elle.

She remembers the smell of loss. That dampness on the cheeks from the tears. She was raised in it. Her father, a kind, caring mustached-man worked daily & nightly at the town’s only funeral parlor. What a tease, that word. Parlor -- as if everyone’s going to be sharing sweet tea and stories over a riveting game of Bridge (or Uno at the very least). Her town hadn’t the time or temperament for lavish goodbyes. No, oh no. If and when you passed in her quaint town, people cried and hugged and tore into the earth a hole for your cold corpse. There was no tea, especially stinging sweet, at these send-offs. Forgive the tangent track, she would not forgive me had I not cleared up this “parlor” nonsense. Let me officially begin with introductions. Her name is Elle, the French-kissed version of the crooked-toothed “she”. Not that our Elle was born with the taste for baguettes or croissants, or that she slurred a lick of le français. A collegiate professor with a googly eye scared any desire and interest out of Elle with a page-soaked letter. No, Elle – her chosen name was determined after her parents found a moment of togetherness. Her mother was a nurse with Satan’s hours, and after an early quitting time, her parents found the chance to celebrate their couplehood with delightful sex atop the kitchen table. There, beneath her mother’s sweaty and therefore sticky back was the latest edition of Elle magazine. Odd, because her mother had no time for fashion and the magazine was gifted out of error. She hadn’t tossed it yet—hey, she enjoyed the photos. Anyways, the moment finished, her mother stood up with the cover girl leeched to her back. It was familiar story Elle was so over hearing about. An awkward and utter embarrassment for her no doubt during the holiday seasons when her mother would get too tipsy on her white zin and cackle out the old fable. But what does this matter, this strung about design of details? You see, Elle is about to change her life altogether. She’s going to make some mistakes, take some chances, and bite into the cliché. What do you expect – she’s a girl who’s lived her whole life in the backseat. She fingers the Buffalo Nickel around her neck. Discovered back in her young age, she loved the coin for the date: 1920. A time she would’ve loved to experience. Made evident by her signature Charleston bust out at every party with music. No lie, for a period in college, her odd moves provided her the nickname “Charlie”, which between you and me, she loved but always pretended to loathe. Today isn’t the most exciting of days for her, let’s be honest. A quick morning glance in her vanity mirror (a Grandparent gift she’s had nearly as long as the nickel necklace) reminds her that the time has come. She takes in a sigh and selects some brushes from her wooden drawer. She quickly erects the lipstick, a drag’s shade, and lines her lips. She puckers and pouts, fantasizing about a goateed photographer with a hoop earring taking her photos. She imagines herself being on the cover of a magazine. Elle on Elle. She bites her bottom lip realizing the perfect headline. “Yell for Elle!” A quick tap-tap from the bedroom door snaps Elle over to her invading mother. “Good morning!” she says, her mother that is, with a warm, always warm, smile. A nurse, she has no knowledge of vanity. Her fraying graying hair is tossed simply in a bun. Elle’s embarrassed, certainly, and blocks her lips with her soft hands. Her mom, who shall remain nameless—Elle needs some privacy, I’d say—takes notice of the cluttered clothes on the floor. “We should get this clean before your father gets home, yea?” she reminds. Elle, you’d think she was abused as a toddler, simply nods and peeps out, “Of course.” Her mom smiles, not caring that her teeth are crackin’ from tobacco use. Hey, nursing school doesn’t come without stress. She exits promptly, and Elle returns to the mirror. She swats her bangs to the right side before again, the door. Her mother pokes her head in, “Happy Birthday, Sweetie.” Elle smiles back at the head, which has disappeared before she can give thanks. She returns to her reflection. “Thanks.” A deep sigh before snatching up a cloth and erasing her vibrant lips. Her father at work, her mother just leaving, Elle did what any freshly turned 24 year old still at home would do. She cried. Not that talk-show style, where the Reunion is too much to handle, but a soft cry. Slow droplets sliding down her bulbous cheeks. She silently watches them, almost hoping for something to ignite a change in her heart. And it did, but not in that exact mirror moment. She walks out of the room, down the hallway lined with family photographs and a dead Great Aunt’s quilt (it was a creepy cloth just nailed to the wall). Pacing the floor now, she looks around. 24. 25. 26. Not that she didn’t want to get out, start a fresh life, cause really who wouldn’t? It was just timing. The tick tick tick of the kitchen clock thunders throughout the house, bouncing off the hardwood floors. She takes one last look around the living room, the kitchen (it’s all very much an open layout) before storming back to her room. She kneels beside her bed, jerks up the ruffle and seizes a faded-red suitcase. A suitcase she pretended to belong to her Grandmother, but again between you and me, was nothing but a thrift store treasure. She hauls the massive case atop her bed and flings it open. Empty. Quick movements/Drawer closings later, and it’s full with crowded clothes. She slams the lid down on the always starving, now satisfied suitcase and snatches the worn handle. She slithers out her still tousled room as if her parents were still present and capable of hearing her escape. She takes one last look around, fiddling with her nickel. Goodbye, Old Friend, she surely thinks with sad eyes at the vanity mirror. She had scribbled some post-it statement announcing her intentions. Lucky for you, I know what was said and later read. Mom & Dad, I love you, but I love me too. Going away for awhile. Trying to find some sort of life for myself. Borrowed your Bra Money, Mom. Will pay back. Do not worry about me…let me handle that. Heart You, E. It was a sloppy, very spur of the moment goodbye she later cringed over. Such an absurd farewell. It was, in her defense, her birthday and sometimes on such days, we hardly think of others. She left the note on that sexed kitchen table—the perfect spot. She tosses it, half-caring if the frail parchment glides to disappearance on the tile floor. Luckily, it crash lands atop the surface. As if the placement would matter much anyways. Her parents were sometimes too distracted for little notes and things. With another quick glance at her house-life, she jerks her skinny fingers into her jean pocket. Her phone, a monstrous device in its third or fourth year, surfaces. The keys are faded, fingered too hard and passionately during her boyfriend years. Now, she was single and without much care for connection. It was finally time for her and nobody else. She sets the chunky cell down beside the note. A daring move in this age, and one she would later (and quickly) regret, yet deeply appreciate. Suitcase (whose name we shall say is Rose for her flowered fade) in hand, she leaves quietly. No real plan in mind, I should add. Only—go.

