NOOGIESBRAIN

NOODLES OUT OF THE HEAD OF A NOOGIE

  • A Year of Anger

    In exactly two weeks from today, it will be my husband’s one year death anniversary. 

    In my culture, we would acknowledge his passing by paying respects to him by cooking his favorite dishes, setting up an altar with his photograph, lighting candles and incense while we speak to him. Only after the incense has extinguished do we get to touch the food for ourselves. 

    But here in middle America, no such thing will happen.

    People will comment such trite things to me, such as, 

    “I can’t believe it’s been a year, how are you doing?”

    “He was such a great person.”

    “I’m sure he’s looking down from heaven and smiling at you.”

    Whatever.

    It’s been a year fraught with grief, sorrow, loneliness, but mostly anger.

    Anger illogically directed at him for dying. He had promised me at least twenty more years with him. Anger at cancer. Anger that there was no cure.

    A lot of anger stemming from the weird relationship he had with his adult children, who he praised all the time as if they hung the moon. Angry at him for his delusional pride in them, thinking they were oh so smart and accomplished thinkers and trailblazers. 

    Parenting does not come with any instruction manual. We are all winging it, some more successfully than others.

    I’ve always parented based on my gut feeling. I feel I intuitively know my kids very well because they were attached to me in utero. Sometimes psychically even, for example, when I knew my oldest had pneumonia before he had even been seen by any medical professional.

    What is the correct way to parent? Is it just as harmful to give your kids everything, as it is to withhold things from them? Does it do them harm when you praise them for something that doesn’t need to be praised?

    In Costco a few weeks ago, I couldn’t help but hear this mother talking to her little kids as if she were having an adult conversation with them but done in a sing-songey voice. She was explaining to them every damn little thing: “that is a banana, we don’t eat chips, we’re looking for only organic.” Yadda yadda yadda. I wanted to punch her lights out.

    It’s not that big of a deal that your five-year-old knows what a damn banana is. It does not mean he has Mensa IQ.

    Anger at my husband is accompanied with resentment. When we discussed his will and I asked to be removed from it to avoid any conflicts with his children, he said I didn’t have any faith in him. He said he was hurt that I would think he had raised anybody who would be spiteful and ugly.

    For the last year, I have had to contend with his “faultless” kids in so many ways, that my anger at him has repeatedly fucked with my blood pressure, my stress level, my sleeplessness. These people have no respect for others or any social graces. I am so mad at him for thinking that they are exceptional people when they are actually loathsome. I’m so mad at him for being such a smart person but so dumb when it came to his kids.

    I’m so mad that the harmful things done to me by his children has tainted my relationship with him. I know this is wrong and I am trying very hard to let go of this anger. I have officially erased them from my mind. I am not anticipating actually receiving anything from the estate.

    I have  the car that he loved to drive. And I have some of his cremains, thanks to the funeral home. (His children forbade me to have them.) I have some photos and I saved all of the texts and emails and notes that we exchanged. And I have my memories. In exactly two weeks from today, I will look for him among the stars in the night sky that he used to name for me. I will celebrate him as my childless husband.

  • Colette

    Ecole Française Colette on Ho Xuan Huong Avenue in Saigon is a massive two-story adobe structure. It is painted orange and has green wooden shutters. Beyond the green metal arched gates, the courtyard is covered in pea gravel. There is a bust of some unknown man’s head on a stone pillar in the middle of the courtyard.

    When I was a student there, it was only a one-story building. And I don’t remember it being painted a cheerful orange but rather a faded and jaundiced horse manure color. The hallways between the classrooms were always dark and scary. On the occasional few times that I was allowed to use the bathroom, I would run quickly and squat over the latrine, hoping for fast release because noises echoing from the ceramic tile walls were surely from the dead, as legend had it.   

    Colette, before it was a school, was a hospital. The lore was that so many soldiers died there at the hospital that their spirits still haunted the building. Some were benign yet others were to be feared because they had died violently and were seeking revenge.

    The war in Vietnam precipitated that some schools be combined or shut down. Colette was not shuttered but they changed to a two-session school day. Some students attended the morning session and some, like me, went in the afternoons. 

    Sometimes I got to school with our nanny, on a pedicab, or cyclo. My best days were when my favorite cousin would come pick me up and take me on the back of his motorcycle. I still can’t believe that my mother allowed that. But it was exhilarating for me as a kid to be on a real motorcycle, not one of those putt putt mopeds.

    School went from two in the afternoon to six in the evening. I was usually picked up by my mother or my nanny. 

    A week after my friend Suzanne, who had been kidnapped and had gotten part of her ear chopped off, their wires got crossed and neither my mother or my nanny came and got me. 

