Chapter One [Freak Shows are Illegal in all 50 States]

“I love you too!” I yell back into the rushing air as freezing rain fills my lungs, and I roll up the window.

I wait a moment and watch my dad pull out first, then away towards our house, that is, their house.
I think for a minute how unfamiliar it feels to be back in this town, then pull out in the opposite direction.

Regretting my absentminded pack of a mere three cds, I toss an overly used mix into the backseat. Realizing that it is quite possible to feel sick of Otis Redding, as "tenderness" leaks out my ears, and I violently search for a country-less radio station.

Just two hours in I’m already drained.
Blinking the sleep out of my eyes I try to concentrate on the road ahead, the freezing rain and the four hours I have still to go.

Jerking back to reality, I open my eyes.

I don’t know if it was the pressure of having to use the restroom for the 27th time [how much did I drink today, really] or if it was the fact that I was falling asleep at the wheel on a 70 mile per hour expressway. Whatever it was I was awake and in desperate need of a stimulant if I was going to make it back alive. I groggily take the next exit and glide sleeplike into the nearest gas station.

Smacking myself awake I put 20 dollars in the tank and choose the pay inside option.

Oh my god.

It’s nearly midnight and I’m overly tired, fighting back a gapping expression of awe as I drink in the full effect of what stands before me.

It, or rather She, yes she I’m quite certain of it, is leaning against the counter looking hungry and irritable. Her hair is long, thick and burly, kinked into so many jags and turns, trying hard to form curls but instead shaping harsh knots that frame her unhappy shape. She looks up at me lazily, not with a smile, but a small purse of her lips that can only be defined as a wince, showcasing her large dark mustache.

I stand there, for what was probably much to long, in disbelief of the modern day bearded lady. Startled in the realization of its eyes upon me, I spoke much too loud, and much too cheerful “HI!” I half shout, “How are you?” She doesn’t reply, but looks as though she’s contemplating me, sizing me up. I keep smiling, for lack of anything else to do, and let my eyes drift away awkwardly. Pausing momentarily at her arms grossly covered in dark fur, I turn away, sorry that what I’m looking for is so close to the unfriendly caretaker. I search the countertops and nearby surroundings careful not to exchange eye contact, and finally find the array of caffeine pills and products along the back wall. I can feel its eyes bearing down on me as I try to look overly interested in my multiple choices in drugs. I glance sideways at it, and it stares straight back at me. Angry and surprised by my moment of weakness, I say loudly “So which are the best, have you heard?” motioning to the uppers and trying to seem conversational. Raising her eyebrows, she throws a more then arrogant laugh over her shoulder, a laugh hardly comical. “I don’t know,” she sneers “I don’t take them.”

Its 12:00 in the morning and I’m being judged by the hairiest woman in existence.

“I’ll take the middle one” I say, a little less heartedly, pay for my gas, and trudge to my car mildly irritated.

This is going to be a long night.

[well, you've got your diamonds]

I’ve never been in a fight before.

At three in the morning I slam on my breaks.

“You mother fucker,” I swear under my breath and throw it in park.

Getting out of my car I see them stagger a little faster, stumble a little straighter, try to get the fuck away from whatever or whoever is getting out of their car.
It must have been a relief to see me standing there, because they started to lag

“Hey BRO!” I say as I round the front of my car.

“I love you!” he yells back in a drunken slur and keeps walking.

Nice, I think and lean down to get a closer look.
“Thanks for trying to fucking kill me!”

Picking up the blinking road cone that was recently hurled in front of my car at 40 miles per hour, I throw it as hard as I can.

Considering my severe lack of upper body strength, it went pretty far.
As far as I needed it to anyhow.

Screaming as the cone collides with the backs of his legs he takes off running, his two chotch bag companions not far behind.

Satisfied with myself, I immediately turn back to my car when some asshole lays on his horn.

I stop dead, are you kidding me?

“FUCK YOU!” I shout making two of my best hand gestures, and wait for the repercussions.

I’ve never been in a fight before.
Yet here I am, standing in the middle of the street challenging an eight car back up to get out of their cars and make something of it.
I must have looked mental because no one so much as rolled down the window.

I walked back to my car looking tougher then I know I am, and slammed the door.
At 3:30 am, I make it home.

Fucking bros.

