The Final Edition

Whitney Whittecar

Final Essay

May 2nd, 2012

The Past Never Goes Away

Jess

“Hey Josh, can I have another?”

“You bet, darlin’.”

My old friend pulls another glass from under the bar, reaches behind him for my favorite whiskey, and grabs the sweet&sour. I watch as he pours the perfect proportion of each—topping it off with three cherries. We’ve known each other for seemingly decades, our old souls finding each other just a few short years ago. He places the drink on my cardboard coaster, flashing the kind of heart wrenching grin that makes most girls swoon.

“You’re an artist,” I say.

“I know. I’ll be right back—don’t go anywhere.” Josh bustles down to the other end of the bar to pour drinks for a couple of his regulars. In no time, he’s right back in front of me with that same grin and stands against the bar, finally able to take a small break. "I didn’t expect to see you tonight…how ya been?”

The longer his eyes bore into mine, the more I can feel my face get warm. Damn that grin.

“I’m good,” is all I could muster, looking down, nervously stirring my perfect cocktail. “It’s been awhile...”

His cheerful attitude fades, super-fast. “Yeah, it has. You never come around anymore, Jess. Don’t return my calls, texts, the notes I left at your office. Hell, I had to call Maggie to make sure you were still alive. Like you dropped off the planet and I didn’t get the damn memo.”

As Josh rants, I can feel the tears welling up. A few months ago, I did just leave—skipped town for couple weeks, drove across Washington with nothing but a small suitcase and a few hundred bucks. Left my phone on the kitchen counter. I called Maggie from random places every few days to tell her I was alright; she mentioned Josh went a little crazy. Well, maybe that was me.

“Josh, I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Aw, Jess. I didn’t mean to make you cry. It’s really good to see you. You look great.” He leans across the bar to swipe my cheek, his hand lingering longer than it should. I can’t hold his stare, and as he retracts, my eyes flash to his left arm. Black ink peaks out from where t-shirt meets skin and Josh follows my gaze, only to quickly pull at his sleeve. My own hand reaches for my own left arm, feeling a pang of sadness.

“I’m getting mine covered,” I blurt. Instantly, I regret it, but the words just keep spewing out. “I hate it. It’s ugly and wasn’t done properly.”

“Oh yeah?” This time, Josh is the one looking a little choked up. “When’re you doing that?”

“Today. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” His face falls. Regret.

“Yeah, in like an hour. I wanted to have a drink or two, you know, to make it hurt less.” It’s now I realize any chance I have of making things better between us just evaporated. I can almost physically feel Josh pulling away from me, shutting me out, even though he has yet to budge. He isn’t looking at me anymore, my face isn’t warm.

“I’m going to check on everyone. Be back.”

My old souled mate won’t come back. He heads to the other end of the bar.

“Josh. Wait.”

“What, Jess? What could you possibly want?”

I pause. Looking.

“Love you, still. Always have, always will.”

With that, I slide off my stool. Tears cloud my vision as I drop some cash on the bar.

I shouldn’t have come here.

Carly

“I’m on the right track, baby,

            I WAS BORN THIS WAY…”

I can’t help but belt Gaga as it bleeds from my speakers at a red light, running late. Windows down, the guy stopped next to me even sings along. Phone in the passenger seats buzzes and I glance to see who could be calling: Jess. Shit. Before I could answer, it goes to voicemail but she doesn’t leave one. God, she’s probably pissed.

“Don’t hide yourself in regret,

            just love yourself and you’re set.”

Light still shines red as I hum, double-checking my reflection. “Damn, girl,” I whisper to myself. My purple and teal streaked bangs are pinned up perfectly, contrasting with the brunette mane I inherited from my mother. Make-up is flawlessly Fifties, dress cocktail style, bright red pumps, coordinating supremely. I feel fabulous.

“Whether life’s disabilities left you outcast,

            bullied, or teased…”

Green light! My heavy foot shifts from break to accelerator, breaking first from the pack to fly down Main Street. I’ve been late before, but damn. Never this late. Someone should be at the shop to let Jess inside, but who knows what the hell those boys are up to anymore. I might have to get mean and nasty.

