Postcard to Houston

I lived on Planet Houston from 1987-1991 and attended the University of Houston. This is a moment from a much longer, rambling blog and is a melted crayon love letter to Houston. 

...

I had a friend keep me out of jail. I was in danger of going to jail because I went to South Padre instead of court. That is a story unto itself. I crashed on couches, lived in a warehouse, I lived with a grad student and her daughter as well as on the bay with Aunt Polly--this all after we sold our house and Jim returned to Denver. I stayed to work with Edward Albee and Jose Quintero. I learned mime from Claude Caux and acting from Ruddy Cravens, costumes with Claremarie Verhayen and my fellow writers, actors and directors at UH taught me daily. I feel such gushy love for that place and those people. I remember Amy's confidence, and Beth's talent, Curtis' laugh,and Peter's stoic realism. I remember Tracy, who wanted to be a teacher which I thought that was noble but stupid. She was so talented, why would she want to waste it on teaching?I remember Paul's wise and infuriatingly logical approach to everything and Chris' irrepressible enthusiasm. Albee's gravely judgment and Quintero's soft love. I watch every tropical storm and hurricane  and marvel at how much water that place can take on and keep going. As I watched Harvey do a sit and spin over Houston, I just kept shaking my head, thinking "Don't piss off Texas". There is  a photo of a woman in her neighborhood, knee deep in water holding a rifle. 

       I smiled. You pissed off Texas, didn't you, Harvey?

       The hurricane spun and when Houston realized it wasn't going to let up,  they lived the joke they're heard about red necks for years. Harvey challenged them, and Houston said "Hold my beer", and proceeded to combat the anger and fury the only way they knew how: with love. They gassed up their boats, opened their furniture stores to those who fled, sent their furniture trucks to those who couldn't get to the store, saved neighborhood animals and huddled with them in their attic, paid their employees even though they couldn't get to work--the stories are in the hundreds, and they aren't going to stop.

         When Katrina wiped out New Orleans, Houston took in the refugees.

         When Harvey hit Houston, Houston helped themselves. 

          When Jim and I arrived, newly burgled, having lost everything to ass hat thieves in Arlington, Houston took us in, patted us on the heads and said  "You're home now, you just sit on down. Hold my beer. Lemme get you some supper, have a drink, y'all. It's gonna be fine."

          I love that city and I love that state. 

    ....

Theatre Camp Stories (Two Different Camps)

July/Aug 2017

Today at a theatre camp: It was "goth" day, so everybody was in black. I laughed and said "Looks like a techie convention." A 13 year old girl, a veteran of the camp AND a student at a local "performing arts" school, batted her eyes at me and asked simply "What's a techie?

After I came to, I confirmed that she was not, in fact, kidding. The small circle that had gathered around my unconscious body were all mouthing the same question to one another "What's a 'techie'? Did she say 'techie?'"

I passed out again. This time, upon re entry, I sat in the middle of the circle and explained the word, like Jane Goodall communicating with the chimps. One girl perked up, "Oh, ya, them.Why do we need them?"
With all the snark and fire I could muster, I made eye contact with the ten year old who had spoken and responded, "Because without them you are naked, without makeup, standing in the dark on an empty stage, holding nothing."

Good thing I only have one day left at this camp.

So, last week of theatre camp for me. We're doing combat fairy tales, and a kid says "Let's do Shawshank Redemption, that's my favorite fairy tale."
Me too, kid.

These are late. It's fine. 101 Dalmatians Postcards;

*One of the students "snuck in", as he is only four years old and not old enough for the camp. We will call him Steve. Steve can read and write, which is helpful when rehearsing a show, but he cannot and will not sit still, learn choreography, focus, etc. Instead he crawls under chairs during music rehearsal, insists that it is snack time always, takes my cell phone and returns his score to the producer daily stating "I won't be back". Unfortunately, the next day he comes back. The final time he tried to take my phone I said "Steve, stop. This is my phone, I'm tired of telling you." He slinked back under the chairs and looked up at me and said calmly "I could ruin your life." The SM and Props mistress, who were seated next to me, burst into laughter.

