Momnesia

Due to scheduling difficulties, I had to pick Emmie up from school and take her with me to the Augusta Harley Davidson dealership for a little photo session. We're waiting at the front desk with the lovely Miss Bebe, who looks and acts like a sweet woman in her mid-60s, but whom I've dubbed The Velvet Hammer. There is no screwing with Miss Bebe. She controls all situations and no one questions it.

Miss Bebe has plied Emmie with fresh popcorn and questions, given her a (highly age-inappropriate) Harley Davidson calendar, and chatted comfortably with me. Just then, the side of Miss Bebe that I secretly covet for myself peeks out.

"A man with no shirt on just rode past the doors," she said. "Go take a picture of that!"
"Take da picher, mama!" Emmie orders me, picking up immediately on Miss Bebe's tone and mannerisms.

And I do. I peer through the glass and get a shot of an older man with no shirt and a pot belly dismounting his bike. Seconds later, he walks in the door, fully clothed. I say nothing. Miss Bebe is unconcerned.

"Did you just ride by here without a shirt on?" she asks him.
"No," he says, in a way that lets us know that he totally did. But now he is wearing a grey T-shirt and a bandana over is silver hair. I hear Emmie gasp, and turn, seeing her grinning a huge, popcorn-revealing open-mouth smile, eyes wide and pudgy little hand to her cheek in a cartoonish version of delight.

"Are you a pirate?!" she asks.

Oh. My. God. I consider laying down to die right there on the concrete floor of the dealership, but at the last millisecond it occurs to me that I would then miss the joy of giving her a time-out for hurting someone's feelings.

But the guy just laughs: "No, but I am an 81," he says. I have no idea what that means. But at least he didn't get mad.

more graph humor and song chart memes

Emmie: Mama, can I hab sum i-cream?
Me (distracted): I don't think we have any, sweetie.
Emmie: Oh. Okay. (toddles off to play)

Minutes later, she sprints by me, grabs her chair and drags it from the room.

Me: Whatcha doing, Doodle?
Emmie: I go to da kichen and (devolves into mumbling as she turns the corner)...
Me (still distracted): Mmkay...

(clunk clunk clatter registers somewhere in my consciousness, but I'm so tired and stressed that it does little to jar me out of my marketing campaign planning)

Emmie (shrieking): MAMAAAA!
Me (fully jolted): What?! What is it?
Emmie: MAMA COMERE!

I tear into the kitchen at a dead run and stop. She stands on her red wooden chair and points, having managed to pull open the freezer door.

Emmie: See? We HAB i-cream! I foun'it!

I bend over, laughing into my knees. It doesn't matter what you tell her. I should remember that she was born with a healthy sense of "I'll believe it when I see it," a skepticism that permeates everything around her. It makes her watchful, but unafraid; cautious, but still headstrong. Although some parents would firmly remove her from her perch, scold her for dragging furniture through the house, and feel some sense of power-struggle pending upon her questioning of my statement that, as I believed, there was no ice cream in the house...

I like it. I want to encourage her to think independently; to not accept things at face value. She wasn't mean-spirited about it. She's just learned early on that Mommies make mistakes, too, and I make sure to own up to them and to apologize when I possibly can. If I expect her to do it, I have to hold myself to it. So she reacted with her characteristic enthusiasm when, this time, the mistake went her way.

So ice cream it is - low fat peach ice cream that tastes like something akin to old feet, if you ask me. Emmie isn't asking. She knows it's cold and fruity and full of the carefully regulated substance that she craves: sugar.

Me: Emster, how was your ice cream?
Emmie: Good. I got a poo-poo.

You're welcome.

AUGUSTA, GA. - We went down to Aquaduct Park this weekend - both days - to swim and picnic. It's free and it's fun, so there's no reason not to use it. Jumping off rocks into the water, climbing the waterfalls, diving down to look at the fish, rooting on the bottom to find shards of old pottery or spare change that fell out of someone's pocket in 1976... it's nice.

