The House on the Hill; or, Hey. That Was Kind of Scary.

“Tell me a favorite story of yours that you haven’t told yet,” she says. 

I look off to the left, slightly upward, and think.  “I have one,” I say, “I don’t know if it’s my favorite or anything, but I have one.”

I take a drink of my Diet Coke, lick my lips.  “It was 1981,” I say, “and I was 19 years old.”

The House on the Hill

Art’s got a cherry car.

“What year is this?”

He walks to the hood, pats it fondly.  “1967 Camero Convertible.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“Canary Yellow,” he says, “The color, I mean.”

I run my hand along the top of the driver’s seat.  “Is this leather?”

“Mm-hmm.”  There is a slight pause as he hits upon a thought.  “You want to drive it?”

“Me?  Drive this?”  I turn to look outside, past the open garage door.  It is late June, and Minnesota is postcard pretty, all blues and greens. 

There isn’t a cloud in the sky.

“Yeah,” he says.  “Why not?  You got a license.” 

I open the car door, throw my purse onto the front seat.  I turn to him, and he tosses me the keys.

The lakes are beautiful.   We crawl, 15 miles an hour, as is befitting the stature of the car, along with the other beautiful cars on the tree-lined, sunlight-dappled parkway circling Lake Calhoun.  Art leans over, touches my hair.

“Hey!” I laugh.

He straightens up, puts his back to the passenger seat, smiling.  “It’s pretty,” he says.

There is a heavy, rumbling to our right.  We both turn to look. 

“Halleluiah,” Art breathes.

“What is that?”

“That’s a 1967 Pontiac GTO.  360 horsepower.  Hey!”  Art leans toward the car.  “Great car, man!”

“Thanks, man!”

The light changes, and the two cars inch forward together.  There is talk of engines and paint jobs, glass etching and lift kits.  I ignore it all. 

I am awash in the feeling of the sun on my shoulders.

“Hey.”

Art is talking to me.

“Huh.”

“You want to go up to these guys’ place?  I said we would.”

I frown at him.  “Then what’re you asking me for?”

He grins.  “Follow them.”

And I do, follow them to some neighborhood somewhere on some street.  Who knows where it is?  Summer is here and the sky is so blue.

The Pontiac turns right and up a long driveway.  I pull over at the front of the house.  The yard is large, surprisingly large for the city, and slopes upward to a house.  It is a plain house with a large porch at the front.  It is beige, or maybe white. 

I stare at it.

And Art stares at me.  “Are we going up?”

“You go,” I say. 

He gives me a look, then shrugs and opens the door.  I watch as he trudges up the front yard, as he mounts the porch stairs.

A heaviness has settled on my chest.  I watch as they talk, as the men from the GTO point in my direction, watch as Art shrugs.

My father tells the story of driving in a blizzard in the late 50s, hours of dark, lonely road with nothing but the driving snow hitting his windshield, a one-colored spinning kaleidoscope.  After coming close to falling asleep, he spots a man’s open hand coming toward him, flying down the road, larger and larger until the hand is directly in front of the car.  And so he did, my father will tell you, exactly what the hand commanded.  He pulled over, and he slept two hours under the backseat blanket he kept for just such an occasion.

And I am reminded of my father as, before my eyes, a shadow falls over the porch and everything and everyone on it.

The sky is blue. 

The porch is dark. 

Art is on the porch, and he is nodding.

He trots down the sloping front yard.

“Hey!  Pearl!  Come on up.”

I shake my head.

He leans on the passenger’s door.  “They want you to come up.“

“No,” I say.  I shake my head.  “There’s something weird up there.”

“You can’t just sit out here.”

“I can,” I said.  “And I will.”

Art is taken aback.  “What’s going on?”

I shake my head again, serious as death.  “I can’t go up there.  I can’t explain, but I can’t and I won’t and if you try to make me go up there I will dig in my heels and try to pull one of your eyeballs out.”  My mouth goes dry. 

“Whoa!  Whoa!”  Art laughs.  “OK, OK, I get it.”  He looks up toward the porch.  “Yeah, I don’t care.  I’ll just go up there and tell them we’re takin’ off.”

I start the car as he lopes to the house, then turn to dig through my purse for the stick of gum I hope is there.

There is a murmur of voices – wheedling, insistent voices that get louder, louder until --   

“NO.  SHE SAID SHE AIN’T COMIN’ UP!”

I look up.  Art is charging down the hill. 

He climbs into the car.  “Burn rubber, baby. They can get bent.”

I don’t need to be told again, and I don’t look back.  “Bent?” I say, pulling away.  “Why can they get bent?”

He is breathing heavily.  “They didn’t want me there, they wanted you there.  I mean, they didn’t really say anything I can put my finger on, but I don’t think those guys were right in the head.”

I can feel him staring at the side of my face.

“What did they want?” he says.  “Pearl.  Was that weird?”

I shake my head.  “We’ll never know what it was,” I say.   

And I shudder.

The Importance of Honoring One’s Heritage

As so many stories do, it started with a pickled sausage.

“We should pull over,” Karen says.

“What do you mean,” I say, channeling our father.  “We’re making good time.”

