Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta walked into Dressing Room #34 at the Staples Center in Los Angeles after the conclusion of the 2010 Grammy Awards. She was in seven-inch soled shoes with ten-inch heels, and her shoulders were burdened with what could best be described as silvery balloons that rose above the top of her bleached hair. Stefani, otherwise known as “Lady Gaga.” slammed the door shut, making a sound that penetrated her temples and made her flinch. Stefani turned to face her reflection in the makeshift mirror bolted to the wall of a room that Stefani knew was not designed as a dressing room. The Staples Center is set up to house many different kinds of events, mostly sports, and has only a handful of what entertainment professionals consider “full-service” dressing rooms, with bathrooms, hot tubs, a kitchen, a fully stocked refrigerator, and a lounge area. The walls of Room #34 were cinder blocks, painted in what Stefani considered a dull yellow, and there was definitely not a kitchen or lounge area. There was a sink. And the card table set in front of the mirror is where she plopped her two Grammy Awards. She went to the sink against the wall to her right and washed off all her makeup. Her eyes were think with black, and as she splashed her face, the black ran down her cheeks, giving her a gothic appearance. Stefani pulled out the hardware hidden in her hair which released the long strands which fell to her shoulders. She then ripped off her wardrobe, tearing it in places, and as each piece came off, she threw it to the floor. By time she was down to her white underwear and bra, she sat in the chair facing the table and looking at her two Grammys.
There was knock at the door. ”What” yelled Stefani.
“Security,” announced a man’s voice through the closed door. Stefani rose and opened the door.
“Yeah?” asked Stefani, standing in her underwear as she was scratching her right armpit with her left hand.
The security guard was taken aback by the bare appearance of Lady Gaga.
“You are going to have to vacate in thirty minutes,” said the security guard.
“What the fuck are you talking about? This is my shit-hole dressing room. I’m going decompress,” said Stefani.
“You can’t. This is Derek Fisher’s room,” said the security guard, a tall African-American man.
“Who the fuck is Derek Fisker?” said Stefani.
“He’s a guard for the Lakers,” said Stefani.
“The Lakers. Jesus Christ, is there like a fucking basketball game on tonight, huh? No. I doubt it. So tell Derek Fisher to come back tomorrow,” said Stefani.
“No can do, ma’am,” said the security guard. ”Basketball takes precedence over everything here,” said the guard.
“Well then tell him to come in with me here like this in my underwear, OK. He won’t mind if I hang out while he does whatever he wants to do in this cinderblock prison cell,” said Stefani.
“He just wants to get into his closet and pull something out,” said the guard.
“Yeah, well, OK,” said Stefani.
“I’ll go tell him he can come,” said the guard.
The guard turned to go, and then stopped to address Lady Gaga.
“If you ask me, I think you should have gotten Record of the Year for Poker Face,” said the guard.
Stefani stood and looked at the guard.
“Oh yeah?” said Stefani.
“Yeah,” said the guard.
“You want to come in. Join me for…for whatever,” said Stefani.
“Come in?”
“Yeah, like come into my dressing room. I’m sure Derek whatever his name is can give us time to….you know,” said Stefani.
The security guard looked down the hallway. He then looked at his watch. Stefani walked into Room #34 and stood at the table next to her Grammy Awards. She unsnapped her bra and it fell to the floor, exposing her breasts. She then fingered her Grammy Awards.
“You want to touch them,” asked Lady Gaga.
The guard came into the room and shut the door.
Imaginary Moments of Drama, Politics and Culture - By Gary O. Bennett
Friday, February 26, 2010
Elin Nordegren Meets With Tiger Woods at Sex Clinic
Elin Nordergen had flown on a Gulfstream G5 into New Orleans on a flight from Stockholm. She brought one suitcase, a small one, with certain traveling and identity essentials. Elin had gotten into the habit over the years to travel light and merely purchase what she needed on arrival. She took a taxi to the nearest Volvo dealer in New Orleans and bought a white 2010 Volco c70 with leather seats. Using her iPhone’s mapping, she had made her way to Interstate 10 going north, crossing over Lake Pontchartrain, eventually hopping onto Route 11 which took Volvo into Mississippi. Then she veered onto Interstate 59, going north to Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Elin was searching for the Pine Grove Gentle Path Facility where her husband, Tiger Woods, was being treated for his “problem.” Though the Pine Grove center treats its patients in groups, Tiger was given a private “cottage” residence. This did not conform to Pine Grove procedure, but the risk of media encroachment justified the special treatment. Tiger’s offer to make a generous contribution also persuaded the Pine Grove management to satisfy Tiger’s request.
Elin was leaning again a dark green wall in the cottage where Tiger was housed. Tiger was sitting on a couch, his buttocks perched on the edge of the couch, his hands on his knees, his legs to together. It was not a relaxed position, nothing casual about it. This was there first meeting since Elin had left for Sweden and purchased a house on Faglaro Island about an hour’s drive from Stockholm. Elin was wearing black sweatpants, Reebok running shoes (no more Nike for her), and a black running shirt covered in a black leather jacket. The blond hair was long as it draped over all the black. Her legs were crossed, her back leaning on the wall, her arms crossed.
“So what is this place?” asked Elin.
“You know what it is,” said Tiger.
“Well, actually, I don’t. It says clinic. (Elin made quote signs with her fingers.) Like a golf clinic, yes,” said Elin, trying not to be sarcastic.
“It’s a clinic for sexual addiction,” said Tiger.
“Oh yeah. What is that? Is that like an illness? Do you have an illness, Eldrick,” said Elin.
“Could you not call me that,” said Tiger.
“It’s your fucking name, Eldrick. Maybe you should start using your birth name. Isn’t it more honest,” said Elin.
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“So tell me about what they do here for your problem,” said Elin.
“They have group therapy, and they do shame reduction work and trauma work,” said Tiger.
“Shame reduction work? You mean they are trying to make you feel less shame,” said Elin.
“It’s part of the therapy,” said Tiger.
“You’re joking,” said Elin.
“It’s part of the process. I cannot overcome my addiction to sex without first dispensing with the shame,” said Tiger.
“They should fucking make you feel more shame. It is shame that got you to come here,” said Elin.
“But it will be the eradication of that shame that will permit me to leave,” said Tiger.
“And trauma work? what trauma did you go through, Eldrick? Tell me that? Like I didn’t have any trauma. Like the kids,” said Elin.
“Maybe you can check in with me. We can go through this together,” said Tiger.
“That is not happening,” said Elin.
“I have to talk about you and our relationship here. With the doctors, with the other patients when we are in group,” said Tiger.
“You talk about me? You better not talk about me. This is your problem, not mine,” said Elin.
“No, listen. After I described things to them, it might be the case that you are suffering from sexual anorexia,” said Tiger.
“What the fuck did you say?”
“Sexual anorexia is a pathological fear of intimacy, a fear of sexual interaction,” said Tiger.
“We have two children, Eldrick. What kind of goddamn fears do I have? None. And you don’t talk about me to them. It is none of their business,” said Elin with rising anger.
“Sexual anorexia is a serious problem,” said Tiger.
“Oh, and they are trying to blame this on me, is that it. What a load of crap,” said Elin.
“And you have paranoid tendencies, Elin. That little bit you pulled with my cell phone and texting Rachel, that was deceitful,” said Tiger.
“It’s Rachel, now? You can just say her name in front of me,” said Elin.
“It’s part of the shame reduction therapy. It is working,” said Tiger.
“They call this place “Gentle Path,” said Elin. ”Like this thing you are going through is supposed to be ‘gentle.’ They are making this easy for you. Making you think that what you have is a disease, and to come to terms with it, and then just recover, gently, easily,” said Elin.
“Yes,” said Tiger.
“Let me sum up my diagnosis, Eldrick. You are a prick. An asshole. A liar. And the last fucking thing this recovery should be for you is gentle,” said Elin.
Elin moved to the front door of the cottage. Tioger watched her as she walked. He noticed how she walked, the sway of her hips, her long shimmering blond hair.
