#[my grandfather didn’t go to school. ever. because he spoke no English. he couldn’t read it. and the enl services were… definitely not about

[godblooded]

the little kid i work with escaped the ukraine two years ago. my family immigrated in the 50s/60s to escape the turkish occupation in my papou’s village in greece. and it is both immensely heartbreaking and also insanely healing to help someone the way my grandparents weren’t helped when they got to this country.

[ilooklikeaburntchickenugget]

Womanizer

A/N: I’m actually doing Chris Evans fan-fic on this account now. So here you guys go. Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x F!Reader Word count: 1,819 Warnings: Very, very lightly dark Ransom, if you even consider it dark. 

To Ransom, you were everything.

The two of you hadn't spoken more than a dozen words to each other, only having had a few interactions at these various events and galas the elite class had to attend. You would ignore him, mingling around everyone else. But most importantly, other men.

He eyed you like a vulture. He was discreet about it, making sure to memorize the patterns of when you would look around, clearly out of boredom, and diverting his eyes elsewhere or back to the meaningless conversations he participated in. He would swirl his vodka in his small cup, filled with ice in a race against time so it wouldn’t water down to distract himself from your figure that stood no more than 15 feet away from him.

He noticed exactly how your drinks went: you would start out with champagne, finishing it. You would move onto red wine, only drinking half. He knew it was out of sake for your sobriety. You were smart. Then you would move onto whisky. He saw you down one a few times, and smirked to himself. You could drink hard liquor, that said something about you as a woman.

You were nothing alike the girls he would bring home for a one night stand. No, he wanted to put a ring on you. He would buy other girls some Cartier bracelet or a Prada bag for their cheap endeavors with him, but since the day he first saw you he knew you were his.

He had spent an entire night looking you up on Google. Finding your occupation as an English professor at an Ivy League school, to your academic essays. And of course, he found your Pinterest board. Because he knew damn well every woman had a Pinterest board for their wedding.

He noticed what you had saved, multiple photos of huge diamond rings, emerald cut. Classy and glamorous, it fit you. The very next day he went out to Tiffany’s, and bought a ring just like it. He knew your ring size, just from eyeballing your sleek hand. He had bought meaningless rings for dozens of other women, he was a pro at this point.

And in his lower desk drawer in his personal office, sat the blue box that he one day hoped to drop on one knee and grant you with, an official bond between you two that as of right now, he could only dream of. But he would do everything in his power to make sure it happened.

He noticed how other men looked at you, sleazy eyed with the most disgusting intentions. Sure, he wanted to take you home. But he wanted to keep you there, with him. He wanted you to be his, and only his. Forever, and ever.

“Mr. Drysdale,” His thoughts drowned in wonderland were ripped from him, disrupted by one of the investors in his publishing company.

“Mr. Peterson.” He tightly smiled, holding out his free hand to shake with the other man. His insides were burning with a fire of annoyance at this man, having to put on a stupid, nice face for him. He wanted no more than to find you, and start a conversation with you. 

He continued to look over the older man’s shoulder, only for a few moments at a time, catching a few glances of your gorgeous smile, your elegant being. It was the only thing keeping him sane.

“I should probably introduce you to some of my colleagues, other investors.” Mr. Peterson mentioned, “Follow me, they’re right over here.” “Oh, there’s no need-” Ransom tried to reason, an attempt to get away the talkative man who was arguably a nobody compared to the various others who had invested more from their pocketbooks than he had in his entire bank account.

“No, I insist.” He waved Ransom on, to which the brunette tightly smiled again, and with great reluctance followed.

He guided his way through the crowds and groups of people talking, their expensive clothes and obnoxious laughs making Ransom more irritable by the second. He could feel his anger rise to a slow boil, his ability to contain himself slimming by the moment. Then he saw it.

He saw you, standing there in that form-shaping dress of an emerald green, with a kind smile on your face. You, too, were talking to these so-called investors. His temperature dropped immediately, an inaudible sigh escaping his lips as his once forced smile turned into a natural one. One by one he was introduced to the various men, dressed in stupidly expensive suits that didn’t even fit, until your name came around, “And Y/N Y/L/N.” Mr. Peterson smiled, “English professor at Cornell, and published author.” You smiled at him, holding out your hand to which he shook.

Oh, how soft your hands were. It was like a cloud, he felt your elegant fingers grasping in his, the various rings on your fingers felt cold against his warmed skin. “I believe we’ve met before, Mr. Drysdale.” You spoke up.

“I believe so, Ms. Y/L/N,” He smiled, “And please, Ransom is just fine.” You nodded in agreement.

The conversation began, investors talking about money and bets, traditional things, finally Ransom’s company came up. “You have a publishing company, correct, Mr. Drysdale?” Your boss, Mr. Hart spoke, to which he nodded.

“Yes, my grandfather’s publishing company, I inherited it.” He took a sip of his drink.

“It’s doing well, I see?” Another asked and he nodded.

“Very well, yes,” He replied.

“And you, too, are an author?” A third asked, the questions becoming annoying to him. He nodded.

“That was how I inherited the company,” He began, “I released my first book and it got some press, sold a few copies, Harlan saw that I could take over his company and gave it to me.” “What is this book called?” Mr. Peterson asked, his clueless mind elsewhere.

“A Wrath for One Another,” You spoke up, his head turning to you and eyes shooting open wide in shock, “It’s a phenomenal piece, truly.”

“Why thank you.” He smiled at you, his mind still in a state of complete shock over your knowledge of his work.

“Well, we may just have to include that in the curriculum,” Mr. Hart smirked, sliding his hand to the small of your back. You knew he was tipsy, he always tried to flirt with you, physically, when he was like this.

“Well,” You spoke up, “If you would have read my plan for the curriculum at the beginning of this last semester, you would have seen I included that very book in the plan.” Most of the men around you nearly choked on their drinks, Ransom chuckling under his breath with a smile at how easily you dominated the man and the entire conversation. “Now, if all of you will excuse me, I must excuse myself with Mr. Drysdale to talk with him further about his works.” You removed yourself from your boss’ grasp with grace, walking over to Ransom and glancing only once before walking past his frame, which was quite a lot larger than yours. He stopped for a moment, getting the memo before following you, yet still unsure about what to do.

The two of you found a nearly silent corner in one of the rooms of this mansion, gold rimmed with old furniture, only a few guests lingering about in quiet conversation. “So,” Ransom was the first to speak up, you leaning against the wall and taking a sip of your whisky, “You’ve read my book, huh?” “Of course I have,” You coyly smiled, “Anyone who is actually within the modern world of literature has.” He sighed very lightly.

“You’re right.” You nodded, a few seconds of silence lingering between the two of you.

“I apologize that I took you out of the conversation, I just had the feeling that you didn’t want to be there either.” “Am I really that easy to read?” He asked you with a slight smile. “Eh,” You smiled back, “A little.”

“Well,” He began, “You are quite the woman-” “If you’re trying to get me in bed my answer is a firm no.” You rolled your eyes knowing too much about the playboy, something he too knew.

“That was not necessarily the plan.” “Necessarily?” You asked, looking at him and squinting your eyes in confusion, “Then what, pray tell, was the plan?”

“Well, it was to ask you out to dinner, get to know you better, go on a few dates and see how things go.” He began.

“Hugh Drysdale taking a woman out on a date?” You scoffed, “Hilarious.” “I mean it.” He fought right back.

“I’m sure that’s what you tell all your girls.” “But I would never do that to a woman.” He began, looking you up and down, “I know you’re smart, smarter than me if we’re both being honest, but I also know you drive me insane whenever I see you at these completely pointless events.” “Oh?” You asked, this time downing your drink, “And how would I know you don’t say that to all your other girls?”

“Because I know you love dogs, you’ve had three of them in your lifetime. I know you love to cook, your favorite thing to make is homemade pasta carbonara, and I know your favorite author is Hemingway, specifically his short stories, something that tells me enough about you to know that you’re a smart minded woman who can think outside of the box but within reasonable perimeters.” He responded all in one breath, leaving you breathless. You stared up at him confused and dazed, like a deer in the headlights.

“How did you know all that?” You asked, turning to him, this time seriously, “Are you stalking me.” “Stalking is a strong word,” He stated, your face turning to more panic which he noticed, “Oh please, no, I’m not stalking you in any way. I just overhear your conversations, wanting to know more about you.” It wasn’t a complete lie. “So eavesdropping?” You reiterated with a sigh.

“If you would like to use that word, then I suppose.” You held the small glass cup loosely within your fingers as you rolled your eyes again.

“Fine.” You sighed out, “One date. That’s it. But, no touching unless I say so. I don’t want to hear you brag about yourself, it gets obnoxious to a point where I get waves of nausea,” He couldn’t help but scoff, “And no talking about work. I’m sick and tired of people thinking it’s my only personality trait.” “Deal.” He agreed with a nod.

“Now,” You sighed, taking his hand very lightly in yours, “Back to old men staring at my boobs.” He lightly chuckled with a smirk.

“You do have nice boobs,” He said, to which you whipped your head around and gave him a grimace, “Respectfully.”

[betelgeusessonajblog]

Roger’s Story: Planet Nemesis

This is a REALLY, REALLY, REAAAALLY Long story with lots of Time jumps

A young female lizard-like being stood staring out of her bedroom window, looking outside, viewing her kingdom. She wore a long purple dress, she had peach scales and, had a large bump on her stomach and had a crown on her head. She lightly rubs her belly “Not much longer now, my dear son.” she said with a smile as she thought about meeting her new born son.

She had been with her husband King Dayne for about 4 years at this point and were finally ready to start a family together. Though she was mainly doing this alone.

She let out a soft sigh as she thought about her husband and how he had been rather busy over the last few weeks but she knew he had to do his duty.

She was on bedrest from now on by recommendation from their Doctor to which they had both agreed, being King and Queen of this planet could be stressful at times and the last thing they needed was putting their unborn son at risk.

Just then there was a knock at the door, she turned her head “Come in.” she called out in a soft voice. The door opened revealing a grey lizard wearing an old fashioned butler outfit. He bows slightly “Good afternoon, your highness.” he said before stepping into the room.

The queen smiled a little as she walked over to the lizard “Hello, Artemis.” she said as she hugged the other

Artemis smiled a little as he returned the hug “How are you feeling, Crystal?” he asked.

"I’m doing well though the little one is very active today. Lot’s of kicking.” Crystal said with a small chuckle “He’s going to be a very energetic child.”

"I’m glad you’re doing well.” Artemis said as he continued to smile

“I’m glad you remembered to call me by my name when it’s just you and, I.” Crystal teased a little “You’ve been my dear friend for four years, Art.”

“I could never get used to it at first.” Artemis chuckled a little before Crystal held her stomach “Are you alright?” he asked, a concerned look on his face

“He’s kicking again.” Crystal smiled "Want to feel?” she asked to which Artemis nodded before gently placing his hand on Crystal’s stomach feeling her unborn son kick “Ooh that was a strong kick.” Artemis smiled “He’s gonna be a troublemaker, like his mother~” he teased.

Crystal chuckled lightly “Hey, I was not used to being a queen yet. I had to get used to going from rebel to Royalty” she smirked

“Has that changed~?” Artemis joked

“Ooh your words wound me.” Crystal said as he acted as if she was wounded before sitting down on a nearby chair “I’m glad you’re my friend, Artemis...you’ve been someone that I can truly rely on.”

“I’m glad that you can consider me a friend, Crystal....” Artemis said with a smile as he sat on the bed. There was a few moments of silence before Crystal asked “Have you seen Dayne today?”

Artemis rubbed the back of his neck “Only briefly, he was heading out to check on how construction for that new school was coming along.” he replied “Still as busy as ever.”

Crystal chuckled “of course. I do miss him when he isn’t around but that’s the lives we lead.” she looked at Artemis “And....how did your date with Nathan go?”

Artemis blushed lightly “W-Well....um...it was great. I’m grateful you gave me the night off to spend time with him.”

"I’m so glad it went great for you two. You’ve had a thing for him for months now, wasn’t sure if you’d ever manage to get the courage to talk to him.” Crystal teased, smiling.

The two spent a few hours just talking, Artemis would make sure Crystal was alright if she suddenly felt sick. Eventually she got changed into her pyjamas then got comfy in her bed as Artemis drew the curtains then left a bottle of water for her before leaving.

At some point a muscular lizard that’s scales were a very dark green with a crown atop his head came into the room, he was wearing a rather old fashioned king’s outfit but it had some symbols on it that were unique to the planet. One of which being the ‘Family crest’ that had a lizard with twin swords on it. (X)

Crystal had fallen asleep by this point so she didn’t hear her husband come over to the bed. He removes his clothes carefully then puts on his on his own pyjamas then climbs into bed next to her and kisses her cheek gently.

Crystal yawns a little before opening her eyes “Hello, handsome.” she said with a soft smile

“Hello, my beloved.....I’m sorry I was gone all day.” Dayne said as he took her hand “I tried finishing everything as fast as possible.....”

“Sssh I know, my love....more things happened as the day progressed....it’s alright.” Crystal smiled as she carefully rolled onto her back, she looked over at where Dayne’s clothes were then smirked “That outfit still looks ridiculous on you.”

Dayne couldn’t help but chuckle “I know, I know. It was what my father wore when he ruled unfortunately. It’s always gonna have an old fashioned look. I know it’d be easier to go for a modern look but...this honestly helps me feel closer to them.”  Dayne smiled a little

Crystal smiled before letting out a small groan “Oof the little one’s at it again.”

Dayne smiled a little as he places his hand on Crystal’s pregnant belly “He’s gonna be a strong energetic child.” he chuckled before looking at Crystal “Y’know we’ve gone through a lot of names for our son....and none have really clicked for us....but I’ve been thinking and...well how about we name him Roger, after your Grandfather?”

Crystal couldn’t help but smile a little “Little Roger....I love it.” she leaned up and kisses Dayne on the lips gently “What made you decide that?”

“Been thinking about those that are no longer around and....whilst your Father and, I never got along greatly, your Grandfather was....incredible. He was always supportive but could be firm to myself and your father. I like to think it’s because of him our relationship did improve a lot more than it had been.” Dayne explained as he lightly rubbed her belly.

The two spoke for a couple of minutes before finally settling down for the night. Dayne looked over at the Clock/Calendar on the wall near their bed. The date read December 13th 2000, in a few days or so their little boy was due and he couldn’t wait to meet him.

A few days pass, King Dayne kept himself busy with work until one late evening, Crystal’s waters broke so he and, Artemis rushed her to the hospital. Everyone was nervous as hell, almost forgetting her overnight bag in the rush to get her to the hospital.

Hours passed, Artemis was sat in the waiting room, tapping his foot trying to calm his nerves. He looked around a little, he was sat with some of Crystal’s family like her younger sister, older brother, her father and, mother. And on the other side was Dayne’s family which consisted of his mother and, his Uncles. Dayne was the only child of the previous King and, Queen.

Artemis looked up at the clock. They had come into the hospital around midnight and it was now almost 5:30 AM. He was hoping everything was going alright for them though he knew it could take a long time.

Eventually the doors to Crystal’s room opens, King Dayne steps out the colour was drained from his face so that did worry the family but he smiled widely “He’s perfect.....Little Roger’s here and he’s perfectly healthy.”

The group let out a sigh of relief and started talking amongst themselves for a few moments before each of them got up and congratulated Dayne on becoming a father

Artemis smiled as he and Dayne shook hands “How’s the Queen doing?”

"She’s sound asleep, she’s tired but doing well. Roger’s sleeping nearby....god I can’t believe it, I’m a father.” Dayne said with a grin. One of Dayne’s Uncles came over and coaxed Dayne into coming outside to get some fresh air and a cup of coffee from the Canteen.

The pair were soon stood outside with a cup of coffee in their hands, drinking it silently before the Uncle spoke in their planet’s native tongue “E ys kmyt dryd ouin cuh fyc punh cyvamo, tayn habraf. Pid E ruba dryd oui yna nayto vun dra tyo dryd ra femm ujandrnuf oui. E ghuf dryd oui ahzuo paehk y gehk pid, mega oui tet fedr ouin vydran, ra femm ujan drnuf oui. Ouin vydran fyc y fayg gehk, tu hud syga dra cysa secdygac yc res. Syga cina dryd lremt ghufc fru ec eh lrynka vnus dra pakehhehk..”  [Translation from Al Bhed to English: “I am glad that your son was born safely, dear nephew. But I hope that you are ready for the day that he will overthrow you. I know that you enjoy being a king but, like you did with your father, he will over throw you. Your father was a weak king, do not make the same mistakes as him. Make sure that child knows who is in charge from the beginning.”

Dayne lightly squeezed his cup, what Crystal hadn’t known about her husband was he did indeed have a dark side. The Previous king, his father, had become...weak in the eyes of his Uncles...and mother...so King Dayne killed his father to take over. His mother stepped down as Queen and Dayne ruled for a few years and was rather vicious until he met Crystal which had softened him as soon as they began to date, he was much kinder now which pissed off his Uncles and Mother, to them they were more powerful and better than EVERYONE, Crystal included but they decided to leave them be for now, that is.

Dayne looks at his Uncle as he gets into his face “My father....was weak, I took care of that....but I won’t harm my child. If you attempt to harm him yourself, I will make sure to end you and leave your head on a spike.” he said with venom in his voice.

His Uncle shook his head as he walked off heading for his home “He’ll be stronger than you, Dayne more powerful....just you watch.” he said before Dayne headed back inside to see his wife and newborn son.

Crystal was still asleep when Dayne returned so he walked over to the small bed where Roger was and smiled softly as he looked down at the tiny lizard sleeping soundly, a small toy in his hands. He saw Crystal’s mother was holding this earlier “Must’ve given this to the nurse...” he thought to himself before he lightly stroked Roger’s cheek “...my sweet boy....I...I promise I won’t let them harm you....” he whispered.

Over the next year things had progressed rather well with Roger and, Crystal. Roger was born December 17th so he got to see his first Christmas tree just a few days later, he even saw snow for the first time. Which was something that everyone was still getting used to.

It was something Queen Crystal had said she had heard of and always wanted to see after hearing so many stories from her family whom had visited their original home, the Monster World, long before Crystal was born so when she got married to Dayne, he took it upon himself to find out more about snow so he could give her the experience she had always wanted.

So, using the planet’s weather machine, King Dayne gave their planet snow for the first time ever. They had never used the weather machine for anything other than hot weather or fall weather, never cold weather. It was a big shock to their kingdom but eventually people came to appreciate the nice change of scenery

Crystal was so happy that she was able to give her son his first ever Christmas. They had a nice family dinner and gave each other gifts. Things couldn’t be more perfect in Crystal’s eyes.

That is until the following year, Roger had woke up crying loudly after having a bad dream. What was scary to many in the castle was the building shook the longer Roger cried.

Crystal picked her son up and began gently rocking him back and forth, trying her best to calm him down. King Dayne rushed into the room, worried for his family’s safety due to the building shaking.

But as soon as Crystal got Roger to calm down, that’s when it hit the king.....his son was the reason behind the shaking, what his Uncle had said was true, his son was somehow more powerful than he was.

At that age, Dayne’s powers hadn’t even begun to develop, he didn’t learn about them until he was older. He shook his head trying to rid himself of those thoughts “Are you alright?” he asked as he walked towards Crystal

“I’m alright, Roger is too.....I think....I think that was him causing the building to shake...” Crystal said as she kept gently rocking Roger

“...Yes...I have to agree with you.” Dayne said as he looked at his son whom was finally calmed down. He couldn’t let his son continue to get stronger...no no that wasn’t it, he was wanting to stop his son’s cries from shaking the castle up for everyone’s safety.

He rubs his face a little trying to think of something before his hand touched his nose ring...that was it’ The nose ring, he could....he could turn it into something that could weaken Roger’s powers. Normally it was just a sign for the males to wear to show they were royalty, he could...just make a new one that would help Roger.

Over the next few days, King Dayne had someone secretly work on this nose ring so Roger could be safe. It wouldn’t null his powers but it would weaken them so he wasn’t worrying about his wife and child’s safety.

Once that ring was finished, they held a ceremony where Roger was given the nose ring and had it placed into his nose. Roger began crying which worried Crystal that he could cause the building to shake but when it didn’t happen, she was confused for a few moments before looking at her husband whom acted like he didn’t know what had happened.

A short time later, the pair were getting ready to settle down for the night when Crystal looked at her husband “....Did....you do something to our son?” she asked, her tone a serious one.

“Something to him? Crystal, I didn’t do anything to him.” Dayne said, he wasn’t technically lying

“...Then why wasn’t the building shaking today like the castle has when Roger cried??” Crystal asked as she stared into his eyes, wanting to know the truth.

Dayne let out a sigh “....Fine....I...I didn’t do anything to him....I...the nose ring I had made specially for him.....it weakens his powers. I didn’t want this crying to get stronger and, for him or for you to wind up hurt.”

Crystal sighed, the last few days when Roger’s crying had happened the building would shake quite a bit. She wasn’t angry for that “I...I understand....you could’ve just told me...” she said before kissing Dayne’s cheek “I understand protecting us just....don’t feel the need to hide it.”

“Alright, I promise my love I won’t.” Dayne said with a smile as he took her hands, they share a gentle kiss before climbing into bed together.

Another year passes, things seemed to have gotten better for the pair of them. Roger had been sleeping longer, He wasn’t showing signs of his powers increasing which was great in Dayne’s eyes. That is until one day the nose ring stopped functioning, he was warned this would happen due to how little time they had to test it out and make sure it wasn’t buggy.

Roger was back to shaking the castle every now and then when he was upset from a nightmare or just upset in general. Though it seems like the nightmare amplified it tenfold.

When Dayne’s Uncle, the same one from the hospital, came to visit he saw how strong Roger’s power was. He drags Dayne away from his duties to somewhere private and secluded “I warned you, Dayne that this would happen. That child is going to get stronger and more powerful than you and overthrow you with ease when he’s older.”

“I’ve done my best to contain his powers so they don’t get stronger, his nose ring malfunctioned. I’m working on a way to...” Dayne said before his Uncle cut him off

"You have gotten SOFT with that family of yours, that child is gonna take away EVERYTHING from you. You used to be much stronger than this, more vicious. What happened to that Dayne? the one with the power, the one that didn’t let ANYTHING step in the way?” his Uncle said with an angry look on his face

“I have not gotten SOFT, Uncle.” Dayne snarled “And don’t you bring my family into this.”

"OH so you’re telling me you haven’t?" the Uncle asked as he stared at Dayne

Dayne went silent....it’s true that meeting Crystal had changed him but this was for the better...right?

"I’ve heard people talking about you....they think you’re weak, they think you’re pathetic. Before Crystal you were a better ruler, a better King. Since her? you’ve made things worse. I mean Winter for us? Are you fucking stupid? If you can’t see you’re better off without her and her family then you’ve got no chance of surviving.” The Uncle smirked as he walked off

Dayne stood there, staring at the ground....his Uncle was right....deep down he fucking knew he was right. He had changed himself for Crystal, he gave her Winter...For fucking lizards? What was he fucking thinking?

The longer he thought about it, the more he realised his Uncle was right....that...that had to change and change FAST.

Later that day he headed to Crystal’s family’s home whilst Crystal was taking a nap with Roger. He knocks on the door then awaits for someone to answer, secretly pulling out twin daggers from behind his back and kept them there.

Crystal’s younger sister opened the door and greeted her brother-in-law before inviting him inside. He smiles as he steps inside then closes the door with his tail. He was in there for a good 10 minutes before he stepped out, his daggers drenched in blood, the clothes he was wearing had blood splatter on them.

He wipes the blood off his face and daggers before removing his clothes and changing into a spare set that he had brought with him before tossing the old clothes into a trash bag then throws it into a nearby river. He had made sure to put something into the bag so the clothes would sink to the bottom before he returned to the castle.

On his way home, Dayne sent a message to his Uncle on a wrist communicator telling him “I took care of Crystal’s family.” as soon as he got into the castle, he made his way to the bathroom and had a long shower, making sure that he washed all the blood off of himself before he got out and dried himself off before putting his clothes back on.

The next day Crystal headed to her family’s home, wanting to spend time with her family. Upon reaching the house, she knocked on the door but was confused when she got no reply. She looked through the windows and saw....nothing....no family, no furniture “...What in the world....” was the only thing Crystal could say.

Where did they go? they wouldn’t just....up and leave without telling her. That wasn’t something they would do. She took Roger back home and when she got there, she told Dayne that she thinks something happened to her parents.

Instead of dismissing her thoughts, Dayne acted like he was concerned and said he would get someone to investigate it immediately but warned her it may take some time which she understood.

He spent the next few months acting as if he cared about what had happened to her family, he’d follow ‘leads’ but it never came up with anything. Crystal had become depressed over this time, worrying about her family constantly but she still did her best to be a good mother for Roger.

One evening, Artemis came to Crystal’s room to check in on his friend, wanting to make sure she was okay. He knocks on the door before opening it a little “Your Majesty? I wanted to see if you were....”

Crystal was sitting on the edge of her bed sobbing softly whilst Roger slept. Without hesitating, Artemis made his way over to Crystal and sat down beside her. She turned around and hugged her friend whom returned the hug, lightly rubbing her back “It’s okay, it’s okay....we’ll find your family, I promise...” he tried his best to reassure her but he knew something may have really happened to them.

Over the next few days, Crystal had began to notice Dayne acting not like himself, not the man she knew and fell in love with. She sits on her bed changing Roger into his pyjamas for an early night, she kisses him on the cheek before tucking him in gently and places the toy her mother got Roger next to him before she lays down on her bed whilst Roger slept and began to think.

Maybe...maybe she was missing something....maybe Dayne’s just stressed. Crystal lets out a soft sigh before closing her eyes. For a few minutes she was asleep when something began replaying in her mind.

The day before Crystal discovered her family had disappeared, she had woke up from her nap and went to use the bathroom when she noticed some...blood in the bathroom...she was instantly concerned thinking she may been bleeding but when she checked herself over, she couldn’t find anything.

She went looking for Dayne and told him about the blood in the bathroom, he told her it was his and that he had been cut during an altercation with a group of thieves but assured her he was alright.

Crystal woke up when she remembered that....he...he wouldn’t do that to her family...would he? She started to think about it more and more. Dayne’s behaviour lately, the blood in the bathroom.

She decides to pay more close attention to Dayne, maybe she was just paranoid from the stress/worry of her family’s disappearance. So that’s what she did, she’d spend time with Dayne whilst secretly observing him whilst acting as though she wasn’t aware of his behaviour.

Over those days, she’d noticed how aggressive he would be when he thought she wasn’t around, the way he’d act towards their people when they came to him seeking help. Crystal watched him leave for a few hours a day and come back.

One night whilst Crystal was laying on her side, struggling to sleep Dayne returned from dealing with something when someone came in as he removed his communicator “Sir, there’s an emergency.” Dayne sighed as he places the communicator down on the table then heads out to deal with whatever it was.

Seizing her opportunity, Crystal picked up the device then begins scrolling through it, looking for anything that would disprove her thoughts when she tapped on a conversation with the Uncle from the hospital.

Each message she seemed normal until she reached the one that mentioned ‘Taking care of Crystal’s family.” her heart sank before she heard footsteps, she leaves the messages and makes sure to put it back on the main screen like before then places it back down where it was before laying down and acting as if she was asleep.

The next day Crystal began searching for Artemis and found him in the library reading, she made her way towards him “Art? I...I need to talk to you....”

Artemis looked up from his book “Crys? Is everything alright?” he asked as she took his his hand “please....” was all she said to him, the look on his face said she was afraid so he agreed and lead her somewhere so they could talk.

“OK....what’s going on??” Artemis asked as Crystal tried not to break down crying

“I...I think Dayne has done something to my family.” Crystal said before she began to explain everything to Artemis. The more he listened to her, the more colour drained from his face. He knew Dayne could be nasty sometimes, hell before Crystal he was an asshole King but she changed him or so he thought.

Artemis felt sick to his stomach thinking about what could’ve happened to Crystal’s family, he knew they couldn’t confront him “We...we’ll just...figure a way of getting you and, Roger to safety.....”

Crystal just nodded “We keep it secret from Dayne...”

They hugged briefly before Crystal returned to her room, she had someone look after Roger whilst she went to find Artemis.

The next month....things escalated quickly. Dayne wasn’t trying to hide his aggressive side any more, he had decided that he was gonna rule the ENTIRE planet. There were other Kingdoms on this planet but Dayne wanted to make sure he was the only one from now on.

One day he started a war with another, arming his soldiers with heavy duty blasters, they were taking it by force. No negotiations, no conversations with the family. Dayne wanted to make SURE everyone knew he meant business. It didn’t take long for them to wipe out the Royal family of one kingdom and anyone that stood in their way ended up dead too.

Artemis saw the soldiers return, Dayne was there to greet them. he asked them how did conquering the kingdom go to which the leader said it had went well which caused Dayne to smirk “Excellent.” the leader bowed “I live to serve.” the lizard said with a small smile.

"Since you’ve been a loyal Soldier to me from the beginning, I want you to become my head guard. And personal bodyguard.” Dayne said with a smile.

The Soldier couldn’t help but grin at what Dayne said “I would be honoured, sir.”

“What’s your name?” Dayne asked to which the soldier said “Basco Arkage.”

“Basco Arkage? A Powerful name for a powerful Warrior.” Dayne had a grin as they walked off, heading back to the Throne room.

Artemis quickly made his way to Crystal to inform her about what had happened. Upon learning about what Dayne had done, Crystal sat on her bed as she began to think everything over before eventually looking at Artemis.

“....There’s...something I’ve been thinking about the last few hours.....A while back....Dayne....Dayne confessed to me that he had Roger’s nose ring made specially for him....” Crystal explained.

“Made special for him?” Artemis asked “We know that the nose rings are custom....” he said before Crystal cut him off.

“He made it to weaken his powers.....he told me that it was so Roger wouldn’t accidentally hurt us...but...I think it’s because....he’s afraid of Roger’s powers...” Crystal said as she looked at her friend.

“H...he wouldn’t hurt his own son....would he?” Artemis asked to which Crystal nodded “I’m afraid he would....”

Artemis’ heart sank knowing it’s more than likely Dayne would target Roger at some point “What do we do...?” Crystal sighed heavily “...I...I want you to make a pod but...not for me....for Roger....” “For the prince? but what about....” Artemis started to say to which Crystal cut him off once again

"I’m not going with him....I want Roger to be somewhere safe....somewhere that Dayne won’t attack....I want you to send him to the Monster World.” Crystal explained.

