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Sheltered

My ass is in the air, and a blind poodle is smooshing its face against my inner thigh.

This is my reality.

Caged.

***

Staring ahead at the barking dogs, I inhale, propel myself — face down — through the narrow passage leading to the other side. Then slip, and kiss the cold concrete floor — my cheek mere inches from a steaming turd.

The poodle follows.

I step back.

Assess.

And realize I’m screwed.

*Poodle face-smoosh*

Everything had been going according to plan.

***

A lot of people wonder what my new job entails. And by “a lot,” I mean my parents.

Working for a nonprofit, everyone has to wear at least five hats at a given time. And, sometimes, coordinate them with five outfits without notice. So, one such wardrobe change I frequently make is for two news segments, each of which helps us find homes for the featured animals we take on the air.

And this day, I have a date with a Shih Tzu. At 6:00 AM.

There’s primping to be done, scarves to be tied, bowel movements to be made on the sidewalk. And y’all, time is rarely on our side. Especially when the dreaded highway of hell, the 405, awaits.

But today, I get in early. I have everything ready. This should be a dog walk in the park.

***

A click of the lock later, and I’m walking into the shelter, rousing the curiosity of its barky residents, one of whom will soon be making his TV debut.

Three Shih Tzu’s later, I’m empty handed. Sweat beads on my forehead.

Where is he? 

Was he already adopted?

Am I insane?

I begin searching frantically. Then blow through a door, turn the corner, and walk through another one, with a momentary thought trailing after me like a potent fart.

I hope this door doesn’t lock.

I turn to catch it.

*Click.*

I turn the knob.

Jiggle it.

Pull it.

Push it.

Before my heart sinks to my toes, and I come to the crushing realization.

I’m trapped.

Like the last brick sealing Fortunato’s fate, the click of the door ushers in an all-consuming denial — incredulity that demands remedy.

This. Is. Happening. 

Like most panicked animals, I scamper within my confines while entertaining racing, irrational thoughts.

My eyes dart here. There. Every damn where for salvation, escape.

Maybe I can squeeze through that four inch space.

Maybe that barbed wire isn’t as sharp as it looks.

If I had shape-shifting powers, I could totally get out of here.

But then, I remember something — a real super power.

My phone!

I reach into my back pocket. But only grab lint and dental floss.

Oh. Balls.

***

As the doggy din subsides, I shove two large shelter keys in the door and kennel locks, trying to make something work — like a lock-picking Tim Gunn.

No luck.

But there’s one more key — a tiny, imp-like piece of metal. So I turn to an empty kennel, push in and turn the key, and alakazam!

I’m in. Kenneled.

Now comes the tricky part: getting from Point A — inside the kennel — to Point D — the other side of the locked door.

I assess the small passage separating the inside-outside kennel halves and push myself through, emerging into the other fenced half facing the stray section. With another lock conquered, I have only one option — trying the same thing with one of the inhabited kennels.

So I walk the kennel line, determining which of the strays wants a temporary roomie. And that’s when I see him — the little blind poodle.

And Bingo was him name, oh!

***

By now, the whole kennel block is one loud bark. Inside, facing my fellow strays, I know I’m just one little flip of the key from victory.

*Face-smoosh*

I take a few steps to the kennel door, and reach for the lock.

Only to realize that this particular door is slightly different from the others — the lock is bolted to a wooden post, out of view. And the only way to get to it is to shove my hand through the chain-link fencing.

The canine cacophony is deafening — reverberating off the walls, almost shaking my hands — and I can’t help but think their barks are more critical in tone than supportive.

But then, as sweaty rivers cascade down my face, I get a little, literal nudge of encouragement from my kennel mate.

With my hands contorted and smashed through the fencing like some arabesque marionette, I glance down to see him — quietly determined — smooshing his head into my pant leg.

And, exhale.

I turn back, twist my hands — scraping off more skin — jostle the lock, and feel it give.

Success!

I push, and smash my face into the immovable fence. Crucial minutes pass before I realize I have to push yet another lock out of my way. Which I eventually do.

Freedom!

***

Only after a coworker arrives do I find the one.

So my furry friend and I jump into the car, race to the interstate, and sit in gridlock traffic — watching the segment time inch up, then pass.

Fifteen minutes late, I swerve into the studio lot, hear a heave, and turn around just in time to see puparoo puke all over his crate.

Marvelous.

And then we sit. For an hour. Until we’re shoehorned into another segment.

We go on, I smile and chat with the anchor, and the pup gets adopted a few days later.

This is my new work life. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

***

Nesting in a new home is always punctuated with an I-can’t-take-this-mess-anymore culling period. And this time around, old field clothes, notes, and just about everything from my past job as an archaeologist went into the dumpster.

Still, I find myself struck by the fact that I need absolutely none of it for my job now. My professional slate is more than clean — it’s rebuilt.

But a few days ago, I got a little reminder — a sense of the past creeping up and tapping me on the shoulder.

***

Silent auction items for an upcoming event lay strewn across the desk. And a pocket watch takes center stage.

“Hey, Matt. You might know something about this. Do you know how old this is?”