We’ve been on the road for almost four hours, over three-quarters of that time in the dark.  At our destination, it is snowing, but here, on Hwy 61, there is nothing but rain, surprising curves in the road, and the silent, unseen expanse of Lake Superior, just over there, to our right.

I can feel Karen staring at me in the dark.  “I’m either going to starve,” she says gravely, “or I’m going to pee my pants.  Your choice.”

“I’m feeling a bit peckish myself,” I say.

We pull over just north of Duluth, certain that we are near our destination.

“Oh, no, honey,” says the gal at the cash register.  “You got about another 75 miles.”

Karen and I look at each.  “How ‘bout we double down on the snacks?” she says.

And there, in the aisle of pressed corn flour, sunflower seeds and dried meats is our old childhood friend.

“Look at this,” she says.

Marinating in a vinegary brine, encased in plastic and ready for public consumption, is my father’s idea of a road snack.  Friend to the pickled egg, compatriot of pork cracklin’, our snacks growing up all had something of an edge to them. 

We are staring at a pickled sausage.

We look at each other.

“I have to have it,” I say.

She looks at the packaging.  “It’s practically guaranteed to be made of mechanically separated meats,” she says.

“It’s just the right amount of nostalgia and horror,” I say.

“Plus,” she says, pointing at the label, “there’s a 1-800 number.  Something I look for in a snack food.”

“Fresh is over-rated.”

We buy two.

Over the course of our weekend, however, we forget about the pickled treats.

Until I find them, two weeks later, in my purse.

And since finding them, I’ve been sending her pictures.

Her pickled snack folding my laundry.

Her pickled snack taking an early morning seat on the bus.

Her pickled snack in front of a computer screen working on a spreadsheet.

Her pickled snack posing as a doctor.

“You have a lot of time on your hands,” she texts me.  “What goes on in your head?”

“You have no idea,” I say.

The sausage, of course, will go back to Karen, as is only right.  It’s her pickled meat; she paid for it.

Still, I will miss it.

Karen’s pickled meat snack enjoys long walks in the woods, bubble baths, and honesty.  Her pet peeves are hypocrites, people who are late, and insincerity.  She hopes to meet the sausage of her dreams in a nice deli some day.

There’s a Lot of Scary Movies That Start This Way…

Apparently a weekend writing retreat can mess you up, date-wise.

This was to have posted Monday.  /sigh/

Dateline, rural Michigan.

I’ve always wanted to say that. 

I’ve been in the state for a good 24 hours now, and slowly but surely I am getting over the idea that I will disappear, my luggage discovered at a wayside rest, my prescription sunglasses found by the police outside of a gas station.

I feel about the country how many people feel about cities.

The bed and breakfast at which I am staying has loaned me the use of a car, a Land Rover of indeterminate age.

“First of all,” she says, “she stalls sometimes.  Not a full stall, not most of the time anyway.  So don’t freak.  If it floods, it will only be for a little while.”

She takes a sip of her coffee. 

“Right,” she says.  “Directions.  So!  You take a right out of the front entrance.  You go past the old Schmidt place, the big white place that needs a new roof.  Anyway, there’s a gravel road just after the stand of trees – whatever you do, don’t take that road!  Go another click or two, then take a right at the painted rock, drive around the lake, and you’ll come out where the ballroom used to be and voila!  You’ve arrived.”

An internal shudder runs through me.

“I’m leaving for my writer’s workshop,” I post on Facebook.  “I am wearing a pink and brown patterned dress.  If you later see this dress at a garage sale, alert the authorities and whatever you do, DO NOT BUY THE JERKY!”

I’m sure I’ll live. 

It's All About Preparedness

Something horrible and slowifying has happened to my computer, so while that is taken care of, please enjoy a re-post!

I have several events/gatherings to attend in the next few days, and before I settle into serious party mode, I need to set some things straight. I can trust you guys with this information, right?

Ahem.

Number One, should anything, shall we say, untoward happen to me between now and oh, ever, the first thing you're going to want to do is notify Pat O. The spotlight that throws a large Happy Face into the sky is up in the attic. Turn it on and leave it on. When she sees the sign, she’ll know I am dead and that it’s time to dispose of the contents of Drawers 1, 2, 5, and 6 of my bedroom dresser. Pat: many of the legal documents will need translating, the jewelry is real, and the pills are either to help you sleep or for anxiety. See if you can figure out which is which. Ha ha. Also, remember what we talked about regarding the love letters? Do it. Additionally, if it seems something dreadful did happen and it looks suspicious, the list of likely suspects is in my underwear drawer, right under the bail money but not as deep as the limericks. Before you let the accusations fly, however, please cross-check it against the list of those owing me money and try to get the money first.

To all the men I’ve loved, lost, sold, tortured, and misplaced, one of you was my True Love. Guess which one. Ha ha. Just kidding. You know it was you all along, baby!

To my son, a boy what never reads his mother's blog, the insurance money is yours. Remember what I said about spending it on hookers and blow and how you should not? That's right -- Mommy will be haunting your car, specifically, and bathrooms, in general, until you do right. Please don't make your mother haunt bathrooms.

