No one ever believes the wind is so strong...Not, at least, until it hits them.

She always picked up handfuls of the red dirt and put it in some random container when she was going back to her birthplace. Oh, she knew it wasn't just her habit. Humans always copy each other. She did it just the same.  The dirt in that place was special.  It was dry, not quite sandy, but it was dry and tough, and a dark red.  Not unlike the people there, strange, colorful, and tough.  In the old days they had to survive this land. She remembered the stories. Maybe saving some of the dirt would help her remain strange, colorful, and tough, too.  She could hope as she shut lid of the plastic container for this time. The wind in the place was loud, fast and often a solid wall of air forcing itself across the flat areas. It could help and it could kill, all in the same mood.   Had she survived?  Maybe, maybe not.  She ran the first chance she got.  Still always the powers of the dirt and the wind calling.

*******

It was the red dirt and the wind that she thought of when she got the call. It was cancer.  And why shouldn't it be?  It had taken the rest of his immediate family, in one version or another.  And she knew what was ahead.  The sickness, the cures that maybe worked and had their own sickness, and the fear and the sadness.  

It had been a long journey.  He had taken a long time to grow up. And later with a few stories, only a few, she understood why.  She also understood how lucky she actually was in the whole thing, and how the buck would actually stop with her.  We never get to hear enough stories from people. Enough that we can truly understand how their actually made, and how they arrived right here, in the minute.  She got it, and the few stories would probably be all she got, and maybe she was just lucky enough to have gotten those.

She would like more time. Hell, he was the one with the cancer, he probably wanted more time, too. He took comfort that there was a God. She didn't think there was one, to be so cruel with time, and saw the possible finality of it all. Either way it sucked. It really did just suck.

Nothing can take one back, way-way back, like bad news. She hung up the phone. She put on the quiet music, opened the window for a breeze. She poured the tall glass of whiskey neat, and lit a cigarette.  She pondered all the stories, the red dirt, the violent wind, and wrote this.

  

The White Trash Neighbor's Baby is Dead...I have no time to stop, Not really.

How many times do I forget to stop. I forget to stop all the time.  I forget the brain is always on.  The brain is always recording.  The brain never stops.  Even in sleep it's working.  And even though mine has bumps, scrapes and scars, it still keeps going....it still keeps working.  The brain constantly giving orders and taking in requests, storing....all that work.  And sometimes, I have to actually tell it to stop. But, it never stops, not really. 

I had moved, and still boxes and organization needed.  Items stuffed in cardboard. Cardboard is the poor-man's safety deposit box.  I had the feeling like I needed to just trash it all.  On the other hand, there were so many wonderful things that I only needed a little nudge to recall.  But, there's not enough room anywhere to store a whole life of tragedy and awesome.  And in the grand scheme of humanity, it would only be precious to me anyway. The trash bin has been filled, over and over then.  There is now some room to breathe and make new.

There are tons of intricate moving parts to a move. I noticed that the bill collectors didn't have any trouble finding my new address.  Yes, they are the most important people I wanted to remember to tell where I had moved to.  Thank you for taking care of that for me.  I'm sure there are countless people and places I have forgotten to tell where I have gone to.  

And the day to day living doesn't stop because you've moved.  No, you still have to eat, shit, do stuff in a timely manner.  Others may depend on you.  No stopping...full speed ahead. Animals have it right.  They make their homes out of crap they find on the ground, and when they move, they just leave it, and find new crap on the ground.  Man, did we fuck that up or what?!?!!

I haven't even memorized the placement of the light switches yet.  Finding a light switch has been a steady complicated thing in my life.  How are I supposed to stop or create new when I can't find a fucking light switch?!?!!

I don't really like the neighbor's in the next house.  They're white trash.  And there are about nine kids living in the house of all ages.  Their house is always loud.  The kids yell, then the mother yells - when the dad is out of jail, he'll yell.  Then someone cries, and there is more yelling.  Usually followed my a slam of some sort, and silence for about thirty minutes, then it all starts up again. I don't really have to do anything to get them to leave.  It's a rental. And soon enough they'll get caught for some infraction and kicked-out.  It is a story that repeats itself fairly often.  We all wait and ignore.

