Tagged: women
Waking Up
“What are you doing here?” Jim asked, immediately realizing there was only one reason the director would be there to greet him at his bedside. Tara was dead.
“Jim, Tara’s dead. I’m sorry for that,” Frank said. “Your hands were your fault, however.”
“Jesus Frank! Don’t you have any compassion. The man is barely awake and you’re nearly attacking him,” said Jason.
“I don’t care how long he’s been awake for. I’m not attacking him, he attacked me, remember?” Turning back towards Jim, he continued, “You broke my nose asshole.” Frank had a bandage over his nose. Jim also noticed that Frank was self-conscious of his inability to speak clearly. Looking more closely, Jim could see the cause of the difficulty. Frank had to be careful when he spoke or else parts of his lips would unnaturally flap out into view. Jim’s capacity to fly into a rage would not be soon forgotten.
“What about my hands?” asked Jim, confused by both the gulf between Frank and Jason’s attitudes and the medication that was still in his system. He had been so distracted by the implications of Frank’s presence that he totally forgot what caused him to be in the hospital in the first place. Looking down, he saw, in place of his hands, two stumps that were wrapped in white gauze. He was amazed at how sharply the perpendicular lines that gave texture to the gauze stood out, and not surprised to see the classically blood-stained red ends. Then he threw up. Then he passed out.
Jason glared at Frank as two attractive nurses quickly cleaned up Jim’s mess and re-positioned his body. All the many medical monitors indicated Jim was fine, just fast asleep.
Over the year’s Jason had seen a resigned person or two. But he had never seen anything like the look on Frank’s face. Frank looked Jason in the eye one last time, as if to demonstrate he believed words were not useful or necessary, then he turned and walked away. Frank and Jim were never seen in the same room again. And all Jason could do was wait. So he waited.
Tara
He noticed the mask that was over his mouth and nose didn’t seal perfectly. Upon pointing this out to the bedside nurses, he was told, “Just breathe normally.”
He inhaled deeply before realizing that that wasn’t a normal breath. Then he exhaled and tried to think of something besides breathing. He thought about Tara. He wondered if she was dead or alive. He tried to remember first meeting her. It was one of his favorite days.
“Can you believe those guys?” he remembered her saying on the day they met as she stormed into the room after a shift in the containment pod. Her head fully forward, her finger pointing back to the door, a look of disgust covered her face. “They’re acting like this is a joke. One of these days they’re going to get us all killed.”
“What is that little bit of hair called that falls on a woman’s face again?” he tried to remember, the sleeping gas beginning to work. “A tendril. That’s it.”
A tendril had unintentionally dropped from her pony tail as she took off her helmet and oxygen mask that day. He was a sucker for tendrils. When he noticed that she had some fire in her to boot, he became weak in the knees. He would never forget her first words to him.
“And what the fuck are you staring at asshole?”
She asked him that question, she later told him, because he failed to heed her nonverbal social cues that told everyone that while she was used to being ogled, she was not in the mood at the moment.
Jim laid there, waiting for sleep and thought about women. For him, a woman needed to be so much more than a pretty face or a fit body. Like any man, he knew his preferences for exterior qualities, but unlike any man, he could also list all the internal qualities a woman should aspire to have. At the top of his list was a backbone. Tara clearly had one. Number two was a passion for living. He needed a woman to love all the nuances of life as much as he did. He needed her to fight for life. The gas taking effect, he chuckled at his word choice. “Fight for life. Yeah, that’s my girl,” he mumbled. “You better be fighting now woman. You can’t fly yet,” he said, only noticing the slip-up as it entered his ears. “Of course you can’t fly. No one can fly,” he said, laughing at his own joke. Then with a forced seriousness, he said, “People can die though. But not you. You can’t die yet,” he ordered, the last “t” not quite being enunciated. Finally succumbing to the anesthetic, his body was ready for the amputations.
I’ve Had More Fun – Part 2
Jim pounded more slowly now. The endorphins were wearing off, and his hands finally began to hurt.