Artemis hated the fact that Crystal was gonna stay behind but he knew that she loved Roger more than anything in the world “OK....I’ll do it but I’ll get Nathan to help me, he’s pretty smart too...great with machines...” he sighed “I fucking hate this.” Crystal stood up and hugged Artemis tightly “I know....I know, I hate it too....but if I stay then he’ll have no reason to go after Roger.” Artemis nodded as he returned the hug before the pair began to plan everything out whilst making sure King Dayne never caught on.

Over the next couple of months Artemis and, Nathan worked Day and night on the pod, keeping it secret from Dayne wasn’t difficult due to him being too focused on conquering the other kingdoms. Artemis yawned slightly as the other lizard walked over with two cups of coffee, he was slightly mature looking compared to Artemis whom was in his early 20′s whilst the mature lizard looked to be in his 30′s, his scales were a very light blue, he had a pair of glasses on his face.

Nathan sat the second cup of coffee onto the table “Here, hon.” he said with a small smile as he took a seat next to Artemis “Break time.”

Artemis smiled as he took the cup “Thank you, Nate.” he said before taking a sip of his coffee “Mmf that’s heavenly.” Nathan smiled as he took a sip from his drink “I think we’ll have this done by December 18th....might be the safest thing all things considered...”

Artemis nodded a little “Day after Roger’s 2nd birthday....do you think we’ll be able to keep him safe until then? It’s...a few weeks until then....”

Nathan adjusted his glasses slightly before nodding “I think that we can....we’ll...make sure to add something onto the pod to protect him.” "Maybe...a cloaking  device....” Artemis said before taking a drink from his coffee again.

“...That’s actually a brilliant thinking, babe.” Nathan said with a smile “We’ll be putting him into a cryogenic sleep so we don’t want to make him an easy target.” he said before the two began drinking their coffees together to finish them quickly.

Over those remaining few weeks, Dayne had continued to spiral out of control, he threatened everyone except those he deemed worthy of his trust. Hell he even decided to rename their planet to Nemesis, wanting to strike fear into anyone that heard that name. There wasn’t a massive celebration for Roger’s 2nd birthday but Crystal, Artemis and, Nathan made sure to give him a mini birthday party and a couple gifts. One of which was a new blanket, the other was a baby mobile which was one Nathan and, Artemis built together for Roger.

The following day, Crystal set up a holo-recorder then sat down before she began to record a message for her son  “My name is Crystal Deckard, my husband and I are the rulers of the planet…Nemesis…” she sighs a little as she looked towards a window, looking outside at what was one a gorgeous planet now turned into a never ending warzone “It…it never used to be called Nemesis…”  

Crystal lets out a sigh “I’m…recording this message to my son because something has happened to my husband….the king.” she took a deep breath before continuing   “My husband, Dayne has….become corrupted, power hungry….he wants to take over every part of our world and….maybe others.” she sighs heavily.

Crystal rubs her neck “He started off as this…sweet, loving, caring man…” she looks over at something in the corner of the room “….It’s...currently….2002 I think.”

She chuckles “Two years ago you were born… December 17th….so not only was it your first birthday but first Christmas just days later.” she smiled at the memory, back then it seemed perfect. “The moment I saw you, I couldn’t believe you were mine….so cute…full of energy.” she looks at the camera, tears could be seen forming in her eyes “I’m currently planning on sending you to another planet, to keep you safe from Dayne…I don’t know what he’s capable of doing. Once…once I place you in this pod, you’ll be placed into a cryogenic sleep. You’ll be two years old for a while but from what my dear friend Artemis said over a few months you’ll start to turn into your true age. I am going to send you away to a planet called The Monster World….it was my great, great, great, great grandmother’s home planet for many years. The short version is she met someone from another planet and the two quickly fell in love and soon they returned to Nemesis. Over the years she started a family with this man, every one of us were always told about our heritage as Monsters, that was never hidden from us.” she lets out a soft sigh “I’m…the only one of my family left alive…I…I fear Dayne has done something to my family…” she rubs her eyes as she tried not to break down on camera

Crystal stands up from her chair “It….will take many years before you arrive on there, I don’t know how long but if my friend is right then you should arrive there by…2015 if I recall correctly. This pod is the only one of it’s kind so it can’t just show up there so quickly but I trust Artemis, who knows maybe with enough time your father will forget about you. Artemis’ll place a cloaking device on the pod so you can’t be found whilst travelling there.” she removes something from her neck and picks up a cloth and wraps it inside “….This is a pendant with a picture of you and, I inside it Roger….I’ll be placing this inside with you. Please…be safe, my son. Mommy loves you so much.”

Just then there was rapid knocking on the bedroom door, she quickly walks off camera to answer it. It was Artemis  “Your Majesty it’s time to go….” Crystal quickly walks over to the camera and looks at it one last time “…Goodbye…my love.” she said with a smile before turning the recording off.

She walks over to the sleeping baby and picks him up gently, making sure to grab what she’d need for Roger, including the disc, then quickly walked out of the door, she smiled at Artemis before they headed to where the pod was located, making sure to not be spotted by anyone else. Upon getting to the location, Crystal stared at the pod. It looked JUST like the one from Dragon Ball Z, almost identical to it. On the front was a symbol that looked like it belonged to the Royal family.

Crystal looked at Artemis whom just smiled “We may hate Dayne but we’re proud of what you did as the Queen, Crystal.”

Crystal smiled a little then carefully walked over to the pod and opened the front of it, she carefully wraps Roger up then places him inside, kissing his hand gently “I love you so much, Roger....You’re going to grow up to be an incredible young man.” she couldn’t help but tear up Artemis places the disc into a slot “There, he can get it whenever someone that finds him.” to which Crystal nodded before writing a brief note which read ‘My name is Roger, please take care of me.’ Once Crystal and, Artemis stepped back enough, Nathan closed the pod door then pressed some buttons first putting Roger into a cryogenic sleep then made sure to put the cloaking device on. He then made sure to open the roof up and launched the pod into space, he and Artemis had made sure to put the right coordinates in so Roger would make it there safely.

Ten minutes later, Dayne burst into the room angry as hell as he looked around “WHAT THE FUCK WAS JUST LAUNCHED?!” Crystal stepped forward “Roger....I’ve sent him somewhere safe, somewhere you can’t get to him.” she said with anger in her voice but she made sure not to raise her voice. He snarled “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT, YOU STUPID BITCH?!” “So you wouldn’t hurt him.....like you did my family...” Crystal replied, still not raising her voice.

Instead of denying it, he smirked “Yeah....yeah you’re fucking right. I got rid of them....started with that dumb bitch sister of yours...then your brother....then that bitch of a mother of yours before I took my sweet fucking time with that bastard of a father....slit his throat slowly....” Dayne said with a sick grin. Crystal’s heart sank finally getting conformation as to what happened to her family.

Dayne looked at Artemis then Nathan “....Which of you two helped her.....” "We both did....sir...” Nathan replied as Dayne walked towards him

“Who is your loyalty to?” Dayne asked the pair to which they replied in unison  “To the Queen and, The Queen alone.”

Before Dayne could do anything, Crystal grabbed something and smashed it on Dayne’s head to stun him. She, Nathan and, Artemis ran as fast as they could, Crystal stopped for a few seconds then tore a slit upside her dress to make it easier to run. As soon as he was struck on the head, Dayne dropped to his knees gripping his head as it began to bleed. Basco and some of the other guards ran towards where the crash came from before they could say anything Dayne turned around, a crimson mask forming on his face “FIND THAT FUCKING BITCH CRYSTAL AND THOSE BASTARDS NATHAN AND, ARTEMIS!”

Basco didn’t question it and just turned to the other guards then said “You heard the man, move out!”

They saluted before running off to search for the Queen, Nathan and, Artemis. The Trio had unfortunately ended up separated due to Crystal having to stop and tear her dress.

Luckily for Artemis, Nathan had made a secret hiding spot in the library. He pulls a book out causing the bookshelf to move, he takes Artemis’ hand then drags him inside.

The room wasn’t massive but enough to fit a couple people, Artemis whispers “How did you make this?”

“Had free time for a few days, I wasn’t needed for work so I came in here and found this part of the library no-one comes to. This room was already behind here, I don’t think anyone knows about it. Must’ve been made by the previous King before Dayne. So I just made this passageway to get in here in secret. Became my mini break room when things got to me.” Nathan whispered back

Artemis nodded a little as he listened to Nathan before glancing back “We....We need to find Crystal....” he whispered 

Nathan nodded a little in agreement “Listen, I’ll go and try to find her. You stay here.”

“But...” Artemis didn’t want to be left alone but knew Nathan wouldn’t listen to reason, he had a bit of a stubborn streak.

"Sit on the chair and give yourself time to recover, I’ll be safe.” Nathan said with a reassuring smile before kissing Artemis deeply. He then opened the bookshelf and stepped out before carefully making his way out of the library.

Crystal had lost sight of Artemis and, Nathan when she stopped to fix her dress so she had ran somewhere else. She opens one of the doors and looks inside to see if anyone was inside.

It was the museum where she and, Dayne had spent time together looking at the Planet’s History when she first became Queen. She began to look for somewhere to hide though there weren’t a lot of places to hide.

She stood in front of a statue of Dayne’s father, the previous King “....He probably did something to you too, didn’t he?” she thought to herself before hearing the door to the museum open.

She quickly dives behind the statue and crouches, trying to make sure she wouldn’t be seen. It was that new head guard, Basco. She knew she couldn’t trust him so she did her best to remain hidden.

Nathan made his way carefully down the hallways, searching for where Crystal could have gone when he spotted the doors to the museum opened, he carefully made his way towards it then pressed himself against the wall before glancing inside.

Basco could be seen walking around the room a little, seemingly searching for Crystal. He stops in his tracks then glances at the previous King’s statue before smirking, this was the only place big enough for her to hide.

He jumps onto the statue’s pedestal then moves slowly across it, Crystal glanced towards one side of the room. She carefully began crawling, trying to be safe when he jumped down behind her and, before she could react, he grabbed her and picked her up by the throat.

Basco smiled as he opened up the communicator “Sir....I found the bitch....what should I do?” he asked Dayne

“....You know exactly what to do.” Dayne replied, no emotion in his voice. The man Crystal once knew was 100% gone.

Basco just grinned as he pulled out a blade then stabbed Crystal repeatedly in the stomach, covering her mouth to make sure she wouldn’t scream. 

Nathan covered his mouth as he watched Crystal being stabbed, he and Crystal had become friends over the last couple of months and to watch her life being slowly stripped away from her.

Basco then stabs Crystal in the throat with his blades before dropping her now lifeless body onto the ground. He stares at the dead body with a sick smile, having enjoyed every second of that.

Nathan composed himself before quickly and quietly running back to the library. Artemis was still sat there, waiting on Nathan to return with Crystal.

He turned his head hearing the bookshelf move so he got up to greet Nathan and, hopefully, Crystal but his face dropped when he saw the tears in Nathan’s eyes “Wh...where’s Crys..?” was all he could say before Nathan wrapped his arms around Artemis and hugged him tightly and began whispering “I’m so sorry....” over and over.

Artemis knew instantly....Crystal was gone...his best friend of the past few years just...gone. He began sobbing softly into his boyfriend’s arms before eventually composing himself enough to ask how.

Nathan explained everything he saw from start to finish and how Basco ended Crystal’s life with ease. Artemis sat himself down, feeling like he was gonna drop to the floor from what he heard, the shock hitting him.

“I’m so sorry, hon I couldn’t....I couldn’t do anything, it all happened so fast.” Nathan said as he kept apologising, feeling responsible for not looking for Crystal sooner.

Artemis reassured Nathan that he wasn’t to blame, they hugged each other for a while grieving over their loss. They decided that this hidden room would be the best place for them to stay in. They’d sneak out when they needed food and bring it back.

Many years later....AJ was sitting in his dorm room, playing his guitar when he saw a bright light appear outside his window. He got up and looked outside and saw a large...pod? nearby.

He tilts his head in confusion before he looked around, thankfully it was late enough for no one to be wandering around. So AJ took it upon himself to head outside and headed towards the pod.

He pulled out his pocket knife, just on the off chance it was something dangerous. He presses his hand onto the pod’s window and glances inside but couldn’t make out anything inside.

He looks for something to open the pod when he finds a panel, he phases his hand through it and finds a wire to pull. AJ smiles before pulling the wire, causing the pod to open.

AJ makes his way towards the opened pod, his jaw drops a little when he sees a small baby lizard inside with peach scales, a blanket wrapped around him and a nose ring.

Without thinking twice, he carefully reaches in and scoops the baby out “Hey there...” he spots a note attacked to the door so he picks it up and reads it “My name is Roger, please take care of me.” he looks down at Roger “....Roger huh? Well....aren’t you just cute.” he smiled a little before making the pod disappear, he hadn’t noticed the piece of cloth that was left inside.

He carries Roger upstairs to his dorm room and makes a crib appear before he places the sleeping baby inside. He sits on his bed and looks the note over carefully, wanting to make sure he didn’t miss anything else. It was obvious that Roger was an alien, that much was clear.

AJ shook his head a little “Something must’ve happened to his family...” was all he could think before he glanced at the baby. He knew he couldn’t put Roger up for adoption that much was clear so after thinking it over for a few moments, he decided that he would take Roger in and raise him.

AJ lightly rocks the crib when he saw Roger starting to stir “....I promise....I’m gonna raise you, Roger...I promise I’m gonna give you a life that I always wanted when I was a kid. I’m gonna spoil you a bit but I’m gonna teach you right from wrong....and I vow to never lose my temper with you or threaten you....” he said aloud before he climbs into his bed and falls asleep. 

No matter what happened next, he was gonna do his fucking best to raise Roger and keep him safe.

[kafka-ish]

brother | r.t.

can boys and girls be friends without attached feelings?

word count: 2.1k

warnings/included: angst(?), college AU, fem!reader

a/n: based off of this song

-

Richie Tozier sat in the parking lot of USC’s Law Department. Become a Lawyer his mom said. You’ll make a lot of money his dad said. It only took two weeks into his freshman year of college for Richie to figure out that he actually hated the judicial system and to hell with it. He was about to light a cigarette even though he pledged to quit months ago: the last day of senior year.

He and the rest of the Losers were hanging by the quarry. Beverly was sitting on the hood of Bill’s car, slathering sunscreen on her sensitive skin because she burns easily. Ben sat with her, his arm itching to wrap itself around her pale shoulder. Bill, Eddie, and Stan were playing cards and Mike had to monitor them for cheating. Richie would’ve joined, but he didn’t want to get up from his position that overlooked the quarry’s water hole. He was laying down on the rocks, eyes closed and shades on, in place of his usual glasses.

“I think I’m gonna quit smokin’,” he announced with a certain proudness that his voice normally did not hold.

“O-oh yeah? How l-long’s that gonna luh-last?” Bill looked up from his cards, giving Eddie a chance to sneak a peak.

“I saw that, Eddie!” Mike Hanlon called from above and Eddie flinched.

“Cripes. Warn a guy before you yell first.”

Four months. It lasted four months, Big Bill, as Richie took out his BIC. He had to mess with it a few times to get the flame to startup. He always preferred matches, but the black lighter with flame stickers he kept in his shirt pocker was cooler.

A yellow-orange heat finally flicked the contraption to life when, at the same time, his Nokia 232 buzzed against the gearshift.

Four months and one day.

The small flame died in Richie’s hand that was now pressing his phone to his ear with no hesitation.

“Rich the Dick Tozier speaking, how can I help you?” Sure, it wasn’t the most professional way to answer a phone call, but who was anyone to call Richie Tozier a professional guy?”

“Hey, Richie!” It was y/n. y/n the girl who sat in front of him in his English class. y/n the girl who wore parkas in fucking California because it’s for the fashion and you wouldn’t understand. y/n the girl who got drunk off her ass at the first party of the year—which, ironically, was where they met.

The parties in college were spectacularly different from the parties Richie would go to in high school. More so, the parties in California were more… insane. Wild. The booze was exponentially more expensive—nothing that Bill would ever think of getting at his own. And the girls could closely be mistaken for a Hollywood child star.

Nothing like the parties in Derry Richie thought to himself as he drunkenly swept through the halls of a fucking Mansion. He didn’t realize his feet were working properly until he looked down, seeing as he was standing on all fours—all twos. How he was still standing up remained a mystery to him because he must’ve had ten shots of vodka that was worth more than his entire being and future.

Before him, when he entered the billiard room, stood a girl even drunker than him (somehow). She stood on the pool table, laughing above the crowd of frat boys who were yelling to take your damn shirt off already! And c’mon don’t be a prude. They surrounded her like dogs fighting for the last strip of steak until Richie stepped in.

“A little drunk to be standing on the edge like that.” He took a swig from his red solo cup. “Here, sweetheart, lemme help you down.” He offered her an unsteady hand only to be brushed away like a speck of dust on a grandfather clock.

“I can help myself,” y/n said. She got down from the pool table by sitting on the ledge first, then letting each foot touch the ground one at a time. “See?” She steadied herself using his shoulder and looked up at him with a smirk that let him know they were going to be friends.

And they were friends.

y/n was overjoyed when she found out Richie was in one out of her five classes and Richie was just happy to be able to talk someone’s ear off without them rolling their eyes or giving him the side-eye.

“Hey, y/n/n,” Richie said, mimicking the same enthusiasm from across the speaker. “What’re you up to?”

“Besides calling you?” Richie felt himself beginning to laugh but it felt wrong to do so. As cheery as y/n sounded, there was something off.

“Are you okay?” Richie blurted out, but he couldn’t help himself. It was in his nature; always looking out for y/n; always taking care of her.

“I’m fine, Tozier.” She laughed but he could tell it was fake. The way her voice was still summer in the crisp of fall was fake. The whole call was fake. “You just love checking in on me don’t ya.” Another giggle left the speaker—covering the cracks in her voice, or a sob.

“No, really.” His hand left the phone—his shoulder and cheek propping the device up against his ear—and reached for the gearshift. “How are you?”

Static. But Richie had been over at her place thousands of times before—not needing to ask for her address or pull out a map for directions. And Richie was right (he was always right) when he burst through the wooden door of y/n’s small, but somehow spacious, Los Angeles apartment.

“y/n, I know you’re in there,” Richie said, followed by three curt knocks. His shoulder slumped against the door and he sighed. “y/n, don’t make me go all big bad wolf on your little ol’ door.” He looked down to see the welcoming mat where guests were supposed to wipe their shoes off.

There’s No Place Like Home

A short laugh bounced off the walls from inside and Richie took that as his queue. His hand had a firm grasp around the bronze doorknob, refreshing from the California air. He jangled it, only for the structure to not budge, like it didn’t give a damn that he had to get inside.

“Dammit, y/n/n, get off your goddamned high horse and open the door.”

Richie was never one for words, but at these, the lock broke in and in slipped Richie. It was as if the door had heard his cries and complied—feeling sorry for the boy. But the mysteriousness of y/n’s apartment door didn’t matter when Richie’s eyes caught y/n’s figure—or lack of one. She sat on the leather couch which was a moving present from her parents (“We know how expensive it can be; being a young adult with college expenses. Wow, to think, my baby’s all grown up.”), wrapped in a blanket, burrito style. Even fro six feet away (approximately), Richie could see the tears welling in her eyes and the snot spilling from her nose.

“Richie Tozier, can you ever learn to take a goddamn hint?” y/n’s voice was far too weak to show any sign of malicious intent. He stood in front of her, tentative but also caring. He wanted to help. He just didn’t know how.

“I am taking the hint.” Richie sat down next to the bundle of blankets. He sat close, so close that if y/n’s feet were on the floor, his knees would’ve touched hers. She could smell his mint deodorant and cheap cologne; or maybe she was just so used to having him next to her, that was what she knew he smelled like. y/n smelled like this month’s body wash. Orange blossom. She must’ve taken an extra-long soak today. She always did when something was wrong. “I know you want me here, toots. Otherwise, you wouldn’t’ve called.”

Richie was right and at the moment y/n hated him for being able to read her mind.

She was about to tell him off but a strangled cry left her lips instead. Richie didn’t need to ask what was wrong to know what was wrong. Besides, it would be cruel—condescending—to put a filter over his voice the way you’d talk to a terrier or a baby and ask what’s wrong?

It was clear what was wrong. Judging by the two-hour-long bath she had taken beforehand and off-brand, empty Ben & Jerry’s container on her coffee table: her piece of shit boyfriend had just dumped her. Richie never liked Brandon, y/n’s so-called (now ex) boyfriend. But it could’ve been the other way around, too. His over-gelled head was always stuck in his Levi 512’s and the only time Richie saw that pompous smirk leave his lips was when he walked in on him and y/n kissing. Gag. But y/n had the right to be upset about getting dumped—even if it was by a perpetual twerp who never passed up the chance to brag about his perfect SAT score (wake up, buddy, we all got into the same college).

Richie sat waiting for a reply he was never going to get because y/n was too busy blowing her nose into the sleeve of her robe.

“C’mon, sweetheart.” Carefully, Richie unwrapped y/n from the cocoon, similarly to how a cautious child unwraps their presents. “You don’t need Brandon. You don’t need anyone.” It was true. She didn’t need anyone, and if anything people needed her. “You’re y/n.” He spoke the two words with such sureness—confidence. She was y/n, and if that’s not enough for them to see, then they’re delusional.

“How do you know?” She asked. Even if it was just a college boyfriend—her first college boyfriend—it still hurt like hell. The thought of being not wanted. Knowing it was her; that she couldn’t just fix whatever her lover didn’t like that ended up pushing him off the edge. He just didn’t like her.

Of course, she didn’t love Brandon. She didn’t love the way his hair was always stiff and she couldn’t comb her fingers through it the way she did Richie’s. She didn’t love him finding an excuse to say hello to the next blonde he saw whenever they went to parties together. She didn’t love Brandon, and Brandon apparently didn’t love her. But if Brandon didn’t love her, then who would?

Maybe the answer was staring her down right in front of her, or pressing against her shoulder as Richie bent down to pick up the empty ice cream carton. “You are y/n, right?” Richie asked in attempts to bring her spirits up.

And he did.

y/n’s eyes crinkled as she smiled and she chocked on her breath at the laugh she tried to hold in. “Do you think I’m an impostor?”

“Who knows?” Richie sat back down. His shoulder brushed her covered one and his head fell back to look at the ceiling. “Plastic surgery is pretty popular these days. Especially in La City of Angels.” He turned to face her now—a tear-free y/n that stared back at him. Her eyes were much lighter than before and her skin looked like it had just been kissed. By who?

“You’re an angel,” y/n said unexpectedly. Well, this was a turn of events. Richie managed to suppress his cough—a usual reaction that’d take place when he was surprised.

He pulled on the collar of his band-tee (Rock On, AC/DC!) because it was all of the sudden hard to breathe in this small LA apartment of y/n’s. He felt his pulse quicken under the skin of his wrist and neck. A line of sweat was forming beneath his browbone. Oftentimes, it was hard to differentiate if California was undergoing an unforeseen heatwave or if Richie was just drawing a fever. But summer had passed and Richie hand’t gotten sick in years, even if it was just a head cold.

Richie sat there, speechless, and wondered. He wondered why, out of all the nicknames in the world, he hasn’t called y/n baby yet. It was always babe or honey, but never baby. Why was that? Hypothetically, he could call her that. He could call her a lot of things—like his. So why didn’t he? Why had he never asked y/n out?

But it occurred to him, as y/n tucked a loose strand of his hair behind his ear, that y/n was hurting. She needed a friend and nothing more. A brother, per se. He could sense her lean in. For a kiss, perhaps? But Richie was quick to dodge and cup her face in his large palm. An intimate action, sure, but their relationship was far from it.

“Look, y/n/n.” His breath hit her face. It was warm and felt like home. “You’re hurting right now.” His thumb rubbed along her jawline. “We’re just friends, right?”

“Friends,” y/n echoed back to him. And while she wasn’t completely convinced with the words coming from Richie Tozier’s mouth, she’d agree with him for his sake.

[amandaklwrites]

Movies That Changed or Affected Me: A Monster Calls (2016)

Genre: Fantasy

Why this movie changed/affected me:

Shit, I don’t even know where to begin. This movie is just… incredible. That’s the simplest way to describe it, because I don’t think there are enough words in the English language for me to explain how much I love this movie.

I watched it on a whim. I don’t even remember why—I think I saw a quote or photo somewhere? My mom had seen it on Netflix and told me it was a movie that I had to see, and I do remember her mentioning parts of it to me. But I think I was in a weird depression at the time, and when I’m like that, I don’t really care about anything except minimal stuff.

But I finally watched it, and alone. Which I think was the best way to do so, for me.

I sobbed like a child throughout the whole thing.

My god, the movie spoke to me on some levels that made me feel like I was vibrating in my body (any fellow witchy people or metaphysical peeps will understand what I mean I hope). Though there is no way I understand the feelings Conor had with his mother dying from cancer, I understand his rage and pain in general.

Quite honestly, that whole scene with the monster telling him the story of the boy who had felt invisible, but wanted to be seen, and then Conor screamed and ran after that bully, with the monster barreling through the cafeteria with him, left me speechless—I couldn’t think or speak, all I could do was cry and feel my heart beating so hard I thought it would burst from my chest. Because I 100% understand that feeling. I have known all my life what it is like to sit alone, feel invisible and like I want to scream just so someone notices me. As a kid myself, I was alone a lot, in my normal life (I had really good friends, but they were different ages than me or lived somewhere else, so they weren’t in school with me), and I tended to be called the weird kid and treated as such because I would rather be alone than hang out with people who felt fake or didn’t really return any friendship. I always knew there wasn’t a point. And honestly, I was like that all through high school, and even now. I’m more alone than not, I’m just more comfortable with it as an adult. But this scene makes me think of me in high school, when my depression was so bad that I wouldn’t move for days sometimes, and that whole scream of rage coming from Conor was something I wanted to do so much. I felt invisible all the time, and I think that triggered the depression. And even during my senior year, I was bullied by a couple of girls (for stupid reasons) and none of my friends who I went to school with stood up for me. Everyone I knew, close or not, were friends were those girls too, so they just stayed friends with them too, so they weren’t in the middle of it. Which is cool, whatever—I was pissed then, I just don’t care now. I get it. But I was still struggling with depression, and to have no friends stand up for me, to have my back, really stood out to me and made me feel even more alone. So I did it all myself. Dealing with the bullies (just switching classes, and telling the Principal and VP, so they put it on their records to keep an eye on them), pulling myself from the depression. I know other people aren’t in charge of when you’re happy and how you should feel about yourself, but I know that now, and I feel like in high school, it’s harder to realize this. And honestly, I have always believed that you should have supportive and kind friends, because they help you get through stuff. People always need help when they’re depressed like that. So, yes, watching that scene with Conor and seeing all the reflecting in his eyes, hearing the words come from the “monster,” I cried my goddamn eyes out. Because it felt so good, even after all those years, to know that someone understood how I felt, to know that I wasn’t so damn alone in the world.

(Guys, I’m crying so hard while writing this review, so bear with me!)

The brutal honesty of this movie was so wonderful to see. So much that was said and shown in this film (and book, I did read it!!) were things I have thought and understood so much, but stuff I have never told anybody. It was so damn beautiful to hear the words spoken.

Okay, everyone who knows me that I love writing and discussing the complications of humanity. I hate that idea that everyone is straight up good or evil (cause sorry, we are not one or the other), and even some of the “bad” is so much more complicated than any of us can understand. There’s always a reason, there’s always something going on in the background that I love to think about. What made a person do this? Why? It’s like that quote “the villain thinks they are the hero of their own story.” So, the stories that the monster tells Conor fucking broke me in half, because the stories, the lessons he told Conor were things I have believed since I was a child, and I have to admit—watching an ancient creature tell him this made everything inside of me make sense. I wasn’t weird for thinking this. (Maybe this is why I tend to write a lot of ancient beings talking about humanity and life, because I get all this in some strange way?)

And the most important thing to me is that I thought that this ancient tree—one that has watched humanity since the beginning of time—coming to life just to help Conor speak his own truth and teach him about life and the complications of human nature and life was the most beautiful and incredible thing to me. This is the stuff I try to write in my own work! How amazing is that idea? A tree, an ancient being, connected to all of nature, all of breathing things, older than the universe, whom has seen humanity make mistakes and evolve and change, is telling a boy all this? It is so magnificent and magical to consider.

I actually remember crying after this movie, thinking, “I wish I had a tree come to talk to me. I wish I had a friend in a tree.” Because honestly, to me, it is the most amazing thing that could happen. I would flipping LOVE that! That’s why I love talking to people older than me (I have since I was a kid, which always surprised adults), because though I know you can disagree with them, I still think they are wise and they have experienced life a lot more than us, and they have to have some idea. So, with a tree that is older than most of humanity, I think it is the most beautiful thing in life that could teach a child a lesson about the world. I loved every single one of those lessons, those scenes, the sadness in the monster’s eyes when he looked at Conor’s pain. I believe in God, but to a certain extent (I actually believe in more gods), and I would think of it like this—that God is actually an ancient tree coming to talk to me.

I loved this movie and the “monster” so much that I cry every time I think about it. And I am going to get a tattoo of the monster sometime in the future, because I would like to think that the monster is a part of me, too. And that this movie truly changed me. Made me realize so much of myself.

This is a hard, sometimes difficult movie, because my god is it worth it. It’s been almost a year since I watched it, and I still feel its imprint on my heart, even my soul. And I don’t think I will ever shake it.

P.S. In case you wanted to know, my rating is definitely 10/10 for this movie. I may post an actual review of it later.

ALSO! One last thing I want to add, but it is an ENDING SPOILER, so please don’t read below if you haven’t seen it, and don’t want to be spoiled.

I just had to mention it.

Did anyone else catch the moment when you know that the monster is voiced by Liam Neeson, and then you see a picture of Liam Neeson as Conor’s grandfather? Like, that made me burst into tears. And how Conor’s mother looked the tree in the eyes, over Conor’s head, before she died. That was the most beautiful little detail that I curled up into a ball and sobbed just thinking about it. To think of the theme that we are all connected in the world, to nature, to each other, even long after death.

Also, when the monster says he won’t leave Conor while his mother dies, that he’ll be right there, I actually felt my heart twist and pump harder. THAT was the moment that I told myself, I wanted an ancient tree to be there for me. Because I have always wanted someone to say to me, and I feel like a tree would be the best thing to do that for me.