One guy, though, kept climbing around and grunting while shoving things into a plastic bag. I didn't understand what his problem was until I pulled Emmie out in the water on a bright orange inflatable mattress. "Ayyyy," he said to her, eyes wide and mouth grinning. "Oo flow!" She smiled up at him and nodded.

Hey. You float.

He had no problem. He was deaf. He didn't know he was making noises usually reserved for porny 70s "art house" films. He was just enjoying the water and picking up trash along the way.

My husband looked like a chicken dancer at a hockey game trying to communicate with him.
"Hey, the trash?" Scott showed him our own plastic "picnic basket." He gave him a thumbs-up. "Good job, man. Thanks."

"Eyh," the guy said. And made a gesture like he was drinking from a bottle or can. "Dose pepoh!" He chopped down and out with both hands, indicating no tolerance, and pointed up at the rocks surrounding us. "Ow!" He would kick those people out. Heck, yeah.

"My nay iz ess ee ah nn," he said, closed his eyes and concentrated. "Shhan. Shhahn. No. Sean," he said. "Was your nay?" He indicated that Scott should write the letters in the air, which he did, sloppily, while yelling them at Sean. "S! C! O! T! T!" he shouted, and Sean still couldn't hear him. But he understood. "Sot. No. Way." he closed his eyes and concentrated again. "Suh-cott. No." He shook his head in frustration. "De see an kay aw hahd," he said, indicating that those letters are all throat work. C's and K's are hard, buddy. Half the time they make the same sound. After a couple more tries, he got it. Scott spell-shouted my name for him.

"Was heh nay?" Sean asked, pointing at Emerson. Scott started to spell it out in the air again. Screw that. This will take all day. I stopped him and finger-spelled her name in sign. "Gah! No! Wait!" I used the sign for s instead of e. "E-M-M-I-E!"

"Haaaah!" Sean pointed at me, made a gesture for finger spelling, and then blew a raspberry at Scott. We laughed. It's a gesture I make at Scott quite frequently. "Emmie," Sean said, perfectly. "See byooful." Yes, she is, thank you.

"Scott, can't you finger spell?" I asked. Didn't everyone learn that in elementary school?

Apparently not, even though his Aunt Diane is 100% deaf. It's a simple thing. In no way could I expect to have a real conversation with Sean that way (think of conversations where you have to spell things in front of your children. I always get lost mid-word) and yet it made Sean's life that much easier for a few minutes. It wasn't necessary for him to gesticulate comically or try to make himself understood with guttural speech.

So, please, take the time to browse the chart below. It's actually an easier thing to learn than you might think if you say it out loud as you try. That combines both aural and kinesthetic learning. You'll be surprised how long you retain something like this. I mean, even if you only took high school Spanish 15 years ago, don't you at least remember the alphabet? Of course you do. Sign language is no different in learning and retention - but there aren't any online translators to help these folks write their papers. It's a daily struggle in a hearing world, and no matter how hard they try, they're still not going to make it without a little effort on our part.

Speaking of high school Spanish, I had a similar experience later at Teresa's on Walton Way. "Hi!" I said, when I went in to pick up dinner. "Ooh, what's the specials?" The host stepped aside so I could view the board. "Pollo fajita," it read. "Camarones racheros." Chicken fajita. Shrimp rancheros. And something I didn't recognize. "Mojarra frita."

"Excuse me; what is mojarra frita," I asked the host.

He looked at me cautiously: "Eh.. ees feesh, eh, dorado... I sorry. I no speak Eengleesh very well."

"That's okay. So, it's fish fried golden brown?" I asked. He brightened and nodded. Frito means fried, and it was on the menu board. He said fish - that much was useful - and dorado, which mean gold. That was my clue. As it turns out: Mojarra is also known as Pacific Flagfin, a fish I've never heard of. It's defined as any of several species of small, silvery, mainly tropical American marine fishes of the family Gerridae.

This guy was probably fresh out of the cargo hold of some awful coyote, or else he is the green-card-holding distant relative of one of the owners or managers. He was working a crappy job that an American college student would consider beneath them, trying to accomplish what was expected of him with a language barrier taller than any Mexican border fence. As with Sean, my slight ability to interpret what he was trying to say made his life easier for a couple of minutes. He tried hard to hold a conversation in English with me while I was waiting, and I tried to understand the Spanish words he had to rely on. We laughed at each others' mistranslations and at ourselves.