With all these thoughts, I approach the shop in record time, and my foot shifts again, this time to the brake. Jess stands outside in the shadows and smiles a tiny smile as I flounder out of my car. “I AM SO SORRY!!” I yell to her, still gathering supplies to take inside.

“It’s ok. I haven’t been here long.”

“Ah, you’re too nice. Are the guys here?”

Jess chuckles before answering, “Yeah, but they locked me out. I tried banging on the door…”

“Shoulda flashed ‘em.” Only now do I really notice Jess’s face; something isn’t right. “Lemme just find my keys.” After what felt like eternity, I flipped the deadbolt and heard the ding of the door as I yanked it open. “Hey!” No answer. Strange.

“Where are they?”

“It’s Man-Merkin Monday. So who knows?” I scan my new friend’s face. “Gimme a few to get set up and we can get started, mmk?”

Sir Charles

With one fierce motion, I’m jolted awake.

She wraps her gloved hands around my neck, prodding and fondling, sticking the needle right in my nose. I quiver in protest. The usual pain runs the length of my body but I fight her to the bitter end. Persistent, she wiggles until I can’t hold off any longer. It’s in place.

Now comes the worst part.

Her arm moves quickly; before I know it, she has my ass-end gripped in one hand, malicious prongs in another and I’m suddenly attached to the machine. Knobs adjusted; she pops her foot up and down. I can hear the electricity before I feel it. Then I’m hit with almost twelve volts. Knobs readjusted, foot down. Just over eight this time. That must be sufficient because she lets me be. Still. I wish she’d wipe that evil grin off her face.

I know for fact she isn’t done; we’re just getting started. Talking, talking, blah, blah, blah. White towels are torn and folded next to me, the bottle of green solution stands in its spot. I’m overwhelmed with anxiety. I really do hate being involved, even though it’s my job.

Let’s just get this over with.

Jess

“What was I thinking?” I yell to no one but myself and slam my hand against the steering wheel. “Going to see him like that. And then I TOLD HIM my plan.” This time, it’s my head that makes contact, right where the airbag is located. I leave it there for a few minutes, letting the tears fall. Without moving much, check the time on my phone.

Shit.

I’m going to be late.

“Pull yourself together, Jess.”

Wipe my face, check my mascara; reapply one coat. No, two.

I take a deep breath, “Remember. You want to do this. Carly is waiting for you.” With that, I shove my keys into the ignition and fire up my old clunker.

It’s a manual, but I’m on autopilot. Minutes later, on Main Street, in front of the shop, I park. She’s nowhere in sight and I find myself grateful for the few minutes of solitude. Looks like a couple of the guys are inside, but I decide to wait here. Gaga plays from the radio, I listen to “Born This Way” and think of Carly: this fun, confident artist that just does what makes her happy. She has a great husband, three gorgeous children.

I almost had a baby with a great man.

Another tear squeaks out of my left eye but I catch it before it goes very far. Carly pulls up a few spots away. I shake my head as if the memories will be erased, as if my brain is an etch-a-sketch. Grab purse, leave phone. Plaster the best fake smile across my face.

Let’s do this.

Josh

Damn her! Jesus, I didn’t need that. She comes walkin’ in here like she never left, lookin’ better than I remember, only to leave again.

I shoulda known she wouldn’t stick around.

Now she’s off, lettin’ some scumbag cover her work. Wasn’t done right, my ass. Mine looks fine!

*smash*

Dammit. Another glass.

“Are you ok, Josh?” One of my regulars, who happens to be my best friend, looks at me funny.

“Yeah man, I’m good. No worries.”

No fucking worries.

Sir Charles

Ah! I had just nodded off again when she picked me up, and without any warning, shocked the hell outta me.

I guess we’re starting.

Carly

“Hey Jess, I think I’m ready for ya. Come on over lady!” As she sits in my black leather chair, I pour ink while still keeping an eye on that face of hers.

“So, my dear, how are ya?”