The historian-researcher in me suddenly springs out of hibernation. Within minutes, I have the serial number called up on a database, and a use-date onscreen. And fueling that keyboard clattering and image searching is a bit of enjoyment, with a hint of nostalgia.

Because not everything about what has been has to be painful. There’re plenty of ways to pay homage — nodding to a past life knowingly, thanking it in my own way, and acknowledging that it had its time, its place.

And that it’s time to move on.

“Well, never mind, I guess we don’t really need it anymore since we have these.”

I smile down at the opened, gold lid — the watch’s cracked glass and yellowed Roman numerals, the hands stopped at some random moment in time.

“No, I suppose we don’t.”

Then close it.

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Finding Waldo

Before the night is out, I will find Waldo 134 times — here, posing next to a gorilla; there, wearing little more than his glasses.

But right now, I’m watching Bruce Vilanch’s ridiculously cute salt-and-pepper pug drag her ass across the concrete balcony. The reverberations of West Hollywood’s Halloween spectacular thrum beneath us– the streets gorged by streams of costumed phantasms. The off-street, dark alleys behind — a cacophony of orgasms.

***

A Manhattan before, I’m rubbing shoulders with dragons and Abraham Lincoln and the characters from Moonrise Kingdom. But I just stay focused on the referees leading me and Andy down Santa Monica Boulevard, through the throngs of carnival-goers.

John blows his whistle with such conviction that he actually parts the sloshed seas on occasion. Shawn clutches his artfully arranged flag, ready to throw it down and declare a foul.

But before we know it, we’ve arrived.

A sexified Angel of Death flutters up the stairs ahead of us, and we sidestep through a nearby door.  A breeze whips up along the walkway as we pass apartment after apartment in the sleek, contemporary building.

John rings a doorbell. A gladiator answers. His white Chihuahua darts out, and busies herself with smelling my feet.  He takes a few steps out, stoops, and scoops up his precious cargo.  Which is how Shawn gets a clear view of the hand-to-sword combat going on in the back room.

The gladiator smiles, re-assumes his sentry post, then motions next door.

“Bruce is there.”

Before we can thank him, he’s returned to his ménage a lot.

And then, I’m pug watching.

***

There are times in my life when I’ve wished for more developed, intellectual thoughts to be rolling around in my noggin than what’s screaming in the fore.  And this is one of them.

Instead of reflecting on the thoughtfulness of our friends — for braving the costumed masses and dragging us away from watching Hocus Pocus in our underwear — or our host’s humor and hospitality — his complete lack of pretension — I’m thinking, I’m watching Bruce Vilanch’s pug drag her ass across the balcony. Incredible.

I snap out of it, and catch then follow Andy’s concerted gaze. And there, placed just so by the television, Bruce Vilanch’s Emmy’s.

“Oh yeah, well, you know Chi Chi, right?”

I swivel back to the conversation and nod. Even if he’d asked us about a chattery dolphin that has a lion’s head and speaks in tongues, we’d nod, zombie-like.

Yes, Bruce Vilanch.

“Well, he lives over there.”

I peer over the side, toward the lighted apartment in the distance, but get distracted by a Rubix cube dancing below.

Finding Waldo...

The world is a bizarrely amazing, small place. 

***

A week later, my mind is goo.

The Merlot is dark and tastes like strawberry jam — a catalyst to wax poetic.

Faces reflecting an internal dialogue —

The laughter,

Wry smiles,

Heavy, somber eyes

The tears.

The animation.

The intimidation.

Emotion overflowing onto asphalt like a dull, constant rain.

We keep to our courses — exploring new avenues,

Detouring around construction,

Hunkering down and pushing on;

It’s all a journey,

And we’re each just one pilgrim,

Traveling.

We stare out from our table at the passing cars as conversations buzz around us. And I lend my ears all around — like hummingbirds, they swallow the lifeblood of others’ lives: the stories that make us something special.

Andy and I stare over our salads at one another, and just absorb everything.

“This is the moment we’ve been working towards.”

He smiles and nods. And the server materializes, resting our plates in ghostly quiet. I push the slightly sticky wine glass stem toward Andy’s. He meets me halfway — near the bread — and a melodic, soft ting bleeds into the surrounding chorus.

Months ago, we landed in an alien place — knew few people; had dreams of where we wanted to start building a life.

And as we peer through the candlelight, we know we’ve found it.

The answer melting into each other’s eyes.

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New Beginnings

A cross breeze gently stirs the blinds in the living room — animating them like a ghostly marionette.

Early morning moonlight glances across the mirrors piled on tables, which are stacked on chairs, which are turned in every possible arabesque-like contortion — everything fitting together in a hoarderish Jenga.

The macaw from the unit across the courtyard rouses, belting out a few throaty caw caw‘s before settling back into her early morning haze. Sweaty socks from our run cling to my feet like a second skin.

The new digs!

And I feel rejuvenated.

It’s a new day. A new week.

A new beginning.

***

It’s hard to believe we’ve been living in California for almost half a year. So much has happened. And just getting out here has been punctuated with every possible test imaginable as we started over.

And now, we’re starting over again.

On the road again...

Almost immediately after landing in Los Angeles, we realized that there’s a certain mysterious gravitational pull to this place. There’s grit and beauty, noise and quiet — everything that attracts and repels.