[Sell Your Soul]

Wake up.
Where am I?

Lying on the floor in a furniture-less room with three boys all in their respected corners, is a nice trade for dying in a pool of my own sick.

Shift over.
Where am I?
Pushing myself up with both arms, I feel last night roll over me..

Cocktails, pictures, dancing, cocktails, mingling, cocktails, trying to get on the roof, cocktails, laying in the yard, cocktails, cocktails, cocktails.

Last night feels heavy and nauseous. Last night is this morning. I feel heavy and nauseous. Don’t get sick self, you have to go to work soon. Temporarily transferred to another store back home, it’s my first day and I should probably look presentable. Thinking thick and slow, I struggle to regain my vision. What time is it? I manhandle my cell phone out of my purse and attempt to focus in on the time. 9:43am.

Panic.

So let me put this in perspective for you with a small list of facts that have just slapped me in the face at 9:43am.

I am laying on a strange floor half, if not mostly still drunk from the night before.
I am 30 minutes away from my house.
I have to go home, change out of much too short dress, and much too high heels.
Work is 40 minutes away from my house.
It is 9:43am.
At 10:00am I begin my first day of work.

Panic.

I rustle up the things I have lying around me that I’m vaguely sure may belong to me, and rush out of the room, down the stairs (did I get sick here?) around the corner, through the kitchen, out the door, wait. Where’s _____? Reverse through the door, through the kitchen, around the corner, through the known rooms I can find, up the stairs, in and out of the bedrooms and bathrooms I couldn’t find. Regretfully, I leave _____ behind.

Check the time, 9:50am. I’m fucked.

The walk to my car, didn’t happen as far as I know. The particulars of this particular morning fade in and out as the day progresses, and I’m fucked. Arriving at my parents house 30 minutes later, I walk in the door looking something like I’d assume a strung out hooker to look. My mom greets me at the door, with a much to cynical “GOODMORNING!” her smug grin reminds me that she can attend last nights party with one look at me. Cocktails, cocktails, cocktails. “I might die.” I say, and trudge down the stairs. I can hear her faint laughter through the drywall. I strip off the clothes that are now made of smoke and liquor, and start the shower. It is here a plan is conceived.

Plan:
Get out of shower, brush teeth, never drink again.
Set alarm for 12:00pm.
Go back to sleep for two hours.
Wake up and make it to work by 1:30pm
Put on the dimmest look and pretend to have thought you worked the closing shift.
This is a terrible plan, but it’s the best I’ve got.

Sleep.

I wake up and follow the plan step by step. My mom even makes me a pity breakfast-lunch. I also endure much mocking from both parents. Both of which agree with the strung out hooker comparison. Thanks mom and dad.

I drive to work mildly calm for someone who’s about to get fired from a store they don’t technically work at. 40 minutes later, I park and swagger in with the “right on time” look on my face. Crossing the threshold, I run directly face to face with my manager, and nearly lose my cool. Putting on my freshest smile, I regain control. There’s a brief pause where I’m dangerously unsure how the next 60 seconds are about to unfold. Then she speaks. She is my favorite of the managers I’ve met. She talks loud and obnoxious, to the point that it is completely un-obnoxious. She surrounds the whole room when she laughs and yells things unnecessarily. She could knock over a small child with her wind pipes if I had her going good enough, I’m almost sure of it. She is my favorite.

I hold my breath for the backlash, the disappointment, the awkward conversation in the meeting room. I can almost feel the hard wood chair pressing against my lower back as they rip up my W2s and emergency contact information. I make a mental list of things to retrieve before I’m evicted from my apartment, and a list of apologies to my roommate. Wondering who would get the shampoos and conditioners, and would we split the food by amount or by who enjoys the product more, and suddenly I can’t remember who bought milk last. This is a broken home Ill yell, and take all the frozen stirfry. Then she speaks.

“Oh, just so you know, the breakdown is a little messed up because I couldn’t remember what time I told you to come in today, so just follow someone else’s breaks.”

I’m sweating through my shirt, and I am the smartest woman in the world.

[But it's true, even if it didn't happen]

I’m starting to get nervous.
Should I walk away? Should I ask this shoddy untrusting man near by to take over? I’m going to miss my fucking train, I think in a panic.



10 minutes earlier..



