travel? Have a desire to see more of the U.S. and the world? Have you been trying to get more stamps in your passport but find that traveling alone just isn’t for you?

If this sounds like you, then today is your lucky day! TC is currently accepting applications for a new travel partner! An avid traveler, TC has been to 38 states and 10 countries: she has lived in five states and two countries. She is always looking forward to that next trip.

Requirements for this position include:

~Excellent map-reading abilities
~Have a love of long road trips
~Have working knowledge of a point-and-shoot digital camera
~Possess eclectic taste in music, but specifically must enjoy tolerate country and 80s
~Sense of humor
~Vacation time
~Money/credit cards
~Spontaneity
~Ability and willingness to plan certain* trips several months in advance
~High tolerance to many references of old travel partner** and past excursions
~Love to send/receive drunk text messages and dials

Job duties include:

~Sharing driving responsibilities
~Snapping cheesy self-portraits
~Planning and executing travel arrangements for domestic and international travel
~Amusing TC during boring (such as driving through Nebraska) and trying (like canceled flights) times
~Coming up with your own travel-related pseudonym for blogging
~Calling or texting friends - especially mutual friends - with words to Vamos a la playa
~Other duties as assigned

Salary:

This position is not paid. Each party is responsible for paying for his or her share. While negotiable, it’s best if both parties are willing to share responsibility for meals, etc. by taking turns and keeping a close but not to-the-penny count of who has paid for what. Airfare, hotel arrangements and tours will be split evenly before departure. Any add-ons can be negotiated at the time of travel. Buying a drink for your travel partner at least once on the trip is strongly encouraged.

Other considerations:

Preference will be given to candidates who either possess a current passport, or are planning to apply for one immediately, and those candidates who have some knowledge of a foreign language.

To apply for this position, leave TC a comment with a minimum of two proposed travel locations for the next year, as well as a good way to contact you. Additional information including past favorite travel locations, funny travel stories, potential past travel partner references and available vacation time may all be sent via email to TC at thetravelingchica at gmail dot com. Thank you for your interesting in becoming TC’s new travel partner.

Depending on the interest, more than one position may be awarded. This is currently an open-ended application: TC will accept applications until position has been filled, and will keep all applications on file for future needs.

*Specifically, remote locations and longer trips, such as last year's Alaska excursion or a trip to Africa. Is more than happy to do spur of the moment trips on weekends (preferably long weekends) in the States. An example would be that she'd like to visit every major league ballpark in the States: if there's a game there, she could be up for a last minute trip. (So far she has four down, too many to go.)

**TC’s current travel partner, A Tag Along Traveler, is graduating college today and moving cross country, where she will not be able to take vacation time for her first six months of employment, and even after, will be limited to her travel time. At all times, she will be given preference for trips scheduled in advance that meet her scheduling needs. This position is not meant to fully replace her, but fill in for her in her absence.

3WW - Sam

I wrote this in response to the words Bone selected for 3WW this week.

Cautious
Human
Maybe

Bobby Culman found the injured dog at the edge of Summers Street. He was forbidden to venture that far north as his father deemed anything north of Florida Avenue as “dangerous.” At 13, Bobby figured that at least on the streets of Baton Rouge he had a fighting chance: in Dennis Culman’s house, he didn’t even get that.

His father first beat him when he was five years old and struck out when his little league team needed just one run and the bases were loaded. As his fists had connected with Bobby’s little body, he’d told him what an embarrassment he was to the family, how disappointed he was in him, how everything was Bobby’s fault because he’d let him down. He’d beaten Bobby until he was black and blue and couldn’t even manage to cry anymore. He’d then told Bobby in cold, systematic tones that he had fallen out of his upper bunkbed while sleeping that night.

When his mother snuck into his room that night to give him children’s Tylenol for the pain, Bobby asked her why she’d let him do it. “Oh Bobby, your father loves you. He doesn’t mean anything by it. And you know, we’d be nothing without him.”

And so it began. As Dennis Culman climbed the political ladder in Baton Rouge, Bobby and his mother suffered more. If his mother’s hair wasn’t perfect for a press conference, she’d earn anything from a backhand across her otherwise flawless face to matching black eyes. If Bobby’s grades weren’t exceptional, he’d get welts from his father’s belt. The Culmans were the ideal family in the eyes of the media, but inside the house, they were anything but. And no matter what, Judy Culman always excused her husband’s behavior: “He just made a mistake, Bobby: he’s only human you know.” “He didn’t mean it: he really loves us.” “Everything we have we have because of your father. He’s doing the best he can.”

