“Okay, have another,” she
insisted. “We have got to
get on the same level!” I do
believe that she was rolling her
eyes. She never learned. “That’s
absolutely correct,” said I. “But just
to warn you” [or is it just to remind
you?], “I’m already two steps behind
you,“ I faux-winced, before adding,
“but of course three levels atop ya.”
I glared back in the least menacing way
I believed I could, or at least I felt
that it had been, like my seconds-
ago performance of a fake
wince a tremendously fantastic and
completely non-judgmental meta-
phorical comparison, this time
between our two separate toxicities,
the degrees to which one of us was
higher and/or lower than the other.
I mean, she is a lightweight and all, but yet
one who is a magical combination of titan-
ium and sponge. Perhaps I’m the sponge...
made of titanium or something, is the
direction I allowed my mind to
drift. Let’s put it this way: I was ex-
tremely gifted at babysitting inebriants
my own age (and sometimes twice
my age; and on more than one
occasion, thrice!). It was one of
my many gifts, like popping out
my shoulder blades at church when
I was a child, so as to create the
utter confusion which would
quite audibly follow, coming from
pews behind me that (and here
neither age nor sex nor even the
degree of severity to one presented
oneself week-in and week-out would
have any bearing on this giggle-a-thon)
each thought they were witnessing the
swift birth of back-wards-pointing, ill-
sexed, terribly abnormal boobs (I suppose,
but I wonder for a split-second whether if
I were to actually have boobs, no matter
which direction they pointed, come on,
would they be pronouncedly ill-sexed?).
And this is when I pulled my version of
improper etiquette monster no no of the
year. My greatest fear had just happened.
I remember when it would happen to my
calculus professor in undergrad. He
would pause a moment too long,
visibly come back into the earth’s
atmosphere, contort his face into
a sort of frozen chuckle (with-
out chuckling at all, in actuality),
and then say both dreamily and
confidently, "Whoa!........Two trains
just collided in my head. I’m really
sorry but I have no idea what I was
just saying.” The best part was that
this would almost always coincide
with the end of the class for the day.
No matter whether it was anywhere
close to lunchtime. But on those
days when he didn’t allow the
tragedy that had just occurred in his head
to be a catalyst for class dismissal, he
would without fail call on me to answer
his next calculus question which did
not seem calculated at all, unless he
was seeking a bigger answer, like
my demise, because these would
always be non sequitur and some-
times even non-calculus queries,
riddles, I would even suggest would
be the better word, those questions
and queries. To this day I believe that
it was only because I laughed the
hardest and the longest at his
cheesy train-brain-drain joke.
These questions would, in turn,
leave me completely speechless,
and probably more to the point
if my future would be an indication,
would leave me completely devoid
of humor, which meant, further-
more, that these questions, these
riddles, are just enough to catalyze
within me what I still believe to
be the front-end symptoms
of what I would later, and
with much more familiarity,
be able to self-diagnose: a
panic attack. (And, yes, these
attacks, and their frequency, have
amped up with a ruthlessly drawn-
out crescendo over the years). To
this day, I suffer from what my
therapist says (with a sly grin!) is
PTSD every time I hear a locomotive,
whether I am stopping for one to pass
or I hear it's familiar chug and the hideous
music that toots non-stop from its...
chimney. But that is a story for
another day. Or it would have been,
I suppose, had I but held my course
(no matter how low the likelihood of
that happening may be). This one is,
I recall, about how Tessie and I
relearn how much our incompati-
bility sags when we come up with
the brilliant idea to split a joint.