I never envisioned living in such a large city. But now, the streets are more familiar. The freeways less imposing. Goals seemingly cemented on the horizon — like distant dots — now much closer, more accessible, like low-hanging fruit.

Our time here has been exhausting and invigorating. We both started over professionally. We’ve pushed ourselves out of our respective comfort zones — leaving our loved ones, our friends, in search of some new adventure.

And it’s been hard.

But what’s been borne out of this entire process has been something indescribable — a feeling of possibility. Of realizing that so many things we thought were so completely unattainable six months ago are now dancing around our fingertips, and we just have to keep reaching for them.

Leaving everything — and everyone — you know for something else, some nebulous blob of unrealized and somewhat unformulated goals, can be so overwhelmingly painful and draining that it’s easy to crack and crumble.

And we’ve definitely had our low points here. But through it all, we’ve kept going. And now, we’re in a place we’ve wanted to call home for six months.

We’re making friends. We’re laughing more. We’re breathing deeply, and drinking it all in.

Koreatown served its purpose. It was — and will always be — our first nest in California.

But West Hollywood is home.

Home

An apple we reached for and grabbed.

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Talk To Me

There comes a time when each and every one of us realizes that we’re good at something.

Kicking a ball.

Shopping the clearance rack.

Giving head.

But oftentimes we lose sight of said abilities — let them smolder on the proverbial back-burner until our internal smoke alarm goes off, reminding us that there’s more out there than what’s right in front of us.

Or our government shuts down, leaving us — and the world — to wonder what in the fuck is wrong with our country.

***

I’m zhoozhing my sleeves and adjusting my orange cardigan — my fashion-inspired homage to the beginning of October — as Rachel Maddow details how the Republicans are driving the country off a cliff.

And not in the tragically poetic Thelma & Louise kind of way. There’s no clasping of hands; no longing looks. Just fiery carnage.

I think of my friends and family who work for the government and wonder what exactly they’re doing.

How long this will last.

And what the end result will be.

***

But amid all of this nonsense, the days have to go on; we have to keep forging ahead. And somewhere in the chaos we more fully recognize the little blips of happiness for what they are, because it’s often not until we’re hitting something — a wall, a low — that we understand how flexible and pliable our flesh, our minds really are.

Each of us has Gumbyesque abilities — we adapt, we tweak things; we make something palatable out of scraps, mix in ambition, and mend our fractured selves into a different, yet more complete whole.

I know that the ripples of this national embarrassment will reach into each of our lives and pull and pinch and stretch us professionally. And try as we might to deny it, we know it’ll also hit home.

Which is why it’s important to remember the things we’re good at. Our fallback plans — our Hail Mary passes.

I know what you’re thinking.

Did Matt just make a sports analogy? 

***

Now, I’ll be the first to admit how hard it is to bounce back from the lows.

I mean, look at me. I’ve been in a writing rut lately. I’m exhausted. I feel uninspired. I’m trying to figure out how to be better at my job. We’re about to move again. It’s all nuts and scary and tiring.

But every now and then — when my woe-is-me violin quiets enough — I recall past rough patches. The whole unknown of it all.

And remember the tenuous, yet joyful ambiguity it brings with it. There’s so much promise in that murky pool of emotional goo.

Fewer people look at you like you’re a nut if you talk about starting over.

Shades of your past creative selves start turning on their Dickens charm, leaving the dusty chains at home.

And you start remembering those things on the back-burner.

You acknowledge that, while you may not be good at everything, you’re good at more than a few things.

Hell, as I’m re-building my professional life from the crumbly ruins of neglected degrees past, I’m realizing this whole professional 180 degree business is hard. I’m making a lot of mistakes. Running to the bathroom every now and then to catch my breath. (And not because someone in my office ate bad chile con carne.)

The uncertainty — the challenge — is scaring the shit out of me. But in all of the mental chatter — the What in the hell are you doing? Did you really think that would work? — I glean a few shimmering bits, like pearls in an oil-slicked sea.

I embrace the positive. And I own it.

I balance the scales — tell myself that, sure, I may still be learning about XYZ; but I sure as hell can talk to people. Now, that’s not necessarily a ringing endorsement. But it’s something.

Especially when I realize that that southern-inspired quality, which I never really paid much mind to, is quite a boon when you have to talk to a lot of people every single day — or suddenly give a speech to a crowd full of strangers.

So, there you have it — at least I don’t have to worry about being the office weirdo who just breathes heavily and sweats when you talk to them.

***

Sure, each of us may be feeling a bit tipsy-turdy — that all this government cray cray is making us want to drink, upsetting our stomachs. But also remember this: While you or I may not necessarily be able to hit a home run every single day — be that Renaissance Person everyone looks up to — we bring more than one thing to our respective tables. (And apparently more than one sports analogy.)

Even if it’s not fully set, or has a little dry rot.

Because all we can do is bring appetites for better, nourishing days.

And sturdier legs to lean on.

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The Scarlet K

Mid-conversation, I see him.

He sees me.

“Holdonaminute. Ihavetorunfromsomeonerightnow.”

I tighten my grasp on my phone, and hightail it across the street.

