Splatter: a Story About Friends

When I was 16 years old, I bought my first car. This was after the destruction of the first car I drove in high school, my mom's red 1986 Hyundai Excel. I planned for the Hyundai to be my car forever and always, that is, until I got creamed by a woman in front of Hawks stadium.

The car I bought for a cool $800 dollars later that year was similar to the Hyundai--a red, 1987 Chevy Sprint. It had a 3-cylinder engine, got 50 miles to the gallon, and was once picked up by four boys and moved a few feet, all while I sat in it. It survived being plowed into by Justin's big 1970's Dodge pickup, when Justin was driving like a maniac in the school parking lot. We both went home, lied, and said someone had hit-and-run our cars at school. We confessed years later. The Sprint had a serious vapor-lock issue during the summer, and it looked as though I was drunk-driving from about June through the end of August because on any given summer day, suddenly, the car would die, hitting a spot of air in the engine, then sputter along, and then suddenly take off like a bat out of hell.

I got pulled over once on the way home from Moscow where I was visiting a friend at college. The Sprint did not make it up hills well, so every time I found a hill to go down, I floored it, all the way through the subsequent valley, and up the next hill. The cop outside of Moscow caught me on the way down the hill. After he gave me the ticket, and followed me up the next hill, I think he understood my raging speed (which was probably about 80mph tops--that car shook so much, I am surprised we didn't lose the wheels), and regretted ever pulling me over. I like to believe that he considered pulling me back over to take back the ticket, but he was afraid he would have to push me with his crash bar the rest of the way up the hill because I wouldn't make it otherwise.

When I turned eighteen, I bought a new car. I reluctantly parked the Sprint in front of our house and removed the license plates. I wanted to keep it and maybe give it to my nephew when he was of driving age (he was five at the time). My mom wouldn't hear of it: she made me sell my poor car.

I sold it to a friend's brother-in-law and the brother-in-law's business partner. They owned a construction business and drove big diesel trucks; so, they thought the Sprint would be a good vehicle for driving between construction sites. I wanted to sell it for $500.00: my mom thought that was way too much. I sold the Sprint for $300.00. I owned it for a little over two years; when I sold it, my heart broke, and my heart breaks to tell you this story now. I asked my friend for months after the sale how my car was doing, and I have discovered as the years have passed that this is something I do: I get attached to inanimate objects, mainly my old beater cars, until they are personified in my mind. My dad, before he died, had a penchant for old junker cars, and people rarely understand my passion. Some say it's genetic, I think it is a genetic disorder. The friend always said things like "it's great," "it's running well!" It turns out, he was lying.

Shortly after I sold the car, the business partner of the brother-in-law shot himself in the Sprint. The brother-in-law and sister of my friend called the junkyard, only to hear that it was best for them not to come pick the Sprint up, as it was covered in blood and skull fragments. Now, let that sink in. What I'm saying is, my friend was gone, destroyed. For a long time after I found out, I tried to find the car--not because I wanted it back, but just because I felt like I needed to wish it goodbye and praise it for its years of hard work and early retirement at the hands of someone--I don't want to say selfish--but someone not worthy of owning the car that had become my friend that did me right for so many years.

I tell this story now because I have found another love ( a few have come and gone since then, and I even bumped into one of them on a dead-end street last month), my Saab. I bought the Saab in 2007, and I love it. Recently, it had to have major work, and I considered finding a new car because the work was more than the car is worth. But as I found myself crying at work over it one day, my co-worker said, "If you are crying over it, you might as well fix it." He was right. So, I did.

Now, though, it's getting to the point where little things are going wrong sporadically, and recently, I had to replace the instrument cluster after it had been ailing for about a year (the whole dash had come to complete stop), which I thought involved replacing some wiring behind the dash. It turns out it is the whole instrument panel and everything that goes along with it. I didn't discover this until the morning after I had picked up my car. The shop had it for a couple days because they were looking for a used part because inexpensive new instrument clusters are hard to come by.