WHAT KIND OF MAGIC SPELL TO USE? (to kidnap a toddler)

GROUPLOVE.

SO, there's this band. that really rocks. and i'm sorta friends with them. we're accquainted, but don't play bridge or anything. anyways, they're fuckin' amazing! i see them every time i can! so yea, CHECK 'EM OUT!

THE FUTURE.

an ant named rant who liked rant and pant (he smokes).

i have a new story in my head. but i'm always trapped in this bed. it's a futon, can we move on? still, there's this apathetic attitude i have, or had, recently. i like to draw, but what's the point? i like to write, but really, where's the point in that?

instead, i'll sleep and be a bull fighter in my dreams. hopefully something badass and not like my last one: i stole a bunch of shit from a yard sale and got sniped on my getaway. obviously, that's too good to be true.

does anyone (i'm talking to you! the lone wolf reader!) remember when the times (NOT THE NEWSPAPER) didn't suck? not to get all debbie downer, but really? those times when the hardest decision was whether or not to trade Squirtle for Charmander (Char was my favorite, okay, no one was tradin' him on my watch!). but seriously...simple times. now, i spend my days scatterbrained as a gypsy cat named Lucky or Steven (still deciding on the name). i work my ass off part-time fo' free at this internship. i literally run and sweat and do everything short of blown' the janitor for them. and although it's a great "foot-in-the-door" dance, i don't want to toe my way in. i want to fuckin' round house kick that bitch in and storm in with some outrageous fog machine wheezing out an arrival cloud. and, these people aren't gonna hire me. i'm not a desk person, a phone person, a head-set kind of guy. and they know that. but maybe, just maybe, something totally awesome (80ssss!) will come of this.

the other half of my time goes to either sleeping, getting constantly ignored by shitty employers (seriously, am i that horrible of a potential employee?), doodling messes, and occasionally having a meltdown or two (see: this blog entry). i'm just ready for a change. something. anything.

A Beverly Bitch & Mario