I’ve made it.
I stomp the rest of the way lugging my suitcase and backpack uncomfortably by my side and hip. Waking up much to late, I ran out of Kyle’s house, belongings strewn, hoping like hell I'd make it to the train station on time. Thank god, I think. I can’t afford to miss this. I settle in the waiting terminal next to an unkempt middle aged businessman and try to get my life in order. 5-10 seconds later she walks in.

And I thought I was a train wreck.

She’s head to toe glitter, high heeled and poorly dressed for the weather. I hate her immediately. She of course sits directly next to me, neglecting the 100 other open seats throughout the room. Her bags clamber into mine, her purse knocks my arm of its rest, her phone conversation is louder then the over head announcements. I hate her immediately.

For lack of a better name,
The Train station announcer starts to sweep the terminal calling out for anyone riding to Michigan. She’s punching tickets and making her rounds, she finally gets to us. She asks the woman next to me for her ticket. The woman pauses her phone conversation and asks when the train will leave.

“Any minute” she says, and moves down the line.

I shift in my seat and finish off part one of One flew over the cuckoos nest.

But it’s the truth even if it didn’t happen.

I hate being tapped on the shoulder. I hate it almost as much as this woman who’s tapping my shoulder. In my defense, its eight O’clock in the morning and I'm mildly crabby. She smiles thickly showing eighty five percent of her teeth and talks way to close to my face. I want to get up and move.

“Can you watch my things?” she asks, her cell phone still lodged on her face, her smile to unkind, too unnatural. “Ill be right back.”

“Yeah, ok,” I reply.

NO I meant No! Fuck you, self.
She prances off towards the restrooms leaving a trail of loud conversation throughout the noiseless terminal. Minutes, no seconds later, our train starts to board.
Fuck you, self.

I stand there thickly, watching the numerous passengers who’ve been waiting for hours, the passengers who’ve just arrived, the passengers who’ve barely made it, the last of the passengers.

I’m starting to get nervous.
Should I walk away? Should I ask this shoddy untrusting man near by to take over? I’m going to miss my fucking train, I think in a panic. Fuck this I’m leaving it.

I walk/run through the terminal, out the doors, down the platform. Sit down in a sweaty mess, making sure I’m faced to the front. I cant ride trains backward, it makes me nauseous.
4-10 minutes later she walks on the train.
Bags in tact.
I stare out the window appearing occupied.
She glares at me in the reflection as she passes,
leans in behind me and says in her sweetest, "thanks for nothing."

Fuck you, self.

[Gabriella the Bitch]

I have had my Virgin Mobile phone for quite nearly a year, or basically since I moved out of state, so quite definitely a year. I remember my first phone call, it was from a bill collection agency calling for a Gabriella. This is where it all begins, the start of my pay as you go strife, and my hatred for Gabriella. Every month or so I'll get a strewn of calls from a [262] area code, or some blocked/unknown number. Every time my loathing for Gabriella worsened. At first I deleted the voicemails I'd received, automated messages reminding me of my past bills, or family members trying to track me down, all messages for a Gabriella who would never receive them. After awhile I started to call these numbers back, even waiting 20 minutes at a time on hold, needing to know who it was and what kind of trouble Gabriella was in. I became obsessed. I would talk to Businesses calling from Job.com, or Milwaukee Jobs themselves, or numerous out of state banks, and even an Irate cousin of hers who screamed for 5 minutes about Missing a birthday party before I could get a word in edgewise. I felt that with each returned call I was getting closer to the end, closer to unraveling the mystery that was Gabriella. sooner or later Gabrielle would have to realize that she no longer had a cell phone, or maybe any family left that liked her enough to call. Or maybe after months and months of never hearing back from applied jobs, she would become a hermit, or a witch in a forest somewhere. Learning magic and cursing the neighborhood children. And finally it would end, I would never hear from estranged and outraged family from which I didn't belong, or Collection agencies, unless they were actually for me, or jobs asking for my call back only to learn they never left an extension number. And Gabriella would never bother me again with her burdens, because everyone knows witches don't use phones.

[Let me paint this picture for you.]