But, the baby from the teenage girl was three weeks old and passed in it's sleep.  While, I don't like the group.  I am not without heart.  Those of us who were mothers stood in the street and talked about it.  Much like chickens around a prime piece of feed.  Yes, it was gossip.  And some women were tsk-tsking about the dead baby and the family.  I didn't really want to tsk-tsk. Some babies just die.  And that was a very sad thing to anyone.  I also didn't really want to super get involved.  White Trash people have a ton of drama that I had long since climbed away from.

It was decided in the street circle that we would all take food.  It is a tradition, and a bit of a necessity.  I know when I have had to grieve in my life, I either forgot altogether to eat, or the idea of actually having to make food to eat became an insurmountable task. And I liked the idea of community, be it a somewhat strange collective community - a community nonetheless.  Lists were made, times assigned, nods all around, and pattern broken to go forth. 

I went to the store and got stuff.  I'm not made of money, and I don't really know them.  I got mostly frozen family meals, oranges and apples, some pre-made salad mixes and bread.  And shit, there was so many of them already.  I couldn't afford to feed them all, probably more than once.  And I certainly couldn't take into account things like food allergies, likes and dislikes, etc. I thought the other kids might like some cookies, too...or a pie even.  But, then I thought how ill-mannered that could be showing up with desserts for a dead baby event.  Might be tacky. Although, I eat tons of sweets when I'm grieving.  I didn't get any. I didn't even get any for myself, even though they all looked really good.  I thought maybe that would be kind of tacky, too. Later I would realize that no one in the store would have known what occasion I was actually shopping for. 

Lucky for me, another neighbor who knew them somewhat better, AND had actually prepared food (kind of a badass), went with me, and took the lead.  After all, what was I really going to be able to say that would be of any comfort.  "You don't know me, but, I'm sorry your baby died, here's a couple of casseroles."  I didn't pray, so that was out, too.  Yes, lucky for me, the other neighbor took the lead with all the I'm So Sorry's, the Stay Strong's, the We'll be praying for You's, etc.  And I just nodded, hugged and awkwardly offered my bags of frozen delights. They were ALL in tears.  And I felt compassion and sadness. Enough that I got tortillas to go with the enchiladas and garlic bread to go with the lasagna.  No one deserves a day like that. And when it happens, we all know.

I returned to my land of boxes.  Not even a baby dying made me stop.  Nothing it seemed was to stop anything about anything.

We finally ran out of food at our own house.  Maybe that was what happened.  I really couldn't say what the trigger was.  It was as though I woke up from a long sleep and was just slightly able to take in my surroundings.  I just took into account that I needed to live here, in this place.  I'm not sure how long I've been out.  It seems like a very long time. And really I could recall much of where I had been.

I purposely made myself aware.  I took a long shower, the water hot.  I paid attention to the smells of the soap.  I made the grocery list of all the things we needed, but also, stuff that I wanted.  I drove to the store listening to the music I liked and didn't fight over a parking space.  I choose to meander through the overly well lit store, with it's overly commercialized foods, and overly crowed people scrabbling to get to the best and brightest of all things. I was conscious of my choices. I didn't feel the need to get angry that the traffic light was out on the way home.

I put the tarragon chicken salad on the beautiful marbled rye slices. I noticed the colors of it all against my bright blue plates.  I ate a small orange with my sandwich.  Feeling not full, but just right. and my stomach would be thankful to go to work this day for the rest of my body.

I took my cigarette and hot tea outside.  It was already night.  The moon was bright. And the wind was warm and soft.  The tree leaves were talking with the wind.  My feet were secure on the ground, which was still hardened by winter.  And yet, I was aware that I was on a rock, a giant rock - well, by my standards, hurling at a rapid speed through the cosmos.  How tiny I was.  

A neighbor's loud laugh came through the fence.  I didn't hear the conversation over the tejano music to get the joke.  On the other side, the white trash neighbor's had just finished screaming and the silence for thirty minutes had just begun.  