Silence. Man, I have to get this girl talking.

“What did you do today?”

“Went and saw Josh.”

Josh. That name sounds familiar, but I couldn’t place him. “And..?” Hopefully she will keep talking.

“It didn’t go that well. Are we still adding filigree to the top half?” she asks, looking at my stencil of her new tattoo.

Subject change. Oh well. I won’t make her talk about if she doesn’t want to. “Yeah, of course! I was going to freehand it, if that’s alright.”

“That’s cool.”

Jess watches my every move as I place the stencil, draw the extra parts, and get approval. She’s unusually quiet, but maybe the pain will open her up a bit.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

And with that, me and Sir Charles begin.

Jess

The pain is excruciating. Almost unbearable.

But I have to watch. If I look away, it hurts worse.

Carly is doing her best to make small talk without being too nosey. I didn’t mean to mention to her that I saw Josh earlier, but I don’t think she remembered the story and that’s fine by me.

Turns out whiskey doesn’t help with the pain.

If this keeps up, I might tell her that I didn’t want to leave his bar tonight, that I wanted to stay there just to hear his voice, even if he wouldn’t talk to me. I might tell her that when I left a few months back, it was to go to a clinic in Washington, not because I was sick, but because I couldn’t have a baby right then. Not right now. I might tell her that no one—except for Maggie—knows the truth. I might tell her that Josh would be pulverized if he heard, and I can’t walk around sharing the same ink with him. I might tell her that doing this will hurt him less, will allow him to eventually, to maybe, forgive me. Maybe. I might tell her that I still love him, that this pain here is nothing compared to what’s inside of me.

Yes, turns out whiskey doesn’t help with the pain.

Short Update...I need help!!

“I’m on the right track, baby,

            I WAS BORN THIS WAY…”

I can’t help but belt Gaga as it bleeds from my speakers at a red light, running late. Windows down, the guy stopped next to me even sings along. Phone in the passenger seats buzzes and I glance to see who could be calling: Jess. Shit. Before I could answer, it goes to voicemail but she doesn’t leave one. God, she’s probably pissed.

“Don’t hide yourself in regret,

            just love yourself and you’re set.”

Light still shines red as I hum, double-checking my reflection. “Damn, girl,” I whisper to myself. My purple and teal streaked bangs are pinned up perfectly, contrasting with the brunette mane I inherited from my mother. Make-up is flawlessly Fifties, dress cocktail style, bright red pumps, coordinating supremely. I feel fabulous.

“Whether life’s disabilities left you outcast,

            bullied, or teased…”

Green light! My heavy foot shifts from break to accelerator, breaking first from the pack to fly down Main Street. I approach the shop in no time, and my foot shifts again, this time to the brake. **In this spot, I want to address the fact that she is a female artist, which is somewhat uncommon in the business. Possible?**

Section Two, I Think

I was going to Intro with this, but I think it would fit better as a start to section two...
And I'm going to draft more tomorrow morning, but probably in other sections.

I want to better convey the emotion between the two people, and give more of their history...even if I have to make some of it up. I'm struggling with the blurry line of creative non-fiction...!

“Hey Josh, can I have another?”

“You bet, darlin’.”

My old friend pulls another glass from under the bar, reaches behind him for my favorite whiskey, and grabs the sweet&sour. I watch as he pours the perfect proportion of each—topping it off with three cherries. We’ve known each other for seemingly decades, our old souls finding each other just a few short years ago. He places the drink on my cardboard coaster, flashing the kind of heart wrenching grin that makes most girls swoon.

“You’re an artist,” I say.

“I know. I’ll be right back—don’t go anywhere.” Josh bustles down to the other end of the bar to pour drinks for a couple of his regulars. In no time, he’s right back in front of me with that same grin and stands against the bar, finally able to take a small break. "I didn’t expect to see you tonight…how ya been?”

The longer his eyes bore into mine, the more I can feel my face get warm. Damn that grin.

“I’m good,” is all I could muster, looking down, nervously stirring my perfect cocktail. “It’s been a while..”

