Ahhhhhh, it finally feels like springtime. I can tell immediately when spring is here for good--the smell of curried eggs wafting through the house, day after day, reminding me of the first spring I spent in India, when my mom and I were a mother-daughter team of prostitutes turning tricks in Bangalore. Our Caucasian pallor colored us exotic in the Land of Boiled Beans, and we fared quite well within the world's oldest occupation. While Americans lazed in their mild springtime weather, I remember my first Easter in India with my mother when the "Indian summer" heat (109 degrees) nearly killed us. My mother and I worked out of a small, clay hut, roasting like chicken tikka on a skewer. We slept with the crippled and the deformed... mainly the lepers, "Untouchables" who were relegated to the outermost fringes of abandoned Indian society. Though our work was difficult, it was in a strange way rewarding. I felt like Gandhi if he had lost a high-stake bet, been thrown in prison in a foreign country, and forced into sexual slavery... never able to erase the violent stain of scab-covered cocks invading his dreams.
Kalakshetra, a veritable shroud of a woman, taught us the tricks of the trade. She had once killed a john right outside of The Bull Temple in Basavangudi--an act so blasphemous she barely escaped being stoned to death and has since wandered throughout Southern India, a reluctant nomad obscured by a full-body black veil. Not entirely a bad thing, seeing as that she is completely toothless and has boils covering at least 70 percent of her face. Though Kalakshetra's voice was not one register above a whisper, she patiently taught us how to cope with being "the shattered whores of Bangalore"... which mainly entailed an ample supply of opium.
I don't remember how long my mother and I lived in that sweltering shantytown... three years, maybe four. Even more tenuous would be an account of the innumerable life lessons learned. Still, I remember my mother's annual efforts to celebrate Easter-- she tried her best, despite the Hindu calendar being totally incongruent with our own Christian faith. Sometimes, a few of the lepers and my mother would re-enact Christ's Resurrection to the delight of other Untouchables and the rare lost tourist/ Anthropological student. My mother's "Resurrection" typically involved slaughtering a live stray hen and consuming its blood through a spout created in the neck by its decapitated head. She would later shit out her own "eggs" and our dismal little enclave of living ghosts would embark on an Easter egg hunt. Some say the heat made her crazy; I think it was the wild spirit of India... that proverbial Whirling Dervish, seducing and consuming all those who dare step in its path. Though my mother's allegorical storytelling skills left a bit to be desired, the message was always there: Resurrection. Renewal. Rebirth. The two of us had been reborn in a sense; thrown out of a brutal Indian prison, we were forced to live, born-again, as whores in a lawless land... our strange love for that strange land growing every second spent on its pungent, wild, alien soil.
And that's what springtime means to me.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Things I learned while living in a sleeping bag.
Petra. Just saying her name I can barely contain myself. Say it out loud, slowly; Paaaaaaaaaay-tra. Lick your lips when you do it. Scream at your mailman when you’re done. Peeeeeeetrrrraaaa, the woman whose name you can’t help but purr.
I fell in love with Petra the first time she stumbled into my restaurant, drunk, at 9 o’clock in the morning. People around town call her Petra the Jack-O-Lantern, but I couldn‘t tell you why. Maybe it’s because of her orange-hued moon face and head like a wrecking ball. Maybe it’s because she always wears Halloween colors, down to the buttons on the sides of her crudely-stitched homemade socks. Maybe it’s because one time she swallowed a Yankee candle whole, and it burned inside her stomach for weeks because she’s got gasoline for blood and she smolders like a coal furnace, even when she’s sleeping in a snow bank in the dead of winter. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter what people say, they don’t see what I see, and thank god for that. I don’t need no competitors in my quest to win this woman’s heart... I need jet packs! Rocket launchers! Illegal Chinese fireworks! All that romantic shit.
It’s Monday morning and she walks in; she makes the building quake in her presence, or maybe it’s just the cheap drywall. She reeks like whiskey and her chest is covered in dried blood and Elmer’s glue.
“I vant a cheeken sah-lad sandwich,” she says without a smile, her wonky eye floating around in its socket searching for a worthy focal point. "Pick me," I whispered longingly to the eye. "Pick me, look at meeeee…"
“Vat did chu say?” she asked me sharply.
“Uhhhhh… I said Pekinese.” A solid recovery. “Pekinese. They’re good dogs, nice dogs, good breed. A worthy investment. Do you have any dogs?” I asked, knowing the answer. I often see her cruising her bike around town with a full-grown St. Bernard riding her piggyback, holding onto her for dear life as the wind pushes Petra and her dog ever harder with her manic, increasing speed. Petra is strong, stronger than any man I’ve ever known. When she lived out West, apparently she competed in and won several Tough Man contests… that is one of many things I’ve found out about her through the Internet. God, I love the Internet.
“No! I don’t like dogs!” she barked at me. Funny that she would bark like that if she doesn’t like dogs.