I looked up to find Orion.  I never seem to remember the others, only Orion.  And we haven't jacked it up with trash so much that I can't find it or locate it. I don't know how long I stood there, it was awhile. It started to get cold and I went inside.

I wanted to sleep.  I put on a nightgown, and actual nightgown.  The rest of the time I was either sleeping in the day's clothes or my underwear.  It seemed like the right thing to do, where a nightgown to sleep in...since I had gotten them for that purpose.  This should be a regular thing, I thought....Not just a celebration of the day I took a minute.

I knew as I drifted to sleep that my brain had not stopped working. However, maybe I had managed to quiet a bit, and recorded some things worth recording and storing.  

The Day.

She had come very long way,

Her soul was both tired and hope shimmering.

To so many others the day, this day, was the end much and the begin even more.

She had already ended much and began even more.

What does the actual day matter.

It was already time passed in one place...in many places.

That secret, 

Every second started a new year, he reminded.

Every second held promise of a new day.

We are so lucky to get the quickly repeated opportunity.

The laughter, 

The folly, 

The connection,

She put her hand on his cheek softly, 

And with quick glance stole the appropriate celebration kiss.

Her breath caught a little in surprise,

He took her, and soul windows connected,

Not just windows, but windows and mirrors, 

The second kiss, longer over the milliseconds, 

The second kiss of many years starting and many years to come.

She wondered if she would ever run fast enough then...

To catch her breath back.

Witness to a conversation.

Lights do actually dance, don't they...
Calling attention through their flutters.

The wet streaks had damaged the perfect make-up.
She would have to wipe it all off, 
Completely.
Start over.
Re-Apply.

How many more times?

I did it all for him.
I don't know if he's even going to show up.
I never know.

Do you think I'm still pretty?, she whispered.
Yes. Still.  On the outside.

Catherine the Great Breasts makes money for you.
And I just don't want to hear about you stealing from her.
I don't even want to know that you look at her.
I don't want to hear the stacks stacking comparisons you make of her.

All so plain and dulled....no lights could still possibly dance there.
Doesn't matter, lights just dance for themselves.

Over a Mexican Coke, he said:
Tastes like childhood, doesn't it?

No, it doesn't.
Because, the best parts of that history never repeat themselves.

Olie

He was short, and thin.
His jacket was zipped up to the very top, collar up, so he could just rest the tops of his lips and the bottom of his ear inside, if he wanted to.
He was outside ready.

He fidgeted.
His hands made signs of something.
He squeaked and gargled and hummed.

He can't communicate, she said.
He's autistic, she said.
Don't touch him, he doesn't like that., she said.

He let out a yelpy snarl.
I didn't like labels either.

A plane flew overhead loudly.
We were both distracted.
The boy threw his hands up in the air.
I put my hands up in the air with him.
He paused, only briefly, to stare at me.

He'll take off running, she said.
Why wouldn't he?, I said.
He is a little boy.

He'll run off., she said.
We can watch him., I said.
The boy knew.  
I know he knew.

With a loud squeal, he was off
Lickeity-split.
Running fast.
Back and forth,
Up and down, circles upon circles, 
and free.

Yes, he squawked and yelled....
A boy in a yard.
I followed suit.

Finally, exhausted, we sat
In the yard, drinking juice.

In truth, only I was exhausted.
The boy had more energy than me.

He sat down on top of my lap, hard.
He grabbed my face,
He patted my face and hummed.

He doesn't normally do that., she said.

We will never see each other again.
It was only a tiny chance meeting.

Who knows if we really communicated.
For sure, we didn't talk.
I know that I traded some juice for a sweet pat on the face from a little boy named Olie.
The Olie that ran free in my yard.

There isn't much difference in people or jobs....No matter what anyone says....It's a truth, no matter how you try to slice it.

Does anyone every really know anyone?  We all work to try to discover ourselves and deal with that our whole entire life-span.  Where is the actual room or truth about someone else?  Is it even really possible?  I'm not sure. I don't really think so.  Just when you think you know someone, there is always something new.  Physics and Empaths probably have a leg up. For the rest of us, we just get lucky glimpses....shiny, small, fragments.  Yep, luck...that's all it is.