I'm not saying that anyone has to go out and learn Spanish, or vote against a giant wall along the Rio Grande, or relax immigration laws. I'm just saying that a little effort on your part - on my part - makes life easier for others. I've been reminded of that during just one day where I coincidentally encountered two people who communicate in ways that are vastly different both from each other and from the mainstream. I think I should have put a comma somewhere in that last sentence but I can't slow my roll to go back and edit.

I'm going to try my best to remember this when I go into an Asian restaurant and try to ask a question about the menu. Instead of getting irritated, I'm going to smile and try to make the waitress feel more at ease. Maybe her poor English will be improved by one word by they time I leave, and I'll know a little more - say, Chinese - than just "hello, how are you" and "thank you."

Anyway. Thanks for listening to me. I'm just struck by how easy it is to dismiss other people when communication becomes a barrier. I find those situations as exciting as uncharted ocean territory, and I like to explore them.

Here's Your Sign (Language)

AUGUSTA, GA. - Hey, y'all. Wouldn't mind being nominated for Metro's Best Personal Web Page or Blog... just thought you might like to know... you can nominate me here, if you want.

So another epic battle of wills between me and Emmie tonight about bedtime. We have the same routine every night:

1. jammies
2. brush teeth
3. responsibility chart
4. read 2 stories
5. turn on soothing music
6. smooch and hug daddy
7. get tucked in my mama, with smooches and hugs
8. lights out, night light on
9. door closed, goodnight.

And yet, many nights, you chuck several hundred pairs of wooden shoes into my finely calibrated machinery. Tonight was no exception. About 20 minutes after we'd parted ways, I went to check on you. I opened the door and you froze in place - but I didn't see you at first. That's because my eyes were watering from the smell.

But when they cleared, there you were, perched on your bed with two books, with a pull-up on each leg, each arm, and your head. I put on what I hoped was a stern face, took a step back, gently pulled the door closed, and heaved silent laughter until I thought my lungs would burst. Then I put my stern face back on and opened the door.

"Mama?" you said with concern - you knew you weren't supposed to be awake right then. "I change my pull-up."

And you had. You had made a giant reeking poopie and very diligently cleaned yourself, changed your pull-up and even tossed the old pull-up and wipes in the trash can... and then decorated yourself in other pull-ups. The cone of diaper atop your head was particularly fetching. I was proud of you, and told you so, while gently removing the unused pull-ups from your appendages. You beamed: "I do it myself!"

Yes, you did. And I thank you for it.

Scott: "Where's my shaver?"
Me (killing zombies on the computer): "Idunno. GAH! Stupid stupid stupid!"

Scott: "Seriously. Where'd you put it?"
Me: "I didn't put it anywhere."
Scott: "So where is it?"

Me: "In the bathroom."
Scott: "I looked there."

Me: "In the medicine cabinet."
Scott: "I looked there."

Me: "In the bathroom closet."
Scott: "I looked there."
Me: "Obviously not well enough."

I go to check it out myself. Nothing. We stop and think.

Scott: "My shaver."
Me: "Yeah, I know."

Scott: "My silver-colored electric shaver."
Me: "Yeah, I got it, honey!"

I fight the urge to kick him and go back to my zombie game, but instead I close my eyes and try to picture the last time I saw it. Eureka!

Me: "Oh! In the console of my car."
Scott: "No it's not."

Me: "I'm pretty sure it is."
Scott: "No. I just used it."

He stands before me, an inch of stubble on his face, completely serious.

Me: "I'm almost positive."
Scott:"Fine! I'll go check again!"

He harrumphs out of the house like a teenage emo fan. I go back to killing zombies. He comes back in, running his shaver over his chin.

Scott: "Why you gotta hide my stuff all the time?"
Me: "Told you. Hey, do that over the sink!"

Scott: "Because you put it there."
Me: "Whatever."

Scott: "Stop taking my stuff."
Me: "Excuse me. I have a world to save from the walking dead. This is way more important than your shaver."