One little girl knew her lines, just not where they went, even after being taught by yours truly what a cue line is. Sometimes she would say the line in the right place, sometimes she wouldn't say it at all, it was a new journey every time. When she finally got her costume, she would not leave her tail alone. Both performances she managed to pull her tail off of her body. What're ya gonna do? As a dalmatian, she was trapped in Cruella's vault, both nights holding her tail aloft in some sort of canine solidarity power pose. On the second night, she was quietly fidgeting with her detached tail, and sometimes remembering her lines, as Cruella said "Bash them over the head, I don't care", and her tail immediately shot straight into the air over her head. She seemed to be demonstrating Cruella's cruelty! Look! She will rip off our tails! Funny, but wrong. But funny. And she said her line, in the wrong place, which was "Shhhhh!". I was not the only adult who had a Norma Rae Flashback, imagining a silent Sally Field holding up her sign UNION.

A girl asked me why I don't get my phone fixed-it has a cracked screen. I said simply "I don't have the money." She replied, just as simply "Why don't you get a lemonade stand?"

The Science of Traffic

          I don't want to bitch about the traffic in Denver any more. We're now LA and it sucks. Scene.

          Since October of 2016, we have been owners of the fussiest, most glitchy car in the world. It is a 2010 VW Beetle. It was not a car we wanted, it is a car we blustered into when He Who Shall Not Be Named wrecked Harper's perfectly perfect Honda Accord. The insurance only gave us $5 grand for the pristine used car, so that's all we had to get another car. And the Bug was available and the right price. It was also at Auto Nation, who we now hate--DO NOT BUY A CAR THERE --and not Planet Honda who we love --BUY A CAR THERE.

          The standard behavior on this thing is to die. If it's too hot out: it dies. If it's stuck in traffic: it dies. It dies while in motion, and it remains dead if you wish to restart it. In the ten months we have had it, it has been in the shop more times than the cars we've had for ten years. However, the Cost The Most To Fix Prize this year goes to the 10 year old Chevy Silverado, who needed new spark plugs, new brakes, engine service and the engine blocks themselves have come loose, meaning we have to spend a thou to have it remounted. Super Exciting. 

           I spent this summer dealing with the cars. Some of it was maintenance: oil change, brakes, new battery. Some was major like the Chevy, and the Bug, who was first misdiagnosed by our now former mechanic, and then diagnosed correctly and inexpensively by an expert (again I sing the praises of Doug at Paddock Imports. He is my new best friend.)

            It was a fine way to spend my summer, and I was grateful for the timing. I wasn't "working" ( I work, but not 8 hours in a building) so I had time to schlep, save, rescue, retrieve. And by this comingThursday, all the cars will have been serviced, and fixed and braked and new tires on the FJ for Genoa. Also a perk, our credit has recovered enough for me to qualify for a real credit card that is now "The Car Card" for all of our servicing needs. In Gratitude: this could have been so much worse.

           I have never been a kid whose car died on the off ramp. Or on the freeway. Or on the hill…. or anywhere. The only time I have had a dead car was because it was hit by another car, or it was my Ford Escort, which didn’t really die in transit. It just didn’t always start or run well. Man that car was a piece of poo. When we finally saved enough money to trade it in for a new car, we had to take it in shifts. We drove it half way to the dealer the first day, and the rest of the way the second day. “Push, pull or drag” was their slogan. We pretty much dragged. The point is that I have never been sitting in a dead car with people blaring their horns around me. I am the kid who would pull over and help if your car died. It seems like the right thing to do.

           The first of the Bug’s incidents resulted in getting the clutch rebuilt. Then it started dying again, and Harp, who has nasty anxiety, just couldn’t take having an unreliable car in what was becoming an overcrowded, hostile city. Not the Denver she was raised in at all. Horns blared, people shouted, threw things at her and cussed her out because her car died. It’s hard enough to not panic when the engine sputters and dies, but then when nobody will help you...in fact, instead, they wish to attack you, it’s too much.

           And so, I had no choice but to drive the Bug, because two middle fingers and a Mohawk. And it started sputtering and dying and I had to restart it on the road. I was disappointed in the number of people who blared their horns at me, pulled up deliberately close to my bumper and then sharply whipped around my dying vehicle, while blaring on their horn. Or passed me while blaring their horns. Or flipped me off while blaring their horns. When the Bug died on Harp out by I25 and Arapahoe, someone threw a hamburger out their window at her as she stood by her dead car. Are you kidding me, people?