If I have not posted in 24 hours and my cell phone has "pinged" anywhere in South Dakota, contact Officer Dreumont, just outside of Sturgis. Tell him “Pearl says what’s good for the goose is good for the gander” and he’ll know what you’re talking about.

Also, should the police inquire, the stats on my driver’s license are 100% accurate, right down to being 5’8” and 130 pounds. There may have been some shrinkage throughout the years. And some swelling.

Well. I think that’s everything, don’t you?

The Never-Ending Whirr

Apparently there are video games and movies in cars now. To some of you, I’m sure, this is not news and ranks up there with “frozen TV dinners” and this new-fangled “elastic” that’s all the rage.

You kids.

The ability to play movies in a car? Way to go, Detroit! Never mind about the gas mileage, we’ve got to work harder on giving the people more ways to distract themselves from reality!

Perhaps the thinking here was to keep the little buggers in the back seat occupied – and yes, I refer to the children. I’m aware of the frustration created by incessant cries of “Mom! Kevin’s not touching me!” while Kevin, the little bugger, runs his grubby index finger up and down his sister’s arm, very close but not quite touching her skin…

Not that I have experienced this myself.

So without purposely trying to sound hopelessly out-of-touch, what will happen with the little buggers’ imaginations without the lull of the wheels, the creepiness of the AM radio stations, the potential humor of one’s parents’ music?

Having grown up, it seems, on the road, I can tell you that it is a most excellent place to just “be”.

For example, once the novelty of the I’m-Not-Touching-You Game wears off, there’s staring out the window. Ah. Staring out the window. Whether you’re counting fire hydrants, Volkswagens, cars with one headlight or cows, it is, nevertheless, the quiet stuff of childhood.

What’s that cloud look like? Hey! What’s that guy doing over there? Mom, how come that lady looks like that? Hey! There’s a Dairy Queen over there! Mom, what if that guy has someone in his trunk? Would we ram him off the road and call the cops? Hey, Mom –

Kids quiet down eventually, right?

Which one of you kids can find a car with a New Jersey license plate?

Mom! Kevin’s not touching me again!

OK. So maybe that’s why they put the movies in the car.

Pfft. I still don’t think it’s cool.

Gratitude, or It Wasn't the Heat, It Was the Humility

It’s Saturday, and I am, as so often happens, black-pantsed and white-shirted.

It is the garb of the serving class, and while I joke about the fact that the waist of those black pants fails to cover quite all my ribs and that the white shirt has the come-hither allure of a hospital gown, I nevertheless respect the uniform. One can only be so attractive while schlepping food, don’t you think? Still, I am a better, harder-working person while wearing the ol’ black-and-white. When I am dressed in such a manner, you can expect that I will treat you and your silly demands with respect, that I will laugh at your jokes, and that yes, indeed, I am both working hard and hardly working.

Thank you for asking.

It’s Saturday, and as is my wont, I’ve taken a side job. Standing in the shade of the Doubletree Hotel, we’ve set a lunch buffet out for the 160-or-so bicycle riders we are expecting at any moment…

I don’t expect to be engulfed by emotion; but suddenly, I am.

The Ride2Recovery group has just ridden 35 miles around Lake Minnetonka. Hailing from all parts of the U.S., soldiers recovering from grievous wounds glide into the parking lot. Two- and three-wheeled bikes. Companion dogs. Men on recumbent bikes peddling with their arms. Injuries evident by way of missing limbs or cruel, twisting rows of stitches. Bomb blasts evident by the surprising number of hearing aids.

I am overwhelmed with their toughness, with their bravery.

With their youth.

We stand next to each other, almost at attention, Minh and I. “!@#$,” I whisper. “I might cry.”

“You do, and I’ll punch ya,” she hisses good naturedly.

She’s right, but so am I.  I blink away the tears and smile at the men coming through the line. “Turkey, chicken, beef,” I say, over and over, a response to their questions on the sandwich wraps. “Turkey, chicken, beef.”

They collapse on the grass, under the leafy spread of massive oaks, eat their lunch and talk between themselves.  It is the kind of summer day you remember long after it’s gone: the cool shade, the bright blue sky.

Winter never happened. It has always been summer.

After 10, 15 minutes, Minh and I circulate among the men, offering to bring them more water, offering to take their plates.

A man with a prosthetic leg hands his plate up to me. “Are all the women in Minneapolis as pretty as you?”

I wink at him. “Absolutely,” I say. “Every single one of ‘em.”

His friends laugh.

We make the rounds, over and over. “Thank you, ma’am.” “Thank you.” “Thank you so much.” Every napkin I pick up, every plate I stack, is met with a “thank you”.

And every time, I say the same thing.

“No,” I say, smiling. “No, really. Thank you.”

Pearl Gets Schooled. By Fish.

The year the movie Jaws came out, my brother and I saw it seven times.

Frankly, I've never gotten over the repeated viewings of that shark. I can't see a boat in dark water without thinking a disembodied head will make an appearance.

I am a nervous, almost superstitious person near open water.

So of course I found myself up to my armpits in the Gulf waters off of Florida on Monday.

