Anyhow, here it is. Maybe I’ll finish writing my reflections    [Continue reading]]]> I first posted this story exactly a year ago. As Super Bowl Sunday approaches, it seems worth posting again, even though posting it pretty much nails it that no one will be inviting us over for a Super Bowl party, Tom Brady or no. Oh well.

Anyhow, here it is. Maybe I’ll finish writing my reflections on rehab (I’m home! I can walk with my new knees!) during the half-time show.

**

Game Time

All eyes were on Deirdre when she walked into the room. She hated times like this. Those stares, what they were thinking behind their glassy eyes – always made her uncomfortable. Wet circles began forming under her armpits.

Great. Now they could make fun of her hygiene as well as her clothes, her chewed nails.

The room was quiet a second too long; then Jed stood up. “Glad you could make it, Dee.” No one called her Dee. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a Bud Light. He handed it to her and she nodded thanks, took a short sip of the watery liquid. It wasn’t even cold. Ugh, how could they drink that shit when there were so many decent beers out there?

Conversation started again. Larry launched into a monologue that left Deirdre dazed and everyone else entertained. She’d probably interrupted him by showing up. He finally stopped to take a breath and everyone except Deirdre laughed. He must have gotten to the punch line.

Tammy and Britt held their bottles up to Larry in a mock salute and clicked their bottles together.

They were drinking India Pale Ale from Deirdre’s favorite microbrewery. Then Deirdre noticed that everyone was drinking good beer – Larry, Jed, the rest of them.

WTF?

Deirdre imagined pouring her warm Bud Light into the big bowl of chips on the coffee table, or better yet, down Jed’s back. It was the first time she smiled all day.

Instead, she walked to the bar sink and tipped her bottle high, watching the foamy liquid swirl down the drain. She caught Jed staring at her as she opened the refrigerator and got herself a bottle of IPA. She took a long draught from the bottle and stared back. Much better.

So this was the “man cave” Jed talked about incessantly at work. She looked around. Testosterone oozed from the black leather couches, the big flat panel TV, the dartboard hanging on the wall.

She’d been included – inadvertently, she’d assumed – in an email inviting the staff to his house for potluck and the game on Sunday. Deirdre hated football, thought she’d leave before the game started.

But her new year’s resolution had been to get out of her own skin more, to act normal. This was an opportunity for her to at least try. Even her therapist would be pleased.

Her clothes were, as usual, all wrong for the afternoon. She’d worn dark slacks and a twin set. Everyone else was in jeans and a logo team shirt.

“Who’s playing?” This was wrong; she realized that even as the words were coming out. The looks ranged from incredulous to pitying. Well, screw them. They probably had no idea what was happening politically halfway around the world, let alone halfway across the city, if it wasn’t carrying a football team banner.

The silence lasted an instant too long. Tammy rolled her eyes for Britt’s benefit, and Britt barely stifled a chuckle. That did it.

Deirdre would play her own game.

“Hey!” Deirdre’s voice was jovial. “Who wants to play darts before the game?” Her co-workers looked at her. They’d never heard that upbeat voice. No one spoke.

“I said, who wants to play darts?” This time her tone was different. Tammy shifted uneasily in the leather loveseat. Jed stood up. No one spoke.

Deirdre grabbed the darts from the corkboard. They were expensive darts – heavy, weighted just right. The kind she liked. At least Jed had picked those well. She aimed for him first. He dropped silently to the shag carpeting.

Were they all really moving in slow motion, or was it her adrenalin? Deirdre was able to aim slowly, carefully, accurately. Soon she’d used all the darts, and the room was quiet.

She stepped over Britt’s body on her way to the refrigerator. She wanted to grab a couple of beers to take home.

She might watch the football game after all.

LEON’S AUTO BODY PARTS — THE WALKING    [Continue reading]]]> Many years ago when I was traveling semi-regularly between DC and Charlottesville I’d drive past a huge junkyard barely hidden from the highway by a long fence – chain link with strips of green plastic woven through it. I probably would have forgotten about it except for the sign:

LEON’S AUTO BODY PARTS — THE WALKING MAN’S FRIEND

Gotta love Leon.

think4photop / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Next week I’m checking into the high-tech medical version of Leon’s – my local hospital – and having both my knees replaced with new parts. I guess my surgeon is the NON-walking person’s friend. I hope so, at least.