He couldn’t stop watching her–watching them–lay there, likely dead. His tears ran dry and his wail fell silent as he let his forehead come to rest on the bloody glass. He shut his eyes and hoped to wake up from a nightmare. Opening his eyes, he was surprised to see the pink cloud rapidly ascending to towards the ceiling and then towards the two vents that were specifically designed to be used if there was a mishap. Not entirely the same as waking from a nightmare (though a close second), he saw the light over the door turn green and heard the familiar click of the door unlocking. Not waiting for anyone or anything to stop him, he opened the door and rushed to where Tara lay.
He reached for her suit and in touching it, he collapsed in immobilizing pain. The chemical agent was out of the air, but not out of the suit, it seemed. He kind of wished he hadn’t destroyed his hands as he stared up at the ceiling, becoming the sixth victim of the mishap. What can only be described as the friendliest looking firemen imaginable suddenly appeared. To Jim, who laid there in agonizing pain, they looked like a cross between his childhood mother and Kurt Russell from Backdraft, shaky cheeks and all. Jim counted at least fifteen of them as he was lifted onto a gurney and rolled from the room.
The last thing he saw as they wheeled him away from the danger was the glove-wearing rescuers cutting Tara and the others out of their protective suits.
I’ve Had More Fun
“I’ve had more fun in my life,” she said, attempting to rise from the prone position in her XB-2134 chem-warfare suit. She understood why it had to be so heavy, but at the moment, she couldn’t believe they never trained for this. She was on her back and knew she couldn’t sit up. That meant she needed to roll over. The trouble was that the arms of the suit were so heavy that the designers built into the suit a feature which took some of the weight off of the wearer’s shoulders. The feature prevented the arms from lowering past 45 degrees. In effect, they were sticking out, both to the side and front. Through her helmet’s face shield, she could only see a slight cloud of pink smoke thickening and the ceiling. “No more effing around, Tara, you have to get out of here,” she told herself.
Up until she found herself on her back, she had been working on a new chemical weapon and been payed very well to do so. Rocking back and forth, back and forth, she finally made it to her stomach. She was on her stomach, arms extended over her head. “I’m not sure this is any better,” she thought. For the first time since she was knocked off her feet she felt a pang of fear. And now on her stomach she couldn’t see anything but the floor. It was smooth cement. She had never really looked at the floor before. It reminded her of the skating rink where she used to play roller hockey with her brothers.
Deciding that perhaps her side was a better position to start from, she rocked and rocked some more, gaining more and more momentum. She did it. She made it to her right side and was able to use her extended right arm to keep her from rolling back on her stomach. It was then that she noticed no one had said anything over the suits comm system since she woke up. Scanning the room from her new vantage point, she saw her four co-workers struggling to stand back up just as she was. There was no noise beside her own breathing. And the pink cloud was not only thick now, but starting to attack the suit.
“Jim! Jim, do you read me?” she shouted, hoping that anyone listening could hear her distress. She realized what part of the room she was looking at, and quickly decided to at least turn towards the containing door, with its one small window. She had to rotate clockwise about her right shoulder or else she’d end up back on her stomach. Feeling as foolish as she imagined she looked, she began to make progress. But not faster than the pink cloud. As she began to make out the hinge to the door, the chemical came nearer and nearer to eating a hole in her suit.
“Help! Anybody!” she screamed, totally aware of what was coming. She kicked her feet harder and harder.
Outside the door, Jim’s hands bled. It wasn’t until they smashed against the program director’s teeth over and over again that he even became aware of the blood. But now that he heard the squishy sound of pummeled flesh smacking against an immovable object, he realized the deep red substance that obscured the window he watched her through was his own blood. He frantically tried to wipe the blood away with his fingers. Making little progress, he saw Tara and the others speed up their movements the way ants walk faster on a frying pan over a flame. Then, just like the ants, everyone stopped moving at the exact same time. Everyone except Jim.
Caught!
“Heyyyy!” said H-, her head rotating up in order to look him in the eyes. Slowly peering into his soul, she couldn’t stop her bottom lip from quivering. Her face flushed red, and she loosed a single, crippling tear. “Why did you do that? Why did you take off my band-aid?”