Scott's cleaning out his car. It smelled so bad on Friday that I refused to ride in it. So he's emptying his trunk, the apparent source of the bunch o' funk. Thirty minutes later, he still hasn't identified it.

"I don't know what it is!" he exclaims, as he wanders back in the living room, arms stuffed with clothing, books, fast-food bags and other assorted items previously located in the car.

"Keep searching," I advise strongly. "Whatever it is... it's leeching life out of my body just from the memory of the stink."

He goes back for more and returns with a grin and a pair of dirty socks. "I don't know what it was, but the smell seems to have gone away some," he says, oblivious to the stink bombs in his hands.

I decide not to press the issue: "Toss those in the laundry basket and I'll get a load started in a few," I say. "And why don't you grab the Oust out of the bathroom cabinet and hose down the car?"

"Why don't YOU..." he sticks his head back in the room with a thoughtful pause. "Just have a great idea?"

He wanders off to clear the air. Thank god. And while he's outside hosing, I put the socks in a plastic bag and dump them in the garbage can outside. It's the next best thing to setting them on fire.

It's my blogoversary! Momnesia has now been annoying the crap out of random viewers sent by the almighty Internets for... [counting on fingers] THIS MANY. Dear God, FIVE years! That's almost as long as I went to Augusta State University. (Go Jags! Go... away... no, I'm kidding!)

I don't have a blogoversary post, or anything. But it's odd how this blog began. Long before the success of Waiter Rant, I was blogging about serving and bartending to get the stench of stupidity off at the end of a long, hard day. I had a number of posts on an old site (that I hate very much) that ate a year of my recorded life. So, really, I've been blogging for six years. Wow. That's incredibly lame. Meh. What's new?

Hey, I think I do have a blogoversary post, after all. Five/six years, Internets! Suck on that!

So here are some posts I've enjoyed re-reading. Hope they make you laugh.

• Why Restaurants Experience High Turnover
• Killer Bugs from Outer Space
• Government Regulations
• My Mother: The Weirdo
• Classy Girl
• Changing of the Guard
• The First of Many Experiences with Scott Sleepwalking
• One Less Pregnant Nun at Halloween
• Academic Flair
• Canine Caveman
• Crossed Words
• Failure to Communicate
• My Parenting Philosophy
• SuperDad
• As I Fly Dying
• Why I Only Write Nonfiction
• Like This
• Baby Love
• Phone Service
• Birth Control is for Sissies

Michael Moore used to have a TV show called "TV Nation." Anyone remember when it was on for 10 minutes of history? Janeane Garofalo was on it, too. Anyhoodle... didn't last long. But this is one of the gems it produced.

You know life is different when you leave the bars with your husband to go home together (ahem...) and then you think, "Hmm. At this hour, I bet there's no one in the grocery store. I can get the shopping done in minutes!" Oh, what, huh? Oh, hi honey! You're still here. Do you think they have toilet paper on sale? Where are you going? Was it the toilet reference? Hello?! I'm still naked! Hello? What?

S.S. (pointing out a photo of a local real estate agent online): Would you buy a car from a guy who looks like Eddie Munster?
Me: No way. Let's prank call him.
S.S. (chuckling): We should find out the address of the Munster Mansion and tell him we're interested in viewing that property.

That's the kind of thinking we need around here. Incidentally, the address of "Munster Mansion" is 1313 Mockingbird Lane in the fictional Mockingbird Heights - that is, according to Wikipedia and the Internets folks who have too much freaking time on their hands (like, you know, bloggers).

Emmie's grandparents are taking her to Alabama over the weekend. She'll be gone for FOUR DAYS...

What am I going to do?

Part of me says: "What are you going to do?! Fool! You're going to sleep, clean, sleep some more, watch zombie movies that start before 9 p.m., possibly go see a movie IN AN ACTUAL THEATRE... or see a band... or GET SOME!"

