July 29, 2002

Dreaming of Urine

Renting an apartment from old BS...some shitty dorm room with only a sink. Dishes, dishes..piling up. How much soap goes in the cup? I scrub some and see some sitting--Bill has done them and left them in the dish drainer. It was thoughtful of him. I finish mine and quelch the blinking red light on the answering machine by listening to what it has to say.

And, then, I'm at work. In some office of my own, with windows and a ledge, I find myself wearing a dress, ice blue. The air conditioning breaks. To keep it running, so nothing more major goes wrong, all of the ice in the building--the ice that was cooling our air, must be kept away from the intake. It's put in huge piles in our offices, all of them. Where there was empty space, there are piles and piles of the big tube ice, the kind formed on long metal rods. Everything has a hole in the middle, but there's no middle left of our offices. It's too cold, we're forced out.

Down through the hall, word comes that the roads are freezing over. "Oh," I ask myself, "Where is N-?" We've carpooled and have to get home before the ice goes solid. I flash forward, seeing the black highway with darker patches. There are only minutes left. I can't find her.

I try to work my way of the mad rush of building workers. There are so many of us...we're herded into a room, setup like a hospital. We're supposed to be triaged, but noone is hurt. They're checking to make sure we don't have to use the bathroom. If it's going to take so long to get home, we better pee first.

I go to an area and pull the hospital curtains around me. They're white, hung from chains on metal tracks. Nurses come in, and pull the curtains closed behind them. They hand me materials--a green plastic dishpan, some dinner napkins.

They bring in a twenty-somthing black couple with 5 kids. All the kids are dressed in frilly Sunday best, the girls with bows in the hair.

Mom and Dad come into the room. Mom is sort of harried and nervous. She has also accepted whatever is about to happen. She's a little dressed up, and fusses with her purse. Dad is calm and tries to make jokes with us.

I am told to pee into the dishpan. The news strikes me with some embarrassment. But, I pace around, strutting, facing the crowd that's assembled. "I can do it" I rallied myself. "I can pee in a dishpan if I have to. These people will think they've never seen anyone pee in a dishpan before, when I get through".

I arrange the green plastic dishpan behind me, bend over, unzip my pants and pee right into it. The floor is made of concrete. I sit the dishpan down, and look for napkins. Now, in addition to the plain dinner napkins, there are rolled up servings of plastic dinnerware in napkins scattered about. Still, the understanding is that we'll use the napkins to wipe ourselves.

An older man walks over to our table--the curtains are arranged around picnic tables--and sits down where my seat was before I got up to pee. He's trying to hit on me. Dad is either oblivious or thinks it's funny--he's still making jokes. The man picks up his silverware and asks, "So, what're we going to eat?".

I walk away, I drive into town. N is nowhere--I can't find her and am just driving. The sun is out, it's early morning. Folks are having lots of yardsales.

I turn onto a street near her house, and I'm going to leave a note on her door. As I start to make a second turn, she wizzes by me, driving her truck.

I pull onto her street and signal for her to pull over. She does. I get out of my car, and walk to hers. I ask her a question. She wants to answer, but is physically unable to. She drives away. I feel pissed off.

I drive to another destination. There's a plastic baggy filled with dried basil in my pocket. I take it out and show it to my friends, explaining that I peed on it. My friends are totally grossed out. Bill Cosby comes in and explains to us all, in a long, hilarious monologue, that's it's all right to eat herbs that have been peed on. "They're herbs", he says, as if it's totally obvious. Like they were dried up and the water reinvigorated them and maybe was a little like vegetable stock, adding flavor. It's better to eat rice cooked in stock than water--it tastes better. So, maybe pee tastes better, too.

We go through my knapsack, looking at the other contents. I can't believe how much fun it is to have Bill Cosby around. I decide to make him my new friend.

Posted by sarah at 12:01 AM

July 22, 2002

Have You Seen the Mice?

A strange assignment--relegated to a bedroom, with a graphics guy. We're doing research--we're doing our own projects. There's a lot to be done. We attack the books individually, intent on doing our own things. I try not to think about the implication of being in bed with him. I try not to think about how stunningly gorgeous he is. I try to peer through my glasses and be nothing but studious--not seductive or pouty.

It's great, secretly. He is gorgeous and we're sitting there and...well, what else comes to mind? I stop reading, and start pretending to.

The mice come in and run through. We have to hunt them down, turn away from the books. To my delight, we get to stay in the bedroom. But, now, we're hunting down the little creatures. Then, there are hijinks. That's right, hijinks.

Posted by sarah at 09:43 PM

July 09, 2002

Let's Have Fun!

"This is so great" the blond woman said. "You are fun, and this is so great". She's standing beside my bed in some sort of nurse's outfit. She's holding a clipboard and she's just given me a prize: fun. It's supposed to be fun in the bed (not that kind). Something like a lot of people are coming over and we're going to drink coffee and read books and talk. It'll be like a salon.

I'm lying there. I look up, stretching my arms to wake up for the fun. There's a spider there, spinning a very springy web. It jumps towards me and away, towards me and back up near the ceiling.

She blows her bangs out of the corner of her mouth. "Isn't this fun?" She tries to ignore the spider. Still the other folks are coming over.

The spider lunges at me, it's not going to let me leave. I look at the woman, I look at the web. Down comes the spider.

I lay as still as possible. When it hits the ceiling again, I think of killing it. She giggles at me, and the sound is just like the noise of the web as it falls towards me and away. I'm not sure who owns the smile.

Posted by sarah at 08:51 PM

Look, I Didn't Mean To

"I'm sorry, OK. I know it's wrong". I'm mad how I get when I know I'm in the wrong. The dress is in my hands. They might as well be covered in blood.

This is the wrong dress, all right. It's black, and that's about the only thing good about it. There's no taper at the knee. It's not slim-fitting.

"I know, it's the total opposite of what you said". It's black, sure, but it flares out as soon as it leaves the hip. That seam takes its leave of good taste, surging into a ruffle. And, there's not just one ruffle; there are four of them. It couldn't be more obviously wrong if it was made of four ruffled corn tortillas, and I shook them, shook them. Everyone would know from the smell, the sweet perfume of them. It is outrageous.

What did I think I would wear with it? Pointy heels; unattractive heels with 6-inch spikes and elf- tips. What top goes with it? A vomit of red, orange and green? What was I thinking?

She said it all in her look: anger, disappointment. She knew she shouldn't have invited me to be her bridesmaid. She told herself, "I told you so", and it nearly came out loud.

My head hung low, though the dress was still in my palm. It's likable, it's for a Miami wedding. "Don't you get it?" I silently asked her. "Aren't you cool enough to get it?" but I couldn't muster the outrage. She was right, and I was wrong.

I could win an award, maybe, for Worst Bridesmaid's Outfit, but I wouldn't be in her wedding. I shouldn't even think about it.

**************

Yeah, and on the way home, my beautiful car overheats. My dress lays in the backseat while I thumb at the road. And I didn't hear nobody pray.

Posted by sarah at 08:39 PM | Comments (0)