He quickens his trot down the block.

“JESUS! JESUUUUS! I JUST WANT TO SAY HI, JESUS!”

But the light changes in my favor and lines of cars drown out his messianic entreaties.

“Sorry, I just had to outrun that Jesus guy.”

“Who?”

“One of the reasons we need to move.”

***

Living in a big city has already taught me a lot about people — how much we can be pushed and pulled in a given day, how we can sometimes lose our humanity. It’s made me appreciate the rough beauty that accentuates urban landscapes — like rouge on ruddy cheeks. And how transfixing people can be.

I see things that move and disturb me, and make me wonder where in the hell decency has gone.

But it also makes me appreciate how we all come to determine where it is that we belong — feel comfortable, want to put down roots.

And K-town is most definitely not it.

In fact, it’s our albatross — a scarlet K. Because it seems like we missed yet another gay memo. Which I imagine to be a glittery scroll that reads something like, “Foolish gays live in K-town. Gurl, just sashay right on by that shit hole, mmmkay?”

As absurd as it sounds, it’s sort of true.

The three gays we’ve seen here look haggard and spent, and seclude themselves in the nicest buildings. And any others just look scared, like they’ve ventured into a haunted house where you can eat Korean barbecue to your heart’s stop. I mean, content.

Every other day it seems like five dorms exploded on the street, with particle board desks, blankets, and broken televisions sprinkled down the block. Sometimes stuff sits there so long, it becomes a reference point. Like during our nightly jogs, I know we’re almost back because we pass the upended chest of drawers that’s been sitting there — tagged with graffiti — for nearly three weeks.

But then, we drive to West Hollywood. Take a deep breath. See the mo’s walking around. Drink caramel mochas. And exhale.

Homos on the range.

***

Anthropology taught me to learn from and respect differences — not to judge people, and take things in context. And, above all else, try to understand. But you know what? Sometimes, I don’t want to understand.

Because I’m at the point now where I’m a damn proud curmudgeon when it comes to certain things.

That I can’t quite go with the flow anymore, and I certainly don’t want to embrace my inner hipster and grab a PBR before flipping my YOLO hat and settling in for the uncomfortable ride.

That I prefer people clean up their messes; that I can’t stand trashy neighbors; that condoms should stay on dicks, not caked to sidewalks; that parents actually do something proactive about their screaming children running up and down the hallways.

That I want to live where everyone surrounding me is mature 98.5% of the time, and the closest thing to trashy is a daddy wearing sequined workout shorts.

In that hallowed place where the scarlet K can be exchanged for a “Haaaaaai!”

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I Can Be My Hero, Maybe?

He’s not wearing a red cape, nor is he rescuing orphans from a burning building. He’s just standing there. Smiling, watching the motorized world go by and accepting the occasional Good Samaritan’s coin.

A dry erase board hangs on the pole behind him, swaying slightly in the passing cars’ collective wake.  It reads: “I am here to support you. And you me.”

Below it hangs a framed poster – the glass cracked, shards missing – with an image of a woman with 1990’s hair leaning seductively against a Porsche, the hand-scrawled message reading: “No criticizing or complaining. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

The light changes, a car honks, and the mid-morning rush to work continues. His smile never breaks.

***

Radiohead’s “Karma Police” is lulling my hazy mind into mental balance, just as my stomach starts gurgling.

This isn’t a soy mocha.

This is what you get…

But then “My Humps” cues up, and I’m doing my best to twerk in the driver’s seat. Then, as I’m mouthing along with “No no drama…you don’t want no drama…” and waving my finger from side to side, I glance in my side mirror and stop cold.

Part of my mirror’s message about objects being larger than they appear is centered and framed by a white painted square on the dumpster, the subtle message reading, “Hey.”

I’m quiet. Then belt out, “…gurl, heyy!”

Then, I’m back to the music – getting this party started with Pink. But that moment – that bizarre realization of something reaching out and shaking me – has an oddly grounding effect.

It reminds me of the importance of stopping to read the world – the ways I can try to see things differently, embody them, and weave them into my day to lift my spirits. Not complaining about this or criticizing that. Just taking it all in.

To glean from the most random acts the slightest scraps of heroism – the ways we encourage one another to realize our potential, our dreams; to employ infinitesimal coping mechanisms to get through the seconds, minutes, hours, days – the vastness of time; to conjure a smile out of a sullen visage – like a rabbit from a magician’s hat; to have the courage to apologize and mean it when we’re cruel.

To reflect on where I’ve been and how I’ve gotten to this particular point in my life. And to have a little bit of pride about it all.

***

My new favorite barista has just finished calling me a slut after learning of my first tattoo’s location – her fluorescent red fingernails grazing my shirt.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t really strike me as the kind to have a tattoo, much less a massive chest piece.”

She nods to my tattoo, exposed by my partially unbuttoned shirt. She smiles, shifts slightly in her acid wash overalls, then regales us with a few stories of her tattoos before leaving us to our sweating caramel mochas.

Andy and I smile at one another, take a few gulps, then get back to writing.

