Mi Casa Su Casa

Gentle wisps of breath tickle my nose. I nudge closer, lolling in euphoric recall. His breathing quickens along with my heart. A gust of grave worthy morning breath blows by, nearly killing the moment. I hold my breath, choose lust, scoot closer, reach toward the warmth of his…

But wait…

As of last week, I’m divorced. The love of my life crushed me in the most degrading, proverbial cliché way. Yep, you guessed it. The old run off with the hot, young secretary gig. With a name like Cookie, you get the picture—a bobble headed, perky blonde with goo-goo eyes and an AM voice. A platitude with perky breasts.

Confusion pushes euphoria off the scene. The last thing I remember is a conversation with Andrew, the bartender at The Ugly Dog Pub.

“Don’t worry about it Andrew. I’m Irish. We’re super human as long as we have fuel. So, line up another boilermaker. Okay?”

Inhaling quickly, I hold my breath again before the rancid fumes can pierce my nostrils. I’m about to lift my eyelids, when he snorts, spraying my face with eau de stench of death. Praying I’ll recognize the phantom breather, I lift one eyelid. Nothing in my 40 years of life prepared me for the next scene. I scream, catapult to a stand on the bed and scream again.

Standing next to the bed is a huge, black and white, dog, wagging his tail and panting like, “Hey, let’s play.”

“What are you doing here?” I yell.

(Tail wags).

I spin around on the bed trying to make sense of where I am and where the dog came from. He joins the fun. Then as if waiting for me to wake, three old, nasty friends announce their arrival-- nausea, head throbs and the whirlies. I fall back onto the bed. The dog follows my lead, laying his head in my lap. Calming myself and him, I scratch behind his ears. Not wanting to rile him up, I lean over him grabbing a brochure from the nightstand. It reads: MI CASA ES TU MOTEL DE LA CASA. Below that I think the translation would read: “The Place of Affordable Dreams, or possibly just “Cheap Dreams.” Then the scariest line of all-- Tijuana, Mexico. My body aches. Even my fingers hurt. My ring is cutting off circulation probably because of all the booze.

Wait, I don’t have a ring.

Desperate I ask the dog, “What have I done?

Again, with the tail wags.

I leap to my feet hearing a key turn in the door lock.

“Good morning Senorita Scarlett.”

The dog runs to greet the stranger at the door.

“Who are you?”

He laughs, handing me a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee.

“Andrew?” I ask, realizing he looks different without his apron and vest.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he takes my hand.

“Are you okay? You were pretty wiped out for an Irish super being.”

Extending my other hand, the one with the gold band, I ask.

“Did we… are we… married?”

“What!? Good grief no. I slept on the sofa. Don’t you remember? You were going on about giving up men for good and getting a dog. My friend Marcos over-heard you at the bar. He said he knew a dog that needed a home but it was in Mexico with his brother’s family. Remember?”

“No.”

“Yeah, you got all crazy and insisted I drive you over the border to pick up the dog. Marco called his brother. You gave him $200 bucks. Remember?”

“Well, what about the ring?”

“Oh yeah. You bought that for $50 from Marco’s niece. It’s just tin. You said you wanted to make the relationship with Flavius official.”

“Who the hell is Flavius?”

“The dog. Remember?”

“No.”

“You said he needed a powerful, regal name because of the white fur cape God designed for him.”

During the ride back over the border to Chula Vista, Andrew entertained himself and Flavius with stories of my forgotten escapades. I will be finding a new hangout. Since learning I imitated the entire brass section from a Herb Albert Tijuana Brass song, without the aid of—well, brass, or… music. I’d say he was making it up but that song has been stuck in my head

I’m relieved I’m single. Well, sort of single. I own a big regal dog named Flavius who is winning me over with snorts and slobber. And, I’m giving up Boilermakers, my personal liquid kryptonite.

#humor #story #fiction

Deb Palmer

509-929-2303

debpalmer999@gmail.com

Visions of Gumdrops

In the early 1990’s, Central Washington University bounced with fresh skin, high hopes, gel spiked hair, and me. At least that’s how it felt. A single mom, pushing forty, striving for a degree promising to pay bills. There were others sporting crow’s feet, suited for the staff lounge, awkward in the student hub, but we were few.

The desire to fit in with the puffy banged girls and boys who reeked of beer and Clearasil, faded the first week after overhearing a conversation between two gals in class. I shall respectfully refer to them by the shoes they were wearing.

Doc. Marten: I’m so pissed.

Birkenstock: What happened?

Doc Marten: My mother forgot to pack my lunch.

Birkenstock: That sucks!

Doc Marten: I’m starved.

Birkenstock: I’ll buy lunch. I have Dad’s Visa.

As Birkenstock comforted her shaken friend, I thought over my morning. The gas hog Chrysler Cordoba needed a jumpstart, my son tried to fake the flu, and my daughter surprised me with “today is conference day.” How I longed for a mom to pack my lunch.

I got used to the groans and eye rolls when the professor would slide me into a group project. And I learned to show grace when asked the burning question on my classmate’s minds: “How old are you?”

I just didn’t have time to bother with them. College life as a mom with a full-time job and a long list of new chatty friends calling from various collection agencies, kept me hopping and stressed. One day, I paused, just long enough for a virus to wrestle me into a choke hold. I dragged myself to the on-campus free clinic. Seated in the lobby, hunger grinds at my gut and I regret having no mom to pack me a lunch. Just then, I see a huge bowl of colorful cello-wrapped candy, in the center of the table of the lobby. Grateful, I scurry over, grabbing fistfuls of the rainbow of choices, red, green, blue, yellow. Yum!

