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In Paranoia We Trust

Halfway around the block, I realize I’m walking the dog, not sleeping.

I focus on the ting, ting, ting of Toby’s collar, and his curled, wagging tail — and assure myself that, should any annoying Let’s let them sniff each other! dog walker approaches, I will simply point to my Medusa hair, claim to be Edward Scissorhands’ less interesting brother Howard, and breathe my morning breath on them.

But no one’s in sight, and my greatest obstacle only seems to be a crushed bag of cookies Toby is angling for.

Silly blood sausage.  THOSE ARE MINE.

***

We nearly make it home when I hear footsteps behind me, followed by an Excuse me!  Toby, consumed with finding the perfect spot to drop his payload, doesn’t descend into his typical curmudgeonly antics — much to my chagrin.  I cringe — mostly because it’s early and I really don’t want to talk to anyone.

Then turn.

A lithe early twenty-something is strolling down the sidewalk toward us, a baby blue backpack strapped down tightly against a hoodie.

Silly rabbit. Tricks are for the daddies down the block. Not me.

Toby dusts up loose soil in a failed attempt to cover his poo.  Which I reach down and grab with a bag.

I steel my nerves.  Feel the invisible antisocial shields envelope me.  And set my gaze to cow-chewing-cud.

“I know it’s really early, and I don’t want to bother you…”

Then don’t.

“But I lost my phone last night and I need to call someone to come pick me up.”

I open my mouth, forming a fittingly snarky retort for such an hour on a Saturday.  But then, I do something surprising.  I wait.

He stares.

I stare.

Toby snorts.

“I can, uh, walk with you if you’re in a hurry…”

The mental cobwebs clear, and the gears start rotating.

“Alright.”

I search around in my overflowing satchel, push past the dog treats and poop bags, and grab my phone.  Hand it over.  And expect to see him turn tail and run down the street screaming YOUFUCKINGIDIOT!

But he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper scribbled with numbers, scratches his nose, and mutters to himself as I turn away.

“I really hope someone answers.”

In the ensuing conversational silence, our footsteps seem monstrously loud.

And I think about how stupid this is.

He’s probably hacking my bank account.  Or calling China.  Or sexting every single one of my contacts.

I cut a sideways glance his way, then down to the screen — all the while hoping that he’s not mistaking my paranoia for flirtation.

Sun starts filtering through the trees, casting its warmish glow on everything — enlivening it, revealing what darkness veils.  And I start to realize how young this kid is — the cracking pancake makeup on his nose undoubtedly hiding his first ever zit.

Then.

Out of nowhere.

Springing forth from that dark chasm where my heart fled at 6:40, blindsiding me like a freight train.

I start feeling.

Paternal.

Suddenly flushed, I stare down at Toby, who’s already looking up at me.  As if he’s known all along that this bizarrely revelatory experience is unfolding inside me.

Whether it’s Toby’s penetrating gaze, or the holiday decor strung on the palm trees we’re passing, those same spinning gears start a dull, constant droning.

He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.

I exhale and swallow my cynicism.

The kid looks down at the phone, and seems utterly dejected.

“I’m sorry, could I try another number?”

“Sure.”

Toby starts pulling harder.  We quicken pace, and the kid keeps rapping away number after number.

Soon enough, we’re standing in front of our building.  One of our older neighbors eyes the kid suspiciously, looks to me protectively, then — seeing something resembling reassurance reflected — pulls her Dachshund along.

The kid smiles down at the dog, then looks up at the building.

“Oh, huh, I think a German guy lives here.”

“Are you okay?”

Like a turd in a swimming pool, my question startles me.

“Oh, sure.  Can I try just one more?  I’m really sorry.”

“Go ahead.”

A few minutes later, he hands the phone back — the screen plastered with enough numbers to solve ten Sudoku puzzles.

“Sorry you didn’t get anyone.”

He shrugs a bit, then smiles widely.

“Thanks for letting me try.”

And we go our separate ways.

***

The following week, I’m walking out of our grocery store completely loaded down with food, and pass a rail-thin man.

“Spare any change?”

Shields up.

“Sorry, I don’t have any.”

I walk on, wait at the crosswalk, and think.  The light changes, and everyone starts walking.  But I turn back toward the man, rifle through my bag, and extend a container of food.

“I don’t have any change, but would you like some dinner?”

He levels his gaze with mine.

“You know, smiling means you’re a happy person.  So many people never smile.  You smile.  You must be happy.”

Completely dumbfounded, I stand there, arm still extended.