But something about the whole exchange strikes me – the way the tiniest peek of my tattoo unlocked her desire to tell us about the people behind her ink – and it makes me realize something. That I’ve always wanted to be someone who surprises people in unexpected ways – someone who has a little edge and smarts underneath it all.

***

Being a late bloomer doesn’t have many perks. Throw in jacked up teeth, a lisp, and the most protracted prepubescent period in the history of the world, and self-esteem wasn’t exactly in high reserve.

For so long, I aspired to be like anyone else – someone attractive, fun, mysterious, and a little bad ass: all of the people I never saw myself even closely resembling. So I just kept being myself. Changed with new experiences – struggled and won, got stuck in ruts, and played a violin or two in a dark apartment, thinking about how hard I had it.

But it hasn’t been until recently that I’ve realized that most of the people I aspired to be like as a youngster have since settled. And I’ve kept going. Because I have a lot to do, and only one life to sandwich everything into.

Which is maybe why the last voice over in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button resonates with me – because it reminds me of how each of us can be heroic by leading the life we want to lead.

For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.

And so far – over these nearly 29 years of life – I feel pretty good about who I’ve become and what I’ve done.

I’ve taken a stand against bullies. Told people the hard truth. Been daring. Fallen in love. Soldiered through hard times and learned from them.

But most importantly, I’ve become the slightly barbed, quirky person I’ve always wanted to be. I own who I am, and draw strength from it. And doing so makes me feel excited – like the moment before walking through a door to a room full of friends.

Like I can take on anything if I pursue it with gusto.

Like realizing that the hero I wanted to be was here all along – just wearing glasses instead of a cape.

Glasses and capes.

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Urtlet Power

As I inch up to the dinosaur descendant plodding across the asphalt, I’m having second thoughts. I glance back for reassurance.

Mom turns and hangs out the Nissan’s window.

“Just pick it up and put it on the grass! Hurry, honey!”

I stare back down at what looks like a log sticking out of a slimy shell, take a deep breath, and grab both sides. My little happy dance to the side of the road draws laughter from the crammed school buses stopped mere feet from my road-centered performance.

But the alligator snapping turtle isn’t laughing. In fact, it whips its head around — mouth widened, ready to swallow my middle finger like a Combo. I shriek and throw, listening to the disturbing thwack it makes as it lands carapace up on the grass.

Everyone laughs. I wince.

Damned to be crushed asunder by a twiggy middle-schooler, the crusty reptile juts out its legs, rights its curmudgeonly self, and turns its thick head in my general direction, hissing loudly before loping downhill toward a pond. I skulk back to the truck, where Mom sits patiently and my friend Stan slouches down as far as he can.

I can tell he wishes for a shell of his own. Then again, we’ve been down that path before.

***

My felt Ninja Turtle mask is amazing: its eye holes are nearly symmetrical and it’s the perfect length to wrap around my head.

Raphael would be proud.

I round out the mask’s edges and toss the scissors back into Mom’s stenciled butter cookie tin before sprawling across my shag-carpeted bedroom floor to admire my handiwork. My mask is a thing of beauty.

On to the scythes.

A labor of love later, the kitchen is devoid of tinfoil and I have two lumpy excuses for weaponry. Still, when I lay them next to the mask, I can almost see Raphael leaping to life — out from the shag. Now, once Stan’s mom makes our strap-on turtle shells, we’ll be set.

First place is practically ours, and I can feel it.

***

A month before, our second grade teacher announces the talent show. Social cliques scurry off to room corners — each group humming with ideas about award-winning segments. Mulling over the idea of an action-packed, weapon-wielding, Ninja Turtles-themed act, I briefly disengage from a competitive game of Topple.

“Pay attention!”

I place my final piece on the unsteady plane. It levels — a sign!

Turtle Power!

But before I finish congratulating myself, Sophie — chemically unbalanced and fiercely violent — drop-kicks the entire game across the room, sending the pieces flying in all directions.

I shriek into her upturned Keds.

“HEY!”

She shoots me one of her quintessential I will kill you, motherfucker stares, and walks away. Seeing as how even the teachers are terrified of her, I conclude it’s best to right the toppled Topple, and piece together ideas for who with play my reptilian counterparts.

A handful of my friends live in my neighborhood — a seventies-era subdivision dotted with pines and insidious sweet gums. Stan’s place is a few houses down, and Jess in a townhouse around the corner. After school, I meet with them to hatch our plan.

Soon, our entire group starts meeting religiously in the woods behind Stan’s house to discuss headway we’ve made on our costumes, and any new moves we can use to wow the audience — scissor-kicks, jabs, flips are all crucial components.

We. Must. Win.

Mostly so I can crush Hanna Drake and her baton twirling trio.

***

Hanna and I have recently had a falling out. Mostly because her father got moved to a different bank branch and now she knows her parents’ money can afford her a space in second grade’s upper echelon. I get no respect. Just blonde hair flips and cackles.

But after our winning show, she’ll beg to be my friend again — realize she’s made one of the worst mistakes of her life.

Groveling, then victory. Delicious.

I can’t wait to take her down.

And we’re ready. Sort of.

But who needs real costumes anyway? People with no imaginations, that’s who! Our whole strap-on turtle shell idea falls apart, and store-made costumes are too expensive.