Florida! Blue waters, white sands, dark brown senior citizens. You come for the weather, but you stay for the Bingo.

"Come further out," T shouts at me. There are three fluffy clouds on the horizon. A pair of tourists are pulled, kite-like, behind a motorboat just past the buoys. It is postcard beautiful.

I shake my head vigorously, as someone who has just spent Shark Week, in front of a television, mouth agape, would.

"Did you know," I shout, "that bull sharks have been known to swim up fresh water rivers into suburban neighborhoods to eat our pets?"

T cocks his head at me, frowns.

"Their teeth just keep growing, you know," I holler.

A strange look passes over T's face. I've seen it before -- it's the look that he gets just before he decides to teach me something...

"Hey," I yell.

He raises his arms up over his head.

"Cut it out!" I shriek.

Smiling, he arms raised in watery benediction, T wails theatrically into the wind, "Hear me, O Minion! You are summoned!"

"No, no, no!" I bawl. "There's no summoning!"

"Arise!"

And the surface of the water is covered with tiny silver splashings. Imagine invisible fingers flicking water. Imagine invisible rain drops striking the surface.

Imagine my eyes bugging out of my head.

I fall backwards in my attempt to get away, get closer to the beach. "What did you do?! What are those?"

I look down to see a three-foot wide swath of tiny, glittering fiddies fill the space between T and I. I watch, mouth open, as they pass by with precision movements, almost imperceptible adjustments in direction. Hundreds, maybe thousands of finger-long fish swim between us and are gone.

I look up. "How did you do that?"

T shrugs, laughing. "Sometimes they just show up."

I imagine punching him, but lay back, float on my back.

There are so many things I know nothing about.

"Pearl."

I open my eyes. My name has been whispered.

I stand up. T is pointing at a very large dark spot in the water, and he's not smiling. He looks awestruck.

"Manatee."

He said "manatee".

But what I heard was not "manatee" but "sting ray". I stagger, a quick two steps back, my hands clutched at chin level.

And then I hear what he's really said.

Manatee.

I move forward.

She hasn't moved. Six, maybe seven feet long, she hovers perhaps three feet from me.

"You can't touch them," T says. "It's against the law."

I drop down into the water, open my eyes, but she is already moving away, slowly, so slowly, a lumpy gray ghost moving into the deeper blue.

And she is gone.

T and I look at each other. "That is, by far," he whispers, "the closest I've ever been to a manatee."

I am speechless.

I lay back, float on the water.

There are so many things I know nothing about.

Hi, My Name is Pearl and I'm Garage-Sale Dependent

Shh. You hear that? That whooshing sound? It’s the sound of another work week – and an irretrievable part of our collective youth – slipping by.

It all happens so quickly! If only we knew what was on the horizon, knew what to expect, how we should dress…

Ah-HA! But we do! Because everyone knows that my iPod, set on shuffle and played on my Friday-morning commute foretells the future.

It could happen!

Fake Palindromes by Andrew Bird
Golden Years by David Bowie
Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys by Traffic
Say Blow by Blow Backwards by Fred Wesley and the Horny Horns (track #3 on the link and featuring Maceo Parker, James Brown’s sax player for years)

So there you have it. Any time “Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys” shows up, not only do you know what you’re doing for the next 12 minutes but there’s the chance a velvet jacket will show up.

I’ve moved mine to the front of the closet.

And speaking of velvet jackets and lest you’ve failed to notice: The season has returned.

I’m talking about Garage Saling.

No, not Garage Sailing, a weekend pursuit in which one outfits a garage for maritime sport but Garage Saling, a weekend pursuit whereby one cruises for home-made signs posted about town in the hopes of being lead to cheap, used goods. On foot, on wheels, these signs – hand-made neon or store bought, wheedling “Multi-Family Sale!” or my favorite, last weekend’s “Buy My Crap” – lead me on, lead me in, a Siren’s song of instant gratification and cheap thrills.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking to buy your old underwear. Unless they’re really cool underwear. No, no, just kidding. Not even if they’re really cool. Well, unless they were your great-grandma’s bloomers and I need them for a Halloween costume. No, not really. Well, yes, really. But don’t tell anyone.

I’ve pushed others into the Garage Sale Vortex. We spend whole Saturday afternoons chasing down “Huge Sale” signs, the car veering to the left, to the right. The neighborhood and surrounding neighborhoods are rife with garage sales, people selling quirky art and funky clothing; and like the faithful horse of yesteryear trotting its drunken master home safely from the pub, the shimmed and duct-taped front end of the Civic carries us, junk-drunk and giddy, home.

Best deals ever? Fifty-cent vintage Ray Bans in perfect shape. A three-dollar leather coat that fits like a glove. A three-dollar 1920s rolling cocktail cart in passable condition. Best of all? A five-dollar unopened Husker Du original pressing. Mwa ha ha ha haaaaaa! Victory is mine!

This is not to say that we haven’t been had, even if “had” was only in the sense of pulling over and getting out of the car. There are people out there selling sweat-stained, button-less blouses; cup-less, cracked saucers; and sweat pants with blown-out waistbands. And what’s with trying to sell me things you’ve received for free?! I know where you got those Pert Shampoo samples, lady.