I’m psyched, nervous and eagerly looking down the road several months to the return of warm weather and some real walking.

I obviously haven’t been blogging much and my timeline for the JUST DESSERTS: Greed. Lust. Death. Tiramisu. sequel went off the rails with all this body parts stuff. I apologize for leaving Vince, Lizzie, Ernestine and the rest of the Moon Beach crew in the lurch, but they are still alive and kicking and the rest of their story will emerge before too long, I promise. Right now, Vince and Lizzie are having an – uh – adventure in a junkyard somewhere in the rust belt and I suspect Leon was the inspiration for that.

Cathryn Grant wrote a blog post about crows that reminded me of a creepy guy from my distant past. Pretty soon a story idea featuring Creepy Guy and his pet crow started percolating in my head. I can already feel the story expanding to embrace Smoker Man, a creepy guy from the present.

Smoker Man parks his silver sports car in the same spot at the state park marina every day. He leaves his window open about three inches with his cigarette hand dangling out, pulling it back in to inhale every 30 seconds. Sometimes he’ll get out and walk along the shoreline in a dark grey sweatshirt, hood always up. Top’s always up on the car, too, even when it’s nice out. He lights his next cigarette from the last. His eyes are definitely focused Somewhere Else. He’s the only person I’ve seen walking along the beach that I’ve been afraid to talk to, and you know I’ve met some characters.

I’m wondering what impact a couple of days of post-surgery narcotic buzz will have on the story of Creepy Guy and Smoker Man. I’m anxious to see how that will play out. More giant chickens, perhaps?

So I’m gonna be in the hospital and then rehab for a bit. I’ve packed Swamplandia, Death Comes to Pemberley and Boomerang in my suitcase and loaded my laptop with a bunch of books by indie authors. I bought ugly purple gym shorts for physical therapy and an awesome Dragon Lady shirt to scare away evil spirits. And, of course, I packed notebooks and pens for capturing whatever my Muse has to say.

I think I’m set for this new adventure. Catch y’all soon. In the meantime, enjoy this:

~~
Still image: think4photop / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Here’s what’s so awesome: One of my nonfiction pieces has been nominated for the Dead Mule Best of the Net 2011 awards!

I LOVE the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature and am deeply honored – especially after reading    [Continue reading]]]> I’ve just come back from Boston, so I can say/write wicked awesome when I mean totally, completely-and-in-a-good-way awesome.

Here’s what’s so awesome: One of my nonfiction pieces has been nominated for the Dead Mule Best of the Net 2011 awards!

I LOVE the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature and am deeply honored – especially after reading the other works that have been nominated. Good stuff – wicked good stuff.

You can check out Alton the tree guy’s story here: Make It About The Money.

Natasha Drew = Natasha Alexander. I had a change of heart over my pen name earlier this year. But it’s still me!

The tourists are gone; the locals and eccentrics are out in force once again.

Phew. I’d begun to think the world was made up solely of People From Away slathered with sunblock and lugging beach chairs, cabanas, umbrellas, coolers, boogie boards, corn hole games, plastic shovels, radios, cheese curls, small children and high expectations to    [Continue reading]]]> I’m back.

The tourists are gone; the locals and eccentrics are out in force once again.

Phew. I’d begun to think the world was made up solely of People From Away slathered with sunblock and lugging beach chairs, cabanas, umbrellas, coolers, boogie boards, corn hole games, plastic shovels, radios, cheese curls, small children and high expectations to the beach, too intent on having a fun vacation to talk with anyone around them.

So it was a relief to meet Diane on the beach a couple of days ago. Diane’s from around here, but she’s lived in a lot of different places in her sixty-one years. We were talking about the McMansions built right smack on the shoreline that bite the dust – or sand – during a hurricane when she launched into this story.

Diane talked a lot, and I tried to capture the essence of what she said while leaving out extraneous details. I did make a couple of edits, especially after The Man said, “She didn’t say ‘condom,’ she said ‘rubber’ and when you said ‘What?’ I thought to myself, ‘Oh, God, do we have to spell it out for you?’”