So, here we are — night of the show: clad in our best forest green sweats, dark shoes, and homemade felt masks. At least our masks are different colors. And our weapons aren’t half bad.

Donatello has a makeshift tree branch staff. Michelangelo has actual nun chucks, which he disguises with a layer of tinfoil. Leonardo arrives with a plastic sword. And I, the illimitable Raphael, have my tinfoil scythes.

As we wait for our turn, we run through our Turtle moves.

And I measure up the competition — glimpsing snippets from behind she school cafeteria’s large stage.

Amateurs. You cannot fathom our greatness!

As it stands, our routine is strung together with a number of well-rehearsed punches and kicks. Donatello assures us he’ll do a few flips, especially since the rest of us are too short to have enough clearance to do so without face-planting.

But to ensure that no single Turtle hogs the limelight, each of us has our very own weapon-centric mini-performance.

The glitz.

The glam.

Thevictorythatissurelyours!

And for the finale, we’ll scream “TURTLES” — as we hold up the lettered cardboard cutouts we’ve positioned onstage.

It’ll. Be. Epic.

***

Hanna’s baton twirlers end their show to a roar of applause. I snort.

Her father probably paid them all off. 

We’re up.

Hanna passes me on the way out and mouths, “Good luck.” Then flips her hair.

Onstage, we face the packed cafeteria. Camcorders and cameras are at the ready. My knees get a little weak.

Steady.

Murmurs in the audience die down.

The music starts.

And it happens.

We freeze — the rehearsed routine unraveling into a blank mental void.

Doom!

Panicked, I do the only thing I can: jump up and down, like a poo-throwing monkey. And wave my scythes. Sweat trickles down my forehead.

And then I get smacked in the head by one of Michelangelo’s nun chuck butts. I turn, but Michelangelo’s not paying attention; he’s staring ahead, petrified in place — swinging wildly.

Next to him, Donatello whooshes his branch through the air, as Leonardo swings his wobbly sword back and forth.

I jump.

Thwack!

My head throbs.

I slowly inch away. But Michelangelo moves with me — all while spinning his death sticks.

Thwack!

Every move I make, he’s there — skill-crushing nun chuck close behind.

And then, the truly painful part.

Like a contagious pox, smiles spread across everyone’s faces. Whispers and chuckles build in volume, crescendoing through the audience like a cacophonous wave.

No.

Thwack!

The audience roars. And only grows louder as the theme song winds down.

We can still win!

We run to the cardboard letters laying face-down. And right as “Turtle Power!” crackles over the speakers, each of us holds up our letters.

The bottom falls out.

I spy my grandfather, father, and sister doubled-over in laughter; my mother and grandmother scold them, but stifle laughter themselves.

Flummoxed, we slowly lower the letters, and I turn mine over.

My successful maneuvering to avoid a concussion has moved me so far out of place that I’ve picked up the wrong letters.

I turn green. Knowing that I’ll forever be known as one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja URTLETS!

Mortified, we run offstage, the laughter following us.

Hanna and the baton twirlers win. I take my battered scythes home.

***

Even now, whenever I’m in front of an audience, I expect the Ninja Turtles’ theme song to blast from the closest speakers and a phantom nun chuck to whack me upside the head. And my parents still insist the whole thing could’ve qualified on America’s Funniest Home Videos.

“That damn tape would’ve won, hands-down.”

“Oh, our little Urtlet.”

The only evidence I have of the great Teenage Mutant Ninja Urtlets’ performance are two Polaroids: one of me and Stan frozen, wide-eyed; the other of me dodging a nun chuck.

But as I learned that night, sometimes the only way to get through a storm is to deal with whatever may come.

One blow at a time.

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Toned

The ringing in my ears sounds more like a gong crashing down fifty-three flights of stairs. So much so that I can’t hear what Andy’s asking me. He just looks like a sweaty mime.

“What?”

“WHAT. DO. YOU. WANT. IN. YOUR. SMOOTHIE?”

“Uh. Whatever you’re having.”

He mime speaks something to the petite woman behind the counter, and she starts scooping chunks of fruit, a few roots, and a cactus pad into an industrial blender.

More whirring and ringing, interjected with a brief dizzy spell reminiscent of a merry-go-round rush. But then, I feel it.

Oh god, it’s happening.

I swallow and smile and try to keep up with the conversation Andy’s having with our friends.

I glance around. Try to focus.

But settle on the blending fruits sloshing around in a viscous slurry.

I raise my finger, like I’m about to recite a magical incantation.

“I’llbe…rightback.”

I don’t even wait for a response. I just walk out the door. Start running to the car.

Then notice the open gym door. So I dart past our silver fox trainer — back turned, assisting another client — quietly close the bathroom door, and projectile vomit all of the water I drank during our training session.

Crouched at the porcelain god of hangovers, I cough and sputter.

I’m a winner!

I reemerge, and try to sneak out. But by now, everyone is looking for me.

Even the smoothie shop owner.

***

A month later, our trainer tells Andy to watch. Then, as I lay on the mat, instructs me to point my leg, ballerina-like, to the ceiling. He leans his muscled shoulder into my thigh and pushes.  Leaning closer, closer — pushing my leg to delightfully new angles, like some pale protractor swing arm.

