The Road Revisited

Follow Me Around The United States!

Friday, April 28, 2006

I believe....

I don't know who wrote this, but it found its way to me and I like it.


I believe-That we don't have to change friends if we understand that friends change.

I believe-That no matter how good a friend is, they're going to hurt youevery once in a while and you must forgive them for that.

I believe-That true friendship continues to grow, even over the longestdistance. Same goes for true love.

I believe-That you can do something in an instant that will give youheartache for life.

I believe-That it's taking me a long time to become the person I want to be.

I believe-That you should always leave loved ones with loving words. It may be the last time you see them.

I believe-That you can keep going long after you can't.

I believe-That we are responsible for what we do, no matter how we feel.

I believe-That either you control your attitude or it controls you.

I believe-That regardless of how hot and steamy a relationship is at first, the passion fades and there had better be something else to take its place.

I believe-That heroes are the people who do what has to be done when it needs to be done, regardless of the consequences.

I believe-That money is a lousy way of keeping score.

I believe-That my best friend and I can do anything or nothing and have the best time.

I believe-That sometimes the people you expect to kick you when you're down,will be the ones to help you get back up.

I believe-That sometimes when I'm angry I have the right to be angry, but that doesn't give me the right to be cruel.

I believe-That just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.

I believe-That maturity has more to do with what types of experiences you've had and what you've learned from them and less to do with how many birthdays you've celebrated.

I believe-That it isn't always enough to be forgiven by others. Sometimes you have to learn to forgive yourself.

I believe-That no matter how bad your heart is broken the world doesn't stop for your grief.

I believe-That our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are, but we are responsible for who we become.

I believe-That just because two people argue, it doesn't mean they don't love each other. And just because they don't argue, it doesn't mean they do.

I believe-That you shouldn't be so eager to find out a secret. It couldchange your life forever.

I believe-That two people can look at the exact same thing and see something totally different.

I believe-That your life can be changed in a matter of hours by people who don't even know you.

I believe-That even when you think you have no more to give, when a friend cries out to you, you will find the strength to help.

I believe-That credentials on the wall do not make you a decent human being.

I believe-That the people you care about most in life are taken from you too soon.

I believe-That you should send this to all of the people that you believe in.I just did.

Monday, April 24, 2006

READ BELOW

My time stamps are all messed up, but there is a new story right below the old one. It's called "The story comes full circle".

what can you say at that point?

An old friend sent me some pictures of she and her son via myspace a few days ago. They're both smiling and happy in them, and she was so excited for me to see them, since I've never met her son. I pretended not to notice the bruises around her eyes and lip and wrote back, "How cute!"....

Saturday, April 22, 2006

The story comes full circle.

There are still times, snuck in between 70 hours at work and the additional 6 with the triplets, that I squeeze in a real conversation, one that can stop me in my tracks and leave me itching for a keyboard to jot it all down before it leaves my head. Three weeks ago I met Jason, an Army E5 from Denver awaiting deployment to Iraq. He came into the Firerock while I was behind the bar, tagging along as a friend's wing man. He is of Thai decent, with dark sin and almond eyes, so he can easily blend into Iraqi society to gather intelligence; that's the reason he the only soldier from his unit being deployed. He said he had three weeks to go before boarding the plane. Tonight the send-off party I randomly planned ended up being just he and I. He leaves in 5 hours.

I like blindsiding people with quirky questions when I can't think of anything else to say, like, "What age did you discover where babies came from?" or, "Where would you go if money was no object?" Tonight it was, "If you had to pick, what would you say is your favorite memory ever?"
"I.... can't think of anything...." he said. "What about you? You first."
I launched into the story of Richard And The Night Of Arkansas Four-Wheelin'. Before I could get to the part about walking face-first into a cow, he remarked, "that guy sounds like my grandfather."
I teased, "Is your grandfather an Thai redneck?"
"No, he's white, he lives in Georgia...." The more I listened, the more he offered. That was the send-off party I really wanted, actually -- just to listen to him wax poetic for hours before being sent off to war. I got my wish.

"I understand about the Ozarks, I love to camp," he said. "Summers in Denver, that would be the best time. The air is so still in the mountains, it's more peaceful than you can imagine. Or in the Plains, I used to go camping in the Plains. You'd find a little spot by a little lake and just set up camp in the summertime. Me, I'd sit there and fish even though I haven't caught a fish in about ten years. Then the storms would roll in -- you could see them coming for miles, all the thunder and lightning. You just sit there and watch it move towards you, then it passes over, and once it's all done, the stillness is amazing. There's no wind, there's not even the regular sounds of nightime. It's almost eerily quiet. But it's peaceful.

"That's the peace you look back on to help you through conflict. In my job, it's all conflict and chaos. It's guns and training on how to survive torture. That's how. You call back on those times. It's not one memory per se, it's just a period of time that was peaceful enough to last you through the chaos.

"It's like, even in winters in Denver, when we would run for PT. I would run ten miles. We would all start out together, but after about five miles I'd be by myself. Then it's just you and the sun is coming up, 'cause it's like, six in the morning, and it's just you running towards the sunrise with nothing but the road ahead of you. There's the sound of your own breath, the sound of your feet hitting the pavement, and that's it. Those times of peace, of silence, those are what get you through the conflict.