Bobby knew if Dennis found out he’d ventured north of Florida Avenue, he’d be beaten, but he was past the point of caring. At least he’d punished for out-right disobedience, instead of his normal imagined wrong-doings. Besides, it was time for Bobby to learn to make it on his own – he wasn’t putting up with Dennis for much longer.

It was the whimpering that caught Bobby’s attention first. He’d sounded just like that a time or two himself after his father finished with him, and he first thought it was a child or a woman who had been beaten and left in the ditch. Instead of another person though, Bobby found a dog that looked as if it had been hit, fur matted down with blood and a badly cut ear.

He’d never had a pet, didn’t really even have any friends because if he had friends over, his father would risk doing or saying something that would tip someone off to the fact that he beat his wife and son, so Bobby was pretty much a loner. He’d always wanted a dog though, and had in fact spent his eighth birthday crying over not getting one when he’d been sure his Dad would finally let him have one. It was all he’d asked for after all.

As he approached the dog, Bobby held out a hand in greeting so that the dog could sniff at him. The closer he got, the more the dog would growl.

“Easier there, boy. It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you now.” Bobby stared at the dog, willing him to trust him with his eyes.

“What happened to you? Poor thing, looks like someone ran you over and left you for dead. Shh, easy now,” Bobby said as the dog growled again. “I just want to help.”

Over the course of the next hour, Bobby would take a cautious step closer to the injured dog, talk to it some more, wait for its growls to subside, and then repeat the process all over again. By the time he finally reached the poor animal and touched its fur, darkness had fallen.

“Hey there boy, you’re gonna be just fine. How about I pick you up? I’ll take you home and take care of your wounds. Yeah, I’m good at that, I’ve had lots of practice. I’ll get you cleaned up, and you can live with me. We’ll be best friends, how do you like the sound of that?”

Perhaps the dog had actually accepted Bobby, or maybe it was just too weak to fight any longer. Regardless, Bobby slipped his arms under the dog’s body and picked it up. Though the dog was large, Bobby carried him the entire way home. He made sure he stuck to streets his father and his cronies wouldn’t be on. For the first time in his 13 years, Bobby felt like he had a purpose, a reason to do something.

“What’s your name buddy? Do you even have one? I think you look like a Sam. Can you say, ‘Sam I am?’” There was no audible response from the dog, but he used what little energy he had left to lick Bobby’s neck.

“Yeah, you like that? Sam you are then.”

The house was dark when Bobby got there, but that wasn’t surprising. His parents had some function so he would have some time to clean Sam up before they got home. He might even have time to get him cleaned up and be in bed, making it easier to hide Sam.

Taking care of Sam was an arduous process. He was hurt even worse than Bobby had originally anticipated, but though he whimpered, Sam never once lashed out. “We’re like kindred spirits, huh buddy?” Bobby asked as he worked.

He had just finished transferring Sam from the bathroom to his bedroom when he heard the door slam downstairs and his father running up the stairs. “Bobby! Where are you?”

“Right here.”

“I heard that you were up by Julia Street today… what was that?”

“What was what?” Bobby asked innocently, though he knew. Sam didn’t like the noise, and despite being injured himself, was worried about Bobby.

“I heard something,” Dennis responded as he started looking around. Bobby crossed his fingers that Sam stayed hidden.

“Bobby, why is the bathroom such a mess?” His mother picked that moment to pop her head into his room.

Dennis shot Bobby a look as he went in to the bathroom. When he came back in, he was furious and slapped his across the face. “What is the meaning of that? You go where you are strictly forbidden, you make a disaster in the bathroom and… is that a dog?”

Sam came out of his hiding spot in the closet, walking on wobbly legs and growling with bared teeth as Dennis threatened Bobby again.

“You stupid brat. Bringing home a dog: you’re going to pay for this.” His punch to the stomach caught Bobby off guard and he fell to the floor. Sam leapt at Dennis, who backhanded him.

Something inside Bobby snapped. He knew this day was coming, had even planned for it with his many trips north of Florida. He reached under his pillow and pulled out a gun he’d procured on the visit before this one.

“If you hit any of us again, I will shoot you.” He stood facing Dennis, gun at the ready.

“You won’t shoot me, you little brat. I have given you everything.”

“Oh yeah, you’ve given me everything. Black eyes. Broken bones. Fear my entire life. No more. I will shoot you. I’m through. You won’t touch me, or mother or Sam or I’ll shoot you.”

