Addiction

Years and years ago, I was a huge fan of a rather famous singer. I spent obscene amounts of money (money I shouldn’t have been spending) to attend his concerts and conventions and bought his albums and books and t-shirts and key chains and coffee mugs. I joined his fan club. Granted, I was quite a bit younger than I am now. But I was in way too deep. If he was doing a weekend’s worth of shows in Las Vegas, I’d go to every show. I mean, every show. Thursday, Friday, both Saturday shows and Sunday, even if it meant taking a red eye flight home to be at work on Monday with almost no sleep. I was addicted. I admit it. The emotional high of a concert was incredible. I hung on every note, every bit of banter, every joke or wink or smile. The emotional lows after the concerts were devastating.
During those years of following this singer, I saw the best and worst of fandom. This was in the days before the internet, when fans kept in touch with letters and phone calls and mimeographed newsletters. In those days, we were all so innocent and naive. Later, of course, that changed, and fans became fanatical, or worse. The anonymity of the internet brought out the dark underbelly of fandom. I saw fans put their families in jeopardy by spending money they didn’t have to go see their idol. I saw marriages break up because of the wife’s infatuation. Women wrote steamy fiction with themselves and their idol as the main characters, and they hung his pictures in their homes. They put him on a pedestal and allowed no one to say anything negative.  They paid thousands and thousands of dollars for five minutes of one-on-one time with him, in hopes of making some sort of “connection”. Of course, they never did.
Eventually, luckily,  I moved on. My father died. My kids got married, and the grandbabies started coming. My mother died. Life settled into a boring, predictable, safe routine. I didn’t have much money (ha. Poverty would have been a step up) but I was content spending my days writing, babysitting, and crafting. My addiction became an uncomfortable memory.
Then, a couple of years ago, I saw a musical in Las Vegas. I loved it. I loved the music, the energy, the story. I loved it so much I was thrilled when I found out there was going to be a movie made of it. I saw the movie as soon as it showed up in our local theater. I thought it was great. But I didn’t go over and over again. Once was fine.
I have a dear friend, 88 years old. She had wanted to see the movie, but her health had prevented her from going out while it was still in theaters, so when I saw the DVD on sale one day in January, I bought it. I took it over to her house, and we watched it together.
And something happened. Something clicked inside my head and when I went home, I started looking up everything I could find on-line about the star of the movie. I watched video clips, I watched interviews, I read articles. I discovered he had an album out, so I downloaded the music and listened to it over and over again. When I found his Facebook page and found out that I had just missed a set of concerts in San Francisco over the New Year, I was disappointed. Then, I found out he was performing way, way down south over Valentine’s Day weekend. Rats. Not only was it way too far, it was the weekend of my oldest grandson’s birthday. I knew that if I tried to take off on the weekend of his party, I’d have explaining to do to my children. I knew they would be worried that I was repeating my previous addictive behavior. And frankly, I was afraid of the same thing. And the situation was complicated by the fact that this fellow is younger than two of my children. I was embarrassed to admit how much he affected me. I thought there was no way I’d ever be able to go to see him sing, so I put it out of my mind.
But then, I got a royalty check for my writing, and it was almost exactly to the penny the cost of a ticket to the show. Someone I’d only just met online offered to let me share her hotel room. My grandson decided he was too old for birthday parties, and wanted to go to the Santa Cruz boardwalk for his birthday instead. Suddenly, going to a show was maybe, just maybe possible.  I checked the venue and decided to take the plunge and buy a ticket. I chose Valentine’s Day for two reasons. First, it was my late mother’s birthday. And secondly, it was the last night of the three night set of shows, and I knew from my previous life that if I went to the first or second show, I’d have a hard time leaving, knowing there was going to be another show and I wasn’t going to be there for it.  My seat was way in the back, but at least I’d be in the same room.
Sigh. As soon as I clicked “Buy” I started having second thoughts. I was terrified of falling into the same trap I’d been in decades ago. I forced myself to back off, to stop watching videos, to stop playing the music, to stop daydreaming.
It worked, to some extent. I was actually considering staying home, letting the cost of the ticket be a slightly expensive lesson in being realistic. And then, on a whim, I checked the venue’s website and discovered that a front row seat had become available. It was a sign! Within moments, I had called the venue and changed my seat.
The weekend arrived. I’d sold some things on ebay for the gas money, I had a room for the night, and my outfit planned.
Honestly, the show was anti-climatic. I loved my seat. I loved the songs. I loved seeing the singer live and up close. But I didn’t feel the way so many of his fans had reported feeling about his shows. I wasn’t ecstatic with joy. Yes, he’s a fantastic singer. Yes, I enjoyed myself. But by far the best part of the night came after the show.
This young man knows what his fans want. After the show, he appeared and signed autographs and posed for pictures until every person who wanted one got one.
I don’t remember all of my moment with him. I know he asked me about the spelling of my name. I know he laughed and initialed my little Lego figurine. I know he said he knew me from my posts on the internet. And I know he said something else about the dark side of blogs. I might not remember what we said or did, but I remember how I felt when I walked away.
He’s doing another show next week. I have a ticket, and an airplane flight. I’m moving into a new house just days before, and I think I’m nuts to even consider going. I’m so afraid....