    I waited in the schoolyard with all the other students. But no sign of them. The number of kids dwindled and the custodian came and ushered the few us left out of the yard so he could lock the gates.

    Outside of the gate, I waited with some older girls remaining. As the group slowly thinned out and the sky darkened, the cold of fear started creeping up my limbs. I approached an older girl and begged. “Big sister, can you stay with me? I don’t know where my mother is.” She agreed and comforted me but eventually her ride came and she left too. 

    I was alone in front of these huge metal gates in the dark. The same gates which kept the ghosts confined to the building. The same gates where some random criminal had dropped off my friend Suzanne with part of her ear missing. The same gates where Thich Quang Duc, a Buddhist monk had self-immolated in protest of the government’s persecution of Buddhists.

    I was paralyzed with fear that I would be kidnapped next. There were stories all over Saigon about what criminals were willing to do for the ransom. The general consensus was that it was a lucrative business for them and they were not moved by pleas of mercy from their victims.

    I had heard talk of people losing fingers, hands, and toes, but seeing for myself Suzanne’s left over ear made it hard to breathe that evening, while I was alone in the dark. 

    I started to walk away from the school towards the direction of one of my aunt’s house. The sidewalk was completely pitch black. I was sobbing with every step. I hugged my schoolbag to my chest to stop shaking. I concentrated all my senses to pick up any odd sounds or movement and prepared myself for escape should I need it. I prayed my legs would work. I remember being startled and then relieved when I walked into some overhanging limbs and the foliage brushed my face. 

    I was desolate. I felt abandoned and unloved. How could they forget me? Fear was joined with bitterness and deep hurt. I had always felt that I was the least favored child of the four. Would they pay the ransom if someone took me? Would I be sold to some codger to be a child bride? Would I become a prostitute like my tutor was always implying?

    When I finally entered my aunt’s house, still crying, I wasn’t met with hugs or relief. That’s not the way they did things. She did, however, put a large bowl of rice with meat and veggies in front of me and said, “Eat!” 

    And I knew people DID care for me.

  • Hygiene Lessons: Beyond the ABCs

    In Saigon, Vietnam, I attended a French kindergarten named Croix Rouge which literally translates to Red Cross. The teachers, both French and Vietnamese taught in French. But mainly we played. I don’t really remember much of my kindergarten year, I’m assuming because it was not memorable, neither positive or negative.

    I do however, recall my first-grade experience in Vietnam as clear as day itself. Children had to take an entrance exam to enter elementary school. And apparently, I was as bright as an old penny. My mother was coerced into hiring a special tutor for me, and not incoincidentally, it turned out to be my first-grade teacher. Private lessons were held at her second-floor little apartment, to supplement her teaching salary.

    When I said we played in the French kindergarten, I am saying I did little kid stuff. Perhaps I played tag or with dolls. Maybe I colored? Probably sang some silly songs. I don’t remember it being a stressful time.

    That all changed significantly in the first grade. The reality of real school for me was frightening, abasing, and demoralizing. The very first day of class set the horrific tone for the upcoming term.

    My illiterate nanny was to take me to my first day of school. All students were required to have identity cards, with their passport-sized photo attached to it. I remember we were running late that morning. And as we dashed out the door, she remembered the ID card. She found the card but the photos were not attached yet. She ran around the house in search for glue, but finally ran into the kitchen, with me following closely behind. She opened the rice pot and scooped out a fingerful of cold rice, which she smeared onto the back of the photo. Tada! Glue! She hammered on my face’s likeness with her fist to ensure a seal.   

    My mother sent me to my first day of school, armed with the requisite cahiers notebooks, my yellow, zippered pencil pouch with pencils and quill pens, and my little plastic ink pot, which always leaked black ink over everything. My nanny and I caught a cyclo to the school. There she dropped me off, no hugs, no kisses, no waves, no pictures, just go.

    In class, on the VERY first day, we were told to get out a textbook and take turns reading out loud. I DID NOT KNOW HOW TO READ. I guess playing tag and dolls does not automatically instill reading skills into your head at age 5. So when it was my turn, I stood at my desk, and stood. I kept standing silently, disgraced before the whole class. I couldn’t figure out how all the other girls knew how to read!

    I also did not know how to write. Sure, I knew how to spell my name but these other girls in the class were writing whole essays in cursive with the quill pen and ink.

    There were no recesses or bathroom breaks at my all-girl school. And of course, it was widely rumored that the school was haunted because it had once been a hospital where many people died. To go to the bathroom, you had to raise your hand and beg for permission. You would then tear some sheets of paper out of one of your notebooks and slink quietly out of the class. But my malevolent teacher denied me the opportunity to relieve myself. So I kept sitting at my desk until I quietly wet myself. And I stayed that way the rest of the day.