His cheerful attitude fades, fast. “Yeah, it has. You never come around anymore, Jess. Don’t return my calls, texts, the notes I left at your office. Hell, I had to call Maggie to make sure you were still alive. Like you dropped off the planet and I didn’t get the damn memo.”

As Josh rants, I can feel the tears welling up. A few months ago, I did just leave—skipped town for couple weeks, drove across Washington with nothing but a small suitcase and a few hundred bucks. Left my phone on the kitchen counter. I called Maggie from random places every few days to tell her I was alright; she mentioned Josh went a little crazy. Well, maybe that was me.

“Josh, I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Aw, Jess. I didn’t mean to make you cry. It’s really good to see you. You look great.” He leans across the bar to swipe my cheek, his hand lingering longer than it should. I can’t hold his stare, and as he retracts, my eyes flash to his left arm. Black ink peaks out from where t-shirt meets skin and Josh follows my gaze, only to quickly pull at his sleeve. My own hand reaches for my own left arm, feeling a pang of sadness.

“I’m getting mine covered,” I blurt. Instantly, I regret it, but the words just keep spewing out. “I hate it. It’s ugly and wasn’t done properly.”

“Oh yeah?” This time, Josh is the one looking a little choked up. “When’re you doing that?”

“Today. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” His face falls. Regret.

“Yeah, in like an hour. I wanted to have a drink or two, you know, to make it hurt less.” It’s now I realize any chance I have of making things better between us just evaporated. I can almost physically feel Josh pulling away from me, shutting me out, even though he has yet to budge. He isn’t looking at me anymore, my face isn’t warm.

“I’m going to check on everyone. Be back.”

My old soul mate won’t come back. He heads to the other end of the bar.

“Josh. Wait.”
“What, Jess? What could you possibly have to say?”

I pause. Looking.

“Love you, still. Always have, always will.”

With that, I slide off my stool. Tears cloud my vision as I drop some cash on the bar.

I shouldn’t have come here.

Keepin' It Old School

I've taken to writing in a way that I never have before.
By hand.
It's changed my process, but I'm happy with where this new, or perhaps old, technique is leading me.
The lack of my own personal computer has left me with this situation. Remember, friends, technology hasn't been good to me this semester.
I can write whenever I feel the urge--some of my work for this assignment can be found on a napkin, for example--and, thinking now, I'm amazed that this idea has never occured to me before. 
I'm working on typing it all, to form somewhat of a draft.
But until then, this is what you get:

****The Preparation****
“Hey Josh, can I have another?”
“You bet, darlin’.”
My old friend pulls another glass from under the bar, reaches behind him for my favorite whiskey, and grabs the sweet&sour. I watch as he pours the perfect proportion of each—topping it off with three cherries. We’ve known each other for seemingly decades, our old souls finding each other just a few short years ago. He places the drink on my cardboard coaster, flashing the kind of heart wrenching grin that makes most girls swoon.
“You’re an artist,” I say.
“I know. I’ll be right back—don’t go anywhere.” Josh bustles down to the other end of the bar to pour drinks for a couple of his regulars. In no time, he’s right back in front of me...

Fake 'til You Make It

Previous to last Tuesday, I had been oh so stuck on my project and, at the time this was due, still didn't know which direction to take. But everyone knows the only way to fix inability is to keep trying. So I put my fingers to the keyboard and wrote this:

Quiet. That’s all I need is some peace and freaking quiet. My roommate and his stupid friends are sitting around my Great Grandma’s antique dining table, doing the ‘manly’ thing: getting wasted and talking shit about girls. Idiots. I asked them twice to shut up—have some respect for those of us trying to do something productive in our lives—but no. So, I decide to throw my books, keys, phone into my bag and leave.

The walk is peaceful. Sun feels warm on my bare arms, which seems surprising for early March. I find myself in a comfortable pace, hearing nothing but my own thoughts and the birds chirping in the distance. Campus is abandoned, well, except for that dog fetching like a good boy for his owner. Oh, and those eager flower children, tying their slackline. I smile, mostly out of mockery, coupled nicely with a dash of ignorance. *add more here* Hand me a cup of coffee, and this moment would be perfect.