But that part is small and quiet and has long been subdued by this new part of me that guards my toddler like a rabid lioness. Instead of the voice of my 25-year-old self - free of responsibility and full of the joy of living - I hear the high-pitched hoodle of my mother. The hoodle. Oh, how for years I tried to avoid it. But the downward slope has begun. Now I worry aloud, my voice spiraling up into octaves only dogs can hear. Blurgh. Someone shut me up so I can have a little fun.

I'm already all teary-eyed thinking about being away from her for four days. FOUR DAYS! God! It's been 3 years and 9 months since I've been away from her for that long.

Someone help me.

So there I was... mano y mano... or mano y perro... or, mujera y perro. Whatever; there was a black dog the size of a house that was about to squash me like a Wicked Witch in Munchkinland. Even if the officer could draw his gun and fire in the .3 milliseconds before the dog latched his many teeth into my neck, the weight of the overgrown canine would certainly crush me to bits.

I stared at the dog with rising horror while its paws reached for my shoulders. This is the part where I was supposed to cry something like, "Goodbye, cruel world." Instead, I made a high-pitched squealing sound that went, "skreeeeeeeee!" The Rottweiller opened his mouth, reached for my head... and drooled on me. He stood, paws on my shoulders, tongue lolling to the side, breathing Milkbone into my face, and grinning. "Rrrrrroooooowf!" he barked, blowing out my eardrums and rearranging my hair. It was dog speak for "Gotcha!" Even the officer and the tow truck driver were guffawing. I expected one of them to slap his knee and call "Hooo, dawgy, but you looked skeered!" And then the sound of banjos would come wafting through the trees.

Instead, the driver called off the dog, the officer handed me a paper towel to clean the slobber off my arm, and the Rotty actually herded me into the tow truck.

"She likes to help," the driver said.
"She's beautiful," I said, and meant it. Despite the excessive salivation, this was obviously a spirited dog that cared a great deal about people. More Mongo than Cujo. She ran around, barking joyously as the driver winched my car up onto the strangely inadequate-looking hook, then clambered up into the cab and laid her head on my lap. I didn't mind the drool so much.

The driver was very kind, gave me $50 and dropped me at the only motel in the small truck-stop town. I called my parents. They did a lot of cursing. I mean, a lot. Like, words I didn't even think that my Alabama-born-child-of-the-fifties mother could have known. And, as it turned out, I did have a fever. A rising, uncomfortable appetite-stealing fever that kept me in bed for the next 48 hours while I waited for someone to trek from Atlanta to get me. It was the kind of attitude only a 21-year-old college student could possibly display. "Mommy, I drove to Chicago with all my money and my friend stole it to buy drugs and then my car broke down and I don't have any way to get home. Will you come get me?"

They did come and get me. And they bought a second-hand Nissan Sentra off the mechanic for $2,000. Then they each drove a car back to Conyers while I slept in the back seat. I crawled into bed at home - I'm sure without a word of thanks or appreciation - and slept for another two days. When I finally regained my senses and managed to keep down some food, I called work. Surprisingly, I still had a job. My mother had called and explained for me, and they'd moved my schedule around.

I returned to my small rental house with two new roommates in the first week of January, two girls who have been my friends for years and who would never strand me 14 hours from home without any money. I never heard from Gibran again. He never sent gas money, rent money or utilities money. I don't know what happened to him or his friends in the intervening years. But it seems he got his stuff together and now works in the medical field... which means he makes more money than I do now. Somehow that doesn't surprise me. He probably also sells narcotics out of the supply closet.

Do you think he'd send me the $400 he owes me?

Nah...

A.C.: Hey, Stacey, have you seen Grindhouse?
Me: No.
A.C.: Did you know it was about zombies?
Me (squealing): No! All I knew is about the one-legged girl with the machine gun!
A.C.: Because she's killing zombies!
Me: (unintelligible squealing)

Who's the dork who just ordered "Grindhouse" and George Romero's "Diary of the Dead?" Who is? Who? (sorry, Scott. I was all high on my raise. Can I spend $20?)

Me: (dropping my red felt-tipped pen) Eh, junk!
H.Y.: Oh, Stacey, I miss your junk.
Me: Oh, reeeaally? You miss my junk?
H.Y.: Not that way.