[fandom-imagination-ss]

Author note: hey!! Sorry it took.so long! Between Christmas and a nasty cold I got (and honestly having massive writers block on how too end this lol) it's been a long year already Haha

Warning: none

Rating: PG 13

Bad writing / did I proof read : No sorry lol

The biggest problems with small towns . Everyone knew everyone’s business, for example when Nancy and Jonathan got together the entire school started talking about it. And by the next day the entire town knew! It surprised you. Not them getting together you saw their attraction for each other a mile away. But Steve’s reaction shocked you.

Mr. Popular turned mushy. All cause of Nancy! It stunned you seeing Steve heartbroken over Nancy. You never were close with Steve. Especially since you werent popular or pretty so Steve left you alone.

That all changed the moment you stumbled upon monster or “Demodogs “ as they called it. You screamed, cried in fear and spent the night in terror running around ans seeing your cousin Dustin and his friends. Basically being bad asses with a girl who can move things with her mind! It was a Night too remember. But it did lead you too become friends with Steve something you never imagined. Or did anyone else could imagine.

A lot of things happened after that., learning about the fucked up things that was your town, Elle dying too protect the town. What stunned everyone was your bubbling relationship with Steve Harrington! The hottest guy you ever met. Once getting over your annoyance of great hair Harrington. You both ended up falling madly in love.

The summer hit and Everything changed.

First week of summer you discovered you were pregnant. With Steve's baby.

At first you thought he was happy. Steve acted like he was blissfully happy. Unknown too you how terrified he was. Begging Steve too be with you too tell your parents. He agreed but ended up not showing up. A common problem lately. He was flakey. The one time you needed Steve he wasn’t their. Thankfully your grandpa decided on the spot too take you in, he was being more helpful then your boyfriend and all you could think about was if your dad was right that Steve was a good for nothing who would abandon you and the baby the second he could. And unfortunately Steve wasn’t helping his case by not showing up or calling you back.

You would call him and he would call back. Two days later. He has cancelled every plan you set up. Saying it was “work" so far . Grandpa is the best support you had. And it was driving you crazy!

Today you had enough! You decide after puking for the third time and it’s only ten am! You had enough with Harringtons behavior So you left and headed too the new mall. You knew Steve worked today. Robin has been complaining about how moody Steve has been lately.

Getting too the mall. You headed straight too Scoops Ahoy too see Dustin your cousin pushing Steve into the back. Arriving too your destination seeing Robin calling out too Steve. He jumped out plastering a big smile on his face. All the anger disappeared seeing his pearly white. Seeing the boy you love standing there it made you burst into tears. Steve dashed toward you gripping your face tightly. “hey baby whats wrong? Are you okay?”

You just cried harder pushing Steve away. You ran away. Steve chased after you. You beeline too the women’s bathroom. Knowing Steve couldn’t follow you. However you didn’t expect Steve too barge in after you.

“baby what’s wrong? Is it the baby?”

You whipped your cheeks fast turning too Steve. “No! It’s you Steve! Your ignoring me! Flaking out! Your being a dick!”

Steve stepped forward. Looking at you, “its complicated y/n! This-this wasn’t the plan! You weren’t suppose too have my baby for another ten years! When I wasn’t working in a shitty job that makes me dressed like a fucking sailor!”

“Oh I’m Sorry! Well maybe If you didn’t sneak me out of my house and we didn’t go on top of that ridiculous stupid Hill! We wouldn’t of slept together under the moonlight! And I wouldn’t be pregnant! I had plans too! But we can’t change the fact it happened!! This is happening Steve! “

“HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SUPPORT YOU AND THE BABY! I MAKE THREE FUCKING DOLLARS A HOUR!”

Steve kicked the garage can hard making it move across the bathroom. It made you Yelp . Steve instantly apologize. Taking a deep breath in.

“it’s humiliating Y/N… god this whole thing.. sucks.!”

Looking at this Steve reminded you of Steve from high school before Nancy. The Steve who was Mr. cool and a dick.. the Steve who you hated! Who wouldn't say anything but let his dick friends mock you as you walked passed. The Steve who was a dick!!

“Who said you were in this alone Harrington?”

That caught him by surprise. You haven’t called him “Harrington” since English when he was trying too charm his way too get the answers from you about a book he was supposed too read. Tears streamed down your face as you snapped. “if your so embarrassed about having a baby with me! Forget it! I don’t need you involved Harrington!”

You ran passed him this time Steve let you run away mainly because he felt like you just kicked him right in the heart. After work Steve went too your house. With Rose’s. Too only see Dustin coming out of the house.

“Y/N isn’t here man. My aunt kicked her out.”

The moment Dustin said it. Steve remember you mentioned that too him he groaned rubbing his face. “ shit-where does your grandpa live?”

Dustin offered too take Steve. They drove too a large house seeing Dustin and your grandfather sitting on the porch. With some ice cold lemonade. He spotted the flowers and Knew Steve was Steve.

“Y/N isn’t here- some curly hair fellow took her too the movies"

Steve cursed knowing who would do that. Billy! He bolted back into his car as Dustin followed. They hurried too the Mall. Searching for you and Billy. With No luck.

For a week nothing. You just disappeared. The police figured you ran off. Dustin tried distracting Steve with decoding a Russian secret message. When they figured out the message. And stumbled into the Russian base, too be captured.

You were sitting in a chair unchained, thanks to your grandparents you knew a Tad bit of Russian enough too say you were pregnant. Some of the guards treated you better then others. It was your ears that got you in this mess! You went too the movies with Nancy and Jonathan. You heard the Russians talking about a secret base and you ended up following them. Mainly because you couldn't believe what you heard! "Secret base" could easily mean "scoops ahoy!"Your Russian was Rusty.. apparently not that rusty since you got captured.

A week passed, of being in the room and being questioned over and over. When the doors opened you jumped high too see two similar faces Robin and Steve were thrown into the room. Steve’s eyes grew large seeing you. Steve scrambled over too you hugging you tightly. You hugged him back tightly digging your head into his shoulder as you both started crying. Steve pulling back cupping your face tightly as he quickly touched down too your stomach touching it softly . “ Are you and the baby okay?”

Nodding your head fast he reached over squeezing you tightly. ‘God. I thought you ran off!”

Steve pulled you into a hard kiss. Before wrapping his arms around you again. Holding him tightly you rested your head on his shoulder soaking in his scent you never thought you would see him again. “I went too the movies with-"

“Billy I know he’s MIA everyone thought you ran off with him.” Robin spoke up you forgot she was in the room as you shook your head. “with Billy? No! I went with Nancy and Jonathan! I overheard some Russians talking about a secret base so I followed them.”

Steve rubbed his face hearing how reckless you were. He couldn’t help but snap “what the hell Y/N! Your pregnant !!! you cant be doing stuff like this!”

You wanted too snap at him . But his tears rolling down his face. Stopped you. Hearing a banging you all jumped ass Steve leaped in front ready too attack anyone who enters. Non of you expected it too be your kid cousin. You never been more happier too see Dustin in your life! Following your cousin and he’s best friend kid sister you couldn’t help but smile at their bickering it reminded you of you and Steve in the beginning of your relationship. Getting up too the top of the mall. You noticed someone with a ice cream cone. A chocolate ice cream with sprinkles. You stopped in your tracks as everyone ran off. You walked too the ice cream scoop. Steve turned around looking around for you. Catching you walking into the scoop Ahoy he bolted too you grabbing your arm.

“Baby what you doing?”

Looking at Steve you rubbed your stomach. “I’m hungry and I need a ice cream cone .”

Hero rubbed his face. Steve snapped. “We have Russians after us! I’ll get you a ice cream cone later!” Steve dragged you out. Catching up with the group. A wave of anger rushed over you. It wasn’t a simple craving. You could substitute a normal craving. This was a Need. People needed oxygen, water too survive. In your mind you were convinced you wouldn’t survive without a chocolate ice cream cone. It was all Steve fault! He denied you your ice cream cone.

“Steve.”

Getting into a movie theater too hide he turned looked worried .”yea babe?”

“Later.. when were safe and not in Danger I need you too do something for me.”

“Anything! Baby whatever you need”

You dig your nails into his lap as you spoke calmly. “get me a chocolate ice cream cone with sprinkles!”

“Ow! Okay! OKAY! OW BABE THAT HURTS!”

You freed his leg grabbing his hand again reaching over kissing his cheek.

[yellowdistress]

Can you do another one of those scenes where Tony helps Peter fight addiction?? I just think it’s a really interesting plot and you portrait it so well!

Anonymous: Your addiction au is my favorite thing ever! Can you maybe do a prompt where Peter relapses/overdoses? You are amazing at angst. So talented! Thank you!

Okay, here we go…This one felt really like…hurtful to write, even for me. But yeah, here we go. Just warning, of course, because it deals with addiction. Please be safe when reading. There’s no overdose, but an almost relapse.

Peter’s dad had stopped keeping the pain pills in the house.

With good reason.

The past several weeks had pieced Peter into this puzzle, and he wasn’t sure where he fit inside of it. An oddball piece, left out until the very end, he guessed, but the end felt too far away to see. It felt too out of reach and he was struggling to imagine what life would be like, if things ever got better. If he was ever okay again. It was hard, and even though the withdraws had slipped away, there was this little monster underneath. A whole different being than Peter was. A separate entity. A part that was not him. Not Peter. That was what his father told him on the bad nights. The nights when Peter would sit at the foot of his dad’s bed just to talk about how he needed something, and his dad would say he understood…Which he did, but Peter still felt so alone in this silent struggle that followed him to school in the morning, on patrol, in therapy, at his doctor’s appointments.

It was a fucking parasite.

It was a Tuesday, a random one. That day was sunny, there was nothing wrong, school had been okay, he had actually done really well on his history test. Life was going okay, things were being put together, Peter had been stitched little piece by little piece. After nights of sleeping on his father’s floor, just so he wouldn’t be alone when those late night pains arose, when he’d have those thoughts. And his dad would roll over, peer over the edge of the mattress and question in the darkness, “Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

The answer varied, depending on how bad the cravings were.

And sometimes it was better. Sometimes Peter didn’t want anything. Sometimes he felt normal. But then the bad nights would come, he would make a pile of blankets on his father’s floor, his father would watch him. 

But that Tuesday after school was different. His dad wasn’t home. It was just Peter.

There weren’t supposed to be pills in the house anymore.

But Peter had gone looking for them. Had dug through all of his father’s belonging, had shredded his room apart, had taken stuff out…Clothes scattered on the floor, as if his father would be dumb enough to keep pills in a house with a recovering addict, but Peter had hoped. Had formed a bit of faith out of fairy dust. Eventually the digging, the digging with no shovel and no trigger, just on a whim, it had gone manic. Pillows, blankets, everything, he didn’t care about the mess he was making. He didn’t care about getting caught, he just wanted to find what he was looking for. And then that searching turned to frantic tears, and sobbing, alone in an empty penthouse by himself and Peter didn’t know why it felt like he was about to lose his insides.

He hadn’t noticed when his father had come home. He had only kept digging and digging, and he was throwing the clean laundry across the room when his dad had come in, he was gasping for air when his dad had grabbed his arms. Had shaken him. Peter was fifteen and filled to the brim with a muscle ache that wasn’t human and his dad wouldn’t let go. Instead he was forced to sit on the foot of the bed, the man kneeling in front of him.

“Did you take anything? Did you take anything?” 

And no he hadn’t but not because he hadn’t wanted to.

Peter looked away, eyes bloodshot and teary and his father’s grip was too tight. He grabbed both side of Peter’s face, forcing him to look, and the horror was behind those brown irises that his grandfather had given his father, and then had been given to Peter. Maybe a shade lighter. 

“Did you?”

“I didn’t,” Peter whispered, chest shaking, “But I wanted to.”

Did that make it worse or better? 

Maybe better, because his father breathed out deeply, nodding. He didn’t seem as panicked after that. Peter was shivering, as if he was cold, but he thought maybe he had some kind of panic attack trying to find pills. But his father put a throw blanket around his shoulders anyway. Had wrapped him in a tight hug to his chest and sat beside him on the foot of the bed. 

Peter woke later, and it had to have been a few hours. Several…because the sun had gone down. There was a soft hue from the orange lamp, but Peter’s back was turned from the side of the bed it was on. He felt the warmth of his father’s side behind him. The television on the wall was set to a low murmur, and his dad must have been on the phone, and Peter stared at the wall as he listened to the man speak…

“I’ll have to take him with me…if I go, Rhodey. I can’t leave the states if he’s not with me.”

There was a pause. Peter figured Uncle Rhodey was replying.

“I’m not admitting him. Don’t suggest it again, I’ll kick your ass.”

A sigh, then, “Maybe I can home school him. I’m not a bad teacher - shut up, I graduated high school when I was fourteen, I can teach him basic English I’m sure.”

Peter’s stomach churned at the thought of being pent up all day. Trapped. But if his father had to bring him on every business trip, that would pose an issue. He couldn’t go to school and be dragged around the world. Peter took a deep breath and slowly rolled over to his back. His head was buried slightly in the pillow, and he stared up at his father’s face glowing from the lamp. His father paused in his phone call, looking startled at the teen staring up at him with wide eyes. His father quickly said, “I’ll call you back, Rhodes.”

He then hung up, setting the phone aside. His dad whispered, “Hey, kiddo…”

“Uncle Rhodey wants me to be admitted?”

His father silenced, face blanching before it morphed into insistence. He scooted downward, so that he wasn’t looming, but the two were beside each other in the pillows and lowered to the same thinking level, maybe social power, “No…no, he’s just worried. I’m worried. But it’s going to be fine, I’m not - I’m not doing that.”

Peter inhaled shakily, “You can’t home school me. I love Midtown.”

Silence flitted. The parasite wasn’t threatening, but this terror was. Peter saw the way his father’s brain was working, and Peter rolled over on the mattress and continued desperately, “Dad, please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I messed up today. I promise I won’t do it again.”

“What if you do?” Peter jumped when his dad turned to face him suddenly, beginning to sit up, and that height was back and Peter just buried himself down into the mattress, a way to brace for the impact that the words were bound to make in his rib cage, “What if I don’t come home in time, huh? You go looking for the pills somewhere else?”

“I wouldn’t…” Peter’s voice cracked.

“You say that,” His dad hissed, “But I’ve said that too.”

Peter’s throat bobbed, staring up at his father’s eyes that looked like they were burning. Trying to force the information into Peter’s destructed mind. Peter gulped, and he spoke the only escape he could think of into existence…

“I…wanna go to sleep.”

He didn’t look in his father’s eyes. Maybe hoping he’d get the hint that he was going to sleep there. Not on the floor. There was a deep sigh, then a hand squeezed his arm tightly, comfortingly, a thumb swiping across the skin before his dad answered with, “Yeah…yeah okay, Pete, go to sleep.”

Maybe it was relieved, his father’s voice. As if he had been taken out of a situation. His father clicked the lamp off, but the television played in the background, illuminating some of the dark room. His father slung an arm over the pillow above Peter’s head, and Peter looked at his face. He was watching the television, but Peter knew his father was somewhere else in his mind. He looked tired and Peter knew it was his fault. But Peter pressed his forehead to his father’s rib cage, burrowing into the mattress and shutting his eyes tightly.

Peter whispered before drifting off… 

“I’m having a hard time.”  

[imagineiero]

Grade A

teacher/student frerard fanfiction (smut warning) teacher!frank + student!gerard

Frank didn’t set out to become a teacher, in fact he’d spent the majority of his school career despising the very profession - the source of his unhappiness, along with relentless school bullies. He’d been intelligent enough to get a scholarship and spend a year or so studying in university before dropping out and pursuing his dream as a musician, that was how his life was supposed to be planned out - he’d imagined it since he was four years old and sat in a speak-easy watching his Grandfathers band play, music was his life - he was born to play, it was in his DNA.

The crash hadn’t been part of his premonition, he hadn’t expected his dream to turn into a nightmare and he definitely didn’t see such a tragedy signalling the end of his career. He’d lost his best friend that night, as well as band-mate and Frank just couldn’t see himself getting back up on stage without his right-hand man, maybe it was cowardly - or maybe Frank was just shaken into an easy life, one with minimal risk and hearts intact. His family, especially his Mother had been happy to hear of his decision - while they knew that music was his love, his everything - they had attended the funeral with broken hearts, only thankful that it wasn’t their son they were burying.

It had been six years now and Frank was turning thirty in the fall, he still played his guitar everyday - he couldn’t ever give up that part of him, it was like an extra limb - it was part of him, a piece of his heart. He’d obtained his teaching degree rather quickly, his partial university education helping him bypass some of the coursework - he was rather well known now in Jersey as someone who had the skills to tutor even the lowest performing student into an exam-worthy scholar.

Frank didn’t work in a school, couldn’t bring himself to set foot in the building he had wished to burn to the ground barely twelve years before. Instead he’d set himself up a private tutoring service from the comfort of his own home, he’d take on one student at a time with weekends at his leisure - it gave him the time to focus on his clients fully instead of going from one student to another and mixing up their school-work. He’d met a diverse range of people through his tutoring, he taught all ages - anyone from little Rosie Michaels who was a seven year old in special education to fifteen year old Johnny Byers who’d been kicked out of school for setting fire to a science lab.

All of his students flourished, maybe it was his style of teaching and laid back attitude that helped him connect with the younger students. Frank made a pact with himself not to become one of those boring old teachers who’d lost the love of their craft years before and instead took it out on those they taught. It was working out fine for him as the years went by and last year he’d even managed to win a community nominated award for services to children - he was achieving greatly, he felt like he’d found his path in life and things were going well.

Gerard was his latest student, he’d been tutoring him for three months now and the boy was improving thanks to Frank’s dedication. Gerard was 19, he’d been held back a few years in school due to lack of progression - his Mother said he’d been bullied badly, to the extent that he refused to attend school and as a result failed to graduate. Frank wasn’t sure what to expect until Gerard showed up on his doorstep on that first Monday morning.

To put it nicely, Gerard was a total sweetheart - He walked shyly into the large open-plan room that Frank had dubbed his classroom, his soft black hair framing his pale, pixie-like face. Gerard was feminine to say the least, in fact he was androgynous and downright beautiful - Frank couldn’t help but notice the sway of his hips and the way his eyes widened so innocently every time Frank spoke to him. To top it all off, Gerard was wearing a baby pink dress - his milky thighs peeking out between the midway hem and a pair of white thigh-highs, Frank’s throat dried up at the sight.

Over the coming weeks Gerard began to ease into student life, overcoming his initial shyness and becoming more comfortable with Frank. His teacher was having a less than easy life though, in all his years of teachers he had prided himself on the fact he had never been attracted to one of his students, and though Gerard was 19 and fully legal it still felt immoral and wrong, but he just couldn’t help himself. He wondered sometimes if Gerard could see the effect he was having on him, wondered if he knew that the way he sucked on his lower lip made Frank’s jeans tighten just a little - wondered if he could see the way Frank’s eyes trailed the length of his body as he entered the classroom each morning.

Frank decided that it wasn’t completely weird that he let Gerard into his thoughts when he touched himself at night, it was just imaginary after all - where was the harm? He couldn’t deny that the thoughts of Gerard with his soft cotton dresses, bitten-red lips and doe-eyes gave him the most intense orgasms he’d ever experienced. It both excited and pained him to spend so much time with Gerard, wishing that they had met under different circumstances because Gerard was definitely the type of boy Frank would ask on a date.

“Hey Sweetheart, did you get that homework finished for me?” Frank asked as he heard the faint patter of Gerard’s white slip-ons coming down the hallway.

They’d built up a routine now, Gerard would arrive at eight-thirty each morning and let himself in - Frank would be in the kitchen making breakfast for them both, making sure to pour Gerard a coffee to get him to wake up a little, the boy hated mornings almost as much as he hated Math class.

“Yes Sir” Gerard hummed, sliding into his chair at the table and getting out his English essay “Did you sleep well, Mr Iero?”

“You know you can call me by my first name, Gee” Frank reminded him as he did every day “I slept fine thank you, did you?”

“Okay Frankie” Gerard bit his lip, swinging his legs a bit as he watched Frank walk over with the coffee “I slept okay, had a bad dream but I went back to sleep for a bit.. that’s why I look messy today.. I overslept”

“You look fine-..” Frank frowned, placing the mug in front of him and turning back to retrieve a plate of pancakes “..-real pretty, I like your dress today”

“Thanks Frankie” Gerard blushed, sipping at his drink before waving his hand furiously in front of his mouth “Ouch-Ouch-Ouch!”

“Careful Gee, it’s hot” Frank mused, repeating the same words he used every morning when Gerard was too quick to drink his caffeine

They went through their morning routine as usual, sharing pancakes and coffee as Frank marked Gerard’s work and Gerard got started on his next task.

“You did well on this one” Frank praised, sliding the essay back over to Gerard who grinned happily “A few spelling mistakes but nothing too major, it’s a really great piece Gee - you’re really improving”

“Thanks to you, Sir” Gerard smiled, resting his chin on his hand as he blinked up at the older man

“Hey, you’re doing the hard work - I’m just helping a little” Frank replied modestly “Right, so shall we start reading the next chapter in our book? I want you to do a little mock test on it later on”

Gerard nodded excitedly, they’d been reading through their current book for a few days now and it was slowly becoming Gerard’s favourite read. It told the story of a young girl who wore pretty dresses and an innocent smile to seduce her older crush, Gerard couldn’t help but feel excited at the thought of trying out such a plan on his tutor. He’d seen the way Frank would stare at him when he thought he wasn’t looking, it had start off as innocent glances at first but the heat was rising between them and Gerard longed for the day when Frank would forget his morals and just take him.

They were curled up on the sofa now, Frank would always allow Gerard to get comfortable while he was reading to him - he tended to drift off and not concentrate otherwise, besides it made a difference to being cooped up in the classroom all day. Gerard would kick off his shoes and curl his legs up underneath him, leaning against the back of the sofa as he turned to face the older man who would read sonnets and plays and fiction with his smooth, velvety voice - unaware of the effect it had on his student.

“..-and so she put on her favourite colours, knowing the way her blush contrasted with the pink puff of her sleeves - before making her way to his study, praying he would be alone-..” Frank concentrated on the pages of the book, his thick-framed reading glasses making him look even cuter than Gerard had anticipated.

“Do you think that she was bad, Sir?” Gerard piped up, tilting his head to the side

“Bad?” Frank frowned, marking the page with his fingertip “Do you think she was bad, Gerard?”

“Well.. she’s trying to seduce him, but she’s much younger-.. isn’t that bad?”

“I guess-.. I guess in that kind of situation it would be the older man that’s wrong, Gerard” Frank tried to explain carefully “Because he’s the one who should know better.. it’s not right what she’s doing, no-.. but the older man should stop it before it goes ahead, he’s the adult in the situation”

“Because he’s older?”

“Yes and No-..” Frank licked his lips slightly “.. it’s not wrong because he’s older, it’s wrong because she’s still under-age.. and whether she consents or not, it’s not her decision - not really.. it’s statutory rape, however you look at it”

“What about if she was older?” Gerard reasoned “If-.. If she was the legal age but, but he was still older than her.. is that wrong?”

Frank ran his fingers through his hair, the situation hitting a little too close to home for his liking “I guess it’s how you look at it, I mean-.. I believe that two consenting, legal age people can be together but-.. but I guess it’s frowned upon a lot by people, it’s just perspective”

“I understand” Gerard nodded, biting the inside of his cheek so he didn’t look too elated at the fact Frank had basically just said it would be fine if he and Gerard were together.

Frank went on from where he left off, reading out sentences oblivious to the thoughts and emotions swimming through Gerard’s head. He figured that now was as good a time as any to make a move on the older man, especially after what he’d just said - he only wondered now if Frank liked him back, had he imagined all the longing glances and attention? Only one way to find out.

Gerard stretched his leg out, pretending to straighten the hem of his thigh highs and taking the opportunity to brush his foot against the inside of Frank’s calf, pretending that he hadn’t noticed the hitch in Frank’s breath and the way he stuttered over his word, mid-sentence. When he’d finished messing with the stocking he left his foot where it was, pressed up against the inside of Frank’s leg - gently caressing him over his jeans.

Frank paid no attention after the first contact, choosing to carry on with his reading - much to Gerard’s delight - it was when Gerard’s foot began to rise closer to his knee that Frank’s eyes flickered from the text to the white-clothed foot between his legs yet still he made no move to push Gerard away, instead trying to refocus on the task at hand.

“..-his infatuation was becoming too strong, he was weak to resist the angelic nymph-..”

Frank took a sharp intake of breath, eyes shooting up to Gerard who was watching him innocently - waiting for him to continue, acting unaware to the fact his foot was resting against Frank’s inner-thigh. Frank swallowed thickly, looking like he was debating something in his head before glancing down at his book and continuing, his voice sounding a little higher and more unsure as he went on.

Gerard was enjoying himself now, he could see the effect he was beginning to have on the older man from the way his entire body had stiffened and the way his Adam’s apple would bob up and down as he repeatedly swallowed. His foot began as a light caress but gradually grew stronger, the pressure increasing as he ran his foot along the inside of his thigh, stopping just barely before his crotch and only when on instinct Frank’s hand darted out to grab him, his loose grip on his ankle holding his foot just barely touching his crotch.

“G-Gerard-.. What are you-..” Frank breathed, the book dropping to the ground noisily though neither of them bothered to give it a second glance - they were too caught up in the charged stare they were currently sharing.

“Nothing, Sir” Gerard bit his lip, raising his eyebrow slightly in challenge

Frank swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes showing hesitation before he loosened his grip entirely on Gerard’s ankle, leaving him to press his foot tentatively against Frank’s already tented jeans, eyes widening as the ball of his foot grazed the outline of Frank’s arousal.

“G-Gerard-..I-..” Frank whispered hoarsely, unsure where to put himself at this point but not strong enough to push Gerard away, not when he was touching him so intimately, it was all he’d dreamed of for months “G-Ger-..”

“Shh..” Gerard whispered, moving forwards to place his fingertip over Frank’s lips “Please don’t make me stop..”

“I-..I-..O-Okay-..” Frank stuttered out, blinking softly

Gerard moved his foot away, carefully sliding his way into Frank’s lap and planting himself over his teacher’s erection, his forearms draped gently over the older man’s shoulders.

“Is this okay, Sir?” Gerard asked innocently, tilting his head slightly

Frank nodded quietly, unable to form words as his hands lay planted stiffly at his sides

Gerard pushed his slender fingers through Frank’s hair, pushing it back slightly as the older man’s eyes fluttered shut momentarily. He slowly removed Frank’s glasses and placed them down on the table, tracing his fingertips down the side of his cheek and jawline, his lips parting as he watched curiously. Gerard gently brushed their lips together, pulling a quiet whimper from his teacher before he pressed them together properly, sliding his arms over his shoulders and feeding his fingers through Frank’s hair.

Frank came to life now, his hands gently resting on Gerard’s hips, thumbs caressing circles against the soft cotton of his dress as their mouths moved in sync. He gasped lightly into Gerard’s mouth when the boy rolled his hips, pressing deliciously against his tight jeans - setting his entire body alight with burning want. He tentatively swept his tongue along Gerard’s lower lip, pleased when he parted his lips and allowed him entrance, their tongues fighting against one another until Frank overpowered him and dragged the tip along the roof of his mouth, making him whimper softly.

By now Frank was more confident in his actions, pushing one hand against his bare thigh and travelling beneath his dress, squeezing at the flesh of his thigh as Gerard rolled his hips again. The younger boy’s fingers found their way to Frank’s shirt, not hesitating before unfastening the buttons deftly, his fingertips pushing the material from the teacher’s shoulders and trailing down his tattooed chest. Gerard broke the kiss to mouth his way down Frank’s neck and collar bone, biting down playfully on his clavicle as the older man sighed breathlessly.

“Mm.. do that again-..” Frank murmured, tilting his head back against the sofa

Gerard clamped his teeth around the soft skin, running his tongue over the bite repeatedly as he gently sucked a purple bruise into his canvas. He pulled away to admire his work, pressing a soft kiss to the blemish - pleased with how blissed out Frank looked already with his bitten red lips and half-lidded eyes. He traced his fingers over the tattoos decorating Frank’s torso, dragging the tips down until he could tease just beneath the waistband of his jeans, glancing up at him expectantly - pleased when Frank nodded, bucking his hips up just enough for Gerard to unfasten his belt and shimmy the offending material to the ground.

Gerard sat himself in the space between Frank’s feet, looking up at the older man who sat naked awaiting his next movement. His cock stood proudly, curving towards his stomach - Gerard couldn’t help but lick his lips at the sight, making Frank’s mouth water as he kissed his way up the inside of his thigh. Frank couldn’t believe he’d found himself in this position, he’d fantasised about it way too much but hadn’t ever considered it becoming a reality.

Gerard’s fingertips raked against the sensitive skin of Frank’s inner thighs as he lips and tongue followed the trail, gently wrapping themselves around his thick cock - his thumb sweeping over the tip and soaking up the first beads of pre-cum. Frank let his eyes flutter shut, his head lolling back slightly as he relied on his sense of touch to feel everything Gerard was submitting him to.

The sensation of Gerard’s hot breath blowing against his leaking tip made his breath hitch and he held it for what seemed like forever until Gerard’s mouth engulfed him and he let out a low groan, his hand unconsciously finding its way to Gerard’s mess of hair. He pressed his tongue flat against the underside of Frank’s cock, teasing along the prominent vein as he inched his way down - only stopping to breath through his nose when his face was buried in the wiry hairs at Frank’s base.

“G-G-..Ohhh..” Frank murmured, gently tugging at Gerard’s hair as his eyebrows furrowed, lost in the feeling and never wanting it to end.

Gerard’s fingers toyed with his balls, rolling them around before edging backwards and stroking his fingertips against his perineum making Frank buck involuntarily into the back of his throat. Gerard moaned, desperate to have his mouth filled as much as possible - he’d been dreaming about his teacher for weeks now, surprised in himself that he’d managed to wait this long.

He began to slide up and down Frank’s erection, pleased when the older man would momentarily lose control and thrust up into his mouth. He pushed his hand further beneath him until he could stroke his fingers around his tight rim, spurred on when Frank whimpered a desperate “P-Please Gee.. oh fuck, please touch me-..”

He wasted no time in sinking two fingers past his tight ring of muscle, Frank loved the burn - letting his eyes roll back as he pushed down on the intrusion, alternating between riding on the two digits and thrusting up into Gerard’s pretty little mouth. Frank’s movements began to stutter after a while and Gerard was excited to have his tongue coated in release but his teacher clearly had other ideas, backing away just enough to stop his movements.