When I turned it on the first morning I had it back in my possession, I noticed the warning lights were designed differently, and that is when I discovered some hard water spots on the plastic cover of the panel. On closer inspection, I saw a splatter, a smattering if you will, of rust colored spots. As I scraped one of the spots with my fingernail, and held it closer to my eyes, that's when I discovered it--blood. Little flecks of dried blood. From an accident? Maybe. From a suicide? Possible. I haven't called the shop to tell them, and I don't know that I will. I cleaned the blood off, and while I was disturbed at first, I know I have a piece of someone's friend (the car, not a human--though maybe that, too), and I am going to treat it right.

Your Way

I came across this passage as I was reading today. In the essay "Very Narrow," Anne Carson describes how the first thing a man (she later falls in love) says to her when he visits her apartment is that her bed is really narrow. She finds it odd, but it isn't this part of the essay that is important. The important part is this: "The man who named my narrow bed was a quiet person, but he had good questions. 'I suppose you do love me, in your way,' I said to him one night close to dawn when we lay on the narrow bed. 'And how else should I love you--in your way?' he asked. I am still thinking about that."

And just like Carson, I am still thinking about it, too. I had a conversation with an old friend during dinner, a few weeks ago. We were talking about the ills of relationships and where they go wrong. And before he stated his reason as to why relationships fail, I already knew what he was going to say, expectations. It has always been my belief that people start to have problems because one person has expectations for the other person: the only problem is, they forget to share those expectations with the other person, so how can the other person ever live up to those expectations? Then, when the other person falls short, the expectation originator gets angry or hurt.

This is true not only of romantic relationships, but can be true about all relationships between humans.

I don't feel like I have expectations of others, I only want them to be the best "they" that they can be. Maybe in a way this is an expectation. But I have realized, after reading this essay, that I am often unhappy with the way that someone loves me, their way. Realizing that there is a line between my way and your way is the answer, but allowing the line to exist and be okay with it is the problem.

Good Luck, My Friend.

Usually I like the act of eating alone. I am not talking about eating a sandwich on the go while I am running out of my house, and I am not talking about eating a bowl of soup while watching a movie. I am talking about going to a restaurant for lunch and sometimes dinner. Usually I bring along a book or a notebook, and I do some reading or writing. Oftentimes, when I look like I am doing one of the two, I am actually eavesdropping or watching those around me.

Usually, at least once a week, I eat a meal with my best friend Justin. He is moving next week, and with him, he is taking those shared mealtimes that up until now, I have taken for granted. I wholeheartedly admit that I have gotten annoyed in the past with how picky he is when he eats, and how he generally never enjoys a meal: "it could be better," "it wasn't that good," "I should have stuck with what I know," "that shit's nasty."

Today as I ate, instead of really enjoying my time alone (which I relish in most days), I realized how much of my time will be spent alone now. Each painstaking crunch of my not-so-good salad reminded me of how the crunch is all I will hear on Friday nights while I eat alone. And I am not saying I won't have other meal dates--I will--but none are the same as with Justin. I have his palate memorized, so that if he is in an alcohol-induced breakfast-time hangover, he looks to me to spit out "2 eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, and toast. Scrambled, wheat, and the bacon, limp." Who can I count on to test the water at Chiang Mai to tell me if it tastes "skunky" or if it is drinkable? And who will he count on to tell him the definitions of prosciutto or risotto for about the millionth time, only to remind him that he likes neither. Who will remind him that a tostada is not a taco salad?

Good luck my friend.

Observation of the Toothbrush

This morning, while brushing my teeth with another man's toothbrush, I realized that the majority of my relationships start to see trouble when the man I am dating brings over his toothbrush. Normally, I am vehemently against using others' dental instruments, but he used the toothbrush exactly once at my house, and this morning, I really needed to use my old one (it didn't make sense to use his sparkling new one to remove lint and debris) to clean out the blow-dryer vent, and seeing as how he isn't going to use it again, I thought it would be okay to commit the hygienic crime.

While I know these relationship ills usually stem from bad timing, incompatibility, and general disagreement, and not the toothbrush, blaming the toothbrush seems much simpler, and sometimes, I wish it were that easy.