Before long, my feet make their way to the library. The door proves to be heavy, as if to say, “Hey. Whit. Forget homework. Stay outside, enjoy your afternoon, and live worry-free for a few hours. I’ll be here tomorrow.” I pause, consider this idea and its appeal, but proceed any way.

Inside, silence. My body moves into a little victory dance. Before I can get to my favorite part, someone notices and just has to ask, “What the hell are you doing?” Instantly frozen, face six shades of red (all at once), I reply with a squeaky “Nothing!” and bolt.

I’m unsure if embarrassment and shame or the ever pressing desire for seclusion brought me here, but the third floor of Renne welcomes me like a long lost friend.

End note: Do not fret my dear friends! I have since discovered an intriguing topic and am on the long, twisted road to writing.

A Day Late and A Dollar Short

I've been spinnin' my wheels...
     wheel in the sky keeps on turnin'
Trying to choose something I love...
     love me, love me, sayyy that you love me
Sometimes, too many options makes it tricky...
     tricky to rock a rhyme that's right on time
And I'm still undecided.

Potential Project: Attempt to discover any varying reasons behind getting a tattoo.

Primary Research: With permission, spend an evening or two or ten at the shop where I get work done. Talk with clients, artists, the friend(s) that tag along for the ride, etc.

Secondary Research: History of the art, traditional symbolisms

Interesting Subject: I have many tattoos myself and have always been curious as to why someone might have a seemingly obscure object inked into their skin.

Questions: What motivates the desire to be tattooed? Is this generational? (Would that be more interesting to explore?) At what cost will people have this done? (Other than the obvious permanency.) What do family members think? Does the client care?

Should I go more broad than this...or even go with this at all…

All Good Days End With Chocolate

5:34 a.m.

My key fits perfectly in the lock. With one swift turn, I hear the deadbolt flip and the door swings open. Security alarm beeps that ear-splitting sound.

Beep-ding..BEepp-DIngg..BEEPP-DINGG.

Enter the code to turn that damn thing off.

I head to the front of the store, dragging my feet, jonessing for coffee. Light switches are found and my eyes have a difficult time adjusting. Count money, assemble slicer, make coffee. The aroma fills the store as I put clean dishes away from the night before. I keep a close eye on the clock, knowing customers will be waiting for me to open at the top of the hour. Before flipping yet another deadbolt, I grab my soy milk from the refrigerator to doctor a cup of Columbian Blend.

There’s something so serene about this time of day, sipping my joe and enjoying the silence.

But, alas.

The clock brings on the storm. I see headlights outside the front window and reach for my keys. Co-worker Miranda greets me at the door with a pan of eggs, followed by Bill, looking for breakfast.

9:47 a.m.

It’s a busy morning. Amidst breakfast specials, I’ve made sandwiches for the case and worked on the bank deposit. All the regulars come and go; we ‘shoot the shit’ like old friends, although, in perspective, I haven’t known them long. Help has arrived, so I take a moment to enjoy a little breakfast, refill my coffee cup for a third (maybe fourth) time. From the kitchen outside, Miranda brings in the soup of the day—Asian Vegetable Beef—and sticks around to chat while giving her creation a final stir. She decides to add a dash more of the secret Asian Sauce, but spills in the process, leaving a trail of spicy goodness on the counter.

I quickly wipe up the mess as more customers pile inside, looking for lunch.

11:15 a.m.

Crickets.

A once chaotic atmosphere has become quiet, which gives us a chance to play catch up. I pull the foods from the refrigerator necessary for a successful lunch rush, unwrapping and slicing as I go.

Turkey, Ham, Pastrami.

Cheddar, Swiss, Provolone.

Pickles, Tomatoes, Onion, Lettuce.

All makings of a great sandwich.

As time passes, more patrons file in and the line-up on the other side of the counter begins to look like one at a police station. I tell my customers so, and they all laugh. One woman looks fairly uneasy; I’m guessing this is her first or second time here. She opens her bag of Doritos and begins to snack as she waits to be helped.