I learned of story that my friend had never shared before.  He had never told anyone.  And now, I knew the story.  It didn't change my opinion of him.  It wasn't that kind of story.  But, it was one that showed me a little more of how he lived and thought before we met.  A glimpse into and experience that shaped him.  How privileged was I?  Very. I never knew.  Maybe we're getting old enough to talk like that now.  If you don't record it, it will be lost.  That's for sure. I wanted to hear more and more.  Maybe we just need more tequila.

Yes, I worked at a law-firm, and an engineering firm, and other places of respect...that term "respect" I use loosely.  All of my jobs were about the same. The same because people are the same.  Work is work is work. I also had tons of smaller jobs.  Pizza delivery, restaurant work, dog walker, telemarketer, survey taker, secretary, data entry, janitor, plasma giver....so on and so on. And I have stories from each. Why didn't I have a career?...a chosen field?  Well, for the answer to that, we would need more time and  definitely  more tequila.

I tried to be a stripper once.  Well, a couple of times, actually.  Those who know me, already know this. 

I was a horrible stripper.  My body was fine, young, strong, mostly naked.  But, I was a horrible stripper.  I couldn't take it seriously.  Of course I wanted to make money, even the big money.  I was just horrible at it.

I was neither exotic enough, wild enough, or innocent enough.  I didn't learn all the moves or gimmicks. And trying my hardest to look at some guys standing there half-drunk, half-turned on, half- of a lot of things with their tiny dollars in their hands...well, trying to look at them like they were sexy and welcomed, well, I just was not very good at it.   I didn't hate them or the stripping...it really was just another job.  But, a job, nonetheless,  that I was not able to master. Probably partly because I didn't find myself that sexy, I didn't see myself like that...capable of being sexy to others.  And partly because men not capable of seeing tits out in the light of day with their dollars wasn't very appealing to me either.  Drunk, sometimes drugged, sweaty, cheap perfumes,cheap people, vomit, liquor, scamming, t-backs, grabby, laughing, smokey, dim-lights, loud, self-importance, degradation, heartache, sometimes criminal, sometimes funny....and boredom...all the things a good nudie bar entails.  I tried to pick music I liked to dance to, at least.  Show butt left, show but right, shake a little here, shake a little there...take close off slowly, look interested and needy for that dollar....repeat.  Not that glamorous when you break it down. Things I saw probably damaged me way more than the nakedness.  Later I would make way more money as a waitress in those places...part drink-slinger, part psychologist, part "friend".  I could have made way more money if I had been more malicious, too.  If I didn't have the powers of kindness that I have.  Yeah, that part of me, ruined me at times with my chances of earning the big bucks. Don't get me wrong, I made plenty.  But, there were chances I just didn't take. Sigh.

Some times in nudie bar the time goes so fast, like it has been sped up, just catch glimpses fast. Sometimes so slow, you just wanted to keep changing the channel, in hopes of there being something, anything, that wasn't loud snow or reruns.

Sometimes after the one bar would close, my and another waitress (who was a nurse at a hospital by day) would sneak into the bathroom after cleaning up everything, and remove the couple of stashed beers from under the sink and have a quick recap of the night sitting on the sticky, stinking floor of the bathroom with our snuck beers and smoking....counting cash and laughing.  That was good, really good. She was good.