“H-, come on now. You saw that it was already starting to come off on its own. How long had it been on for anyhow? Two days? You didn’t even have a bleeding oww-ee,” he said, meeting her eye-contact and rubbing her shoulder. “Plus, I keep telling you that band-aids aren’t stickers-”
“Look! It’s red. Can I have a band-aid to put on it?” she asked, her tone revealing that she believed she had presented sound reasoning.
“No, H-, you cannot have a band-aid to cover the mark left by leaving the last band-aid on for too long,” he winced. “Can we stop talking about band-aids for the rest of the night at least? Please?” he asked, appealing to her well-developed sense of give-and-take.
“Okay. But tomorrow morning I want another adult band-aid,” she asserted, her persistence approaching a level generally reserved for the possessed children in career-making horror classics.
“We’ll see. For now, let’s get back to bed so we can continue reading about King Aaathuh,” he said.
****
“Daa-ddy! Daa-ddy!” sounded his own personal alarm clock exactly twenty minutes early.
Climbing out of his bed, he opened her door and let her know that it wasn’t quite time to get up yet.
“Can I play quietly for a little bit?” she offered.
“Sure. I just need twenty more minutes,” he said.
Only a minute passing until guilt overcame him, he reappeared in the living room, much to her surprise.
“I’m going to rest a little out here while you play,” he informed her.
“Rest a little?”
“Yeah, rest a little. Here on the couch. It’s not time to get up yet, but when my phone goes off, I will. You can play though.”
“Okay.”
No sooner than he had closed his eyes, he heard her walking towards the bathroom. Eyes still closed, he asked, “H-? Where are you going?”
The entire essence of her being still moving forward, her corporeal body came to a halt. He opened his eyes just in time to see an empty face betray that all available energy was being redirected into deciding how best to play this one out. No less sudden than when light vanquishes darkness, her widening eyes and resultant raised eyebrows signaled that she had made her decision. Turning towards him, she slowly nodded her head in the vertical plane, raised her index finger, and casually informed him, “I’m just going to get one band-aid.”
Review of Grudge Match
I will cry when Sylvester Stallone and Robert De Niro die. In the past I have thought about celebrity deaths that will be difficult to stomach, but only after watching Grudge Match am I sure that those two will cause a genuine sense of loss.
The movie is easy. The story is straightforward. And as a bonus, a black man and an old man use their societal advantages to provide the audience with guilty laughs.
The movie is almost good enough to be called “good” even if the viewer hasn’t seen Raging Bull or any films in the Rocky Saga–almost. Then again, no movie would be comprehensible if all context could be removed.
It’s humorous the way each fighter is equally the underdog. We have underdog versus underdog. Luckily, the respective underdog attributes are acted well-enough to birth some curiosity. By the time we find ourselves calling the filmmakers names for not having the courage to use Rocky’s theme song one last time to accompany the mandatory training montage, we do wonder how the fight will end. And we nurse a hope that it will end the way we want it to, whichever way that is. Surprisingly, the film’s writers and director are more on point than we ever could’ve imagined.
In the final round of the fight we arrive at two specific moments that explicitly reveal the film’s theme, and whether these moments are taken together or individually, that theme proves to be well worth the, at times perfunctory, 90 minute commute.
In short, if you remain undecided about watching it, watch it.
She Can Hurt You
Who are these men? Where do they come from? What forces form them? Is it nature? Is it nurture?
Is there a specific set of childhood variables that must exist in certain quantities in order to produce these men?
We must admit that one attribute that these men have in common is ignorance. As children, during the formative years, they must have been ignorant and unaware of situations where women hurt men. Oh sure, we’ve all heard of poor John Bobbitt’s pain, but, seriously, what man considers amputation a likely outcome that need be guarded against? In fact, there’s probably a man somewhere who has created some statistic which proves that the chance of a woman cutting a man is less than getting struck by lightning.