The Girl Wearing Yellow

Prologue

It was the blue jay diving out of the pine grove that started it all. The Steller’s jay, its blue plumage glistening in the sun, swooped down toward the picnic table, aiming for the unattended tray of French fries.

I had arrived in Lake Tahoe just yesterday, driving up into the mountains from San Francisco in my little rental car. Winter still held the Sierras in its grip and as I’d made my way up the twisting roads, dirty snow had edged the road and my tires had made a gritty rumbling on the slushy blacktop. In the shade of the huge boulders below me and up against the base of the tall pines, clean white snow lay in shadowed patches. The afternoon sun had flickered through the trunks of the trees like the frames of an old silent movie.

Today, I was playing tourist, wandering around the shops and restaurants and enjoying the sunshine and the scent of pine. I had paused outside a small shop, all uneven wood floors and mossy roof, to examine a selection of colorful hand-blown glass jewelry arranged on a small table. The flash of wings and a hoarse ‘caw’ drew my eyes toward the small A-frame hamburger stand next door. The hand-carved sign over the order window identified it as ‘Bill’s Burgers’.

As the bird landed on the weathered wood table and plucked a fry from the cardboard tray, the young woman at the table looked up from her cell phone with an annoyed frown.

“Hey!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the buildings. “Get away! Shoo!” she waved her hand angrily, but the bold bird simply hopped sideways away from her flailing fingers, the limp French fry dangling from his beak.

“Gabe!” the woman called, “Make this damn bird leave my food alone!”

Her companion, who had been standing at the counter filling two small paper cups with ketchup, turned toward the table. As he hurried across the short space between the counter and the table, I must have moved or maybe made a sound, something to draw his attention, because he looked over in my direction, and our eyes met.

An unexpected sense of awareness tingled down my spine. Under dark brows, his eyes were black, piercing, challenging. I was mesmerized, the bracelet I’d been admiring falling unnoticed from my fingers. Ignoring his companion, he started to take a step toward me.

“Gabe!” the woman wailed. “This damn bird is driving me crazy!”

Those dark eyes closed briefly as if in pain as the man turned back to the woman, some strong emotion tightening his mouth and stiffening his shoulders.

I shook off the hypnotizing effect of his glance, stooped to pick up the bracelet and replaced it on the table. I continued to pretend to browse the shop’s wares, all the while covertly watching the couple, who seemed to be having a major spat, albeit one conducted in voices too low for me to overhear.

Just as I decided it was time to stop being a voyeur and move on, the woman stood up, and with an aim that would be the envy of many a major league pitcher, tossed her uneaten hamburger at the man, hitting him squarely in the chest.

“That’s what I think of you and your stupid ‘termination clause!’” she cried, before grabbing her cell phone and storming off up the street, her sandals slapping the pavement at every step. As she hurried down the sidewalk, she narrowly missed running into a trio of young women huddled in a doorway, giggling and whispering to each other. In her wake, even more giggling ensued, accompanied by a middle-finger salute. 

 Her companion watched her go, making no effort to follow. Instead, expressionless, he calmly brushed sesame seeds and bits of chopped lettuce off his black T-shirt, and then stood to gather the trash and throw it away.

Quickly, I ducked inside the souvenir shop, hovering near the front window until I was sure he was gone. Once he was out of sight, I made my way quickly down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, trying to shake off the strange sense of recognition for a man I’d never met.