“Do you want to make love?” asked Tiger.
Elin turned to face Tiger. She looked at him. And then she opened the door and left. Eldrick Tont Woods placed his forehead into both his hands and his body’s posture bent forward. He did not cry. Crying was forbidden at the Pine Grove Clinic.
Elin was leaning again a dark green wall in the cottage where Tiger was housed. Tiger was sitting on a couch, his buttocks perched on the edge of the couch, his hands on his knees, his legs to together. It was not a relaxed position, nothing casual about it. This was there first meeting since Elin had left for Sweden and purchased a house on Faglaro Island about an hour’s drive from Stockholm. Elin was wearing black sweatpants, Reebok running shoes (no more Nike for her), and a black running shirt covered in a black leather jacket. The blond hair was long as it draped over all the black. Her legs were crossed, her back leaning on the wall, her arms crossed.
“So what is this place?” asked Elin.
“You know what it is,” said Tiger.
“Well, actually, I don’t. It says clinic. (Elin made quote signs with her fingers.) Like a golf clinic, yes,” said Elin, trying not to be sarcastic.
“It’s a clinic for sexual addiction,” said Tiger.
“Oh yeah. What is that? Is that like an illness? Do you have an illness, Eldrick,” said Elin.
“Could you not call me that,” said Tiger.
“It’s your fucking name, Eldrick. Maybe you should start using your birth name. Isn’t it more honest,” said Elin.
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“So tell me about what they do here for your problem,” said Elin.
“They have group therapy, and they do shame reduction work and trauma work,” said Tiger.
“Shame reduction work? You mean they are trying to make you feel less shame,” said Elin.
“It’s part of the therapy,” said Tiger.
“You’re joking,” said Elin.
“It’s part of the process. I cannot overcome my addiction to sex without first dispensing with the shame,” said Tiger.
“They should fucking make you feel more shame. It is shame that got you to come here,” said Elin.
“But it will be the eradication of that shame that will permit me to leave,” said Tiger.
“And trauma work? what trauma did you go through, Eldrick? Tell me that? Like I didn’t have any trauma. Like the kids,” said Elin.
“Maybe you can check in with me. We can go through this together,” said Tiger.
“That is not happening,” said Elin.
“I have to talk about you and our relationship here. With the doctors, with the other patients when we are in group,” said Tiger.
“You talk about me? You better not talk about me. This is your problem, not mine,” said Elin.
“No, listen. After I described things to them, it might be the case that you are suffering from sexual anorexia,” said Tiger.
“What the fuck did you say?”
“Sexual anorexia is a pathological fear of intimacy, a fear of sexual interaction,” said Tiger.
“We have two children, Eldrick. What kind of goddamn fears do I have? None. And you don’t talk about me to them. It is none of their business,” said Elin with rising anger.
“Sexual anorexia is a serious problem,” said Tiger.
“Oh, and they are trying to blame this on me, is that it. What a load of crap,” said Elin.
“And you have paranoid tendencies, Elin. That little bit you pulled with my cell phone and texting Rachel, that was deceitful,” said Tiger.
“It’s Rachel, now? You can just say her name in front of me,” said Elin.
“It’s part of the shame reduction therapy. It is working,” said Tiger.
“They call this place “Gentle Path,” said Elin. ”Like this thing you are going through is supposed to be ‘gentle.’ They are making this easy for you. Making you think that what you have is a disease, and to come to terms with it, and then just recover, gently, easily,” said Elin.
“Yes,” said Tiger.
“Let me sum up my diagnosis, Eldrick. You are a prick. An asshole. A liar. And the last fucking thing this recovery should be for you is gentle,” said Elin.
Elin moved to the front door of the cottage. Tioger watched her as she walked. He noticed how she walked, the sway of her hips, her long shimmering blond hair.
“Do you want to make love?” asked Tiger.
Elin turned to face Tiger. She looked at him. And then she opened the door and left. Eldrick Tont Woods placed his forehead into both his hands and his body’s posture bent forward. He did not cry. Crying was forbidden at the Pine Grove Clinic.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
John Edwards Has A Conversation with Rielle Hunter
John Edwards was pacing back and forth in his study. He was in boxer shorts and a white dress shirt. He was wearing white sports socks with a navy blue strip around the top. Think of Tom Cruise sliding into frame in his underwear in Risky Business. Edwards was on his Blackberry Bold.
Edwards: So tell me, how did this tape get out, Rielle?…I saw you throw it in the garbage. I saw you do it after we watched it, remember?…No, no, I distinctly remember you placing it in the garbage. I did not tell you to preserve it…no…I was not stoned…I was not so stoned that I would forget such a thing…and by the way, thanks for giving me a heads up on getting the call from the National Enquirer. What, the money I gave you was not enough?…forget it. OK, just forget the fucking thing…Excuse me, what? You want what? Child support? You fucking goddamn bitch…all the goddamn money you been taking is not enough? Now you fucking want child support…great….don’t tell me what I can and can’t afford. I did not want a child, Rielle…you are so fucking lucky there are laws….laws against murder, because I would break your fucking neck, do you hear me. Too fucking bad we don’t live in Saudi Arabia…I’d be able to just get rid of this problem with one call. Just one call I’d be able to lock you up or cut out your tongue. So fuck you, and fuck your goddamn Frances, whatever her name is.
Edwards throws his Blackberry against the wall where it shatters. He falls to the floor and grabs his forehead trying desperately not to cry. He raises his head, takes a few deep breathes, and slowly rises. He walks over to his desk and opens the bottom drawer revealing a small 22 caliber handgun. He looks at it, standing, motionless, staring at the gun. He then slams the drawer shut.
Edwards: So tell me, how did this tape get out, Rielle?…I saw you throw it in the garbage. I saw you do it after we watched it, remember?…No, no, I distinctly remember you placing it in the garbage. I did not tell you to preserve it…no…I was not stoned…I was not so stoned that I would forget such a thing…and by the way, thanks for giving me a heads up on getting the call from the National Enquirer. What, the money I gave you was not enough?…forget it. OK, just forget the fucking thing…Excuse me, what? You want what? Child support? You fucking goddamn bitch…all the goddamn money you been taking is not enough? Now you fucking want child support…great….don’t tell me what I can and can’t afford. I did not want a child, Rielle…you are so fucking lucky there are laws….laws against murder, because I would break your fucking neck, do you hear me. Too fucking bad we don’t live in Saudi Arabia…I’d be able to just get rid of this problem with one call. Just one call I’d be able to lock you up or cut out your tongue. So fuck you, and fuck your goddamn Frances, whatever her name is.
Edwards throws his Blackberry against the wall where it shatters. He falls to the floor and grabs his forehead trying desperately not to cry. He raises his head, takes a few deep breathes, and slowly rises. He walks over to his desk and opens the bottom drawer revealing a small 22 caliber handgun. He looks at it, standing, motionless, staring at the gun. He then slams the drawer shut.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
No Child Left Behind Means No Childhood
At 7:30 in the morning, Bobby’s father walked into Bobby’s bedroom and opened the shades. The noise and the light woke Bobby.
“Time to get up,” said Bobby’s father.
Bobby could barely open his eyes. He fell asleep sometime after 11:00 the night before because of the math problem that had plagued him all evening.
“Wash up and get dressed. Breakfast is downstairs,” said Bobby’s father as he walked out of Bobby’s bedroom.
Bobby lives in a middle-class suburban community outside of New York City. Bobby just started sixth grade. Middle school. He is twelve.
Bobby dragged himself to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror. “Yuck,” Bobby said as he saw a huge pimple on his cheek. Bobby washed his face and did whatever he could to rid himself of the offending blemish. He could smell his own body odor, so he took off all his pajamas and quickly hopped into the tub and turned on the shower. He washed, brushed his teeth and dressed in his bedroom. He made it to the kitchen table at 7:58 AM, where French toast and a glass of milk was waiting for him.
Bobby’s father was on the laptop computer which sat at one end of the kitchen counter.
