A Jewel Dealer.

The bellboy silently closed the heavy hotel door behind him as he left the cushy room. S swallowed hard and calmly shut her eyes. She let her head roll back against the wall and began to quietly count to herself in the dark closet. She heard J’s voice float to her in the darkness, boisterously speaking to the man who’s name was signed on the hotel paperwork scattered across the glass coffee table about 10 feet in front of the closet.

J was carrying on about pointless things, trifling topics that filled the empty space between herself and the jewel collector she was captivating with nonsense.

“75…76…77…”
S stealthily sat up on her haunches, readying herself to spring to her feet.
“85…86…87…”

“I hear it’s lovely there in the spring.”

She heard the sarcasm oozing from J’s low murmuring voice through the darkness.

“95…96…97…”

The footsteps were growing louder, getting nearer, the floor beneath S shook lightly as they approached the closet she was hidden it, lying in wait.

As the closet door opened, S registered the surprise in the face of the jewel dealer; he knew he had been gotten. The jacket he had intended to hang up in the closet was already wrapped tightly around his torso from behind, and J’s maniacal grin peeked at S through the darkness from over his left shoulder.

“Don’t make a sound.”

S was deftly binding his legs already and, rather gracefully, switching her position in the closet with the jewel dealer’s next to J. THUD. The man fell full on his weight like a sack of potatoes into a heap on the closet floor. Two wide eyes staring up at the calmly poised women from the floor of the closet.

“Give us the keys.” J thrust out her hand towards the panicked face in the inky darkness.

“I…I…”

The jewel dealers words stuttered pathetically through gasps and quiet sobs.

“You will be a ghost full of regrets if you don’t stop talking and hand me those keys.”

S was wearing her serious face as she said this. Nervous pocket shuffling in the closet; keys jingling, coins rattling, until finally a small ring with two tiny nondescript keys on it was tossed through the space between them. A groan of miserable defeat followed from the closet.

The Unsecret Dialogue of Testicle Injuries.

PART 1

 

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Fast forward about twenty(ish) years from the day on the wharf when J was labeled a “sexual deviant” for the simple and innocent act of trying to keep the inattentive and tom-boyishly uncouth S’ dress from blow up during a wind gust. In hindsight, the deep shade and electrocuted expression on the poor bastard’s face has become one of J’s most treasured memories; and the mere thought of that specific moment in time is the source of multiple stomach muscle injuries as a result of hardy laughter. But as all things are between S and J, the circumstance was rather damning and getting more difficult by the second for J to navigate a way for it to end peacefully (not that any chance of a peaceful resolution hadn’t been thrown out the window the instant S made the dude’s junk into a necktie, but hey – she had to try).

J pushed the milkshake back over to S and maneuvered the straw into her mouth, seeing as how she was rather “tied up” just then; S took a big drink and let out the proverbial “post-Kool-Aid Ahhhhhhh” but remained like a statue otherwise. The girls both fell to staring at the man next to S at the bar – the man who’s nuts she’d mistakenly manacled as Darth Trump’s;

“You know what, S?”

J suddenly shrieked over the bar;

“I totally see it…”

“Yeah…you do?”

S’ eyes shot like darts up at her friend’s endeared face as J examined the man’s visage with the intensity of scientist;

“You aren’t just saying that to make me feel better?”

J leaned closer to them;

“Tut Tut; I could’ve easily made the same mistake from behind, I mean look at that rodent carcass on his fat head!”

The man let out a short yelping sound as S and J broke out into maniacal laughter at the expression on his miserable face; and J gave him a exaggerated wink.

“What’s your poison, El Jeffe?”

She asked the question with a blatantly overdone Hispanic accent, juggling a few bottles in front of her cockily.

drank

The (Un)Secret Childhood Dialogue Chronicles -Tap Shoes.

