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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, swiggy.
All We Have Is Everything 23-March-2006
I had a dream the other night that has stayed with me ever since. I was traveling with my best friend, The Lovely Bea, through a plethora of rooms representing my mind. We were on a long journey, each carrying a knapsack. We ended up at a small cafe whose sign stated they were open until nine in the evening. It was 8:30 p.m. according to my watch. We went inside and chose a table. As we pulled out our chairs to sit, the short, blonde, middle-aged male server zoomed over to us with a prominent bitchy attitude, plopping down two white pouches on the table, spitting out, "All we have are chips," while dashing off.
As we took our seats, I glanced over at Bea's pouch, which was a napkin filled generously with long, luscious golden fries with crinkly ridges. I looked down at my own pouch of fries and saw one long fry with a burnt tip, the rest were small, hard pieces, obviously the bottom of the batch. My napkin wasn't stuffed; it was like an afterthought to the big production that was placed in front of Bea. Mine was the bits that would be tossed to the stray dogs who hang out in the alley behind the theatre. I looked over at the apathetic server, who was now erasing the specials of the day from the blackboard.
"All you have are these fries?" I asked.
"All we have are chips," he snapped, erasing the possibilities.
"But the sign outside says you're open until nine."
"Yeah, well, we start closing up at eight-thirty."
"Can't we order a couple of cold sandwiches? We'll take them with us." I knew it would be nothing for him to put some coldcuts between bread; we were the only customers there.
"All we have are chips." This time, each word was spoken in loveless staccato, plucked from his impatience and thrown at my head.
I thought about Bea's fries, and how they seemed to have been carefully handpicked. To me, it figured that I had been given the pouch with far fewer, less appealing fries, because I have believed for years that what is good in this world is meant for someone who isn't me. The next time I have that dream, I am going to buy the cafe, fire the little twerp, and select the specials of the day myself, which will be available 24 hours a day along with every other morsel on the menu. So there.
I dreamed about that rude guy the next night. He was mean as hell in the second dream. I have a feeling he's a dreamtime manifestation of every shitty, limiting word I have ever said against myself, either silently or aloud.
I was reading the dictionary in bed last night and discovered that I have never tasted a mayapple. I want one, possibly two. If they're really good, I'll take a crateful. Those elusive beauties only come around in May, hence the name. On one hand, that's sort of stingy, while on the other it's refreshing in a world where there is an overabundance of just about everything. Not kindness, though; probably because it doesn't cost anything. It seems to be in short supply much of the time, although I do believe most people carry around more of that good stuff in their hearts than they are willing to let on. I guess it's fear that keeps it locked so tightly behind the ribs. I should call Whole Foods and ask if they're going to have mayapples in a month or so. I should ask if they're still carrying road apples. I try to get my kicks where I can.
Which is why I gave myself a little photo project to do last Sunday. I sat on the couch with David Sedaris' book Me Talk Pretty One Day in my lap and opened it five separate times, each time closing my eyes and letting my finger fall on a word or phrase. After five words or phrases had been selected, I had to photograph something inside my house that to me represents that word or phrase. And I could only think about each for a couple of minutes. No dilly-dallying. And this is what I came up with.
Sunday Photo Project #1
"deaf person"
"injured party"
"reimburse me"
"New York City"
"They wear masks"
Quote From My World
"You look like a model."
"Yeah. A model from like 1973, who never got any work."
"Well... At least you look like a model."
Well, I'm off to hand out flyers for my new one-woman show in which I perform the Cincinnati Hustle for three solid hours for no apparent reason. The Cincinnati Hustle is a little-known yet highly superior version of the New York Hustle. Be glad I told you, because you could get laughed out of your next dinner party without this valuable hunk of information. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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