“You finish your homework?” asked Bobby’s father as he tapped on the laptop keyboard.
“Yeah, sort of,” said Bobby.
“You either did or didn’t. Which is it?” said Bobby’s father.
“I couldn’t figure out that math problem,” said Bobby.
“Hey, it’s 8:10. We got to go,” said Bobby’s father as he shut down the laptop and grabbed his car keys. “I’ll warm up the car.”
Bobby’s father walked out the back door of the kitchen to the steel grey Chevy Tahoe SUV.
Bobby couldn’t finish the french toast. It was cold and soggy and the milk didn’t taste good either. He looked around for his book bag and realized that the bag and his zippered cloth binder were both upstairs. He ran upstairs, grabbed the bag and binder and raced downstairs, knowing that his father often was aggravated to wait.
Bobby ran outside and felt the eighty degree heat of early October. It felt like summer. Bobby ran to the Chevy Tahoe and hopped into the passenger seat.
“Buckle up,” said Bobby’s father as he pulled out of the driveway, before Bobby was able to clip the buckle.
Bobby noticed that the time on the dashboard clock read 8:18. “That clock is fast, right?” asked Bobby.
“By a minute, maybe,” said Bobby’s father, who was driving faster than the town’s 25 mile speed limit. Bobby was knocked around the seat as his father turned corners and stepped on the accelerator to get Bobby to school on time, which was supposed to be 8:20 in the morning. The Chevy pulled to a fast stop behind a line of cars.
“Better get out here and run. Love you,” said Bobby’s father. “Love you too,” said Bobby as he opened the car door, slammed it shut and ran into the middle school building. Bobby did not have time to stop at his locker, so he dashed into Room 415, his homeroom, at 8:26.
“You’re late. Go get a pass from the school office,” said Miss Lowery, Bobby’s home room teacher. Bobby ran downstairs to the office. There was a small grouping of teachers in the office and Bobby was waving his hand. “I need a late pass,” said Bobby.
One of the school administrators, Miss Joseph, said “You are too late for a late pass. What is your name?”
“Bobby MacKay,” said Bobby.
“I will make a note that you are late for even a late pass. Now run to your first class. Homeroom is over,” said Miss Joseph.
Bobby turned and ran out the office door into the corridor which was already thinning from the student rush to the first class.
“Hey, no running in the halls,” said a teacher to Bobby. Bobby slowed down, but he had to make it to Room 345 before the start of class at 8:30. The music teacher locked the door at 8:31. She told the music class she added the minute because she was “kind.”
By the time Bobby made it to Room 345, the door was closing, and the music teacher nearly shut the door on Bobby’s arm as he pushed his way in.
“Young man, you think that appropriate behavior to push the door open like that? Take your seat,” said the music teacher to Bobby. Bobby took seat number 23. There were 30 seats in the classroom, each with a number, and his music class seat number was 23. Bobby had to write these all down during the first week of school because each class assigned a different seat number and the students were expected to remember their seat assignment.
So the music teacher talked about musical instruments to a class of 27 students. Bobby seat was in the back of the classroom, immediately behind him were cleaning supplies and a three-foot pile of Discover magazines. To the right and left were two boys, neither of whom Bobby knew the names of, though he had a vague memory that the dark hair one to his right was Nick.
Bobby tried very hard to listen to the music teacher describe each instrument, which she did partially from reading directly from her notes written on paper attached to a pink clipboard. The bell rang at 9:15. Everyone lifted their butts at once.
“park your butts back down,” yelped the music teacher in a piccolo voice. “You leave when I tell you to leave. I want everyone to write an essay of what I spoke of today, detailing the seven different instruments I described, and then making a case for why you wish to play one of them. Make a decision which one. Now you can go,” said the music teacher, waving her hand dismissively.
Bobby rose and looked at the clock. It read 9:16. Spanish started at 9:18. Bobby realized that he had his Spanish notebook in his locker. He ran out of Room 345, down the hall, made a right turn and found his locker. He turned the wheel of the combination lock, back and forth several times before the combination stuck and the locker handle rose and the door opened.
The Spanish notebook was yellow. Yellow. Where is it, Bobby thought to himself. There. He grabbed it, slammed his locker shut, turned the wheel of the combination lock and ran down the hallway.
“Stop running, young man,” said Mr. Whoever. Bobby slowed and arrived at Room 217 at 9:20, two minutes late. The Spanish teacher did not say anything. Indeed, the door was open, and he took seat number 13.
“Your name?” said the Spanish teacher, directing her attention to Bobby.
“Bobby MacKay.”
“Mr. MacKay, you are in Seat 15,” said the Spanish teacher.
“Oh. Sorry.” And so Bobby moved to seat 15 and opened his yellow Spanish notebook.
The Spanish teacher spoke in a slow deliberate manner, pronouncing words clearly, but never speaking English, except when she disciplined students. Bobby took notes, but had difficulty following along. The girl to his left, Christine, was Korean with long straight black hair. Bobby noticed that her notebook was full of carefully written notes. The Spanish teacher seemed as bored as Bobby felt, but since Christine was writing notes in a lively fashion, Bobby figured there was something wrong with him. Maybe the Spanish teacher was having a great time, even though she kept sniping at students for not paying attention.
The bell rang at 10:02, and Bobby was off to his Social Studies class that started at 10:06. he thankfully arrived on time. But the problem now was that Bobby had to go to the bathroom. He asked Mr. Jordan if he could be excused, but Mr. Jordan said that since lunch period was next, Bobby could take care of his business then. So Bobby held it. And it wasn’t easy. This was particularly so because the lesson in Social Studies was to locate positions on a map of the United States using longitude and latitude, and to work with a team, requiring Bobby to move around the room, making his bladder nearly burst with every movement.
The bell rang at 10:50. Lunch time. Yes, I know what you are thinking. Lunch at 10:50? Yep. And as Boby ran to the bathroom in the hallway, he realized he had to crap as well as piss. He only had till 11:16 to finish lunch. That is a mere twenty minutes. So in that twenty minutes, Bobby had to crap, wash up, run to the cafeteria, get on line, get his food, pay for his food, find an empty chair, sit and eat. By the time Bobby sat down with his tray of food in front of him to eat, the time was 11:14. Bobby stared at the food. He was not hungry. he felt a pain in his belly. And he was breathing heavily. The bell rang, and he walked to his next class which started at 11:16. So really, Boby thought, he had less than twenty minutes to eat because he had to get to his 11:16 math class. And that is the class he was dreading because he was not able to finish the math problem the night before.
The rest of the day was a daze. When Bobby got home at 3:22, all he could remember was the math teacher tearing up his work, yelling at him that he got the formula wrong saying “you obviously did not listen during the lesson.”
Bobby’s mother greeted him at the back door. “Have a good day, Bobby?” asked Bobby’s Mom.
“Yeah,” said Bobby, who was too tired to say anything else about the last seven hours.
“Hungry?”
“”I have a stomach ache,” answered Bobby.
“Your piano teacher is coming in fifteen minutes, so why don’t you practice a little before he comes. You know he was disappointed last week,” said Bobby’s Mom.
“OK.”
So Bobby walked into the living room and sat at the piano and stared at the eighty-eight white keys. He kept staring, and thinking of nothing. Nothing at all. Except he remembered then that he left his binder in his locker with all his homework. He had homework to do in math, Spanish, Social Studies and language arts. He also had to write that essay for the music teacher.
“Mom….Mom?” yelled Bobby. But then he looked out the window and saw his Mother playing with Bobby’s four-year old sister. Bobby got up from the piano stool and lied down on the couch and stared at the ceiling fan that was turning slowly.
“Time to get up,” said Bobby’s father.
Bobby could barely open his eyes. He fell asleep sometime after 11:00 the night before because of the math problem that had plagued him all evening.
“Wash up and get dressed. Breakfast is downstairs,” said Bobby’s father as he walked out of Bobby’s bedroom.
Bobby lives in a middle-class suburban community outside of New York City. Bobby just started sixth grade. Middle school. He is twelve.