There are also “professional” garage sales held by people who never seem to bring their items in from the garage/yard/driveway but simply cover them with tarps from Monday through Wednesday, their “sales” resumed Thursday. It is my belief is that these people buy items from other garage sales, double the price, and re-sell them. These sales, to use the vernacular, “suck”.

And of course there are some pretty specific garage sales out there: tons of stuff for babies, the terribly skinny/overweight, tools but not much else, that sort of thing. It comes with the territory. We Garage-Salers are a hardy bunch and accustomed to the disappointment that comes with, say, a garage full of romance novels or cardboard cut-outs of Easter bunnies and “Kiss Me I’m Irish” buttons.

The season is upon us, and starting this weekend, the Honda and I will be out.

And if I see you at a garage sale, then, good luck to you, and may the sharpest eye win.

At No Time Did I See Rod Serling

Another day, another dollar/dollar-and-a-half, depending on where you live, and we arrive, breathless and just a tad giddy, at the cusp of yet another glorious possibility of a weekend.

And as we have in the past, we look to my iPod and its shuffled-song predictions for the future.

Because everyone knows that the songs played during Friday morning’s commute have bearing on the upcoming weekend.

Banana Pudding by Southern Culture on the Skids
Ziggy Stardust by David Bowie
Hem of Your Garment by Cake
The Fear by Lily Allen
Sharks by Morphine
I Feel for You by Chaka Khan
Pala Tute by Gogol Bordello

What’s it all mean? It means welcome, my pretties, to Friday. Please take the hand of the artist closest to you and press it to your cheek – no! the other one! – and be thankful.

And without further ado, we bring you to Scary Story Three in our Scary Story Trilogy.

To recap:
Scary Story One: I take direction.
Scary Story Two: My mother gives direction.
Today? Scary Story Three: Direction becomes meaningless.

Enjoy.




Philadelphia, PA. Why not go? A couple days, just as a lark, just me and Willie. Nine years ago it was. We ate a Philly cheesesteak, got drunk one afternoon with a bunch of new friends in a small pub where Willie turned over the “Galaga” machine. We went to the zoo.

And one night, we went out.

We went out for dinner, shared a taxi to a bar with live music with people we met at the restaurant. We went to bed that night a little after 1:30, me chattering away as we lay in the dark.

“Shhh,” Willie said, his fingertips on my eyelids. “Go to sleep.”




And when I next notice, I am no longer in our room.

I am upright, walking, when I gain consciousness. I stop. There is an elusive, slippery aspect to thought that I’ve not experienced before. I am more confused than I have ever been. I can’t make sense of my surroundings. Scarier yet, I can’t make sense of myself. Why am I walking? Where am I walking? Why am I cold?

And I am abruptly, horrifyingly aware that I am naked.

I have nothing: no clothes, no purse, no keys, no glasses. I stare at my bare feet as the questions throw themselves against the inside of my skull: Where are my clothes? Where have I been? What have I been doing? Where is Willie?

Where is Willie?

The hall is absolutely silent; and, without my glasses, unreal in its lack of focus.

“Home,” my head says. “Go home now.”

I bolt down the hallway in the direction of the elevator.

I press the button, flatten myself against the wall. The world has been reduced to the maze-like, brick-walled halls of the Clarion Hotel.

The elevator doors open. No one comes out. I dash into the elevator, my head swimming, cloudy. Press 8. My eyes are glued to the door, unblinking. I am breathing through my mouth. How did I get here? Why am I here? My heart pounds. Panic, a concept I had only truly known through books, builds in my blood. I can taste it. Panic tastes like copper.

I swallow hard.

My room is 822.

822 is the farthest room from the elevator at the end of a twisting hallway. I am forcing myself through the elevator door as it opens; and by the time I reach the hotel room door, panic’s war on my grip on reality has firm footholds.

My fists reach the door first.

“Willie!!!”

I rap, long and hard, and then stop, panting. I am in the hallway outside a hotel room in Philadelphia. I am naked. Am I dreaming? My head is swimming, off-balance.

“Willie!” I pound the door. There is no answer. The hallway seems to narrow and then to tilt. I am dizzy, bright spots in front of my eyes.

Where am I? Am I here? Am I real? How did I get out here? Why isn’t Willie answering the door?

Panic seizes my chest. I have to get to Willie. I have to ask him. He’ll know. He’ll know why I’m out here.

I need a phone.

The elevator. They have phones in elevators, don’t they?

The panic swimming in my blood grabs on to the thought of the telephone in the elevator, propels me forward; and I am half-way down the hall when I hear a bell and the sound of the elevator doors opening. I hear two women laughing, talking. At a full run, I spin on my heels, spin away from the elevators and back to 822.

I am pounding on the door seconds later.

“Willie! Willie!” I cry. “I’m outside and I don’t know where I am!” I swallow panicked tears and crouch against the door.

The voices of the women, drunk, laughing, increase in volume as they get closer. I cover my breasts with one arm, my groin with the other and bury my face in the door jamb.