Dennis looked at Bobby with disdain. “Oh yeah?” He reached over and slapped Sam again. When the bullet entered his chest, he looked at Bobby in shock, not able to comprehend.

“I hope you rot in hell,” Bobby said to Dennis, before calmly walking over to Sam and petting him on the head as Sam licked his hand. They sat together on the floor with Dennis’ body three feet away.

Día de la cruz

El tres de mayo (May 3rd) is a holiday in Granada: día de la cruz, or day of the cross. Though the Granadians claimed it to be Granada’s holiday, when I looked up information on it to support the few mentions I have of it in my journal, I found that it is supposedly celebrated in locations around the world.

May 3rd fell on a Monday when I lived in Spain, and the 1st had been the Saturday before: May 1st is their version of Labor Day, so the entire weekend was a “holiday” as I mentioned when I wrote about the bull fight I attended.

To summarize día de la cruz, large groups of people would get together and decorate giant crosses in the plazas throughout the city (forgive me if I break into random words in Spanish: I’m known to do that on occasion anyway, and it doesn’t help that my journal’s written that way as well) and then they botellón all weekend long. There were 35 “approved” crosses set up around the city and put on a map that went out in the city newspaper, but more than 35 decorated crosses showed up. The crosses are generally covered in flowers, and set up at an altar with other offerings.

Botellón, is used as both a noun and a verb. Basically, it’s drinking in the streets – or as tradition would be in Granada, in the plazas more often than the streets. More often than not, groups of people would have either bottles of wine or 40s and would share, passing them back and forth.

Despite (because of?) the fact that Spain’s drinking age was 18, most of the people who would be seen botellóning (please, don’t concern yourselves with the Spanglish: just go with the flow) were actually of age. I found out the weekend of día de la cruz actually, just how things worked as far as youth and alcohol went.

My host sisters’ school, because it was a Catholic school, held a special celebration for día de la cruz. Essentially it was a cookout to raise money. Both of my host parents had to help work the food booth, and we all attended the event. I was given the option of skipping, but I felt like it was a part of their culture I should experience. Looking back on what I wrote, I felt it was kind of boring at the time, mostly because it was either people a great deal older than myself… or people a lot younger.

My host mother’s father also attended the event, and at one point in time he asked Bea, the older of my two host sisters, to go get him some wine. With no qualms what-so-ever, they served Bea the wine because she told them it was for her grandfather. When I expressed shock over this, my host mother didn’t understand what I was confused about. In their culture, it’s simply that way. To them, a pre-teen would never drink it: of course that was for an adult!

Unfortunately, it rained all that weekend, so thoroughly enjoying the festivities was out. (I just couldn’t really get into drinking in the pouring down rain.) Jen and I did manage to get out and about while it was just misting that afternoon, and took a few pictures and managed to see what all of the crosses turned out like.

Seems to me that looking back on some of these events that maybe I took them for granted a bit, especially towards the end. When I think about it now I can’t imagine not having a blast at it, but I didn’t then. I guess that’s what four years away from something can do: give you perspective when you least expect it.

Anyone wanna go next year?

3WW - Through the cracks

I really liked the words Bone chose for 3WW this week... but found that really enjoying the words didn't necessarily leave me with a story I liked. Suggestions for improving the ending especially are appreciated.

**There is more profanity in this post than normal. For anyone who is easily offended, I recommend not reading. **

Empty
Highway
Ignored

That ’68 Chevelle kicked up a cloud of red dust as she spun out from the side of the road. I’d been sound asleep in the passenger seat, head resting on my arms folded on the window. Though it was early evening, the desert was still warm, and I was trying to get as much air as I could.

I was jostled from my position when she grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me awake. “John. John. Jonathon! Wake up.”

I blinked my sleepy eyes as I came to. “What’s going on? Why are we stopped?”

Instead of answering me right away, she pulled a worn map out of the glovebox, and reached into the backseat to retrieve a knapsack. I hadn’t seen it before, but then again, I wasn’t exactly all that observant unless something directly pertained to me. She’d told me we were going to go on a road trip to L.A. She had big plans to be Hollywood’s next Marilyn Monroe and had even forced me to call her Marilyn when we were in public instead of Mom.

“I… I’m sorry, John, but you can’t come with me.”

I stared at her as the fog lifted from my mind and her words registered in my mind. “What?”

“Oh Johnny, you know I love you, but I can’t take an eight-year-old kid to Hollywood with me. I packed this bag for you, with some food and a flashlight, and here’s a map. Right now we’re on Highway 169: it’s sometimes called the Valley of Fire. I’m sorry Johnny, but this is the way it has to be.”