"And when this is all over, that's what I really want. Some peace. Everyone deserves it. When I come back, I probably won't need a lot of money. I don't crave it. I just want nice piece of land in the mountains with a little house on it, with a porch and a little lake that I never catch fish in, and I'll be the crazy chinky guy who lives back in the woods and sits on the porch and drinks lemonade and sweet tea and shoots things with a shotgun, but only for fun.

"Yeah, that'll be me someday," he said quietly. He stared at the TV without really watching it, shaking his straw in his Captain and coke. "When I come back," he said a little louder, smiling at me and stirring the rum with a little more conviction. "I really do want this life to end when I'm, like, 70. Not now. Good thing I'm bulletproof." I sipped my vodka through a thin smile.

He saw the doubt in my eyes and conjured something deeper than the patterned list of regurgitated responses soldiers use to defend themselves. "I may not be the smartest guy, but I'm prepared to fight for what I believe in. I live the way I live because somebody did what I'm doing right now, and someday someone else will be able to live the way they want to because of what I'm doing.

"And I'm not going over there because I think we'll win this war. There's no way. We won't see the end of this war in my lifetime or your lifetime. These cultures have been fighting each other for thousands of years; you can't change that in two. That's why I don't understand people who get upset that we've been over there for almost four years and it's not over. It's not going to be over and it probably won't be one of those wars with a winner and a loser. But think about this -- my grandfather is from Georgia, he's a huge racist. My father is a racist, but not as much as my grandpa. Me, I'll admit I'm a little racist, but not as much as my dad. But my son? He's not going to be racist at all. Same thing with Iraqis. The old, crusty Iraqis who have been taught to hate Americans since birth, they're going to hate us no matter what. The older ones, like in their 40's, they're going to hate us. The young guys over there, they probably hate us too. But the little kids might not. And their kids might not. And if I can affect even one little kid in a positive way when I'm over there, so that when he grows up he doesn't want to strap a bomb to himself, then I've done my part. I could die over there and be proud that I gave my life at that point. It's the ultimate sacrifice.

"I can trace my family history back to the year 966," he continued. "On my dad's side, there are knights, there are people in my family who had William Shakespeare arrested for poaching on their property. And there's also been someone who has fought in every single war since the Revolution. My dad is a retired Air Force captain. He was in Viet Nam. He never had it easy, being the sole provider for a wife and four kids. All of his brothers and sisters are doctors and lawyers and psychiatrists. But they're the ones who are arguing over who's going to get what when my grandparents kick the bucket, and my dad's the one who says, 'I'd rather they just keep everything and stick around a little longer.' He values life in a way that others can't because of what he saw. His kids do too, I know I do. That's why I'm prepared to give everything. It's my turn.

"Are you just going over there because you want to shoot people?" I asked, visions of Jake From Kansas dancing in my head. His signature phrase had been, "Just wanna kill some mother-fuckers!"
"God, no!" Jason said. "I'd rather not kill anyone. I will if I have to, if my life is in danger, but that's not my main reason for going over there. I'm a pretty peaceful person who just wants to stand up for what I believe in. I hear all the talk on base, like, 'sand-nigger-this' and 'diaper-head-that'. I don't get it, really. I don't hate anyone. They're doing what they believe in just like I am. How can you hate them for that?"

"Okay, now you," he teased. "If you could do anything you wanted before you die, what would it be?"
In the last few weeks, I've become a big fan of admitting weakness, of letting the Super Confident Go-Getter Girl facade down. I answered honestly.
"Besides the obvious -- sky-diving -- I wish I could.... be more fearless. Not with things or situations I can control. They don't scare me. I mean with situations that are beyond my control." I stared at the light glinting off the rows of bottles as I continued, knowing that what I was saying was silly.

"Like, when I was on the road, I was unstoppable. I was so confident and happy and fearless. But now that I'm back, and I have to write about it, and convince publishers that what I did is worthy of their time, I'm scared. They are the situation I can't control. I can't control what they say. And every time I sit down with the intent to edit something or write a pitch letter, I just.... can't do it. I don't know why. But I think it's like this -- if I haven't sent anything for consideration, they haven't said yes, but at least they haven't said no. If they say no, it may prove that I'm not really a writer, I'm just a girl with a shitty bachelor's degree and no hands-on experience at anything but waiting tables. If they haven't said no yet, I can still feel like a writer. I wish I could use that same armor I had when I was on the road and say 'Fuck it!' But I haven't gotten that far yet."

"Fuck that!" Jason said, furiously stirring his drink. "You can't live like that! Shit! What's that old saying? 'I'd rather be counted among those who tried and failed than with those who had neither the will to try or the desire to falter.' I don't know who said that. But seriously, if those people don't want to publish your work, then fuck them! Go to someone else! You can't let someone else's opinion tell you what you are!"

He was calling me out. "I don't let anybody tell me who or what I am," he said. "I'm a high-school dropout. Look at me now -- I have an intelligence job. If I had listened to the stupid fucks who told me I wouldn't amount to anything, I wouldn't be doing what I'm doing now."

I knew he was right, of course he was. He still is. But at least I bit the bullet and admitted that I'm a coward.