And apparently, she had just caught
the same nostalgic ball of wax that
I had, if not a few second before
(and, yes, a reminder to self: that no
matter how far gone she may seem,
she never fails to beat me to the
punch at anything...well...except pick-
ing up girls in bars ...which, truth be
told here, is not my idea of a winning
punch.) (Nor hers) (Not even close, in
either case.). So now she has collapsed
into her version of stitches, lying motion-
less and on my kitchen floor, which
was, in my case, a stone mosaic
depicting (by an arty friend of mine)
a rather bawdy interpretation of the
last supper (Get it? It’s such a splendid
idea. That is, if you love hours of deranged
conversations, which, among my friends, tends
to occur regularly — hours and deranged —
words which probably describe these pro-
longed word-heaps better than any other com-
bined pair. To a T.). So Tessie lay motion-
less and stiff and seemingly unconscious,
which, to recap, was her way of projecting
emotion of any kind. And she initiates
this in an overly-dramatic fashion:
beginning with an all-in feigned faint.
Which I have, for better, or worse, some-
how come to block, un-see or, better put,
completely erase (but of course, inadvert-
antly), to fail to witness under any circum-
stance as it actually happens, even if she’s
standing shoulder-to-shoulder beside me
or, even more odd, quite literally mano a
mano). And when this collapse, her ‘faint’,
occurs, I am told she does it with such gusto,
with such awkward panache (which,
believe me, is not an oxymoronic pair of
words in her case...but there is no way any
explanation the duration of time of which
is less than that of a regular workday would
would do it justice, so just nevermind). She
performs this fete by dropping to the floor
as if fainting, and therefore she lands with
a slam, somehow into such contorted poses
as of those that fall to the street from some-
where near or at the tops of many-storied buildi-
ngs often appear after deciding their fate (or being,
pushed, which, little known fact, you can tell by the
look of their dead face if, indeed, the clump on the
street or sidewalk or atop a car or having been split
hardest and the longest at his
cheesy train-brain-drain joke.
These questions would, in turn,
leave me completely speechless,
and probably more to the point
if my future would be an indication,
would leave me completely devoid
of humor, which meant, further-
more, that these questions, these
riddles, are just enough to catalyze
within me what I still believe to
be the front-end symptoms
of what I would later, and
with much more familiarity,
be able to self-diagnose: a
panic attack. (And, yes, these
attacks, and their frequency, have
amped up with a ruthlessly drawn-
out crescendo over the years). To
this day, I suffer from what my
therapist says (with a sly grin!) is
PTSD every time I hear a locomotive,
whether I am stopping for one to pass
or I hear it's familiar chug and the hideous
music that toots non-stop from its...
chimney. But that is a story for
another day. Or it would have been,
I suppose, had I but held my course
(no matter how low the likelihood of
that happening may be). This one is,
I recall, about how Tessie and I
relearn how much our incompati-
bility sags when we come up with
the brilliant idea to split a joint.
And apparently, she had just caught
the same nostalgic ball of wax that
I had, if not a few second before
(and, yes, a reminder to self: that no
matter how far gone she may seem,
she never fails to beat me to the
punch at anything...well...except pick-
ing up girls in bars ...which, truth be
told here, is not my idea of a winning
punch.) (Nor hers) (Not even close, in
either case.). So now she has collapsed
into her version of stitches, lying motion-
less and on my kitchen floor, which
was, in my case, a stone mosaic
depicting (by an arty friend of mine)
a rather bawdy interpretation of the
last supper (Get it? It’s such a splendid
idea. That is, if you love hours of deranged
conversations, which, among my friends, tends
to occur regularly — hours and deranged —
words which probably describe these pro-
longed word-heaps better than any other com-
bined pair. To a T.). So Tessie lay motion-
less and stiff and seemingly unconscious,
which, to recap, was her way of projecting
emotion of any kind. And she initiates
this in an overly-dramatic fashion:
beginning with an all-in feigned faint.