I stared at her, uncomprehending how my own Mother could be kicking me out. Surely this was some strange nightmare I was having, and when I woke up we’d share a laugh. It wasn’t until she sighed and got out of the car to come around to my side, pulling me out of the car with a force that belied her size that I realized this was only too real.

“Ow! Mommy, no! You can’t leave me here! I’m just a little boy!”

“Oh, Johnny, you’ll be fine! You’re young and handsome, someone will take you in and take good care of you! You’ll be much happier than you would be with me – I promise! Now give me a hug and kiss goodbye.”

I couldn’t help it, I started to cry, and when I hugged her, I clung to her legs, begging her to not leave me behind. I hung on even as she tried to dislodge her legs from my grasp. And when she finally managed to break free and run to the car, I chased that Chevelle until I could no longer see its taillights, which anyone who has ever driven across the desert knows is a long ways. I ran and I cried, and when I finally collapsed, I wrapped my arms around that pack and continued to cry until eventually, exhausted, I succumbed to sleep.

It was the sound of a woman screaming that woke me up. “Oh my God, you almost hit him!”

“Oh shut up. Stupid assed kid’s gonna sleep along side the road, he’s gonna get hit.”

“You asshole! He’s a little boy and he’s all alone out here. We need to make sure he’s not hurt.”

“No, we don’t. I’m not having any part of taking care of some kid along side the road. I can’t have anyone talking, you know.”

“Screw your political aspirations, Billy. No one’s going to talk, and even if they did, you’d be a hero for bringing him in.”

“Oh right, a hero who just happened upon a kid in the desert with a hooker in his car? No way, Toots. It’s up to you: you sit down and shut up and we get on our way back to Vegas, or you can hop out and stay with the kid.”

Sandy Nicole Hayden looked at the man across from her with contempt in her eyes. She might have just taken money from him in exchange for a blow job and a quickie, but even she had her limits. Her Mom might not be proud of what she was doing to get by on a daily basis as she looked down on her from heaven, but there is no way she’d ever forgive her if she abandoned that little boy.

“I’ll stay.”

“What? Don’t be such a stupid bitch, Sandy. How ya gonna get back to Vegas? I’m your ticket baby. In fact, you can hop on my train one more time – I’ll throw in double what I paid ya last time.”

His insults and innuendos rolled off Sandy’s back. She hadn’t made a lot of good decisions since her parents and little brother were killed in a car wreck when she was 16, but she knew in her heart this one was. At just 18, she’d seen more of the bad in this world than a lot of people twice her age and she knew that she had to help that little boy. If she didn’t, who would?

“I said, I’m staying Billy.” She grabbed the handle and then her handbag. As she turned to climb out of the car, she did the one thing every woman in her profession knew not to do: she told the client just what she thought of him. “And you can keep your money and your disgusting body away from me. I wouldn’t sleep with you again for all the money in the world.”

“You’ll be sorry you stupid bitch! Do you know how much money I have and how many people I know? You’ll never get a job, do you hear me? You’ll be lying on your back, fucking for money to survive forthe rest of your life… if you can even make that much.”

Billy tore away from the side of the road with his tires squealing. I didn’t know why the woman, Sandy I’d heard him call her, had chosen to stay, but I was grateful. I didn’t understand hardly anything of what they’d said, but I knew they hadn’t parted ways as friends. Then again, I didn’t really get the impression they’d been friends to begin with.

“Are… are you okay boy?”

I peeked my head out to see her looking down at me curiously. I nodded cautiously as I looked up to meet her eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Ja…ja… Jonathon.”

“Jonathon. That’s a nice name. Do you like to be called Johnny?”

“John.”

“John it is then. I’m Sandy.”

“I know. I heard him yelling at you. Why, why’d you get out anyway? Why’d you stay with me?”

I felt her looking down at me. I’m not exactly sure what she was looking for, but apparently she found what she was looking for.

“You were alone. It’s horrible being alone. I should know: I’ve been on my own for two years now.”

“Why? Did your Mommy leave you too?”

“In a way, yes. My parents and little brother were killed in a car accident. Children’s Services sent me to live with my aunt and uncle but… well, my uncle was a bad, bad man, so I ran away.”

My eyes grew wide. “Will Children’s Service put me with a bad man?”

“I, I don’t know. Where are your parents, John?”