At last call Jason shook hands with the other people in the bar and we walked outside. An April rain was falling just enough to make walking to the car an annoying process. He didn't care. "I'm not going to see rain for at least six months, I have to soak it up now. I love this weather..." The rain streaked down his shaved head, snaking over a vein in his temple. He trailed off, turning to me and pretending not to notice that I was walking slower than usual, trying to prolong the moment before I had to let go. Deep down I knew it was good practice for saying goodbye to my brother when he leaves for war, but that didn't really make it any easier. If anything, it made it worse.

Finally, after an agonizingly slow stroll to my car, we shared a short hug. "Be safe out there," I warned, my words floating thinly through the raindrops.
"Oh, I'll be fine! You know me..."
"Yeah, you're right. I do."

But did I? Do I? This is a stranger who wandered into my life three weeks ago, quickly became a constant, and now is leaving again, just as quick as he came. And he's leaving a mark I won't soon forget.

Oh, wait. That's what I did last year. So the truth is yes, I do know him.

The story has come full-circle and it's only half-finished.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Why am I not surprised?

What has two thumbs and TOTALLY CALLED the Scott McClellan resignation, like, two months ago?


This girl:


Now if only I could apply these psychic abilities to something other than political shake-ups....

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Image hosting by Photobucket



Here's a picture of my friend Brad and I in Cleveland. He's the U.S. Marshal I met when I was driving through the first time, the one who told me about his mom's accident. I look like a burn victim in this pic, but it's a good one of him and it's the only one I have, so I'm putting it up. And as soon as I get some new software, I'll post the other ones we took inside the federal courthouse. They're funny!

Sometimes horoscopes are eerily accurate...

The project before you is to do something big. The question is do you want to do it? The next question is can you afford not to? The next question is, are you happy? The next question is, are you really happy? Put the answers to all of those questions together, in paragraph form. Read it over. Now add a topic sentence. Now read it again. What conclusions can you draw about the author's attitude to their work from the sample text you've just read? Think carefully about the answer.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Dear Sweet Lord, Cynthia McKinney Is Nuts!!!

From the AP, retold by WQXI 790 AM Atlanta:


"And Georgia’s infamously coiffed congresswoman Cynthia McKinney, filed a new piece of legislation: House Resolution 4968, "The Tupac Amaru Shakur Records Release Act of 2006." McKinney believes the government may know more than it's saying about Shakur's murder in 1996, as such, The bill declares that "all government records related to the life and death of Tupac Amaru Shakur should be preserved for historical and governmental purposes." McKinney has previously stated that she thinks "government surveillance teams" may have witnessed Shakur's shooting and have failed to come forward."

For the love of God! This country is at war! American citizens are living in filth, with no water, food or shelter! Children can't read! Illegal immigrants are mobilizing in the streets and you're spending how much of your constituents' tax dollars on pending legislation regarding Tupac?!?!!

Granted, I'm a Tupac fan just like the next guy, but you know what I'm a bigger fan of? Feeding the poor. And cleaning up New Orleans. Hey, Cynthia, is Tupac going to help you manage the needs and overflow of Hurricane refugees into your state? No! He's dead!

And yes, there is a possibility the goverment had something to do with it and that issue should be addressed. But you know who else is dying at the hands of the government? John Q. Everyone Who Lives In Sudan. Call me crazy, but I think we should concentrate on preventing complete genocide of a race while we can, rather than delving into a federal game of Clue -- Gansta Edition.

Speaking of Clue, I know whodunnit, and by "it" I mean paint herself in a flattering shade of loony --- it was Rep. McKinney in the Cannon Building with a cell phone!

Sioux leader vows to bring Planned Parenthood to S.D. reservation

From Salon.com:

Today, Broadsheet salutes Cecilia Fire Thunder, first female president of the Oglala Sioux tribe of South Dakota and a longtime advocate of domestic violence prevention and other true family-friendliness.

Here's her response to her state's abortion ban (which Tim Giago at Indianz.com called "a stupid law against women" created by "a state body made up mostly of white males"):

"To me, it is now a question of sovereignty," she told Giago. "I will personally establish a Planned Parenthood clinic on my own land which is within the boundaries of the Pine Ridge Reservation where the State of South Dakota has absolutely no jurisdiction."


Three Cheers for Logic! Wahoooo!!!

Who's got the Valium?

I'm having mini-panic attacks because I don't know how I'm going to afford to get back on the road. (Yeah, remember when this blog was actually travel-related? Man, it seems like months ago....) On the one hand, I'm used to it. On the other, gas wasn't $3.00 a gallon at this time last year, and when it did go up was when I ran out of money.

I. AM. FUCT.

I think what I'll have to do is make it a quick go-round through the upper midwest and then high-tail down to LA to get my old job back, detailing yachts. I can't wait, actually -- hang out at the marina in the sun all day, listen to music, re-sand and re-stain some railings.... good times... Then once I recoup the money I spent in Montana, I'll go across the southern states, assuming it's not too hot and then I'll be... done?

And then I won't know what to do with myself...

Sunday, April 09, 2006

Everything happens for a reason.

The nay-sayers will dispute me on this, but every day I believe it more and more.