I miss my sister

The morning started out cold, grey and foggy. By the time I arrived at my older son's house at 11 A.M., the sun had begun to burn away the fog. An hour and a half later, the sky was that deep blue of autumn, the sunlight golden, the breeze cool. As I drove home, I wondered what I could make for dinner that didn't involve going to the store. I wanted something warm and comforting, yet easy. Tuna casserole popped into my mind. I knew I had all the ingredients, so tuna noodle casserole it was going to be. I drove along, singing "tuna and noodles, tuna and noodles" under my breath.

And then I started to cry. Tuna and noodle casserole was one of those dishes that my sister and I had eaten often as children, and one of those dishes that brought back memories and drew us together.

I miss my sister. I know it's crazy, but I do. I miss my sister. As much as I love and appreciate my children and grandchildren, they don't share all my history. They don't have the same data bank of memories. They don't know when the meat pie mixture is perfectly seasoned, just by the smell. They didn't request New England boiled dinner as their first meal when they came home to visit. They don't share my twisted sense of humor.

I know it's not healthy. My sister has proven time and time again that she wants nothing to do with me. I don't understand it. She's said hurtful things, she's gone silent for years, she's blocked me from knowing anything about her life. And yet, in spite of all that, I miss her. It's pathetic, I know, but last April, even as i was walking up the sidewalk to my daughter's house for my 65th birthday dinner, I hoped against hope that Susan would be there, wanting to forgive and be forgiven.

I miss my sister. I want to write and tell her how much, and ask for forgiveness. But I'm afraid. She can be snarky and cruel, I know all too well. When my will power is waning, I pull out the letters she's sent in the past, and read her harsh words, and remind myself that the sister I thought I had was all a lie, a figment of my imagination.

But still, I miss my sister.

The Red Queen's Gambit

In the winter of my tenth year, my grandmother took me to San Francisco to a wonderful old theater in the heart of the city to see a production of the avant-garde ballet ‘Red Queen, White Queen’.

‘Red Queen, White Queen’ had first premiered in the late Sixties, a Cold War retelling of the classic Brothers Grimm story of Snow White and Rose Red. The political overtones had been over my young head, of course, but I’d been entranced by the ballerinas in their sparkling tutus and satin toe shoes. I’d been on the edge of my seat, scarcely breathing as they twirled and pirouetted; dancing around the enormous red and white chess pieces decorating the stage.

For the next six months, I took ballet lessons once a week at the community center, and every afternoon, clad in a black leotard and pink tights, I ceaselessly practiced plies and forced my growing feet into fifth position.

It was those long-ago memories of music and black ballet shoes that came to mind when the woman walked into the motel office that November afternoon. There was nothing remarkable about her: she was tall, but so are hundreds of others. She was slender: again, not remarkable. Her simple scoop-neck top and tapered black pants could have come from any store here in Cactus Springs, as could the simple canvas slip-on shoes she wore. But there was something about her posture, the carriage of her head and shoulders, the graceful way she moved across the tile floor of the office toward the counter, that whispered to me: ‘that’s a dancer’.

“Good afternoon!” I said cheerfully, smiling at the woman with the gamine haircut. She smiled back, a tentative smile as if she weren’t quite sure how to smile.

“Are you looking for a room?” I asked, already typing commands into the computer to find an available single.

“I think so, yes.” she spoke softly, with a slight accent I couldn’t immediately place. Not from California, I thought.

“Just you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is it just you? Do you just need a single room?”

She looked around the office as if to check for others.

“Yes. Just me.” A faint smile flitted across her face, and was quickly gone.

“All right. If you have a driver’s license or other form of ID, I’ll fill out the registration form and get you all set up.”

Now, a cloud crossed her face, as quickly gone as the smile.

“No, I don’t have a driver’s license. Is that going to be a problem?”

Something about the tone of her voice made me take a closer look at her; noticing for the first time the strain around the wide mouth, the bruised look to her dark eyes.

“Well, normally I do require some form of identification; do you have anything I can use? A credit card, anything?

Her shoulders slumped, but only for a moment, before she resolutely squared them again She looked at me with a combination of defiance and despair.

“No, I don’t. But I do have cash; I can pay for the room. Please, if you can’t help me, I’ll need for you to call me a cab so that I can find another place.”