I'm sitting at MOCT on a Saturday night. This doesn't strike one as unusual considering this is where I am most Saturday nights. MOCT is a nice place, its a bar constructed of an Old double door garage. You walk in the front doors and straight ahead theres the dance floor, its outlined by four long wooden built in benches where drunken girls usually take to dancing, or drunken boys usually take to sulking. To your immediate left is the DJs, probably Asher,[or in this case definitely Asher] To the right of the DJs, some provocative Film is screening against the wall stimulating the girls, or if its football,[and in this case it is] stimulating the boys. Turn further right and you'll reach the bar littered with fancy dressed businessmen and high heeled stellas, probably underage. The night usually starts off slow, not to many dancers except the few who catch themselves swaying or thrusting, embarrassed and red faced. But for the sake of the story I'll move ahead a few hours, one half hour before bar close, and I'm sitting at MOCT on a Saturday night.Cara is up with Asher watching his last set, taking notes with her mind for DJschool. I'm realizing theres no one really to hang with, everyones either to drunk, to unfamiliar or the guy who talks way to close to my face. And these red shoes are really starting to hurt. around ten minutes later I'm sitting on one of the four vacant benches and a trio of guys pass by. The first passes unnoticed, at a normal pace, nothing unusual here.[Heres where it gets tricky.]The second... the second, passes by and RUNS HIS FINGERS THROUGH MY HAIR while still in motion. uhhhThen the third takes up the back, completely unaware of any foul play or hand misplacement. The three men pass, none of which even look in my direction let alone pretend to notice I'm there, and get lost in the crowd. I don't know if you're getting the full effect of this, it was a forehead to back of neck drive-by hand hair combing.Keep in mind that We've been dancing since eleven O'clockish and I have a lot of gross sweaty hair at this point. I sit there alone, mouth mildly open, at a loss for words. We finish out the night dance some more, avoid some fights, the closingbar mayhem, and take our leave.So I ask you this. When is it ok to run your fingers through a strange girls hair?

[Oh, Ok]

On my way home today, I was stopped at a stop sign about to turn the corner in my neighborhood about 20 feet away from my driveway. Suddenly this guy pulls halfway around the corner blocking off the whole intersection to yell at me about blocking the crosswalk. The crosswalk which isn’t really there, yes it’s insinuated in a neighbor hooded area, but not really there non the less. He yells at me, then continues to sit there in my way blocking my view and ultimately ending my chances to turn the corner and make my getaway towards other crosswalks that I intend to park my car in this evening. After several moments in silence wondering how long you can really yell at a stranger for blocking a non-crosswalk for all the non-people, He scolds me again expressing how serious he was. I then laugh and say, “ok bro.” He responds with a snotty “Then don’t just sit there with that blank stare.” Which I follow up with another long blank stare, thinking to myself that he cant technically see my eyes through these sunglasses, I could be doing anything under here. He finally pulls away in his fury and glorified victory of yelling at some girl, an estranged pedestrian hater, for intentionally shutting down attempts of crossing roads anywhere at anytime today. I turn the corner, park my car, and decide not to drive anywhere else today. Godbless that man, and cross your roads my friends, there will be no danger tonight.

[Customer Service]