Take, for example, my ex-boyfriend Sean. It's not a secret anymore that he was violent. Yet I wouldn't trade a thing, because the violence made me stand up for myself when no one else could or would, and that made me strong.

Take, for another example, my ex-boyfriend Alan. Now, up until about a week ago, I thought the reason we didn't work out was because he wasn't ready for a relationship, after not calling me for three weeks during which he was freaking out because he loved me but wasn't ready. I was wrong.

It turns out, he LIED TO ME and told me he lost my number, which he, in fact, did not at all. He just didn't have the balls to break up with me. So he hid my number under the bed, only to be found months later by his current girlfriend, Nikki -- who then understandably freaked out and called me crying to ask if "we" (Alan and I) had recently been doing the nasty. Which we haven't.

Now, here's the non-dramatic part that leads me to say everything happens for a reason:

Nikki is a beautiful, wonderful person. And, after finding out via telephone that we have much more in common than a mutual ex/current man, we've developed quite the friendship. We even got together for a girl's day out when I was in Ohio last week, just the two of us, and it couldn't have been better. We talk almost every day and I love it, and I love her.

Now, here's the kicker:

Nikki's the one who accidentally outed Alan's secret about hiding my number under the bed. Even she didn't realize he had been lying to me until she saw the look on my face -- when he had told her that he lied to me about it, she actually thought his lie was a lie, because nobody could be that mean. Well, it turns out somebody can and his name is Alan. Long story short, she felt really bad and I felt really played by Alan.

I was pissed, I felt used and cheated. I fumed about it all the way to Columbus from Sandusky and thought up all of these elaborate plans to get back at him, which were all really just garbage-thinking. But it made me feel better.

But here's the thing that really makes me feel better: If Alan hadn't been a douchbag enough to hide my number under the bed and lie to me about it, Nikki would never have found it. And she never would have called me to confront me on it. And we never would have talked our way past it. And we never would have become friends.

How's that for fate?

Thursday, April 06, 2006

FUCKING RAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNTTTTTT!!!!!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKITYFUCK!!!!!!!!!!!

Here's me and my story, posted here so everyone in the fucking world knows what sloppy fucktards everyone who works for Cingular Wireless is and how they can go fuck themselves in
the ass with rubber fucking mallets:

When my laptop was stolen I called Finger-Fuckular and suspended my wireless Internet service. The lady never said anything about still having to pay EVERY FUCKING MONTH FOR SERVICE I'M NOT USING BECAUSE MY WIRELESS CARD IS WITH SOME BLOODY-FISTHEAD CRACKHEAD!!!!! No, all she was I had two options - cancel my service, which would require a cancellation fee, or suspend the service.
I chose to suspend the service. AND THEN TODAY I GOT A BILL FOR A MONTH'S WORTH OF INTERNET USAGE.

It's classic. You should see it, it's hilarious. It gives me a nice little summary of all the wireless transfers I've made (none) and all the bytes I've downloaded (again, none.) They put all that info into sweet little columns and then at the bottom, "Services Rendered: $59.99"
I thought, "This must be a mistake. Poor Cingular, they made a boo-boo. Awww, I'll call them and alert them."

So I call and I get some chick who says, "No, ma'am, you still have to pay for your monthly service, or you can pay a cancellation fee."
WHAT THE FUCK???????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Needless to say, I went apeshit. Seriously, I am being asked to pay for something I can't use becaues it was stolen from me, but I still have to pay for it, or pay a cancellation fee as punishment for it being stolen. WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF!!!!!!

I asked to speak to her supervisor, so then they put me on hold for 5 minutes, and when someone came back on it was the first lady who said her supervisor had been KIND ENOUGH TO CUT THE CANCELLATION FEE IN HALF, PLUS the $59.99 I already owed for the service I COULDN"T USE because I have no laptop, and no card.
"Oh, my, isn't that BENEVOLENT??!?!?!?!" I shouted at her. "Let me speak with your supervisor."

So I'm on hold for another 6 minutes before the first lady comes on AGAIN and tells me this: "My supervisor said if I transfer you to her and you don't accept the courtesy offer of half your cancellation fee from me, then she is withdrawing the offer and you'll have to pay the entire cancellation fee, plus the monthly service fee you already owe."
FUCKING BITCH!!!!! STUPID MOTHER-FUCKING CUNT-RAG DIRTY COOTER FUCKING TWAT CUNT BITCH!!!!!!!

So then the conversation goes like this:

Me - Is your supervisor trying to punish me for being poor? Does she not want to talk to me, so she's threatening me, knowing I'm going to take it and eat shit like someone who can't afford this bullshit? Is that it? Cuz y'know if she really wanted to punish me, she could get my address off my fucking bill and come to my house and kick me in the face, at least it would be FREE!!!! Tell your supervisor to fuck off and burn in hell!!!!!

*click*

EEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!

so the moral is: FUCK CINGULAR AND THEIR STUPID FUCKING TWAT-ASS BITCH SUPERVISORS AND I HOPE THEY ALL GET HIT BY TRUCKS AND DRAGGED FOR MILES UNTIL THEIR SKIN FALLS OFF AND THE GASOLINE SETS THEM FUCKING AFLAME AND I'LL LAUGH AT THEM AND WOULDN'T TAKE TWO FUCKING STEPS TO PEE ON THEM TO PUT THEM OUT, SHIT-BRAINED MOTHER FUCKERS!!!!!!!