Bobby dragged himself to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror. “Yuck,” Bobby said as he saw a huge pimple on his cheek. Bobby washed his face and did whatever he could to rid himself of the offending blemish. He could smell his own body odor, so he took off all his pajamas and quickly hopped into the tub and turned on the shower. He washed, brushed his teeth and dressed in his bedroom. He made it to the kitchen table at 7:58 AM, where French toast and a glass of milk was waiting for him.
Bobby’s father was on the laptop computer which sat at one end of the kitchen counter.
“You finish your homework?” asked Bobby’s father as he tapped on the laptop keyboard.
“Yeah, sort of,” said Bobby.
“You either did or didn’t. Which is it?” said Bobby’s father.
“I couldn’t figure out that math problem,” said Bobby.
“Hey, it’s 8:10. We got to go,” said Bobby’s father as he shut down the laptop and grabbed his car keys. “I’ll warm up the car.”
Bobby’s father walked out the back door of the kitchen to the steel grey Chevy Tahoe SUV.
Bobby couldn’t finish the french toast. It was cold and soggy and the milk didn’t taste good either. He looked around for his book bag and realized that the bag and his zippered cloth binder were both upstairs. He ran upstairs, grabbed the bag and binder and raced downstairs, knowing that his father often was aggravated to wait.
Bobby ran outside and felt the eighty degree heat of early October. It felt like summer. Bobby ran to the Chevy Tahoe and hopped into the passenger seat.
“Buckle up,” said Bobby’s father as he pulled out of the driveway, before Bobby was able to clip the buckle.
Bobby noticed that the time on the dashboard clock read 8:18. “That clock is fast, right?” asked Bobby.
“By a minute, maybe,” said Bobby’s father, who was driving faster than the town’s 25 mile speed limit. Bobby was knocked around the seat as his father turned corners and stepped on the accelerator to get Bobby to school on time, which was supposed to be 8:20 in the morning. The Chevy pulled to a fast stop behind a line of cars.
“Better get out here and run. Love you,” said Bobby’s father. “Love you too,” said Bobby as he opened the car door, slammed it shut and ran into the middle school building. Bobby did not have time to stop at his locker, so he dashed into Room 415, his homeroom, at 8:26.
“You’re late. Go get a pass from the school office,” said Miss Lowery, Bobby’s home room teacher. Bobby ran downstairs to the office. There was a small grouping of teachers in the office and Bobby was waving his hand. “I need a late pass,” said Bobby.
One of the school administrators, Miss Joseph, said “You are too late for a late pass. What is your name?”
“Bobby MacKay,” said Bobby.
“I will make a note that you are late for even a late pass. Now run to your first class. Homeroom is over,” said Miss Joseph.
Bobby turned and ran out the office door into the corridor which was already thinning from the student rush to the first class.
“Hey, no running in the halls,” said a teacher to Bobby. Bobby slowed down, but he had to make it to Room 345 before the start of class at 8:30. The music teacher locked the door at 8:31. She told the music class she added the minute because she was “kind.”
By the time Bobby made it to Room 345, the door was closing, and the music teacher nearly shut the door on Bobby’s arm as he pushed his way in.
“Young man, you think that appropriate behavior to push the door open like that? Take your seat,” said the music teacher to Bobby. Bobby took seat number 23. There were 30 seats in the classroom, each with a number, and his music class seat number was 23. Bobby had to write these all down during the first week of school because each class assigned a different seat number and the students were expected to remember their seat assignment.
So the music teacher talked about musical instruments to a class of 27 students. Bobby seat was in the back of the classroom, immediately behind him were cleaning supplies and a three-foot pile of Discover magazines. To the right and left were two boys, neither of whom Bobby knew the names of, though he had a vague memory that the dark hair one to his right was Nick.
Bobby tried very hard to listen to the music teacher describe each instrument, which she did partially from reading directly from her notes written on paper attached to a pink clipboard. The bell rang at 9:15. Everyone lifted their butts at once.
“park your butts back down,” yelped the music teacher in a piccolo voice. “You leave when I tell you to leave. I want everyone to write an essay of what I spoke of today, detailing the seven different instruments I described, and then making a case for why you wish to play one of them. Make a decision which one. Now you can go,” said the music teacher, waving her hand dismissively.
Bobby rose and looked at the clock. It read 9:16. Spanish started at 9:18. Bobby realized that he had his Spanish notebook in his locker. He ran out of Room 345, down the hall, made a right turn and found his locker. He turned the wheel of the combination lock, back and forth several times before the combination stuck and the locker handle rose and the door opened.
The Spanish notebook was yellow. Yellow. Where is it, Bobby thought to himself. There. He grabbed it, slammed his locker shut, turned the wheel of the combination lock and ran down the hallway.
“Stop running, young man,” said Mr. Whoever. Bobby slowed and arrived at Room 217 at 9:20, two minutes late. The Spanish teacher did not say anything. Indeed, the door was open, and he took seat number 13.
“Your name?” said the Spanish teacher, directing her attention to Bobby.
“Bobby MacKay.”
“Mr. MacKay, you are in Seat 15,” said the Spanish teacher.
“Oh. Sorry.” And so Bobby moved to seat 15 and opened his yellow Spanish notebook.
The Spanish teacher spoke in a slow deliberate manner, pronouncing words clearly, but never speaking English, except when she disciplined students. Bobby took notes, but had difficulty following along. The girl to his left, Christine, was Korean with long straight black hair. Bobby noticed that her notebook was full of carefully written notes. The Spanish teacher seemed as bored as Bobby felt, but since Christine was writing notes in a lively fashion, Bobby figured there was something wrong with him. Maybe the Spanish teacher was having a great time, even though she kept sniping at students for not paying attention.
The bell rang at 10:02, and Bobby was off to his Social Studies class that started at 10:06. he thankfully arrived on time. But the problem now was that Bobby had to go to the bathroom. He asked Mr. Jordan if he could be excused, but Mr. Jordan said that since lunch period was next, Bobby could take care of his business then. So Bobby held it. And it wasn’t easy. This was particularly so because the lesson in Social Studies was to locate positions on a map of the United States using longitude and latitude, and to work with a team, requiring Bobby to move around the room, making his bladder nearly burst with every movement.
The bell rang at 10:50. Lunch time. Yes, I know what you are thinking. Lunch at 10:50? Yep. And as Boby ran to the bathroom in the hallway, he realized he had to crap as well as piss. He only had till 11:16 to finish lunch. That is a mere twenty minutes. So in that twenty minutes, Bobby had to crap, wash up, run to the cafeteria, get on line, get his food, pay for his food, find an empty chair, sit and eat. By the time Bobby sat down with his tray of food in front of him to eat, the time was 11:14. Bobby stared at the food. He was not hungry. he felt a pain in his belly. And he was breathing heavily. The bell rang, and he walked to his next class which started at 11:16. So really, Boby thought, he had less than twenty minutes to eat because he had to get to his 11:16 math class. And that is the class he was dreading because he was not able to finish the math problem the night before.
The rest of the day was a daze. When Bobby got home at 3:22, all he could remember was the math teacher tearing up his work, yelling at him that he got the formula wrong saying “you obviously did not listen during the lesson.”
Bobby’s mother greeted him at the back door. “Have a good day, Bobby?” asked Bobby’s Mom.
“Yeah,” said Bobby, who was too tired to say anything else about the last seven hours.
“Hungry?”
“”I have a stomach ache,” answered Bobby.
“Your piano teacher is coming in fifteen minutes, so why don’t you practice a little before he comes. You know he was disappointed last week,” said Bobby’s Mom.
“OK.”
So Bobby walked into the living room and sat at the piano and stared at the eighty-eight white keys. He kept staring, and thinking of nothing. Nothing at all. Except he remembered then that he left his binder in his locker with all his homework. He had homework to do in math, Spanish, Social Studies and language arts. He also had to write that essay for the music teacher.