Oh, there was this one other waitress, she was a career nudie bar waitress.  Had tons of plastic surgery, big boobies, bigger attitude.  She was fierce, supper fierce, cut-throat about "her" customers, her job, her boobs. All the long hair flipping.  Frankly, most of the time, she was just a pain in the ass for me and my fellow besty waitress friend.  And she was never successful in getting all the money and ALL the customers. People like different things, and changes...all the things a nudie bar offers.  Most times we just ignored her. Other times, we would poke at her a bit....just to get her all riled up.  Example of her: She liked a small tank top I had, so she bought it and wore it. She told me, not to worry, she wouldn't wear it on the same nights at me, looking down at my natural boobs, as she said it.  lol..  I replied: Is this about your boobs again?  Boobs, boobs, boobs....is that ALL you can think about?!?  You can wear it on the same nights as me, I don't care.  We all know that I still have my original boobs, and I wore it first.  So, no issue. Smile.  She was so mad that she wore it every night for a week and tucked her money in it.  Other waitress and I laughed and laughed. Oh for Pete's Sake!   Besty waitress stole it one night out of her locker and accidentally pored/spilled bleach on the nipple parts, and put it back.  Oh, so sad for here.  The screams, the rampage. All the horror over a $5 tank top.  Too easy. I still had mine. 

Later, at the engineering firm there would be a woman.  She wore high heels, HIGH heels, and boobie exposing outfits every day.  And she was not unlike this waitress.  She hated me, and sometimes tried to get to me.  But, I had already seen it before and it had been done better.  

Yep.  Just lucky glimpses.

We're out of power and the plane is going down....Yeah, that's never repeated much.

It is the day before Thanksgiving. A holiday that was borrowed from another country so we could all be reminded to give thanks that perhaps we weren't the Indians.  We'll just sweep that under the proverbial rug.  Don't get me wrong, I fall into the trap, too.  I find myself reflecting about the year that has passed, the months and days set up as a time count...that may or may not be real.  But, I do it, too. Reflect.

Some years have really been shit.  Others have been golden.  This year felt longer than most. My heart and body tried by loss of loves, some friends...you know that ole stuff.  i am getting to the age where births really are that special and unique, and deaths happen in more frequent occurrence.  I am no longer the invincible youth.  Yes, it has been a long year.  But, I'm not dead. And I didn't kill anyone else. Upon reflection, it has not been too shabby.  I can say that others have it way worse.  I can say that I am thankful that I'm not THAT GUY.

I once spent a summer as an RV Porter.  It paid well, and all I had to do was clean RV's all day. Inside and out...sometimes get things extra shiny for a customer...a make-ready.  The RV Porter before me was apparently a really shitty RV Porter. I'm not completely positive how one becomes a really shitty RV Porter.  There's not much to the job to begin with.  I had a tool belt where I hung my rags and cleaning supplies.  There was extra long brushes, and hoses.  And air fresheners.  Spray, wipe, spray, wipe...then spritz.  How can one truly be a shitty RV Porter? 

I even installed giant, plastic tape carpet.  Yes, they do make it. Oh, I sold it as a must have to protect the carpets in the RV's, since we were located on a big dirt lot.  All the customers and sales people tracking in the dirt into the nice carpets, etc.  But, truly, I was just a bit lazy.  I didn't want to lug the giant RV vacuum around.  Instead I just had a smaller broom.  Carpet tape, problem solved.  Hell, I got a raise and many accolades for my love and special care for the RV's. (Yes, you should question that.)  I even took naps sometimes, on the clock...out on the lot, by one of the giant trees, hidden out in the sea of RV's.  So, no, I really cannot understand how one becomes a shitty RV Porter.  A complete mystery. 

I was the only female on the lot.  This did kind of suck sometimes.  Alone with the rednecks...all the same jokes, over and over and over.  Yeah, you're right, never heard that one before.  And yes, I must like women since I don't want to see your dick.  I had pink or purple hair, didn't shave my arm pits...it was just to much for some.

Generally, I was able to escape the majority of the nonsense.  I was too "rough around the edges" to be considered a little sister of sorts, and to "girlie" to truly be one of the guys. For most of the roughnecks I was a strange anomaly not to be completely understood, but sometimes to poke fun at or be scared of, and possibly fuck. 