             It has never been proven by engineers that blaring your horn from a nearby car will restart a dead engine. Science has never proven that blaring your horn from behind a stalled car reignites a dead battery. Scientists are still investigating the effects of an airborne hamburger hurled at a stalled vehicle’s owner, but so far their results indicate that this approach does not restart an internal combustion engine, either.

            The moral code of humanity, however, does indicate that while, scientifically you may not be able to restart an internal combustion engine, you can slow down and see if the stranded motorist is on a cell phone and fetching help. You can stop behind them so that they can safely exit their vehicle. You can pull behind them and exit your own vehicle to ask if they need assistance moving their dead car to the breakdown lane. These choices take exactly the same amount of time and effort that slowing down to cuss out or hurl fast food takes. While none of these things will refire the dead engine, they will bring comfort to the human being whose day has just been jacked by a stupid machine.

          So my conclusion, after much personal research, is that those of you blaring your
 horns, do not believe in science, because you seem to think your horns, obscenities and hurled meat will help the situation. You appear to also not be very interested in being a member of the human race. Which is unfortunate, but at least now I know what we’re up against.

Nightmare 16 July featuring...

I’m in a large room doing PAA. The kids arrive -30 of them -and I realize it’s 7pm, time to go.  I look at Jenna for an explanation as to why they are so late and am I expected to do anything with no time, and she smiles and shrugs. So I shorten what I need to do, talk to the kids as I must and bolt, as I was supposed to be at my next job-waiting tables-by 7 and I’m clearly not going to make it. (Waking kryssi hates these time crunch anxiety dreams and usually I will wake myself up when I see them coming, but I was out cold.)On my way out I say to a PAA coworker “Why am I even trying, by the time I get home and dressed it’ll be past 8. No point in even going. And it’s my first day, they may not even notice.” Still I bolt. (A common theme in my time crunch dreams is multiple jobs, and I’m always running late.)

I do not have a car- a running theme both in my dreams and in life- so I run to the dock as my dream ritual is to catch rides on the back of delivery trucks. A massive long caterpillaresque semi turns the tight corner and the wind blows me over. The next truck pulls in and out before I can jump on the back, I try to jump but it pulls out too fast. Then realize I have my own car tonight. So I run to it and go to LHS. Not my wait job, not home, but LHS. Which is not physically LHS, it’s massive and the front looks a lot like my elementary school. I stop because I need something there but in my waking life, as I retell this, I couldn’t tell you what I thought I needed, I just drove to the school.

All doors are locked so I go in through the science rooms, where all the science teachers are having a big party, they’re clearly drunk and moving boxes everywhere and laughing. I just run through to the outside front, where I see beer bottles strewn on the lawn.  I call to the Sciences through the window “Ladies, you need to make sure you clean this up” and they howl and cackle. I get the feeling there is a bonfire in one of the science rooms.

 Then I realize lang arts is on the front lawn, down center, and Judy Vlasin and Diana Solis have joined them. I’m too far away to call down, and I’m in a hurry, so I keep running to the other side where the theatre is. As I go, Eric Pung leaps into lang arts from the front parking lot screaming “JUDEEEEEEE!!!!! I’m so glad you called me, I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t you”. I want to stop, these are my favorite people, but I have to keep going. I am now in a full on crunch panic. As I pushed into the theatre entrance, a dog brushes past me on my left and runs in then disappears. It does not resemble any theatre I’ve been in in waking life, it’s my dream life theatre, which is all red in the lobby and curves and has multiple house entrances. I run back stage and the science teachers are there, this time Monty and a social worker are with them, and they are pulling furniture and boxes out of the props loft. I have to get OUT of the school at this point  as I am in a full panic,  so I ask without stopping what is going on . Monty replies---sheepishly and drunkenly---that admin told them they could have whatever they wanted. His box has a crown in it, the social worker is dragging a throne.  In my dream brain I know this has something to do with the budget and it makes sense to me, but angers me and I yell “Are you kidding? You’re stealing our furniture and props, we’re in the middle of a show!” but I’m running out to the back parking lot as I’m yelling, and I start to cry. Moving forward is more important than standing there and fighting.  My car is not in the back parking lot, though, it’s in the front lot, and I must run uphill to get it. Crying and angry and realizing I  have lost the waitress job, I run up the hill but it’s a nightmare hill, so the top never gets any closer. Then my feet get bogged down in the sidewalk and I can’t move, so I crawl. As I crawl the cement  rolls away from me, like loose carpeting, and I begin to scream and cry “God, can you give me a break? Can I just get a break, please? Help me!” and the crying becomes angry sobs as I continue to unsuccessfully make any progress to get anywhere.