AND I'M GOING TO GO TO THEIR CORPORATE FUCKING HEADQUARTERS AND PULL A JAY AND SILENT BOB WHERE I MAKE THEM EAT MY SHIT AND THEN SHIT OUT THEIR SHIT AND THEN EAT THEIR SHIT WHICH IS MADE UP OF MY SHIT THAT I MADE THEM EAT, THOSE STUPID-ASS CUNTS!!!!
AAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!

This is what happens when someone is so nice, like me, and they take it and take it and take it until they just blow up. So don't be like Cingular. Don't be mean, or charge money for The Dumbest Shit Ever. And don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

"Like, whatever, we'll always be friends!"

While I was in Ohio last weekend, I stopped in Cleveland to see Donna and the family. While I respect her privacy by attempting to keep anything I say about them to a minimum, I couldn't help noticing something I had to write about.

I have lots of friends all over the country; some are older, some are my age, and some are much younger, like Jessi and Nicole. I don't get to visit any of them as often as I'd like, and the older ones and I will exchange wistful emails and write letters. When I do see them, it's bear hugs and even some tears when we say goodbye, because we know it's going to be another long stretch before seeing one another again. To me, that's normal.

But for the younger generation, the Myspace generation, it's not. Goodbye for now, goodbye for a year, two years, or tonight -- it's all the same. It's all "like, whatever, don't cry, I'm gonna see you online later!"

As Nicole was jumping out of my car when I dropped her off at home, she held up a fist. "Alright, come on, pound it, dude," she said, already opening the door before I could hit the parking brake.
I was taken aback. "Nicole, I'm not going to see you for a long time, you know..." I was expecting a hug, an "I'll miss you," something...
She unlatched her seatbelt, looking me in the eye.
"I know. But you're going to be online later."

In a way I envy them, this generation of instant gratification and borderless friendships. But in a way, I don't. I like my tears and my bittersweetness and my carbon-based lifeform friends, not pixellated ones...

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Relocating...

Okay, here's the deal. This piece originally lived in my laptop, then I posted it on my myspace page. However, myspace only allows a certain amount of memory per blog before they start erasing, so -- seeing as some crackhead is using my laptop screen to cut lines of coke and I have no way to keep a backup anymore -- this piece is coming to live on Blogspot Street. Please be nice to him, he's an only child. (as in, he's my only fiction piece ever.)


_______________________________________________

Sam laid his usual groceries on the belt canned beans, rice, canned corn, a package of chicken pieces, generic cereal, and eggs. He had, of course, checked all the lanes until he found the one she was working. It meant a longer line, but it also meant being close to her for a moment, albeit with a scanner between them.

Waiting for her to check the items was the only time he didnt know what to do with his hands. In the pockets, out of the pockets. At his side, back in the pockets. Then on the wallet, then back in the pockets. Sometimes he would fold them or pick nervously at his nails. His eyes would also dart, which they almost never did, from her nametag, to her profile as she typed in the code for chicken, then at his hands, back to her nametag. ELIZABETH. The letters were crooked, punched into red plastic, showing white. A ladybug sticker covered the bottom of the H.

He loved her name. He thought the cheap nametag a shoddy misrepresentation, an injustice to something so pretty. The name reminded him of characters in literature he read in college. It was also unlike anything he had heard back in China.

His birth name was Xio Lin, butchered enough by professors his freshman year that he began going by Sam. Actually, it was the lacrosse player he tutored in math that had started it. "Im too hung over, dude, Im just gonna call you Sam, okay?" Sam liked it. It sounded Western. Unlike anything he had heard in China.

It wasnt that Sam hated his homeland. His mother, Xio Chiang, made sure pride was instilled deeply as a child. His mother had died, however, days before his fourteenth birthday. Black market blood-selling was gaining popularity in China as the need for transfusions increased. The growing population made plasma a commodity. A factory worker could bring home one months pay for two pints of blood. The money was guaranteed, but new needles werent. AIDS and HIV spread through the poorer regions like a torrent. With his father drinking away the tiny pittance factory life brought in, Sams mother had taken the gamble and anted her life. Sam decided early that life was never fair and death was no great equalizer. It was what kept him out of the Indian casinos outside of town. He already knew what it was like to lose a bet.

When Sams mother died, his love for China died with her. As his father grew increasingly violent, Sam vowed to leave it behind any way he could. He managed to stay in school, his mothers dying wish, while other kids in his town were forced into the same factories their parents worked; sometimes it meant going without meals or spending the night on the streets to get away from home. The fact that Sam didnt work was always a point of contention with his father. After Xio Chiang died, the man would come home drunk, reeking of whiskey and sometimes hookers, and rail that there was no food in the house. Sam would usually sneak out the back door before he could be seen and return hours later, when he knew his father would be asleep. His homework would always be in his knapsack, printed so neatly no teacher could tell it was written under a bridge.