“I’ve never had a Dad and my Mom just dumped me here a few hours ago. She said that she was going to Hollywood and I couldn’t go with her. But Sandy, I don’t want to go live with bad men.”

I waited while she seemed to be thinking long and hard about what to say next. “You know what kid? You and me, we’re gonna stick together. How does that sound?”

“You mean, I’ll live with you?”

“Yeah. Whatcha say?”

I didn’t want to go live with a bad man through Children’s Services, so this was the only option I had as far as I could see. I nodded my head to agree to Sandy’s plan.

“OK. Then here’s the deal. We’re going to have hitch from here back to Vegas. If anyone asks, you’re my little brother who’s retarded and doesn’t understand anything. No matter what, John, you have to remember to keep your mouth shut. No matter what you hear, you got it?”

I knew I didn’t like the sound of what she was saying, but I still didn’t get it. I would soon, but at that moment in time, I didn’t have a clue what she was referring to.

“Hey, whatcha got in that bag of yours? I’m hungry.”

Sandy and I worked on the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches my Mom – no make that Marilyn – had left for me, and when they were gone, she said we needed to start walking. “If I remember right, there’s a fuel station just a couple miles up the road from here: we can probably get a trucker to take us to Vegas.”

So we set out. I got tired easily, but I was afraid that if I complained, Sandy’d change her mind and leave me behind after all. Or worse, call in Children’s Services, and then I’d really have it bad. So I shut my mouth and kept on walking. I was just able to see the fuel station on the horizon when I heard a trucker slow down along side us. When I looked over, I was shocked to see Sandy had lowered her top and pulled up her skirt, but I still didn’t have a clue why. It was nighttime, so it’s not like she was too hot from walking.

“Well hello there,” the trucker called out.

“Hi sugar,” Sandy replied in a strange voice. “Where ya headed?”

“Well, I’m just about on empty, so I’m gonna fill up. Where would you like me to head?”

“My retarded kid brother and I are headed back to Vegas: can you give us a lift?”

“Well, see now, that just depends? You got money?”

Sandy shook her head and I kept quiet like she told me to. Besides, I definitely didn’t have any money.

“Well, if you don’t have any money, I don’t know if I can take you to Vegas,” the trucker said.

“Will you accept another form of payment?” Sandy asked, her voice sounding all funny again.

The trucker looked at her, then at me. “What about the kid?”

“He don’t know no better. I done told ya: he’s retarded and doesn’t understand a word we’re saying.”

That was only partly a lie: I wasn’t retarded, last year when Marilyn let me go to school my grades were excellent. I was one of the best students in the class. But truthfully, I didn’t have a clue what Sandy and the trucker were talking about.

“Well, all right then darling. You’re sure a pretty little thing. You two hop on in.”

Sandy and I climbed into the truck. I sat on the floor while we drove over to the fuel station. We’d barely gotten up in the cab when the truck started putting his hand on Sandy’s thigh and asking her if she liked it rough. She laughed and told him she liked it everyway.

After the trucker had put fuel in, he told me to climb up in the front seat, and he and Sandy went into the back of the cab and pulled the curtain. I didn’t know what they were doing back there, but I remembered Sandy’s warning to keep quiet and pretend I didn’t hear or understand anything. So I ignored the sounds from the backseat, Sandy’s too loud laugh, the unmistakable sound of a hand spanking a bare bottom with force, and the trucker asking her if she would like to be fucked good and hard. I didn’t know what he meant, but when I heard Sandy start to tell him how big and hard he was, I figured it didn’t matter. I plugged my ears with my index fingers when she started moaning and he started screaming at her.

It seemed like forever, but they finally both came up to the front, and I gave Sandy back her seat while going again to sit on the floor. I didn’t want to go in the very back because I was afraid of what might happen to me back there. No matter how much Sandy’d told him she liked what he was doing, I could tell by the expression on her face she hadn’t enjoyed it. Not a bit. But she took it, and within two hours we were in Vegas.

After the trucker left us off, Sandy and I started walking. “What happened back there?” I asked.

“Nothing you need to worry about John. We needed him to do us a favor, so I did him a favor in return is all.”

I thought about it for a few minutes before asking, “Do you do a lot of favors to get things you need?”

She looked back at me and I swear there was a tear in her eye before she calmly replied, “Yeah, I do. There’ll be a lot of men coming and going from our tiny apartment, but it’s how I survive, OK John? Can you handle that?”

I thought again, but didn’t know that I had any choice. “Will they hurt me?”

“No. Absolutely not. No matter what, I promise that none of them will touch you, John, do you hear me?”