Somewhere in my head I realize it’s 8 o’clock, and I should have stopped to talk to Judy. It wouldn’t have made any difference. I don’t stop trying to crawl and I imagine I’m making some miniscule progress. If I can get to the top, I think, I’m not getting in my car. I’m going to go talk with Judy. If I can just get there…

I scream again and wake up.

And topping off this crappy week we have....an audition story

   We got hit with nothing but car repair bills and medical bills this lovely week, and I was looking forward to my Saturday audition just to be distracted from  my financial realities. Also my career stall, but that's another story.
    I made the appointment back  in May, today is 1 July, and the notice said "all roles open", which I confirmed when I made the appointment. There are literally no other parts for me in this show, and frankly, I don't even like the show. This role just happens to be On My List. And, as I have said, I enjoy going back out there and reconnecting with the craft, while ignoring how much I hate the business. The last few auditions have been very positive, everyone is supportive and kind, or at least neutral and not cold. After such a nasty week, and knowing I did not actually have a shot at this gig as it rehearses during the day, I fantasized that they would offer it to me and I would have to decline. Or I would get brave and quit teaching so I could do it. One must have hope, right? Anyway, I nonetheless dutifully printed a color head shot, made up a resume* , found a song and put makeup on my face.
    I then drove 45 minutes on  day that I cannot really afford the gas (see above "car repair and medical bills") but I was feeling positive. My song is solid, I know I'm right for the part, it's a part I've wanted since 1982, I know it's a mostly equity house and they rehearse during the day, but I need some positive, man. I need to feel like I have something to offer. My career does not afford me that and I crave positive reinforcement. And every time I've gone out over the last year, everyone has been kind and supportive. I know this will be a good experience, and that's what I signed up for.
    I arrive, after overshooting the theatre and having to U Turn. It's been years since I've auditioned here. I'm not technically a musical theatre kid so I rarely venture out to musical auditions.
    I make friends with the pretty late twenties young lady adjusting her character shoes who is nervous that they may make her dance, and the young man who is hopeful that they don't want him to sing his whole song. Both express their delight that all roles are open and that the notice did not have any dance needed. Again: nice people. I like this, nobody's mean or rudely competitive. We have no idea how good the other is until after the audition, when everyone in the lobby has heard your song. But even then I've noticed, nobody's mean or judgey.
    I am escorted in. Director, Choreographer, Stage Manager, Accompanist and various others that nobody felt I needed to be introduced to. OK, that's fine. Hi, I'm kryssi.
    The accompanist smiles warmly and shakes my hand, introducing herself. I give her my music and there we go. She smiles and says "good luck", which is bad luck, but whatever, she's the nicest one in the room. Very grandmotherly.
     I nail my song. Dude. Nailed. IT. I've never done "When You're Good To Mama" before, and I need to do it always, it's perfect. And when you nail it,  you know it. YES, good job, good experience, just what I needed. I can read a room, and it went very well.
     The director says "The role of (INSERT ONLY ROLE THAT IS AGE AND TYPE APPROPRIATE FOR ME IN THE WHOLE SHOW) has been cast. But...." he starts looking at my resume. "What is your dance experience?"
      I'm still trying to dissect that he didn't bother to email me and tell me the ONLY ROLE I'm right for is no longer available. I don't care why, I don't care if it was given to an equity actor, I care that I wasted my time on a beautiful Saturday afternoon to be told the role is not available and asked if I can dance.
      Also, he nailed my type immediately in the role. Meaning he knew my type and could have easily let me know it was cast before I drove 45 minutes to audition for him.
       I smile without sarcasm. "I teach tap to my intro kids." You wanna know my dance experience? That's it for 20 years.