“Mom….Mom?” yelled Bobby. But then he looked out the window and saw his Mother playing with Bobby’s four-year old sister. Bobby got up from the piano stool and lied down on the couch and stared at the ceiling fan that was turning slowly.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Michael Jackson Starts To Develop
The year is 1964. Michael ran into his bedroom, crying quietly, his father yelling from downstairs. Michael shut the door and jumped onto the bed. He placed his face into the white pillow which he hugged with his arms. He was wearing a white undershirt and flannel pajamas. Michael kept his face pushed into the soft pillow until he felt the tears stop. He lifted his head and touched his left cheek where his father had hit him with a fist. It was tender. Michael sat up on the bed and noticed the small wall mirror. He quietly walked to the mirror and examined his face. His cheek was inflamed and had turned dark blue. He looked at his left hand where he touched his cheek and was happy to see no blood. But his hand was dirty from having played in the backyard dirt under the sick palm tree. The mess he made was the cause of his father's anger. It was different everyday. His father's rage came and went like the Santa Ana winds, unpredictable and with always a violent force. Michael reached into a drawer and rummaged around and found his sister's white glove. He put the white glove on his left hand to cover the dirt. He then looked back up at the mirror and stepped back, keeping his eyes on the mirror. He stepped forward. Then back again. Then forward, keeping his eyes on the mirror, looking at his face get smaller than bigger. Michael then thought he saw his face contort, one cheek up, the other down, his nose got bigger, one eye drooped. He was growing ugly. Michael’s heart raced. He walked forward to get a closer look at the mirror, but oddly saw that his face got smaller. He walked forward again and his face continued to get smaller. He did not know what was happening. Michael then looked down at his feet which were in white socks and black slippers and noticed that he was stepping forward with one foot but pulling himself back with his other foot, intending to go forward, giving the impression of going forward but actually walking backwards. Michael got scared. He thought this was spooky, like he was possessed by some demon that was tearing him apart, ripping him in opposite directions. He then felt a warmth in his crotch and realized he was peeing. He grabbed his crotch with his ungloved right hand and pulled it up to stop the peeing. It stopped. He was wet, but he had stopped himself and held it. Michael stood in the middle of the room, his right hand on his crotch, his left white gloved hand open and up near his face. He raised his head and saw himself in the mirror again. Michael looked at himself and would never forget this moment.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Kate Moss Does Heroin With The Help Of Chanel
Kate Moss stood in the elevator of the Hilton on Park Lane in London as it rose to the penthouse suite floor. She was alone, wearing a black skirt cut about six inches above her knees and white tank top with string shoulder straps. The top was tight, hugging Kate's round orange-size breasts. Her left hand held the top of a half empty bottle of Moet and Chandon Dom Perignon champagne, her left arm hung low burdened with the bottle, her back leaned against the rear of the elevator cab. Her right hand gripped the brass rail that ran around the cab. Kate’s drinking this evening had gotten a bit out of hand.The champagne bottle in Kate’s hand was the second one being worked on. A Gauloise cigarette was burning in Kate’s puffy lips, the non-filtered tip in Kate's mouth, the smoke rising into her face. She glanced up at the "No Smoking" sign and smiled. Signs did not mean anything to her. They had become silly. There did not seem to be any consequences to her behavior, bad or otherwise, and so she had decided to do whatever she liked.
The elevator doors opened and Kate walked down the hallway, occasionally tipping toward one side or the other, touching the wall as she moved to prevent herself from falling. She giggled. I mean, afterall, she was celebrating. That bitch Scarlett Johansson actually thought Chanel was going to use her instead of the great and beautiful Kate Moss. When Kate had received the diamond earrings from Alain Wertheimer, the Chairman of Chanel, apologizing for the unfortunate initial decision made by the Chanel CEO, Francoise Montenay, to cancel her modeling contract, Kate smiled. She called her agent, who called Chanel, who renegotiated her contract, upping Kate's compensation by a million pounds per year. That stupid little photograph of her snorting cocaine led to a series of events that made her more money.
Kate's cigarette was burned down to its last quarter centimeter, with a good two centimeters of burned ash still protruding from the front, sloping down. Kate removed the Gauloise from her mouth and tossed it onto the corridor rug. It hit with a little bounce, but continued to burn. So what. Let it burn. There are no consequences, and she was celebrating. Kate removed the key card from her hidden skirt pocket and opened her hotel suite door. The lights turned on automatically in the hotel suite. That’s cute, thought Kate. The hotel room was being paid courtesy of Chanel as an additional gift for welcoming her back to the perfume company. The French; Kate loved them. As if the one million pounds were not enough. They had to give the hotel suite for a week as well as the earrings. Like she really needed it. But hell, with the Zeta Bar downstairs giving her the two bottles of Dom Perignon for free, plus the bowl of strawberries and the two Pina Coladas, which she asked for, Kate had decided to make a nice celebratory weekend of it without the intrusion of Pete Doherty or anyone else.
Kate closed the door behind her and took a swig of champagne directly from the bottle. She placed the bottle down on the thick glass coffee table that sat between two large leather couches. The window beyond had a commanding view of the Mayfair district of London. A wicker gift basket with a card attached was on the coffee table. Another gift? She leaned down, but then lost her balance and fell to the floor. Kate laughed. In public, such moments were embarrassing. But in private, she could be sloppy and drunk and silly, and it all amused her. She noticed that the left string strap holding her tank top snapped, causing the top to fall below her left breast. She hoisted herself up and felt no modesty about her exposed breast. Why should she. She was alone with herself. She was sitting on the floor next to the coffee table. She pulled off her black pumps and massaged the bottom of her feet. This made her laugh too because she felt nothing. Her feet were numb but for some reason this did not bother her. It was the champagne, Kate concluded.
Kate turned her attention to the gift basket and opened the small white envelope and removed a note card. On the card was written with a fountain pen in blue ink "Please accept my apologies." No signature. OK. Now who is this? More people apologizing to her. Alain Wertheimer had already showered her with expensive apologies. Maybe this was Francoise Montenay, the Frenchman that decided to fire her, then was vetoed by the boss, Alain.
Kate reached into the basket and pulled out a bottle of Chanel No. 5. You've got to be kidding me. This is what whoever sent me to apologize? She doesn't even wear the stuff, except when she has to. The idiot. Wait. Wait. What's this. Kate pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag which contained a white powder, a healthy amount of white powder, possibly the size of a large cigar.
Kate Moss rose from the carpeted floor and sat on the leather couch. She grabbed the bottle of Dom Perignon and took another swig, actually a big swig, the alcohol going down her thin throat in gulps. She felt the liquid warm her aging and abused stomach, and she got a rush of dizziness. Not the kind of dizziness associated with nausea, but more that of a gentle high. This surprised her given the amount she had consumed in the last two hours. It must be the site and anticipation of the plastic bag of powder. Cocaine. It must be cocaine. What a gift. Though she had spent a good deal of time in the Arizona desert drying out from drugs, the Arizona thing was more for show than anything. She still smoked her sixty to eighty cigarettes a day. She still was able to drink. Alcohol, that is. She even had a few Demerol here and there to keep her smiling through the burning Arizona sun. As she saw it, it was a vacation.
Kate Moss opened the Ziploc bag and stuck her right index finger in, scooping a small amount of the powder with her unpolished nail. She noticed that her nails were becoming very yellow from the constant nicotine that swirled around her fingers, not to mention in her arteries. Hell. Big deal. There was always polish to cover such things. The powder looked like cocaine. She placed it on her gums. It tasted like cocaine, but then she was so drunk it was really difficult to discern one taste from another. Before she was able to feel the effects of the gum absorption, Kate scooped some more with her nail and snorted a small mound. Well, maybe a big mound. She really didn't focus on the amount.