I smiled then. I liked Sandy. She was willing to take care of me when my own mother wasn’t, willing to do a lot of things, including protect me. “OK.”

Over the next few months I learned Sandy meant every word she said that day to me. There were a lot of men, but not a single one of them came near me. I heard a lot of the same noises I heard that night in the cab of the truck, but just like then, I plugged my ears and waited for the silence to return.

I couldn’t go to school, but I was smart and wanted to learn. Sandy had some old books and when those ran out, I went to the library to get some more. Plus, she started giving me the money the men gave her when they came over to visit and I would save it and made out our budget. We didn’t need much: we didn’t have to pay rent – Sandy said our apartment had been condemned so it was free for us to live in – and we ate cheaply. It might sound crazy, but we were happy together: she was the big sister I never had, and I was the boy who replaced her little brother.

I asked her one night after hearing a couple of men talking about her if she was a hooker. I didn’t know what it meant, but I got the feeling it wasn’t a good thing. She looked at me with unreadable eyes and just said, “Some people need to have labels for everyone, John. Because it makes them feel better to put someone else down. So yes, to some people, I’m a hooker. I guess the important thing is what I am in your eyes – because really, the only opinions that matter to me are yours and mine.”

I looked at her then, and realized that though she was 10 years older than me, we were both just kids. Two kids surviving together. Two kids left behind, who fell through the cracks unnoticed, making it in this cruel world.

(Not exactly) a newsflash

So those of you who follow along on a regular basis (um, I think that would probably be Renee and … Renee), you’ve probably noticed that I haven’t been around as much. Sure, I try and make it by your blogs a few times a week to comment, but I rarely write much here, and when I do, it’s 3WW or a travel story.

So what’s the deal?

It’s everything and it’s nothing. To start, I don’t feel as comfortable putting all the details of my life out there for ya’ll to read. Some people who read my blog have known me a long time: some I’ve met through blogging. In both cases, there are times I would like to write stories and find myself doing some sort of self-censoring before I even start to write – or at least prior to hitting that publish key – in hopes of not having someone take a post the wrong way.

So I made a goal to cut back on the “personal” blogging I was doing and maybe start writing some more travel stories. Only, I’m just not really patient enough to post travel stories several times a week (it takes forever for me to upload photos to blogger for some reason), and even if I was, for someone who originally started a travel blog, my readership doesn’t seem that interested in travel stories. Which is fine, but doesn’t leave me much to write about.

This was a really long winter in Wisconsin, and to be honest, I didn’t do much that I felt was “blog worthy” most days to write about, so I didn’t write it. Things have also changed a lot in a year in my life, and the things I was writing about this time last year aren't things I could/would be writing about this year. Only, the further out I get from that, even though I have instances now where I think “oh man, I should blog that story!” I instead find myself doing anything but, until the time has passed for it to be even remotely relevant. I just never sit down and put thoughts to screen, and I can only guess that the longer I go without doing so, the harder it will be. Still though, even after a night out with Shadow that provided me with plenty of stories to tell… I don’t seem to have the words to write it.

What does this mean exactly? I’m not sure. Part of me is hoping that in writing this out, I’ll have some sort of DC-esque moment, where my saying I’ll be blogging less really will result in like five posts in three days. There is another part that’s just asking for some patience: surely I’m allowed a slump after 20 months. And yet, I’d be lieing if I didn’t say that in some ways, this is also a slight warning to what may be to come. I just don’t know.

Regardless, I’m sure that you’ll still see me around your blogs no matter what happens here. I’m not stopping the blog today or anything, just verbally (kinda) acknowledging things are a little different.

Not to mention just letting ya’ll know I am actually alive…

3WW - Are you happy?

Hard to believe Bone's choice of three words this gorgeous Wednesday would be able to produce something that's dark when the weather is so not.

Picture
Reflected
Stop

Are you happy?

It’s a simple enough question,
For the person inquiring.
But when you’re the one asking
Yourself,
The answer is a bit more complicated.

You stand in front of the mirror
And see your face reflected back at you.
Can you see happiness in your own eyes?
Sadness?
Or do you see nothing at all?

You pick up a picture and see
Smiling faces.
The remembered
Laughter echoing in your ears long
After you set it down again.

You were happy then,
At that exact moment in time.
The evidence exists to prove
You were … once.
But are you now?

If you aren’t,
When did you stop being the person
Who laughed at everything?
Was told they smiled too much?
And how do you get that back?