       Silence. I stand there. Maybe they haven't really looked at me. For God's sake I practically limped up the three stairs to the stage due to my arthritic feet. I look like I need a walker, not like I have years of dance experience.
      "We need strong dancers." He is rummaging through my one page resume as if there are invisible pages somewhere--volumes, perhaps, detailing my extensive dance experience with Alvin Ailey and Cleo Parker Robinson. Somehow it's impossible that someone with my experience and pipes cannot dance. If he can find my dance experience, he can call me back as ensemble. Because I can sing, and I can act, and they need me. And the role I'm clearly perfect for has already been cast. But they need me to dance also so they can use me. Where is that additional resume, kryssi, with your tap dance classes, your drop in times at Cleo, and your jazz and modern in college? All of which combined is your "extensive dance experience." Gimme a break. I am "Schleppy the Clown" for a reason.
     I laughed. Also, I'm thinking, why are you asking someone who came to a singing audition if they can DANCE?  Singing only auditions are for leads, that's how it works. Look at me, dude. Do you not have eyes? Do I look like I dance? I look directly at the choreographer.  "I'm what you people call a 'mover.' I can be taught, I can, I have," and as every clown should do at this moment, I execute a time step. "I'm not a strong dancer, no. I'm not your kid."
       I choose to let it go. I can be mad or I can go home. I keep smiling  and say "Thanks. I'm coming back in after 20 years, thanks for the opportunity." And they all smile back and say "You nailed it."
       Fuck you and your sympathy for the sad old woman.
       UGH.
       'cause I DID nail it, I was awesome, that's my part bitches, you missed your chance. I'm just not a dancer. No shame in that.
       I descended the stairs without falling down and breaking a hip, and as I reached for my music the accompanist stopped me. "You're Kryssi from Littleton, right? Kmart? I was an AP at Arapahoe." I smile and am nice, because she is nice, but I have no memory of ever meeting this woman. And she does not look like a retired AP, she looks like a grandma. I wonder if I look as old as she does? Would they ask her if she has dance experience? Her gray hair and wrinkled face are looking at me for acknowledgement of some kind, so I smile and say "Yes, I'm kmart from Littleton." And again I'm struck by how small this town remains, even though I'm 45 minutes from home and an hour from Littleton, even in the face of the massive population explosion, theatre remains small.
        I realize as I exit the house that if this show had been a scheduling possibility for me, that if I wasn't teaching full time, I would have lied. I would have lied my face off, made my minimal dance sound maximal and worried about the truth at the callback. Because I'm an actor, and I can be taught. I can, I have. But there was no sense in lying when I really can't do the show in the first place.
        On my way out of the theatre, my young friend with the character shoes stops me. "You sounded so great! Did it go well?"
        "I thought so, but it was a waste of my time. (INSERT ONLY ROLE THAT IS AGE AND TYPE APPROPRIATE FOR ME IN THE WHOLE SHOW) is already cast." I smile and shrug.
        The color drains from her face. I know from her type she was not auditioning for the same role as I, but if they've cast mine, they easily could have cast the one she was hoping for as well. Nothing kills your confidence like being misled. I told her to break a leg and left the building, sad that I may have caused her any grief. It's possible mine was the only role they precast. It's possible all the leads were precast. It's likely I won't be auditioning there again.
        This exact behavior is why I retired 20 years ago. It's frustrating when they hold auditions out of town, it's frustrating when they only hold local auditions so they can check the box that says "held local auditions" but they never use local actors, or only use them in smaller roles. It's frustrating when they precast and hold auditions, anyway. It's rude guys. All of this is rude behavior. If you don't believe in the talent this town holds, then stop inviting us to your auditions. Cast all of your shows out of New York. It's more honest that way. At least we are not given any false hope.
        So I came home and took a nap. Because I suddenly felt really old.
     