The drug went straight up into her forehead and seemed to tingle her eyeballs, the tingle spreading around into her temples, and then a drape of a euphoric calm waterfall plunged down into her chest. OK. OK. This was not cocaine. Damn. This felt like heroin. Her throat tightened, which Pete told her might be a sign of too much heroin too fast. Her first instinct was to grab the bottle of Dom Perignon. Kate went with her instinct. She gulped, trying to open her throat with the bubbly liquid. The champagne went down the wrong tube, and Kate started to choke. She then felt a tightness in her chest and had difficulty breathing. Fuck. She was celebrating. Who sent this shit. Pete? Was it Francoise Montenay? Or was it some demented asshole, someone she pissed off? Was it Scarlett Johansson? No. No. It couldn't be Scarlett. Kate was not thinking straight. She tried to stand, but immediately fell backwards, hitting her head on the leather couch.
Kate could feel herself slipping into a sleep state. She opened her eyes and saw the ceiling. She forced herself into an upright position. The bathroom. Get herself to the bathroom, she thought. Cold water. Cold water. She was not going to call for help. The drugs. All the drugs. The bad publicity would start all over again. Of course, she would probably emerge from another bad spat of publicity. But she wanted to deal with this herself. Kate Moss crawled to the bathroom. He white tank top dragged on the rug and completely pulled off, her black skirt also pulled down off her hips. Then Kate felt a sudden urge to vomit. She had to stay awake for this, otherwise she risked choking to death. She raised herself up with her arms and it came in several bursts, vomit, waves of vomit, mostly the champagne and the cashews and the Quail eggs she had at the Zeta Bar. The puke had this disgusting odor, but Kate did not care, she had to get it out of her. She always felt that vomiting was the best medicine for everything. She even did it at the Arizona resort.
The pool of vomit formed on the lush red carpet below her face as she held her chest up with her arms, her bare breasts dangling in a manner that were no longer firm even though small. Kate dropped her head. It was over. It was all out. This is when the wave of swirling dizziness hit like a hurricane. Kate's eyes rolled back into her head, but she had the presence of mind to lower herself, her right cheek coming to rest in the pool of warm vomit as she fell into a deep unconscious sleep.
Twelve hours later, Kate Moss awoke with dried vomit on her face and in her hair. She had fallen with her legs and arms in contorted positions, restricting the flow of blood, and so she barely could feel any of her limbs. She had a pounding headache which she attributed to the champagne and the heroin, not realizing that it was nothing more than a nicotine withdrawal since she had not had a cigarette during the twelve hours of being unconscious, a period of time where she would have normally smoked sixty cigarettes. Kate pushed herself up and slowly stood, her tank top pulled down and her skirt at her knees. She looked up at the mirror that hung on the wall and saw a skinny, disheveled, wasted girl. She smiled because she was so skinny. She smiled because all she saw was a wasted millionaire who would take a shower, have some coffee and a thousand cigarettes and start a new day. More mischief. And no consequences.
The elevator doors opened and Kate walked down the hallway, occasionally tipping toward one side or the other, touching the wall as she moved to prevent herself from falling. She giggled. I mean, afterall, she was celebrating. That bitch Scarlett Johansson actually thought Chanel was going to use her instead of the great and beautiful Kate Moss. When Kate had received the diamond earrings from Alain Wertheimer, the Chairman of Chanel, apologizing for the unfortunate initial decision made by the Chanel CEO, Francoise Montenay, to cancel her modeling contract, Kate smiled. She called her agent, who called Chanel, who renegotiated her contract, upping Kate's compensation by a million pounds per year. That stupid little photograph of her snorting cocaine led to a series of events that made her more money.
Kate's cigarette was burned down to its last quarter centimeter, with a good two centimeters of burned ash still protruding from the front, sloping down. Kate removed the Gauloise from her mouth and tossed it onto the corridor rug. It hit with a little bounce, but continued to burn. So what. Let it burn. There are no consequences, and she was celebrating. Kate removed the key card from her hidden skirt pocket and opened her hotel suite door. The lights turned on automatically in the hotel suite. That’s cute, thought Kate. The hotel room was being paid courtesy of Chanel as an additional gift for welcoming her back to the perfume company. The French; Kate loved them. As if the one million pounds were not enough. They had to give the hotel suite for a week as well as the earrings. Like she really needed it. But hell, with the Zeta Bar downstairs giving her the two bottles of Dom Perignon for free, plus the bowl of strawberries and the two Pina Coladas, which she asked for, Kate had decided to make a nice celebratory weekend of it without the intrusion of Pete Doherty or anyone else.
Kate closed the door behind her and took a swig of champagne directly from the bottle. She placed the bottle down on the thick glass coffee table that sat between two large leather couches. The window beyond had a commanding view of the Mayfair district of London. A wicker gift basket with a card attached was on the coffee table. Another gift? She leaned down, but then lost her balance and fell to the floor. Kate laughed. In public, such moments were embarrassing. But in private, she could be sloppy and drunk and silly, and it all amused her. She noticed that the left string strap holding her tank top snapped, causing the top to fall below her left breast. She hoisted herself up and felt no modesty about her exposed breast. Why should she. She was alone with herself. She was sitting on the floor next to the coffee table. She pulled off her black pumps and massaged the bottom of her feet. This made her laugh too because she felt nothing. Her feet were numb but for some reason this did not bother her. It was the champagne, Kate concluded.
Kate turned her attention to the gift basket and opened the small white envelope and removed a note card. On the card was written with a fountain pen in blue ink "Please accept my apologies." No signature. OK. Now who is this? More people apologizing to her. Alain Wertheimer had already showered her with expensive apologies. Maybe this was Francoise Montenay, the Frenchman that decided to fire her, then was vetoed by the boss, Alain.
Kate reached into the basket and pulled out a bottle of Chanel No. 5. You've got to be kidding me. This is what whoever sent me to apologize? She doesn't even wear the stuff, except when she has to. The idiot. Wait. Wait. What's this. Kate pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag which contained a white powder, a healthy amount of white powder, possibly the size of a large cigar.
Kate Moss rose from the carpeted floor and sat on the leather couch. She grabbed the bottle of Dom Perignon and took another swig, actually a big swig, the alcohol going down her thin throat in gulps. She felt the liquid warm her aging and abused stomach, and she got a rush of dizziness. Not the kind of dizziness associated with nausea, but more that of a gentle high. This surprised her given the amount she had consumed in the last two hours. It must be the site and anticipation of the plastic bag of powder. Cocaine. It must be cocaine. What a gift. Though she had spent a good deal of time in the Arizona desert drying out from drugs, the Arizona thing was more for show than anything. She still smoked her sixty to eighty cigarettes a day. She still was able to drink. Alcohol, that is. She even had a few Demerol here and there to keep her smiling through the burning Arizona sun. As she saw it, it was a vacation.
Kate Moss opened the Ziploc bag and stuck her right index finger in, scooping a small amount of the powder with her unpolished nail. She noticed that her nails were becoming very yellow from the constant nicotine that swirled around her fingers, not to mention in her arteries. Hell. Big deal. There was always polish to cover such things. The powder looked like cocaine. She placed it on her gums. It tasted like cocaine, but then she was so drunk it was really difficult to discern one taste from another. Before she was able to feel the effects of the gum absorption, Kate scooped some more with her nail and snorted a small mound. Well, maybe a big mound. She really didn't focus on the amount.
The drug went straight up into her forehead and seemed to tingle her eyeballs, the tingle spreading around into her temples, and then a drape of a euphoric calm waterfall plunged down into her chest. OK. OK. This was not cocaine. Damn. This felt like heroin. Her throat tightened, which Pete told her might be a sign of too much heroin too fast. Her first instinct was to grab the bottle of Dom Perignon. Kate went with her instinct. She gulped, trying to open her throat with the bubbly liquid. The champagne went down the wrong tube, and Kate started to choke. She then felt a tightness in her chest and had difficulty breathing. Fuck. She was celebrating. Who sent this shit. Pete? Was it Francoise Montenay? Or was it some demented asshole, someone she pissed off? Was it Scarlett Johansson? No. No. It couldn't be Scarlett. Kate was not thinking straight. She tried to stand, but immediately fell backwards, hitting her head on the leather couch.