**Also, if you want to comment on the nature of my failed relationships, I would appreciate it if you would keep it to yourself and contact me in a private realm if you have a strong need for discussion.**

Same incident, different article

Trying to stay true to my word today about making this a daily. Didn't have much time to write today, but I found another article about the man that died after the police pursuit that I wrote about Sunday morning. In this installment, there is yet another typo, this time in the headline at The Idaho Statesman:

"Coroner: Boise man who crashed SUV after pursuit suffered from medical condition"

Hmmm...I suspect recycled headline? The man was driving a Honda Accord--an older model--since when were those SUVs? Also, earlier today, in another article, he was 50 years old, and now he is 59 years old. Poor guy.

This News--well, it just don't make sense.

So, this is a late-night post, but I said after all, that I am trying for daily. I glanced at two news stories this evening. The first comes from KTVB, and here is a snippet:

" A Boise man is in the Ada County Jail after he was caught breaking into a Meridian home Friday night. A man living in the 2600 block of South Knapp in Meridian returned home with his family at about 9:45 p.m. to find his home had been broken into. The homeowner saw that his Suburban had been moved from his driveway into the street. As the man and his family drove up to their house, the Suburban started backing up. The homeowner confronted the stranger who was still behind the wheel of the Suburban. The suspect, later identified as Joshua Whitney, 24, of Boise, hit the homeowner in the head with an aluminum can. The homeowner wrestled Whitney to the ground. "

Now, I just posted most of it for the context, but I think the most important part of it is this: "The suspect, later identified as Joshua Whitney, 24, of Boise, hit the homeowner in the head with an aluminum can." So, Josh, just finished a diet soda, did ya? And decided to use the can as a deadly assault weapon? Ever hear of a fucking gun? It is Idaho after all! I could understand if it was like a tin can full of creamed corn, but an aluminum can just doesn't scream "smart implementation of objects around you" or "good getaway idea."

Story number two is quite sad:
Headline
One dead in Eagle after police chase, crash-
"Ada County Sheriff's Deputy Sgt. Jon McDaniel tells KBOI-TV the chase only last a few minutes at times slowing to 15 mph and as fast at 60 mph. At one point deputies attempted to use spike strips.'After the mail driver hit the three jersey barriers, he actually did make it over the cement barriers onto Ballentyne," he said. "He came to rest on Ballentyne. At that point the deputies attempted to render first aid as did Ada County paramedics. He did pass away at the scene.'"

So ultimately what I am trying to decipher here, amongst the numerous errors in this article is, do you think the "mail" driver delivered the mail before he hit the three jersey barriers?

I mean, I know the news is usually bad, but I can't tell who is more at fault--the dumb criminals or the dumb writers. Though, it seems, dumb criminals make for funnier stories, especially when they forget their guns during a big heist and are relegated to other means of force.

Quantum 7: a peaceful reminder

I lived in a duplex about ten years ago in the east end. It was a red brick building, a split level, up on a hill against the foothills. There were always earwigs in the kitchen, big spiders in the living room, and enormous flying beetles outside that resembled cock roaches.

The landlord was a nice woman, who I am still in contact with. And Jim, the gay old man on disability, lived next door. He smoked like it was going out of style, and every time I opened the dishwasher, it was an olfactory tunnel into his apartment, which I only entered once when I needed to borrow something (I forget what). The walls of his half of the duplex were yellow, and looked as though they would crumble with a touch. A man that lived with him at times (perhaps his boyfriend)--though I don't think he was supposed to for housing subsidy reasons-- was tall and thin with gray hair: I don't remember his name. He loved Tina Turner, though, and we had a lengthy conversation about her once. I remember this because I worked at a record store at the time.

A lot of people I worked with lived in that duplex, too, at different times in my living there. First it was Kristen, the only roommate louder than me, who sometimes ate Dinty Moore out of cans late at night after she arrived home drunk from the bar. Then it was Justin, my closest friend, who would smoke cigarettes with me in the kitchen on the floor when it was raining. Jim loved Justin, and sometimes, I see Jim around town (he's moved, now), but he always asks about Justin, still. When Kelley needed a place to stay, she moved into the living room, just off the kitchen, and we made her walls out of tiger-striped sheets. Arwen moved in after Justin left, and she never complained about my bad habit of leaving my dried clothes in the dryer. Rushton lived with us for a brief stint while he was looking for a different place, and while he ate cereal at the alarming rate of a growing teenaged-boy, he was my Cosby Show counterpart when Nick at Nite ran reruns. I loved those nights.