Back in the clinging darkness of Renner, South Dakota, right outside Sioux Falls, Sam lay clutching an empty silohouette. In his mind, she was warm to the touch. In his mind, her skin was wrapped in delicious shades of cream and vanilla. She rolled over, clutching his chest to hers and breathing into the sacred space between his neck and shoulder, the space reserved for a lovers kiss. In these dreaming times, it was never the streetlight that sent halogen streaks across the ceiling, strongarming their way through the cracked binds. It was the sheer light of wanting, the wish in his heart that someday hed pay for his groceries and something, something would make Elizabeth look at him in the way hed seen women do in movies.

An Asian in America is an obvious minority. An Asian in South Dakota may as well be an alien. Going to school at the University of Sioux Falls, Sam was one of only three Asian students. The other two were Korean and raised in America. Sam was the only one with an accent.

With the help of a teacher at school, he had applied for a scholarship to attend school in the States. It included a dorm and plane fare. He had never believed in ghosts, but he wondered if it was his mother blessing him from beyond the grave. Sam left home much like he had in the years since her death, by sneaking out the back door. He and the teacher had arranged everything under his fathers gin-blossomed nose and left just before the man came home from another bender. On the table, he left a note. Neat Mandarin characters read, "I wont be coming back. You can sell my furniture."

"Liz! Hey, Liz! Can you call for a price check on these diapers? My buttons not working." The large woman, Kathy, on the Express Lane called over to Lane 4 as Sam was getting out his wallet.
"Sure!" she answered, flashing Kathy her sweet smile. She kept it on as she turned back to face Sam. "Just one sec," she whispered to him before saying, "Ray, price check on Huggies 40-pack!" into a phone receiver.
"Sorry about that," she continued. Her eyes were a bright, Irish blue, under a bit too much makeup, but she was very pretty for thirty-four. "How are you today?"
"Oh, oh, fine," Sam said quietly, smiling and picking at his nails. He wanted to say more, but what? He just watched as she pushed blonde tendrils of hair behind her ear, moving his canned corn over the scanner.
Holding the can, she said, "You know, we have fresh sweet corn on sale over there, did you see that? Its from a farmer up in Garretson, its really good!"
Sam froze. Corn? Whats corn? His hands flew to his pockets, then back out again. She was talking to him. Not the usual "hi, how are you" she always gave him, but she was really talking to him. About corn.
She kept going. "Yeah, and I think we got some peaches on sale, too. Six for a dollar."
Peaches. Dollar. Sam had studied English harder than any other subject, but now words were escaping his mind like smoke from a chimney. In his head, he cursed at himself in Mandarin and tried to smile. When he opened his mouth, he spoke with an accent. "Thank you. I will... go... look." Twenty years in America, twenty years of trying to lose his accent and sound like everyone else, and here it was, back to set him apart again.

An Asian in America is a minority. An Asian on the dating scene in the Midwest is one of two things: single, or a dare. Sam had been the butt of many fraternity jokes and one sorority bet. His freshman year, guys would invite him to parties "on the hill" that never happened or to actual parties and then patronize him, subtly teasing to everyone elses delight. Sam wasnt used to such humor and it took him a few times to recognize it. Then there had been Tina.
Sam boarded the plane to America a virgin and stayed that way until his sophomore year at USF. When the fall semester started and a new wave of freshman were rushing Greek, one particularly bitchy sorority sister told her pledge she couldnt get in until she "fucked the chink". The hazing, which Sam was oblivious to, became huge news and a betting pool was even started on how many days it would take. It didnt take long at all.

Sam was invited to another of the frat parties. He didnt want to go, not after seeing the way the kids leered at him the year before. Plus there was lots of liquor there, and he didnt like the way people acted when they drank. But he had spent the summer on an almost empty campus and was feeling somewhat lonely. Lonely was a new feeling for him. He dressed in a short-sleeved button up shirt and showed up promptly at nine.

When a big linebacker answered the door, he yelled, "Hey, everyone, Sams here!" A raucous, laughing cheer went up from the crowd and they all but pulled him inside. "Hey, Sammy, you wanna beer?" "Hey, how about a shot?" "We got Jell-O shooters if you want one, buddy!" Sam was so taken aback by the attention he barely noticed the shot glass thrust in his hand. The students did, and started chanting. "Sam! Sam! SAM! SAM! SAMSAMSAM!" Sam drank. It burned on the way down and more was poured in the glass. The chanting started again. This happened four times. Someone asked, "Wheres Tina?"

She appeared at the bottom of the rickety staircase. She was cute, curvy, with dark curly hair. Sam was pushed towards her and all but knocked her down as he lurched forward. Everyone watched and hollered as she led him up the stairs, holding his hand. A guys voice shouted, "Youre gonna get laid, Sammaaaaaaaaaay!" Laid?