And men are proud creatures, the lot of them. And rightfully so. Is that it then? Can we point the finger at an adult man’s pride? (A father’s pride?) Is pride the causal factor? Is pride the reason that he wouldn’t share with young men that a woman had hurt him? Or maybe he, the adult man, had never owned up to himself that she had hurt him? Is this whole mess created by a simple lie? Is it created by simple denial? A virtual, “She didn’t hurt me. I wanted to break up. I hadn’t liked her for a while anyhow. I can do better”?
Whatever the causes, I haven’t been able to figure out what words would get through to these men–or as Heat puts it, “All you are is a child growin’ older!”–these men who rush into relationships with women. And no ‘mounta nothin’ cn talk ’em outta it–don’ matta who doin’ da sayin’. I know, because I was one of them. And then I almost repeated the mistake. And then almost repeated it again. And if I didn’t have such a hatred for patterns, I probably would’ve rinsed and repeated for the rest of my life.
Enter “old people”.
Turns out, they can hold their own in conversation. And they’ve got, by definition, no shortage of experiences to back up the talk. And I was looking for answers, ready to try anything.
So after a lot of listening, and a lot of thinking, the answer finally appeared. I believe that I am invincible to women. Or, rather, I believed I was invincible to women. No longer. Now, I know the truth. Women are just as capable of hurting men as men are of hurting women.
So fellas (you know who you are), I have broken down the (our) problem as simply as I know how. We need to acknowledge the simple, unbearable truth. This truth is captured by four words, though I think its most effective delivery comes with repeating the words four times in a row, emphasizing a different word each time.
She can hurt you. She can hurt you. She can hurt you. She can hurt you.
What’s the rush?
PS – As a reminder, hurt doesn’t feel good.
Review of Quiet, by Susan Cain
The film V for Vendetta has a line which goes, “Artists use lies to tell the truth, while politicians use them to cover the truth up.” Growing up, I was under the impression that internalizing the latter sentiment was required in order to call yourself an American. In other words, when I heard the line, the idea that politicians lie was nothing new. But I can’t say I had ever heard the first part, the part about artists deliberately using lies for good, until I watched that movie. Neither a politician nor an artist, Susan Cain attempts to simply tell the truth in her book Quiet. However, Fyodor Dostoevsky (artist) has this to say about telling the truth in his classic Crime and Punishment: “If there’s the hundredth part of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads to a discord, and that leads to trouble.” My experiences have convinced me that Dostoevsky speaks the truth. What we want to know, though, is how does Susan Cain do?
As best I can tell, Cain’s thesis in Quiet is that between the two major and decidedly different personality types (extrovert and introvert), in America the extroverts have convinced everyone that their type–their personality–is the ideal personality. More simply, Cain would like to be Luke Skywalker for introverts and return balance to the force. Unfortunately, there is quite a bit more than a hundredth part of a false note in her book. Two of them warrant attention here.
First, there is a section where she attempts to demonstrate that The West has a history of valuing extroverts, while The East has a history of valuing introverts. How does she go about this supporting this claim? Like any rhetorician, she uses proverbs. One of The East’s proverbs she provides comes from the reputable founder of Taoism, Lao Tzu, and reads, “Those who know do not speak. Those who speak do not know.”** Fair enough. The provided proverb for The West, on the other hand, comes from Ptahhotep. What Westerner doesn’t have a few ol’ Ptahhotep’s sayings memorized? For the fuzzy, Ptahhotep said in 2400 BCE, “Be a craftsman in speech that thou mayest be strong, for the strength of one is the tongue, and speech is mightier than all fighting.”** With writing being a relatively new form of communication back then, this guy may have just been saying the what-might-actually-be-a common western proverb, “The pen is mightier than the sword.” And, from where I sit, that has nothing to do with extroverts or introverts.
Maybe Cain just made a little mistake, but still understands the big picture? I wanted to believe so, too. But then she added, as her concluding proverb for the perpetually extrovert-loving West, “The squeaky wheel gets the grease.” Now, I am under the impression that a proverb is prescriptive in nature, not just a true, clever sentence. I have never heard anyone use that truism in a genuinely prescriptive manner. Maybe I’m sheltered. I’ve told people, mockingly, to squeak if they want something, sure, but I’m pretty sure they understood the tone of my advice included that I thought they’d lose a part of their soul for doing so. I think the bigger problem is that, by definition, there aren’t any proverbs that advise self-promotion and talking endlessly. Quite the opposite. The thing about proverbs is they have to stand the test of time to earn the title. In her research for western proverbs promoting extroverted characteristics, I find it hard to believe she didn’t stumble across “the empty can rattles the most.” But, then, had she included that one in the book, her thesis would’ve lost some bite, I think.
