the weed man.
Chapter 12
The messenger.
“What the fuck would we do without the Internet? Do you know how many people would be poor and useless if the Internet goes down? What the fuck would we do with all of them? I remember these statistics they told us in 6th grade at some assembly, a person dies every 5 seconds. And that’s supposed to shock you. And it did, I freaked out. I thought about people dying for the next two years. I thought about their lives, if it’s somebody old who just died; if it was a girl or a kid. It was the first thing I thought about waking up, I’d think about it as I stared at the second hand of the clock in class, counting bodies. I thought of dead people while I was jerking off. I couldn’t get it out of my brain, this fucking horrifying thought of dead bodies, like zombies, multiplying every minute. Until eventually I got used to it, the idea of it, fucking dead people. I didn’t freak me out, I’d think of dead bodies under my feet as I walked on the sidewalk. It took me until High school to realize what I really should have been afraid of. Think about how many people are living every second. Covering the planet, on top of each other, like a bowl of maggots squirming all over themselves. I became revolted by people, sitting next to them on the bus, everyone in a certain state of decay. I didn’t make any friends staring at people the way I did. That’s when the sunglasses came on and never came off. But you’ve seen me, I’m not like that with people now. I figured out what I was really looking at, and now, it’s a lot easier to deal with. All these half dead pieces of shit are just the zombies I’d been thinking about. And I can just walk right on top of them. They’re the walking dead, as we speak, the Zompocalypse is upon us. You’re gonna argue that means we all are technically zombies too, but I say fuck you. I’m not playing dead for a long time to come. This is too much fun. When you live with the people everyone wants to forget exist, nobody watches you. But what was I talking about, the Internet. Yeah, all those suits are gonna be pissed when that’s gone. Poof, all that money, wish you had it in cash. If all you know how to do is count money on expensive computers, I don’t know if the dead will find much use for you. And the Rats will be the Leaders of the Dead. If you’re selling drugs you’ll always find work.”
February 15, 2012 at 11:29pm
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#14 MAKING PLANS: When you play a game of ‘who cares less,’ he’ll find a way to win, one way or the other.
— RULES FOR DATING HORRIBLE MEN
two layers of tights.
figure out the right angle.
2.14.12
Valentines Day. 49 days into 2012. I get home from work and start writing. 5:30p.m.
“Stand by Me” Otis Redding
Texts:
Bartender: Hi valentine
Birdy: Hi baby, be mine;)
Bartender: Yes please!
Birdy: Are you working tonight stud?
Bartender: Night off. What are you up to?
Birdy: Homework, washing my hair, ya know. But not the WHOLE night.
Bartender: So do yo want to meet up later?
Birdy: Yes whenever you want to baby i’m yours really!
When he calls we can’t seem to get on the same page, he doesn’t care what we do, I don’t care what we do. “Should I get a reservation?”
What I want is for him to have a plan, to tell me when and where to be and then give me 20 extra minutes on top of that. It seems like he doesn’t have anything planned, so I lower my expectations and tell him to go where he wants and call me when he wants me there.
My roommate gets home with his date, he’s on # 5-10 with this a mid-west Cutie-pie he met online. She made him cookies.
I get caught in a bottle of wine with them and it’s 7:41 when the Bartender tells me he’ll be in Fidi at 8:30. I haven’t washed my hair, smoked a bowl, put on make-up, tried three outfits, checked three mirrors, or stopped at H&W for a cigarette yet, and it was a 30 min. walk with a Bart stop. And once I had done all those things it was 9:30.
The mood is chilly at the back of the Italian restaurant. He had reservations at an infusion restaurant that his good friend manages. I follow the hostess, after she makes a swooping motion with her hand at the top of her head to identify my date’s distinctive haircut, and lean down to kiss him in his seat, he doesn’t stand.
“I’m sorry sweetheart. I fucked up,” I say as I take off my bag and coat. He’s chewing ciabatta bread with a roasted red pepper and caper aoili. He nods, looking at me through his black glasses as I take the chair across from him.
“I’m pretty much wasted,” he says after swallowing.