Kate could feel herself slipping into a sleep state. She opened her eyes and saw the ceiling. She forced herself into an upright position. The bathroom. Get herself to the bathroom, she thought. Cold water. Cold water. She was not going to call for help. The drugs. All the drugs. The bad publicity would start all over again. Of course, she would probably emerge from another bad spat of publicity. But she wanted to deal with this herself. Kate Moss crawled to the bathroom. He white tank top dragged on the rug and completely pulled off, her black skirt also pulled down off her hips. Then Kate felt a sudden urge to vomit. She had to stay awake for this, otherwise she risked choking to death. She raised herself up with her arms and it came in several bursts, vomit, waves of vomit, mostly the champagne and the cashews and the Quail eggs she had at the Zeta Bar. The puke had this disgusting odor, but Kate did not care, she had to get it out of her. She always felt that vomiting was the best medicine for everything. She even did it at the Arizona resort.
The pool of vomit formed on the lush red carpet below her face as she held her chest up with her arms, her bare breasts dangling in a manner that were no longer firm even though small. Kate dropped her head. It was over. It was all out. This is when the wave of swirling dizziness hit like a hurricane. Kate's eyes rolled back into her head, but she had the presence of mind to lower herself, her right cheek coming to rest in the pool of warm vomit as she fell into a deep unconscious sleep.
Twelve hours later, Kate Moss awoke with dried vomit on her face and in her hair. She had fallen with her legs and arms in contorted positions, restricting the flow of blood, and so she barely could feel any of her limbs. She had a pounding headache which she attributed to the champagne and the heroin, not realizing that it was nothing more than a nicotine withdrawal since she had not had a cigarette during the twelve hours of being unconscious, a period of time where she would have normally smoked sixty cigarettes. Kate pushed herself up and slowly stood, her tank top pulled down and her skirt at her knees. She looked up at the mirror that hung on the wall and saw a skinny, disheveled, wasted girl. She smiled because she was so skinny. She smiled because all she saw was a wasted millionaire who would take a shower, have some coffee and a thousand cigarettes and start a new day. More mischief. And no consequences.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Hillary Clinton In A West Virginia Bathroom
Hillary looked at her thin stainless steel wristwatch. The time was 7:45 PM. Her throat had a slight burn from the speech she just gave in a Walmart parking lot to a crowd of Walmart shoppers and employees. There was no microphone, so she had to raise her voice to a level she knew was going to come back and haunt her. Not to mention the dry eyes Hillary confronted from the cool breeze blowing in her face during the Walmart speech. After the crowd gave her a cheer in response to “I am one of you,” Hillary Clinton moved quickly to a black Chevrolet Tahoe and got into the back seat surrounded by Secret Service. Hillary’s next stop was to be Charleston, a good forty-minute drive from the Walmart.
Hillary was alone in the backseat. The driver was Secret Service. In the passenger seat was another Secret Service agent. The side trip to the Walmart had been unplanned, and it threw a bit of chaos into the day because Hillary was not with any campaign staff, who were all waiting for her in Charleston at campaign headquarters. It was the Secret Service, the two in the front seat and the other two in the Chevrolet Suburban behind, that acted as Hillary’s traveling staff, helping her set up at Walmart and announcing Hillary’s presence to the Walmart store manager. The news media was there only because someone in Charleston had thought to send a wire out an hour before she arrived at the Walmart.
Hillary felt tired, her arms heavy, and she could hear herself breathing. As the car moved at sixty miles per hour down a long winding stretch of thick green backwoods, Hillary spotted the Green Tick Diner approaching on the side of the road.
“Stop at that diner. I need to go the bathroom,” said Hillary to the driver.
The Chevy Tahoe pulled into the lot, followed by the Suburban from behind.
The parking lot was empty but for three pickups, all from the 1960s and all Fords and all light blue. Hillary noted the near droning similarity that everything took on for her in West Virginia.
Hillary wanted to throw water on her face and maybe get a Coke. The protocol was that two Secret Service agents were to recon the diner before Hillary left the vehicle. The agent advised the waitress at the register that Mrs. Clinton was planning to use the bathroom. The waitress, maybe about fifty, wearing a red wig with a cigarette dangling from cracked red lips, nodded without any noticeable reaction to the famous visitor in the parking lot. Hillary entered the diner, smiled at the red-wigged waitress and was guided to the ladies room by one of the Secret Service agents. The agent had made certain the bathroom was empty and stood sentry at the door to prevent anyone from entering while Hillary was in the bathroom. As Hillary passed the Secret Service agent, he handed her a black can of Coke Zero which he had purchased from the dirty blond twenty-year old girl that worked the counter. Hillary grabbed the can of Coke Zero without eye contact as she passed the agent and entered door to the bathroom that shut behind her as she looked up into the diner’s ladies room.
The ladies room had three stalls and three sinks. The sinks were embedded in a grey linoleum counter top. The linoleum had the thin-lined boomerang shapes, each about the size of a paper clip, as if thrown on the top randomly. Hillary popped the Coke Zero’s top and took a long swig. She placed the can next to the sink and examined herself in the mirror. She had chosen the sink closest to the door, but it hardly mattered since the mirror she faced was cracked in various places, rivers of break lines running in all directions. One ran through the image of Hillary’s face as she noticed her makeup was caked and uneven from the nearly continuous wind she had faced all day in West Virginia.
She turned the faucet on and cupped her hands, collecting a small pool of cool water drawn from a well in the back of the diner. She splashed the water on her face and grabbed a paper towel from a stack lying on the counter top. She removed her makeup. She did not wish to be caught by the media without makeup, but it was unlikely the media would be anywhere near the Green Tick Diner. And quite frankly, she hated makeup. She found herself lopping on more and more of it to cover up more and more facial lines and hanging eye bags.
The toilet flushed. Hillary stood erect. The stall door, which was not shut, opened and out walked with a slow limp an old woman slumped forward, her head sticking out and down, the hump of her back nearly as high as the top of her skull, which peaked out through thinning silver hair. The old woman did not look at Hillary but moved slowly to the counter top, turned on the faucet and leaned on the linoleum with twisted hands. She was wearing blue jeans and frayed converse sneakers. The jean were cut about two inches above the ankle, exposing very pale skin treaded with blue veins. She was wearing a yellow T-shirt covered with a brown leather jacket.
Hillary glanced at the door with a moment of surprise, half expecting the Secret Service Agent to pop his head in. But the old woman made no noise that would have brought the agent rushing into the bathroom. Hillary relished these private moments, and so was irritated that the agent had not cleared the bathroom. How had he missed this old woman? She thought it was possible that the agent merely noted that each stall door was open and assumed that no one was sitting on any of the toilets. Well, I guess in West Virginia closing a stall door is not customary, Hillary thought.
“You that Clinton chick?” said the old woman as she was looking down at the water running down the drain. The old woman’s body position had not changed since she found her support on the linoleum counter top. It seemed like she was fighting some uncomfort or pain.
Hillary resisted a response. But that would be impolite, and as much as she had been accused of lacking any sense of civility, it was her inclination to be gracious.
“Yes,” said Hillary.
“What you doing here?” said the old woman.
“Well, there’s a primary today, and I am campaigning,” said Hillary.
“They’re ain’t nobody lives in this part,” said the old woman.
“We are driving to Charleston where my campaign headquarters is located,” said Hillary.
“Charleston folk are a bunch of crap-eaters,” said the old woman.
Hillary had never heard the term “crap-eaters” and wanted to ask, but she was then caught off guard.
“Hey, you ain’t that Hillary chick. That Hillary chick is an old hag. You trying to mess with me?” said the old woman as she glared at Hillary.
“No. No. I am Hillary Clinton,” said Hillary.
The old woman stared at Hillary, squinting her eyes.
“Hey, yeah, OK, I see it. You just ain’t got makeup on, is that it? You don’t look half bad without that shit on your face,” said the old woman.
“Thank you,” said Hillary.
“I voted for the black guy. What’s his name?” asked the old woman.