AUGUSTA, GA. - Assholes, beware. Whether it's stealing a ring off his finger or roughing up a female fan, if you're at his show, Tim McGraw might be coming for you. At one concert in Washington, McGraw witnessed a drunken man attacking a woman concertgoer. He called for security but then handled it himself, hauling the dude out of the pit like he weighed no more than a bag of chicken wings. When the guy tried to get out of security's clutches, McGraw pulled his arm back like he was about to throw a punch. That man is damn sexy. He may not be an "Indian Outlaw," as his song goes, but he might sock you in the jaw. Check out his lead-in to the rest of the song.

AUGUSTA, GA. - Random homeless guys who come in and steal from the candy jar, refill their water bottles from the office cooler, and ask us what we're doing: "Working, yo. Whynchta try it?"

Continued from previous post, which was continued from the post before that...

AUGUSTA, GA. - So there I was, on the side of the road, in the mountains of Tennessee, in December, with a light sprinkle of snow falling. I was... excited! The roadside emergency kit in the hatchback of my Ford Escort (aka The Extra Large Matchbox Car) would finally get some use! White shirt out the driver's window. "Call Police" sign in the back windshield. I burned myself on the flares. And no one stopped.

It grew cold in the car. I bundled up in a blanket and waited. No one stopped. I grew frustrated and scared. I ran out of flares and got out the fireworks I had purchased across the state line for my little brother. I shot Roman candles into the sky. And no one stopped.

Halfway through the bag, I got pissed. Despite the fact that this was a major trucking corridor, no one stopped. I took aim at the 18-wheelers that passed by. Pop!pop!pop! went the Roman candle. Boosh! It exploded against the side of a trailer hauling goods to Wal-Mart. I danced and laughed... and watched as the truck's tail lights disappeared over the horizon. Shit. I lit another and kept up the barrage, thinking that someone could at least get angry enough to call the cops. And then I ran out of fireworks. And no one had stopped.

I was defeated. Scowling, I wrapped myself in my blanket and crawled into the back seat to sleep. I'd hike to the next exit in the morning. Sleep came quickly and easily.

"SHOW ME SOME I.D.!" a voice roared.

I shot up, smacked my head against the dome light, and squinted against the blinding light in my eyes.

"What?!"

"STATE PATROL, MA'AM! SHOW ME SOME I.D.!"

"Uh..." I couldn't think! Wait... wasn't there a warning at the campus Take Back the Night rally (again, it was the 90s) about not opening doors for strangers before checking their I.D.? This was MY car... such as it was.

"MA'AM! DID YOU HEAR ME?!"

"Yeah... no, look, YOU show ME some I.D.!"

"MA'AM! I WANT TO SEE YOUR I.D. NOW!"

"And I want to see your I.D.!" I shrieked, feeling bullied and... feverish? That's not a good sign. "Get that light out of my face and show me your badge!"

There was a surprised silence. Then a badge appeared against the window. The light moved off to the side. Stars still danced in front of my eyes as I examined it, made worse by the flashing blue lights of his cruiser. It looked real... not that I'd have been able to tell if it came from a Cracker Jack box. I fished for my purse, pulled out my driver's license and pressed it against the window.

"ARE YOU HURT?" he asked. Jesus, stop with the yelling already.

"No. My car broke down."

"Do you need help?"

"Um... no, I think I'll just sleep here all night in the snow."

"I CAN'T LET YOU DO THAT, MA'AM."

"Yeah, I was joking," I said as I stepped, shivering, from the car.

He appraised me: "How old are you?"

"21."

"Do your parents know where you are?"

"They know I'm supposed to be on my way home right now," I answered. Why did I suddenly feel like I was going to get grounded?

"Where's home?"

Uh, it's on the license plate, Mr. Defender of Freedom. He called a tow truck and let me hang in his heated cruiser while he lectured me on the dangers of sleeping on the side of the road and told me that he thought I had a fever. I explained that I'd planned to walk to the next exit in the morning and there's no way I'm getting sick at this point. I have to go back to work the day after tomorrow 'cause my former friend stole every cent I had left and I'm friggin' broke.

