Last Call for the Wild Bunch

I haven't been able to sleep since the pigeons got into the house.

It's not like they keep me awake, just seems like their arrival coincided with my insomnia.

Now it’s me, Butch-Cassidy, the Sundance kid and The Wild Bunch.

Butch-Cassidy is home again. Steven left him here when he came for breakfast.

"Take care of your dog. He needs you, not me." 

Butch-Cassidy is the only reason I leave the house. He needs food. He needs to walk. I don't need food and I could probably lay in bed forever.

Maybe I need him more than he needs me.

The Wild Bunch showed up about a week later. They must have realized my love of Wild West outlaws and figured the dog and the fish needed a gang.

They’ve made a roost in my pantry and since I’ve stopped buying food, I cant bring myself to care. They live next to an old box of knock off cereal and a container full of sugar.

Steven told me to get rid of them, but I’ve gotten used to the cooing-- that and for being such chunky, slow birds they are rather difficult to catch.

After a couple attempts I made peace with them being my new roommates.

There's flapping here and there throughout the day as they explore the back porch, but I drew the line at them actually coming inside the kitchen.

I don't want bird poop on my things.

They got in the day of Butch-Cassidy's bi-annual bath. I left the back door open while I chased Butch-Cassidy around the yard trying to bathe him.

Took me three hours to get him fully clean. When I came inside exhausted and wet and covered in white fur. I heard movement and immediately called out for my mother.

She is the only one with keys. Well, Steven has keys. I'm alive because Steven has keys. But Steven works during the day. I didn't expect him to be over.

There was no answer.

Butch-Cassidy ran past me into the house.

My guard dog.

"Get him, Butch!" I yelled. "I don't know who you are, but Butch Cassidy has killed before, and he'll kill again!"

No answer. But there was wild barking from the pantry and the sounds of the last remaining food items crashing to the floor.

When I got inside I found Butch barking like a maniac at my three intruders. Three chubby little pigeons huddled together on my top shelf rustling their feathers and looking around warily.

 "Could've been worse, could've been rats that got in," I told Steven.

"Pigeons are flying rats."

"Aw, I think they're cute."

"You're in denial."

"No, that's a river in Egypt." I laughed at my own wittiness.

"That's not how that joke works." He groaned.

"I thought it was funny."

"They're gross."

"I will not have you speaking ill of the wild bunch in their own home."

"This is not their home. It's yours."

I asked him to help me get rid of them, but he told me that was my job, and then hung up on me. He was still angry with me. I had avoided him for months after I was released from the hospital. And now I was calling him about my pigeons like nothing ever happened.

Getting the birds out felt impossible. They seemed to have grown tired of the wild life and chosen my pantry to retire in.

"Last call you crazy bandits!" I'd taken to leaving a little bird bath kind of water dish for them at night before going to bed.

I've caught them splashing in the water and it's unbelievably adorable.

The birds give me something to focus on. Just like the dog. Just like the fish. Lives that are entirely dependent on me. In their own weird way they give me a sense of purpose.

My God, what has become of me?

I leave the water dish and head to the living room and sit on the couch.

"Butch-Cassidy!" I yell. And immediately I hear the jingling of his collar and the pitter patter of his paws as he trots from my bedroom to the living room.

"Up-up, little man." I pat the cushion next to me, waiting for him to jump up. He hops on easily and stomps around in circles, kneading the couch until he deems it comfy enough to lay--which he does with his head in my lap.

"Good boy."

I looked around for the control when I heard knocking at my door. Butch-Cassidy leaped off the couch and ran barking to the door.

I stood up, groaning at being inconvenienced after plopping down in my comfy spot.

"Who is it? We don't want it." I yelled.

"Open up, Genesis. You're being evicted." Came the voice from the other side of the door.

I run to the door, undoing the chain and flinging it open.

"Walter Carmine, don't you dare evict me!" I scream before throwing myself at him.

I hadn't seen Walter in months. I understood why he didn't see me. He  couldn't face it. I forgave him for it. Also when one of your best friends is the owner of your apartment building and hasn't demanded you to pay your rent, you look past the fact that he couldn't face seeing you in the hospital or during that time when you wouldn't leave your bed and your mother forced you to shower.

"I heard you're housing vermin in my building and I can't have that." He was holding a metal cage in his hand.

"Who told you about the Wild Bunch?" I asked as he walked in.

"You would name them wouldn't you?" He shook his head and walked towards the kitchen.

"What? I couldn't just call them the pigeons. That's so déclassé."