Hmmph.

Anyway, here’s Diane’s story:

“You are not your stuff – I was lucky enough to learn that more than 20 years ago. I was a single mom, my kids were grown and so I sold my house, sold everything I couldn’t fit in my car. I packed it to the gills and headed for Los Angeles.

“Somewhere in New Mexico, I was driving along and listening to music, loud, singing along with the radio and not really paying any attention to the noises the car was making. Then the car started shaking and smoke started coming out of the engine. I pulled off the road just as the car died.

“It was a Friday afternoon – it’s always a Friday afternoon when these things happen – and there I was, alone by the side of the road with a dead car in the middle of nowhere New Mexico. And I had to be in Los Angeles to start my new job first thing Monday morning.

“Eventually some guys stopped and offered to drive me to the closest town. I looked at my car – every damn thing I owned in this world was in it. My mom’s jewelry, my diamonds, everything. I couldn’t even remember where in the car I’d hidden that stuff and didn’t have time to look for it anyway.

“I looked at my car and thought, it’s okay. It’s just stuff. So I got into this pick-up truck with a couple of strangers and left everything I owned by the side of the road in nowhere New Mexico. They dropped me off at a service station and I walked in and the place was full of – men.”

She said ‘men’ in a way that made me know Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp were not among those present.

“I gave them the keys to everything I owned in my life. Then I got a ride to Albuquerque and managed to get a flight to L.A. in time for my first day of work.

“A week later, I flew back to Albuquerque so I could pick up the car. I’d arranged to get a ride back to the service station with this guy – I had this weird feeling about getting in his car with him but I did…

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this stuff – once we got on the road I looked down and saw there was a rubber on the floor of the front seat. He’d just gone on about how he’d cleaned up the car special for me. And I’m thinking, you cleaned up the car and left that thing there? I had no idea what would happen next and I was really uncomfortable when he pulled off at a rest stop. I didn’t know if I should jump out or what.

“‘Do you want something to drink? Eat?’ he asked me when he stopped the car.

“‘I just want to pick up my car – that’s it!’ I practically screamed it at him. I insisted that was all I wanted to do and he pulled back onto the road.

“He never touched me, never tried anything beyond stopping. I guess he thought it was worth a try though. Still, I was mighty glad when I could get out of his car back at the service station.

“And there was my car, all fixed up and ready to go. As far as I could tell, all my stuff was there, too, right where I’d packed it.

“Later I called my brother and told him my tale. He said to me, ‘Didn’t you get the car serviced right before you left?’

“I hadn’t thought of that, but he was right – I’d gotten it checked, gotten an oil change a week before I’d left for L.A. And then there wasn’t any oil in the engine – that’s why it died.

“So I called Toyota, told them what happened, told them I had all my receipts. And they ended up paying for the whole thing – the car repair, the plane ticket – all of it.

“But I got a whole lot more out of it. When I first drove away from my car and watched everything I owned grow smaller and smaller in the distance, I realized it was okay, that I didn’t really need any of that stuff, that I could get by with practically nothing. I still can.

“You are not your stuff.

“And knowing that is worth way more than all of it – my jewelry, my clothes, all my things – put together.”

Uh.

That’s where I live, folks. Of course, during Irene’s touch-down I’m supposed to be on Cape Cod at my college girlfriends’ reunion, which has been in    [Continue reading]]]> Yikes. Not only is Hurricane Irene projected to become a Category 3 or 4, at this point it’s projected to make landfall along the southeastern North Carolina coast on Saturday.

Uh.

That’s where I live, folks. Of course, during Irene’s touch-down I’m supposed to be on Cape Cod at my college girlfriends’ reunion, which has been in the works for two years.

Should I stay or should I go?

Good question, and I probably won’t know the answer until my flight takes off Friday morning and I’m either on it or not. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to leave The Man and the pets to fend for themselves if and when the roof blows off. Or when they’re stuck on the Interstate trying to get the hell out of Dodge ahead of 135 mph winds.

At the very least, I ought to hit the grocery store while they still have these Southern hurricane staples in stock.

Stay tuned. And, Goodnight, Irene.