“Willie,” I sob, whispering into the door jamb. “Open the door! I’m afraid.”

Just around the corner, a woman says, “… and then he told me yes, he was still married, but she was in a coma!” They both laugh. Keys jingle. There is a failed attempt and then a successful opening of a door. The door shuts and the laughing women are gone.

I am alone.

I jump up and bolt for the elevator. I am sure there is a phone in the elevator. I am sure of it. I will call Willie. He will tell me why I’m alone.

The green of the carpeted floor seems to leap up. The walls are askew, tilted. My heart is pounding as I reach the elevator.

I press the button only to be terrified, suddenly, that it will open. I press myself against the wall next to the elevator. I have no clear idea of what I will do if the elevator is occupied.

The doors open. No one comes out. I step in, the muscles of my arms jumping, legs trembling.

There is no phone.

My mind stops.

There is no phone. I had been so sure... My mind drifts off, just for a moment, and I am snapped back into reality, if that's what this is, as the doors of the elevator close. The elevator begins to descend.

Floor! What floor?!

From the mirrored walls of the elevator I watch the image of a naked woman frantically pressing “Door Open”, then, stupidly, “8”, followed by “7”. Her frightened face bounces from one mirrored wall to another, a fun house of desperation.

The doors open to no one on the 7th floor.

Relieved, I step out. The doors close, and I begin to walk away.

But where am I going? I stop. There aren’t phones in hotel hallways.

The phones are in the rooms.

Or in the lobby.

New fear grips me as I turn back to the elevator. I cannot go to the lobby, and I cannot roam the hallways looking for help. I have to go back to 822.

I press the button. I wait, heart pounding in my chest, in my ears. Again, it is empty. I step inside: the naked woman in the mirrors works hard to avoid her own reflection.

I step onto the 8th floor without incident and then run, on tiptoes, to the room, the last room around the last corner on the top floor.

I throw myself at the door, knock long and hard. “Willie! Willie! It’s me! Am I dreaming?” Nothing happens. I hammer the door with my fists. I kick the door, hard, twice, and leap back in pain, my toes screaming. I see stars again.

Is this real? How can this be real? The panic in my blood wins and my imagination leaps off a bridge and takes me with it.

“Willie! Oh my God, Willie! Am I dead?”

I put my hands over my face and fall to the ground.

The door opens.

“Oh my God. Pearl.” Willie’s voice is the sound of utter disbelief, and he pulls me up, pulls me into the room, and holds me tight.

“Where have you been? What are you doing? Where are your clothes? Why were you out there?"

He pushes me out to arm's length and stares at me. "Good God, you are ice cold!”

I look up, sobbing. “I’m naked.”

It is 3:28.





How long had I been wandering before I “came to” – and where was I during that time?

Why did it take so long for Willie to wake up?

Is there surveillance video at the Clarion?

Do I really want the answers to any of these questions?

Just Living the Good Life!, or Wherever You Go, There You Are

I spent the last several days in Florida visiting my friend T.

You remember T, don’t you? Smiter of Squirrels, One-Liner Aficionado, T moved from Minnesota to Florida in March of last year. Having lived through the bone-biting cold of winter, as all right-thinking Minnesotans do, he inexplicably threw his mittened hands into the air one day, cried “I give up!”, and moved to an island.

And while I have gone on record a number of times as being four-square against my friends moving to places that I cannot reach easily, I would also like to go on record as approving of those that, feeling they must move, do so to a place perfect for vacationing.

Well done, T.

Have you been to Florida? The sky is bright blue; the people, dark brown. The sun is insistent, the humidity oppressive, and large, talkative birds sit on telephone wires holding their wings out to the wind, airing their feathery underarms.

T picked me up at the airport. We hugged.

“How are you? How have you been?”

“Oh, you know,” he says, grinning. “Celebrating life.”

Celebrating life, huh? Celebrating life. The cynical Midwesterner in me seizes upon this phrase.

“The pamphlet distributed on the airplane suggested that there might be some of that,” I said.

“Relax,” T said, laughing. “You’re on island time.”

Everywhere we went, we heard variations of this phrase.

“How’s it going?” “Celebrating life.”

“What you been up to?” “Just livin’ the good life!”

I am wary of expressions like this. Pat answers make me narrow my eyes in concentration. Embedded in me at an early age by a father who insisted that I be a lert (“Be alert, Pearl - the world needs more lerts”), by the time the woozy-looking man at the bus stop hollered “Livin’ the good life!” as we walked past him on the way to the beach, I’d already written this phrase in my notebook.

There was a party that first night at Elliot’s house. Elliot, a man from New York, and perhaps the hub of neighborhood life, held court on the large, tented patio; and people came from all sides bearing large platters of food. Almost everyone there was originally from somewhere else: there was Milla the Grilla (Ohio), Dave (Florida), Bob (Tennessee) and Kim (Texas), Rob (Minnesota) and Colleen (Wisconsin), Mike (Massachusetts) and Julia (Florida, Okinawa, Germany).

There was plenty to eat, and plenty to drink.

And there was entertainment.