There was something about the way she faced me; masking her fear, refusing to be denied, that impressed me. I made an on-the-spot executive decision.

“Well, since I happen to be the owner, I’m going to bend the rules a little for you,” I said with a friendly smile. “May I have your name?”

“Benedetti. Charmaine Benedetti.”

Hands on the keyboard, I looked up at her.

“Can you spell that?”

She patiently spelled both her first and last name and I typed as quickly as I could.

“Okay. Address?”

A hesitation. I looked up to see confusion in her eyes.

“No. I’m so sorry…” she said softly, distress in her voice. “Does it matter?”

My immediate thought was that she was homeless. Even a town as small as Cactus Springs has its share of homeless, but most of them have found shelter in battered motor homes or campers out in the desert. I hurried to reassure her.

“Well, since you’re paying cash, no. We only really need an address to confirm the credit card. I will require a security deposit, though. Will that be a problem?”

“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “No problem. I quite understand.”

 “All right, Miss Benedetti…”

“Mrs. Mrs. Benedetti.”

“Oh! I’m sorry! So, Mrs. Benedetti, how long are you planning on staying?”

“I’m not sure. Can we start with two nights, and go from there?”

With a few clicks of the computer’s mouse, I finished filling out her meager information and selected a room. We were almost full, so there were only a couple from which to chose, but I thought she’d be happy.

“I have a nice little room, right on the end. Double bed, tub with shower, small kitchenette. Fifty-nine dollars a night, plus tax.  And one night’s fee as a deposit. Will that work for you?”

“That will be fine.” She lifted a handbag onto the counter and rummaged in its depths. When she withdrew her hand, she was holding two one hundred dollar bills.

I accepted the money, rang up the sale, and printed a receipt and a registration form. After she signed the form, I separated the pages and handed her a copy along with the key to her room and her change.

“I’ve put you in number one. It’s just outside the office to your left. Do you need help with your bags?”

Again, the quick glance around the office, as if looking for someone or something.

“I only have the one bag. I believe the taxi driver left it outside the door. It rolls. I should be able to handle it.”

I had already walked around the counter, planning to hold the door open for her. I pulled the door open and stood back to let her exit.

“All right, then. If you need anything else, please just call from your room, or come and see me.”

“Thank you so much, Miss…?” Mrs. Benedetti held out an elegant hand to me. I grasped it and shook it gently.

“Spencer, Sage Spencer. Owner and manager, at your service.”

Mrs. Benedetti smiled, a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes.

“Thank you again, Miss Spencer. You have saved my life.”

With that, she collected her suitcase, pulled up the handle, and began walking across the circular gravel drive that swings around past the twelve rooms of the motel and encases the swimming pool and lawn area. I knew from experience that pulling a suitcase like that across gravel isn’t easy, but she didn’t hesitate, didn’t even slow down. I watched until she had unlocked the door and disappeared inside her room. Only then did I hurry back inside to call the sheriff.

Gone too soon....

No, it can't be.It can't be true! That was the first thought that crossed my mind when I saw the news. Not him, not Robin Williams. But it was true, it is true. A man so many admired and appreciated, dead, apparently at his own hand. How can this be? Why did this happen?

     I think suicide is an incredibly selfish act. It provides relief to the person killing himself, but delivers so much pain to the loved ones left behind.  And yet..... 

     One of the quotes I've been seeing attributed to Mr. Williams comes from a movie he was in, and it reads like this:  "I used to think that the worst thing in life was to end up all alone. It’s not. The worst thing in life is ending up with people who make you feel all alone."

     I don't know if that's how Mr. Williams felt, if that's part of what caused him to take that final act, but I know how hard it is to rise above depression, how it takes hold of you and makes you think no one loves you, no one cares, there's really nothing left to keep you on the earth. 

     I'll admit to having thought about suicide occasionally in the past. I know people say it's a permanent solution to a temporary situation, but sometimes, just ending the pain is all you can think about. There's no room for considering that maybe tomorrow will be better. Depression convinces you that not only will tomorrow not be better, it will probably be a whole lot worse. Get out while the getting is good.

     I don't know how Mr. Williams died, only that it seems to be suicide. But I know that I'm only still here because I couldn't find a convenient way to do it. Pills, car accident, plastic bag over my head. All too unreliable. What if I didn't die? What if I just wound up being incapacitated, a vegetable left at the mercy of hospitals, a drain on my family? And there was always a worry about who would find me, and how long it would take. I didn't want my children being the ones to discover what I'd done. 