It’s a simple enough question,
For the person inquiring.
But when you’re the one asking
Yourself,
The answer is a bit more complicated.

Are you happy?

While in Rome, (or Granada as the case may be) do as the Romans do

I sat leaning forward on the hard bleacher, momentarily forgetting to hope that my butt was dry by the time we got up to leave. I was focused entirely on the spectacle in front of me, and when the torero finally finished flaunting his talents and taunting the poor toro to shove his sword through his heart, I found myself doing the one thing I never anticipated: cheering along with the Spaniards.

I wasn’t totally clueless about bullfighting prior to moving to Spain, but no amount of reading about it compares to attending the event live, which is what found me in Granada’s Plaza de toros (bull ring) that rainy Sunday evening. Granada actually did not have many bullfights, but as it was a “holiday” weekend for them, there was one in town. A group of us went together to buy tickets, and though I firmly believed it was a barbaric and cruel tradition, I realized that I wouldn’t have another opportunity to see it in person.

Through Antxon’s culture class, we had studied bullfighting in depth. The first couple of toros (bulls) pranced into and were drug out of the ring rather quickly as I explained the intricate details to Jen, who had not taken that class. Despite the (obvious in my opinion) advantage the torero (bullfighter) has over the toro, there is a great amount of skill and work that goes into the “sport.”

A traditional Andalusia bullfight (corrida de toros) is split into three stages: the tercio de varas (the lancing stage), the tercio de banderillas (the flag stage) and the tercio de muerte (the death stage). There are three toreros who each fight two toros. There are certain age and weight requirements for the toros, to make the fight more of a true battle. Each torero has six assistants: two picadors (lancers) mounted on horseback, three banderilleros (flagmen) and one mozo de espada (sword page).

Though still considered “traditional,” a modern corrida is highly ritualized, and each tercio is announced by a trumpet sound. All participants enter the plaza de toros to salute the presiding dignitary, accompanied by band music. Torero costumes are inspired by 18th century Andalusian clothing, and toreros are easily distinguished by their spectacular traje de luces (suit of lights).

During the tercio de varas, the terero tests the behavior of the toro. Once he has a good feel for how the toro is going to behave, a picador comes in on horseback with a vara. The horses wear a protective covering to keep from being gored by the bull’s horns. Ideally, the picador will stab a piece of muscle behind the bull’s neck, leading to his first blood loss. The way the bull charges the horse provides important clues to the torero on which side the bull is favoring. If the picador does his job well, the bull will hold its head and horns lower during the following stages of the fight, which makes things safer for the torero.

During the second stage, the tercio de banderillas, the three banderilleros each attempt to plant flags on the bull's flanks as close to the first wound from the picador as possible. These flags are left sticking out of the toro, and they weaken the ridges of muscles through loss of blood. This part to me is probably the most barbaric, as the toro is clearly suffering.

During the third and final stage, the tercio de muerte, the torero uses a muleta (cape) and a sword. The cape is red, but despite common misconceptions that this is to enrage a bull, bulls are actually colorblind and cannot distinguish red from any other color. The cape is used to attract the attention of the bull in a series of “passes” to entertain the crowd. Some of them are close calls for the torero who is alone with the toro in the arena this time. Eventually, after working the bull up, the torero finally gets himself into a position to shove his sword in the bull’s heart.

After the bull is dead, he is hitched up to a couple of horses and they pull him out of the ring. On a rare occasion, if the bull has performed admirably, his life is “spared.” (Generally, there has been so much damage done to his body, that the bull will die anyway.) The torero is also looking for something out of the event: depending on how well he performed, he can receive one or both of the bull’s ears, and the bull’s tail. To me, this sounds sick and disgusting, but to a torero, it’s a wonderful thing.

The corrida de toros was one of those events that I went into, 100% confident of my belief and opinion. I thought nothing less of the Spaniards with their own opinions, but I was certain I wouldn’t be swayed on mine. As the night went on though, I found myself drawn into the spectacle, and enjoying it like any other sporting event. And it is a sporting event. One that requires a lot of skill to stay alive. Sure, it’s still hugely one-sided in my opinion, but that doesn’t mean there are no risks for the torero.

There were a couple of instances that were horrific to watch: one torero in particular kept missing the heart of the bull. It was beyond horrible to watch, and I think a few of us Americans were pretty close to both tears and puking. But when a torero is talented and matched up against a toro who is there to fight for his own life, it’s quite a spectacle.

Do I care if I ever see another one? No. Do I still find it barbaric? Yes. But when in Granada, it’s a lot easier to do as the Granadians do than you might guess.