She was nervous and tipsy, he was shitfaced. His memory of the foreplay was scattered she was clothed, then naked, then he was naked, then he was on a bed. But his consciousness snapped back like a rubber band when he felt her touch him. It was wet and she was sitting on him and it was warm and suddenly all his thoughts were in Mandarin and oh god what was she god his mouth was hanging open and holy no this is new and suddenly it was over, as quickly as it started. Then she was off of him and sitting on the floor. And she was crying. Then she threw up.
He lay there in the darkness, stunned and wet around the middle, suddenly becoming very aware of his body, his thin arms and bony hips. He felt extremely self-conscious and confused. Tina was looking at him through her tears, her face twisted into alternating shades of contempt and shame. Her own self-loathing was oozing through the cracked exterior. "Get out," she whispered. Sam froze. "Get out!" she shouted. He jumped off the bed.
Sam dressed quickly in a bourbon haze and ran down the stairs and out the door. Drunken shouts rang after him, "Hey, where ya goin, chinko?" and "Saaaaaaam, didja do it?!" He got lost going home and made it to his dorm at 11:30. He never went to another party.

The next time Sam went shopping, peaches were still on sale for six for a dollar. Actually, he didnt need to shop. It had only been two days since his exchange with Elizabeth about produce. He just wanted to her to see him buying the peaches. Just like he had wanted her to see the sweet corn he had bought the day before. And this time, he made sure his words didnt fail him.


"That corn was a good recommendation. Thank you." The only word he struggled with was "recommendation". He reminded himself not to use that one again.
"Hey, youre welcome! And the peaches, too! Wow, this is new for you, huh?"
His hands came out of his pockets, then went back in. "Yes, it is." Sam almost never bought fresh foods. It was always canned goods and boxes. They stacked easily and kept for a long time. Elizabeth looked around with a silly grin and motioned him to lean in. She whispered, "Well, dont tell anyone, but word on the street is that tomatoes are gonna be 99 cents a pound starting tomorrow." She stood back up straight and winked as she said, "But thats our little secret."

Tell anyone? He couldnt if he tried. His tongue was suddenly made of sawdust, just a useless flap of muscle in his mouth. He had felt her breath on his ear. She had winked at him. His fingers picked furiously at his nails. He smiled despite himself, grabbed the peaches, and left.

When Sam got home, he ate three of the six peaches. They were so sweet. The fuzz brushed his bottom lip as it rounded the skin. He remembered when he first came to America, how he had tried everything once. Peaches somehow made it to the bottom of his list of favorites, but Elizabeth had changed that. He made a shopping list. "Milk, chicken, soup". Biting into the fourth peach, he scrawled, "peaches". Remembering what Elizabeth had confided in him, he added "tomatoes". The juice dripped off his chin and onto the paper, leaving a tawny welt.

Sam was thirty-five years old. He had lived in America since age eighteen, arriving with a textbook handle on English and forty American dollars in his pocket. He had never had a girlfriend. He had never really even had a good friend, besides the Sioux maintenance man in his building.

Somewhere between college, working and becoming acclimated to America, a social life slipped through the cracks. He stuck out in South Dakota and tried to make himself as unassuming as possible. He threw himself headlong into schoolwork because it was his mothers last wish. At least, he told himself that. Really, it was to escape the memory of nursing her spindled, dying frame during her final days. Work became another welcome distraction. Sam worked at a bank. It was supposed to be temporary, while he worked on his math degree. After graduation, he just kept showing up and when he turned around he was middle-aged. And alone.

Loneliness barely bothered Sam in his years since college. He trusted himself and that was enough company. He knew he would never get drunk and hit himself, or lie or fuck himself to get into a club. But no man is an island. And stumbling on Elizabeth had torn down a curtain to a vast realm of longing he hadnt ever explored.

It was Wednesday. Tomato sale day. The bank closed at three as usual, and Sam made it to the store by three-thirty. Before he headed to the produce aisle he scanned the rows of registers, looking for her blonde hair pulled up in a messy twist. When he didnt see her, he figured she must be on break.


He didnt particularly care for tomatoes but he weighed some in the silver scale. The needle creaked and fluttered wildly before resting on the number one. He tied the bag neatly and headed to the register. She wasnt back yet. He meandered around the store, pretending to need things, then tried again. She still wasnt there. It must have been her day off.

He didnt particularly care for tomatoes. He untied the green wire on the bag and stacked the firm vegetables back on the pile. He hoped no one noticed

Driving home, he accused himself of being crazy for the seventh time that week.
He had never acted in this way before. He had never been so willingly vulnerable to someone he barely knew. It flushed him with a new vigor, a sense of recklessness. He felt like a man. But a scared man. This was new territory for him, and he had no way of knowing what to do next. He mulled ideas over in his head, logistics first. What if she refused him? What if she laughed? He would have to find another store. There was a larger supermarket near the bank he would have to shop at from now on. Almost worse yet, what if she said yes? Then what would he do?
In the movies, when the guy gets the girl he kisses her and then the screen goes dark. Sam needed a movie about what goes on after all that blackness and scrolling names.

Eddie tapped on the door of Sams apartment. Sam took longer answering than usual, and looked confused when he saw Eddies long gray ponytail through the peephole. Opening the door, he gave a quizzical look, which Eddie answered in his slow, methodical Sioux accent. "Its Thursday. Are we still playing cards?"
"Oh, it is Thursday, isnt it? I.... guess I got my days mixed." He stepped aside to let the old man in.

Every Thursday, Sam and Eddie, the maintenance man, played cards in Sams apartment. Eddie was a poker man, which Sam didnt care for, but he always obliged his friend with a few hands of five-card stud and deuces wild before they switched to pinochle or mah-jong. They never bet; it was only for fun.