I remember once when we were only about 5 years old, and minutes away from our debut on stage in our first (and last) dance recital; I was so nervous I couldn’t see straight, but S could’ve cared less about the people or the lights or the crowds of strange little girls to compare ourselves with.I recall so vividly too, as we sat backstage finishing the touches on our stupid little outfits (which were, by the way, exceptionally glitzy and covered in sequins and glitter, complete with a huge feather we each had to pin in our hair), S was fidgety as usual and muttering to herself.

“What? I can’t hear you…” I shouted to her ear as I pulled the hairbrush through her dark, wild hair before attempting for the final time to get the obnoxiously huge feather pinned in.

“I just still don’t know how good of an idea this whole “dance recital” thing is, you know?”

S had both hands up to make the bunny ears around the words dance and recital. The feather floated from my hands once again and glided in rocking motion to the dusty floor. We both sighed; I looked her over and saw that she was messing with her tap shoes, struggling to get them and tie the puffy ribbon laces.

“I know you hate this…but we’re almost up, S…get your shoes on!” I leaned down to help her with shoes as I hollered, “We’ve been over this – I know I owe you big time for coming to dance class with me…”

“-…and especially for making me dress like this!…my feet are killing me and we haven’t even been on stage yet!”

S’ helium voice rose to a staccato above the music and clapping of the audience. She pulled and heaved at her little feet in vain to finish getting her shoes on as I searched desperately for my left shoe. It only took me a second to see that S had it and was trying like Hell to make it fit on her right foot.

“Well, no wonder your feet hurt, that’s my shoe…”

Needless to include, our debut was hideous and we dropped out of dance class immediately following the police inquiry.

The “Whyer” (An Un-Secret Chronicle).

Toilet Seats and Vaseline.

 

In spite of the obvious answer to such wonderment, the young S was always genuinely shocked by the amount of time that she and her best friend spent in the dreary realm of “consequence” that one must visit upon being caught and deemed guilty of a thing; and her honest queries regarding this topic had J in regular meditation surrounding the (now, un-secret) adventures of she and her playmate.
S was a “why-er”; she was never satisfied with the answers that adults gave her on any subject, having been born deeply embedded with the distrust of the world’s top Conspiracy Theorists.
While daydreaming in after-school-detention (an almost daily trifle in their juvenile lives, Monday through Friday), S had the tendency to ponder she and J’s being there on the deepest of levels, following up the thinking spell by writing a four-page summary of her opinions on the scenario, crumpling the two sheets of paper into a hopelessly ink-smeared ball; and then, proceeding to chuck it at a professional baseball pitcher’s speed from across the room to J.
Once, upon being given an unsatisfactory answer (about the original scout of Mount Rainier) from an adult at a holiday party thrown by J’s somewhat uppity grandmother, S took a poll among the rest of the guests present, and had calculated and announced its results (which were, I should add, NOT in the favor of the original adult answer-giver, after all) before the party’s conclusion. S didn’t gloat, however.
It was times such as these that J wondered to herself in earnest:
How old will S and I be when we land ourselves in the slammer?
So it went, that through the childhood years of these two uniquely blended souls, and without fail, each and every time that the two of the youngsters found themselves in trouble, and subsequently paying the consequences or making amends for said trouble, J would find herself under a barrage of verbal bullets in the form of inquiries surrounding the miserable circumstances. It isn’t as if the S’ huge arsenal of ever-replenished appendages to the bottom line question of “why” bothered J; in fact, without the company of her best friend during her younger years of Life, J most certainly would have grown up to be much different in character and disposition, as S’ perpetually running interrogations undoubtedly molded J into the opinionated and exacting person she is, ever stimulated by the tickling in her young brain by S in this way.
It worked both ways, too; as S spent her time feeling an innate sense of alarm and impending danger at all times, as a direct result of the friendship shared between them. Hyper-vigilante S was always a little over-protective of dreamy J, and continues to be to this day; but during the days of their youth, the one always harbored a compelling notion of security towards the other. From the outside looking in on the girls’ connection, it certainly appeared a strange combination of traits that held the two girls so closely bound to one another, being as night and day different as they were.
For instance, S has the personality of a chucker, and resorted almost instantly to fist fighting (or worse) on the playground when she was faced with opposition of any kind (withstanding that of her beloved J); plotted hideously diabolical schemes, and launched the most elaborate of hoaxes and pranks against their natural childhood enemies when called to action. J, on the other hand, was much more apt to being soft and tended to shy away from confrontation, preferring to logically figure out the root cause of any differences that arose between her and others. There had been many times that after walking away from a situation that J was certain she had successfully hashed-out with a peer on the playground, only to be informed that the very same student had come by some horrible “accident” in the aftermath. A tell-tale sign of S’ inevitable involvement was the fact that during these particular instances, not a single “why?” was muttered to J in the whispered conversations that came in their wake.
The result of such variances in personality and behavior between the girls became the rough outline of the solid bond that can be observed today. Where many young children who foster un-becoming friendships during the years in Life when one is still uncertain of one’s own preferences, tend to grow out of such a role by high school, J and S honestly seemed to not notice the blaring contrast between them. The years passed by with only the pains and struggles of the Outside World touching the girls; and the cushion between the two of them, an element that allowed them to just “be” with each other, never softened or faded or burned out. If anything, the enchanted web woven throughout the days lived by them only served to strengthen and protect them from the Outside World and its never-ending stream of hardships.
In summary, the terrifyingly alert and disturbingly cool S that currently walks around scaring the Hell of people and totally lacking any verbal or mental filter, whatever, actually has a much more calm and nurturing side than most might suspect. J smiles to herself even now; to think of the handfuls of times that little S looked up at her so curiously and asked,