    My nanny met me at the gate of the school that afternoon. She was already sitting on a cyclo. When she found I was wet, she scolded me loudly, so everyone around us could hear. She made me take my underwear off, right there on the footpad of the cyclo. And furiously hiked up my dress so everyone could see my bare bottom. I rode home, sitting on the plastic covers of my notebooks.

    That was Day One.

    On Tuesdays, we had Vietnamese lessons, since it was a French school. That teacher was a young Vietnamese man. He gave us all kinds of assignments, apparently, of which I was unaware of. One by one, we were called to stand to his right as he sat at the big wooden desk facing the class. The other girls were reciting from memory full chapters of SOMETHING. I didn’t know what the heck was going on. When I was called, I stood next to his desk, with my hands clasped behind my back, silent. And stood and stood until he cussed me out and screamed at me to go back to my seat after he rapped my knuckles with his green plastic ruler. The rulers we had in Vietnam had 4 sides to them, not flat as in America, so the edges really hurt on my knuckles.

    That was Day Two.

    So Day Three comes around, and guess what? I have my first tutoring session. I walk up the stairs to a well-lit little apartment that even has a balcony. I am told to sit at the small table. I sit and sit and finally my teacher comes out. She is barefoot. She has a silky short-sleeved pajama set on. She is no longer polite or nun-like. She barks at me to start reading from the textbook. I stumble as best as I can through the jumble of unfamiliar letters. I am doing a terrible job. She swoops her hands across the table and pushes all my books and notebooks crashing off the little table. She grabs one of my wrists and says, “How can you even read with hair like that? You can’t even see! No wonder you’re so dumb!” She drags me onto the balcony and magically produces a pair of scissors and goes to town on my bangs. My China Chop hairdo now looks more like Insane Jane’s style but hey, at least I’m no longer so dumb.

    She looks at my fingernails and scolds me that they are filthy, like a whore’s nails. She rants about me being nothing but a slut. She takes out some nail clippers and starts whacking off my nails but cuts too close to my nail bed on some fingers so they start to bleed. 

    When my mother comes to collect me that evening, the teacher is all sweet and pious. She even drapes her hands casually on my shoulders as she tells my mother how much I have improved. My mother hands her some money and thanks her.

  • Start of a famous novel

    Alixandre Grimald — half French, half Vietnamese, tawny skin, jet black thick hair, golden green almond eyes, long limbed (of course), firm boobs, high, firm rear, etc.

    Born in South Vietnam, spent adolescence in Thailand, educated in finest schools of Europe, speaks French, Vietnamese, Thai and English (with a Continental accent) fluently.

    Socialite, debutante, does work for children’s relief fund, something like UNICEF but really does work for some coalition similar to the CIA or French Intelligence to help world peace, etc. Athletic, sportswoman, hunts, rides, etc.

    Jay Plimpton — American, sandy blond hair, crystal blue eyes, great body, of course, well-muscled, but lean, not bulky. Has made it as a fashion photographer to pay the rent but really yearns for the photojournalism work, National Geographic, political stuff, war correspondence, is tired of all the empty people in the fashion world. Came from a working class family, hard-working, has earned everything that he’s got, first in his family to go to college. He’s a pretty boring guy, Actually.

    They first meet on the island of Phuket, Thailand. He is staying in a hotel adjacent to her father’s property. He’s on a photo shoot for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue with all these beautiful models. There are mini cabanas set up nearby where the models can change into their different outfits. Hair and make-up people work on the models in the cabanas. He confers with the art director and stylist.

    She’s on vacation but she’s actually waiting to go on a mission. She walks out of the pool and squeezes the water out of her long hair. She reclines languidly on a chaise and puts her sunglasses on. She stretches and rests her arms on the back of the chaise above her head as she surveys the beach. She watches the camera crew with slight interest as she sips coconut water out of a fresh green coconut. 

    The models are knee deep in the water, posing ridiculously with their buttocks stuck out and their backs arched. The photographer has khaki shorts on. He’s got a pair of sunglasses hanging from some cords around his neck. The arms of his glasses are neon pink, she can see them from where she’s sitting clearly because of the color. He’s also got a light meter around his neck which he uses from time to time. She flips a look at her diamond studded Rolex that dear Daddy gave her and oh, guess what? It’s time for a massage down by the beach. She picks up her sarong and strolls casually down to the sand where some Thai women are giving massages under some coconut palms. She knows them well and calls to them and waves as they also do. 

    “Sure wish I had a suit like that!” one model remarks.

    “Look, she’s got tits too!”

    Fact is, she’s got on a spare little maillot she bought on vacation in Brazil, which leaves more exposed than it covers. But this being Thailand, land of the gentle people and pornography, she can get away with it.