“W-Wanna fuck you-..” Frank grunted out between breaths

“You want me to ride you, Sir?” Gerard asked sweetly, using his best puppy dog eyes as Frank whined quietly at the word ‘Sir’

Frank shook his head, nodding towards the other side of the sofa “Hands and Knees”

Gerard obeyed him, resting his forearms on the arms of the sofa and waiting for further instruction

“Good boy” Frank slurred, clumsily climbing to his feet. His eyes were dark and lustful now, all responsibility discarded and replaced with a need to ruin the pretty boy offering himself up to him.

He flipped the hem of the dress over Gerard’s hips, revealing his pale blue panties barely containing the bulge between his legs. His fingers were rough against the soft material, rubbing at Gerard’s erection and pressing his fingertips gently against his balls - tracing all the way back until he could trace the crease of his ass, swatting him sharply and pulling a desperate whimper from the younger man.

“So fuckin’ pretty.. look at you..” Frank groaned hungrily “.. all laid out ready to play”

He wasted no time in tugging the material down past Gerard’s thighs, leaving them bunched at his knees and pressing both hands against his ass cheeks, parting them until he exposed the fluttering pink hole. He massaged the meaty flesh for a moment, pulling him apart and then kneading him back together until finally without warning he pressed his tongue against Gerard’s rim and pushed all the way in, dragging a strangled cry from the younger man as he ground back against Frank’s face desperately.

“Oh-..Oh-.. Oh Sir.. Oh Frankie-.. Oh don’t stop.. Oh please-..” Gerard chanted, fingertips digging into the material of the sofa, his cock leaking profusely between his thighs.

Frank’s tongue worked expertly, stretching him open until he was pliant and needy - letting his saliva coat his chin as he pressed as deep as he could, rubbing his open mouth against the desperate entrance before pushing two fingers past the rim without warning. Gerard cried out his name louder this time, a tone in his voice he’d never heard before - a brand new moan all for his teacher, he’d never felt this close before - like Frank was keeping him dancing dangerously on the edge but refusing to let him topple over into his climax.

By the time Frank was three fingers deep, Gerard was incoherently babbling - riding desperately on his fingers and driving Frank wild. He pulled out without warning, leaving Gerard to whine - head lowered between his arms as Frank left momentarily to find protection. He returned barely a minute later, his cock sheathed up and ready to go - Gerard gasped as he felt the head of Frank’s cock against his entrance, slowly edging inside him with his fingertips leaving crescent moons over Gerard’s hips.

He was slow and careful, bottoming out a few moments later with a sharp exhale, his fingertips caressing the soft skin of Gerard’s hips as they both got used to the tight hole. The air was thick and silent apart from their synchronised panting until Frank began to slide out with a groan, thrusting back in quicker than before and dragging a punched out moan from Gerard’s lips.

It didn’t take long to build up his rhythm, one hand planted firmly on his hip and the other buried in his mess of hair, tugging gently with each movement. Gerard’s cock was leaking profusely between his legs but any thought of the soiled material beneath them was long gone when Frank began to circle his hips, slamming relentlessly into Gerard’s waiting hole, stretching him impossibly open as Gerard whined and whimpered beneath him, Frank’s name falling from his lips along with expletives.

“Oh.. F-Frankie..Please-.. Harder-..” Gerard chanted “D-Don’t stop-.. Please-.. Ah-..”

Frank used all his strength to pound into him repeatedly until the familiar heat began to pool in his stomach, swirling lower and lower until he was crying out Gerard’s name and spilling over inside of him, pulling the younger man into climax along with him. They collapsed in an exhausted heap, limbs tangled and Frank’s face buried in the space between Gerard’s shoulder blades.

“I like this lesson” Gerard murmured a few minutes later “I definitely think you should teach this way more often”

Frank snorted, snaking an arm around his middle “You definitely get an A for that one, Gee”

Frank didn’t set out to become a teacher, in fact he’d spent the majority of his school career despising the very profession - the source of his unhappiness, along with relentless school bullies. He’d been intelligent enough to get a scholarship and spend a year or so studying in university before dropping out and pursuing his dream as a musician, that was how his life was supposed to be planned out - he’d imagined it since he was four years old and sat in a speak-easy watching his Grandfathers band play, music was his life - he was born to play, it was in his DNA.

The crash hadn’t been part of his premonition, he hadn’t expected his dream to turn into a nightmare and he definitely didn’t see such a tragedy signalling the end of his career. He’d lost his best friend that night, as well as band-mate and Frank just couldn’t see himself getting back up on stage without his right-hand man, maybe it was cowardly - or maybe Frank was just shaken into an easy life, one with minimal risk and hearts intact. His family, especially his Mother had been happy to hear of his decision - while they knew that music was his love, his everything - they had attended the funeral with broken hearts, only thankful that it wasn’t their son they were burying.

It had been six years now and Frank was turning thirty in the fall, he still played his guitar everyday - he couldn’t ever give up that part of him, it was like an extra limb - it was part of him, a piece of his heart. He’d obtained his teaching degree rather quickly, his partial university education helping him bypass some of the coursework - he was rather well known now in Jersey as someone who had the skills to tutor even the lowest performing student into an exam-worthy scholar.

Frank didn’t work in a school, couldn’t bring himself to set foot in the building he had wished to burn to the ground barely twelve years before. Instead he’d set himself up a private tutoring service from the comfort of his own home, he’d take on one student at a time with weekends at his leisure - it gave him the time to focus on his clients fully instead of going from one student to another and mixing up their school-work. He’d met a diverse range of people through his tutoring, he taught all ages - anyone from little Rosie Michaels who was a seven year old in special education to fifteen year old Johnny Byers who’d been kicked out of school for setting fire to a science lab.

All of his students flourished, maybe it was his style of teaching and laid back attitude that helped him connect with the younger students. Frank made a pact with himself not to become one of those boring old teachers who’d lost the love of their craft years before and instead took it out on those they taught. It was working out fine for him as the years went by and last year he’d even managed to win a community nominated award for services to children - he was achieving greatly, he felt like he’d found his path in life and things were going well.

Gerard was his latest student, he’d been tutoring him for three months now and the boy was improving thanks to Frank’s dedication. Gerard was 19, he’d been held back a few years in school due to lack of progression - his Mother said he’d been bullied badly, to the extent that he refused to attend school and as a result failed to graduate. Frank wasn’t sure what to expect until Gerard showed up on his doorstep on that first Monday morning.

To put it nicely, Gerard was a total sweetheart - He walked shyly into the large open-plan room that Frank had dubbed his classroom, his soft black hair framing his pale, pixie-like face. Gerard was feminine to say the least, in fact he was androgynous and downright beautiful - Frank couldn’t help but notice the sway of his hips and the way his eyes widened so innocently every time Frank spoke to him. To top it all off, Gerard was wearing a baby pink dress - his milky thighs peeking out between the midway hem and a pair of white thigh-highs, Frank’s throat dried up at the sight.

Over the coming weeks Gerard began to ease into student life, overcoming his initial shyness and becoming more comfortable with Frank. His teacher was having a less than easy life though, in all his years of teachers he had prided himself on the fact he had never been attracted to one of his students, and though Gerard was 19 and fully legal it still felt immoral and wrong, but he just couldn’t help himself. He wondered sometimes if Gerard could see the effect he was having on him, wondered if he knew that the way he sucked on his lower lip made Frank’s jeans tighten just a little - wondered if he could see the way Frank’s eyes trailed the length of his body as he entered the classroom each morning.

Frank decided that it wasn’t completely weird that he let Gerard into his thoughts when he touched himself at night, it was just imaginary after all - where was the harm? He couldn’t deny that the thoughts of Gerard with his soft cotton dresses, bitten-red lips and doe-eyes gave him the most intense orgasms he’d ever experienced. It both excited and pained him to spend so much time with Gerard, wishing that they had met under different circumstances because Gerard was definitely the type of boy Frank would ask on a date.

“Hey Sweetheart, did you get that homework finished for me?” Frank asked as he heard the faint patter of Gerard’s white slip-ons coming down the hallway.

They’d built up a routine now, Gerard would arrive at eight-thirty each morning and let himself in - Frank would be in the kitchen making breakfast for them both, making sure to pour Gerard a coffee to get him to wake up a little, the boy hated mornings almost as much as he hated Math class.

“Yes Sir” Gerard hummed, sliding into his chair at the table and getting out his English essay “Did you sleep well, Mr Iero?”

“You know you can call me by my first name, Gee” Frank reminded him as he did every day “I slept fine thank you, did you?”

“Okay Frankie” Gerard bit his lip, swinging his legs a bit as he watched Frank walk over with the coffee “I slept okay, had a bad dream but I went back to sleep for a bit.. that’s why I look messy today.. I overslept”

“You look fine-..” Frank frowned, placing the mug in front of him and turning back to retrieve a plate of pancakes “..-real pretty, I like your dress today”

“Thanks Frankie” Gerard blushed, sipping at his drink before waving his hand furiously in front of his mouth “Ouch-Ouch-Ouch!”

“Careful Gee, it’s hot” Frank mused, repeating the same words he used every morning when Gerard was too quick to drink his caffeine

They went through their morning routine as usual, sharing pancakes and coffee as Frank marked Gerard’s work and Gerard got started on his next task.

“You did well on this one” Frank praised, sliding the essay back over to Gerard who grinned happily “A few spelling mistakes but nothing too major, it’s a really great piece Gee - you’re really improving”

“Thanks to you, Sir” Gerard smiled, resting his chin on his hand as he blinked up at the older man

“Hey, you’re doing the hard work - I’m just helping a little” Frank replied modestly “Right, so shall we start reading the next chapter in our book? I want you to do a little mock test on it later on”

Gerard nodded excitedly, they’d been reading through their current book for a few days now and it was slowly becoming Gerard’s favourite read. It told the story of a young girl who wore pretty dresses and an innocent smile to seduce her older crush, Gerard couldn’t help but feel excited at the thought of trying out such a plan on his tutor. He’d seen the way Frank would stare at him when he thought he wasn’t looking, it had start off as innocent glances at first but the heat was rising between them and Gerard longed for the day when Frank would forget his morals and just take him.

They were curled up on the sofa now, Frank would always allow Gerard to get comfortable while he was reading to him - he tended to drift off and not concentrate otherwise, besides it made a difference to being cooped up in the classroom all day. Gerard would kick off his shoes and curl his legs up underneath him, leaning against the back of the sofa as he turned to face the older man who would read sonnets and plays and fiction with his smooth, velvety voice - unaware of the effect it had on his student.

“..-and so she put on her favourite colours, knowing the way her blush contrasted with the pink puff of her sleeves - before making her way to his study, praying he would be alone-..” Frank concentrated on the pages of the book, his thick-framed reading glasses making him look even cuter than Gerard had anticipated.

“Do you think that she was bad, Sir?” Gerard piped up, tilting his head to the side

“Bad?” Frank frowned, marking the page with his fingertip “Do you think she was bad, Gerard?”

“Well.. she’s trying to seduce him, but she’s much younger-.. isn’t that bad?”

“I guess-.. I guess in that kind of situation it would be the older man that’s wrong, Gerard” Frank tried to explain carefully “Because he’s the one who should know better.. it’s not right what she’s doing, no-.. but the older man should stop it before it goes ahead, he’s the adult in the situation”

“Because he’s older?”

“Yes and No-..” Frank licked his lips slightly “.. it’s not wrong because he’s older, it’s wrong because she’s still under-age.. and whether she consents or not, it’s not her decision - not really.. it’s statutory rape, however you look at it”

“What about if she was older?” Gerard reasoned “If-.. If she was the legal age but, but he was still older than her.. is that wrong?”

Frank ran his fingers through his hair, the situation hitting a little too close to home for his liking “I guess it’s how you look at it, I mean-.. I believe that two consenting, legal age people can be together but-.. but I guess it’s frowned upon a lot by people, it’s just perspective”

“I understand” Gerard nodded, biting the inside of his cheek so he didn’t look too elated at the fact Frank had basically just said it would be fine if he and Gerard were together.

Frank went on from where he left off, reading out sentences oblivious to the thoughts and emotions swimming through Gerard’s head. He figured that now was as good a time as any to make a move on the older man, especially after what he’d just said - he only wondered now if Frank liked him back, had he imagined all the longing glances and attention? Only one way to find out.

Gerard stretched his leg out, pretending to straighten the hem of his thigh highs and taking the opportunity to brush his foot against the inside of Frank’s calf, pretending that he hadn’t noticed the hitch in Frank’s breath and the way he stuttered over his word, mid-sentence. When he’d finished messing with the stocking he left his foot where it was, pressed up against the inside of Frank’s leg - gently caressing him over his jeans.

Frank paid no attention after the first contact, choosing to carry on with his reading - much to Gerard’s delight - it was when Gerard’s foot began to rise closer to his knee that Frank’s eyes flickered from the text to the white-clothed foot between his legs yet still he made no move to push Gerard away, instead trying to refocus on the task at hand.

“..-his infatuation was becoming too strong, he was weak to resist the angelic nymph-..”

Frank took a sharp intake of breath, eyes shooting up to Gerard who was watching him innocently - waiting for him to continue, acting unaware to the fact his foot was resting against Frank’s inner-thigh. Frank swallowed thickly, looking like he was debating something in his head before glancing down at his book and continuing, his voice sounding a little higher and more unsure as he went on.

Gerard was enjoying himself now, he could see the effect he was beginning to have on the older man from the way his entire body had stiffened and the way his Adam’s apple would bob up and down as he repeatedly swallowed. His foot began as a light caress but gradually grew stronger, the pressure increasing as he ran his foot along the inside of his thigh, stopping just barely before his crotch and only when on instinct Frank’s hand darted out to grab him, his loose grip on his ankle holding his foot just barely touching his crotch.

“G-Gerard-.. What are you-..” Frank breathed, the book dropping to the ground noisily though neither of them bothered to give it a second glance - they were too caught up in the charged stare they were currently sharing.

“Nothing, Sir” Gerard bit his lip, raising his eyebrow slightly in challenge

Frank swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes showing hesitation before he loosened his grip entirely on Gerard’s ankle, leaving him to press his foot tentatively against Frank’s already tented jeans, eyes widening as the ball of his foot grazed the outline of Frank’s arousal.

“G-Gerard-..I-..” Frank whispered hoarsely, unsure where to put himself at this point but not strong enough to push Gerard away, not when he was touching him so intimately, it was all he’d dreamed of for months “G-Ger-..”

“Shh..” Gerard whispered, moving forwards to place his fingertip over Frank’s lips “Please don’t make me stop..”

“I-..I-..O-Okay-..” Frank stuttered out, blinking softly

Gerard moved his foot away, carefully sliding his way into Frank’s lap and planting himself over his teacher’s erection, his forearms draped gently over the older man’s shoulders.

“Is this okay, Sir?” Gerard asked innocently, tilting his head slightly

Frank nodded quietly, unable to form words as his hands lay planted stiffly at his sides

Gerard pushed his slender fingers through Frank’s hair, pushing it back slightly as the older man’s eyes fluttered shut momentarily. He slowly removed Frank’s glasses and placed them down on the table, tracing his fingertips down the side of his cheek and jawline, his lips parting as he watched curiously. Gerard gently brushed their lips together, pulling a quiet whimper from his teacher before he pressed them together properly, sliding his arms over his shoulders and feeding his fingers through Frank’s hair.

Frank came to life now, his hands gently resting on Gerard’s hips, thumbs caressing circles against the soft cotton of his dress as their mouths moved in sync. He gasped lightly into Gerard’s mouth when the boy rolled his hips, pressing deliciously against his tight jeans - setting his entire body alight with burning want. He tentatively swept his tongue along Gerard’s lower lip, pleased when he parted his lips and allowed him entrance, their tongues fighting against one another until Frank overpowered him and dragged the tip along the roof of his mouth, making him whimper softly.

By now Frank was more confident in his actions, pushing one hand against his bare thigh and travelling beneath his dress, squeezing at the flesh of his thigh as Gerard rolled his hips again. The younger boy’s fingers found their way to Frank’s shirt, not hesitating before unfastening the buttons deftly, his fingertips pushing the material from the teacher’s shoulders and trailing down his tattooed chest. Gerard broke the kiss to mouth his way down Frank’s neck and collar bone, biting down playfully on his clavicle as the older man sighed breathlessly.

“Mm.. do that again-..” Frank murmured, tilting his head back against the sofa

Gerard clamped his teeth around the soft skin, running his tongue over the bite repeatedly as he gently sucked a purple bruise into his canvas. He pulled away to admire his work, pressing a soft kiss to the blemish - pleased with how blissed out Frank looked already with his bitten red lips and half-lidded eyes. He traced his fingers over the tattoos decorating Frank’s torso, dragging the tips down until he could tease just beneath the waistband of his jeans, glancing up at him expectantly - pleased when Frank nodded, bucking his hips up just enough for Gerard to unfasten his belt and shimmy the offending material to the ground.

Gerard sat himself in the space between Frank’s feet, looking up at the older man who sat naked awaiting his next movement. His cock stood proudly, curving towards his stomach - Gerard couldn’t help but lick his lips at the sight, making Frank’s mouth water as he kissed his way up the inside of his thigh. Frank couldn’t believe he’d found himself in this position, he’d fantasised about it way too much but hadn’t ever considered it becoming a reality.

Gerard’s fingertips raked against the sensitive skin of Frank’s inner thighs as he lips and tongue followed the trail, gently wrapping themselves around his thick cock - his thumb sweeping over the tip and soaking up the first beads of pre-cum. Frank let his eyes flutter shut, his head lolling back slightly as he relied on his sense of touch to feel everything Gerard was submitting him to.

The sensation of Gerard’s hot breath blowing against his leaking tip made his breath hitch and he held it for what seemed like forever until Gerard’s mouth engulfed him and he let out a low groan, his hand unconsciously finding its way to Gerard’s mess of hair. He pressed his tongue flat against the underside of Frank’s cock, teasing along the prominent vein as he inched his way down - only stopping to breath through his nose when his face was buried in the wiry hairs at Frank’s base.

“G-G-..Ohhh..” Frank murmured, gently tugging at Gerard’s hair as his eyebrows furrowed, lost in the feeling and never wanting it to end.

Gerard’s fingers toyed with his balls, rolling them around before edging backwards and stroking his fingertips against his perineum making Frank buck involuntarily into the back of his throat. Gerard moaned, desperate to have his mouth filled as much as possible - he’d been dreaming about his teacher for weeks now, surprised in himself that he’d managed to wait this long.

He began to slide up and down Frank’s erection, pleased when the older man would momentarily lose control and thrust up into his mouth. He pushed his hand further beneath him until he could stroke his fingers around his tight rim, spurred on when Frank whimpered a desperate “P-Please Gee.. oh fuck, please touch me-..”

He wasted no time in sinking two fingers past his tight ring of muscle, Frank loved the burn - letting his eyes roll back as he pushed down on the intrusion, alternating between riding on the two digits and thrusting up into Gerard’s pretty little mouth. Frank’s movements began to stutter after a while and Gerard was excited to have his tongue coated in release but his teacher clearly had other ideas, backing away just enough to stop his movements.

“W-Wanna fuck you-..” Frank grunted out between breaths

“You want me to ride you, Sir?” Gerard asked sweetly, using his best puppy dog eyes as Frank whined quietly at the word ‘Sir’

Frank shook his head, nodding towards the other side of the sofa “Hands and Knees”

Gerard obeyed him, resting his forearms on the arms of the sofa and waiting for further instruction

“Good boy” Frank slurred, clumsily climbing to his feet. His eyes were dark and lustful now, all responsibility discarded and replaced with a need to ruin the pretty boy offering himself up to him.

He flipped the hem of the dress over Gerard’s hips, revealing his pale blue panties barely containing the bulge between his legs. His fingers were rough against the soft material, rubbing at Gerard’s erection and pressing his fingertips gently against his balls - tracing all the way back until he could trace the crease of his ass, swatting him sharply and pulling a desperate whimper from the younger man.

“So fuckin’ pretty.. look at you..” Frank groaned hungrily “.. all laid out ready to play”

He wasted no time in tugging the material down past Gerard’s thighs, leaving them bunched at his knees and pressing both hands against his ass cheeks, parting them until he exposed the fluttering pink hole. He massaged the meaty flesh for a moment, pulling him apart and then kneading him back together until finally without warning he pressed his tongue against Gerard’s rim and pushed all the way in, dragging a strangled cry from the younger man as he ground back against Frank’s face desperately.

“Oh-..Oh-.. Oh Sir.. Oh Frankie-.. Oh don’t stop.. Oh please-..” Gerard chanted, fingertips digging into the material of the sofa, his cock leaking profusely between his thighs.

Frank’s tongue worked expertly, stretching him open until he was pliant and needy - letting his saliva coat his chin as he pressed as deep as he could, rubbing his open mouth against the desperate entrance before pushing two fingers past the rim without warning. Gerard cried out his name louder this time, a tone in his voice he’d never heard before - a brand new moan all for his teacher, he’d never felt this close before - like Frank was keeping him dancing dangerously on the edge but refusing to let him topple over into his climax.

By the time Frank was three fingers deep, Gerard was incoherently babbling - riding desperately on his fingers and driving Frank wild. He pulled out without warning, leaving Gerard to whine - head lowered between his arms as Frank left momentarily to find protection. He returned barely a minute later, his cock sheathed up and ready to go - Gerard gasped as he felt the head of Frank’s cock against his entrance, slowly edging inside him with his fingertips leaving crescent moons over Gerard’s hips.

He was slow and careful, bottoming out a few moments later with a sharp exhale, his fingertips caressing the soft skin of Gerard’s hips as they both got used to the tight hole. The air was thick and silent apart from their synchronised panting until Frank began to slide out with a groan, thrusting back in quicker than before and dragging a punched out moan from Gerard’s lips.

It didn’t take long to build up his rhythm, one hand planted firmly on his hip and the other buried in his mess of hair, tugging gently with each movement. Gerard’s cock was leaking profusely between his legs but any thought of the soiled material beneath them was long gone when Frank began to circle his hips, slamming relentlessly into Gerard’s waiting hole, stretching him impossibly open as Gerard whined and whimpered beneath him, Frank’s name falling from his lips along with expletives.

“Oh.. F-Frankie..Please-.. Harder-..” Gerard chanted “D-Don’t stop-.. Please-.. Ah-..”

Frank used all his strength to pound into him repeatedly until the familiar heat began to pool in his stomach, swirling lower and lower until he was crying out Gerard’s name and spilling over inside of him, pulling the younger man into climax along with him. They collapsed in an exhausted heap, limbs tangled and Frank’s face buried in the space between Gerard’s shoulder blades.

“I like this lesson” Gerard murmured a few minutes later “I definitely think you should teach this way more often”

Frank snorted, snaking an arm around his middle “You definitely get an A for that one, Gee”

[franciscretarola]

South Philly: A Love Story

(Photos by Francis Cretarola) The names of some (but not all) of the people in this otherwise truthful account have been changed to protect the guilty and the innocent, as well as my own ass.

As Cathy and I rounded the corner on Morris and turned onto our block of 13th (the “Miracle” stretch that, from the day after Thanksgiving through New Year’s, becomes a tourist destination that can be seen from space), I noticed the ambulance parked midway up the street. And my heart sank. They’d already loaded in whomever it was they came for, but I saw that it was stopped pretty much in front of Joey’s house. Joey is what I call an “original,” one of the people who were here when we first arrived more than twenty-three years ago, the mostly Italian-American neighbors who’d created this neighborhood and for generations defined it. Most of my block is still comprised of originals and their spawn, but it would be accurate to say that their impact on the character of the neighborhood is growing ever more muted.

I’d not seen Joey much recently. Just the odd sighting of him doing his constitutional walk around the block, moving a lot slower than he once did, and seeming a bit preoccupied. When we first arrived in the neighborhood Joey was already in his sixties, but a force of nature. Just over five feet tall, thin but solidly built, looking exactly like men of that age I’ve seen all over southern Italy, Joey’s physical stature belied the massive impact of his personality. He was generous, quick to offer a hand, free with his opinions. We never dove into politics, but we might not have been on the same page. At block parties he danced (to doo-wop, the “Grease” soundtrack, dance hits from the ‘70’s), in Cathy’s words, “as if no one was watching,” his arms punching the air in front of him, his legs pistons that fired in place. In these moments his face always revealed angelic contentment. Joey was a hell of a lot more comfortable in his own skin than I’ll ever be. His voice, again out of proportion to his diminutive size, boomed. From the inside of our house, I always knew when he was on the street.

His voice boomed in disconcerting ways when he harangued my brother and me for our ineptitude at bocce. Though completely inexperienced, we’d joined the street’s team playing in a league at the Guerin Rec Center (sponsored by a chiropractor, our team was called The Backbreakers). One of the teams we played was made up some of the guys from Danny and the Juniors. When they’d win, they’d sometimes break into a verse of “At the Hop.” It chapped our asses. It was meant to chap our asses. Breaking balls in South Philly is an honored and cherished tradition.

It was before one of these games that I learned something else about Joey. We were huddled outside, waiting for the doors to open and whining about the winter cold when he, out of nowhere and offhandedly, told us a story that stopped our bitching in its tracks:

“When I was in the army in Korea, it was so fucking cold our rifles froze. Couldn’t load ‘em. Couldn’t shoot ‘em. We had to piss on the works to get them working again.”  

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that an old guy from South Philly had dealt with stuff that would’ve put me in a fetal position. These are tough people. And this was a good reminder.

Cathy and I arrived in this neighborhood in 1996. Coming here changed everything for us. Without exaggeration, I can say that had we never settled here I’d never have become proficient in Italian, we’d never have lived in Abruzzo, and certainly never opened Le Virtú (our neighborhood trattoria dedicated to the cuisine of Abruzzo). We owe South Philly everything. And we’ve seen and been a major part of the changes to the neighborhood and East Passyunk Avenue, changes that have been breathlessly celebrated and discussed in local media. The demise of old South Philly has been frequently, enthusiastically, and prematurely reported in stories that have ranged from sensitive, thoughtful treatments to obnoxious, oblivious hit pieces. It’d be disingenuous for us to say we’re not happy about some of the changes. But it’s equally true that we miss a lot of what’s been lost, have mixed feelings about what’s filled the void (including our own roles in that), and would miss what’s left were it to vanish. When old South Philly goes, the country will have lost one its last original and truly great places. Were it to go during our lifetimes, we’d probably pull up stakes. There’d be no “here” here. We came to South Philly because of what it was, not what we thought it could become.        

Rowhome life is familiar to me. I was born and raised up the Schuylkill in Reading, PA, in a blue-collar, predominantly Polish and Slavic neighborhood on the city’s southeast side. My mom’s parents, who also lived in our neighborhood, were “shitkickers” from rural North Carolina who’d moved to Reading for jobs in the textile mills. My dad was Italian-American. When I was a boy his father, from Abruzzo, lived in the house with us. Six of us - including my brother and one of my sisters - lived in a rowhome that would fit inside the one Cathy and I now occupy alone on 13th Street. Reading’s Italian section was gone by the time I was born, but my dad’s friends from that old neighborhood, a tightly knit group of half a dozen guys - partners since grade school in activities both benevolent and (mildly) nefarious - were more a part of our lives than blood relatives. We referred to them as “uncles.” From my grandfather, I got stories about the old country and about being an Italian immigrant when nobody here wanted Italians (he arrived in 1909, one of over 183,000 paesani to make the voyage that year). He explained why he changed his name (from Alfonso Cretarola to Francis Cratil) to avoid prejudice, warned about the KKK who hated Catholics and immigrants like him, spoke reverently of FDR, and taught me and my father before me to root for the underdog. From my dad’s friends I learned a lot, too: how to argue passionately without forgetting you loved the person you were arguing with; how to instantly forgive and when to hold a grudge; how to relentlessly and inventively break balls (the pedestrian insult can boomerang, resulting in a loss of status); numerous mannerisms and off-color Italian expressions and hand gestures; that morality ran deeper than legality; and - above all else - how to show up when a friend was in need.

They had a pinochle game that rotated from house to house. Games would often go on into the early morning. These were raucous, intensely competitive affairs, and master classes in Italian-American culture: music (Sinatra, Prima, and Martin); language (I heard “minchia” so often that I took to using it in conversations with school friends, not knowing it meant “cock,” often playing the role “fuck” does in English); casual volatility, sudden explosions of anger and joy; and food (platters of sausages, meatballs, provolone, capocollo, sopressata). Once, during a game at our house, the doorbell rang, and I went to answer. (I was in about 6th grade). I opened the door to a cop. He asked if the local district justice, one of my dad’s friends, was in the house. I led him to the game in the dining room. He approached the table, hand on his holster, and yelled that the game was busted. For a beat or two, the men at the table looked up at him in silence. Then the judge exploded with a “Vaffa…” and the room erupted in laughter. The cop sat down, had a bite to eat, and left after a few minutes. He’d just wanted to break balls.

So I felt prepared for South Philly. But it still surprised and (usually) delighted me.

We moved into our house in November of 1996. Coming from the paesano-deprived wastelands of Washington, DC, where we’d been living and working, the neighborhood was a paradise. Everywhere I turned were ingredients and foods that could then only be found in specialty stores in the District. There were six bread bakeries within a five-minute walk of my house - good bread, too - and three pasticcerias. There were three butchers inside that radius, including Sam Meloni’s a half a block away on Tasker. We had the Avenue Cheese Shop, Cellini’s, and Phil Mancuso’s as provisioners and, for rarer stuff, DiBruno’s and Claudio’s not too far away on 9th. The hoagie options were overwhelming. Fresh fish was a block away at Ippolito’s. And I’m just talking about the east side of Broad. Ritner Street west of Broad was, and remains, an oasis for anyone seeking Italian flavors. Dad’s Stuffings, Potito’s, and Cacia’s bakery (the tomato pie, but not just) are regional treasures. Cannuli’s Sausages is a full-service butcher shop, where they make a liver sausage taught to them years ago by women from Abruzzo. North of Ritner, on the 1500 block of South 15th, there’s Calabria Imports: sopressata sott’olio, provolone and pecorino cheeses, condiments from Calabria. I gained ten pounds the first few months in the house. And I didn’t care.