    * The issue is that it's been years, I can't remember all the shows. So under "special talents" I write "Forgetting everything that should be on this resume."

Say A Simple Sentence

   
         I'm sitting in the little wood grained, exposed brick coffee shop that shares a wall with a small indie thrift store. Everything feels like it did in the 1990's before Things Got Cray Cray in Colorado, until I look up from my computer at the construction workers outside of the car dealership. The dealership isn't new, this has been Dealership Row along Broadway here for years. But the construction workers make me nervous. They have a lot of steel cords. Their orange vests and giant spools give me PTSD. It is never good. It used to be I 25, which was constantly under construction, and then they finally "finished" it, only to have parts of it flood in the first big rain storm. Sigh. I love my state, but sometimes I dunno how bright they are. And this was before pot was legal.
         I like this stretch of Littleton, it reminds me of Denver. I was raised in what is now the Trendy Highlands. It didn't used to be trendy, and there was nothing heightened about it. Mom got us out after high school, and I went to Kansas for college. I know, freaking Kansas, right?  I loved that it was not crowded and felt safe. But I didn't stay, going to school there was fine but after four years I was ready to come back. I'm hanging in Littleton today after making sure mom is OK. We moved out here into a tiny, blonde brick house on a block of tiny brick houses near the elementary school. We don't have a garage, which is a weird thing for Colorado, but to us it was heaven. I live in Lafayette, which also used to be not trendy, but now they have a Bar Louie. Somehow in the last few years Boulder has just annexed Lafayette and Nederland. Oh well. At least we held on to our identities, it feels the same. and frankly, there's no where else to build.
     I come down every day during the summer to spend the morning with my mom, get her coffee and chat. She's not sick or anything, but her mind is starting to slip a bit. She's OK once she's up and around. Our neighbors have been on one side have been the same for years, and the new family that moved in on the other side has small kids that love to come over and play in her garden. She has this epic rose garden out back, it takes up most of the yard. The kids think it's a blast to come over and weed and water, and mom lets them pick their favorite rose to take home. They will choose before it blooms,and then check it every day until it's ready to be plucked and displayed in a tea cup on their coffee table.
         It's only ten a.m. and already it's eighty. Sheesh. The last few summers have been ridiculous. It's crazy hot and I guess we have hail storms now. It must suck to be any kind of construction worker in this state. Last summer I hung out up in Gunnison and Montrose, my cousin lives in Delta and I like to go visit her. There's no construction up there, nobody wants to live on the Western Slope or the Banana Belt. Coming back down it looked like Grand Junction had some growth going on. They have wineries now in addition to all the fruit. We use to joke about what a pit Grand Junction was back in the day, but now it looks freaking gorgeous compared to the steel and glass monstrosity that Denver has become. Every time I visit my cousin I threaten to move up there. But then, what would I do for a job? That's the catch. She works for social services, some kind of dispatcher. She has a nice little house and it's just so quiet up there. She said last year she bought a snow shovel because they got about an inch. An inch. Banana Belt, dude.
          My phone is going off. I look down, it's mom.
          "Hey, what's up?"
          "Something is wrong. I've called the ambulance but I wanted to call you in case," that's my mom, over communicating and making sure the entire planet has all the necessary information.
           "I'm on my way."
           I arrive at mom's house, the ambulance isn't there yet. No reason for it to have beat me, I was across the street. I let myself in and mom is sitting at the dining room table. Her driver's license and insurance card are on the table. There is also a handwritten note. I pick it up: My name is JW and I feel dizzy. Her meds are lined up next to the note.
            "Mom?"
            "I think I'm having a stroke but I can't be," she starts lifting both arms over her head "say a simple sentence."
             "The hell are you doing?"
             "If it's a stroke I shouldn't be able to say a simple sentence. Or to put my arms up level."
             "I'll call the ambulance off, I can take you."
             "No, I want the medics to see me before I leave the house. Nothing personal."
             I shake my head at her. She knows I was an EMT for ten years. Yet for some reason, that isn't medical training in my mom's eyes. I also work part time as a nurse in Boulder Valley Schools, but again, it doesn't count.
              "Mom, the ambulance medics have the same training that I do."
              "Yours is old,  you haven't done it in years. There's new technology and treatments."
              "Not for strokes there isn't," I sigh. I hear the ambulance drive past our house.
              "Will you go out in the walkway and make sure they know which house."
              I do as asked and wave down the ambulance. I give them the 411 on mom, her meds, her symptoms, her history. They're really young, these guys, I swear they get younger all the time. I'm only thirty, but these EMT's look like middle schoolers. One of them looks at me longer than the other. When I'm done and they unload the gurney, he smiles. "I know you. You taught anatomy at the massage therapy school, didn't you?"
                I nod. "One of my many gigs, yep."
                "Steve," he shakes my hand. I realize that if he was in MT school when I was teaching, he has to be at least 28. "Your stories are one of the reasons I became an EMT."
                 "Did you dump massage?"
                 "Not even remotely, I do that part time on my off days. I love it."
                  We enter the house together, and my mom looks at me. "Are we done flirting now? Can it be about the woman having a stroke?"
                    ____________________________________________________________
             