I tell her that her chicken salad sandwich will be ready in a moment, and I hand the goddess her change, which she grabs hungrily. She craves change, and not the Barack Obama kind; I’m talkin’ pennies. Quarters. Nickles. And her coveted dimes, the ones she likes so much because they feature her favorite president, FDR. Even though she was raised under a bridge in a Soviet slum, she has a remarkable grasp of U.S. political history. I heard that one time she took an I.Q. test and scored 295 points, and that she built a space shuttle of her own design under NASA’s auspices. I wouldn’t doubt it. Sometimes I feel like the woman could read me like an airport Dean Koontz paperback; quickly, easily, and with profound contempt for my low-brow banality.
She devoured her sandwich in one bite, and hissed at me as she walked out the door, breadcrumbs spewing from her mouth.
* * *
My husband doesn’t understand me. I now sleep in a closet suspended by my hair. He doesn’t get it; “Why can’t you just buy a better pillow and sleep on the air mattress with me?” he asks. Bless his heart, but if I have to explain something like that to someone, there’s just no hope for any kind of meaningful relationship.
We used to do things together, him and I. We used to beat up kids at the carnival and take their elephant ears. We used to take pictures of the dead and attempt to sell them to the National Enquirer (they never bit, clever sons-of-bitches.) We used to tug on each others earlobes for such long periods of time and to great degrees of excruciating pain that they now just hang limply like dripping candle wax, ever-so-gently brushing against our shoulders when we dance or shake our heads with laughter or epilepsy.
We used to captivate one another, but now we just watch each other the same way that people watch “Everybody Loves Raymond.” Hollow stares, passive acceptance, just waiting for something to happen or just end, just END GODDAMNIT! About a year ago my husband started his own online business selling wheelchairs, and we make too much money now. He’s obsessed with money, but I can’t stand the way it just falls out of our cupboards and spills forth from the bathtub. I’ve taken to just burying piles of cash in our backyard, hoping stray dogs will eat it. Maybe I could give some to Petra. I could give it all to Petra.
My husband has acknowledged the growing chasm between us, but it doesn’t really bother him. When he’s not playing businessman, he’s in the basement building model airplanes out of old jewelry. He doesn’t care. If I told him I was in love with somebody else, he probably wouldn’t even blink. He’d just say, “Does she have any old jewelry I could use?” and leave it at that. Men are all the same no matter where you go---fucking model airplanes.
So I don’t tell him I‘m in love. I don‘t tell him I‘ve found somebody who makes my life matter. I just go about my business until my secret almost starts to turn me on---or is it just bad gas? Yeah, it’s gas.
Petra doesn’t have a house, I know that much. She usually just ends up passing out under a hot dog cart downtown---at least she does every time I’ve followed her home. I think I’m going to go down there tonight. YES, I’m going down there tonight. I’m gonna tell her everything---well, not everything. I won’t tell her about how I made a patchwork dress out of her blood-stained underwear, she doesn’t need to know that. I’m just gonna tell her that I admire her and I love her and I’m so afraid of her and she smells awful but she smells so good and she burns like an oil drum that’s colder than a sheet of ice and everything in between.
I put on my horseback riding outfit---complete with crop and helmet---from back when I used to perform stunt-riding at some local Equestrian competitions. Ohhhh, these beige pants always make my thighs look so big and meaty and desirable---I hope Petra thinks so too.
On my way downtown I stop periodically, creating a bouquet of leaves as I go; maple leaves, oak leaves willow leaves. Autumn Leaves. Leaves of Grass. Leaving Las Vegas. I put some pine cones in there for a romantic flourish, and tie the whole thing together with dental floss. Here’s a token of my love… Paaaaaaaaaay-tra.
As I approach, I notice the whole of downtown smells like burning manure. The local pizza place is coughing bilious clouds of smoke from its windows and chimney. I look through the open door, and someone catches my eye and screams at me to find help. Pfft, help. Help yourself! Those screamin’ mustachioed dough-flippers inside don’t know it, but I’m on a mission. I’m down here to take out the most beautiful woman in town.
I fell in love with Petra the first time she stumbled into my restaurant, drunk, at 9 o’clock in the morning. People around town call her Petra the Jack-O-Lantern, but I couldn‘t tell you why. Maybe it’s because of her orange-hued moon face and head like a wrecking ball. Maybe it’s because she always wears Halloween colors, down to the buttons on the sides of her crudely-stitched homemade socks. Maybe it’s because one time she swallowed a Yankee candle whole, and it burned inside her stomach for weeks because she’s got gasoline for blood and she smolders like a coal furnace, even when she’s sleeping in a snow bank in the dead of winter. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter what people say, they don’t see what I see, and thank god for that. I don’t need no competitors in my quest to win this woman’s heart... I need jet packs! Rocket launchers! Illegal Chinese fireworks! All that romantic shit.
It’s Monday morning and she walks in; she makes the building quake in her presence, or maybe it’s just the cheap drywall. She reeks like whiskey and her chest is covered in dried blood and Elmer’s glue.