Sam didnt know much about Eddies wife, except that she died thirty years before and he had never loved another woman since. Eddie rarely spoke of her. Still, Sam surmised that Eddie might be out of practice, but he must know more about this whole love thing than he himself did. Eddie could see the unspoken questions in Sams eyes and threw out his own as he laid out a full house. "Whats on your mind?"
Again, Sam was slow to answer. "Its..... this woman. At the market. She checks the groceries."
Eddies tan face widened into a satisfied smile. "Either shes been overcharging you for milk or someones got a crush," he teased, his chest rising as he chuckled.
Sam blushed. "Stop. Its not easy."
Eddie continued. "Oh, come on. Are you going to do something about it? Are you going to ask her on a date?"

Sam was at a loss, saying, "I dont know. I dont know how. I dont know what I'd say or where wed go or what I would say when we got there." Sam was used to being in control, having everything in its place. His life was stacked neatly and he liked it that way. Socks go here, toothpaste goes there, Sam goes to work and Sam comes home. Sam plays cards with Eddie on Thursday evenings. But here was something he wanted that had no order or specific place. He looked pleadingly at Eddie and asked a question, hoping the man could conjur some Indian magic and make sense of it all in one sentence. "How?"

Eddie softened. He thought for a long time, and answered slowly. "Try."
Sam sat poised for more for a moment, then let out a "Huh?"
"Try," Eddie repeated. "Even if she says no, just try. Ask her if shed like to go out. Its not that hard. Just say, "Would you like to go out sometime? And if she says yes, just try to pick her up on time and try not to have a booger in your nose and try to be honest with her. Try to have a good time and dont be so nervous. Its all you can do. Hell, when I met my wife I was just a young kid with nothing to my name, but I knew she was what I wanted so I tried. And then you just gotta keep trying every day so things stay good. Every day you try. The rest of it you figure out as you go, but you cant get to that point if you dont try. Thats all the advice I can give you."
"Just try?" Sam asked.
"Just try."

The next week Sam placed his groceries on the belt and his hands firmly in his pockets. Elizabeth smiled as she swiped a neatly tied bag of peaches across the scanner. "You like these, huh?" she asked sweetly.
Sam smiled back, his heart pounding but his voice even. "Yes, you were right, they are excellent."
"Peaches have always been my favorite fruit, thats why I love the summertime."
"Its my favorite season, too," Sam said.
And then, hiding his sweaty palms in his pockets, Sam tried.
"There is an outdoor festival this Sunday in the downtown area. Theres going to be music and food, things like that. Would you like to come with me?"

He hadnt been able to segue smoothly; it had been apropos of nothing. But Sam had tried. He had swallowed the nervousness, the stigma of being different and therefore unappealing, and he had tried. And as Elizabeth looked down and slid his gallon of milk over the scanner, he waited.
She grabbed his package of chicken parts and typed in the code, still looking down. Sam tried not to panic, and waited. She reached for his three cans of soup and ran the bar codes. Her blue eyes stayed trained on the register. Sam felt nauseous, and was about to stammer something about dont worry about it. He wondered why he had listened to Eddie, why he had tried because now he was going to have to shop at the other market by the bank and man, that was stupid because they charge more for milk and dammit, if only he had kept his mouth shut and he reached for his wallet because all he wanted to do now was pay and get the hell out of here and he was looking down at his wallet and not seeing anything else.

When he looked up to give her the money, Elizabeth was looking at him. Smiling.

The Price We Pay To Feel Cultured...

Anyone who has ever met me can probably tell that I am not Jamaican. This is mainly due to the fact that I am not Jamaican. However, I love all things Jamaican -- the food, the music, accent, the dredlocks, the big hoop earrings -- I love all that stuff. But today I found myself questioning just how far I'm willing to go to feel connected to it. And by "how far", I mean "how much".

There's a little Jamaican restaurant across the street from the office. I've been there a few times; the food is halfway decent and the music is always good. But the food isn't that great. And it's damn expensive. So I was left asking myself, after paying over $20 for Greg and I, "is it worth spending this much money to feel cool because I can say, 'I eat oxtail for lunch'?"

The answer is no, it's not.

If money were no object, it wouldn't be an issue. I could sit and pick apart curried chicken over rice and peas whenever I want and pat myself on the back for being so worldly. But money is an object, one I don't have very much of. So Jamaican food -- and feeling so cool just by virtue of putting it in my body -- will have to be a once-in-a-while treat while I spend my money on cheaper, more American food. Like Taco Bell.



--- Jessica Johnson is a regular contributor. She hates Taco Bell and also money in general.

More Randomness...

-- I once had a dream that I beat Chuck Norris in a karate contest. When I woke up, he was standing at the edge of my bed. He demanded an apology, then he beat me.

-- When the boogeyman goes to sleep, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.

-- Chuck Norris is the leading cause of death of terrorists.

-- The only reason you are alive right now is because Chuck Norris has decided to let you live.

-- Chuck Norris once won a game of Connect Four in 3 moves.

-- The real "only way" to a man's heart is through Chuck Norris' left foot via roundhouse kick to the chest.