“I would be to if I’d been waiting. Waiting is the best time to drink. Then you’re always prepared for what’s next.” I say when the waiter comes over.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” pointing the the glass of red in front of the Bartender. He’s looking at me.
“How was the Birthday party at the bar?” I ask.
“I didn’t go. Because I was waiting, in the restaurant.” He looks out the window.
“Oh, right. I am definitely still sorry.” I say. I wait for the wine quietly, looking around the restaurant. Valentine’s day is back in style it seems, the whole place is couples.
“Hows the, uh Bruschetta?” I point to the bread.
“Ciabatta,” he picks up the plate and hands it to me with half a slice left. “Sorry I ate it all. While I waited.” He cleans his teeth with his tongue.
I thank him, finish the piece, and mention the aoili. the sweet red pepper, I get pretty excited when I find the capers in it. When that’s gone I pick up the wine the waiter dropped off and sip it. “What are we drinking?”
He leans back in his chair and tells me the name of the wine. I nod so it seems like it meant something to me, and I didn’t just ask and immediately ignore the answer. “It’s really good.” I smile.
Silence for two minutes as I looks at the menu, ask the Bartender what he’s having, and order. The waiter leave us in more silence, I scan the restaurant, the back wall is a colorful mural.
“All the Amigos in the back. Makes me wonder where their valentine’s are tonight.” I point to the open Kitchen to my left where the Chefs make our meals.
“Back in Mexico, committing adultery.” He really drawls when he’s drunk.
“You think so?” He nods, clearing his teeth with his tongue. “Well that’s sad.”
I look at him as he picks up his wine. We understand each other better this way.
I see the words on his face before he says them. What I wouldn’t have bet on is the way his right eyebrow pulls in as he says it. Questioning.
“I think we should see other people.”
————-
Ok.
“Do you still want to see each other?” She takes her wine after a calm pause.
“Yes, I really like seeing you,” he shakes his head and sits forward.
“But you want to sleep with other people.” She looks at him.
“Well, I’m not trying to say that.” He looks up.
“Yes, you are, I know what that phrase means” Birdy says to him. “Ok,” she breathes.
“I think we need an open relationship, I’m just not boyfriend material.”
“Ok. Well,” she speaks slowly, thinking hard to compose herself. “We could sleep with other people if you want. And sleep with each other, but,” she looks in his eyes. “With condoms only.”
“Ok. Condoms,” the Bartender nods, digesting the word trying to convince himself it tastes fine. He shakes his head as Birdy scrunches one nostril at the word across the table. “I don’t think that’ll work,” she says.
“No, definitely not.” His right eyebrow twitches up, he looks at her.
“Well.” Her smooth forehead breaks into small wrinkles as she says: “I don’t know quite what to say. I’ve dated around. I know what sex is like, and I don’t see any reason to do it with any one but you. I mean, it’s fun to be single. But, the seduction thing is such a waste of time when I want you. It’s not optional, like I told you, for me.” She breaks his gaze.
“I don’t like to waste my time either, sitting in restaurants.”
“I understand that I’m sorry I got caught up, my roommates like hanging out with me.” She smiles remembering the exchange with her roommate earlier that night at 701. “Grinder took his date to dinner at 5:45 because they waited til yesterday to make a reservation.”
“I got us in at 8:30, the night of.” He raises an eyebrow across the table.
“Well, I guess I should’ve guessed you could do that. But, in the real world no plans Valentine’s night means renting a movie and ordering pizza. I didn’t want to have expectations.” More wine. “But, I took a while to get dressed up, because I can’t help it, I’m a girl. And it made me late. I’m always fucking late. But,” she shakes her head, blinking. “I was excited to see you all day. But for me that’d be any Tuesday night.”
“I was just excited to see you too,” he sighs. “I was trying to be romantic. But I really just shouldn’t try, I’m really not good at caring about people. It’s why I don’t do it.”
“I kind of feel like I want to care about so many people, that I do a shitty job showing it to anyone. I’m sort of… unwillingly abusive to the people I love,” Birdy drinks wine. “Which is why I like being with you, your spontaneous, I try not to be clingy, but I can’t help wanting to be around you, whenever you want me. But I thought you knew you could tell me to fuck off at any time and I will find something else to do. So, if that’s what you’re saying then just do it, and I won’t follow you around.”