"Your mother called me and told me to do my job as a landlord and get rid of them. I told her, her daughter needs to pay her rent first and she told me who wants to pay rent when your apartment is infested." He stopped at the pantry door and smiled. "It's not easy arguing with your mother."

"Tell me about it."

"Ok, I'm going in. Shut the door behind me. I'm not coming out till I have them." He opened the door and closed it quickly behind him.

"Oh my God, Genesis, have you been feeding them?"

"I couldn't let them starve!" I was happy he couldn't see me turn red.

There was flapping and angry cooing as Walter worked on capturing the birds. I could hear him swearing at the birds and could only imagine the scene.

I heard the container of sugar hit the ground and Walter screaming profanities.

"Don't hurt them!" I yelled.

"I'm about to kill them all and feed them to Butch-Cassidy in a minute if I can't catch this last bird."

There was more cursing and finally the slam of the metal.

"I got them!" I opened the door to find a very disheveled and triumphant Walter holding the Wild Bunch in the cage. "Grab your jacket. We'll take them to the old apple orchard and release then far from here so they don't get any ideas."

If it was possible for pigeons to look pissed, these sure did. He set them on my kitchen table and pulled out a cigarette carton.

I shot him a disapproving look and he shrugged.

"I think I deserve this one."

I looked into the cage of my former roommates. "I'm sorry guys Walter says you can't stay here anymore. And if it's between you and me getting evicted, I'm gonna have to go with you. But you'll be happier in the orchard it's nice there and you can steal school kids' field trip sandwiches."

They just cooed at me. Like a very cross pigeon version of "whatever."

"Stop taking to the birds and let's go." Walter had a cigarette in his mouth and his car keys in hand.

"I'm coming."

We pulled up to the orchard's main entrance and parked.

"Ok Gen, I'll wait for you here." We both got out. Walter leaned against his truck finishing his cigarette. The orchard was not well lit. I could only see his outline and the glowing embers of the cigarette as I walked away.

I reached a picnic table and set the cage down. Three sets of beady eyes looked up at me.

"This is the end guys. It's been swell." I opened the cage. They didn't move. "Um, get out guys."

More staring and feather rustling. I sighed and shook the cage. There was angry cooing and the birds fought against each other to get out.

I could hear Walter snickering in the background. I looked over and he was throwing his cigarette to the ground and stomping it out.

The birds were free and I could use my pantry again. Eventually. When I cleaned it and bought food.

I picked up the cage and and walked back to the truck.

"Good job, Gen. Please never keep a family of wild birds in that apartment again."

I hugged him.

"Thanks Walter."

"You're welcome kid."

We got into the truck and drove back to my place in silence.

"Do you want to come in and watch a movie?" I asked when he parked.

"It's late."

"I don't sleep and I could use the company."

He turned off the car and opened the door.

"You'll stay?" I asked, climbing out of the passenger side.

"One movie and I get to choose." I groaned and smiled.

"Sure, you did just take care of my pigeon situation."

We headed upstairs to a pigeon free apartment.

70. orchard, denial, ember, last call, insomnia, pigeons.

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Venus

Venus is the planet of love.

I read once that the heat on Venus creates a pressure so intense that standing on Venus would feel like the pressure felt 900 meters deep in Earth's oceans.

Crazy right?

Sounds just like love.

My mother brought me a small potted cactus the other day. “Mira Geni, it looks like a little star.” I placed it on the windowsill of my kitchen, right above the sink.

It’s the only bit of green in my sunny yellow kitchen.

I like to stare at it whenever I do the dishes.

Which is twice a day to wash Butch-Cassidy’s bowl and to clean out the little container of food my mom drops off on Sundays.

She trusts me now to eat the food she brings me without her watchful eyes.

Before she would sit across from me at my bubblegum pink table and watch me as I forced myself to eat.

The color of the table seemed to bother her every time. She'd look down at it like it offended her by being so pink.

"Ay mi'ja." She'd sigh and then order me to eat.

Love.

I miss the company.

There are bread crumbs on the counter from the peanut butter and honey sandwich I nibbled on earlier. I take the crusts and leave them in the bowl for the Wild Bunch, the family of pigeons that took up residence in my pantry. They won’t leave, and I haven’t kicked them out, so I just feed the bread and give them water and it seems like it’s working out okay.

Today I have a full sink, because for some reason I told Steven I would cook for him.

I was sitting on my couch watching a sappy movie and trying not to cry as the main characters finally have their first kiss when Steven called me.

"Are you crying?" He asked.

"No." I sniffed.

"What's wrong? Are you ok? Should I come over?" I could hear the panic in his voice.