You know the young and often beautiful people who perform in parks, for “fringe” festivals, often sharing space with drummers, face-painters, and jugglers? The long-haired free spirits dressed in clothes from another generation, bracelets and earrings jangling?

Julia and Colleen, Hula Hoopers of the First Order, took their hoops into the backyard, just beyond the light of the patio, just in front of the docks, and danced in the dark, a background of a million stars running the mirrored length of the ocean, hoops spinning up and down their bodies, around their necks, sliding up one arm and down the other.

And while I won’t be following The Dead in a VW bus any time soon, like karaoke or gluing stuff onto things with a hot glue gun, I can now add “hula hoop” to the list of things I do just a little bit better with a couple beers in me.

It was a long night, a warm night with just the right amount of cool breeze and smart talk, and I couldn’t begin to remember all of it.

But I do remember this: hours later and in my room, my head spinning from drink and hula-hoop muscle-memory, I drunkenly considered the differences between where you’re from, where you are, and what it all means.

I decided that wherever I was, that was the place I should be.

And I believe I fell asleep smiling.





Still have some time to kill? I was published in an online magazine called Praxis. Click here to read "So What Do You Say You and I Get Together After Work?", a lovely piece I would like to take just one more editorial crack at...

Can I Get You Anything While I’m Out?

The Boy and his girlfriend Sweetness are flying back to Minneapolis after a week in Playa del Carmen.

The plane lands at 11:30 p.m.

What’s that, son? No, no! I didn’t have anything else to do on a Saturday night! I’d be happy to pick you up!

As a quick aside, I realize that I may have signed/said/conceded to a number of things while giving birth to The Boy – it was a long, drawn-out experience and I would’ve been an easy mark – but I think I would’ve remembered agreeing to a lifetime of guaranteed transportation to and from the airport.

Wait. Maybe this means my parents are also my guaranteed ride to the airport?

I should check into that.

Anyway, for someone who hates driving to the airport as much as I do, I seem to find myself going there a lot.

It’s not the driving there that’s the problem, really; but I don’t think I’ve ever returned from the airport in the same way, and this has me concerned.

I’ve found myself in strange industrial parks, at the Mall of America, and on my way to Wisconsin, all of which are, from what I understand, not in my neighborhood.

How can there possibly be so many routes back home?

But there’s no point in fretting about it now – and perhaps I did sign up for this after all, this being there to pick him up, this putting fresh sheets on his bed for his return.

He’s coming home. And who wants you back safely more than your mother?

Wherein the Car Goes in a Ditch and I Swoon with Gratitude

A number of years ago, back when I was invincible, I felt it important that I drive from one tiny town to another during a blizzard.

What? I was going to have some beers with a friend!

Do they have blizzards where you are? They don’t? Blizzards are a combination of cold temperatures, snow pushed from one serpentine drift to another, and yet more snow coming down, sometimes horizontally.

Consider it a test of your fortitude, your driving skills, your imagination, and your intelligence.

Can you handle the stress of not seeing more than a couple feet in front of you?

Can you keep the car on the road?

Can you see the road? Can you see the exit?

What in the world are you doing out in a blizzard, anyway?

All of your abilities will be tested – some of them just by getting in the car in the first place.

Believe me when I tell you that the majority of the time there’s no where you need to go during a blizzard except to the closet for another blanket.

Or perhaps to the fridge.

But like I said: I used to be invincible.

I was invincible right up to two miles outside of town, when my ’74 Ford LTD, a car you and seven of your best friends could sit in easily, slid, ever so slowly, off the side of the road and sideways into a shallow ditch.

Hmmm.

Now, when you find yourself with your tail pipe in the snow, you also find yourself seeing the beauty in what you should’ve seen earlier and you turn everything off and sit in the cold, gray silence, considering the possibility that you may be mentally retarded and that those closest to you, for some reason, have been reluctant to say so; thinking about how the sun is setting and there’s a friend waiting just eight miles away.

This is sometimes the part in the story where you proceed to read of the writer’s slow and painful demise, how they found her body, the way her last words were recorded on the interior of the car in lipstick.

Either that or it’s the part where a large red pick-up comes down this same deserted county road and how four large, corn-fed Wisconsin boys in seed-and-feed caps pull over, jump out in jeans and sweatshirt and head towards your car.

“Ma’am?” says the biggest one, holding his arms out.

Yes, yes, please! I open my car door and hold my arms up for Farm Boy #1 and he lifts me, easily, out of the car and out of the ditch, and places me inside the cab of the truck.

My feet never even touched the ground.

He shuts the door, and Farm Boys One through Four step down into the ditch, each of them taking a corner of my car. They lift the LTD as if it is hollow, step carefully up the shallow ditch, and place the car back on the road.

And then they refused to take my money.

And I drove on to Paula’s house, where we drank beer, played Scrabble, and went out for breakfast in the morning.

I just love Wisconsin. If you’re going to slide off the road, I suggest you do it there.

Requiem for My Brain

There was going to be more, so much more to this post – and you shoulda been in my head while I was thinking about it. It was awesome – but I’ve run into a bit of trouble.

I may have killed off the brain cells that came up with it.