    He takes his eyes from his camera to see what the models are ga ga over. He spies this gorgeous set of tight tanned bums and long legs covered by a long wrap. Only when she bends down on the grass mat for her massage and tosses her mane of hair over her shoulders as she lies down does his insides do flip flops and his loins catch on fire. HIs composure lost, he calls it a day. Gets his assistant to pack up the camera equipment and the models disperse.

    Walks toward the woman under the coconut trees as the women wave to him. “Massage, 5 dollahs, monsieur.”

    He accepts, the whole time keeping his eyes on the girl. As he lies down prone, she turns her head and their eyes meet. He tries a nervous smile at her. No response from her, she just closes her eyes behind sooty lashes. Her masseuse makes her flip over after a while. But the straps to her maillot have been pushed down over her shoulders and as she settles on her back, the top of her suit barely covers her breasts. He sneaks a peek through half closed eyes and marvels at the twin peaks. There are faint tan lines, teasing the tawny brown smooth skin, the nipples erect and pointy. Her stomach is flat and toned. She has one leg propped up and he fantasizes about tasting her inner thighs. Her eyes are closed and he relishes the time he can stare.

    His masseuse makes him turn over. He closes his eyes. The native women comment on his half erection and the girl smiles and says something back to them in Thai. The ladies laugh gently. He doesn’t  know they’re laughing at him, he’s dreaming about her, reveling in that sing song voice of hers. He feels movement beside him and opens his eyes. Her massage is done and she squats beside him to pay the woman and to pick up her sarong. Her back is to him. He looks at her heart-shaped ass with the little twisted thong going up between the cheeks. She brushes the sand off of them and stands, looming over him. The sun is in his eyes but he thought he caught a glimpse of fine down. She walks away toward the hotel.

    The Thai women laugh gently again. They ask, “You like her, monsieur?” in broken English.

    The next day after a photo shoot at some waterfalls and hoping to bump into that woman in the hotel lobby without any luck, he decides to go snorkeling. The water is warm, it’s caressing him. He goes a little too far, forgets himself, leaves the waters of the hotel and swims into her father’s estate’s private beach.

    She is sunning herself nude on her rock. She likes to sit on the rock. It is big and has a flat top. It is sizzling hot and she likes to spread out on it after a swim. It’s where she goes to be alone. The rock is one among a cropping of other jutting rocks that break the beach from the deeper waters of the ocean. She sees a snorkeling funnel and some fins paddling towards her but isn’t too concerned because tourists often pass the edge of the hotel property and wander onto hers. But they usually make it back, without discovering her secret place. She watches the snorkeler glide slowly through the water lazily.

    A speed boat goes by too fast, too close to the beach and makes crashing waves which send the snorkeler smashing against the rocks. She sits up alarmed and doesn’t see him for a minute. And then she sees the body but the feet aren’t moving and, of my God, fearing the absolute worst, she jumps into the water to the person’s aid, forgetting her state of undress. She is able to drag him half way out of the water and pushes his back onto the rock where she had lain. She removes the snorkeling mask and stares into his face. He’s unconscious. She shakes his head, slaps his cheeks gently and talks to him.

    When he awakes, the first thing his eyes see are these perfectly shaped boobs, glistening in the sunlight from the sheen of the water. There are little water droplets collecting at the nipples. He’s dreaming. It’s that woman. She’s completely bare and kneeling in front of him. When she sees that he has opened his eyes, she sits back on her heels and rests her hands on her thighs.

    “Thank God you’re alright!” He hears this sweet voice with a lilting accent that sounded definitely European.

    Her back is to the sun and he doesn’t see her face clearly but his eyes are at the same level as her pubic area. He stares at the neat triangle of fur, wet with ocean water. He tries to reach out a hand to touch the incredible looking down and she mistakes his action.

    “Don’t get up. Just lay there a while and catch your breath. I think you hit your head.” She leans towards him again, cupping his head in her hands as she looks at the top of his head. This puts her incredible breasts mere inches from his face. “I’m afraid you’re going to have quite a bump.” He touches his head gingerly and winces.

    “Can you get up now?” He nods. So she helps him get up, he slips a little on the uneven rock but she helps him towards the beach. She settles him on a grass mat on the sand. She chides, “You know, you shouldn’t have been out there, those rocks can be pretty treacherous.”

    “I didn’t know. . .”

    “It’s easy to underestimate how far you’ve gone out there. You’re staying at the hotel, aren’t you?”

    He nodded.

    “I’ll arrange a car for you to get back then. You’ll hopefully feel better in a bit.”

    “The hotel?” he asked.

    “Uh huh, over there.” She points over his shoulder. “You strayed too far.”