It’s a Sunday and I’m having a relatively bad day, all things considered. Sundays are always the worst for work, because A: We close early on Sundays so you’re working an open to close shift no matter what. B: Shoppers are needy and I fucking hate needy shoppers. And C: Your so sick of the people you work with that your jaw hurts from doing that teeth clenching thing you do when your trying not to kick people in the crotch. So like I say, all things considered, Sundays aren’t my best. Its about 5:00pm on this particular Sunday and I’m trying to get some of the clothes from the fitting room put away while my fools for coworkers are strutting aimlessly around the floor wondering if I’m watching them. In the middle of my jean folding and coworker death threat writing, a 15 year old girl in a white jumper with giant buttons wonders mindlessly up to my side and stares at me for a moment. “Do you work here?” she asks in some dreamy teenage girl language that I didn’t understand, even in middle school when all girls spoke in awkward giggles. “Um yeah,” I say. That was an accident, what I meant to say was, “No I just really like the way the jeans feel on my forarms, my name tag is just so I don’t have to introduce myself to my bus driver, a time saver really, and I need this walkie talkie that’s uncomfortably pulling on the back of my pants so I can easily radio my mom to pick me up when Im done molesting these jeans and avoid all those long distance charges, Oh and also, the buttons on your jumper resemble frosted doughnuts or large moldy pickles, did you know?” I can just tell her that latter I decide. She stares at me unblinking, oversharing her story of a friend who came in here yesterday for a skirt, and that she didn’t see the skirt, but the friend saw the skirt, which wanted the skirt, and she wanted to see the skirt, to see if she wanted to get the skirt, that her friend wanted, for the friend as a gift. “Um Okay,” I say a little to sassy for a weekday, but seeing as its Sunday and I get mad in general when people speak to me while I’m working, I thought it not completely uncalled for, I mean I’m clearly in the middle of sexing some jeans and this dreamy eyed 8th grader is wasting my time. “What does it look like? I ask, “I mean, I know youuu didn’t see it, obviously, but did she tell you what it looked like?”She stares off in deep contemplation, thinking much too hard on this question.“It was a short skirt” she says. “Oh.” I say, strongly annoyed at my decision to take this job. We have around forty short skirts scattered all over the store, I'll just look there for you real quick. “Does it have anything on it? Like a drawstring? Or Buttons? "umm," she pauses, this ones hard. "Maybe a drawstring, but I dont think so."Im frustrated, I can hear it in my voice but I cant stop it. "Okay..how short is it? do you know the color? Maybe a pattern?” She thinks for a moment then replies slowly, “She said it had pandas on it…..but I didn’t see it.” You’d like to think that mentioning the freak skirt had zoo animals on it would have been the easiest means for location, but if we put it in our panda section where we put our panda clothes and panda food for our pandas, the short skirt description would have come in complete handy. Good lookin out. So I bring her to the infamous skirt placed in plain view about 7 feet from the scene at which we’re having this life changing conversation. “This is the only panda skirt we have, its relatively new so all of the sizes should be there.” She stands there momentarily staring at nothing in particular. I contemplate reminding her what we’re doing at the panda skirt site, thinking that maybe the motion shook the glitter in her head to much on the walk over.“MY FRIEND SHOPLIFTED YESTURDAY!” She shouts in a half scream, half panicked mumble. ...........“Um, alright.” I say awkwardly.“She did it yesterday, she needed two dollars, so she just took it, and I have a guilty conscious so I had to tell you, my friend shoplifted." she says in what was the fastest shed talked since catching my attention...........“Oh, ok.... I’m sorry..about.. that..um.” “So you’re not going to do anything? She asks concernedly. “No..um, no Im not..I don’t know your friend, and theres nothing I can really do about it now.” I really need to get away from this freak show.“Oh good,” she sighs “It was that shirt over there, do you see it, that one on the table.”I follow with my eyes to the pointed direction imitating a good employee who cares about shoplifters and customers and all that crap.“Ok, well, thanks.” I say finally feeling the "we're done here vibe" and quickly make my way back to the jean pile.I see the girl about ten minutes later dreamily drifting towards the check out with a pair of sunglasses and a hat. My jaw hurts.

[A New Dresser? That Sounds Terrific!]

Tonight there was a dresser on the side of our street, and I’ve been in the want of one, so Amy and I decide to order pizza shuttle and pick the abandoned furniture up on the way back. So we’re on our way after shuttle, and we stop and stick it in the trunk to bring it home (which is right down the street) I have a hatch back so its just kind of hanging out. We get there and Amy gets out to direct me, I’m in the process of backing the car up towards our ally, when I hear this loud yelling. Sounds like someone’s yelling mumbles from across the street, I don’t see anyone so I continue backing up. The yells are getting louder. I was just about to tell Amy to get in the car when this ENORMOUS man comes walking up the sidewalk, talking to himself and headed straight towards Amy. Saying things like “Let me get that motherfucker for you, god bless you,” “I’m a big black mother fucker,” “I’m gonna get this mother fuckin thing,” “God bless you, your good people,” “I love you people.” Amy’s holding her pepper spray that her aunt gave us for Christmas inside of her purse. she also gave us chocolate and flashlights, but since I didn’t have either of those on me, I decide that the best thing to do is to stay in the car and just back into him if he tries to molest us or anything. So the giant is basically tearing the dresser out of the back, pretty much ruining the hatch part of my hatch back, neverminding our persistent pleadings of “no its ok, we really got it,” and “be careful, uh don’t break it.” After about two minutes of excessive motherfucking, and self proclamations, the dresser breaks free and crashes to the ground landing gently on a massive rock. So apparently somewhere in the midst of things we must have offered a prize reward to any monster who could give us a hand with our sword in the stone so to speak. So he’s asking for money now, I see Amy rummaging in her bag clearly pretending to look for spare change, poorly at that. If the ogre hadn’t been preoccupied with insanity I think he might have caught on. Since Amy had done her best and come up short, and he still was not pleased, she then offers him a piece of pizza. This seemed a fair deal to the troll, so we grabbed him the best piece of vegetarian (my side because trolls don’t like pineapple and green peppers.) and sent him on his way. I think we all know the moral of this story. Pizza can save the world.