The second false note, which is not exactly false, though it definitely calls into question the gravity of the entire supposed problem, is deep into the book. We find ourselves in the midst of a lover’s quarrel. It seems that extroverts and introverts are often attracted to each other, which can sometimes result in marriage. This causes problems, it seems. For Greg and Emily, the problem is dinner parties. Greg wants to host them. Emily does not. As it turns out, once Greg and Emily learn that Emily’s introversion is not wrong or bad, a compromise can be struck. Cain’s advice? Don’t focus on the number of dinner parties, but the format. She says, “Instead of seating everyone around a big table, which would require the kind of all-hands conversational multitasking Emily dislikes so much, why not serve dinner buffet style, with people eating in small, casual conversational groupings on the sofas and floor pillows?”** A friend of mine recently enlightened me to a witty phrase that defines Greg and Emily’s situation and I think fits here: White whine. Seriously though, ladies, if you have multiple sofas and throw pillows that you don’t mind replacing every other weekend after your friends prove they’re not the refined diners you’d like to believe they are, then I can already tell you’re beautiful–we should chat.
Is there an extrovert ideal in America? Has a (perhaps unintended) consequence been that introverts get lost in the shuffle, or worse yet, believe they should strive to change a part of themselves which cannot be changed and live with the resultant shame? Susan Cain believes so. I’m not convinced. Maybe I’m not her target audience. In any case, I’m attempting to navigate life using something a good friend taught me recently: “Every person has a story. If you listen to it, you just might avoid judging them.” When that doesn’t work, I fall back on Billy Joel’s, “Don’t take any shit from anybody.” But a bibliography containing only two entries probably isn’t robust enough to get published and entice readers. I guess if I hope to ever be published, I’ll just have to make it up as I go.
****
*Dostoyevsky, Fyodor. Crime and Punishment. New York: Modern Library, 1950. Print.
**Cain, Susan. Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. New York: Crown, 2012. Print.
How ‘Bout?
A strict father, though one who exercised a parent’s hypocritical initiative frequently, he never let her watch television. And his list of approved-for-her movies included only three titles: Holiday Inn, White Christmas, and The Lego Movie. She fell asleep during the first two, and, much to his chagrin, she lacked the context–not to mention the capacity for abstract thought–requisite to enjoy the third.
But every once in a while he would hear her say something that beckoned the playing of a song. Not just a song, but a music video. This evening was no different.
Instinctively these days, she knew to flip up the paper-thin seat cushion, so as to not ruin anything if she spilled, before assuming her oddly favorite eating position–one that had the left-half of her body sitting on the chair, while the right-half stood on the creaky hard-wood floor.
“You’re the greatest, daddy,” H- said, much to his delight. “You’re the greatest, not mom.”
“Hey!” he said firmly, not wasting time on a crescendo, “that’s not true H-. You’re mom’s the greatest, too. I’m the greatest dad, and she’s the greatest mom. Understand?”
“You’re the greatest dad and mom’s the greatest mom,” she recited.
“That reminds me of a song H-. Have I ever played R. Kelly’s “World’s Greatest” for you? The song he wrote about the boxer Muhammad Ali for the movie Ali?” he asked, making his way over to the laptop.
“World’s greatest?” she asked, in kind.
“Yeah. I didn’t think so. It’s a good one, just give me a sec to pull it up,” he said, trying to remember if the video contains anything a three year old shouldn’t see. “Okay. Here it is.”
“Is it the rainbow song?” she asked.
“No, it’s not the rainbow song,” he answered, chuckling as he tried to remember what past video had a rainbow in it.