But South Philly’s more than a colorful, urban food court. There were/are rhythms, ways of being, and a specific sense of community. Oft-disparaged, stereotyped, and dismissed, the originals in the neighborhood made - and still make - it singular. They’ve provided some of my favorite memories.

My first night out drinking in the neighborhood, I went to La Caffe (now defunct, even the building’s gone) at 12th and Tasker. It was a typical, no-frills corner joint. There were three guys at the bar, all of whom gave me the side-eye as I bellied up. This was long before dedicated hipster ironists started mining the neighborhood for material. My hair was halfway to my ass then, and Italian American wouldn’t be the first, second, or third ethnicity you’d guess when taking in my mug. I wore a vintage Phillies jacket to at least establish some bona fides. I ordered a double Stoli. The guy closest to me gave in and asked what my story was, and a pleasant conversation ensued. We’d reached the point - which used to be a thing - of doing shots of anisette (a practice that, while amicable, often turned a pleasant night’s buzz into a pitiless banshee of a hangover), when the door opened, and a hulking guy, already in his cups, came in clutching a big paper bag under his arm like a football. He was warmly greeted, so, I construed, a regular. He set the grease-soaked bag on the bar, pulled it open and announced: “I got pork sandwiches for everybody!”.A round of roast pork with sharp provolone and broccoli rabe, Philly’s true classic sandwich (the cheesesteak is a pretender to the throne). Welcome to the neighborhood.

The days leading up to Thanksgiving, decorations start to go up: lights; inflatable Santas, snowmen, and Grinches; lights; wreaths; candy canes; nativities; Christmas balls; more lights; plastic holly; tinsel; real and fake evergreen trim; ribbon; additional lights; a giant Snoopy; some elves; and then, finally, the serious lights. This was all pretty much spontaneous, nothing like the organized/enforced effort that now creates the so-called “Miracle on 13th Street.” On Christmas Eve, we were more or less forced at the ends of loaded cannoli into the homes of neighbors to drink wine, anisette, sambuca, rum, and whiskey, and to make our own “plates” from vast spreads of Italian comfort foods. The warmth and good feeling were contagious. And the desire – a need, actually - to share, the humbling generosity, was something I’d only experience again when we began traveling in Abruzzo. My neighborhood in Reading had been close, but nothing like this. The New Year rang in with neighbors returning from dinners and parties in time to bang pots and pans in the middle of the block. The next day, houses up and down 13th and on the cross streets were open, offering neighbors and sometimes complete strangers hot drinks, food, and a bathroom as the Mummers strutted up Broad. It’s never been the same since they changed the parade route.

Our first spring in the house, I was in the kitchen making dinner - roast pork, spaghetti and meatballs - and looking longingly out the window. It was the first real beautiful day of the season. Clear blue skies, about 70 degrees, no humidity. I stepped out into our yard to soak it in. We’ve got the typical tiny South Philly concrete pad; nice for a garden if you’re game, maybe a fig tree (a few of our neighbors still have them). We’d yet to buy yard furniture, and I was regretting it. Cathy stepped out, and I mentioned that, but for the lack of a table and chairs, we could eat outside. “Next time,” she said, and we went back in. Minutes later we heard banging at the metal backyard gate. We opened it to find the old woman who lived in the house behind ours standing in the narrow alleyway. Born in the “Abruzzi” and always dressed in black, she stood less than five feet tall. In heavily accented English, she said “I give you table and two chairs.” She’d been pruning her rose bushes and heard us talking. She led Cathy through her yard and into her kitchen where she had a plain, white plastic table with matching chairs. We were speechless. “I no use anymore. Take,” she said.  

The neighborhood landscape was a lot different then. Its mien, too. Before there was the East Passyunk “Singing Fountain” at the 11th Street triangle, the spot was occupied by an old gas station turned hoagie shop, Cipolloni’s Home Plate. Joe Cipolloni was a neighborhood kid who’d been a catcher in the Phillies’ farm system. We hit Joe’s for a medley of hoagies one of the first nights we crashed in the house. Franca Di Renzo’s venerable Tre Scalini was then across from the triangle on 11th. The Di Renzo family’s been serving food on the Avenue almost three decades now. Their departure (announced as I was writing this), is a dagger to the heart. Frankie’s Seafood Italiano (which memorably used the “Mambo Italiano” melody in its radio advertisements) was catty-corner from Franca on Tasker. On East Passyunk there was also Ozzie’s Trattoria and Rosalena’s; Mr. Martino’s Trattoria, Mamma Maria’s, and Marra’s  were  where they still are today. Walking into a joint meant being warmly greeted with a “Hon,” “Cuz,” or some other friendly moniker. Service was always personable, attentive, and familiar, like you were an old friend. For the life of me, I don’t know what the objection - frequently voiced in amateur and professional reviews - is to this style. Why come to one of the country’s most unique places and ask them to conform to your expectations, change character? Or mock them for who they are? You’re a guest in their neighborhood. Let them be who they are. Roll with it. How self-important, fragile, or far up your own lower digestive tract must you be to be traumatized or offended by “Hon” or the like? What kind of bloodless, sterile, frigid, suppressed, affection-deprived “family” environments produce such specimens? ‘Merigan!

Transactions at restaurants and stores in South Philly weren’t solely financial in nature. They involved human exchanges, real conversation beyond any purchase, interactions that formed some of the neighborhood’s connective tissue. I know that some of the new arrivals in the neighborhood regarded this as a time suck: “Why am I waiting behind this ambulatory fossil while she recounts, for the fifth time, her late husband’s illness, her son’s family’s impending and unapproved move to Jersey, and her plans for the Padre Pio festival? I just want to buy my damned provolone and go!” While an understandable complaint, it was also oblivious. These conversations created and maintained community. Walking into Sam Meloni’s butcher shop was, for me, as much for social reasons as it was to buy meat. The family shop had been at the corner of Iseminger and Tasker since 1938. Sam - in his late sixties and more alive than I’d ever been in my twenties - held court behind the counter, Jeff cap rakishly turned backwards, his expressive faccia usually wearing a wry smile. Entering the store meant immersion in the perpetual, playful, multi-subject argument between Sam and his nephew Bobby - a big, imposing, but sweet dude - and their straight-man assistant, both damn good butchers themselves. You were brought into the fray, asked to weigh in and choose sides, and then identified as an ally or unreasonable bastard. I would go in for some chicken cutlets and walk out nearly an hour later with the chicken, veal scallopini, chicken meatballs, and, most importantly, renewed faith in humanity. Sam’s family was from the town of Campli in Abruzzo’s Teramo province. My family’s also from Teramo. So, we talked a lot about the old country.  Once, during my first bought with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, I walked over to Sam’s for some cutlets and Italian water, the Lurisia stuff Cathy loved. He was alone in the shop that day. He knew what was going on – I’d had my involuntary “chemo haircut” (much of it had fallen out) and my skin had turned an alluring shade of gray. He rang me up then asked how I was getting home. I lived less than a block away.

“I’m walking, Sam.”

“No. No you ain’t,” he snapped.

He washed his hands, brushed himself off, grabbed my stuff, and locked up the shop. And he drove me home.

We were in Italy when Sam passed. It was an aggressive cancer. Friends of ours, who’d recently moved to the ‘hood and fallen in love with him and his place, went to the memorial. They said that there were photos of Sam from all through his life. A lot of shots from parties. One taken “down the shore” showed him carousing with his friends on the beach, their towels surrounded by “dead soldiers,” empty bottles of booze. Sam had fun. Our friends also mentioned the score of unescorted older women at the memorial. Sam had been a committed bachelor until the end. His nephew Bobby died, also of cancer, only a few months later. The shop closed.

Immersed in this Italian-American bubble, I felt waves of nostalgia, yearnings for the sense of belonging my dad and his friends clearly had in their boyhood enclave (as much as I loved it, I would never be from South Philly, and we’d been transplants to the Polish/Slavic quarter in Reading), and a desire to connect with my roots. Everywhere around me I’d see older, Italian-born guys – hair (or what was left of it) closely cropped; face shaved but casting a shadow by mid-afternoon; height a little over five feet; build thin to stocky, but solid; pants belted and hiked to the midsection; shirt tucked and buttoned to the neck; handkerchief in the back pocket; shoes plain, of leather; sartorial mien somber – who reminded me of my grandfather. These guys and their wives are usually quiet, reserved.  They keep to themselves, cook and eat at home. Which is maybe why the newcomers moving in and journalists perfunctorily writing about South Philly often don’t seem to notice them. A lot of them used to congregate at the now-defunct Caffe Italia west of Broad on Snyder. But they’re still around, hiding in plain sight. Many of them, I’d discover, were from villages near where Alfonso had been born. Listening to them speak a language familiar but, really, impenetrable to me became intolerable. I wanted to understand where all this stuff around me had come from, the place that’d shaped Alfonso and, to a lesser extent, my father and myself. So, with Cathy’s permission (she’s a mensch), I quit my job writing and copyediting for a publisher out of Maryland and made the first of my extended trips to Italy to study the language, first in Florence, but later and more intensely in Rome. My studies provided me the key to exploring and understanding Abruzzo - a wild, beautiful, mostly untraveled region, and the point of origin for many of South Philly’s denizens - and penetrating, just a little (the community can be justifiably suspicious and guarded), the native Italian component of my adopted neighborhood.

It wasn’t too long after our return from an extended stay, with our two Jack Russells, in Abruzzo that we met, befriended, and – in a move that determined our future road and made Le Virtú possible but which for a short while caused us crippling anxiety and provided a window to hell – started working with a chef from Napoli operating on the west side of Broad. This guy – let’s call him Gennaro – prepared the real-deal cucina napolitana. No compromises, nothing elaborate, just the genuine article. Working with him was our intro to the biz. Luciana, our opening chef at Le Virtú, was a frequent dining guest and then, after Gennaro ominously disappeared one weekend, his sometime substitute in the kitchen. Gennaro, who we discovered too late had a history with illicit substances and a taste for expensive wine that someone else had paid for (chefs, the little dears! It’s always the Aglianico, Amarone or Barolo, and never the Nero di Troia), gradually went off the rails, slipping into legitimate mental illness. When out of paranoia he asked a busboy to frisk a customer because the guy was speaking in Neapolitan dialect (your guess is as good as ours), we cut bait. My last sight of Gennaro was on my stoop around midnight, asking for the phone number of a former server, a young girl he’d become convinced was the Madonna (not the singer, but Christ’s mom, of immaculate conception fame). When I denied his request, he produced a knife, and I a baseball bat (what else is a vestibule for?). I was chasing him up the street, bat in hand, when I locked eyes with an incredulous cop in his cruiser (not the first time this had happened, by the way). I flagged down the cop and he took Gennaro away. The whole thing was our first restaurant “cash-ectomy,” but my brother and Cathy had developed a taste for the biz. So, we were in, just not with Gennaro.

But before it all turned to merda, Gennaro provided – and subsequently burned – bridges into South Philly’s discrete, native-born community. We frequented expatriate clubs, visited in homes, met, dined with, and came to know many of our Italian neighbors. Language was crucial to that. And it proved crucial to repairing the damage Gennaro’s erratic behavior was continuing to cause in the neighborhood after our breakup. As part of the reconciliation with the neighbors, we were invited for dinner at the home of a family from Basilicata, the soulful, beautiful, but economically and historically screwed region at the instep of The Boot (between Puglia to the east and Calabria and Campania to the west). The head of the household – let’s call him Domenico - had been a semi-regular at Gennaro’s place and had watched his gradual decline. It was Domenico who’d come to us with stories of Gennaro’s increasing madness and how it impacted the street as, in our absence, it all went off the rails. We did all we could to clean up the messes, settling Gennaro’s accounts with purveyors, apologizing to neighbors. In the meanwhile, Gennaro escaped, first to Jersey and the employ of a well-known, native-born restaurateur, and then permanently back to Napoli. Once returned home, his old habits and illnesses caught up with him. He didn’t make it. Domenico’s mother - short, whippet-thin, in her seventies, and a non-English speaker – cooked for us and his family. It ranks among the best and most authentic Italian dining experiences I’ve ever had in the US. The décor of the rowhome was completely old-world, the lighting soft, the house immaculate in the way only immigrant homes are, a purposeful demonstration of work ethic and pride. Nothing she made was remotely elaborate, just all beautifully done. Beyond the perfection of the homemade pasta, the simplicity and delicacy of the grilled and fried antipasti, the generous portions of wine and digestivi, I most remember the image of this woman, visible from our table, relentlessly at work for hours at the kitchen stove, a culinary machine. She produced course after course, never sat down with us, never stopped moving. It had to be nearly midnight when she reluctantly emerged from the kitchen to accept our thanks and unconditional surrender.

By the time we opened Le Virtú in October of 2007, the demographic changes already at work when we arrived had greatly accelerated. Fresh diasporas from Mexico, Vietnam, Cambodia, and elsewhere filled the gaps (and storefronts) left by Italian Americans. The sons and grandchildren of Italian immigrants often didn’t want to carry on family businesses or wanted to pursue a suburban style of life (that I’ll never understand, and the idea of which gives me the fantods). These new arrivals brought with them the energy and entrepreneurial impulse that generally attends immigrant waves. Family-oriented, hardworking, and driven to succeed, they’ve greatly benefited the neighborhood. From my vantage, they remind me of my grandfather and his peers. Others arriving were generally more affluent, white, and college educated. It was in the late 90’s that we began to see folks, obviously from outside the neighborhood, walking around and looking at houses. Browsers. Handwritten notes asking if we’d consider selling our home were shoved through our mail slot. It was hard to know how to feel about it. Priced out of more expensive areas or newly arrived in the city, these folks were attracted by the neighborhood’s amenities, housing stock, proximity to the subway, and convenience to Center City. Prices on our own block increased eight- to tenfold between 1996 and today, providing a windfall for some neighbors with an itch to leave but also pretty much making it certain that their children couldn’t buy in the vicinity if they wanted to stay.

By the mid- to late-aughts, swarms of hipsters, ironic deep divers, beer geeks, gourmands, and self-appointed food critics were descending on the neighborhood as the infrastructure to satisfy them all had developed. Bars began offering vast selections of national and local craft and Belgian beers. Even corner bars started carrying a few crafts and a couple of Chimays. The harbinger for all of this, however, was Ristorante Paradiso, the dream of Lynn Rinaldi, a proud product of the neighborhood. Paradiso departed from the familiar Italian-American narrative and bravely introduced Italian regional themes to East Passyunk. Heartened by Lynn’s success, we opened Le Virtú, digging deep into la cucina Abruzzese and proffering dishes that would have been familiar to the grandparents and great grandparents of our neighbors. And, of course, a diverse host of restaurants and other eateries – most of them astonishingly good – followed. It’s now possible to figuratively eat your way across much of the globe and never leave East Passyunk.

We’d imagined Le Virtú as a love letter to Abruzzo, where we’d lived after my first occurrence of Hodgkin’s and where we returned to annually and, perhaps naively, a gift of gratitude to the neighborhood. Our first menus, created by Luciana from Abruzzo, were straight out of tradition, without any “cheffy” interpretation. And still we’d have guests, some of them locals and neighbors, who were baffled by our fare. One guy, seated at the bar and looking over our offerings, his face a map of confusion, remarked: “Not for nothing, but is there anything Italian on this menu?” So, a little (hopefully unpedantic) explanation often proved necessary. Using ingredients from specific local farms, importing rare ingredients from Abruzzo (buying our saffron involved going to the village of Civitaretenga in Abruzzo and knocking on a farmer’s door; we filled suitcases with rare cheeses from organic farms in the region), and trying to proffer quality wines and digestives made our prices above what had been the neighborhood norm. Without doubt, we alienated some locals. And the people most familiar with our dishes, the native-born Italians living in the neighborhood, never went out to eat Italian. The idea of going out and paying for what you could make at home was, to them, obscene. Only ‘merigan did that. But we gradually found our clientele, or they found us. And watching, as has happened many times. family shedding nostalgic tears over a simple bowl of scrippelle ‘mbusse - pecorino-filled crepes in chicken broth – and remembering the grandmothers from Abruzzo, now most likely departed, who used to make it for special occasions…you can’t put a price on that.

The Italian South Philly that persists is deceptively large, especially if you’re just judging by a count of storefronts and businesses. Philly’s population of Italian Americans is still the second largest in the US, after New York’s, and a lot of that’s attributable to South Philly. Most blocks in the old enclave are still partly or majority Italian-American, even if some - not most, but a sizable number - of the newcomers tend to pretend the originals don’t exist. Or maybe just wish that they didn’t. This disrespect is often palpable and felt among the long-time residents. They talk about it. Early on during East Passyunk’s so-called “renaissance,” a new store owner catering to more recent neighborhood arrivals and visitors to the Avenue remarked to a journalist that his block had three Italian eateries but that there was no way that could last. He sounded hopeful. I can’t count the episodes in which, drinking or dining at a local joint or just walking along the street, I’ve heard visitors or newcomers condescendingly discussing the long-time residents, the Italian Americans, like Margaret Mead describing the subjects of some anthropological expedition. They say these things blithely, indifferent to or unaware of the fact that the locals hear them. A professor at a city university once asked me where I lived. When I responded, she grimaced then asked: “How do you like living down there with them?” Again, I don’t look Italian American. I informed her of my background and ended the conversation.        

I won’t whitewash any of my neighborhood’s shortcomings. Except maybe to say that they seem to be painfully evident everywhere in America. We’ve drawn the ire of some of South Philly’s less-accepting citizens for the causes we’ve supported at Le Virtú, the fundraisers for immigrants, refugees, and asylum seekers. But many, maybe even most of our strongest supporters have also been Italian American and folks from the neighborhood. They’ve shown up when we’ve asked for help. We’re indebted to them. But the easy stereotypes often used to describe Italian South Philly and Italian Americans in general are tired, lazy, and profoundly ironic. They also have a long history. Most Italian Americans can trace their provenance to somewhere in the former Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, the southern realm that lasted until most of the peninsula was unified at bayonet point in 1861. In Italy, southerners were often disparaged, labeled terroni for their connection to the earth and the dark color of their skin. Into the 1970’s, some landlords in northern cities openly refused to rent to southerners. Crackpot theories about their inferiority and tendency toward criminality began in northern Italy in the 19th century and followed them to the U.S. Nativist propaganda and even the editorial sections of papers as reputable as The New York Times attacked their character and lamented their arrival in America. During an earlier, xenophobic freakout in the 1920’s, we changed our immigration laws, in part, to stop the waves from southern Italy breaking on our shores. It’s painful to see how durable and apparently socially acceptable these stereotypes are. Just as it’s painful and shameful when some Italian Americans forget this story and mimic their ancestors’ tormentors.

What the future is for the Italian enclave in South Philly, I can’t say. I’m trying to enjoy as much of it that remains as I can, to savor it. The new immigrant communities, vibrant and essential to the neighborhood’s future as they may be, are understandably insular. And it’s unclear how committed the other newcomers are to the neighborhood, the young families, couples, and affluent professionals making their homes here. Will they stay or, as many do, move on when their kids reach school age? Some have had a real positive impact. Participation in school and neighborhood associations is important and has for sure contributed to the area’s betterment. But those types of organizations aren’t deeply organic. They can and do strengthen a community, but I don’t think that they often create the profound sense of belonging that palpably existed here when we arrived, and that persists among long-time residents. Many of the newcomers turn their eyes from and backs to the street. Their lives occur inside their homes, and they don’t actively participate in their block’s daily social exchanges and rhythms. Is this a suburban mode of being?  I wouldn’t know. Since we opened our restaurant, we are also guilty of often hiding behind our door, preoccupied and occasionally overwhelmed as we are (we’ve nobody but ourselves to blame for this; no one held a gun to our heads and forced us to open a restaurant). It seems clear to me and to Cathy that the originals provide much of the social glue that makes our part of South Philly an actual neighborhood. Their emotional attachment to the place, their pride, their events still inform the place’s identity. Without them, this is just an amorphous cluster of streets and homes, meaningless real estate designations. They provide much of the framework that whatever’s to come will be built on.

And, again, the community is stronger than some reports might indicate. If you’re ever lucky enough to happen upon a serenade, you’ll see and feel how strong. Before a wedding, the bride’s street is blocked off, and her and the groom’s families, as well as neighbors, gather in front of the rowhome.  The groom “serenades” her from the street. There’s music, wine, food, laughter, an epic party. It’s something brought here from the old country. My brother Fred got to participate in one in Abruzzo, in the mountain village of Pacentro. He held the groom’s ladder as he climbed to knock on his bride’s window. Once arrived at the window, the groom, a musician of note but, by his own admission, not much of a singer, had to belt out an appropriate tune while all his friends and half the town looked on. His musician friends then joined in. They’re more to the letter of the law in Abruzzo. In South Philly there’s often a DJ instead. The couple in Pacentro, dear friends of ours who’ve hosted us in their own homes, reluctantly left Abruzzo after their marriage to realize their dreams. They now live happily in our South Philly neighborhood.

Oh, and by the way, Joey made it. He’s okay.

[acaseforpencils]

Arnie Levin, Part One.

Today’s Case is not in the usual survey format, because a little over a week ago, I called Arnie up on the phone, and we had a wild conversation about cartooning. I’m posting the interview in two pieces. The first part (which you’re currently reading!) is focused on his background, and the second part will be mainly about his art supplies and drawing process. Arnie has lived a life just as colorful as his art, and I hope that you have as much fun reading about it as I had interviewing him!—Jane Mattimoe

Jane Mattimoe: Hi Arnie!

Arnie Levin: Hi Jane, I was just talking to you in my head before you called.

J: Well, I hope this interview lives up to the interview you were just having!

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J: How did you get into art?

A: Well, my grandfather was paralyzed, so when I was very small, he used to paint and draw—he could move that part of his body—so I watched him. My uncle was a commercial artist. He did very tight controlled stuff. He had a great hand—he was a specialist in hand lettering, so he had a very formal way to work. I went to a high school—it was a trade school— and I just happened to luck into an absolute incredible instructor, whose thinking was that you draw to your feelings, and that not every artist draws the same way. So there weren’t any tight rules for how to draw.

J: So it was very different than your uncle’s style.

A: Yes, and my uncle’s style of drawing— he once tried to hire me...he had a perfect hand, you know, and he tried to hire me and get me into the business, and I was so loose, and I just couldn’t do what you had to do to do real hand-lettering.

J: Well, you were too creative, probably!

A: Yes, which was fine for me. I decided I was gonna be a painter. We were taught drawing exercises, and they were just to get our hands and our mind working and there was no, “This is what you do, and you have to do this, and you have to do that...” I was very fortunate that there were hours and hours of learning to just do gesture drawings— drawings that were very quick, but that were able to catch the feeling and the movement, rather than particular incidents. So it was a fine arts direction.

J: I think I read somewhere that you were a competitive dancer in high school, and I was wondering how that informed...dancers are very grounded in their body, and they have a really good sense of motion— do you think that affected how you viewed motion in your drawings?

A: Oh, absolutely. When I danced, it was all rock and roll dancing, which was different than the preceding years, which were more box step— you did this, you did that, you did the other thing. I created my own steps and just did them, and sometimes changed them in the middle, because I always wanted to create something that was live— not just, “here’s a pencil rough, and we trace over the pencil line very carefully, and we make a picture.” I also didn’t like the idea, especially when I got into cartooning, of so many situations where there were talking heads in cartoons. I like to do sight gags— ones that you just look at, that are funny.

J: So you don’t want it to be people delivering the joke, you want them to be part of the joke... like Sam Gross likes to say that there’s a difference between drawing funny and funny drawing.

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A: Yes, did he mention to you… We had a thing, where there were four of us, I don’t know if we ever mentioned this, I would get together with Sam Gross, Bill Woodman… once a month we’d all meet at Sam’s apartment, and we would sit down and we would open the phone book— we’d get the yellow pages, and then we would just blindly put our finger down. For instance we’d end up with plumbing,“Ok, we’re gonna do a plumbing gag.” We would drink afterwards. So we’d pick three topics to do cartoons on, and then we would just sit and just quickly sketch out cartoons and show each other.

J: That’s smart, cause that takes you out of your head— it forces you to consider things that wouldn’t have necessarily come to you if you were just sitting down coming up with gags.

A: Exactly, it was perfect to keep your head open. Though sometimes we’d get to the drinks slightly before we’d finish drawing, and so the drawings got looser as the session got on. But it was always a lot of fun. You’d spoken to Sam, and he’s just like... volatile energy. He’s a real character...brilliant.

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J: So you’re telling me this, and you told me you don’t like rules, but I read you went straight into the military after high school, which doesn’t seem like something I’d expect you to do.

A: Believe me, it wasn’t what the military expected when I got in. What happened is, at that time, men had to serve in the military somehow. You had to serve a certain amount of time. In high school, I’d go in on Saturdays and Sundays— there were certain times I had to go in and serve in the Reserves. So at sixteen, I was in the Marine Reserves. And it was sort of a maturing thing— the other kids my age were goofing around, but I was into… more serious stuff. You had to go two weeks in the summer, and just after I turned seventeen, I said “you know, I want to get out into the world.” I was living in Miami—we had moved down from New York. I had basically come from Brooklyn and Manhattan, and we moved down to Miami, which, to me, wasn’t that particularly a stimulating place to be in. I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. Two weeks after I turned seventeen, I was in the Marines officially. They sent me to Jacksonville School.

J: That’s where I was born! My dad was in the Navy.

A: NAS Jacksonville! Naval Air Station Jacksonville. I know it well. The other reason Jacksonville was good for me was because I lived in Miami, and on the weekends it’s 395 miles from Jacksonville to Miami, and I used to hitchhike. Friday night, I’d leave the base, and I’d hitchhike to Miami, and then hitchhike back to Jacksonville.

J: I wouldn’t recommend that today!

A: Not today, no, but in those days... Hey, It was acceptable! I guess we were just fearless, or just stupid, I’m not sure which. It may have been a mixture of both. So I did a lot of hitchhiking in my early years, and I hitchhiked across the country— New York to California, from California all the way to Miami… I also felt that being an artist, you really should get a broad view of the world, not just a local situation, or one kind of thing.

J: Weren’t you a part of the beatnik crowd, with Jack Kerouac…

A: Yes, and another reason I got into the service was when you got out of training, you could go to school, and they supplied a certain amount of money, so my dream had been to go to the Art Students League in Manhattan, and just the name, “The Art Students League,” sounded so great to me, so that was my goal, and it turned out to be a wonderful experience. So I started to go, and I took painting. The classes were little old ladies, and they didn’t take to me doing “action painting,” spraying paint all around the room— de Kooning! Pollock!

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There were lots of Japanese students there, and they befriended me, and I befriended them. I spoke absolutely no Japanese, and they spoke very little English, but they were sort of mature, which made me wonder why they were there. Well, it turns out that around that time, Japanese painters wanted to show in New York galleries on Madison Avenue. They had to have a reason for staying in New York, so they went to The Art Students League. They didn’t ever do anything there— they just signed in twice a week. These guys were already professionals! They were all sponsored by Kenzo Okada, who was a very famous Japanese action painter.

J: So that probably helped you, being around these professional artists, who were doing the style you were more interested in.

A: They were much more restrained. They were very organized, and they did more structured work. I made friends with the Japanese painters, and I had no idea that these were the top painters in the business! It was wonderful!

J: That’s really awesome!

A: Yeah, it was really lucky. I had also befriended a dancer from the Martha Graham studio, and I would come from The Art Students League with an oil painting, and one day she dragged me up to the studio to meet  Martha…

J: What?!

A: The painting had just been done, and you know how oil paints reek, and so here are all these dancers, smelling this… so she showed it to Martha, and she liked it.

J: She was one of the preeminent modern dancers, and you were showing her your modern work...

A: Yes! She seemed to like it. She said, “This is very nice.”

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J: That was an incredible time to be an artist in New York, because the rent was so cheap compared to now.

A: Well, if you didn’t have much money, yes. One of the artists I met, who was actually a model at The Art Students League, we got to be friendly, and he lived on 9th Avenue, just below 42nd street, and one day, he said, “You wanna go to a great [coffee house]?” There was a great coffee house between 42nd and 43rd, on 8th Avenue, and [it] had painting and poetry and stuff, and I said sure, so I went [there]. It was run by just this incredible guy who was a dropout kind of person, and we would have art shows there at night, and I would serve coffee— I ran the coffee machine. And you can look this up on the internet, cause there’s pictures of me from that time, from 1959. We would sleep on the tables in sleeping bags. We pushed the tables together…

J: You lived in the coffee shop?

A: Yes! We slept on the tables because of the mice.

J: It doesn’t sound like you’d pass a health inspection!

A: Well, look, 9th Avenue is Hell’s Kitchen, you know, but the poetry— Allen Ginsberg came up, and Kerouac… all of the New York poets, and we had the painters and photographers. So I was right in the middle of it. And my partner— and I eventually became a partner in the coffee shop—had all of these great friends, and people we hung out with. My partner eventually became a character in one of Kerouac’s books, and he would go up to Big Sur... and I eventually moved to the Lower East Side, and hung around more with Allen Ginsberg, and so did a lot of the other poets on the the Lower East Side. We would all walk up in the afternoon, and we’d walk up to the Madison Avenue galleries-- and Ginsberg was incredible, he was just the nicest person in the world. And they all got a kick out of me, because I always kept a running commentary, and I was kind of goofy.

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J: You weren’t into cartooning at this time?

A: No, I wanted to be a fine artist. Eventually, I used my GI Bill, and started studying with Bob Blechman, with another cartoonist, Charles Slackman. I took night classes. I would do that, and I was a messenger in Manhattan, which I absolutely loved, for two reasons. One, I got to know the middle of the city very well, and two, I got to drop off people’s portfolios at different ad agencies and magazines.

J: So that got you a foot in the door, huh?

A: Yes, and I knew the secretaries, so if I dropped off a portfolio, they’d be like, “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

J: That’s awesome!

A: That was terrific. I did that for a while, and one day, I was taking night classes with Bob Blechman and [Charles] Slackman, and they gave an assignment to do a storyboard, to do an animation. I overdo things sometimes, but everyone came in with two pieces of paper, a little storyboard, or rough storyboard, and I did four full boards—248 pounds! [laughs] Meanwhile, Blechman had gotten me a job at Pushpin Studios... there was Milton Glaser, Seymour Chast, Isadore Seltzer, Jim McMullin... all the big illustrators that were in Pushpin, and I would get on the back of the bus to deliver things, and I’d take all of their drawings and study them.

J: People would kill for that!