“You voted?” said Hillary.
“At the firehouse. This morning. Voted for the black guy. O somethin’,” said the old woman.
“Obama,” said Hillary.
“Yeah. Him. People ’round here don’t like the black guy cause he’s skinny and always smilin’,” said the old woman.
“Is that right?’ said Hillary.
“Shit. I need a drink. S’pose you could drop me at Bunn’s Bar down the road?” asked the old woman.
Hillary was inclined to tell the old woman that she was in a rush. But that would make no sense, and the old woman seemed to have an accurate bullshit meter.
“I need a drink too,” said Hillary.
“Nah. Bunn’s not for you. It’s filthy. Dirty shit all round. The crap-eaters in Charleston have plenty of clean bars fit for you,” said the old woman.
“What do you drink?” asked Hillary.
“Gin. Gin stinks, and I like to be reminded I’m a drunk. The crap-eaters in Charleston don’t smell their own shit. I like to smell mine. So can you drop me? At Bunn’s? It’s on the way,” asked the old woman.
Hillary really wanted to go to Bunn’s Bar and hang with this old woman for most of the night. She needed a gin too, though she preferred vodka.
“Sure. We’ll drop you off,” said Hillary.
“I voted for the black guy. I ain’t apologizin’. Just saying I voted for the black guy. To be different. And he’s different, you know,” said the old woman.
“Yes. I know. I know,” said Hillary.
Hillary was alone in the backseat. The driver was Secret Service. In the passenger seat was another Secret Service agent. The side trip to the Walmart had been unplanned, and it threw a bit of chaos into the day because Hillary was not with any campaign staff, who were all waiting for her in Charleston at campaign headquarters. It was the Secret Service, the two in the front seat and the other two in the Chevrolet Suburban behind, that acted as Hillary’s traveling staff, helping her set up at Walmart and announcing Hillary’s presence to the Walmart store manager. The news media was there only because someone in Charleston had thought to send a wire out an hour before she arrived at the Walmart.
Hillary felt tired, her arms heavy, and she could hear herself breathing. As the car moved at sixty miles per hour down a long winding stretch of thick green backwoods, Hillary spotted the Green Tick Diner approaching on the side of the road.
“Stop at that diner. I need to go the bathroom,” said Hillary to the driver.
The Chevy Tahoe pulled into the lot, followed by the Suburban from behind.
The parking lot was empty but for three pickups, all from the 1960s and all Fords and all light blue. Hillary noted the near droning similarity that everything took on for her in West Virginia.
Hillary wanted to throw water on her face and maybe get a Coke. The protocol was that two Secret Service agents were to recon the diner before Hillary left the vehicle. The agent advised the waitress at the register that Mrs. Clinton was planning to use the bathroom. The waitress, maybe about fifty, wearing a red wig with a cigarette dangling from cracked red lips, nodded without any noticeable reaction to the famous visitor in the parking lot. Hillary entered the diner, smiled at the red-wigged waitress and was guided to the ladies room by one of the Secret Service agents. The agent had made certain the bathroom was empty and stood sentry at the door to prevent anyone from entering while Hillary was in the bathroom. As Hillary passed the Secret Service agent, he handed her a black can of Coke Zero which he had purchased from the dirty blond twenty-year old girl that worked the counter. Hillary grabbed the can of Coke Zero without eye contact as she passed the agent and entered door to the bathroom that shut behind her as she looked up into the diner’s ladies room.
The ladies room had three stalls and three sinks. The sinks were embedded in a grey linoleum counter top. The linoleum had the thin-lined boomerang shapes, each about the size of a paper clip, as if thrown on the top randomly. Hillary popped the Coke Zero’s top and took a long swig. She placed the can next to the sink and examined herself in the mirror. She had chosen the sink closest to the door, but it hardly mattered since the mirror she faced was cracked in various places, rivers of break lines running in all directions. One ran through the image of Hillary’s face as she noticed her makeup was caked and uneven from the nearly continuous wind she had faced all day in West Virginia.
She turned the faucet on and cupped her hands, collecting a small pool of cool water drawn from a well in the back of the diner. She splashed the water on her face and grabbed a paper towel from a stack lying on the counter top. She removed her makeup. She did not wish to be caught by the media without makeup, but it was unlikely the media would be anywhere near the Green Tick Diner. And quite frankly, she hated makeup. She found herself lopping on more and more of it to cover up more and more facial lines and hanging eye bags.
The toilet flushed. Hillary stood erect. The stall door, which was not shut, opened and out walked with a slow limp an old woman slumped forward, her head sticking out and down, the hump of her back nearly as high as the top of her skull, which peaked out through thinning silver hair. The old woman did not look at Hillary but moved slowly to the counter top, turned on the faucet and leaned on the linoleum with twisted hands. She was wearing blue jeans and frayed converse sneakers. The jean were cut about two inches above the ankle, exposing very pale skin treaded with blue veins. She was wearing a yellow T-shirt covered with a brown leather jacket.
Hillary glanced at the door with a moment of surprise, half expecting the Secret Service Agent to pop his head in. But the old woman made no noise that would have brought the agent rushing into the bathroom. Hillary relished these private moments, and so was irritated that the agent had not cleared the bathroom. How had he missed this old woman? She thought it was possible that the agent merely noted that each stall door was open and assumed that no one was sitting on any of the toilets. Well, I guess in West Virginia closing a stall door is not customary, Hillary thought.
“You that Clinton chick?” said the old woman as she was looking down at the water running down the drain. The old woman’s body position had not changed since she found her support on the linoleum counter top. It seemed like she was fighting some uncomfort or pain.
Hillary resisted a response. But that would be impolite, and as much as she had been accused of lacking any sense of civility, it was her inclination to be gracious.
“Yes,” said Hillary.
“What you doing here?” said the old woman.
“Well, there’s a primary today, and I am campaigning,” said Hillary.
“They’re ain’t nobody lives in this part,” said the old woman.
“We are driving to Charleston where my campaign headquarters is located,” said Hillary.
“Charleston folk are a bunch of crap-eaters,” said the old woman.
Hillary had never heard the term “crap-eaters” and wanted to ask, but she was then caught off guard.
“Hey, you ain’t that Hillary chick. That Hillary chick is an old hag. You trying to mess with me?” said the old woman as she glared at Hillary.
“No. No. I am Hillary Clinton,” said Hillary.
The old woman stared at Hillary, squinting her eyes.
“Hey, yeah, OK, I see it. You just ain’t got makeup on, is that it? You don’t look half bad without that shit on your face,” said the old woman.
“Thank you,” said Hillary.
“I voted for the black guy. What’s his name?” asked the old woman.
“You voted?” said Hillary.
“At the firehouse. This morning. Voted for the black guy. O somethin’,” said the old woman.
“Obama,” said Hillary.
“Yeah. Him. People ’round here don’t like the black guy cause he’s skinny and always smilin’,” said the old woman.
“Is that right?’ said Hillary.
“Shit. I need a drink. S’pose you could drop me at Bunn’s Bar down the road?” asked the old woman.
Hillary was inclined to tell the old woman that she was in a rush. But that would make no sense, and the old woman seemed to have an accurate bullshit meter.
“I need a drink too,” said Hillary.
“Nah. Bunn’s not for you. It’s filthy. Dirty shit all round. The crap-eaters in Charleston have plenty of clean bars fit for you,” said the old woman.
“What do you drink?” asked Hillary.
“Gin. Gin stinks, and I like to be reminded I’m a drunk. The crap-eaters in Charleston don’t smell their own shit. I like to smell mine. So can you drop me? At Bunn’s? It’s on the way,” asked the old woman.
Hillary really wanted to go to Bunn’s Bar and hang with this old woman for most of the night. She needed a gin too, though she preferred vodka.
“Sure. We’ll drop you off,” said Hillary.
“I voted for the black guy. I ain’t apologizin’. Just saying I voted for the black guy. To be different. And he’s different, you know,” said the old woman.
“Yes. I know. I know,” said Hillary.
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