A scene from Bring It On dances behind my eyes.

And while I think of cold showers and geometry, he reminds us both of the importance of stretching — maintaining our form.

I wink at Andy.

“Flexibility is key.”

Our trainer claps, and I try not to envy his lack of jiggling upper arm fat.

“Alright, once around the block!”

Cajoling myself off the floor, Andy and I run out into the bright Saturday morning.  We round the first corner, and a man yells encouragement from across the street.

Huffing and slightly puffing, we keep going.

“I told you you’re supposed to stretch before running.”

“Mhmmm.”

“I know these things. I knew people on the cross country team in college.”

“I was on the cross country team in middle school. Don’t act like I don’t know what I’m talking about!”

We’re experts.

“Like you didn’t enjoy that stretching.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

We round the last corner, sidestep into the gym, and begin.

***

The closest I’ve ever come to being a gym rat was in college, right after I came out. Because I figured that a good gay was supposed to live and breathe the gym, just like in Queer as Folk.

By the time I realized my mistake, my body had already endured multiple pulled muscles and subcutaneous bruises, and experienced a constant feeling of having been hit by a Mack truck, then smashed by a falling satellite.

Why I ever thought I could become some muscly block is anyone guess.  I mean, I had pretty convincing proof from kiddie league soccer, flag football, and a really nasty fall during a particularly competitive game of kickball that I’m not exactly Sporty Spice.

Still, keeping active has helped both of us make this transition that much easier. Plus, we’ll soon be WeHo-bound, so we may as well be able to lift a few boxes, a sideboard or two.

And while neither of us has aspirations of becoming an Adonis, we also acknowledge that working toward building a better, happier us isn’t just a mental exercise.

***

Sweat flows sheet-like down my forehead — no minor trickling; no perfectly formed beads like a shampoo commercial.

Our trainer’s iPad timer reflects an insidiously long span left for these side planks — one minute, forty-eight seconds. I close my eyes to escape, but lock in sweat pools.

Somewhere in the stinging darkness, I flashback to the time I diced habanero peppers for a stew, barely rinsed my hands, then popped in my contacts.  Between screaming and frenetically tearing at my eyes, I could’ve easily recorded it as an audition tape for an M. Night Shyamalan movie.

Amid that mental noise, I hear our trainer count down from three, two, one.

Collapsing onto the map in a slopping heap, I flip to the other side — cracking open my eyes little by little, like a baby bird.  Now eye-level with our trainer’s dainty pitbull, I get into plank position as she looks on from the office doorway — her pink, faux diamond-studded collar tinking slightly as her unseen tail wagging ripples up through her neck.

Behind me, I hear Andy return from his farmer’s walk down the block, then dump the kettle bell weights on the floor with a heavy sigh.

“Three, two, one…”

Goddammit.

The pitty’s collar tinks louder, and her light brown eyes bore into me; my own furry cheerleader.  I want to steal her.

And before I start envisioning my tendons and cartilage and other gutty insides twisting and fraying and snapping, I hear that magical word.

“Stop!”

Relief.

***

One more cycle through, and we’re complete messes. But at least we’re done.

As always, our trainer smothers us with praise, and I’m reminded of why I like this place.

Because, after every single session, we realize what we need to do and do it more. We’re working ourselves out — pushing on, even when it’s hard and tiring.

“See, you’ve both improved so well.”

“At least now I’m not fainting.”

He laughs. We laugh.

Shaping up.

“You’re getting there. Re-learning how to do it, and doing it right.”

And we are — shaping up, little by little.

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Identity Crisis vs. Artistic License

Right after I learn about resource guarding — watching the animal behavior specialist use a dummy hand to pull a laden food bowl out from under the snout of a rambunctious lab mix — we get into a conversation about the politics of blood sports. And then, lo!

“It’s always so difficult — to intercede, disrupt culturally-inculcated rituals — especially with many practices being so deeply socially conditioned. Everything is culturally relative.”

Silence. Cocked heads. My not-so-inner anthropologist reemerges.

***

Driving back, the social worker turned graphic designer chuckles from the passenger seat.

“I was totally thinking the same thing. You know, about cultural relativity.”

We stare ahead at stopping traffic, our banter lost to deafening fire engine sirens.

Two fish out of water and into the fray. But still laughing.

***

Describing life in Los Angeles is like creating a palimpsest — by the time I visually digest some entrancing detail, the whole scene before me gets scrubbed and repainted with new characters, new life. Every single day is a photographic cornucopia. Everywhere you turn, something catches the eye; it’s sensory overload at its finest and most vulnerable. And I’m right there, taking it all in — as creator, voyeur, element — wondering how I’m adding to the portrait of humanity stretched out before me. Feeling like one of Bob Ross’ happy trees — plunked down in some vast vista just for the hell of it.

Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” bleeds out of my cracked windows. The city is grumbling awake around me: the humming cars, echoing honks, socially acceptable running of red lights — all becoming more familiar than alien.