“Why though?” He says when she looks back up at him. “I feel like I don’t treat you well. I feel like I’m a bad boyfriend. Why do you want to hang out with me?”
“The worst,” she sighs and smiles. Her eyes shift to the waiter coming down the aisle with the plates. “The foods here,” she smiles and breaths. “Let’s eat and talk more outside.”
They eat in mostly silence, but this is typical, they get carried away with the food. They usually pause to nod and make eye contact. They exchange bites and comment on each other’s food. When she tastes a bite of his chicken marsala, she closes her eyes, “Mm, mashed potatoes?” She looks at his plate. “Like applesauce.” says Birdy. The Bartender nods, thinking about it in his mouth. “That’s right, exactly like applesauce. It’s perfectly done.”
the Dogo, one blue eye one brown.
Bird’song
I just heard a voice, from outside or perhaps upstairs, just faint syllable from a mannish voice, and I erupted in an intense fear and panic. I sit here letting it wash over me, what is terrifying me is the realization that there are people out there. Am I becoming afraid of people?
At night I walk down Market to the SOMA bar I really shouldn’t be going to, down streets I really shouldn’t have be alone on. It’d been raining that day, so the shit and trash has a fresh dew, and the crack heads have been cooped up all day, they haven’t accosted nearly enough tourists in the daytime, so they are hungry for it, the confrontation.
I hold my knife slightly open in a clenched fist in the pocket of my blue trench coat from Target. You might call me hungry too, but I can explain.
I walk down Market past the drug dealers next to the Bart station, past the apartment complex that I lived in for 4 months when I first moved here. I stare at the three kids standing out front smoking cigarettes. They might not have be kids but I assume so, and I wonder if they are having the worst time of their lives like I did living there.
I wonder if they’ve looked at that sign posted on the outside of the building while they smoke and pace: “Warning, this site is known to contain chemicals known to the State of California to cause cancer.” I think about waking up next the the wall of that apartment, my face pushed up against the chalky white paint because my boyfriend at the time had chased me across the bed during the night trying to hold me. I remember crying in the bathroom thinking about lead paint poisoning. I used to open the window and smoke cigarettes, balancing in the frame. I told him in a fight once how I thought about falling out, jumping. I figured if I’m poisoned anyway.
I used to think there were certain people who weren’t meant to be happy; some people really take it to heart that we’re all doomed.
I walk past the homeless in wheelchairs, the crackhead hooker bumming cigarettes, endless drug dealers. As I pass a corner market at 6th a group of 4 or 5 addicts are listening to music. One to my right in a scarf and a fedora is staring me down, so at 4 paces away I look him in the eye with a small smile and nod. ‘Hello there, what’s your name?’ he asks as he starts walking with me on the left. I tell him Molly, and he says nice to meet you Molly, coming from work? And I tell him I’m really not looking for company, and as I say this he swings his scarf up, this thin wool scarf with multi colored vertical stripes, and hits me slightly on the face as he throws it over his right shoulder hits me on the nose.dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
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When I wake up on my couch, I realize I didn’t know where I was sleeping. Sometimes I dream that I’m riding in a the back of a taxi with strange men and don’t know where I’m going, the heavy feeling in the back of my head like we’re accelerating up hills. I don’t know how I know they’re strangers, they always are. Something similar to gravity.
Falling asleep in strange places is a consequence of staying out late in sketchy places to see horrible men. I know I seem stupid, just walking right into it. I feel stupid, holding onto this knife in my pocket, the tip grazing my hip as I walk. I need it pulled out because I’m not fast enough with it to keep it in my pocket in sight, it could get taken from me too quickly. But instead of leave it at home my dumb ass brings it everywhere, wears it around.