A: Absolutely! You know, when I was hanging around, I had another friend, and he wanted to be an illustrator, and when I left Pushpin, I said, “Hey, would you like this job? It’s a great job,” and he said “No, I’m not a messenger, I’m an artist.” Never heard of him again.

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A: So I got the job as the messenger, and I was going to night school, and like I said, I did this huge storyboard, and the next day, or day after, I went into work to messenger, and they said, “How would you like to work in a film studio? How would you like to do animation?” And I said, “Let me think about this— messenger or be in animation… I said,”Yeah!” 

So Milton sent me up, and I walked into the studio. They sat me down at a drawing table, and it had an animation field guide to do the stuff and they said, “Do a storyboard.” So I did a storyboard. I laid it out, I designed it, I directed [it]… the second week, the head of company came by and said, “How would you like to be an animation director?” And I said, “Yeah, that’s even more better!” So I got myself into the animation business.

J: It almost sounds lucky, but you put in so much work making these connections, and going to school... so while it seems like an overnight success, you worked so hard to get to that point.

A: Yeah, and I had a very deep background.

J: I’m sure the guy who rejected the messenger job said, “Oh, he got lucky,” but there’s more to just making art when it comes to being an artist, and I think that’s important for people who are reading this blog, and who are just starting out, to understand.

A: Yes, and like you say I was fortunate in a couple ways, and one of them is that I had the talent, but I was also able to have the instruction, and being able to understand what I did. A lot of cartoonists, start off when they’re kids, and all they draw are cartoons and strips and panels…

J: But you didn’t start cartooning up until the ‘70s right?

A: Well, on the way, I was living in Florida, and got into a car accident and I had dislocated both shoulders, and I had a pin in my hip, and bones knocked out of my eye socket, and I was pretty much a mess. And so I was recovering at home in Miami, in a little 6x6 foot room, sitting on the edge of the bed and not having anything to do. My mother had Writer’s Digest, because she wanted to be a writer, and so I sat down and it said, “If you wanna do cartoons...” and since I couldn’t move around, I figured I can’t make a mess, I’ll do that. So I asked my mom to get a bamboo pen, some india ink, and a bunch of typewriter paper. I started to draw cartoons, and [Writer’s Digest] said, “You put twenty in a batch and you put a return envelope, and you put postage, and blah blah blah…” So I said, “Okay!” And I just did these drawings. I did forty drawings. Then I started up for New York, and I gave my drawings to my mother, and she sent half of them.

So, I’m in New York, doing the messenger stuff, and suddenly, I get a thing, “Playboy wants three finishes.” So I immediately thought the obvious, “What is a finish?” So I said okay, so I did that, and so that was my first published stuff. I sent half the batch up to them, they bought a couple.. But what happened was, you’d send it, and it took months for this process to happen, and so one drawing you got 80 dollars, the second one you got a five dollar raise to 85, and then you got one for 90 bucks. The whole process was about six months, and I thought, “This is not gonna be a way to make a living.” So I stuck my hand in the cartoon world.

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J: How did you get into cartooning from animation?

A: I gave up cartooning at Playboy, but when the animation business went sort of down for a while, I talked to Bob Blechman once again, and he said, “Do you have any cartoons?” I said “No,” and he said, “Put some cartoons together.” So I put the cartoons together and some cover ideas. I wanted to do covers for The New Yorker. Also in the middle of this, I forgot, I had a rep, and she took my stuff around. I started to illustrate for all kinds of magazines, Life, Time, Business Week... doing spot illustrations in watercolor, and then everything just went flat, and I didn’t have anything to do, so I did these drawings at home, my own work, and my wife would go off to studios to do her own ink and paint work, and I showed them to Blechman, and [he] sent me up to The New Yorker.

J: To Lee Lorenz?

A: Yes, and I showed him some of my cover ideas and he said, “Ok, do a finish. We’re interested in buying two covers for The New Yorker. And I completely choked. “I said, Oh no, The New Yorker, what am I going to do?” I kept bringing in these drawings, and they just weren’t right. Meanwhile I had all these gag cartoons and little drawings. I was just doing funny drawings—they weren’t really cartoons, so I took them up, and they said, “We’d like to publish one.” So I started submitting cartoons, and I started selling.

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If there's anything that motivates me, it’s selling. I mean if you have a place… you’re focused, and I focused. By the end of the year, I sold a number of black and whites, but no covers, but it just kept going on. I just kept doing it and doing it, and ever so often putting in a cover... and finally I sold one cover, two covers, three covers… just doing New Yorker stuff

J: So you weren’t cartooning for anyone else?

A: No, but afterwards, sort of as I was doing this, I learned I could take the leftover roughs that they didn’t buy, and go to other magazines with them.

J: Wasn’t that kind of a social event, where cartoonists would go to all the different magazines in the city?

A: Well, Wednesday was called “Look Day,” and Sam [Gross] was very involved in that—of course Sam was involved in everything. And then there was the Cartoonists Guild, and I got involved in that.

J: Mort [Gerberg] was the president of that.

A: Yeah, and I got to be around cartoonists, and I was selling mainly to The New Yorker, so I just focused on that. After a while, they signed me to a contract, and I had years when I would sell 77 black and white cartoons.

J: That’s more than the issues they have per year!

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J: I was wondering, because you were already a mature artist when you started cartooning, did you experiment a lot with your style, or did it gel into place relatively quickly for you?

A: Well, there is a little space that I left out of this, which is while I wasn’t selling cartoons in the early days, I had notebooks, and I used to hang around in an art store in [Greenwich] Village, and I would fill them with funny drawings, and travel around, and when I was messagering… so I was really cartooning, but I didn’t have any place for them.

J: So as soon as you found a home for these drawings, everything came together?

A: Yes.

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J: With your career, you’ve been building towards things your whole life, and it almost seems like it just happened overnight, but it was actually years worth of working at it.

A: The first drawing that I sold, when I used to put stuff in the art show in [Greenwich] Village, the guys in the coffee shop, the beatnik guys, we would take some of my little sketches, and we would make little mats, and at the end of the end of the art show, people would leave, and leave spaces, so we would just throw my stuff up on the walls.

J: That’s one way to get into an art show!

A: I even got a write up in an Italian newspaper! But as soon as we’d make enough money for dinner, we’d head to the clam house—The Bocce House. That was a good time.

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Stay tuned for part two, which will be up next week! In the meantime, find more posts about art supplies on Case’s Instagram! There is a Twitter as well. If you enjoy this blog, and would like to contribute a dollar or so to labor and maintenance costs, there is also a Patreon, and if you’d like to buy me a cup of coffee, there is a Ko-Fi account as well!

[purplesurveys]

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Have you ever had a really bad haircut? I haven’t had any truly awful ones. The only time I felt ‘meh’ about a haircut was when I went to the salon on my own and told the hairdresser what I wanted myself. I was never good at that kind of stuff, and always prefer being with someone so they can tell me if I’m headed somewhere good or otherwise. Did you ever order any clothes from the Alloy catalogue? I’ve never heard of that. What brand, color, and type is your favorite eyeliner? I’ve only ever used eyeliner at one point in my life and I’ve forgotten every detail about it. It was black, though. Do you wear eyeliner? I used to. I wanted to look nice post-breakup, so I learned how to do makeup to feel good about myself. Was there ever a time in your life when you couldn't cry? I guess when I have HAD to cry in the past, as in for a skit, I couldn’t. But I can be triggered and cry very easily otherwise.

What's your favorite type of yogurt? I hate yogurt, I hate everything that’s sour (except for sour tapes, but even those I can only handle at a certain level of sourness haha). What posters did you have on your wall as a teenager? Wrestling. My mom took them down for no reason eventually, even though I loved having them up on my wall. What are your favorite type of calendars? I mean I don’t obsess over calendars enough to have a favorite type? so a digital one on my phone and laptop is fine with me. I do sometimes wish I was rich enough just to be able to spend on those novelty calendars with Audrey Hepburn photos and Monet paintings in every month, though. Do you have a full-length mirror? I used to but it got transferred to my sister’s room. I don’t mind it though; I don’t use mirrors all that much. When was the last time you bought stamps? Elementary school, probably. Do you have any overdue library books right now? HAH, yes I do actually. It was a book I needed to do a Powerpoint on, and I completely forgot that its due date was on the 4th. The fee is like ₱2/day so I’ll have to pay around ₱8 to ₱10 by next week, depending on when I’ll feel like returning the book. How often do you do laundry? I don’t; my mom prefers to do it herself. Do you have a piggy bank? Maybe as a kid, but I never took it seriously because I didn’t sit well with the fact that I couldn’t see the money I’ve been saving. I’ve stuck with a good old wallet ever since, just so I can know my progress. Do you remember your locker combinations from high school? I don’t, actually. I wonder what numbers I used to secure my locks :o What's your favorite DIY crafts youtube channel? Aren’t a lot of those misleading and downright fake? Could you spend hours on pinterest? I’ve never spent more than five minutes at one time on that website/app. Do you own plaid pants? Nah, it’s not really my style. Have you ever had to wear a school uniform? I had to wear my school’s uniform for 14 straight years. All I ever wore Monday through Friday for that span of time. What was your high school's mascot? We don’t have a mascot; we just have school colors. What were your high school's team colors? Gold, white, blue. Who were your best friends in high school? Angela, Gabie, Athenna, and Sofie. Others I was close with were Chelsea, Kaira, and Fern. Who was your first boyfriend or girlfriend? Gab. Have you ever been to Chicago? Nope but it’s a dream. If yes, what do you like best about it? The FOOD, the culture, the museums. Have you ever stayed in a hostel? Nope, never been. Would you rather sleep on the top bunk or bottom bunk? Bottom. I wouldn’t like sleeping somewhere that felt unnatural, and lying down way high from the floor is definitely one of those things. Do you love camping? I’ve never tried, so I don’t know. Would you rather sleep in a tent or under the stars? Lie under the stars for as long as I can, then pass out in a tent. What insects are you afraid of? Cockroaches. Have you ever had a secret admirer that left you notes? I haven’t. Are you close with your cousins? I have a good relationship with most of my cousins, mom’s side; but I’m especially close with my eldest cousin, who I essentially view as my older brother. I’m so-so with cousins on my dad’s side - we were very close as kids, but they moved further to the south and I never really get to see them anymore, so we grew more shy as the years passed.  Are you close to any aunts or uncles? I love my mom’s cousins; they’re all younger than her and they’re mostly late Gen X-ers so they’re more hip and cool hahaha. I wouldn’t say we’re close but they are definitely much easier to talk to than other older relatives. Are you close to your grandparents? I seldom get to see my paternal grandparents because they live with the ^ same cousins I’ve since grown quite distant from, so I wouldn’t say I’m close to them but of course I love them all the same. I was very close with my maternal grandfather when he was still alive as I always knew what to do to make him laugh; and I am also crazy for my maternal grandmother, although in the last few years she’s been all about Jesus so sometimes it gets a little draining hearing about how I should always pray and that “God can answer all [my] problems.” Still love her loads, though. Who betrayed your trust? A friend did, many years ago. Who was your first best friend (apart from a sibling)? Bold of you to assume a sibling was my first best friend, because you’re wrong lol. I’d consider this girl we calle Kaye the first one; we were class number buddies in Kinder 1 (I was 4, she was 5) so we got close quickly. She changed schools by Grade 1 and I haven’t talked to her since, but I still remember her fondly. What was your favorite thing to do at sleepovers when you were younger? I was never allowed at sleepovers when I was a kid. What kind of popcorn is your favorite? Sweet-flavored ones. I could never take dry-ass plain/salted popcorn. It has to be something like salted caramel or parmesan. Does your town have a big fountain in it? If we do have one, I’ve never seen it. But I’m pretty sure we don’t. What is your town known for? For being on a mountain and being ridiculously hard to get to because 1) of its winding, accident-prone roads, and 2) IT’S ON A MOUNTAIN. I live in the area of Antipolo just before you start to go up, so I don’t get offended much by the complaints of everyone else; but I’m in solidarity nonetheless with the ~mountain-dwellers~ just because I used to go to school in upper Antipolo. Do you currently live in the city you grew up in? I mostly grew up in Antipolo, so yes I still live here. I did live in Manila in my early childhood but that time was much shorter than the time I’ve spent in my current city. What's one way in which you're behind the times? I hate Minecraft and I hate Fortnite even more. What's one way in which you're still a child? I love coloring books :) What's one way in which you're old? I have a bad back. Do you feel old or young? Or do you feel both at different times? Definitely feel a bit of both, depending on my mood. The perfect example could be that I can be annoyed seeing younger kids make so much noise, but the next day I can be exactly like those kids making a bunch of noise with my friends. How old are you? I am 21. Do you know what you want to do for your next birthday? No, not yet. Quite early to think about at this point, really. If yes, what is it? A private dinner would already sound perfect. What is the last new thing you discovered that was really good? Vaping. I mean don’t try it if you haven’t already, but yeah. What would be the best surprise you could receive right now? Tbh if my mom came home carrying a box of Yellow Cab pizza. AKA something that would NEVER happen; she snobs Yellow Cab cos she thinks they’re too expensive for pizza. Do you usually forgive when someone hurts your or try to get revenge? I get my revenge, subtly. Were there any subjects in school that were really easy for you? Our subject Language, which was mandatory back in elementary school, was literally basic English grammar. Not everyone in my former school spoke fluent English so a lot of them weren’t all that good at the subject; but for people like me who had a solid grasp of English and read a lot to begin with, the class was basically a breather from the other more difficult classes. If so, what? ^ I already told ya all about it. Did you ever skip a grade or get held back a grade? Skipping grades isn’t a thing in my former school which is honestly a good thing for me cos it would have bred a lot of competition. But students would have to repeat a level if their grades showed that they had to; I wasn’t one of them. What time of day were you born? 9:11 in the evening. What is the best hairstyle you've ever had? I loved my layered hair like 10 years ago. It was probably the only time I did something to my hair that wasn’t just a trim, so I enjoyed that experience. I also liked cutting my hair way, way too short last year; it was a bold move but I liked how it look, as did everyone else. Do you think you look better with dyed hair or natural hair? I’ve never tried dyeing my hair so I wouldn’t know. Do you think your look better with curly hair or straight hair? Curly, I think. Do you have bangs? I have baby bangs but they’re just stubborn hair standing around my head lmao but no I don’t have actual bangs. Do you think you look better with bangs or without? I haven’t tried getting bangs as an adult. I did look cute with them as a toddler though :( Do you think you look better with long hair or short? Long. What's your favorite rock band? Paramore, if they still count. Who's your favorite country singer? None. Do you ever listen to Celtic music? No. Do you listen to Hillsong? No. Did you try the unicorn frappuccino, and if yes, were you a fan? No I never tried it. Have you ever won a contest? I won a school quiz bee and an essay writing contest before, but I wouldn’t call the latter legitimate. It was just a writing contest about wrestling held by a local TV station and the three best entries got to win WWE t-shirts haha. Have you ever wanted to be a model, actress, singer, or dancer? I wanted to be a model when I was like 12. No fucking clue what was going through my head at the time. When you look at your baby pictures, do you recognize yourself? Sure. Has your hair color changed since you were a toddler? Nope. Do you wear matching socks? Yes. How many drawers does your dresser have? Three. Do you own an American flag shirt? No thanks. Do you own a British flag shirt? I don’t. The Union Jack got overused by 2011 Tumblr, honestly. Do you have a seashell collection? I don’t. Aren’t we prohibited from getting those from beaches? That’s the case in the Philippines, anyway. Do you have a rock collection? I do not. Do you decorate for Halloween? We didn’t decorate the house but I celebrated it with friends this year. What is your favorite thing to do in the pool? Float around and relax. Flamingos or pineapples? ??? Flamingos, I guess? Cacti or seashells? Seashells. Maple tree or palm tree? Palm tree. Dreamcatcher or wind chimes? Dreamcatchers! Have you ever taken a picture at the perfect moment? I probably have at few points. Do you have a crush right now? Yes. What color was your first car? My first and current car is white. Was your first car used or new? I’m actually not sure. It was my dad who purchased it. Do you have a car now? Yep. What color(s) eyeshadow do you wear the most? I never wear any.

[completeandrandomshit]

Linda Ronstadt Has Found Another Voice

The singer on living with Parkinson’s, the perils of stardom, and mourning what the border has become.

It’s been ten years since Linda Ronstadt, once the most highly paid woman in rock and roll, sang her last concert. In 2013, the world found out why: Parkinson’s disease had rendered her unable to sing, ending a musical career that had left an indelible mark on the classic-rock era and earned her ten Grammy Awards. Ronstadt’s earth-shaking voice and spunky stage presence jolted her to fame in the late sixties, and her renditions of “Different Drum” (with her early group, the Stone Poneys), “You’re No Good” (from her breakthrough album, “Heart Like a Wheel”), “Blue Bayou,” and “Desperado” helped define the California folk-rock sound. Along the way, two of her backup musicians left to form the Eagles.

But Ronstadt, now seventy-three, didn’t rest on her greatest hits, experimenting instead with a dizzying range of genres. In the eighties, she starred in Gilbert and Sullivan’s “The Pirates of Penzance” on Broadway, recorded a standards album with the veteran arranger Nelson Riddle, and released “Canciones de Mi Padre,” a collection of traditional Mexican songs, which became the best-selling non-English-language album in American history. The record also returned Ronstadt to her roots. Her grandfather was a Mexican bandleader, and her father had serenaded her mother with Mexican folk songs in a beautiful baritone. She grew up in Tucson, Arizona, close to the border—a place that has since become a political flashpoint.

A new documentary, “Linda Ronstadt: The Sound of My Voice,” directed by Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman and opening September 6th, looks back on Ronstadt’s adventurous career. She spoke with The New Yorker twice by phone from her home in San Francisco. Our conversations have been edited and condensed.

What is your day-to-day life like these days?

Well, I lie down a lot, because I’m disabled. I do a lot of reading, but I’m starting to have trouble with my eyes, so that’s kind of a problem. It’s called getting old.

What are you reading right now?

I’m reading Thomas Mann, “The Magic Mountain.” I somehow got to be this age without having read Thomas Mann, and I’m trying to make up for it. I read “Buddenbrooks,” and I fell in love with his writing. His books are nice and long, so it takes a couple of days to get through them.

Who do you spend most of your time with?

My son lives here. My daughter comes over. I have really nice friends; they come over and hang out with me. It’s hard for me to get out. It’s hard for me to sit in a restaurant or sit up in a chair. It’s hard for me to stand around, so if there’s a situation where I’m liable to be caught in a doorway talking to somebody for five minutes, I tend to avoid that.

What kind of music do you listen to?

I love opera. It’s so terrible—I listen to it on YouTube. I’m an audiophile, but I’ve just gotten used to the convenience of being able to hear twenty-nine different performances of one role. I listen to other music, too. I found this Korean band that I thought was sort of interesting on Tiny Desk concerts, the NPR series. They get musicians to come in and play live in a really tiny little space behind a desk. It’s no show biz, just music. They have great stuff. They had Randy Newman. Natalia Lafourcade, who’s a Mexican artist that I love particularly. Whatever’s new. The Korean band I saw was called SsingSsing.

Is it like K-pop?

No, it’s based on Korean traditional singing. It was kind of like David Bowie bass and drums, and then this really wild South Korean traditional singing. It’s polytonal. It’s a different skill than we use, with more notes in it. And a lot of gender-crossing. It looked like I was seeing the future.

When you sing in your mind, what do you hear?

I can hear the song. I can hear what I would be doing with it. I can hear the accompaniment. Sometimes I don’t remember the words, so I have to look them up. It’s not usually my songs I’m singing. I don’t listen to my own stuff very much.

           I listen to Mexican radio—the local Banda station out of San Jose. I mostly listen to NPR. I don’t listen to mainstream radio anymore. I don’t know the acts and I don’t know the music. It doesn’t interest me, particularly. There are some good modern people. I like Sia. She’s a very original singer.

How do you cope with the frustration of not being able to do everything you want to do?

I’ve just accepted it. There’s absolutely nothing I can do. I have a form of Parkinsonism that doesn’t respond to standard Parkinson’s meds, so there’s no treatment for what I have. It’s called P.S.P.—Progressive Supranuclear Palsy. I just have to stay home a lot. The main attraction in San Francisco is the opera and the symphony, and I make an effort and go out, but I can only do it a few times a year. It makes me sick that I’m ever not in my seat when Michael Tilson Thomas raises his baton, because he’s such a good conductor, and I miss hearing orchestral music. My friends come over and play music, and that’s where I like it best, anyway: in the living room.

As you tell it, the first symptoms you noticed before you knew you had Parkinson’s were in your singing voice.

Yeah. I’d start to do something and it would start to take the note and then it would stop. What you can’t do with Parkinsonism is repetitive motions, and singing is a repetitive motion.

You broke onto the scene with such a powerhouse voice. What did it feel like, singing with that voice?

Well, I was trying to figure out how to sing! And trying to be heard over the electric instruments. I had no idea that I sang as loud as I did. I always thought I wasn’t singing loud enough, because in the early days there were no monitors. You couldn’t hear yourself.

In the documentary, you talk about growing up in Tucson, Arizona, and how culturally rich that was. How do the current politics around the border resonate with you?

They’re devastating. I feel filled with impotent rage. I grew up in the Sonoran Desert, and the Sonoran Desert is on both sides of the border. There’s a fence that runs through it now, but it’s still the same culture. The same food, the same clothes, the same traditional life of ranching and farming. I go down there a lot, and it’s so hard to get back across the border. It’s ridiculous. It used to be that you could go across the border and have lunch and visit friends and shop in the little shops there. There was a beautiful department store in the fifties and sixties. My parents had friends on both sides of the border. They were friends with the ranchers, and we went to all their parties and their baptisms and their weddings and their balls.

And now that’s gone. The stores are wiped out because they don’t get any trade from the United States anymore. There’s concertina wire on the Mexican side that the Americans put up. Animals are getting trapped in there. Children are getting cut on it. It’s completely unnecessary. In the meantime, you see people serenely skateboarding and girls with their rollerskates, kids playing in the park. And you think, We’re afraid of this? They’re just regular kids!

I spent time out in the desert when I was still healthy, working with a group of Samaritans who go to find people that are lost. You run into the Minute Men or the Border Patrol every five seconds. The border is fully militarized. You meet some guy stumbling through the desert trying to cross, and he’s dehydrated, his feet are full of thorns, cactus, then you see this Minute Man sitting with his cooler, with all of his water and food and beer, and his automatic weapon sitting on his lap, wearing full camouflage. It’s so cruel. People are coming to work. They’re coming to have a better life. You have to be pretty desperate to want to cross that desert.

You were talking about this back in 2013, when your memoir came out, before it became such a national wedge issue. Were people not paying enough attention before?

Well, they didn’t live close to the border. They’d just go back to chewing their cud about it. It wasn’t their problem. I lived at the border then. I lived in Tucson for ten years. I saw what was going on. Putting children in jail—that’s not new. That was going on in the Bush Administration. Barack Obama tried to get immigration reform and Congress wouldn’t allow it. So people have been caught in this web of suffering, dying in the desert. They’re incredibly brave and resourceful, the people who make it. A C.E.O. of a big company once told me—when I said, “What do you look for in hiring practices?”—she said, “I look for someone who’s dealt with a lot of adversity, because they usually make a good business person.” And I thought, You should hire every immigrant who comes across the border.

Why did you decide to move to San Francisco from Tucson?

My children were coming home repeating homophobic remarks they heard at school. And they’d also heard other things, like, “If you don’t go to church, you’re going to go to Hell.” I thought, You know, I don’t need that. So I moved back to San Francisco. I wanted them to have a sense of what a community was like where you could walk to school, walk to the market. More of an urban-village experience. In Tucson, I was driving in the car for forty-five minutes to get them to school and then forty-five minutes to get them back, in a hot car. I didn’t want that life for them.

I can tell that you have a real sense of mourning over what the border used to be.

People don’t realize that there’s Mexican, there’s American, and then there’s Mexican-American. They’re three different cultures, and they all influence eachother. And they all influence our culture profoundly. The cowboy suit that Roy Rogers would wear, with the yoke shirt and the pearl buttons and the bell-bottom frontier pants and the cowboy hat—those are all Mexican. We imported it. We eat burritos and tacos, and our music is influenced a lot by Mexican music. It goes back and forth across the border all the time.

How did growing up in that hybrid Mexican-American culture shape you as a musician?

I listened to a lot of Mexican music on the radio, and my dad had a really great collection of traditional Mexican music. It made it hard for me when I went to sing American pop music, because rock and roll is based on black church rhythms, and I wasn’t exposed to that as a kid. I could only sing what I’d heard. What I’d heard was Mexican music, Billie Holiday, and my brother singing boy soprano.

So what drew you to folk rock in the sixties?

I loved popular folk music like Peter, Paul and Mary. I loved the real traditional stuff, like the Carter family. I loved Bob Dylan. And I tried to copy what I could. When I heard the Byrds doing folk rock, I thought that was what I wanted to do.

How did your recording of “Different Drum” with the Stone Poneys in 1967 come about?

It was a song I found on a Greenbriar Boys record, and I thought it was a strong piece of material. I just liked the song. We worked it up as a kind of shuffle—it wasn’t very good with the guys playing guitar and mandolin. But the record company recognized that the song was strong, too, so they had me come back and record it with their musicians and their arrangement. And I was pretty shocked. I didn’t know how to sing it with that arrangement. But it turned out to be a hit.

Do you remember hearing it on the radio for the first time?

Yeah. We were on our way to a meeting at Capitol Records, in an old Dodge or something, and I was jammed in the back with our guitars. Then the engine froze, and the car made this horrible metal-on-metal shriek. We had to push it to the nearest gas station, half a block away. The man was looking at the car saying it’ll never run again, and we were saying, “What will we ever do in Los Angeles with no car?” And from the radio playing in the back of the garage we could hear the opening of “Different Drum.” We heard which radio station it was on, KRLA, so I knew it was a hit, if they played it on the L.A. stations.

What are your memories of the Troubadour, in West Hollywood?

That’s where you went to hang out. We would go to hear the local act that was playing, or there’d be someone like Hoyt Axton or Oscar Brown, Jr., or Odetta. Nobody was anything particular at the time. We were all aspiring musicians. The Dillards were there. The Byrds hung out there. And then it started to be people like Joni Mitchell, James Taylor. Carole King would play there. When Joni Mitchell played, she played two weeks. I think I saw every single night.

In your book, you talk about being with Janis Joplin there and trying to figure out what to wear onstage.

Oh, I never could figure out what to wear. I grew up wearing Levi’s and a T-shirt or a sweater and cowboy boots or sneakers. And that’s what I left home with, and that’s what I wound up with. In the summer we’d cut the legs off the Levi’s and they were Levi’s shorts. When I got my Cub Scout outfit, that was a real change for me.

You say that you and Janis Joplin couldn’t figure out how to fit in—you didn’t know whether to be earth mothers or whatever.

We didn’t know whether we were supposed to cook and sew and embroider. Roles were being redefined. There were a lot of earth-mama hippie girls who knew how to do that stuff.

There’s a clip in the documentary of you being interviewed in 1977, and you talk about how rock-and-roll stars become alienated and are surrounded by managers who are willing to indulge them, and that’s how people wind up with drug problems.

They got involved with drugs because they felt isolated. Stardom is isolating. There are a whole bunch of people that you’re hanging out with who are trying to become musicians. And some were chosen and some were not, and it becomes a difficult relationship with the people who weren’t chosen. Sometimes they’re resentful, sometimes you feel uncomfortable. It’s like Emmylou Harris has in a song: “Pieces of the sky were falling in your neighbor’s yard but not on you.” The adulation made people feel disconnected. I also think that some people’s brain chemistry is more vulnerable to addiction. I was lucky. Mine was not.

David Geffen says that you had an issue with diet pills.

I had no issue with that. I just took them when I needed them. I didn’t like it. If I ate, I’d have to take a diet pill. It wasn’t something I did for pleasure.

There’s been a lot of looking back this year at the summer of 1969, with these big anniversaries of the moon landing and Woodstock and the Manson murders. What do you remember about that summer?

When Woodstock happened, I was in New York. I remember getting all the reports from people like Henry Diltz and Crosby, Stills & Nash. They’d come back with stories of everybody being in the mud. It sounded like a good thing to have survived, but I’m glad I didn’t go up there. Overflowing toilets and no food is not my idea of a fun time. I was playing some club—probably the Bitter End.

When the Manson family came through, they managed to murder my next-door neighbor, Gary Hinman. I was lucky I wasn’t home that night—they may have come for me. We knew those girls, Linda Kasabian and maybe Leslie Van Houten, too. I lived in Topanga Canyon at the time, and they would hitchhike, and they would talk about this guy Charlie at the Spahn Ranch. But I didn’t know him personally. We knew it was kind of a bad scene. But, when we found out how bad of a scene it was, we were horrified.

People must have been really scared before they were captured.

Oh, everybody was freaked out. We weren’t sure at the time whether the Gary Hinman murder was connected to the other murders, but we found out soon enough.

The music of that era was so intertwined with politics. How do you feel that compares with popular music these days? Is music addressing political upheaval?

Oh, I think so. Especially hip-hop. But I wish there was a little bit more political activism. I’m waiting for the Reichstag to burn down, you know? Because I was interested in the Weimar Republic, I’ve always been aware that culture can be overwhelmed and subverted in a very short time. All of German intellectual history—Goethe and Beethoven—was subverted by the Nazis. It happened in a thirty-year span and brought German culture to its knees. And it’s happening here. There’s a real conspiracy of international fascism that wants to defeat democracy. They want all the power for themselves, and I think that suits Donald Trump right now. He’d like to be a dictator.

In going through your history, I’ve noticed you’ve been selectively outspoken. There’s an interview from 1983 where a talk-show host in Australia asks you about deciding to perform in South Africa under apartheid, and you give this speech about how if you didn’t play anywhere with racism you wouldn’t be able to play in the American South or Boston. You also take shots at Ronald Reagan and Rupert Murdoch. As a popular performer, was there a cost to speaking out?

I never talked onstage for about fifteen years. But there were certain causes that we as a musical community united against, and one of them was nuclear power. We did a lot of No Nukes concerts—James Taylor, me, Jackson Browne, Bonnie Raitt—and if it was a particular cause that I was in favor of. I did what I could to help, but I don’t think my focus was particularly political. If somebody asked, I was perfectly happy to give my opinion.

I also found a clip from 1995 where you confronted Robin Quivers, Howard Stern’s co-host, on the “Tonight Show” about her association with Stern. Do you remember what upset you so much?