Thankfully, the tow truck arrived in a record 20 minutes. I hopped happily out of the car to greet the driver. And then, the universe dealt me another blow: a Rottweiler the size of a draft horse bounded out the tow truck's door, spotted me and, with a mighty bark, tore right at me. It was like trying to outrun the wind. By the time I could have turned for the car, he would have been upon me. Besides... I no longer cared.

It had been the most annoying week of my life. I was prepared to die... and apparently that preparation was just in time for an attack by this erstwhile Cujo. As I resigned myself to my doom, the big black horse scrunched its hindquarters and leaped through the air....

To be continued...

So, to continue from the previous post...

We ate leftover Thanksgiving turkey with David's mom, then hit every single freakin' skate and/or music store in the Chicago suburbs. I didn't know boys shopped that much. After a few hours, David and I headed into Chicago. We hit every art museum and interesting place in town, browsing stores well-stocked with Manic Panic and leather goods and generally wasting time. I ate Thai food for the first time. We did a lot of walking. It was low-key and very fun.

That night, I stayed in a basement bedroom at his mom's house, and in the morning we headed back into Chicago to finish sightseeing. Traffic was, surprisingly, not that bad - or, at least, it was NOTHING like New York had been when I visited. People were friendly and polite, easily striking up conversations in bars and on the street. I had a pretty great time wandering the city streets with a guy I'd never met before, haven't seen since and can't really remember his name. My roommate was nowhere to be found.

I dropped David off at his dorm in Bloomington-Normal and then went to find Gibran. No one was home at Aenitia's. I killed some time, called around, but couldn't find him. It was getting late and I was tired so I took a room at a cheap motel and left news of my whereabouts.
Shortly, Aenitia and Irene showed up to inform me that Gibran's feelings were hurt.

"And... why isn't he telling me this himself?"

They looked uncomfortable: "Look, he has feelings for you. This trip... he was hoping for a chance to explore those."

"Then he might have maybe actually gone with me to Chicago, yes?" I reasoned. "This is stupid. He effectively abandoned me to my own devices, and then he whines about how he has feelings for me? I mean, we LIVE together, for Christ's sake. There are better places than a house full of strangers to explore feelings."

They invited me back to the house. I told them I'd paid good money for this room and I was going to sleep in it. Gibran was welcome to join me for a nice chat. They said to come over tomorrow and they'd see what could be accomplished. The next day, we ordered pizzas, played cards and drank. Gibran never showed.

In the morning, I found a note from Aenitia, who had left for work. Attached was a note from Gibran: "Stacey, thanks for the ride. I'll send you some gas money later. Gibran."

Shit. I had given Gibran $75 to hold for me, so I wouldn't spend all of it in Chicago. I had a quarter tank of gas and $5 and a BP card in my purse. There were no BPs that far north.
I grabbed some chips from the kitchen, eked every drop of gas out of that $5, and drove. It was 14 hours back to Atlanta, and I was determined to go until I ran out of gas.

Hours later, I was down to less than 1/8 of a tank and getting nervous. Somehow, I hadn't expected to actually run out of gas... I just wanted to make it to Paducah, Kentucky, where I knew there was a BP station. I was still two hours away. It was not going to happen.

And then, lo, in the distance... a truck stop. "WE TAKE ALL GAS CARDS!" the sign boasted. And it was true. I gassed up and stocked up on SunChips, Diet Mountain Dew and a microwave burger. I had 10 hours to go.

In Nashville, Tenn., I called my dad. "If I'm not home by 12:30 a.m., something's wrong. Call the state patrol," I joked.

He was not amused. "Where's Gibran?" he asked.

"Yeah... uh, long story. Made short, he's staying there."

"Did you know that when you went up there?" Dad asked, surprised.

"I suspected," I lied. No point in confirming what was already a well-known incompetence on my part.

"Okay, drive safe," he said. I could hear that he didn't like me driving alone from Chicago to Atlanta. I was almost home, though. What could happen?

I'll tell you what could happen: Forty-five minutes outside of Nashville, my damn crank shaft snapped in two.

To be continued...