3WW - The manuscript

Some weeks I stare at the words, wondering what on earth I'm supposed to do with them. How to make them work. How to write a story. This was one of those weeks, and I can't even blame it on Bone this time (not that I ever would anyway...). Visit 3WW to see all of this week's participants.

Touching
Visible
Stage

It was a dark and stormy night on Chestnut Street when suddenly…

Kimberly chucked the manuscript into the already overflowing recycle bin behind her desk. She heard it land first with a resounding thud, then the inevitable sound of it sliding down the pile of manuscripts it was joining. This batch was pure crap.

It was the worst of times. It was the best of times.

“Puh-lease people, if you’re going to plagiarize Classics, at least get the lines right. And pick a better one than A Tale of Two Cities.”

She tossed that one to join its peers and looked at the stack of remaining manuscripts in front of her: only a couple dozen more to go. At this rate, she’d be able to leave the office and curled up on her couch watching Seinfeld reruns when they came on at 11:30.

“Ah yes, the glamorous lifestyle of a New York City editor – home alone with her cat, watching Seinfeld reruns on a Friday night after putting in a 14-hour day,” Kimberly sighed. “And lets not forget this whole talking to myself business.” With a shake of her head that sent her copper curls flying in all directions, she grabbed the next manuscript in the pile.

Once upon a time, a beautiful princess …

“Seriously, at this stage of the game, how on earth are people still writing like this? I’m not a children’s book editor here! I’m an adult contemporary fiction and non-fiction editor!”

And so it went. Manuscript after manuscript, until the corner of her office looked like a war zone, with copious amounts of bound paper serving as casualties. Her recycle bin had become a prisoner of war, and was no longer even visible to Kimberly. She turned bleary eyes to the clock on her desk, and rubbed at her long since dried out contacts. 10:50 p.m. If she wanted to be on her couch with Herman (named after Herman Melville, the man who wrote Moby Dick, her favorite novel) purring while perched on her hip as she ate a large slice of the chocolate cake she baked the night before and laughing at Kramer, she needed to leave pronto. She only had one manuscript to go, and quite frankly, she was relatively sure it was going to be crap just like the others.

“I could just chuck it…” She sighed. She knew herself well enough to know that wasn’t going to happen. “Fine, I’ll just take it home with me. I can toss it from there as easily as I can from here.” Decision made, Kimberly packed up her bag, flipped the switch to send her office into darkness and headed home.

She let herself in and Herman came running. He wound himself through her legs, alternating between his berating meows to know where she’d been all day, and purring his welcome home. Dropping her bag on the floor, she scooped Herman up into her arms. “Did you miss me? Huh, did you miss me?” She rubbed her nose against his cold one, Eskimo Kiss style, then let him down when he started to fight her. “How about some tuna? Will that make it up to you?”

Herman meowed his acceptance of the terms, and she got him out a can of tuna. After feeding Herman, Kimberly cut herself a generous slice of decadent chocolate cake and poured a large glass of skim milk. She then lay down sideways on her couch, propped up on her left arm. Three bites into her cake, Herman hopped up on to her hip and started grooming himself.

When midnight came around, Kimberly reached for the remote to silence the TV. She grabbed the manuscript off the coffee table, assuming that at the best, it would put her to sleep, and at the worst, she’d be reaching once again for the remote.

We lay on my bed facing one another. Our hands were the only parts of our bodies touching, if you didn’t count our hearts.

The sun was just coming up over Central Park when Kimberly read the last line. She shut the manuscript and reached for her phone. She stared out at the lightening sky as she gathered her courage to dial the series of numbers she’d never forget, even though it had been 13 long years since she’d last dialed them. He picked up on the fourth ring, his voice sleepy. “Hello?”

She almost lost her nerve then, but then he asked, “Kimberly? Is that you?”

“You wrote about us. You wrote our story.”

“You read it.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“There’s no ending. It’s wonderful. Amazing. Heartwrenching, but simply phenomenal. I always knew you had talent, but… but there’s no ending.”

“Well, aren’t you the editor?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Help me write one. An ending worthy of the story you’re holding in your hands right this instant. Help me write it, Kimberly.”

Knowing what he was asking, she took a deep breath and contemplated the state of her life. She was 31 and alone. She’d never loved anyone but him, the boy she’d left behind at 18 after she’d miscarried their child. She had Herman, but he could go anywhere. So really, it was all up to her. Would she take a chance on him, on them.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll help you write the ending.”