“Ah, ma’am?” She hasn’t looked at me yet. “Ma’am?” Her head turns. “You can’t do that here. We have a strict policy on eating items before purchase.” The look on her face is one of horror, mixed with embarrassment. Within seconds, I can’t stifle my laugh any longer. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t resist. Is there anything I can get for you?”

Still unsure, she replies, “Medium broccoli salad.”

I smile, scoop her request, and move onto the next customer. Even though this woman may have thought, “Gee, she’s a little nuts,” she’ll be back, looking for harassment.

1:59 p.m.

Again, quiet. The afternoon shift has started, which means I’ll be leaving soon. I mentally prepare a list of projects for them and, as I walk by in search of pen and paper, take a peek at the sandwich case. Those poor girls. They’ll be making sandwiches for a few hours as it felt like most everyone in the valley stopped in today. Finding appropriate utensils and a place to write, my list comes to life:

o   Chop cherry peppers

o   Stock chips

o   Wipe out bottom of cooler and fridge

o   Make salsa for tomorrow’s breakfast

That should be enough to keep them busy. One of the girls prepares to go to the bank, taking the deposit and a list for change.

“Wait!” I shout a little louder than I should, but she freezes in motion, so, mission accomplished. “Grab a ten from the till and stop at the store for a few limes, would ya? You’ll need them tonight.”

All I get is a look of puzzlement, so I continue, “For salsa.”

Confusion evaporates.

She leaves, looking for citrus.

2:23 p.m.

Home.

Peace.

Quiet.

Looking for a nap.

4:31 p.m.

Front door slams and I wake with a start. His footsteps, heavy up the stairs, make me cringe with every thud. Thoughts of getting up fill my head, but my body protests. Just five more minutes. I can hear him swinging his keys—that kid loves the sounds of them jangling together—and he makes his way to my bedroom door. His voice carries well through our poorly insulated apartment, threatening to make a commotion if I don’t come out of my room. I imagine his fist as it hits the door with every pound and irritation sets in.

“Enough already.”

Pounding stops.

Reluctantly, I dig my phone from the sheets; scan missed calls and text messages. Nothing important.

*sigh*  

Another threat comes from the other side of my door.

“Coming!”

With effort, I make it to my dresser. The scent of delicious food wove its way into the fibers of my clothes, which now smells almost offensive. As I change, the roommate becomes increasingly impatient.

“Let’s GOOO! I’m HUNGRYYY!  We’re gonna be the last ones there!”

“Ben, I swear…” Emerging from my sanctuary, I see he didn’t even drop his keys.

“Ready?”

And we’re off, looking for our friends.

7:04 p.m.

Breadsticks? Tasty.

Most delicious pizza? Mmhmm.

Cherry beer? Oh yessssss.

Being the loudest, most obnoxious table in the joint with your closest friends? Looking for trouble.

8:42 p.m.

Stuffed like turkeys, Ben and I sit on the couch. We’ve been home for a while, enjoying the thuds our neighbors call music, not really saying much. Just when I’m tempted to call it a night, he jumps from his comfy spot and runs into the kitchen.

“I made these today,” he says, fumbling with something on the counter.

Curiosity gets me and I follow. Not even two steps onto the hardwood, a plate is shoved in my face with a big, mouthwatering brownie sitting on it.

“For me?”

“Yep.”

I have to stop myself from drooling and start…looking for a fork.

Just Another Day in *%&$^# Paradise

Let me preface my piece with a few lines of explanation:
I realize this is not a complete draft. It took some time to sift through my ideas. A few trial writings, a ton of coffee, and one night of shitty sleep later...when I woke up today, I knew exactly what was to be done. The past few hours of my precious time have been spent bangin' it out on the keyboard, only for the library to have a FREAKING power outage slash fire alarm. (Friends, I kid you not.) Do you think I hit the save button even once since I had started to finish this piece? No. Idiot. And standing in the freezing cold for over 20 minutes didn't help my now foul mood.
Needless to say, this is what you get. I will be spending the remainder of my evening recomposing the rest and hopefully it proves to be as good as the original.
Maybe Jesus thought my work was garbage.
Or maybe Karma is a bigger bitch than I thought.