Rushton ended up moving into a house that was the northend version of my eastend duplex. Almost as many record store employees lived in that house, if not more, and the parties there were definitely bigger than the ones on Krall.

But none of these facts are the most important about the duplex on Krall street. The most important was the architectural wonder that was the "sex closet." The closet was in my bedroom, the bigger of the two, and the closet had a brown wooden door. But when the door was opened, there were three stairs, covered in orange and yellow shag carpet that lead to nowhere. There was a flat area of carpet, probably about 5X4. No one ever had sex in the closet (at least on my watch--and by that I mean time, not voyeurism), but the closet was deemed the "sex closet" by my mother.

On moving day, when we were loading things into my room, the closet was one of the first things she noticed. I don't know if she was drunk or not (she had a problem, then, afterall), but she said, "Renea (thats what she calls me), you could have sex in that closet." My reply, "Mom, why would I have sex in the closet when I have a whole house to have sex in?" I still stand that it is a good point. But I didn't neglect the closet. I donned it with a wall-sized poster of Captain Kirk and Spock. I remember they were poised, just so, standing, waiting to solve an epic problem; yet, I don't remember what they were standing in front of. To this, I added a big, red beanbag chair. I made the space inviting, and while I never remember spending any quantity of time there, it did provide a space for practical jokes, though, like the time Justin thought it would be funny to hide in the closet and jump out and scare me. I was naked, and had just gotten out of the shower: this he didn't expect--he had just woken up, and I am not sure he knew where I was in the house, maybe downstairs, but he didn't expect me to emerge freshly washed from the shower. When he jumped out from behind the closet door, we both screamed, and I remember he shouted "Oh, god!" And I shouted, "I'm naked." And he shouted back, "I'm not wearing my glasses! I can't see anything." I imagine he only saw a blur of flesh, as his eyesight isn't very good, but enough to discern that I was naked (hence all the shouting between us).

Shortly after I moved into the duplex, I started getting mail for "Quantum 7." I don't think the mail ever stopped. Every once in a while, a piece of mail would show up--nothing important, usually just junk, but I was convinced the closet was actually a portal to another dimension, and that its occupants could pass freely back and forth; maybe they only came out at night after everyone was asleep. So, when I left, I left the poster of Spock and Captain Kirk to serve as a liason between the inhabitants of "Quantum 7" and the new tenants: a peaceful reminder.

What Your Sighs Say

In some research I was doing recently, I stumbled across an essay by Bernard Cooper called "The Fine Art of Sighing." It starts like this: "You feel a gradual welling up of pleasure, or boredom, or melancholy. Whatever the emotion, it's more abundant than you ever dreamed. You can no more contain it than your hands can cup a lake. And so you surrender and suck the air. Your esophagus opens, diaphragm expands. Poised at the crest of an exhalation, your body is about to be unburdened, second by second, cell by cell. A kettle hisses. A balloon deflates. Your shoulders fall like two ripe pears, muscles slack at last."

So, this essay struck a chord in me--a pretty deep one. I don't know if it is because I have sighed a lot lately or if it is because Cooper discusses his parent's sighs, and how he could almost read them for their emotional content, but it made me start noticing how much I sigh and how many times other people sigh. Mine aren't all bad, but there have been a lot:
sighs saying, "again?;" sighs saying, "that's a lot of work;" sighs of relief, "phew! glad we missed that;" sighs of contentment, "now that was good;" and sighs of fulfillment, "that's what I needed."

I have noticed a lot of sighs out of others, too.
My sister: sigh of relief after sitting.
My co-worker: sigh of desperation after realizing shit does roll downhill.
My friend: sigh of frustration after I've frustrated him.
My roommate: sigh of relief after opening the door on a Friday eveningafter a long week of work.

Sighs say a lot.