    The hotel looked further away than he remembered swimming.

    “You’re the photographer, aren’t you?” Even with the dull ache in his head, he was thrilled that she noticed who he was. He nodded again. “Must be a fun job.”

    “Not that fun.” He finally found his voice. “But it pays my rent and affords me time to do what I really want.”

    “And what’s that?”

    “Real photography.”

    “And what is real photography?”

    “I’m sorry, but I find it . . . a little . . . unsettling that you’re . . . I’m sorry to be staring.”

    She looked down at her nakedness and smiled at him. “What?” she mocked. “You’ve never seen a woman’s nudity before? You with the camera? And a flock of pretty girls?” She wrapped a sarong around herself and asked, “Better?” She sat down beside him on the mat. “So, Mr. . . .”

    “Jay Plimpton.”

    “Alixandre Grimald, please to meet you.” She extends her hand. “So Mr. Plimpton, what exactly is real photography? I’m curious.”

    “Stuff that serves a purpose.”

    “And you don’t think beautiful women in swimsuits on a beach serves a purpose?”

    “Sometimes I wonder why I even waste the film.”

    “What a cynic you are! It serves some purpose, I’m sure. Some young women who see those magazines will aspire to become like those models. And the men! They probably dream of having your job. My God, you get to look at available and exciting women all day.”

    “I guess excitement is in the eye of the beholder.”

    “You don’t find those models exciting?” He shook his head. “Well then, what does excite you, Mr. Plimpton? Massages?” When he looked up sharply at her catching onto her hidden meaning, he saw that she was smiling at him impishly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to poke fun. Your masseuse called our attention to you . . . majesty.”

    “Aw, geez! That’s what you were laughing about! Well, that’s just great!” His mood went from surprise to embarrassment to anger in one fleeting minute, as he tried to stand up.

    “It’s ok!” She laid a hand gently on his arm. “I was flattered.” When he caught her eye, she kissed him softly. “I thought it was sweet.”

    “Sweet?” He couldn’t take his eyes off of her mouth with that natural pout to her bottom lip. She was sitting so close to him that he could feel the whole length of her body against his. She nodded her head yes. He crooked a finger under her chin and brought her face closer to his and kissed those fabulous lips back. She covered his hand with hers and turned closer to him. She returned his kiss and they both parted their lips at the same time. She tasted the ocean on his tongue and closed her eyes. He was nibbling on the corners of her mouth when she heard “M’selle Alix, phone call for you.” It was her housemaid, calling from the house.

    Alix blinked her eyes open and adjusted a proper posture. They parted and she murmured, “I have to get that.” Louder, she said, “Somchai, can you arrange a car to take Monsieur Plimpton back to the hotel?” And then to Jay, “Do you feel better yet?”

    Disappointed, he nodded and got to his feet and dusted the sand off his shorts. Alix gathered the rest of her things and led the way back to the house, a large stucco example of Colonial architecture, typical from the days Southeast Asia was occupied by the French. There was a seating arrangement of wicker outdoor furniture on the stone courtyard connecting the house to the beach by a few steps. From there, they entered a large sitting room with high ceilings and slowly turning ceiling fans. Alix put down her sunglasses and mat on a settee. She looked at her watch and apologized to Jay. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that it had gotten quite so late. But I’ve been waiting for this call all day. I hope you don’t mind. My driver can take you back to the hotel.”

    Jay was awed by the size of the house as it looked from the beach. Now he was trying to measure up the sitting room, with its huge windows and real wooden shutters. The elegant furniture was covered in Jim Thompson silk. The walls were covered with artwork which seemed to range from early European to Oriental, yet it was tastefully done so that it looked appropriate together. 

    “That won’t be necessary. I can walk.”

    “Mr. Plimpton, don’t be silly. I saved your life once already today, I wouldn’t want anything else to happen to you. And now, if you’ll please excuse me, I really have to go. Somchai can show you out.” She started to walk out of the room.

    “Will I see you again?” Jay blurted.

    She smiled her demure but sensual smile of hers. “Do you WANT to see me again, Mr. Plimpton?” When he nodded, she said, “Then I suspect you will. Goodbye.” And then she was gone.

    Jay touched the bump on his head gingerly and winced. He wiped away some of the steam that had collected on the bathroom mirror and surveyed his reflection in the glass. His damp hair hung in curls about his face and nape. He smoothed it back on his head with both hands. He reached for a towel and secured it around his waist. He automatically reached for the can of shaving cream and lathered his face. He turned the tap on and ran his fingers under the jet of water testing the temperature. While he shaved carefully, his mind wandered back to Alixandre Grimald.

