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. 

Acceptance and Rejection...How the two dance....

Running late, drinking yesterday's cold coffee, grabbing keys and things....hoping the car didn't break down when I didn't even have a bra on.  

Okay, Mystery Driver, you caught me.  Yes, I was fiddling with my lighter and didn't hurry up and make that turn so fast.  Yes, you caught me!!!  But, the honk AFTER I moved was just stupid. Okay, got it!  You're angry...You're Faster...You're the Best Rapid-Fire Honker in the World!!!! I'll bet you even have piping hot coffee in there, too.  The driver raced around me in anger....so angry.  

At first, I thought about being pissed off, too.  Then, some magical calm came over me.  We, all the cars, just had to stop at another light.  And Speedy, McSpeedy, only got one car ahead.  I suddenly felt sorry for the driver.  What a shitty morning you must be having to drive and honk like that.  I suddenly wished that I had a flower, like that hippy did with the gun, to give this driver.  It will be okay man, just put down the horn, we'll all be okay.  

I never had a nickname...well, one that stuck.  Words only reserved for particularly stunning people, memorable people.  At an early age, I knew that I would not memorable, I would not doing anything of recognition, or greatness. Don't think I'm fishing for compliments, I'm not.  I am simply recalling experiences and facts of my own life.

I realized that at and early age that maybe I didn't need or want a nickname.  Depends on the day, I think.  There are some days that I would so much, so very much, to be special.  For someone to think of me worthy of adoring me with such a thing, a word of my very own.But, then within that longing, that craving, there is also a deep rooted sense of reality and a keen nose for bullshit.  Words can control...and know one likes that - or at least, I don't.

I doubt McSpeedy would have cared for the nickname.  And while my father called me Cookie Monster, I almost called my own child that....maybe for some semblance of a family tradition...for a family ideal that I never had.  I stopped using the nickname.  And in bigger terms we use Serial Killer for some, and Solider for others.  Yet, the two almost function in the same capacity; although one is for selfish reasons, and the other is for the greater good.

Names just isolate us all from distinguishing the multiply parts of any one thing or person.  Words can keep us all with clothes on, layers. Well, save the Emperor.  I think it would have been a much better story if the Emperor had known he was naked all along.  I would like to believe that is possible of all of us...to be naked, to be seen, to be accepted as such.  But, we're not like that.  Maybe we're not even capable of it.  I mean, look the hippies are just dying off.  And I doubt the resurgence of MDMA, since it's no long pure, will offer us more salvation either. 

I have been fortunate enough to see many people naked...not just of clothes, stop giggling.  Some at their most vulnerable times.  And they trusted me, another human, to witness, help, listen.  How magical is that.  Likewise, I have been exposed.  I would think some was by choice. At this point in my life, I try to be as available to experiences; even the ones that come with a cost.

I thought today about my dear, creative, friend.  He had a nickname.  He was special.  He would have done great things.  But, no one was in the same space as he was when he was the most naked.

They found his body, one winter.  Everyone was on Christmas vacation. He was alone.  They found his body, hanging from the ceiling.