In the summer the temperature in  an RV can be about 160-180 degrees Fahrenheit.  No shit. They are all made of metal and more metal, and some plastic and fumes and more metal.  One particular day, it was already incredibly hot, and  I had a make-ready on one of the previously owned RV's to get done.  Now, the used RV's could be kind of tricky...everyone wanted them to look like new.  Well, they aren't new, and they're made of crap plastic and metal.  But, I had all the tricks and RV Porter could possibly have.  By this time, I had full rage of the Supply Catalog at my disposal and was no longer EVER questioned about my buys.  And trust me when I tell you I bought the shit out of that catalog like the RV Porter Apocalypse was going to happen at any moment!!!!! I had every temporary tint for repainting, every scrubber, every special spray bottle, every foaming cleaner, every bleachy cleaner,  every fucking scented air freshener product. EVERYTHING!!!!! I bought the shit out of that catalog.  Yes, I did.  The bosses thought I was just super busy...not bored.  Another raise.

On this particular day, I went out to do the make-ready.  And all the lot guys were kind of standing around, slightly in my area. Oh, they looked suspicious, but not suspicious enough for me to call them out on.  I thought maybe one of them had finally produced that giant blunt.  I did think maybe I was fixing to get it...whatever it was.  So, I did proceed with caution, my ears perked, my spray bottle at the ready.  They continued to stare as I gathered all my special items and walked towards the RV.  I could hear a small giggle as I put my hand on the door latch. Again, giant blunt or trick...didn't know.  I opened the door and stepped in.  Then, I promptly turned right back around and fled from the RV and vomited on the ground. The smell, the horrible smell of death and decay.  I had smelled this before.  I vomited so hard that I pee'd my pants a bit, and it brought tears to my eyes with the sting of the stench.

The lot guys all busted out laughing....giant hoots and belly laughs, beer guts and fat shaking all around. Only one came and dumped some cat litter on my vomit pile and offered and explanation.  The rest dispersed with claps and high-fives and giggles.

Apparently,  the RV had been loaned out for a week for a movie shoot, over the week of the Fourth of July.  Super hot time of year.  And apparently a guy, who drank a lot, and was really fat, died on the Friday of that weekend, and no one found him until the next Monday. No one noticed the fat, drunk guy wasn't answering his phone. No one.  The trailer's AC wasn't on, so basically the guy melted and exploded in the RV.  Now, there had been a cleaning crew who got most of the dead guy stuff out of the trailer, but they had told the RV company probably best to just junk it.  But, the RV company, had already re-sold it.  I'm thinking that the cleaning crew that hired were probably not that professional - cheap yes, professional no.  It became my job, to somehow magically get the dead guy smell out of the RV.  

After all the shit I took from the guys about this, I was somewhat determined. Ok, really determined.  There was a point that needed to be made.  I had to triumph over the lot guys.  I had to prove myself.  It was my life mission.  I became focused...super focused.  No more time to pee myself or vomit.  What and learn boys, watch and learn...I was the one that had installed the tape carpet!!!!  

I took time to review the magic catalog and found nothing.  I made called to other cleaning companies who really would not give me any information - not share any "trade secrets" - but would clean it for a price.  I finally ended up calling a janitorial supply house.  And I was a bit nervous to ask them if they had any products to get the smell of dead guy out of things.  The man calmly replied that the did have such products.  I then asked him, if he got that question a lot.  He replied that he did get that question a far amount.  I felt like I needed to reassure him that I was not a crazed woman with a dead lover or a serial killer, would I need any special ID or anything? Nope.

I took the company credit card and the company truck and nervously made my way across town to the Janitorial Supply.  Upon arrival, I explained who I was, and what had happened, and that I was the one that had called about the dead guy smell.

Not only did I get great customer service, but a lengthy tutorial about dead things and their odors and which products go where and how much and how long, etc., etc., etc. I felt at that moment that I was being respected.  I was with other professionals in my field.  I belonged. So much sharing knowledge and respect.  

I even bought a special mask.  And upon my return to the lot, I dawned my mask and my tool belt and went to work.  By day's end, there was no more dead guy smell.  Everything was shiny and clean and fresh...a hint of cinnamon spice wafted in the air. Well, it was as clean as it could be for a used RV.  

The lot guys didn't say anything.  No high-fives for me, no compliments. A bunch of shut the fuck up. Yeah a huge does of that.

I'm not that guy.  Thankful for that.