Sunlight diffuses through the early morning, smoggy haze, curling around a Korean church cross; it glances along the church-sponsored billboard that faces a Starbucks and reads “What path is right for you?” I consider the message, sip my coffee, then smile at the line wrapping around the tiny building like a fat man’s belt around a twiggy teenager. It seems more people are considering caffeine than the messiah. At least this Friday.

The retiree I pass every morning is just leaving with his towering venti something or other; I’m earlier than usual. Soon enough, the car crawls to a stop again; a man uses an old shirt to wash himself on the sidewalk; before the light changes, he tosses it into his cart, then stoops back inside a bamboo lean-to. A street later, I turn at the 76 gas station where the attendant is buffing the pumps, then pass the crumbling Art Deco radiator repair shop. The strikingly turquoise facade of Mel’s Fish Shack assaults my eyes, and teenagers with bright shoes and leggings lean against the building, rousing slightly at the approaching school bus. Blocks past Jan Ette’s Liquor Store — the broken, disjointed line made up of figures with hardened faces — I turned down an alley, and up to the back of the office.

Where I jot these observations down in my journal, turn a page, and laugh out loud.

Journeys.

Journeys do have a way of morphing you into someone else; not necessarily someone better or worse than who you were. Just another iteration of sorts; someone with a bit more mileage, courtesy of some life lessons.

***

At a manager meeting, the President is detailing the process they had to go through years ago before one of the shelters could be built.

“Well, they had a whole team of, uh, history people who made sure we weren’t building on a burial ground and whatnot.”

I smile slightly — mentally recalling all of ghosts of archaeology projects past and thinking how odd it is that, now, I’m completely on the opposite side of the fence. And how liberating that feels.

That night, I break a juice glass, then mend it — proclaiming, “We have a new bud vase.” As the glue dries, I think about how we’re always changing; figuring out how best to function. One minute we’re someone, somewhere; the next, we’re becoming something else entirely.

Becoming whole, becoming new.

***

I’ve written repeatedly about how fun, strange, and bizarre moving across the country has been, and my fears, anxieties, and dreams of what will come on this coast. But it’s really just now starting to sink in that this place is our new home.

That we’re not on some extended vacation.

That my fieldwork days of wielding a trowel and shovel are over.

That this new chapter is as painfully hard to write as it is amazingly easy.

That life is as crazy as it is beautiful.

Even if it sometimes feels like everything around me is new and scary and transfixing and disturbing, it’s all part of the same world. Part of a place that I’m creating — like ripping apart Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, and pasting it over part of some untitled Keith Haring drawing.

It’s all a mosaic. And it works — the subtle control and levity, melding together.

The artist in a studio somewhere, contemplating.

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Managing [the] Change

I stare straight ahead, settling my hardened gaze on the stenciled “7.” Then reach for my coffee mug. The mug I just remembered I left on the side table by the door.

“Dammit.”

The low din of welding equipment from the open-air, fenced auto shops begins to rise through the alley corridor, and I watch a shop mechanic push a battered, paint-splattered cart back and forth between piles of rusted metal.

No need to reverse.

As if sensing the morning melancholy creeping over me, Linkin Park’s “The Messenger” fills the quiet car with its haunting lyrics.

When you feel you’re alone
Cut off from this cruel world…

My breathing increases, then slows. And I start feeling overwhelmed, over my head — completely ill-equipped to figure out how to transition from a life doing something I never really loved to something I enjoy — maybe even love — but don’t know how to do yet.

Your instinct’s telling you to run…

But while my fingers dance atop the gearshift, I know that reverse is not an escape. It’s a convenient, comfortable trap.

Listen to your heart
Those angel voices
They’ll sing to you
They’ll be your guide…

Settling is something I grew accustomed to doing, and for all the wrong reasons. I was happy enough — on the weekends. I was fulfilled at work — when I spent the whole day on Apartment Therapy and in Starbucks. I felt like I was making a difference — away from work, when I volunteered at the LGBT Center of Raleigh.

And, thinking back, I realize that what I’m feeling isn’t just newbie pre-workday jitters — it’s homesickness. Neither for the political climate, nor the Bubbas. Just little reminders of what made us both feel at home in North Carolina.

***

Starting over is so absurdly romanticized — so much so people think any stride toward the future will involve some serendipitous meeting with a stranger, and a life transformed. What they don’t always think of is the exhaustion, heartache, and weariness that comes with really, truly starting over.

But with substantial effort comes substantial gain. And as I work to recreate myself as a coworker, manager, and animal advocate, I have to remind myself that all of those queasy, uneasy feelings are part of the ride — part of the transformation.

And soon enough, I’ll look back on this and smile. Because I know that we’ll have made ourselves happy.

Back home.

***

Andy calls while I’m sitting outside eating lunch.

We talk. Fret. Worry about things we have to get done.

But then the wind blows a bit and rustles the three palms towering overhead. I look up, feel the warmth of the sun, look around the courtyard, and think. Just think.

Then realize how foolish and selfish it is of me to obsess about such things — as I sit in a courtyard I never would have envisioned. As someone I never would have known walks out of a building I never knew existed, eating a cookie I made. And smiling at me.

I think how bizarrely interconnected we become, and how — through jokes and laughs and small gains — our ties become stronger, united.

Bound together in a very familiar, yet very alien way.

That is very much welcomed.