Why?”

Honnør.

An assault rifled salute to past days of bright rays…
to the ice-cream truck and sweetened pink lemonade…
to the clouds spooned into the skies like mayonnaise…

to the people we’d naively hoped to grow into someday;
– Honnør.

A headstone held up by string and a busted spade…
from a ceremony held back in the good ol’ days…
when a priestess poured blessings inside the grave…

to the bridges we’ve buried here over the years, along the way;
– Honnør.

 

A wooden box that our four hands built from trees…
the treasures placed inside by both you and by me…
it was the fate of that box that haunts me now, you see?…

the darkness we anchored to it by burying it so deeply;
– Honnør.

 

A marksman’s dot on both of our foreheads again…
one must offer the other a last shot at another salvation…
but in spite of everything, there’s not a second’s hesitation…

the thought of “better me it be than my spirit’s dearest friend”;
– Honnør.

Q and A.

Q: If you could be any character in the cast of ‘One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ who would it be? Why?
A: Oh c’mon now…this is a no-brainer – as I would surely be the Chief (Bromden), hands down; I suppose my reason for choosing the Chief would be simply based on his vision and perception in regard to the world and how he believes it to operate (the Combine)…his character is uniquely insane, his tactics are admirable, and indeed, my own genetic Heinz is even similar to his.

Q: What is the definition of a ‘Lightning fast’ reply?
A: OMFG! You are such a bitch for this question, because, you know as well as I do how I want to respond to this!!! I DID actually find the screenshot you sent me early last year that was an excellent summary the answer to this particular query…hmmmmmmm…I plead the 5th.

Q: Name three Pirate Weapons suitable for wall art?
A: Are we talking generalized Pirate Weapons or “African Tools of Death”? Because in that arena, you have a fine selection displayed in your living room…as for my own wall art (if we’re talking about the Scurvy Ridden Sailor Pirates), I’d go with
a) the good ol’ Cutlass blade for its unfailing aesthetic pleasure
b) the twin pair of wheel-lock pistols
c) that long wood (and sometimes iron-tipped) stake that was used on deck whatever it was called, I don’t know but they look cool

Q: If you could choose only one Dan Simmons quote to put on a sticker to be made in bulk to stick on the windscreens on the cars of whoever you chose, which would it be?
A: Uuuuggghh! This is so not fair of you! How can I choose just one? Okay, either:
“Better to die on your feet than your knees.” – Ilium
OR
“Stupidity has a price; and it always gets paid.” – Hyperion

Q: What part of pop culture do you wish would just go away?
A: Ummm…can I say all of it, and it would count as an answer?