[Fingers are Expendable]

It’s a Tuesday Night around 10:25, and I’m just getting out of work. It’s a nice night, the airs thick and warm. If I didn’t know any better Id think it was summer. I decide to call Amy and see if she wants to come to the lake. Why I didn’t just wait till I was home to talk to her is beyond me. She answers the phone a little shaky; I didn’t think anything of it at first, but then I hear the wind in the background gurgling the mouth piece.
“Where are you?” I ask.
She laughs slightly “at the emergency room.”
“What! What are you doing there?”
“Oh I got my finger caught in the espresso grinder at work.” She says in a much to comfortably calm tone for someone who just tried to grind off an extremity.
At this thought I nearly gag/blackout/drive off the road/thank myself for never working at a coffee house. She insists it’s not so bad, but horribly painful. She’s been there since around 9:00 and still hasn’t seen anyone. Worried, I meet her at the hospital.
I’ve driven up and down this road hundreds of times, how could I have never noticed a hospital? I see one small sign and follow the road to the left. There’s construction and obstructions blocking my view as I glance back and forth trying to find some sort of emergency room signs, entrances or bloody half dead amputees flocking towards neon lighting. I pass the entrance. Mother fucking one ways, they will be the end of me. Now I’m circling what I assume to be an emergency haven amidst the forest of construction fences and orange tape. It’s a god damn structure Christmas and I can’t get inside. Finally I’m back to the entrance, coming up the narrow driveway I start to notice the complete lack of parking. How can there be no parking at an emergency room? I begin the rigid search of a parking spot when I pass Amy standing outside the doors smoking. She still hasn’t been seen yet? This place is rich. I ultimately end out on the roadside, deciding on the walk uphill to go ahead and bleed to death before ever coming here for any gunshot wounds or would be finger grindings. I meet up with Amy and begin the frigid wait amongst the freaks and creeps that reside in the St. Mary’s hospital emergency room. An hour later deciding that now would be a good time to make a scene. Laughing obnoxiously, we’re starting to get restless. Who can really blame us for yelling things like “have you ever seen someone bleed to death?” and “you’re about to.” It’s an emergency room, I’m sure it wasn’t an absurd question, inappropriate, maybe. Just then a man in his mid twenties bursts through the door holding a boy of similar age in his arms. The boy is unconscious. “Great,” Amy sighs, “Now we have to wait for the nearly dead guy.” Seeing as she’s bleeding to death in a hot prison of diseased weirdos, I decide not to judge her to harshly for this severe lack of consideration. They finally call Svinicki, I’m guessing mostly to get us away from the estranged patients in the lobby before we start a riot, and we’re shuttled into one of those awful rooms that smell like plastic and grandmothers. While the nurse fills out the proper forms I take the opportunity to notice her complete lack of bedside manor. She’s most likely in her late twenties, although it’s hard to tell through the canyons of stress related frown features and harsh age lines. I contemplate shaking her to let the pretty out, thinking that might be the small white room syndrome talking, I decide to do nothing. She leaves us, promising the doctor will be in shortly. I wonder what shortly means in emergency room terms.
About thirty minutes later I’ve stolen a hospital gown(the good fabric kind), a doctors mask, some plastic gloves, a biohazard bag(unused unfortunately) and some cotton swabs, figured out how to turn on the oxygen tank, checked her ears with that ear flashlight jazz, found out how much pain she was having by a diagram scale from one to ten of faces ranging from happy to miserable (she was a severe, it just had a straight mouth) in the time it took them to come in,(while I’m still wearing the gloves, which I decide to play off as my own) clean it and put a fancy bandage on. Driving home I decide how much I hate hospitals, and how badly I can’t wait to go back.