Living the Dream (working title)

5:34 a.m.

My key fits perfectly in the lock. With one swift turn, I hear the deadbolt flip and the door swings open. Security alarm beeps that ear-splitting sound. Enter the code to turn that damn thing off. I head to the front of the store, dragging my feet, jonessing for coffee. Light switches are found and my eyes have a difficult time adjusting. Count money, assemble slicer, make coffee. The aroma fills the store as I put clean dishes away from the night before. I keep a close eye on the clock, knowing customers will be waiting for me to open at the top of the hour. Before flipping yet another deadbolt, I grab my soy milk from the refrigerator to doctor a cup of Columbian Blend. There’s something so serene about this time of day, sipping my joe and enjoying the silence. But, alas. The clock brings on the storm. I see headlights outside the front window and reach for my keys. Co-worker Miranda greets me at the door with a pan of eggs, followed by Bill, looking for breakfast.

9:47 a.m.

It’s a busy morning. Amidst breakfast specials, I’ve made sandwiches for the case and worked on the bank deposit. All the regulars come and go; we ‘shoot the shit’ like old friends, even though I haven’t known them long. Help has arrived, so I take a moment to enjoy a little breakfast, refill my coffee cup for a third (maybe fourth) time. Miranda brings in the soup of the day—Asian Vegetable Beef—and sticks around to chat while giving her creation a final stir. She decides to add a dash more of the secret Asian Sauce, but spills in the process, leaving a trail of spicy goodness on the counter. I quickly wipe up the mess as more customers pile inside, looking for lunch.

You Are What You Eat, So I've Heard...

"When we do right, nobody remembers. When we do wrong, nobody forgets."

Bandanas and leathers, Sportsters and Fat Boys, no helmets.
Wind-blown hair, well-worn boots, Ray-Ban shades.
Ragged clothes, imagined reek of pot, concluded don’t-give-a-shit attitudes.
Bona fide badasses.

These boys and their old ladies are hardened, weathered from a chosen life on the road. They look beat, yet loving every second of it. I would hate to meet any one, or ten, of them in a dark alley, and still, this lifestyle is so...cool to me. The fact that Bill Ray, photographer, was able to capture The Hells Angels is fascinating, really. I feel like I’m getting a sneak peek into the daily life of this gang, even though the photos were taken nearly 50 years ago.
34 images in a series give you plenty to view. I looked through them three, maybe four times, and saw something new in each one, every time. Only the first is in color and the last doesn’t give any hint as to the nature of the six friends sitting around the table. The arrangement seems purely random, which fits with its subjects. Naturally, a story is being told, even if only bits and pieces are given at random. There are holes, holes that allow a viewer to fill in details. My imagination ran wild with assumptions. I couldn’t possibly try to tell those stories with confidence; I’m not a bona fide badass. But I’ve sort of met one.

It was the summer of 2011. I was working two jobs, one selling food (which I still do), another selling bikes on the weekends. Five minutes before closing on a Friday afternoon, an older gentleman sauntered in the shop, looking like hell. His face was cherry-red, beard split in two from the ride, and he carried himself with a kind of audacity I’ve never seen before. I said hello to him, and got nothing. Not even an acknowledgement of my presence. Rude. Getting that suspicious feeling in my stomach, I kept a close eye on him. Then he eventually turned his back to me and my jaw hit the floor. This man’s jacket looked very, very similar to ones seen in the photos taken by Ray—perhaps that’s why the series struck such a chord with me. Right in front of me was a true Hells Angel. (This, and some of his story, was later confirmed by a coworker.) He didn’t stay long and I was chipper in my farewell. Not once did this tough guy look directly at me or speak a single word. And that, frankly, sent a chill down my spine.