And it’s too bad. I really liked those brain cells. They helped balance my checkbook, came up with excuses as to why I couldn’t attend whatever it was I said I would attend and was now going to wienie out of, and held the secret to some of my better blog ideas.

Dammit.

The other thing that those brain cells did?

Kept me from going to three parties in a row. That’s right: tonight are Parties Two and Three in the Halloween Party Trifecta. Last night was Area 52. Tonight is Sally and Brian’s followed by crashing Eugene’s.

Ha ha. Eugene doesn’t know it yet, but he’s got a good half-dozen more people going to his party than he’s invited.

Those brain cells would’ve kept me from going, but now?

As my Dad likes to say, you can tell someone from the family, but you can’t tell them much.

A Ride to the Airport, or Heeeeeeeeey! What Are You Doing Later?

There is nothing like being asked to drive someone to the airport to reinforce one’s own sense of self-worth.

Do I want to drive you to the airport Friday morning? Well, sure I do! What else would I be doing if I weren’t getting up earlier than I had expected I would, picking you up and schlepping your butt to the Hubert H. Humphrey Terminal?

So when I got the call Wednesday, you gotta know that I jumped at the chance.

It was T on the phone.

“I need a favor,” he said.

“What’s going on?”

“What are you doing Friday morning? ‘Cause I’m packing my pants,” he said.

I had to shake my head a bit at that one. He’s packing his pants? Why, I oughta… “Are you coming on to me?”

As it turns out, the answer to that is “no”. No, he was not.

Man. I’m telling you, once you’re married, the action really drops off.

As it turns out, he was packing his pants – and his shirts, his socks, and his copy of Chicken Soup for the Follicle-ly-Challenged Soul, too. He was flying to Florida for a weekend get-away at his sister’s place.

And would I drive him to the airport?

You betcha.

Because it’s Friday, I’m not working, and I got nothing better to do.

And one of these days I am so calling this favor in.

The Road Signs Have A Suggestion

I was out driving the other day. In a car.

Cars are so much different than buses, aren’t they? They’re smaller, for one thing. I noticed that right off. And then there’s all that “paying attention” to do.

And it was while I was “paying attention” that I saw something that I’d seen thousands of times before; but this time, I saw it with new eyes.

OK. Not really new eyes. They were my old eyes.

Let’s not get into semantics.

There was a sign on the side of the road, one of those signs with the little light bulbs in it so that you can see it at night.

“Yield Ahead.”

Good advice. There’s a certain amount of yielding that we all must do.

And that got me thinking: Those signs should be in more places.

“Stop eating now.”

“You would do best to keep your mouth shut.”

“You are wearing patterned underwear with white pants. Bad look.”

But no. We don’t have signs like that. Sure, I’m a taxpayer; but apparently we’re on our own here.

Who do you suppose I could talk to to get one of those lighted signs in my house? I never turn down free advice.

I Do Love The Open Road

I’m home from my vacation! And while I do not work today and therefore did not take the bus this morning, I have nevertheless, in that special/anal retentive way I have, decided to stick with the idea that the songs playing on my iPod during my commute will somehow predict my weekend.

O Eternal Shuffle! Tell me what my weekend holds in store!

McFearless by Kings of Leon
Jump Into the Fire by Harry Nilsson
Psychotic Reaction by The Count Five
Dance for Me by Southern Culture on the Skids
Mr. Brightside by The Killers
Super Bon Bon by Soul Coughing
Black Soul Choir by 16 Horsepower
Amos Moses by Jerry Reed

There it is, the length of a typical walk to the bus and its subsequent commute.

What to make of it? How should I know? What do I look like? A gypsy?

My time away has been relaxing and productive. Not only is the first draft of my book 85% done (I could show you the calculations) I’ve also gleaned the following wisdom on the drive to and from my little vacation.

Take from it what you will.

• Four large cups of coffee prior to a road trip is always a bad idea, even if you have gone to the bathroom just before leaving.

• The Holiday Gas Station on 35 just outside of Hinckley has a leaky tap in the women’s bathroom that will cause you, if you are “full bladdered” to do an elaborate and stylized dance before you can pull it together enough to get your pants down. I call this dance “Moments from Disaster”, but I trust we all have our own names for it.

• There will always be, no matter how many lists you’ve made, the suspicion somewhere in your brain, once you’ve left the house, that you’ve forgotten something. This is to be expected and embraced. First, imagine you’ve forgotten the most important thing, like directions to where you’re going or your laptop. Realize that you’ve got them with you. Next, imagine you’ve forgotten the least important thing, like galoshes or a rectal thermometer. Realize that you need neither of those things and may have needed this vacation more than previously suspected.

• My car, an eight-cylindered Thing of Beauty from another era, does 65 MPH very well but does not seem to like doing 70. Every single time I tried to hold it at 70 I looked down moments later to discover I was doing 78. (I love those big engines.)

• James Brown is excellent driving music and can lead to lip synching, car dancing, and what I choose to believe are appreciative (rather than judgmental) glances from other drivers.

So! I’m home now, and am off to unpack, hunt down/hug/kiss my friends, in that order.

It’s good to be home!