Saturday September 18 2010

DREAM: I’ve abandoned her…or she’s abandoned me…or maybe we just abandoned each other. It’s over now. But really it was probably just me that did the abandoning because that would resemble more closely to waking life behavior. The hours pass, then the minutes, and then seconds. I see her in the hall—upset, with the usual sad and disappointed face. “I’m sorry,” I say while grabbing her body and embracing it with love. Something’s going to change…

11:11 a.m. I sludge out of bed to make it for my 10-hour shift at China Wok.

The jets are conducting an air show right above my house, literally.

The other day I used this purple scarf to cover up one of my windows and eliminate some of the bright light while I sleep. The whole ora of my room has changed—enjoying the new purple glow it emits.

Breakfast: Toasted Bagel with Butter and Blackberry Jam. Mint Tea.

Delivering an order near Harper’s Road. I have to putt-putt through the air show traffic on Oceana. I knock on the wrong door and have to call the lady just to find out she’s only two doors down. I apologize to her. She says to me, “It’s one of those days…it’s a rough one.” She must’ve been experiencing the same stress I was having today.

I got so angry today I cursed the sun out loud and imagined shooting a gargantuan size rocket at it in hopes it would block out the charring rays in my eyes. At times like these I wish I had something to squeeze and cause damage to at my whim, but all I have is the cushioned seat next to me. Sometimes I hate. Sometimes I love.

Cops are all over the place, on every corner. “Chaos on the road!”

Delivering an order on N Oceana. A flamboyant young black guy dressed in women’s clothes answers the door. I immediately thought of the loud-mouthed rape guy on youtube. He even had the crazy sister at his side. One of his friends on the couch spouts out to me, “Do yall hire black people?” I was tending to the order and didn’t answer him. Then he re-words it, “Do yall hire African-Americans?” Not sure how to answer I reply, “I don’t see why not.”

Number of Non-Tippers for this shift: 2

First Non-Tipper

Race/Description: African American Male in his late 20’s

General Location: N Oceana

Type of Residence: Small Duplex

Quality of Residence (5-Star Rating): *

Amount of Order: Over $31

Friendly/Non-Friendly: Friendly

Second Non-Tipper

Race/Description: Caucasian Female Mother

General Location: Snow Goose off Fremac

Type of Residence: Medium sized Apartment

Quality of Residence (5-Star Rating): ***

Amount of Order: Under $20

Friendly/Non-Friendly: Friendly

Dinner: Vegetable Lo Mein. Apple Juice.

In the backseat of the car. James and our new friend in the front. I tell them how I almost accidentally opened the front door of my boss’s minivan today thinking it was my own. We entertain the idea if it was a complete stranger’s van instead and there were kids in the back. I would just drive off to deliver my orders—the kids not knowing what was happening. The kids, intelligent enough to talk about interesting things with me. I would arrive back to the restaurant just in time when the mother, unaware of the adventure her kids just had, is ready to leave. I’d wave to my newfound friends and continue on my day. This would be a short film of course.

Arriving at 121 Woodland Drive in Newport News, the lovely abode of Angel Graves and Renee Shuman—it’s Renee’s 21st birthday. Fresh faces and laid back socializing. Talking with Renee in the kitchen—my beautiful friend, your energy was missed—updating our stories.

Playing one of Angel’s battered guitars with new acquaintances—drinking a vodka and juice mixture. The guitar is missing the G-string—droning in the key of E—singing a bluesy chant in unison—on the bed with everyone. There’s a sudden awareness in her eyes—high on a new feeling. We go for a walk. The night air is cool and natural. I’m out of my element yet comfortable—smoking Sampoernas and talking about our current romantic relationships with other people. Leaning against the rear of a car, her back to me—I hold on to her from behind as she resembles a cherub statue in a water fountain pose yet live movement.

There’s a deejay down in the basement blasting the latest remixes—making me feel like I’m a part of a narrative nightlife scene in a music video.

I mingle around playing the no-g-string guitar. Sitting down next to a girl named Ashley singing aloud a made-up “That’s what she said” diddy we made up an hour ago.

Inside the tent on the patio…most everyone has gone to sleep. There’s a weed after smell leftover from someone else. I watch her body slither and maneuver like a mermaid among the sheets—stretching her arms and legs—just observing, then caressing her Japanese chocolate skin. Throughout the night she repeats to me her concern to be respectful, yet there’s a wild fire controlling her and I’m not sure I can resist a response. However, I won’t allow anything further. She keeps asking about her phone to call her family. Eventually, she decides to curl up in a ball on the round sofa chair like a pearl in an oyster. I cover her with the blanket and retreat into the kitchen.

There’s mild drama with one of the roommates. Renee gives me some applesauce for sustenance.

Sleep 5:15 a.m.

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