     Although I no longer actively think about suicide, I don't shy from the idea of dying. I sometimes wish I could go to sleep and never wake up. If I found out I had a potentially fatal illness, I might refuse treatment. The truth is, I'm not afraid to die. I guess Mr. Williams and I had that in common.

No, but thanks for asking

got a message from someone I know today. It was one of those chain letter types that told me that God was testing me, and that if I forwarded it to 14 people, God would fix two big things tonight in my favor.

Most of the time, I just delete crap like that and move on. But today, for some reason, it struck a nerve. For just a heartbeat, I considered it. I can think of at least one big thing I'd like fixed. I'd like my relationship with my siblings to be healed. But even "God" can't fix that. So, after a minute, I just closed the message and walked away to fix dinner.

The people who know me really well know that I don't believe in a "God" with a capital G. I do sort of believe in a force greater than man, a superior intelligence but not a single omnipotent Being. And if I DID believe in such a Being, I certainly would not believe in one that "tests" people.

What really bothers me is that there are still people out there like that. People who are like sheep who believe whatever they're told, who don't think for themselves, who don't test and question and challenge. How can anyone believe that "God" will reward me for spamming my friends?

When I DID believe in a god, I prayed often and hard. I begged for help with sick parents and sick pets,  I prayed for my family's anger and hurt to be healed, I prayed for help with my own life.  I prayed over and over for the lives of children I didn't even know. And how many of those prayers were answered? Well, it all depends on how you look at it. I'm sure there are those who would say God answered my prayers, but the answer was no. Ha.

I have seen so much pain inflicted on the world in the name of one "God" or another. I have seen the most sanctimonious people in the world say the cruelest things, and I've got to tell you, if I could be God for a day, there'd be a whole lot of reckoning going on.

Is there a point to this? No, not really. Just venting. Thanks for listening.

Deep Thoughts

I belong to several on-line forums. Most of these forums are populated by what I refer to as Deep Thinkers. You know what I mean: the type who constantly question, challenge, ask and wonder about life's mysteries. I aspire to be like them, I really do. I imagine that they spend their days with a dialogue of Deep Thoughts running through their heads, flowing out their fingertips and into the ethers.

I also have a dialogue running through my head, but it sounds more like this: "Man, it's hot out here. Can't wait for winter  so I don't have to wear a bra when I walk the dogs. I'll be able to hide under a coat, instead. Ginger, seriously, how many times can one small dog pee? When I get home, I need to make a shopping list. I know there was something I needed, what was it? If I didn't have to hold this leash, I could get my phone out and make a list on it. Annie! What are you eating? Geez, I hate people who use the street as a garbage can. There's that truck with the expired tags again. I'd report it, but I don't want the bad karma. I hope that load of laundry is dry, I need to fold it, then sweep the floor, and wash the breakfast dishes. Wonder if I have enough brown sugar to bake a batch of oatmeal cookies?"

Well, you get my drift. I used to think that when my kids were grown, I'd have all this free time to "Discover Myself". The only thing I've discovered is that I'm a great time waster and ditherer. I'll be standing at the sink, washing out the coffee pot, and I'll realize the hummingbird feeder needs refilling. I'll get out a pan, the sugar, and a measuring cup, and make nectar. While it's cooling, I'll go outside to get the feeder, notice that the roses need deadheading, or that the cobwebs are overtaking the garage window again.

I suppose if I were a child growing up today, I might be diagnosed with ADD. I like to think that I'm just so creative I can't settle down. I have a half-dozen different projects going on at once, from finishing a quilt I started five years ago, to working on my next novel.In fact, that's what I should be doing right now. But as usual, I couldn't resist checking email, reading the latest on Facebook, and pricing new sheets on three different webpages.

It's not that I don't have Deep Thoughts. I do. I wonder if my mother knows how sorry I am for being short tempered with her that last time we went to the grocery store. I wonder how it is that I can imagine so clearly the subliminal hum of a starship's engine as I walk the corridors late at night. I ask my spirit guide to help me overcome my frustration at the state of my life. And I stare at the computer screen and think, that tiny piece of slightly salty chocolate I just ate is probably already messin' with my mind. Oh yeah. Deep Thoughts.