Panic which is not unfounded given that he was the person who found me in a pool of my own vomit on my kitchen floor. In my sunny kitchen with my lemon yellow walls and my bubblegum pink table and mismatched chairs. My happy little room the scene of my attempted suicide.

Hearing your best friend crying by herself with only the menagerie of animals she keeps to protect her would be unsettling at the least.

"No, I'm fine. I'm sorry. I'm watching a made for TV movie and they've finally found love." I assure him.

"Can I come over to be sure?" No one really trusts me.

I don't blame them.

"Come over."

He came over and sat on my couch with me. We watched the end of the movie in silence. I watched. He watched me out of the corner of his eye. I did not look good.

I'd pulled my hair up in two messy buns, rinsed my face and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. But the water couldn't rinse away the dark circles and hollows under my eyes from lack of sleep and from eating the bare minimum to survive.

"This movie is terrible." He said. He reached down to rub Butch-Cassidy's belly. Butch laid next to him after jumping all over him when he arrived.

After me, Steven is Butch's favorite person in the world. He only likes my mom because she occasionally feeds him scraps.

"I know." The movie ends and we sit there in silence.

"You know what I miss?" He asked me.

"What's that?" I turned the TV off and shifted to face him.

"When you would get all ethnic and make the sweet mole with rice and homemade tortillas."

I rolled my eyes. "'Ethnic.'" He laughed.

"You know what I mean. You get all, 'my mother taught me and her mother taught her and her mother taught her and the great eagle taught them all' when you make it. I miss it."

"'Great eagle,' mas pendejo," I mutter and smile in spite of myself.

"Great eagle or whatever your people believed in."

"Oh my gosh Steven I'm about to sick Butch-Cassidy on you if you don't stop." We laugh as we look at Butch-Cassidy, belly up on the floor at Steven's feet, snoring.

"Your ancestors demand the sweet brown mole... and handmade tortillas..." He trailed off.

Cooking requires effort.

Cooking requires care and a love for the food and for the ones who will consume it.

Cooking requires a desire to give some kind of shit.

Love means giving some kind of shit.

I exhale slowly. And watch him. He looks nervous. Like he pushed too far. Like the suggestion of me doing anything that required effort may have already mentally exhausted me.

"Well, I am a really good cook," I whisper.

He chuckled. "I guess."

"We'll see if I feel like it and maybe I'll invite you over." I smile at him and we sit quietly until he says it's late and heads home.

Because Venus reflects so much sunlight, it is usually the brightest planet in the night sky.

I wonder if it’s because of this brightness that they decided this planet would best represent love in the night skies. Love makes you glow.

I stir the pot of mole and turn the heat low as I start on the dishes.


13. first kiss, a planet, a type of plant, bread crumbs



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Love Letter (Scavenger Hunt #6)

I met you on the corner of Madison and State.

Zero, Zero. The center of the grid.

You probably don’t know that.

You don’t look like you’re from around these parts, and honestly most people who grew up here don’t know that.

Chicago is a grid city. Going North, South, East or West from Madison and State Street the numbers get bigger the farther you go.

Cool right?

You probably wouldn’t think so, so I didn’t tell you.

Your hand was out and I was the first taxi that pulled up. You were carrying bags from some store on Michigan Avenue they probably have where you’re from.

Tourist.

You tell me you need to get to Water Tower Place. You asked if I knew where that was.

Of course I know.

You climbed in and shook the snow out of your hair.

Lovely.

All over my seats.

Thank you.

You ask me my name, I reply. The company I work for tells me I should be nicer to the customers.

Why? I ask myself.

It’s a taxi service. I take you safely from point A to point B, does it matter if I tell you what my favorite color is or if I tell you about my love of fish sticks?

I listen to you tell me about your trip so far.

Your husband took your kids to the mall so you could shop. Isn’t that sweet? I nod my head.

Your younger son is into some book series about werewolves. Kids today, right? I shrug.

You were about to go back to the hotel for some “me time” but you lost your key. I make a consoling noise as I dodge a cyclist.

Turn right on Washington. Left on Michigan. Right on Pearson.

Here we are.

You pay your fare and tip me $5. You smile and wish me a good night.

Enjoy the city, I reply.

You close your door and I turn on my light. Ready for the next bout of human interaction.

6. love letter, werewolves, taxi service, lost key, fish sticks.

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Love Languages

"You know, there's a book about that." She said.

"About what?" He asked, walking faster to catch up with her.

"About why every time we fight, you buy me something." She turned around and stuck out her tongue.

"Oh yeah? Does it say how you like pretty things and I'm the sucker who goes and buys them for you?" He grabbed her hand and pulled her close.