“Uh, it’s always good to smile?”

He smiles and looks back up at the sky.

“Do you want some food?”

He waves his hand, his eyes still glued to some celestial muse.

“No, you smiled.  That’s enough.”

I step back, haphazardly shove the container back into my bag, and walk on.  A minute or so later, I look back and see the man still standing there, looking up — his cheekbones high, supporting a smile.

***

I’ve spent countless hours of my life deconstructing the most minute details of a given day — contorting every little gesticulation, smirk, and guffaw into something it’s not.  Then empowering the experiential bastard I’ve conjured out from that mental goo to lord over me.

Rather than taking people — and their actions — at face value.

Letting my mind rest a bit by ignoring the paranoia-tinged echoes from the questions the day vomits into my head.

Learning the importance of looking up and breathing out and smiling.

And trying.

And letting others do just the same.

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Just Right

The Holiday soundtrack is looping through to the end as the screen grows dark.  Toby has sandwiched himself between the two of us — his back pressed into my thigh, his head rubbed softly by Andy, and Andy’s by me.

I look over and swallow — the tightness in my throat a harbinger of happiness, of having one of those rare moments of realism: knowing that here, in this moment, is perfection incarnate — an ultimate, intimate solitude that no one else can share, and which can never be appropriately described.

Nor should it be.

A moment

A soft, colorful glow emanates from our Charlie Brown Christmas tree — it’s gaudy globes highlighted intermittently by the twinkling lights. And the light soaks into our faces, and diffuses through our clouded tumblers. Toby’s neck scruff folds over his collar, and he snores against the worn leather sofa.

So many disparate elements colliding to form a respite — an oasis conjured out of the daily minutiae.

Not a mirage. But a new reality.

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Haunt coture

The flashes of ghoulish light illuminate the semi-possessed doll scribbling missives about death and the past, while the medium calls out into the darkness.

“Whatever you do, do not break the circle!”

The massive table bucks and creaks, and our hands — flat against its surface — ride along.

Harry Houdini’s ghostly voice booms, charging the unseen, molesting demonic force with despicable misdeeds, ordering it Out! Out! — like Lady Macbeth’s damned spot.

A tambourine whizzes past my head, crashing into the wall and settling among some of Houdini’s belongings. Bits of light reflect in Little Emily’s eyes, dancing downward along her porcelain hands.

And then, silence. The table drops. Collective sighs melt into the darkness. Light returns.

***

Earlier in the evening, I’m watching magicians rouse the crowd with their parlor tricks — sleights of hand veiled by Cheshire Cat grins. And I clap my hands along, sloshing my spent lime wedge with the last bit of vodka.

Bows are taken, hats are tipped, and everyone pours out of the Palace of Mystery, straight to the bar. We weave through the crowd with our friends, attempting to find other mystical corners within the labyrinthine castle. Turning down a packed staircase, I brush my shoulder against a man mumbling about the crowd. It’s Casey Affleck.

I stare at Andy. He raises his eyebrows. We keep moving.

Soon enough, we about-face, winding our way back up to the bar for sliders, truffle fries, and cake. Which is exactly what I’m eating when I turn and see Neil Patrick Harris ducking inside the same chamber we’d left minutes before.

More raised eyebrows. More food to eat. We keep going.

Because we can’t exactly have a seance on empty stomachs.

***

The medium enters through a side door, his demeanor serious, his voice calm but direct. He regales us with stories of the castle, and the man whose name this room bears: Houdini. Relic locks and barrels and sideshow props adorn the walls and fill glass cases. And I wonder which of these hide the peep-holes, the pulleys, the bits and bobs that’ll be used to scare the bejesus out of us.

He concludes a story, and asks me for a time — any hour of my choosing. And I tell him; and he shows the pocket watch in his palm reading the exact hour I’d mentioned. My vision fuzzes from amusement and incredulity.

And just how did he do that?

More volunteers are given little chance to remain seated and quiet.

Trinkets are dumped onto the table. Selections are made. Doll hands and boots are left on the table, like the tragic leavings of some playground toy tussle. More names are elicited from the group, and chalkboards write out the answers dancing around in the confused heads among us.

But we all know it’s smoke and mirrors, with a bit of imagination and a little luck — all vital ingredients combined to form the glue that holds the whole show together.

Because without one, cracks form. Silences aren’t filled. Answers aren’t given.

We must keep to our craft. Adding this and that. Changing spells and writing new ones.

All of us — magicians, conjuring.

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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.