But as I get further downtown I realize the knife for the liability it is in the hands of someone who can’t use it. So I prop it open in my hand and I repeat the instructions told to me when I traded for the knife with a penny: ‘If you pull this out, you better kill someone.’ The Bartender looked me in the eyes in his fuzzy drunken way. He asked me where the knife was two days later and I had to remind him. “You told me if I use it I have to kill someone.”
“That’s right honey, I forgot about that. Didn’t you give me a penny? That’s yours now.” I made a lame attempt to give it back but the truth is I wanted it.
If you don’t know where you’re going you have to look like it; if you wander around lost you invite the lost to follow you.
The night I got the knife was the night the Bartender got kicked out of his own bar after knocking down every bar stool screaming “Cuckaw!” One of the Chefs came in with an ex-girlfriend of the Bartenders, and attractive 26 year old bartender with long brunette hair. She brought the dog they now share custody of, a huge white Dogo Argentino. Looking at the size of the Dogo you’d never guess the Bartender to be the destructive one. She was dropping him off for the Bartender to take home. She sat at the bar with the Chef for a drink.
I spend only half the time we are together actually with the Bartender, he knows everyone and whoever doesn’t, wants to so he usually disappears for 20 minute segments between kissing me in the barstool. I talk with his friends, watch football, bum cigarettes from the Waitress, and follow the weed man’s blunt around. The Bartender takes shots and plays pool, takes shit from the regulars, orders garlic fries and passes them around, bumps coke in the bathroom with the weed man and anyone else who offers. We all have our habits.
After the chairs were down one of the Creatures behind the bar came around to kick the Bartender out. “Alright that’s all I can do tonight buddy, you gotta go.” I’m pretty much silent standing by the pool table, slight shock. When the Creature looks at me I take a step forward and take the Bartender’s arm, just in time to lose it as the Bartender lifts them and turns to the bar “CUCKAW!” He looks like a hairless Gorilla, a caveman.
When we’re outside he keeps milling around slurring at his smoker friends about respect. I try to bum a cigarette from the Russian, but when I light it on the flame behind his hands, gloved with the fingers cut off, the Bartender swipes it from me, stares at it, and destroys it, ripping it in half and scattering tobacco into the gutter. “Time to go then.” I thanked the Russian, and apologized. I grabbed the Bartender by the arm and asked him how to get home. “You have to get me home now, remember? I’m a tiny little woman and I don’t know where we are.”
“You get us home.” Dare.
Once I realized that I had carried a lethal weapon with me with just enough skill to manage getting myself killed with it, I decided my only real defense would be surprise. Again, my looks are the only thing I really have going for me so I decided to bank on the fact that a somewhat slow but committed attack from this little white girl would be surprising enough for me to hit something important. I made a promise, whether it gets me killed too, I will kill someone when I take out this knife.
flora
#11: STAY AVAILABLE FOR BRUNCH
If you can’t hold it together to have a pleasant brunch with a member of your family, you are in too deep. Pull out for at least a 2 day breather.
— RULES FOR DATING HORRIBLE MEN
Bird’song
My sister and her boyfriend meet me for brunch on a Sunday.
I haven’t seen my Sister since Christmas back in Colorado. We’ve been in sparse contact over the last two months. I take bong hits five minutes before they arrive. I laugh so loud at brunch we’re lucky to be sitting outside. I prepared the Pg-13, or rather the Pg-25 and engaged with a real job and an i-pad version of my life. She doesn’t deserve the worry it would cause to tell her the whole story, and it’d go straight to Mom after all.
“He’d just gotten up to go to the bathroom so I pull out my ipad to read and hear ‘Look! look at me! hey, hey, look here, look at me!’ And I’m like yes, I know you’re there, don’t pretend like I somehow neglect you,” D says while we wait for food. She tells domestic jokes about living with her boyfriend of 5 years, the Banker. They both enjoy pretending to be the more abused mate.
She pulls out her iphone with a thick black case, sleek and obviously durable. “Oh that’s a great case D,” I tell her.
“Oh did you hear she likes the case?” the Banker perks up. “Somebody got that for her for Christmas. I have the same one actually,” he tells me. The Banker is 6’3” and dark blonde, half jewish and handsome. The exact type of man you’d trust with your money.