She laughed and tried to pull free, but only half heartedly. He tightened his grip.

"Nooo..." She whined. "It's a book about the different way people show their love. You show it by giving gifts. You know 'cause you're a big brooding meany pants who doesn't like talking about his feelings."

"Hey!"

She laughed. "What?"

"I'm not a 'brooding meany pants,' whatever that means."

"It means that when you're angry with me you get mopey and quiet and then I get all paranoid trying to figure out what I did wrong.

And it'll be something like I DVR'd over one of your shows, or I wouldn't let you order pizza for dinner again, or I forgot to put away my inks and you stained another pair of jeans." She trailed off quietly.

He squeezed her hand. "You know I can't get hot pink and gold ink out of my pants."

"You gotta talk to me babe. You know I hate that cold shoulder shit."

"I know, I know. Look, my family wasn't big on talking things out. I'm not used to it. you know that. We're all repressed. Look at my mom." He pulled her into his arms.

"But I'm getting better aren't I?" He whispered into her ear.

She could feel her face getting hotter.

Public displays of affection both embarrassed and thrilled her, not having been accustomed to them before he stumbled into her life.

She squirmed in his arms trying to break free.

"Remember," he continued, "when I told you you were gross for drinking straight out of the juice carton?" He brushed his lips against her jaw and down to her neck, breathing in deeply.

"I'm not gross." She muttered. She enjoyed the warmth of his breath against her skin.

"You are." He kissed her lightly. "It's cool though. I still like you."

"People are staring."

He looked up and saw a small group of teenage girls giggling in their general direction.

He turned back to her. "Those aren't people." he said as he moved his lips to the other side of her neck. "Those are teenagers." He ran his fingers through her hair and moved his other hand to the small of her back.

"Now what was I saying?"

"You were telling me about how gross I am." She reached for his face and pulled him away from his neck. She looked up at him.

"Tell me I'm not gross." She demanded.

He smirked. "Oh you're so gross. You leave your dirty laundry all over the house. Panties and socks everywhere."

She laughed. He loved the sound of her laugh. It's what drew him to her the first day they met.

"Oh yeah? And what else? You have a list?"

He kissed her forehead. "Oh, if I started going over that list we'd end up missing the movie."

"That long, eh?"

"You're a brat and a mess."

"Damn. Should we file for divorce then?"

He sighed. "I think so. Well, we gave it a good run."

"Three months were long enough."

"I'll call the lawyer."

She smacked his arm. "Oh shut up. Let's go in, I wanna sit in the back."

"Ooh it's gonna be one of those movie visits." He pulled her towards the theater door.

She giggled and hurried along. "No! I want to actually see this one. I just hate having people sitting behind me."

"Damn tease."

"Shut up."

He winked at her as he opened the door.

"Hey, so what's your love language?"

She stopped and thought about it a moment. "You know something? I'm not sure. I didn't get very far in the book. Why don't you try and find out?"

Keep. In. Touch.

I remember his mom calling my house looking for him.

We still had a landline at the time. It's been a long time since we've had one of those.

I wonder if she just went through his autograph book.

"Good luck! Have a great summer. K.I.T. love Kastle."

What was his name?

"Bushy" is all that comes to mind. That wasn't his name obviously. But Mrs. Martinez gave us all nicknames. Bushy had really thick eyebrows.

Poor kid.

I think she gave him a complex. At some point during our eighth grade year he got them waxed for the first time. He came in the next day with really sharp eyebrows and really red skin.

I got the name "Kastle," with a K though, to differentiate me from the other Castle in Mrs... (What was her name again? Something with a K I believe now that I think about it. I hadn't thought of these people in 15 years) K's class.

I've been Kastle for nearly 16 years no one ever questions it.

I remember a few other nicknames, "Barbie," "Spikey," "Elfie," "Peanut Butter Girl," it seems odd to grown up me that an adult would give some mildly offensive nicknames based off of physical traits to her young teenage students and get away with it.

But Bushy's mom called me one summer night not long after we graduated. I think his name was Ricardo. Somewhere in the back of my mind that name stands out.

She called the house, my sister was the one who answered the phone. She'd asked for me. My sister handed me the phone.

She told me she was Ricardo's mom and that he hadn't come home and if I'd heard from him or seen him.

We were never that close, but I'd told him to KIT!

I told her I hadn't but that I'd call around.

A few days later he called me. Told me he was home. That he was fine. A misunderstanding.

We were 14.

"KIT! have a good summer! Good luck in high school! I hope you don't run away from your mom's house!"

I don't think I spoke to him again after that.

But for some reason driving down Laramie, I thought of that boy and wondered what ever happened to him.