Back in my chair, I place the pile of candy in my lap, choosing red as my first delight. Fumbling with the package, I feel stares, the kind that make you check for open buttons, or trailing toilet paper. I stare back at a blonde athlete whose smirk gives me the creeps. Victorious over the stubborn packaging I pop the promise of sweet in my mouth expecting hard candy, but finding it’s chewy like a gummy bear. A few chuckles rise as I spit out the flavorless rubber band like candy.

That’s when wisdom returns to the scene. There in my lap, mocking like a colorful mirage, is a pile of condoms. Now the unnoticed sign on the bowl flashes like a Vegas billboard.

FREE Condoms – Safe Sex

I hear my name. Rise. Stuff the 20-some condoms in my pockets and follow the nurse from the lobby. Before disappearing, with no way out of the embarrassing dilemma, I own it, shooting a smile and a wink to my mesmerized fans

My childhood nemesis: Roberta Sherard. She flaunted perfection, from the house next door to mine, twirling polished pirouettes, a blonde ponytail floating in slow motion behind her. I tried to keep up, spinning and stumbling, bedecked with scabbed knobby knees, red hair doomed to frizz, by a Tony home permanent gone awry. Roberta spoke softly, poise oozing out her pores, a finishing school graduate. I reeked of awkward, spewed hillbilly slang like Warshington, gonna, and I-dunno, and I carried the mantra, “Debbie, settle down.”

Roberta’s father wore a suit and tie, called her princess, bored my family with tales of her delightfulness. My dad yelled, wore Big Mac striped overalls, told me to pipe down.

“No man is gonna marry a girl with big feet,” he’d say, pointing a greasy truck driver finger at my bare feet.

I coveted Roberta’s family, but I loved mine.

The McFarland’s were not without charm. Summers we’d put on neighborhood shows, an amazing feat, performed completely without the benefit of talent. No musicians, singers, dancers or actors, just raw desire to be the center of attention, and the guts to charge for it… a silver quarter per show.

Saturday’s, we ’d canvas the block passing out hand written invitations, for Sunday afternoon’s back yard performance. A typical show, featured my lip sync to Ricky Nelson’s Traveling Man, sister Nancy’s loud version of Peter, Paul and Mary’s Kumbaya, accompanied with air guitar, and our star, little Danny, singing most all the words of Sukiyaki, a Japanese pop song from the 1960s. We served popcorn and lemonade for a nickel, and gave away taffy, because we didn’t like it very much.

By midsummer our crowds always dwindled, leaving sticky face Johnny and his whining sister, Margaret, alone on the grandstand of grass. Unwilling to fold up the makeshift floral sheet curtain, we spawned an idea for an act, no child of the 1960s could resist.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the dancing naked lady…”

My dad’s genuine United States Navy tattoo.

Our risqué, bare bottomed star, a genuine United States Navy tattoo located on Dad’s forearm… and she could dance. Quarters jingled, filling the jar. We had it made. That is, until a power wielding censorship group of one, cancelled the dance, insisting Dad roll his sleeve back down. Mom never did have a sense for business.

One day, Roberta’s family packed their perfect possessions, and moved to a wonderland of princess worthy neighbors. Around this time, Dad’s toothless gums and the tattoo, turned from an attraction to an embarrassment. I grew to hate his stories, and loathe my one-time heroine, the dancing naked lady. To my friends, NOT asking, he’d share the demise of his toothless grin.

“I left my teeth at a café’ on Highway 99, stuck in a tuna sandwich.”

Thanks for sharing Dad.

Resentment seeded, bitterness took root. Like many families walking the tightrope between alcoholism and recreational use abuse… stuff happened… words carelessly tossed, lies slung, shame spilled, fists bristled.

When I looked at my dad, I saw nothing… except who he was not. The dad I loved for his loud voice, silly jokes and Popeye grin, disappeared. I forgot the man who provided for his family, fudged paperwork miles, enabling longer shifts. The good forgotten, leaving only the bad to define; a man who hurt the ones he loved with neglect and fists.

Over time, the naked lady tattoo shriveled and sagged. Her one time peppy, flirty dance, was at best, a sluggish, sway. Our relationship deteriorated, along with the tattoo. Bitter years of unforgiveness proved too much to carry, spilling over, slopping onto my other relationships; husband, children, friends, co-workers, even strangers.

My mantra brew; a combo of avoidance and delusion with a dollop of bitter root vows and judgment. I managed. Then, Mom died. That meant spending time with Dad. I wanted to be a good daughter, a comfort. I knew about forgiveness and was willing. That bought some patience, but not enough. Daylight hours, I listened to him complain. After dark, I begged God to help me forgive him. Each day a clean slate, ending, soiled with new found rage for his latest rant attempting to justify wrongs done to my mom and siblings. If he’d just keep his mouth shut, maybe I could forgive.

Years passed. Every few months, he nearly died, springing back each time leaving the doctors shaking their heads in wonder. Driving his scooter, oxygen tank at his side, dad pressed on, losing the family home to gambling, nearly blowing his face off smoking Chesterfield’s while hooked to the oxygen tank, and getting slugged by a miscellaneous woman he somehow offended.

I waited for him to change. He stayed true to his character. One day, on the phone, listening to his perpetual validation about beating my sister, I realized something different. I cared about him. I felt love for the man he was, right then and there. The dad, the man with skin. While he talked on about what a good guy he was, I wondered how and when the switch in my heart flipped from bitterness to forgiveness.

Dad was Dad, but something had changed.

That would be me.

Forgiveness benefited me. I was free to love and care for Dad, AS IS. Did I condone his actions? No. Did he sometimes make me crazy? You bet. But I loved… I love… I love my dad.

Not long after this revelation, he died, with the faithful naked lady tattoo. He left this world broken, forgiven, loved and my dad.