    In all the time that he had worked with the top models of the fashion world he had never met any woman who had such an effect on him. He tried to rationalize what exactly it was about her that was so attractive. Maybe it was her unusual coloring, or the way her golden eyes seemed to penetrate his very core when she looked at him.

    He rinsed his face and toweled off. He propped himself on his knuckles as he looked closer into the mirror. Who was he kidding? A woman like that? Way out of his league. She smelled of money, sophistication and class. He didn’t stand a chance. For that one minute when their lips met, he’d thought his insides were going to explode, he’d felt such pleasure. He’d wanted to sink into the warm abyss that her mouth offered. But it was a fluke, an accident, an event that was sure to not repeat itself.

    He really wanted to crawl into bed and dream about her. Instead, he was going to a nightclub with the crew tonight. He reached into the closet and reached for a pair of black linen slacks and an off-white linen shirt. It was far too muggy for a jacket He grabbed his room keycard and snapped off the lights.

    Bored, Jay watched as the models danced with each other. He had never liked loud and noisy places like this. It was a meat market, no matter what part of the world you were in. Clubs like this never varied whether they were in LA, New York , or Phuket. He took another swig of whiskey and turned to survey the place. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of Alixandre and two men at the entrance of the club. She was wearing a simple black slip dress with spaghetti straps and the two men were in black tie.

     They were ushered to a banquette on the second level of the club, away from the dance floor.

    “Hey, do you know who that is?” Jay asked the Thai interpreter that the magazine hired.

    The Thai man turned to where Jay pointed. He put a hand on Jay’s arm and pushed it down. “Please, Mr. Jay, we don’t point in Thailand. Very rude.”

    “I’m sorry. But do you know who those people are?”

    “Everyone know who that is.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “She Alixandre Grimald. Her father very famous, very rich French military man. Mother Vietnamese.”

    “What does she do?”

    “Her?” The interpreter laughed. “She spend a lot money, go to parties. She on TV many times. Very beautiful, yes?”

    Jay ignored the interpreter’s comments. He didn’t want to believe that this woman, of all women, would be another shallow fashion slave. He made his way to where she was sitting. She was seated between the two gentlemen. The handsome Caucasian was smoking a cigarette leisurely, his other hand toying with his Cognac. The Asian man with them was of slight build and quiet in both speech and manner. 

    “Hi. I wanted to say hello and thank you again for yesterday.”

    “Mr. Plimpton, how nice to see you again. Please, won’t you join us? This is Luc Semon and Tran Trinh, friends of mine from childhood. Jay Plimpton.”

    The men shake hands and Jay slides into the banquette next to the Vietnamese man.

    “Can we get something for you to drink?”

    “No, no thank you, I’ve already had my fair share tonight.”

    “Mr. Plimpton is a photographer for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. He’s been traveling with an entourage of beautiful nymphs.”

    “You are a lucky man,” Luc adds in English with a French accent.

    “Yes, I was especially lucky yesterday to have this wonderful woman save me from drowning.”

    Alix laughs, “Oh, you are making far too much of it. I did nothing.”

    “She is being modest. If she hadn’t pulled me out of the water, I would have been filleted like sushi on the jagged rocks.”

    He says that it was nice to meet them politely although he feels out of place because of their obvious sophistication and their private party vibe. He doesn’t even have a jacket on. 

    After Jay leaves their table, Alix scolds her French companion for being a pig. Luc asks what she knows about Jay. She admits very little. “But you say he takes pictures? We need pictures of the reeducation camps along the border.”

    “For God’s sake, he takes photos of women in bikinis, Luc!”

    “Use him, Alixandre.”

    “There’s no reason to involve him, Luc.”

    “But he’s perfect.”

    The conversation irritated Alix because she knew there was some truth in it. And because it came from Luc. She does a mental slap and can’t believe that she was ever engaged to him. But he holds all the cards, he’s got the connections to find her brother. She realizes she needs Luc.

    Jay sees her striding briskly to the exit and follows her outside. She hails for her car.

    “Is everything alright, Miss Grimald?”

    She turns around surprised, but when she sees him, she gives him her gorgeous smile.

    “Why, of course, why do you ask?”

    “You seemed upset back there.’

    “Ah yes, Luc can be rather boorish. Can I give you a lift?”

    “Sure, if it’s convenient for you.”

    “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” she says and moves so he can reach for the door. He bends his tall form into the car and settles next to her. 

    Alix gives the hotel as the destination to the driver but is quiet otherwise. In the dark confines of the car, he feels electricity arcing into his body from being so close to her. He goes through the times table in his head, earnestly hoping that he won’t get hard. But he can see her form under the little dress. It’s apparent she is wearing nothing under the dress. He sees both nipples straining against the silk of the dress.

    “So you never told me what you thought real photography was.”