Sunday Morning

My alarm goes off at 540. I didn't get enough sleep.

I haven't had enough sleep in the past week.

But that's how it goes every time.

This is what it is to be a slave to your art.

I'm dramatic, I know.

I set my alarm for six. Resting my eyes for another 20 minutes, thankful that I'd showered the night before.

And five minutes later my alarm goes off again. My phone says it's six, but my body says I should sleep more.

But it's the Christmas performance. It's the big one. It's the one I tell myself I'm going to start working on in September every year when I'm scrambling to finish choreography in November.

Maybe next year I will.

But for some reason I only know how to work well under pressure.

You want something good from the dancers? Sure how about a five-minute group number for the opening act? Then a duet to follow, which isn't really a duet, but more like two solos brought together with a bonus of three girls doing a part for the bridge.

Make sense?

No? Guess you'd have to see it to understand.

Ok ok, how about a nice solo to finish?

And how about I whip it all together in less than two months?
Ha.

I'm a slave driver and a masochist at the same time.

I spent the last two weeks, scouring the city for the items I needed to build beautiful golden arcs, for the final pieces of their costume, for affordable mini, battery operated lights and  opalescent sequined ribbon.

My fingers are burned from hot glue and my body exhausted from a lack of rest.

But that's over and done with. It's the big day and I'm laying in bed thanking God for dry shampoo and clean tights.

I told the girls they needed to be there by 730. We go on at 930.

Two services. Four dances.

I need to dress them, do their make up and secure the crowns I designed and made for them.

A difficult task since they include a battery pack for the lights.

Yes I made them light up crowns.

Yes, you should want one for yourself.

I wash my face, brush my teeth and dress quickly.

I'm out the door before sunrise and I know that as I watch the dawn break in front of me, everything will be worth it as i watch my girls in full costume, with the music going and the stage lights up, and their hair twinkling, with the crowd enraptured.

These are the fruits of my labor and they are beautiful.

Christmas Musings

All is calm, all is bright.

My family doesn't "holiday" very well.

I do that a lot. Use a noun as a verb. It amuses me.

Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's-- we seem to mess it up each time when left to our own devices.

I wish I was more festive.

Or that I had more money to force us out of the house to a nice place that knows how to holiday better than we do.

It's Christmas.

So I walked my dog. More like let him walk me. At eight years old, my senior citizen dog is still stronger than I'll ever be.

I haven't walked him in a while. I'm a negligent parent.

Sometimes I like to imagine him as a writer. His first book, "my mommy is negligent and other stories."

He's truly my son. Even he enjoys writing short personal essays.

You know, in my fictionalized version of him.

I am not a morning person So I don't walk him then. I'm also tired and weary of the world by the time I get home.

Depression does that to you.

I feel like I talk about depression a lot.

I'm not a Debbie downer by any means. Only few people in real life know about my struggles with depression.

That's how it is.

I use humor and a bubbly nature to hide the demons I deal with when I'm by myself. When I am trying to force myself to do things.

Most of the world's funniest people struggle with depression and addiction. Why do you think we're so funny?

We have to cope.

Making people laugh and making people happy helps-- for a little while.

My friend Steve called me while I was shopping. I told him I finished reading the manuscript he sent me. He told me he was no writer of prose, I told him I was no poet. So we're even.

I told him it was weird but I like weird. I told him it made me uncomfortable, but good art does that sometimes.

His stories are disjointed, but connected. Does that make sense?

We talked a while, or rather I talked. I talked about the church leaders dinner where I almost cried because no one wanted to sit at the table with me and my sister. How people only sat there because they got there late and those were the last seats available. I told him about my love of random decorative wall art, some of the inspirational shit that looked pretty and was supposed to uplift. I rambled about Betsy Johnson and donut purses and how I'd wear it but had to draw the line at a milk carton purse.

I rambled until I realized I was rambling.

And I apologized.

He said it was ok. That's why he called. So I could ramble.

It stung a little.

So I'm walking my dog and it's Christmas, but it doesn't feel like Christmas because my family doesn't do Christmas right.

Are you following?

I get asked directions from strangers. I am non threatening.

In the city of Chicago, the city of big shoulders, the city of gun violence, the windy city, I am a girl in fake uggs and mittens wearing a wonder woman scarf walking her fluffy dog as he wears his Santa sweater.

I am not scary. I am inviting.

Ask me how to get somewhere I know how to go to all the places.

Maybe this new year I can learn how to holiday. Maybe I can be the one to make home feel like home.

The houses I pass are lit up like the Vegas strip and this brings me some comfort.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.