Like most R. Kelley videos, there was a touch of a melodrama before the music began. Finally the music started. Memories and feeling flowed as Kelly sang, “I am a mountain. I am a tall tree, oh-oh-oh, I am a swift wind, sweeping the country.” Searching for any sign of understanding or enjoyment on her face, he couldn’t help but get caught up as the song built to the chorus. Soon he found himself singing along.
“If anybody acks you who I am, just stand up tall, look ’em in the face and say-ay-ay-ay-ay-ee: I’m that star up in the sky. I’m that mountain peak up high. Hey, I made it. Mmm. I’m the world’s greatest.”
“How ’bout-” she began.
“I know, I know, you want the rainbow song,” he interrupted, breaking from the song.
“How ’bout you not sing it, so I can hear it?” she finished.
“Oh,” he said, laughing. “I suppose I can try.”
A View From The Top
“I guess it had to happen sometime. Wait, no it didn’t. I can’t believe it happened at all. Can not,” he said, over-emphasizing the tuh in not. The car slowly pulled away.
“Was she pissed?” G- asked.
“Huh?” he responded, waking from contemplation.
“The old lady you just talked to,” G- clarified.
“Oh, no. Well, not about her car wash. That’s the weird thing. But she called me a pussy,” he said, still working his way back to reality.”
“What?” G- asked.
“Not just me, actually,” he said.
“So what happened?”
“Let me see. I guess the best place to begin is with the fact that it is supposed to snow tomorrow. If we start there, the next step is to divide the residents of this city into two groups, for the purpose of this story. Group one: residents who, today, think, ‘Gee, it’s a great day for a car wash.’ Group two: residents who do not. Now, G-, you and I are clearly in group two, right?” he asked.
“Right,” G- answered.
“That old lady, on the other hand, is in group one, right?” he asked.
“Yep, she sure is,” G- responded, enjoying the banter.
“Good. It’s important that we agree,” he began again. “Anyhow, I’m sure you heard that she had a dog with a pretty ferocious bark. When I saw the guys signal that her car was ready, I trotted towards it, meeting her along the way. I was hoping–as usual–to use engaging small talk and piercing eye-contact to distract her from inspecting their work. So intent on my mission was I, that I forgot my surroundings; forgot them, that is, right up until the dog that was now standing directly at my side let out another very loud bark, unexpectedly. This startled me, as I think you can imagine. I mean, quite literally, I jumped at the sound of it. Then I began laughing at myself and recounting the moment to the old lady. I told her, ‘Man that scared me.’ All I got back was a look that I couldn’t place. I ushered her towards her front door, and that’s when she stopped and said dryly, ‘I think you all are kinda pussies for being scared of my vicious dog.'”
“She actually said ‘pussies’?”
“Yep.”
“What’d you say?”
“Before speaking, I looked at her hard, because, remember,” he paused for effect, “she’s in group one. Then I decided her imbalance wouldn’t likely result in violence, and frankly said, ‘Ma’am, I don’t think I deserve to be called names today.'”
“What did she say back?”
“I could tell that she felt my meaning with her heart, but she didn’t back down much at first. Then she went on to explore, in a dry, lamenting manner, how it surprised her that her dog could cause such fear in so many people. I explained that I didn’t mean that I was scared of her dog, but startled nonetheless. It seemed that maybe I wasn’t the first person to comment on the animal today, and she remained in a state of silent query after my explanation,” he continued. After a breath, he resumed, “I then tried to clarify that, perhaps, unlike the other people she dealt with earlier, I just don’t like dogs anyhow, nothing against hers. Admittedly, I couldn’t help myself and added, ‘I don’t understand you people anyhow. Toting your dogs around in your cars and all that.’ I mean, seriously, G-. Did I tell you I saw a lady with a litter-box, as in a functioning, full of kitty litter litter-box on the floor beneath the passenger seat in the front of her car earlier today? Dubble-yoo tee eff?”
“How’d she take that?”
“Judging by her expression, I’d say she was genuinely shocked to discover that there exists a human being whose conclusions differed from her own.”
Laughing, G- responded, “Sounds like a pretty big moment for her.”
“We can only hope that the depth of the experience compensates for the brevity.”