    “I want to document life, history, people, cultures, the good and bad of humankind, before their way of life doesn’t exist anymore.”

    “Very noble of you.”

    “Not noble, I feel like it’s my duty.”

    She uncrosses and crosses her legs and he feels a hardening between his thighs. She sees he is attracted to her and really looks at him for the first time. Even in the dim light of the car, she can see his ocean blue eyes. The heat of a Thai evening has produced damp curls at his nape. She resists the urge to tame them. Their bodies touch as the car jostles over a pothole and their eyes meet.

    Lights illuminate the car. They have arrived at the hotel. He doesn’t want the connection to her body to end, but has enough sense to open the door, get out and bid her goodnight. “Thanks for the lift.” He is rewarded with a smile.

    Back at her house, she’s sipping on a brandy when she realizes that there might be some truth to what Luc was saying. She’s been needing those photos. She hadn’t been able to get close enough. They had already studied aerial views of Camp 254 to know that Albert, her brother, was not located there. He must have been moved again. She’s waited for years. The enemies had been careful to keep his whereabouts a secret.

    Since her father’s death two years ago, she had painstakingly tried to find out where her brother was imprisoned but without success. On his death bed, he had asked for that one request, that she bring home his wife’s only son, who had been abducted from the streets of Paris. Albert, strong, tall and handsome, had held a special place in her heart too. They had been a tight family. The three of them. Albert, like his father, had also worked for the French intelligence.

    Like his father, he had become an authority on the machinations of the new Vietnamese Communist regime. Sure, they had open borders and manufactured everything from shoes to smart phones for the Western world but the citizens still suffered. Capitalism thrived in Vietnam but most of the profits made still belonged to the state.

    She had received tips that Albert had perhaps been moved to Camp18. She was worried about her brother. It had been 5 years since he’s been taken. She didn’t know what physical state he was in, let alone his mental state. She feared that he might have been “re-educated.”

    “May I have Jay Plimpton’s room?” Alix dangles a crossed leg back and forth as she waits to be connected. “Mr. Plimpton? Jay?”                 

    Jay still thinks he is in a dream, because she was calling his name, her hands cupping his rear and pulling him closer as he was thrusting into her. 

    “I’m sorry, did I wake you?” He shakes his head, coming awake. 

    “Yes, but it’s ok.” His voice is low and gruff with sleep. He clears his throat. “Is something wrong?”

    “No, not at all. I couldn’t sleep and my mind’s been churning. I was wondering…”

    “Yes?”

    “How much longer will your assignment be for the magazine?”

    “I’ve got about 2 more days, if the weather cooperates. Why?”

    “Well, I was wondering, you said you wanted to do the kind of photography of authentic people, the natives, in their own setting.”

    “Yes, I did.”

    “Well, if you have the time, would you be interested in taking a trip with me through the mountains? And along the Mekong. I’ve got to go up there to visit some medical facilities and see how our immunization program is working.

    “Are you kidding? I’d love to.”

    “It would be for about a week or so, do you think you’ll have the time?”

    “Hell, I’m a freelancer, I go where ever the picture is.”

    “Alright, then it’s a deal. I’ll talk to you about the details tomorrow. Good night, Mr. Plimpton.”

    She hangs up and stares at the phone as if in a trance. Then she paces the floor.

    “Oh Papa, I’ll bring him home yet.”

    Jay can’t believe his luck. A whole fucking week with this gorgeous woman in the lush jungles of Thailand. He sleeps like a babe.

    Over dinner the next day, details are confirmed. They’ll leave for Bangkok first. Then they will hole up at her house in the city. They’ll get their supplies and make the necessary travel arrangements. Drive the all-terrain truck to the countryside. Visit some villages where she will drop off medical supplies. And continue into the jungle.

    They catch a flight back to Bangkok. First class, of course. She’s polite in conversation but seems aloof. At the house, he’s surprised and impressed with the size and amenities of the house, especially because it is such a contrast to the neighboring cardboard boxes on the other side of the tall wall topped with shards of glass.

    He gets his own room and bathroom. There’s a silk robe and slippers laid out for him. There’s a glass of juice and ice water on the night table before he goes to sleep.

    The next morning, he comes down late and she’s already had her breakfast. He apologizes for oversleeping. She’s in jodphurs, been riding her horse all morning. She orders his breakfast by clapping her hands. He gets fresh squeezed juice and exotic fruit. There’s an English language newspaper folded neatly beside his plate. Coffee is served.

    She asks for a list of supplies that he would need for the trip that she can get picked up for him. But he really wants to visit a camera store himself so she offers to drive him. She knows where to go and she drives expertly on the left side of the road, handling the clutch and the gearbox like a pro. She has changed into loose linen pants and tee. Her hair is held back with a bandana. She dons sunglasses and a bucket hat, which would look ridiculous on anyone else.