Well, first of all, I never heard Howard Stern on the radio. I had no idea who he was. I didn’t have a television. I didn’t know who Robin Quivers was. But it had just been on the news that day, what he had said about—oh, the girl singer.

Selena? He said “Spanish people have the worst taste in music” and played her music with gunshots in the background.

Selena, yeah. And it just offended me. As a Mexican-American, it just offended me that he would say such a horrible thing about someone’s dead daughter. I didn’t realize that Howard Stern made a career out of making unfortunate remarks about other people. And I didn’t know what Robin Quivers was like. I didn’t know anything about it. I just went, “Hey, that really offended me.” It made me angry. I didn’t realize what kind of a hornets’ nest I’d stepped into.

Did you get any reaction from him after that?

Oh, yeah. He said horrible things about me.

Going back to your performing career, in the documentary, your former manager Peter Asher says that you would see people whispering at your concerts and imagine that they were saying, “She’s the worst singer I’ve ever heard.” Were you really that insecure?

I just didn’t feel like I could quite sing well enough. It was best when I forgot about everything and just thought about the music, but it took me a long time to get there. I didn’t want to see people that I knew in the audience. I didn’t like to see the audience, actually. I couldn’t understand why they’d come. It’s a different relationship than singers like Taylor Swift have. I think it’s a little bit healthier that they embrace their audience and sort of feel like everybody’s on the same team. We were encouraged in the sixties to think of us and them. The hippies started that whole tribal thing, and it was the straights against the hippies. It was unhealthy.

How did you overcome your self-doubt?

I’d just say, “Breathe and sing.” As long as I pulled my focus back to the music, I was fine.

Your relationship with Jerry Brown is covered in the documentary and in your book, but not your relationships with some other prominent people, like Jim Carrey and George Lucas. Is there a reason for that?

I was writing about the music. They didn’t have anything to do with my musical process.

What did Jerry Brown contribute to your musical process?

Well, he was there when Joe Papp [the founder of the Public Theatre and Shakespeare in the Park] called saying that they wanted me for “H.M.S. Pinafore.”. But Jerry [gave me the message] wrong—it was actually “The Pirates of Penzance,” which I didn’t know.

Do you keep in touch with him?

Yeah. We’re friends. We’ve always been friends. He came over last Christmas.

What do you talk about?

Water in California. He said when he retires he wants to study trees and California Indians. I gave him my tree book, “The Hidden Life of Trees.” There’s a new history of water use in California that’s fantastic. It’s called “The Dreamt Land.” It’s like John McPhee-level writing. It’s really worth it for the writing alone.

The press always made such a big deal about the fact that you never got married.

I didn’t need to get married. I’m not sure that anybody needs to get married. If they do, I’m on their side. But I never needed to get married. I had my own life.

I have to admit, I was born in the eighties and I discovered you through “The Muppet Show.” What can you tell me about working with Kermit?

I had a crush on Kermit, so it was a problem because of Miss Piggy. He was her property. But we had a really good time on that show. There’s something extraordinarily creative about puppeteers. They’re fascinating, because when they do all their acting, they can’t let it go through their own body. I think they’re just loaded with talent. I loved watching them. It was a very coöperative experience. They let me help them with the story and the songs.

What was your contribution to the story?

This crush that I had on Kermit, they developed into a little storyline where Miss Piggy and I have a confrontation.

She seems like a very formidable rival.

She was. She was nasty! She locked Kermit in a trunk.

Because you’re a singer but not a songwriter, so much of your artistic expression comes through your choice of material. How did you choose songs for “Heart Like a Wheel,” including the title song by Anna and Kate McGarrigle?

I was just ambushed by that song. I was riding with Jerry Jeff Walker in a cab, and he said, “I was at the Philadelphia Folk Festival and I heard these two girls singing—they were sisters. They sang a really good song. You should hear it.” He sang me the first verse—“Some say the heart is just like a wheel / When you bend it, you can’t mend it / But my love for you is like a sinking ship / And my heart is on that ship out in mid-ocean”—and I just thought they were the most beautiful lyrics I’d ever heard. I said, “You have to send me that song.” And I get this tape in the mail, reel to reel, with just piano and a cello and the two girls singing their beautiful harmonies. The manager I had at the time said it was too corny. Somebody said it would never be a hit. And I don’t think it was ever a radio single, but it was a huge song for me. I sang it all the way through my career.

Were you surprised by the songs from that album that became hits?

I was surprised anything of mine was successful, because it always seemed so hodge-podge. I just tried different songs that didn’t necessarily have anything to do with each other, but which expressed a real urgent feeling that I just had to express. “You’re No Good” was an afterthought. We needed to have an uptempo song to close the show with, and that was a song I knew from the radio.

What were the biggest challenges in becoming a public figure?

Not having the ability to observe other people, because people are observing you. I had to keep my head down all the time. It was kind of excruciating. I still feel that way. I don’t like to be on the spot. Also, relationships were hard, because I was always on the bus.

In an interview from 1977, you said, “I think men have generally treated me badly, and the idea of a war between the sexes is very real in our culture. In the media, women are built up with sex as a weapon and men are threatened by it as much as they are drawn to it, and they retaliate as hard as they can.” Do you remember what you were talking about?

No, I don’t! I have to say that when I look at my whole career, over all, what counted the most was whether you showed up and played the music. I saw it happen with Emmylou, and I saw it happen with Joni Mitchell. Joni Mitchell was threatening to everybody. She could play better. She could sing better. She looked better. She could just do it all. But it’s true, there was a certain amount of chauvinism.There weren’t a lot of girls in the business who were doing what I was doing, so my friendship with Emmylou Harris became so important.

Did you find that there were things that were harder for you as a woman than for your male contemporaries?

Well, I had to do makeup and hair. That’s a lot, because that’s two hours of the day that you could spend reading a book or learning a language or practicing guitar. Guys just shower and put on any old clothes. And then there were high heels. I have extra ankle bones in each foot, and high heels were agonizing. I used to wear them onstage, kick them off, hide my feet behind the monitors, and find my shoes again before I had to leave the stage.

At the height of your rock-and-roll fame, you decided to do Gilbert and Sullivan. What drew you to that?

My sister, when she was eleven and I was six, I guess, sang “H.M.S. Pinafore” in her junior high school. My mother had a book of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas on piano, and somehow I learned the songs. I heard my sister practicing them. So, when I heard of “The Pirates of Penzance,” I knew what Gilbert and Sullivan was.

Was part of you tired of being a rock star?

Part of me was very tired of it. I was singing loud in halls that didn’t sound like they were built for music. I liked the idea of a proscenium stage. I think a proscenium has a lot to do with focussing your attention. A theatre is a machine built to focus your attention and allow you to dream. You’re hypnotized, in a way, and the person onstage is your champion, is telling your story. You find emotions you didn’t realize you had.

Throughout the eighties, you experimented wildly with genre, everything from Puccini to the Great American Songbook to Mexican canciones. I’m sure your record label was surprised when you said, “I want to make an album of Mexican folk music.”

Well, before that, I wanted to do American standard songs, and they said, “No, it won’t work.” In fact, Joe Smith [the chairman of Elektra/Asylum Records] even came to my house to beg me not to do it. He said, “You’re throwing your career away.” I’d been away so long working on Broadway.

Were you worried that your fans wouldn’t go along with the standards, either?

I didn’t worry about it until after we made the record [“What’s New”] and we were opening at Radio City Music Hall. And I realized, all of a sudden, people might not show up. They really might hate it. I was ordering matzo-ball soup from the Carnegie Deli next door, and it gave me the shakes so bad that I could barely stand when I got onstage. I was holding hands with Nelson Riddle in the wings—he was nervous, too. He said, “Don’t let me down, baby.” I said, “I’ll do my best.” He was the best of those arrangers—worked with Rosemary Clooney and Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald. He wrote beautiful charts for me. I was really lucky to have him. I went back to my apartment that night and just smiled, because we had gotten away with an evening of American standard songs.

When I see something now like Lady Gaga recording a standards album with Tony Bennett, it seems like she owes you a debt.

Well, she owes me nothing. She’s got enough talent to make it on her own. But, up until then, attempts by female pop artists to go back and do standards had not been successful. And Joan Baez had tried to record in Spanish, and that didn’t work. It depends on what the audience is expecting of you. When I did Mexican songs, I brought in a whole new audience. I played the same venues, but it was grandmothers and grandchildren. People brought their kids. And the standards audience was older—they were in their fifties and sixties, which seemed impossibly old to me at the time.

Is it true that you recorded “Canciones de Mi Padre” at George Lucas’s recording studio, Skywalker Sound?

The second album, “Mas Canciones.” I chose it because they have a big scoring stage. It has good acoustics that you can tune with the wooden panels on the side. There was a lot of room ambience. Mariachi’s a folk orchestra, and it was a good orchestra sound. It’s hard to find.

You also collaborated with Emmylou Harris and Dolly Parton. Do you keep in touch with them?

Emmy comes out to Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, which is a bluegrass festival here in San Francisco, so I see her about once a year. She comes over to my house. We used to sing together. Now she brings her laundry and we talk. When you’re on the road, you always have extra laundry.

Have you kept up with Dolly?

Emmy and I presented her an award recently, and I hadn’t seen her in a while. I don’t think she realized I’m as disabled as I am. She threw her arms around me, and I kept saying, “Dolly, watch out! You’re going to knock me down!” She thought I was kidding. I nearly fell down. I grabbed onto the podium that her award was on and knocked it to the ground. It was made out of glass and it broke. “Congratulations, here’s your award—smash! You get to take the pieces home.”

If you could wave a magic wand and record one more album, what would be on it?

It would be an eclectic mix. There’s a song called “I Still Have That Other Girl,” written by Elvis Costello and Burt Bacharach, that I always wanted to record. And there’s a Mexican song called “Paloma Negra” I always wanted to record. I’d record all those songs that I didn’t get around to.

THANKS TO MIHCAEL SCHULMAN AND NEWYORKER.COM FOR THE ARTICLE.

[humansofoz]

HoOZ- October 10th, 2017

“If you don’t get lost, there’s a chance you may never be found.”                  - Anonymous

Nadira Persaud. 20. SUNY Oswego Junior

HoOZ- “Can you recall the saddest day of your life?”

Nadira- “I would say the saddest day of my life would be when I had to go back home to Guyana. My father could not afford to keep us in the United States, we were living in a shelter at the time and so with the help of his eldest brother he was able to rack up enough money to buy three tickets for my brother, sister and I and fly us back to Guyana. We stayed here for about three or four years and in that time, I spoke to him maybe two or three times, once on my birthday and once on my sisters. I spent most of my time with my Grandfather because my mother spent her time working to support the four of us. So, I would say the saddest day would be leaving my father behind in the united states and thinking I would never see him again, that my family was torn apart forever.”

HoOZ- “What was it like living in a shelter at such a young age?”

Nadira- “I don’t remember much but from the stories I was told and what I could remember, my father wouldn’t sleep the nights we spent there. He would stay up countless night just trying to make sure there wouldn’t be bugs and cockroaches crawling on us. If we didn’t eat that day we might get McDonald’s and my father would give us a set of lines to tell teachers for why we would be in the same clothes or why, the only times we had food it would be McDonald’s. So, it was a very traumatizing situation, I can never forget that exact shelter that I was in.”

HoOZ- “What would you say was the happiest day of your life?”

Nadira-  “Heh, that’s a hard one. I would say it was probably the day my brother graduate college. This was the first time I felt I saw my mother truly happy, the first time she had tears in her eyes that weren’t from sadness. It was an accomplishment for my family, to go from being a family that wasn’t even sure we could stay in the united states to having my older sibling graduate with a bachelor’s degree and be the first person in both my parent’s families to attend college. I was extremely proud of my older brother for doing what people said he couldn’t do because he didn’t know how to read and write, he showed them that they were wrong and he is my inspiration.”

HoOZ- “What was the rest of your childhood like?”

Nadira- “My childhood was very different, we didn’t stay in the US until I was around 7-9, we moved around a lot from Queens to Brooklyn and back and forth. I was fortunate though to have my older siblings to keep me grounded and protect me from the reality of what was going on. There were times where we couldn’t pay rent and days when my parents didn’t eat because they fed us instead and it was an eye-opening experience for me to discover what life was really like for my siblings that always kept me sheltered.

HoOZ- “Can you share with us how life was for you as you grew older, when you were in high school?”

Nadira- “In High school I was a very quiet and reserved person, I would stick to myself and I was afraid of talking to people because they might have thought I was weird. I was just afraid of expressing who I was.”

HoOZ- “Did you deal with any depression or internalized issues?”

Nadira- “Not so much depression but I did struggle with a lot of self-hate. I am dyslexic and I have ADD so I felt as though I was dumb because I wasn’t grasping the material the same way everyone else was. They would make me take another class separate from everyone else that was a research type of room and I had to take it because the school decided I didn’t speak proper English. I just went through a period where I didn’t like who I was and didn’t feel comfortable being me.”

HoOZ- “Would you say this was your greatest struggle in high school?”

Nadira- “Yes, learning and accepting who I was would be the greatest struggle of that time”

HoOZ- “Did you ever seek out any help or try to figure out who you were on your own?”

Nadira “I didn’t look for professional help, I would just get advice from my sister and it wasn’t very helpful but it was what I had at the time. It was mostly when I got to college that I found myself, I made friends that showed me that I was just better off being myself and they would push me to step out of my boundaries and whether they were bad or good they were there for me.”

HoOZ- “Is there anything you are still dealing with that you have been working on since you were younger?”

Nadira- “I am still dealing with accepting myself, I am still learning to understand and accept that I am who I am and that nothing will change that. I am still learning to show those around me who I am, I feel like I only show myself to a small sect of people who see me and speak to me almost every day of my life.”

HoOZ- “Let’s fast forward a bit, where do you see yourself in ten years?”

Nadira-  “Wow, in ten years, I see myself hopefully living on my own, working in a lab where I get to learn more about the criminal mind and criminal justice system. I would like to be in Forensic science so I would really like to delve into the science aspect of the criminal justice system.”

HoOZ- “What would you like to tell the future version of yourself?”

Nadira- “I would tell them, whatever point of life they are at, that I believe in them and we can achieve anything.”

[throwinggrapesoffthebalcony]

preface to PARIS GUILT

Most of my works were written to escape the realities that exist in life, realities that always hurt more than the abstraction of those realities. Literature’s a craft, nautical in nature, a method of escape. It’s easy not to shed a tear writing novels, creating distance between myself and the work. Not so easy when writing about the dry lucid heat of life and what had me wanting to write the novel in the first place, a task that engulfs so many hours of life. This preface concerns the writing of Paris Guilt, written in D.C. and placed in Paris, where it felt easier to express it. It was years before and the outer shell of the matryoshka doll was her son. I remember meeting Ivan in Texas. A tall good looking boy. My best friend growing up had met him in D.C. and Ivan came to visit. I’m pretty sure it was during the summertime. Strangely he was quickly one of the closest friends in my life. He liked Texas a lot, so he decided to move there. I was living with my girlfriend in Austin at the time and was keeping an extra room with Ann and David, two that I’d known from high school in Corpus. I’d agreed to rent a room in the house they’d been renting in Hyde Park because Kelly and I weren’t getting along and the fights were agonizing. Kelly and I’d been together so long I think we were more friends than lovers at that point. Then we were getting along again, so because I was rarely there at the house Ivan took the room, on the condition that when and if I wanted the room back he would find another place. It was a wonderful time, a wonderful summer. Jake was bartending at some place that had opened up called Cedar Street. It was a martini bar and being someone who grew up with all the run of the mill beer, whiskey, cheap wine, etc. it was like walking down into a garden of spirits. And when you’re poor, having a best friend bartending isn’t the worst thing that can happen. I had no real job, I was working for Greenpeace at the time. But going down into that martini bar was a chance to feel sophisticated, and the live music there was a blast. When the time came and I wanted my room back Ivan refused to vacate. We had a huge fight over it. We could fight like dogs and just as fast have a drink and be friends again. My favor had somehow become a democracy, and he won the consensus. I think he’d been romancing Ann, not sure, but that’s what it seemed like. What the hell, it was a mixed blessing, I wanted to get out of Austin anyway, and the weather’s always nice in California. I loved it there, so when I was sure that Kelly and I were through, it wasn’t hard for me to leave. Ellis was there, another close friend growing up, and was telling me over the phone to hurry up and get the hell out there. I sold my 70’ dodge dart swinger to a guy that lived down the street who couldn’t believe how cheaply I was selling it, and he still talked me down a hundred dollars. I was anxious to leave, just another chapter in Black Holes and Revelations; my child, ink, between the pages of spiral notebooks. And I hid my indiscretions, like a child myself. There was a lot I couldn’t tell Kelly about. I think she would have understood, but at the time I didn’t think so.

Some years later, at another point of disenchantment, I think 1997 or so, I decided to head to D.C. Jake was there at the time and I thought it would be nice to run around with someone I could trust for a while. LA’s always a metaphysical deathtrap and I hadn’t become numb to it yet. Every weird happening was still like a shock to my system, and D.C. felt as faraway as I could get from it. Jake was at his family’s house in the Palisades right along Battery Kemble Park that’s like a forest. What a beautiful place, definitely a breather from a Los Angeles apartment, but of course there would be weather, real weather, but I’d arrived in time for the cherry blossoms. A high screened-in patio, great coffee, and gin and tonics. It was one of those moments when you set your work out and the birds are twittering and it’s all peace and quiet and you think to yourself, if I can’t write here I can’t write anywhere. At the time I was pounding away on a little grey plastic apple laptop that I’d bought in Los Angeles, that had felt so futuristic compared to a typewriter or handwriting. It was my first laptop and I’d already spent a lot of hours on it and it felt like as great an instrument as the pen itself. I disappeared into that first afternoon clicking away. Some days later I met Deborah, a beautiful redhead that worked at a flower shop close by and I thought I was in heaven. She had this mentality that had me kicking myself for not being as spontaneous as I could have been. I’d told her that I’d wanted to lock the door of that flower shop and make love to her that afternoon that I’d wandered in and found her there arranging flowers by herself. She asked why I didn’t, as if she were disappointed. And it’s like a cold sweat in the middle of a warm afternoon. And amongst the smell of cut roses, would have been memorable. And it wouldn’t be the same if we planned it. So I was just getting settled in and the regrets were already piling up. That was one kind of love; natural, youth on youth. Ivan’s mother was a different story, in fact a kind of love, a variety of love that I would experience for the very first time, one of companionship and intellect. I hadn’t met Alona yet. But Ivan was coming for a visit and a dinner was already planned. His grandparents and mother lived just outside of D.C. in Virginia. I’d already heard the names of all the Russian dishes. I thought I was headed for just another life experience, but the Russians know how to do two things very well, love, and suffer.

I was curious to meet Ivan’s grandfather who was a famous Novelist, Vasily. He’d written a novel called The Burn. I thought it would be a privilege to have a talk with him about the craft and the works he’d accomplished and what I was hoping for myself, already referring to myself as a novelist. He spoke nothing of the craft to me. He already had that look on his face, that I’ve since had on my face. Disgusted by the weight of all the hours. And I don’t think there’s a novelist alive that actually takes another human being seriously as a novelist. It veers so far from the surface that I think there’s very little to speak about. Every novel is unique and so personal that it just leads to the silence of someone reading it. Alona, for me was the main attraction. I’d had borscht before, but not like that. And vodka had always agreed with my blood, so that was nice. Right away I knew we were going to be friends. That it wasn’t going to be dinner and then back into the beltway. We were all there, but I felt like I’d spent that evening with her. I didn’t dare say how I left the house feeling that night. I didn’t want to hear what Ivan would have to say about me being attracted to his mother, regardless of the reasons why. And I’m sure he would have cursed me in that mix of Russian and English and laughed. Vanya. I don’t know if he and Jake even knew that I was capable of loving an older woman. I was a strange boy just beneath the skin, and she knew it. She knew I wasn’t out of my element and only a few people I’ve met in my life had ever understood that so quickly. I lived in the filth and squalor of preconceived ideas, misperceptions, and underestimations. Maybe I didn’t mind it. Low exceptions can sometimes be freedom. To know her was more than what I wanted, it was what I needed, to evolve in this craft that I loved. Our conversations put my thoughts into perspective. You don’t know if what you’re thinking about literature and how it pertains to life is even valid until you speak to someone who has experience and a love of those same interests. It’s like speaking a language and you can’t speak it until you’re with someone else who speaks that same language. And then it’s just like an open window. Then it’s just like a glass of vodka. Then it’s just like wanting someone who you need.

And because of her experience I was nervous about her seeing my work. I wasn’t just shopping it around, throwing it to the breeze. I’d be putting myself beneath the eyes of a woman who read professionally. Not only for enjoyment, but also as a reader for Vasily and other authors, authors on the world stage. So I knew her comments and criticisms would be the most constructive criticisms that I’d ever had. I was anxious for that, but at the same time afraid of it. Of what she might say. Our phone calls would stretch into hours sometimes. Jake was like a brother to me, so it was nice to have Alona as a friend, someone I could talk to. I was living this vital life. D.C.’s a beautiful place full of fun spots, but I couldn’t wait to see her again. And just meeting her had already caused me to pay closer attention to my work, now there being a deadline a reason and goal. Meeting her caused me to slow down, to refine, to polish, to try and get her something that could be bound and printed. And it was amazing how when trying to polish one of my pieces, how easy it was to overlook mistakes. And that’s the most tedious stage of writing for me, the last few passes, when having to look at it closely, while considering what I’m trying to say more carefully and clearly. And in my opinion, a novel is never finished. It’s never like finishing a song or placing a period at the end of a sentence. I can never say, okay, this is perfect. And that’s possibly due to the enormity of the process, or that every one of my novels or novellas is my life. I could never call Paris Guilt, finished, because I don’t even know if she’s still living, and afraid to know. So my life lives in me, unfinished, until I’m dead. 

Deborah lived in Georgetown, but had met some woman at the flower shop and was house sitting for her, or maybe it was the woman who owned the flower shop, I can’t remember. The house was in the Palisades on the other side of the park close to the river, not far from the flower shop. She impressed me one night with candles and a bath. And I was really amazed that she’d taken the time to do that. She was creative, she arranged flowers after all, so she was that type of girl. And she expected the same. I remember her being upset one evening when after spending time with her on the patio I didn’t walk her to her car that was parked a little further down the street. She’d parked there just to make sure Jake’s grandmother wasn’t waken up. I thought it was ridiculous how upset she’d become, but I loved it at the same time, it was a measure of love to me, as well as an indication of what a gentleman I wasn’t at times. She had this friend Kat, that she lived with, and a little friend, Frannie, Francesca, this young hairstylist from Italy, who I ended up playing tennis with. Deborah had a get together at that house she was sitting. We sat outside to eat and drink wine, talking about music and life that evening. Frannie liked that I liked Laura Pausini, but mentioned that it was sad that I didn’t understand all of her lyrics, because I wasn’t fluent in Italian. I didn’t say anything, just watched her go back into the house. Girls can try to make you want them, even with a slight.

Alona and I finally arranged a time for her to pick me up at the train station in Virginia. If I was super early I could always call her from one of the pay phones there. She said she was pleasantly surprised when she saw my work. They had connections in New York and I was on my way and we even talked about going to France, where they had another house on the Atlantic in a little seaside town called Biarritz, and we could stay there and I could write. The pictures of the place were beautiful. I’d grown up on the water and it would have been perfect, and I thought from there, I could explore Europe. We had these conversations that were vital, horrible, lovely, but always conversations. In-depth, meaningful conversations. She’d read most of the authors that I loved and turned me on to others that she thought I should read. I remember her giving me a few books by Iris Murdoch, I hadn’t read her books yet. She was pulling them from the literature that they had there at the house. The conversations about novels with her were as wonderful as the novels themselves. The way she’d describe the styles of writing helped me understand my own way of writing, understand what I was doing. She said these things to me that made sense of what I only had a vague sense of before, unable to define what I was trying to do with certain techniques and methods, finding my way naturally. And because of my temperament, I wouldn’t be able to show her works that I’d spent the most time on. How to Grow Roses, was this hateful book at the time, about not being allowed, regardless of talent. The knife is not like a kind hand slowly closing off the air supply. You can’t cut through paper with the strokes of a ball point pen and expect it to be published that way, with the way that you really feel. Reality is unpublishable. So instead I found myself reading her something from Head Amongst the Flowers, this piece that I’d kept trying to turn into an epic novel but that had kept falling apart on me, into a novella or just a short story. And there was something that she said to me that made perfect sense of that. And that was there being the necessity or the importance to hold the thread. And when she said that, it was so clear, so perfect. That’s the feeling I was having with that work, there being this delicate thread that couldn’t survive the entire novel. It was a metaphor that suggested patience and that a novel could never be forced. Maybe it was my trying to write about a wealthy world in a place I’d read about as a kid. It was romantic and then I wanted to tear it apart with the human condition, psychology, love, the flesh, the abstraction that I’m prone to at times.

Eventually when speaking more freely and openly about our feelings, Alona was polite when she understood what my mentality was like concerning this world. She was disappointed but polite, especially concerning what I had to say about Los Angeles. We’d drink together and being lubricated, I’d say these hateful, terrible things. She was from another world, a serious, heavy, historical world, bestrewn with immense human tragedy. She attributed my way of seeing to youth, to a lack of experience, etc. etc. The word fascism to her was a bitter pill. I loved that she wasn’t the type to just turn to aversion. She grabbed me and wanted to shake my way of thinking out of me. She didn’t want me to be a Nazi, she would say, in her Russian accent. She wanted to confront me, she wanted to save me. But like every young man my way of thinking was hard and true. I’d already seen how the world worked in certain respects that had given rise and validation to my acidic way of thinking. I think she still loved me, even while I wasn’t of the same mindset as her son. He had a more beautiful take on the world. We enjoyed this life just as much, but Ivan and I had such a different perspective on poetry. He believed in poetry. And so did I really, only I called it language or the distillation of something, not as pretty. I shied away from that word poetry. In my opinion, when you called it poetry it was an attempt to elevate, to artificially heighten the sense of what was written. Calling something poetry to me was like wanting some line of words to take flight. Get that word poetry out of my fucking face. Ivan’s hand reaching and playfully messing with me, knocking it away while trying to take a drink. What happened to make you not want to live so much? Was that poetry to you?

If we were there at the house, Jake’s grandmother would expect us on the patio at a certain hour in the early evening for gin and tonics and cheese and cracker plates. The patio was spacious, the size of a living room with couches and all. Jake would whine about it but I would actually look forward to it. He’d become tired of the routine over the years, while it was new and exciting to me. Gin has its own unique buzz and the early evenings, before dark, were breezy and warm. It was the kind of routine that I could easily get used to. So for an hour or two Jake, Jakes dad J.R., and his grandmother and I would sit out on the patio and talk about life and politics. She’d lived a traditional and prominent life and wanted to keep that going, even in modern times, and I had a lot of respect for that.

Deborah was a free spirit and I could never pin her down on a moment when I could call her my girlfriend. She was at Georgetown and college is college. I don’t know if every beautiful girl knows she’s beautiful. But she was the kind of girl you could say, was beautiful and knew it.

Ivan came back into town during that summer. I made a point of not telling him that I was giving one of my novels to his mother to try to move myself up in the world. I could predict the comment. If she’d already told him about her helping me along with my aspirations, he never mentioned it. We drank for a while and then went to the mall to watch the fourth of July fireworks, just in time. The whole scene, the trees, the park, the monuments, the people, were already lit with the array of the fireworks. I could tell he seemed different that entire evening. He wan’t himself. He was never the type to cut the evening short, ever. I don’t think the three of us had ever gotten home before two o’clock in the morning when going out. After the fireworks display we were walking amongst the departing crowds. Ivan was yelling something about no tax without representation. But when we started talking about what bar we were heading to, he let Jake and I know that he was getting on the subway and heading back out to Virginia. What the hell are you talking about? He didn’t even want to argue with us or explain himself.

I cut through the woods to get to the flower shop on this bright afternoon. I got close and I saw they had customers and didn’t want to disturb her while she was busy at work. I would never find her there again alone. I was always hoping I could have that afternoon back. But real life isn’t literature where we can correct mistakes or missed opportunities. I knew there was something she wasn’t telling me that was holding her back. I would have liked her as a steady girlfriend.

I remember getting back to the house one afternoon, when Jake’s grandmother had received the call and she informed us of the accident. Ivan had fallen from the roof of his apartment building in San Francisco the night before. We couldn’t believe it. During our first drink over the matter, we debated whether he could have actually jumped or if it had been an accident of some kind. Maybe he was balancing along the edge of the wall, like a young man in a drunken mood might do. We went over the possible scenarios, including foul play. You never know. It doesn’t matter why, he’s gone, was the conclusion. But the look on his face and the way he was acting the last time we saw him, made me think it was suicide. Supposedly, a couple of girls he knew were over him while he was still breathing his last breaths while trying to speak to them. Jake had spoken to a few people on the phone, some friends of his there, and it was said that what he was saying to the girls was, to let him die.

For Alona it wasn’t a turning point, it was her own death, a before and after who she was, what she looked like, what she sounded like, what she felt like. I was hesitant to see her. I knew she’d be different. I’d already heard her voice on the phone and I knew we wouldn’t converse in the same way ever again. She wanted me to write something for the wake. I knew he always held a secret contempt for me. And I’d thought his suicide was such a selfish act, that now I held a secret contempt for him.

I think a year had already passed since I’d arrived and Jake’s grandmother had given subtle hints as to her wanting us out of the house. The hours we kept were erratic and she’d always wake up when we’d come home late, and insisted on getting up herself and going about the house. Jake agreed to share a place with me that I found on Connecticut Avenue in Van Ness, and so we found ourselves in that neighborhood, which I thought was wonderful. It was right near Politics and Prose, and spending time in bookstores was high on my list of things to do. I would miss the house of course. It’s a gift to live like that. I’d have to find a new writing place. That expansive patio, high up in nature was nice, and had spoiled me.