Which I have, for better, or worse, some-
how come to block, un-see or, better put,
completely erase (but of course, inadvert-
antly), to fail to witness under any circum-
stance as it actually happens, even if she’s
standing shoulder-to-shoulder beside me
or, even more odd, quite literally mano a
mano). And when this collapse, her ‘faint’,
occurs, I am told she does it with such gusto,
with such awkward panache (which,
believe me, is not an oxymoronic pair of
words in her case...but there is no way any
explanation the duration of time of which
is less than that of a regular workday would
would do it justice, so just nevermind). She
performs this fete by dropping to the floor
as if fainting, and therefore she lands with
a slam, somehow into such contorted poses
as of those that fall to the street from some-
where near or at the tops of many-storied buildi-
ngs often appear after deciding their fate (or being,
pushed, which, little known fact, you can tell by the
look of their dead face if, indeed, the clump on the
street or sidewalk or atop a car or having been split
by a trash-bin or whatever was murdered or rather
killed by their own doing). Needless to say, somew-
here in the clump of Tessie which began as a col-
lapse my mind disputes, and who is now
a noiseless and movement-free, misshapen
pile on my kitchen floor, she is somewhere
in there (pejoratively and punnily) laugh-
ing her ass off. In fact, now this scene
is starting to make much more sense.
Because the moment she arrived
this morning with her (mandatory)
peach cobbler, she turns around,
makes a slate-cleaning movement
with her right arm and hand behind
her back (which, I might add is one of
her many brilliant and mind-boggling
talents) and proclaims to no one
in particular (to be more trans-
parent, I was the only other
human being in attendance at
this time), “My butt is getting
flatter and flatter, doncha think?
I am totally becoming my hus-
band,” to which I had to do some
quick and intense recollection,
and it turns out she was correct,
they do both have flat asses. This gar-
ners a rather less false look of menace
(I hope?). Sure, I was performing. It’s inevit-
able, isn’t it? Everything we do is a per-
formance. Really? Well, maybe it was. Per-
haps in actuality, I had become my own per-
formance. And why not? Because that’s
what we do, I pondered, reiteratively, just to let
it sink in. “Of course I’m not angry, darling,“ I
put on my best calm, my most convincing
matter-of-fact, and continued to clean
the kitchen counters. We had
just finished Comedy Brunch, our
own miniature version of Live
at the Apollo, in the breathable
comfort of my very own home.
It is our monthly gig, and while we were
often less than hilarious, we are a close-
knit mix of the people I love; friends for life.
And like those who live life, we’re made
of the most randomly diverse group
of individuals imaginable (I can on-
ly use my imagine to gauge, but you
get the picture). And, boy, when we
got together like this, it was always
such a hoot. Family does exist, if
even in the imagination. And, hey!
Do not knock it until you’ve tried it.
lapse my mind disputes, and who is now
a noiseless and movement-free, misshapen
pile on my kitchen floor, she is somewhere
in there (pejoratively and punnily) laugh-
ing her ass off. In fact, now this scene
is starting to make much more sense.
Because the moment she arrived
this morning with her (mandatory)
peach cobbler, she turns around,
makes a slate-cleaning movement
with her right arm and hand behind
her back (which, I might add is one of
her many brilliant and mind-boggling
talents) and proclaims to no one
in particular (to be more trans-
parent, I was the only other
human being in attendance at
this time), “My butt is getting
flatter and flatter, doncha think?
I am totally becoming my hus-
band,” to which I had to do some
quick and intense recollection,
and it turns out she was correct,
they do both have flat asses. This gar-
ners a rather less false look of menace
(I hope?). Sure, I was performing. It’s inevit-
able, isn’t it? Everything we do is a per-
formance. Really? Well, maybe it was. Per-
haps in actuality, I had become my own per-
formance. And why not? Because that’s
what we do, I pondered, reiteratively, just to let
it sink in. “Of course I’m not angry, darling,“ I
put on my best calm, my most convincing
matter-of-fact, and continued to clean
the kitchen counters. We had
just finished Comedy Brunch, our
own miniature version of Live
at the Apollo, in the breathable
comfort of my very own home.
It is our monthly gig, and while we were
often less than hilarious, we are a close-
knit mix of the people I love; friends for life.
And like those who live life, we’re made
of the most randomly diverse group
of individuals imaginable (I can on-
ly use my imagine to gauge, but you
get the picture). And, boy, when we
got together like this, it was always
such a hoot. Family does exist, if
even in the imagination. And, hey!
Do not knock it until you’ve tried it.