“I vant a cheeken sah-lad sandwich,” she says without a smile, her wonky eye floating around in its socket searching for a worthy focal point. "Pick me," I whispered longingly to the eye. "Pick me, look at meeeee…"
“Vat did chu say?” she asked me sharply.
“Uhhhhh… I said Pekinese.” A solid recovery. “Pekinese. They’re good dogs, nice dogs, good breed. A worthy investment. Do you have any dogs?” I asked, knowing the answer. I often see her cruising her bike around town with a full-grown St. Bernard riding her piggyback, holding onto her for dear life as the wind pushes Petra and her dog ever harder with her manic, increasing speed. Petra is strong, stronger than any man I’ve ever known. When she lived out West, apparently she competed in and won several Tough Man contests… that is one of many things I’ve found out about her through the Internet. God, I love the Internet.
“No! I don’t like dogs!” she barked at me. Funny that she would bark like that if she doesn’t like dogs.
I tell her that her chicken salad sandwich will be ready in a moment, and I hand the goddess her change, which she grabs hungrily. She craves change, and not the Barack Obama kind; I’m talkin’ pennies. Quarters. Nickles. And her coveted dimes, the ones she likes so much because they feature her favorite president, FDR. Even though she was raised under a bridge in a Soviet slum, she has a remarkable grasp of U.S. political history. I heard that one time she took an I.Q. test and scored 295 points, and that she built a space shuttle of her own design under NASA’s auspices. I wouldn’t doubt it. Sometimes I feel like the woman could read me like an airport Dean Koontz paperback; quickly, easily, and with profound contempt for my low-brow banality.
She devoured her sandwich in one bite, and hissed at me as she walked out the door, breadcrumbs spewing from her mouth.
* * *
My husband doesn’t understand me. I now sleep in a closet suspended by my hair. He doesn’t get it; “Why can’t you just buy a better pillow and sleep on the air mattress with me?” he asks. Bless his heart, but if I have to explain something like that to someone, there’s just no hope for any kind of meaningful relationship.
We used to do things together, him and I. We used to beat up kids at the carnival and take their elephant ears. We used to take pictures of the dead and attempt to sell them to the National Enquirer (they never bit, clever sons-of-bitches.) We used to tug on each others earlobes for such long periods of time and to great degrees of excruciating pain that they now just hang limply like dripping candle wax, ever-so-gently brushing against our shoulders when we dance or shake our heads with laughter or epilepsy.
We used to captivate one another, but now we just watch each other the same way that people watch “Everybody Loves Raymond.” Hollow stares, passive acceptance, just waiting for something to happen or just end, just END GODDAMNIT! About a year ago my husband started his own online business selling wheelchairs, and we make too much money now. He’s obsessed with money, but I can’t stand the way it just falls out of our cupboards and spills forth from the bathtub. I’ve taken to just burying piles of cash in our backyard, hoping stray dogs will eat it. Maybe I could give some to Petra. I could give it all to Petra.
My husband has acknowledged the growing chasm between us, but it doesn’t really bother him. When he’s not playing businessman, he’s in the basement building model airplanes out of old jewelry. He doesn’t care. If I told him I was in love with somebody else, he probably wouldn’t even blink. He’d just say, “Does she have any old jewelry I could use?” and leave it at that. Men are all the same no matter where you go---fucking model airplanes.
So I don’t tell him I‘m in love. I don‘t tell him I‘ve found somebody who makes my life matter. I just go about my business until my secret almost starts to turn me on---or is it just bad gas? Yeah, it’s gas.
Petra doesn’t have a house, I know that much. She usually just ends up passing out under a hot dog cart downtown---at least she does every time I’ve followed her home. I think I’m going to go down there tonight. YES, I’m going down there tonight. I’m gonna tell her everything---well, not everything. I won’t tell her about how I made a patchwork dress out of her blood-stained underwear, she doesn’t need to know that. I’m just gonna tell her that I admire her and I love her and I’m so afraid of her and she smells awful but she smells so good and she burns like an oil drum that’s colder than a sheet of ice and everything in between.
I put on my horseback riding outfit---complete with crop and helmet---from back when I used to perform stunt-riding at some local Equestrian competitions. Ohhhh, these beige pants always make my thighs look so big and meaty and desirable---I hope Petra thinks so too.
On my way downtown I stop periodically, creating a bouquet of leaves as I go; maple leaves, oak leaves willow leaves. Autumn Leaves. Leaves of Grass. Leaving Las Vegas. I put some pine cones in there for a romantic flourish, and tie the whole thing together with dental floss. Here’s a token of my love… Paaaaaaaaaay-tra.
As I approach, I notice the whole of downtown smells like burning manure. The local pizza place is coughing bilious clouds of smoke from its windows and chimney. I look through the open door, and someone catches my eye and screams at me to find help. Pfft, help. Help yourself! Those screamin’ mustachioed dough-flippers inside don’t know it, but I’m on a mission. I’m down here to take out the most beautiful woman in town.
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