And of course Alona was going to be obsessed with her son’s death. That was to be expected. She wanted me to tell her everything about every moment I knew him. She just wanted to hear as much about him as she could. Funny moments, furious moments, everything, anything he might have said. Please, you have to remember, she begged me, what did he say, exactly. I couldn’t tell her what he would have thought about anything or what he would have become if he’d lived. She was still in shock, asking me things I couldn’t possibly answer, at times forgetting that I wasn’t Ivan. She would laugh but they were absentminded laughs. Just skin deep over what was really turning in her head, ceaselessly turning in her heart and head. Every moment for her became a challenge to find some way to escape the suffering. The Russian water of life wasn’t enough to cure the pain she was experiencing. It was sinking in and she was every bit connected to a boy who’d passed away. Sometimes she seemed dissolved into that afterlife looking for him and at other times like she’d hit a wall, completely forbidden, curled up against a gravestone. I didn’t even mention my writing again. And anyway, I was already filling my journals with the life I was currently living, not forgetting that I needed to leave room for the reader. That advice really freed me up. I remember spending so much time on description before. And after she’d said that to me, I felt like I had permission never to have to describe anything ever again. The reader falling between the lines doesn’t necessarily mean that all is lost. A story can mean something different to a million different people, and that can be even more beautiful, than a story perfectly conveyed, and that was beautiful to me. I’d written for so many years before, but sitting with her I finally felt like I was part of the literary world. It was so sad to watch what was happening to her. She’d lost her zeal for just about anything she spoke about, unless it was about Ivan.  

You couldn’t watch Alona suffer. You couldn’t stay removed from it, her suffering was so potent. I could feel it radiating from her body, with the sun in her eyes. If she was drowning in the unseen then so was I. Our screaming voices, turning into something beautiful. Conversations in a trance, speaking so calmly all of a sudden, about something from our past that we remembered in finite detail. We took turns dwelling in those moments. Like the sex of words and memory. The smell of some girls sweater. The shape of her beneath. My lost love was petty to hers. I knew that. But she allowed me to suffer with her, to acclimate to her suffering, to live in the weather of her world. The advice she was giving me was as if to save her very own son. Move on, if the girl didn’t love you then she’ll never love you. She’d say Vanya, and I wouldn’t say anything. And even while she was trying to save me, her suffering was exacerbating my own misery. I felt this immediacy after one of our conversations to call Jill, trying to convince her to move to D.C. I felt at the time I could make a move into a more professional life and live properly with her and our son. It’s much more accessible in D.C. or at least it seemed like it was, compared to the counterfeit place like Los Angeles, where a straight man has no chance. The misfortune of living in this ephemeral era, with their spandex safety net and pastel tribal mentalities. She wouldn’t interrupt me. She wanted to understand me. I’d had the patience to try to understand her. But it was very easy to understand, that she’d lost her son and was dying of it, surely dying of it. She loved and hated me. Why couldn’t I have been like Ivan, or one of his sweet little friends. I didn’t want to say it, but I was thinking about how afraid they’d be of a woman suffering like this. Her suffering was the most beautiful, horrible, dirty experience I’d ever had. Not dirty in the typical sense, dirty in a mental sense, in a disturbing truthful sense, that caused me to think more deeply about the human being. It wasn’t poetry, or for anyone with the love of poetry. It wasn’t an experience with a neat bow wrapped around it that would leave you unaffected. The sound of her voice, her strong hot hands grabbing onto me, not wanting to fall completely into hell, wanting to hold herself in life, not seeing anything in life to stay for. Her reading chair seemed like the only safe place that she had, not the flesh of an imperfect world. She was reading as much as she could to rest her mind in those passages. Fantasy to keep from thinking about her own circumstance. Reading as a means of escape, a way to stay alive. Alona was a beautiful woman and I couldn’t believe how fast and how drastically what had happened was changing her. Sick of me, or human of me, to consider how desirable a woman is while she’s suffering like that, wanting her to keep her figure. Suffering from the inside out, from the outside in, I don’t know where that pain truly laid in her, whether in the spirit or in the body itself. Just as I couldn’t tell at a certain point, whether all the vodka she was drinking was killing her or keeping her alive.

I’d waited on a woman one night, who lived right down the block from the restaurant I was working at. She had this apartment, something larger than an apartment, you couldn’t call it an apartment, with large paintings resting against the wall. I was laying there in the morning as the sun was just rising in the french doors open to the balustrade. It felt like another place. She was laying on the bed falling to sleep. Who was this woman, maybe in her late thirties to early forties, and how did she end up living like this. She asked if I would want to see her again. I wasn’t sure. I started my walk, down the street, over the bridge into Woodley Park and then down Connecticut avenue.

There was this girl on my mind and as I got into Van Ness I was hoping to see her walking along the sidewalk like I would at times, maybe heading to work. I’d already told Alona about her, Anna was Russian too. She was young and smart, worked for the IMF, and was blessed with an exquisite beauty. I remember when I first saw her, it was in Giants grocery store, when after I’d done all my shopping I walked along the isles looking for her. I’d asked her if I could walk with her and found she lived in the building right next to mine. I wanted to believe that it was some kind of a sign. So close but so far, I knew the feeling. There were times when I’d see her walking blocks up in the heat of the summer and I’d sprint to catch up to her, in hopes of just saying hello. Oh no, here he comes again, she must have thought as I caught up with her, wiping the sweat from my forehead and upper lip. She was always very cautious, but would still talk to me. And I suppose a man like myself had every bell and whistle and red flag going off in her head. As the months went on I’d run into her on several occasions, and felt like I’d already fallen in love with her pretty much. She was that pretty. There was an evening when heading back to my apartment one late afternoon when I passed a schoolyard playground. I saw her there and went over to talk to her, and that’s when I found out why she’d been so careful about me. She was looking out for someone besides herself. The glamorous life that I’d previously imagined her having, dinner with diplomats, champagne corporate parties, did indeed evaporate, opening up numerous more profound dimensions. She pointed her daughter out to me. She was up on the deck of a slide. She’d stopped what she was doing and was looking over at us. She was blessed with the same natural beauty that her mother possessed. We spoke and I watched as she bolted off occasionally to run after Barbara, tying to keep the active little girl contained, as she went this way and that with the energy of a firecracker. At one point, she was teetering dangerously at the top of the slide, where she’d dragged her scooter up and was going to attempt to ride it down the slide. It would have been an impossible feat. Anna and I ran over to catch her before the little girl plummeted to what would have been numerous scrapes and bruises. At another moment, when Barbara had abandoned her scooter further away on the blacktop, Anna went over and retrieved it, riding it back. Those two were a joy for me to spend time with that evening. Barbara stood just at the tips of my shoes, looking up at me, her face full of sweat, her hair slicked back. I did everything I could to keep from crying, over real life, real beauty, a mother and her daughter. And as the sun was going down, my own life began to settle on me. Come on, leave him alone honey, Anna said to her after she didn’t want to leave me, as they prepared to walk across the side street to their building. All the joys that I've missed in my life, while chasing plastic butterflies. I smoothed my hand over her hair. She stared up at me and smiled, the sweetest little smile, and asked if I could come home with them. I laughed about it, as did Anna. I would have in a second. Little Barbara even picked flowers for me. She held in the palm of her hand these tiny flowers and these tiny micro strawberries that she’d picked from among the blades of grass. When getting back up to the apartment I put them in a book to keep them as a memento and as a reminder of what true beauty really is. I pressed it closed, then I pressed my face into the pillow so my moans couldn’t be heard. I wept for the life that I couldn’t have, that I maybe would never have, while I fell off to sleep.

Alona thought that my love for Anna was ridiculous, that it was a convenient situation, one that I could just step into, to all of a sudden have two Russian dolls. Her second child could always be mine. Alona laughed at me. It was only the second time in my life that I had the feeling of wanting to propose with no questions asked, without knowing any more about the girl other than what I saw or felt, so quickly upon meeting. She told me to invite Anna to dinner so she could meet her and tell me what she thought. Maybe Anna would be impressed that I already had a love for Russia.

I think most writers probably one time or another have had a romantic notion about the process of writing. There’s nothing glamorous about it. The fakes, usually make an effort to look like Hemingway or to look like a writer. My obsession was never with the aesthetic, but with the location, places where I could disappear and write. The apartment on Connecticut avenue wasn’t such a place, and sometimes the why is mystifying. So the Library of Congress had become a nice routine. Not the typical place anyone goes to write novels, but it worked for me. The other place that I loved, that I’d get to once in a while was a bit of a journey away.    

It was called Le Refuge, a little French bread and breakfast way up, removed from the world. I’d board the Chinatown bus from D.C. to New York, then get on the six train, then on another bus from Pelham station, the headlights of the bus illuminating the small rusty bridge that crossed over a short span of water onto City Island. The bread and breakfast had the smell of an old place with a lot of history. I climbed up the wooden stairs inside the house, wondering if I should find the girl that stayed in the room downstairs and took care of the place, but I just found one of the rooms with the door slightly open. I opened the door and turned on the lights and there was no one there. It was nice that it overlooked the water. The bathroom was separate from the rooms, the kind of place that made me feel like I was living in the Tropic of Cancer, in better times of course. I walked to the end of the hall with the boards creaking under my feet and I sat in the bathtub. I ran the bath so hot it was nearly burning my feet. But I needed it that way, if the tub was going to stay hot for any length of time, and I just wanted to set my head back for a little while. I swirled the water around with my hands. It felt sinful every time I even had a thought about not being able to go and stay in France, or the literary career that had failed to materialize. The high expectations, diluted. I’d refused that path anyway, after she’d described the process of giving up the rights to my work, like signing my life away, and their being able to do whatever they wanted with my material after, even in bad taste.

I went to my room and stood before the mirror on the large black lacquer wardrobe. I was suffering emotionally at the time myself. Alona was a bad influence, it’s like two alcoholics together, twin flames, the room already heavy with the smell of Grand Marnier while looking out over the river through the tapestry of curtains. I looked over at my small grey apple laptop that was plugged in with blinking cursor ready to go, that grey brick that I'd already grown to love and hate so much. Like a tool, already worn down, used at trying to get to the middle of the meaning of life, of love, of death. A tool in the search for happiness, contentedness, peace. Another title, Paris Guilt, and the way I start every new novel, with the essence, in a stream of consciousness.

Breasts, mouth, skin, hair, eyes, ass, vagina, sweat, tears, disinfected from the inside out, pure, the smell of vodka

Fumes from the womb, the taste of the skin like the perfect taste of the skin

The spirit washing over, disconnecting from the body, then trying to disconnect from that

So difficult to keep the energy from becoming a mutual hell when in her presence

Suffering, a selfish indifferent erection, not wanting to penetrate a woman suffering so much, but wanting to cum into her so badly

The electricity of suffering, of still being desirable, in descent

Animals fallen from civilization, due to a tragedy, a real tragedy

A cut rose in vodka, life or death? Watching carefully for the wilting of the petals or some new vibrant color

From what point of view, from what perspective

Dropping an entire experience into water, crystalline, or a dream

Alona didn’t want to live anymore. She’d already tried it. I felt like it was just a matter of time. I went to the cemetery with her. She didn’t get out of the car. We just sat there. What does it matter. What does everything mean? Everything means everything. I’d never seen anyone dying that way while still fairly young from emotional pain. It was excruciating to even watch. Her mother and Vasily were also suffering over Ivan’s death, but her mother sounded as if she was staying strong in order to keep her daughter alive. Ivan was so pivotal in their lives. Expectations befallen. He was kind of what held them together. Their future was placed on him.

A German girl who’d known Ivan, who’d been his girlfriend, contacted Alona, and was also trying to help Alona survive. She was living in New York at the time and came down to stay in D.C. with Jake and I. She was an artist, we got along and began seeing each other. I’ve always detested when people get together over the death of someone else, and I always had that taste in my mouth when seeing her. Someone dies and it brings people together, it just seems so disingenuous of nature to work that way. The excuse of people to reach out to one another. Like life born from death, fresh flowers on the grave. But she was great for Alona. Alona needed a girl like that to spend some time with, who could possibly help her more with the healing process. Perhaps a woman knows more intrinsically what to say to another woman, I couldn’t reach her. I went and stayed with her for a few days up in Washington Heights. I was becoming more entertained with the idea of moving to New York at the time. We talked Alona into coming up for a visit during those days. She agreed, found a hotel, and her even feeling like taking that excursion gave us hope that she could someone how pull out of it. There was some miscommunication about where to meet her. I remember we took the train down and couldn’t find her and had to take the train all the way back up to Washington Heights to play the message she’d left on the answering machine. We left again, this time with clear instructions to meet her at the Russian Tea Room. She was waiting for us outside, she’d had her fill there and we ended up going to Greenwich Village. We walked a lot and she seemed better than I’d seen her since Ivan had passed away. She looked like she was finding some happiness recalling past moments there in New York. We finally ended up at a pastry shop having coffee somewhere along Houston. I saw her laugh and I actually thought that it had passed, the moment at least gave the impression that she was fine. Was it possible, like some new scene and that’s it, it’s over, she’s okay and off to the next stretch of life. It’s amazing how deceptive a moment, a new setting can be. She even looked happy, a woman who still had a girlish side to her, like when I met her. Alona was no longer Ivan’s mother to me. She was Alona, this woman that I knew and loved. In my opinion she should have stayed in New York. The energy there was so much better for her. But there was the house there in Virginia with her mother and Vasily that she had to return to.

There was this snowstorm that shut the city down for days, everything was closed in silence. I walked along the snowdrifts and the only place that was open was this Chinese restaurant across the street from Politics and Prose. They were staying there and serving anyone who might have made their way through the blizzard. I was the only one at the moment, sitting down to have my usual. I was thinking how much more enjoyable it would have been with Anna and Barbara there. They���re what I was dwelling on at the time. I’d always laughed when thinking about Barbara and her having that name. I’d always thought it was so purely a woman’s name. She’d have to grow into her name, though meanwhile it was so cute. If this was a novel, I would have made love to her and helped her raise her little girl. But this is the preface for a novel. I started seeing a girl who lived with her parents in Chevy Chase, and they had a first edition copy of Perfume on the bookshelf that I wanted. We took her father’s luxury car out one afternoon losing traction in the winter thaw. 

I don’t know what the cherry blossoms meant to Alona that springtime. The love of literature and the playfulness of words and the desire to paint a picture no longer existed. She was left with this denuded necessary language. The child in her, no longer there to run to those clichés. I wanted Alona back, the woman I’d first met, not these conversations that took our lives. Cherry blossoms. There’s nothing magical about this world.

 -Alan Augustine

Every pass I make on this preface sucks me deeper into the emotional circumstances of those years. Emotion leads to memory. I could go on, but I won’t, if only because I’m getting close to wanting to stay there with her.

[nicolawritesnovels]

A Success Story For 15 Year Old Me

There’s this notebook I have, and it’s barely even readable any more. It’s written in the most ridiculous way. The first line is written normally, in English, from left to right. The second line is right to left. It alternates throughout the whole notebook. The first three pages carry on like this, and seem to be ranting about the evils of religion.

The pages are numbered in Mandarin. I don’t speak Mandarin, and as far as I know, I only know the characters for the numbers. I used to use them on everything. 

The writing remains the same, but switches to a story I don’t recognize, with a character named Grant, I don’t remember creating. But the other names sound familiar. It keeps going with the story. In the margins, the characters from CSI are scrawled. 

Then a blank page, not numbered. In the top margin, it lists the characters from SVU. After, it continues like nothing happened. 

The pages after contain my complex plans to get a teacher fired for losing an assignment I never actually did. At some point, it changed the way it was writing. The pages don’t go from top to bottom anymore. The one on the left goes bottom to top, the first line reading from right to left, and the second line going from left to right. All the way up. The page on the right goes from top to bottom, the first line reading from right to left, the second line going from left to right. 

By page 14, the words aren’t all in English anymore. I see a few words in Hawai’ian, but I never actually spoke it, only glanced through a dictionary once or twice. More words come in Hawai’ian. I don’t know what they mean, but in parentheses after them it simply says “molasses. 

Then a poem. Right to left, then left to right, even though the lines don’t reach the edges of the page. It’s a poem about fire. I remember this poem, because it was the first one I ever wrote. But this wasn’t the time I wrote it. Then another. Someone named Hanna is sleeping. There’s a car crash. I can’t read all the words. There are arrows pointing to certain lines and I think that means something starts there. 

Stuffed in one of the pages is a paper on how to take care of flowers. 

Words jump out of the page. “Hollow bones crackling in the night”, “no, no, the nightmare’s just beginning”, “it was an accident”. I don’t remember this story. 

A line, the question, “doesn’t syringe rhyme with orange?”

“What would happen if you abducted an alien?”

it looks like notes, still written left to right, then right to left. the theories of causation. Monard theory. These are not written from school. 

a footnote in the margins, “I do not believe in god”. 

names, lists of names. kidnapping. this story, I remember. But not with these names. 

the lines going one way are in English, the lines going the other are in Hawai’ian. the only ones I can read make no sense “and a donkey”, “fear pants, and Republicans, and liver”

another poem, the same poem, “hollow bones, cackling in the wind” and upwards it goes.

molasses again. the whole page is in Hawai’ian now, except that. and the donkey. we’re at page 31. 

and then it’s poems again, Samanda, one I recognize, and it’s sequels. written in glaring red, bottom to top, right to left, then left to right. 

Glancing Looks. I know that one too. But it wasn’t written then. I was recording old poems, the ones I actually liked. 

and then a memory, one I’ve never been sure was real. it’s written all in english, as normal as anything is here. a girl in a white gown, sprawled on a bed. she may have been me. she may have been a dream. I’ll never know for sure. 

page 37. “there is no happy ending”.

a poem about how the government is spying on us, as if that was a piece of new information, that warranted poetry instead of old hashed out information that only really deserves a heavy, tired sigh. enthusiasm was something found on these pages. 

detailed instructions on how to shrink heads, written the same way everything is her

Samanda, again. as if it hasn’t been written out before on these very pages. 

and then a poem I haven’t seen in years, to a girl who changed my life in more ways than she will ever know, it tells me things I’ve forgotten about characters I created long ago

a poem about a man running from his problems, entitled only “pineapple”, I don’t know why.

and now it’s not in English, or Hawai’ian. Latin. I don’t know what these words mean but some of them are underlined, and somewhere in there, there are numbers. but not my numbers. Mandarin again. I don’t speak any of these languages. I don’t know if the words strung together mean anything, or if they’re only meant to distract. 

another page of latin. and then a complaint about the existence of study hall. 

the yale conspiracy. a forgotten concepts I abandoned long ago, based on the memories left over from age 5, ones that probably aren’t even real to begin with. 

written over and over again. “don’t frame your global teacher. revenge is bad”. 

in the margins, “note to self- don’t use pillows- neurotoxins” I didn’t listen 

and then there’s math. like notes from an actual class. formulas. but I still followed the same pattern. left to right. right to left. it doesn’t work with math. 

and now the language goes more confusing. I cannot tell anymore if the pages go from top to bottom or bottom to top. my ears and I laugh and shake her hands. away they drop down around to my waist

the letters are symbols now, on  page 51? 61? I don’t know anymore. these symbols meant everything to me once upon a time and now... I see an S and U and two Ds and this says “suddenly”, but suddenly what, it changes mid-sentence

until it isn’t anymore, and it isn’t purple anymore either. but this is RPF, I can tell that much

fading ink on my jeans like the scars on my hands. 

someone killed Joe #7. but what about the other 6. 

a map, who are these people and why does it matter where they lived. Kyle, Michel, Ray, Joe, Rob, Lezlie

a poem I wrote on the back of a final exam and had to smuggle out so I didn’t lose it forever

I wasn’t even 15 yet when I wrote all this, but it was always my dream to become a mystery

a date! there is a date here, and I wish I knew what it was, but I don’t speak the language it’s in 

6/11/08

14, and these must be notes

then it goes back to normal, but for 4 lines in the middle of the page, it’s symbols again, what was I trying to hide

just a line from a story, maybe one that was too real to reveal, I can read most of it now, with some effort “as always, I found myself wish she would come over and kiss me”

Algebra will never work backwards, maybe that’s why I don’t understand it

a whole page in symbols, except for a lightning strike

Missy. I forgot about Missy, and even now, as I hear the name, I don’t remember anything other than a sense of familiarity 

and now it’s all her, because there was a time before novels, a time before I found a way to control my writing, a time when she was everywhere, but I couldn’t cement her down to just one character, because I knew her too well for that, there wasn’t as much room for imagination. 

this is a mystery from before the demon, all of this, and I know now that I dated it wrong on the front of the notebook. this is not 2010. this is 2008, and this is before everything changed, when my mind was a scattered pile of mush, and that was all I really wanted to be, because it was all I could remember being, I wanted to be a mystery, like my great grandfather who kept his diaries in code to keep it from the world the time he saw three deer in the morning, and stared at them in awe, and 50 years later, there’s me, spending hours and hours deciphering what he wrote even though it was never worth hiding in the first place

it was all I wanted to be and here I am at 23, reading through my old notebook, 9 years later, and saying what was the point of hiding the little things in life, like finding a girl beautiful, and the fact that I like molasses. 

there are mentions of stories here that I don’t remember, stories that I’ll stumble upon someday, and I’ll read, and I wonder if they’ll make sense to me, if I can pin point where each detail comes from and put my life back together from the stories I wrote. Ember Lee. Stormy Skies. Mouse. 

and here’s me trying to stop myself, trying to make myself into something more than I was, because really, I was only ever just a girl with a good life, who wanted something more exciting than the same damn schedule every day for 10 years, with average grades, and average everything. tried to tell myself that I was a bad person for things that weren’t wrong, because I couldn’t understand the guilt I felt for the fact that boring me had everything and my friends had to suffer without 

and maybe if I could go back and talk to myself, I’d say, hey, there’s nothing wrong with a crush, no matter who it’s on, but maybe I wouldn’t, because it’s not like I didn’t know that then too, I just chose not to listen to myself, because it was more boring

it’s not stories anymore, just words

the printers are out to get me, but what does that mean and why was it worth writing down, I know the answer to that, of course, I do. because everything is worth writing down, and if I don’t write stories, write something, then I am nothing, because all I am is made up of the words I’ve written because I remember nothing else.

I see the words on the page starting to form the story I recognize, starting to shape the character that will later start me on the journey I’m still riding on, the novels I’m writing, I see the names here, and who they are, but everything is still so different. they’re not them yet, but they’re on their way there. 

and here we are in those six weeks I insisted on saying goodnight and good morning in Croatian every day even though I didn’t know any other words, but I knew those words, and they meant something to me. 

I talk to myself, because my name doesn’t feel like mine, because I don’t know who I am, and I keep writing and writing until I find out who

I bet if you’d asked, I would have said I’d know by 23, but I don’t and that’s okay 

and in my notes, it says write a book, well good news, me, I’ve written 36 soon to be 37, but sorry, I’ve never gotten around to learning Latin

planning for the future, planning to decode the Voynich document. there were so many things I thought I’d do, and here I am, having not done them. 

and now here, at page 115, I write from left to write, top to bottom, nothing more. 

at the end, it says only, “you can’t ride a buffalo through the streets of kansas”

I don’t think I’ll find my answers here, but I know that 15 year old me would have called that a success, because all she ever wanted was to be a mystery 

[lomaaltakid]

The lie I lived, that turned out to be real life.

I still have dreams about this part of my life. It turned out to be just after I had turned two years old, and up until I was five years old.  Let me begin by explaining that this wasn’t really a lie or some made up fantasy world. This actually happened, except the view from my set of eyes was different than what reality panned it out to be.  The common denominator in this story is that it all takes place in Mexico. Yes, this is the three and a half years I spent living there. I would return to the U.S. at five years old.

SO LET’S CALL THESE THREE AND A HALF YEARS: THE LIE

What I felt was happening: Let’s fast forward a bit to the latter part of the lie. I was five years old in 1997. Not actual Mexico City, but the northern suburb of Ecatepec. I lived in a house with my Mom, Dad, brother in a place that really belonged to my Dad’s family. (my grandmother, my great-uncle, my grandfather would all live in that house)

My grandparents house on my Mom’s side lived down the block in a separate house, however, we decided to move after my little brother was born the year prior. I attended kindergarten at a place they called “Pinky Pinky”. I’m still not sure why it was called that, I always thought it was a strange place, but nevertheless I fit in no problem. In fact, I felt I was the envy of kindergarten because there we were all dressed the same, we kind of all looked the same, except I was the smarter one. I had learned to read and write in Spanish by the time I was three so it was almost like I was the “teacher’s pet” but in Mexico, the other classmates didn’t care. I felt that I wasn’t really the loner but the popular kid. I even had a supposed “girlfriend”. Her name was Ana Karen (sounds very Mexican right?) and I’m sure there’s a picture of us in kindergarten. She was actually a very pretty girl from what I remember.  Life seemed grand. Even though I found it hard to get along with the neighbor kids, but my parent’s always told me it was because it was their fault and not mine. My parents never yelled at me or had the need to discipline me. I think they were just happier being in a place where the entire family was and didn’t have to be split up. Where the lie comes in is here: I felt like I was 100% Mexican. Born in Mexico just like the rest of my family and destined to live there for the remainder of his life. The way the family and close people at school made me feel so welcome and so inbred into the culture and society that there was never a mention that I was from a nation called The United States of America to the north where they spoke a foreign language called “English”. The truth of it all: It wasn’t all glamorous. My parent’s had lost almost everything after the 1994 financial crisis and we were victims of two assaults. One, an armed robbery in a taxicab and the second the following year on a passenger bus which was hijacked by about four armed robbers. The strange thing of it all is that I don’t remember the moment it happened, but remember before and after it all happened. My therapist thinks it’s because it was a safety mechanism that shut off that traumatic event so I wouldn’t revisit it ever again in my life, but the fact that I don’t remember and that it happened troubles me to this day. We were poorer than I had thought. My Dad worked in the actual city and we would sometimes take a microbus with my mom and brother to go visit him. Dad was always at work and I spent most afternoons with my mom until Dad would get home late in the evening.  After the second armed robbery, my family made the decision to relocate us to the U.S. but I was never really told or was given the explanation that we would kiss this life goodbye and completely live in what seemed to me a whole new world scary and uncertain. Then came the shock that sent everything spiraling. My great-uncle who I remember very well, actually acted more like a father figure to my Dad than his actual Dad. Since our family is filled with alcoholics, he soon sealed his fate when he got bloody wasted in his summer vacation home and fell down three flights of stairs. That was the first time I’ve seen my Dad so distraught. It was late 1996. The following year, since the house we were staying in, was under his name, there was an issue on which of their brothers would take and inherit the property. They had severe issues with my grandma and my grandfather’s family members that we eventually left Ecatepec in September of 1997. Again, there was no heads up that we had to completely say goodbye to the life I thought I would be living. We would take a bus from Cd. Satelite in the north bound for my grandparent’s ranch (from my Mom’s side) in outer rural Michoacan. I had to say goodbye to everything I felt was my life up until that point. Uncertainly certainly crept up because I told myself that we would just be there temporarily and we would soon return to the outskirts of Mexico City, the house we were at, and continue with the life we had. Just a few weeks later, I was given the devastating news. I was told the day before that we would be leaving the country. Unsure as to what that meant, I had to ask what it was. The penny then dropped; our life in Mexico was no more and everyone, including our family, we would have to say good-bye. “When will we come back?” My parents would give no answer. Saying good-bye to my grandparents was really difficult. I remember a toy parakeet that my late grandpa (from my Mom’s side) had in the garden and I took it and smuggled into the suitcase, but my Mom found it and gave it back to my grandparents. I apologized and said that I took it because I wanted to have something to remember them by. To my surprise and emotion, my grandpa let me have it and told me to not forget about them. I think I still have that to this day somewhere. We boarded a taxi to the bus terminal where we took a bus to Guadalajara and then a one way flight to Tijuana... The rest is history. And that was the end of the life I thought up to that point was really my destiny. ---- December 2005: I finally returned to Mexico. Michoacan to be exact. The ranch was still there and my grandparents who had aged still there. My grandfather though was stuck to his bed and could not move outside of his bed. I was surprised by how sick he was and how he couldn’t do much. He was already pushing his late 70s. This was the last time I visited the ranch as six months later, the whole state would be ridden with violence from clashes between law enforcement and rivaling drug cartels. September 2008: My grandpa (the one who gave me the parakeet) passed away. A part of my life disappeared with him. July 2013: I would return to Mexico City for the first time and even got to see part of our old neighborhood in Ecatepec which has since grown even more exponentially due to rapid development. Everything seems so much cramped compared to how it felt back then. This was the last time I spent in Mexico and not sure when I will be able to return. But some things haven’t changed since that day. Much of our family still lives in the same houses they lived before. I still have dreams about those times; about living there. I still don’t know what happened to Ana Karen or anyone else. And with everything that changed so drastically, its hard to even feel that I lived the life I said I lived. So that’s why it’s called the “lie”.  It’s crazy to think that I felt I was 100% Mexican with my life to be destined to be lived in Mexico. Especially with everything that happened after in the U.S.: Going for the first time “back” to the U.S.: We settled in Santa Barbara in 1997. A whole new place to my eyes. My parents then began telling me how I was born there and how life before living in Mexico was. I didn’t believe them at all.  I began to gain weight as soon as I got to the states. I started first grade and it was time to learn an entirely different language than what I was used to. I was getting bullied in school and beginning to get disciplined at home.  Everything turned 180 coming to this country. We were once again poor and felt like outsiders.  Here is where my depression really started: It began when we got to the States and everything changed. From the scenery, to the new language, to the people who suddenly began treating you like a foreigner and an outcast. The catalyst of being overweight and vocal about many things led to being bullied heavily in school.  But then it was the going home part. The part where parents still expected perfection in me. Both my parents began to get stricter with me. They began saying I was acting out and being more rebellious, but in reality, I just wanted to have a life where I was happy like I was in Mexico. 

Because I was truly happy not knowing the truth about the situation. Now it all turned into the beginning of a very long and exhausting battle with depression that continues to this day. My life completely went 180 on me. It began a battle with verbal abuse at school into both verbal and physical abuse at the home. I felt like I was the demon child because I never expected my parents to be so angry at me for something I had no control over. I remember the days of living in Mexico and wondered what happened at that life. I hated living here for the longest time, but eventually coped with it because this was my destiny that God had planned for me.  It’s been almost twenty years ago since we left THE LIE. But can’t help but wonder how life would’ve been if THE LIE wasn’t A LIE. What if it was destiny? Would I have been a much happier person even though we were living in poverty conditions? It’s scary to recall and to go back to that life, because it wasn’t destiny, it was just a lie.  I was destined to live here and to deal with everything I did though today.  But that’s one of my happy places to go to and remember whenever I think about life. And what it would really have been like to continue THE LIE up until today. The scary fact is that I might’ve not be living, but I will never stop wondering about it.