DREAM: Inside a Kmart sitting on a bench in a corner near the front of the store. Margot is on top of me and we’re having sex. The coast is clear through the aisle straight ahead of us. But then I look to the left and notice a man peering over to see what we’re doing. I acknowledge him with some kind of signal. “The manager’s coming,” I whisper to Margot. She immediately scrambles to the wall and takes the fetal position. I stay put on the bench and cover up the rest of my body with the brown sweater I’m wearing, which happens to be the only thing I’m wearing. The manager approaches us, “Take your business elsewhere,” she demands. “What business?” I reply, playing dumb only to make sure she was referring to our public sexual act. She has other employees escort us out of the building. ☼☼☼ Sitting at the bar next to Rocky inside a venue that’s reminiscent of Winston’s but bigger and with more space. I ask Rocky if she knows where we are exactly. I was asking her as if I just took a quantum leap from some other time and place. She examines a piece of paper. But I beat her to it, “Oh! We’re in Arkansas.” She agrees with my epiphany. But we didn’t know what city. I ask the woman bartender, who is supposed to be Yolinda but doesn’t look like her at all, “Do you know what city we’re in?” She doesn’t seem to know either. Doesn’t anybody know where this is? In time, I realize I had been here before. Elliott is sitting at a table nearby. I yell over to him, “Hey! We played here before with The House Floor,” referring to the weeklong tour Tokyo did with The House Floor. I look over as an announcer is presenting all the bands that played tonight on the countertops. He calls out the band name, and then we have to raise our hands to show that we liked them, kind of like a vote. He speaks into the microphone, “And how about The Angel Bloom?!” Nobody raises their hand except for me. One of the members of that band looks at me wide-eyed as if he was surprised anybody even liked them. ☼☼☼ I am Tom Cruise. I’m in a gym. I step into this intricate mechanical device that prepares the robotic portion of my body. A black claw with a dark red sphere whizzes by my face, then moves a pointer around and around just below my eyes. It turns my head left, then right. I’m set. I get up and I’m ready for action. One of the security guards, named chubby, is standing by the double doors of the gym. He actually isn’t that chubby, but buff and tall and kind of goofy. He takes off his pants and his boxers making him naked from the waist down, then starts running out the door and down the hallway. I laugh with my boss and officers. He does this from time to time…
Waking up around 4:30 p.m. Horrible thoughts, reminders of yesterday, shocking myself back into reality. I can’t sleep anymore.
She sent me a few texts, “I’m sorry. I don’t deserve you. I understand if you want to never see me again and break up. But I love you so much and I’m so sorry.” “I want to die. I feel so awful.”
Business.
Breakfast: Cinnamon Roll Toast. Orange Juice. Zinc.
Work at China Wok.
I’ve decided to no longer document the Non-Tippers from my shifts even though I had two tonight.
Lunch: Grilled Cheese with Tomato. Salt n Vinegar Chips. Green Tea Ginger Ale.
Margot comes over and explains more of the details that she can remember from last night. Now it’s starting to sound like this guy, who was apparently only tipsy, if not sober, took advantage of her, instigating sexual intercourse while she was blacking in and out. I don’t even know how to explain the raging anger inside me. I want to knock this guy out and chop his stupid untamed penis off. I want to hire the Virginia Beach Mafia and put a hit on him. The only problem is, the VBM does not exist. Where’s the Boondock Saints when you need them? I can’t seem to calm down. What does mindless vengeance solve anyway? I insist on reporting this to the police or at least getting a professional opinion on the matter. After doing some research online, it seems this is somewhat of a common occurrence in regards to drunk girls and non-drunk guys, date rape and all that (http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20100712225032AApeDnQ). This situation is, for lack of a better term, fucked up. She just doesn’t want to do anything about it, “I don’t want to deal with this…I just want to…forget about all this!”
“Margot, you can’t just forget it happened. What this asshole did to you was wrong. It’s not fair…I want justice.”
She’s upset about everything and showing an incredible amount of remorse, making sure I understand that…”I love you.”
“Margot, I know that.”
She seems more like a victim here. As much as she should be responsible for drinking too much, a stranger took advantage of that. Fuck him. I’ve never been one to hate people and I’m usually an advocate for unconditional love and respect for all mankind [I still am.]. And I know I will eventually forgive this person and her for what happened. But I’m not ready for that at this time.
She sits in silence as I vacuum up the baking soda, salt, and lemon mixture I put down on the carpet the other day. Standing at the door. We embrace. Her hands feel warm and comforting on my stressed back—kind of reminds me of the way my mother hugs. She kisses me on the neck. This is nice but it still feels off. “I don’t know how much I can see of you right now. This is going to take some time.”
Dumpster Diving at Trader Joe’s.
The Finds: Tons of Yellow and Orange Peppers, Bread, Muffins, Crackers, Vegetables, Lobster Bisque, Pumpkin Cream Cheese, Gouda Cheese, Veggie Burgers, tons of Apples and Bananas.
Eating a Banana and a few Granola Cookies.
Stretching. Crunches.
Dinner: Fried Wild Rice Pilaf with Rosemary Chicken and Mixed Vegetables.
Watching Trade [2007], a movie on Mexican sex trafficking.
Practicing songs at the storage unit—feeling a new sense of pride in their potential.
Chocolate Milk.
Sleep 9 a.m.
No comments:
Post a Comment