                   At the ER, mom continues to raise her arms and repeat "say a simple sentence", much to the nurse's amusement. They get her hooked up and settled and she asks me where her meds are.
                  "I put them in your purse. When the doc gets here we'll give them to him."
                  "If he ever gets here, how long have we been here?"
                  "Twenty minutes."
                  "This is an ER? Nobody's here, where are the nurses? Where's the doctor?"
                   I shrug. She isn't going to like my answer based on her politics, so I just shrug.
                   "Say a simple sentence. It wasn't a stroke, I didn't have a stroke."
                   The nurse enters. "We have you in line for a CAT scan, it may be about an hour."
                   "Is this an emergency room? An hour for a CAT scan? I could die."
                   The nurse runs more diagnostics, asks her questions, checks her head and eyes. "The specialist on call is in the building, hopefully he will be down in the next half an  hour."
                   "This is an emergency room? In the suburbs? This is as bad as Denver General used to be. I do have insurance."
                     The nurse warily smiles and takes mom's blood pressure.
                    "I have to go the bathroom," my mom states. She's only 68, but right now she sounds 80.
                    "Let me unhook you," the nurse begins to adjust the IV so mom can wheel the bag with her.
                    "I'll walk you down," I volunteer.
                    When we get back from the restroom, the room is empty. I get mom resituated with her IV.
                    "Where are my meds?"
                    "In your purse. I've told you that twice now. You don't remember asking?"
                    "Say a simple sentence. How long have we been here?"
                    "Forty minutes."
                    "This is an ER?"
                    This same conversation, almost verbatim, repeated over the next two hours. The nurse came in twice in that time, both times assuring us that the specialist was in the building.
                     I looked at the nurse, "This is America, right?" referring to the ridiculous amount of time we have been waiting to see a doctor.
                     At hour four, the Doctor appears. He asks her to say a simple sentence.
                     He asks her to raise her arms simultaneously.
                     He says there is a line for the CAT scan and it will be about an hour.
                     He then left.
                     "Where are my meds?"
                     "I gave them do the Doc when he came in. You watched me do it."
                     At hour five they arrived to take mom to the CAT scan.
                     They brought her back and thirty minutes later, the doctor reappeared with a clip board.
                     "Well the CT scan doesn't show any abnormal bleeding, but we need an MRI to tell. The ER does not have an MRI, but you should schedule one down at the Franklin location as soon as possible. Or we can admit you for the night, and do an MRI upstairs in the morning."
                       "Let's do that, please. I'd like to know if my mom had a stroke."
                       "Allright, let me put in the request."
                       Thirty minutes later, another nurse--shift change--appeared to tell us that the hospital is full and there are no beds available. We will have to wait here in the ER for a few hours for a bed to open.
                        "Or, we can go home and schedule the MRI at Franklin," I say.
                        She nods sympathetically.
                        "Mom, you wanna stay?"
                        "Nope, this is ridiculous, are we in Russia? Am I not an insured American citizen?" I start to laugh, because usually this is my role. Whatever has happened to mom's brain has changed her personality, at least for the moment. "How long have we been here?" she asks me, looking at the clock as if it's Greek text.
                         "Five hours."
                          My  mom looks at the nurse. "Clearly I am fine, let me out. Say a simple sentence."
                          As I put mom in the car, she loses consciousness. Like a ragdoll, she just slumped. I ran back in and got the attendant.
                         She had an aneurysm. The doctor said "There is no way we could have seen it coming."
                         I replied "That sounds like a simple sentence."
                         

Fiction
 22  June 2017

fruit salad

 The story you are about to read is true. The names have not been changed to protect anything.

 When I was going to school on Planet Houston, I was fortunate to have a few magnificent people in my life. One of them was Paul. Paul was kind, Paul was funny, Paul was a fellow playwright. Paul was a rare bird with his own house. Paul paid my bond to keep me out of jail when I went to South Padre instead of court. Paul is still my friend, and is now a fellow educator, and he has no recollection of this tale. Which is a damned shame, because I tell this at parties and it kills. And for some reason I tell it in the present tense.