D and I can really have a great time at Ikea. The Banker and D shouldn’t go to Ikea together. The Banker likes to talk down to sales people. He got in a screaming fight trying to buy a car. He’s a young professional with money to spend and he doesn’t think he gets taken seriously enough shopping in jeans and tennis shoes. They’re both incredibly smart, D is creative. She’s in advertising copy writing. She writes jokes. She makes me laugh like crazy. She’s my Sister, I’ve peed my pants in a Tjmaxx with her and she hid me behind the sunglasses when I was 10. I love everything about her. This morning she tells me she hates her haircut, and whenever we shop for clothes she hates everything on her. She feels like a failure a lot of the time. She taught me to eat chocolate when I’m pms-ing.
D has a new job, where she’s doing real work at an agency and getting a hands-on influence on projects. She sits a little straighter and she laughs loudly with me. When she was looking for work, she was strained, she wore that worry on her face.
They told me about their Banker friend JB, whose dating a woman he describes as “really boring when sober.” He’s been taking random drugs suggested to him by this insane woman and it’s making him incapable of acting appropriate in social situations. The same thing happens if I don’t do drugs in social situations.
The Banker and I have a great time ripping on each other; given the number of awkward advertising parties and school graduations we’ve been thrown into with D, he’s become fantastic company actually. He’s like a New Yorker, stand-offish at first, but you’ll get him with vinegar and salt.
The time comes in the conversation when I have to explain myself to D, you can’t go two months in the same city without seeing each other and convince her you were really just doing homework. “Are you still dating that guy, the bartender?” she asks.
“The Bartender and I are still dating, yes. It’s actually going well, we like each other a lot,” I tell her. I shake my head side to side with a smirk. “But, I don’t think he’ll be coming home for Christmas, I’ll put it that way.”
She smiles and nods, trying her hardest to hold back her judgment. It’s not that she looks down on me, she just wants better for me, and doesn’t understand why I like to waste my time.
“How’s your roommate? Still stage five?” She puts up on hand and makes a claw, mouthing “clinger” and grabs at me.
I laugh, of course. “No we’re really good actually. We’re getting on the same page, she’s just struggling with my whole, ‘I make horrible decisions despite completely knowing better’ thing. It’s hard for her to stop talking when we’ve already established the right thing to do, and I’ve already told her I’m not going to do it. She has trouble accepting that.” I sip my coffee out of an awkward ceramic tea cup the size of half a grapefruit with a feeble little handle you can only fit a finger in, “I told her that’s what it takes to be my family, endless patience and an eye for lost causes.”
“We don’t think your a lost cause,” she tells me, seeming serious though I had tried to deliver that last line with a laugh. The sun’s out but in the shade of the patio there’s a chill on my skin. Sunday brunchers stroll the sidewalks in Hayes Valley around us, sunglasses and scarfs.
“I know you don’t, I’m saying you know when talking to me anymore about a subject is a lost cause, when I’ve made up my mind about one thing or another.” I try to be succinct and honest. I don’t like wasting time following the same process of conversation. Unless it’s small talk, I love useless small talk.
“Yes that’s very true. We deal with that frustration over and over. We love you.”
“But I don’t make it easy. Em is adjusting.”
The sun’s out but in the shade of the patio there’s a chill on my skin. Sunday brunchers stroll the sidewalks in Hayes Valley around us, sunglasses and scarfs.
We walk to a book shop and look for a birthday card for our brother, the Doctor. We find one in a little woman shop; one of SF’s many small boutiques where everything is brightly colored and floral patterned from stationery to magnetic egg timers and hand-knit mug cozies. We make the Banker follow us around the store and we talk about how we would buy everything. A little box to keep littler things in, plastic sunglasses for $40, a pack of thank you notes with watercolor hats on them. We pick out a card that says “YOU’RE AWESOME!” When we’re back at my front door I take a pen from my bag and sign “Happy Birthday Doctor Brother! I miss you, hi Kelly. Love, your Sister.” I hug D and the Banker, and I head the opposite direction up the street to H&W to get two cigarettes from Charlie behind the counter.
1.