Q: If you could name a racehorse, what would you name it?
A: Chongo Machismo; or something.

Q: If you could have a drink with someone from history who would it be?
A: Abe Lincoln; Cutty Sark.

Q: If you HAD to sing karaoke, what song would you sing?
A: No Sleep til Brooklyn.

Q: If you were allowed to have Serge for two whole days, what would you do?
A: Omg, the possibilities…hmmmm…definitely take him somewhere local on the Light Rail because he obviously has a fondness for trains – he might enjoy a baseball game or the beach…we could go to the zoo but not go inside and he could take selfies in front of the sign or whatever…I wonder if he swims….

serge the llama
Q; I set you up on a blind date. 10 minutes in you decide the bloke is totally not floating your boat. How do you escape?
A: First of all, you would NEVER set me up on a blind date with anyone dude, c’mon geez… and, I guess you’d have my escape route all mapped out for me already if you ever did.

Q: Weapon of choice for ‘interviewing’?
A: Does my tongue count?

Q: You could inhabit the body of another human being – still living – for 3 hours. For any reason, and you could do anything you wanted. What would you do?
A: I’m thinking I’d become a teller at the bank for a few hours; and you know damned well what I’d do. 😉

Q: Where does your love of words come from?
A: My Dad’s father, my Papa Joe; he was a wordsmith from the old school.

Q: What meal do you make best?
A: Lasagna from scratch; or my French Toast is pretty good, too.

Q: If you could master any skill / trade – what would it be?
A: Taxidermy

Q; What was the last thing you laughed at?
A: This questionnaire. My fucking sides hurt now…

Q: Have you ever shoplifted, and if you have what did you lift?
A: Yes. Once when I was super young I was in Mervyn’s with my Dad and I popped open the plastic covering on a bath set in a basket in order to take a single bath oil bead, because the curiosity was eating me alive and I had to know what it felt like.

Fill in the blanks: (In bold-italic)
You won’t believe! She said “fuck“ and then I said ”oh fuck” and then the whole place just exploded because he had tried to be a fucking Magician. It was crazy. Did you see my eyebrows? Because, seriously, they’re like…gone, dude.
Q: Miss me yet?
A: Always.

How I got Oprah to Admit That Her Hairstyle Doesn’t Fit Her Facial Structure.

For S: in response to I LOVE YOU MORE, DAMMIT!

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“I have heard this stupid “joke” from like twenty people since this morning, and it’s not funny, I don’t get what is so funny about it…”

S is frustrated and it’s apparent.

“Tell it to me….?”

J can’t stand to see her best friend in a state of unnecessary frustration. S retells the joke from behind gnashed teeth, accompanied by heavy sighs and rolling eyeballs. Before she finishes the punchline, J finishes it for her with a hearty laugh and a nod of her head, in obvious appreciation of the joke.

“Hmmmm, okay, well let me explain it so that you aren’t pissed off anymore…”

S has a killer sense of humor, don’t get me wrong; and the instant the joke was told in a way that tickled that sense, she laughed just as loudly as I had at it – because it IS funny.

photo_13525_20070624TEN REASONS I LOVE S MORE THAN SHE LOVES ME:
1) She does things with her face that speak more loudly to me than her words ever could.
2) When she doesn’t “get” a joke, she gets mad.
3) She is afraid of the ocean.
4) She thinks mathematically.
5) She is the most divinely magical person I have ever met.
6) She protects me from bad things and bad people.
7) She trusts me.
8) She is a hardcore survivor.
9) She gives me hope when there would otherwise be none.
10) She thinks she actually loves me more than I love her.