 Paul invited Mr. Albee over for dinner. Mr. Albee accepted, and let Paul know that he drinks only Caffeine Free Diet Coke and eats skinless chicken breasts. So Paul did all the shopping and cooking, and invited me over, saying he was too nervous to be alone with Mr. Albee. I have no money to contribute to the meal, so he asks me to bring a six pack of Caffeine Free Diet Coke. That I can do. The six pack plus the gas to get to Paul's eat my budget for the week, but it's worth it. I am in Mr. Albee's class with Paul, but I would never have the balls to ask him to dinner! I did have lunch with him once at the school cafe, he wanted to chat more about my play. He told me when we arrived that it was his treat so "eat well, dear".

 When I arrive Paul greets me and looks grumpily at the six pack. "That's all you brought?"
 "That's all you asked me to bring." I do feel bad, but I honestly am stone broke, I barely have gas to get home from dinner.

  Flustered and annoyed that nobody on the planet is helping him, he returns to the kitchen. I hover and ask if I can do anything? He says something but I can't hear him, so I just fluff pillows and clean off the coffee table. He comes plowing out of the kitchen clutching a salad bowl. He shoves it into my face.
   "Does this salad look fruity?"
   I look into the bowl. There is no fruit.
  "No."
  "No, look. You didn't look. Does it look fruity?"
   I look into the bowl again. I look up at him and declare "tomatoes." Tomatoes are technically a fruit, right, they have seeds? Is that the game? I don't understand the game, and poor Paul is almost hysterical.
 "Dammit, kryssi. Look at it. Does it look FRUITY?"
  I am so confused and hurt that I seem to be making Paul's night much worse than it needs to be. So I really look deeply into the salad he is holding out to me.
  "Cucumbers."
  "KRYSSI!"
  "PAUL! There is no fruit in this salad. What are you asking me?"
  "Can you tell a faggot made this salad?"
  There is no other option but to laugh. To gufaw. To barf humor. As I begin to do all of these things, I look into my friend's frenzied eyes. He is hosting a dinner in his tiny house for a man he worships. A man who has three Pulitzers, Tony Awards and a Kennedy center, as well as a string of other awards.     He is a Big Deal. And Paul is making him dinner.
  I put my hand on Paul's wrist and hold his eyes."Honey. It's a salad. All he requested is no dressing. He is not going to judge your sexuality on your salad making skills." I allow a smile "Also, honey, he's gay too. Remember?"
 We maintain eye contact for a moment, and I see a moment of peace click in Paul's blue eyes. Then he huffs and clutches the salad to his chest. "Shit, it's faggy, it's  a fruity salad." He stomps back into the kitchen and slams the bowl down, turning his attention to the skinless chicken breasts and mumbling. "Skinless chicken is pretty gay, isn't it? "

I can't.

EPILOGUE  The dinner for Mr. Albee was successful. We ate on the couch with our plates on our laps, as Paul's tiny little table could hold only the food. Paul made Mr. Albee watch A Fish Called Wanda because....I don't know why. Mr. Albee had never seen it and Paul insisted it was the greatest movie ever made. Mr. Albee had to leave "early" as he was meeting  his manager for drinks, but he was phenomenally kind and gracious. Best quote of the evening:
   Paul had a computer game called "Sim City" where you built a city, and then a giant dinosaur creature destroyed it. Paul walked Mr.Albee through the game, and Mr. Albee growled "What's the point?" He was not unfriendly, Mr. Albee just growls, that's his voice.
    Paul, shocked, did not hesitate. "To build a city and have it destroyed."
    Mr. Albee "Why bother with the city? Just release the beast."
    Paul "But then what does it destroy?"
    Mr. Albee "Why does it need to destroy anything?"
    Paul "That's the game."
    Mr. Albee "Again I ask, what's the point?"

I sat on the couch watching this exchange. Watching the gleam in Mr. Albee's eye and admiring his ornery questioning. Paul twitched and sputtered and I felt badly for him, but not for long. We were used to being grilled by this man about our plays. He would sit you in front of the class and fire questions at you, demanding answers for "why" you made the choices you did. And if you couldn't take it, well then, maybe you should get out of playwriting. Paul handled defending his play beautifully in class, but in his own home he sputtered when asked "why" about a computer game. A game he did not even create. 

Poor Paul. I asked him if I could write about this and blog it. He said he has no memory of the evening, so it's fine. It was likely too traumatic to commit to memory. I'm glad I was there to record it for him, now he has a record of making dinner for a Great Man.