The photos in the series don’t give me that sort of feeling. There’s a message here: look how real we are. On my fifth or sixth viewing, I started to read the captions under the photos and admittedly, that really helped with the holes, maybe even changed my perception.

Bandanas and leathers, Sportsters and Fat Boys, no helmets.
Wind-blown hair, well-worn boots, Ray-Ban shades.
Ragged clothes, imagined reek of pot, concluded don’t-give-a-shit attitudes.
Bona fide…misunderstood softies?




http://life.time.com/culture/never-seen-hells-angels-1965/#ixzz1lfBE8IKJ

Most Important Men

For the Love of Fruit

The tomato.

The order of development in which this plant grew is well known to most and yet, I think there’s more to the story than any of us could possibly imagine. While examining at the photo, I envision the process Celeste went through to cultivate such a beautiful fruit and am thankful she dug out her camera before picking it off the vine. That plump red, against the green, leaves a girl inspired to plant her own crop if only to have such a thing closer to her, tangible, able to taste.

And I don’t even like tomatoes.

I can’t help but notice how pleased my eyes are with the curves of the shot. They explore the roundness of the fruit once, twice, three times. And that red. It’s so captivating! The sunlight creates shadows that aren’t very contrasting, still they add interest. Even the arc of the plant stand draws my attention to other areas, other colors. Now I’m almost salivating.

And I don’t even like tomatoes.

The leaf in focus also has some curvature to it, but rigid enough I don’t spend much time here. Out of focus, the background is intriguing and I wonder about that little green guy. His vine-mate looks to be fairly large, almost as if he sucked up all the nutrients, leaving this one green. Realizing the somewhat ridiculousness of creating a personality for a fruit, my eyes find the vine right in the center. Peering closer, you can see the little “hairs” and this excites me. I feel like I could reach out and graze that fuzz. My fingers move to the closest tomato and before I know it, I’m right there with Celeste, enjoying the Floridian sun, picking one myself.

And I don’t even like tomatoes.

Photos of Interest..

These two top photos were taken by my very dear friend, Celeste Navara, and I must give credit where it is due! A big thanks to her for letting me "borrow" them! :)

Plantation Overseer

Pompous and arrogant. Leg propped up on the bumper of his shiny car in pure pride, this plantation owner appears to be a real jerk. His white, or light in color, attire gives him a holier-than-thou look that is almost nauseating. The men behind him are clearly submissive to his authority; their dark faces show slight emotion. I can’t tell if it’s the lighting, but these boys look tired.

I’m not a pro at analyzing photography from a technical standpoint. However, I can see that the plantation owner is offset to the right, and with the men elevated behind him, your eye is naturally drawn that direction. The faces of the assumed slaves are most intriguing to me and I wish they were clearer for further inspection.

The other man the owner is apparently chatting with seems to be in decent humor, perhaps smiling? I wonder who he is and what kind of conversation they are having…something as arbitrary as the weather, or maybe a topic more politically inclined. The disgruntled look on plantation owner’s face gives me the impression he isn’t enjoying whatever it is they’re discussing.

Sullen, the men on the stairs look like they are waiting for Mr. Owner to finish talking, but without any complaints. Why are they here? What could a plantation owner need five of his men in town for? The condition of their clothes, in addition to wearing hats and shoes, makes me feel like they are treated with as much fairness found in the late Thirties, which somewhat contradicts my first impression of the owner. A couple of these men look directly at the camera, and even though shadows cover their eyes, you can see the blank stares, the numbness, the open windows.

The angle at which this photo was taken leaves me curious. Seriously, why did she include the stranger on the left? Maybe because of the conversation going on? But then why can we only see a small portion of his body? What are the other men thinking, listening to the white folk? Do they care? Are they allowed to care?

What color is that car?

So many questions.

Why I Write

I write...
for the love of language.
because sometimes things just sound better on paper.
to tell my story.
for the amusement of others.
because I like it.
to get rid of baggage.
for a wage.
because I'm pretty ok at it.
to make a point.
for fun.
because it makes me feel sane.
to be perfectly articulate.
for my family.
because there's something about a sentence with perfect grammar.
to be me.