    They are in Bangkok for a week. In that week, she introduces him to all the tourist attractions; the many temples, the rides in fast boats on the klong, the traditional dance and dinner theater. She encourages him to make himself at home. Well, his house doesn’t have a salt water pool, or servants doing everything but pissing for him. They even ironed his tee shirts and boxers.

    They leave the city. The driving is slow. The roads are not good and full of potholes. Soon the trees become denser. They find an inn to spend the night but there is only one room available. She doesn’t see any problems with sharing. They are both exhausted from the day’s drive and go the bed after dinner. She comes to bed in a tee and undies. He swallows hard and slips under the covers on the other side of the bed in his boxers. She complains about the heat and tosses the covers aside and snuggles up to him in her sleep. 

    , , , ,

  • Just Sittin’

    Sitting at my gate waiting to board for my flight back to Atlanta so I can pack up my belongings and have them shipped to California.

    There’s a chick nearby who opened a rectangular Tupperware that had 4 large hard boiled eggs. She took out a plastic spoon and scooped a whole egg and put the whole thing into her mouth. She chewed for quite some time. She did the same with the remaining 3 eggs.

    She closed up the Tupperware and put it into her backpack.

    She pulled another container out, filled with something that looks like oatmeal? Started eating that with same spoon.

    There’s a brother who’s been talking business but then, “Oh shit, it’s my wife. Fuck.”

    I saw the back of the head of a woman with dreadlocks holding a baby. She had headphones on and I was wondering how she could listen to the baby. Then the baby started crying, its head kind of backwards. The woman stood up and pushed the stroller away. A little later, she came back with the baby, now calm. But then it started crying again and I heard, “Oh no, not now.” But in a man’s deep voice! I looked and it was a man! Traveling alone with an infant. Impressive.

    Listening to some Africans speaking French. I love it.

    I bought banana bread and an iced latte before and a bag of pepper jerky so I can stink up the plane later, but hey, protein! The lady helping me was super nice because I was nice to her. Other people behind the counter were working on a large order, I assumed for this Chinese group of people who clogged up the whole area. They were talking loudly in bad English. Rude, standing in everyone else’s way, I shoved through, knocking my backpack into them.

    Flight to LA has been delayed because of mechanical issue. They say it’s been fixed and the plane is airborne but, dude, if my plane has mechanical issue, I am not getting on it. How can they convince people that it is really truly fixed?

    I really hate how the modern phones are not ergonomic to be a listening device. It’s ridiculous to hold a slab against your ear. When I do, the phone gets all sweaty, ewww (!) and my ear gets hot.

    But the main reason I hate modern phones is because it causes noise pollution. People don’t have any hesitation to just talk openly and loudly in public. And because it’s not ergonomic, they put it on speaker and hold the phone in front of their face, so I hear the person they are having the call with.

    I don’t want to hear anybody’s business. And some of them do it as a show off, like they are so busy and important. One guy is talking super loud, saying the same thing over and over and pacing so everyone can tell he is on the phone and he’s a big cheese at work. Probably limburger.

    , , , ,

  • 6 Years Old: The Gate Keeper

    Papa entered the little girl’s room. Mama left with her head held down.

    Papa sat down on the little girl’s bed, one hand on her little body.

    PAPA: You all tucked in nice and good?

    The little girl smiled and nodded.

    GIRL: Yes, Papa.

    PAPA: Lemme show you something. 

    He gently pulled back the sheets. 

    PAPA: Lemme show you where your womb is.

    He pulled up the hem of her Little Mermaid nightgown.

    GIRL: No, Papa. Mama said never ever do anything down there except wash.

    PAPA: I know, honey. We ain’t gonna do anything, I just wanna show you.

    The little girl nodded.

    Papa raised her nightgown to her waist. He pulled her Little Pony panties down to her knees and gently pushed her knees apart. 

    PAPA: Now see here, is where your womb begins.

    Papa spread her opening with his thumb and index finger. He inserted a finger into her.

    PAPA: You feel that?

    The little girl’s eyes widened and she stilled her body.

    Papa did not wait for her nod.

    PAPA: See that there is the door to your womb. Just like in the cows we got. You feel that?

    He moved his finger inside of her.

    PAPA: Now we need to protect your womb. Nobody can enter, hear? Not that Doctor whatever, boys from school, nobody. I’m your gate keeper, alright?

    Just as quickly, Papa pulled up her panties, smoothed down her nightgown and tucked the covers under her chin.

    PAPA: Now, lemme hear you say it. Who can enter your womb?

    GIRL: Nobody, Papa.

    PAPA: That’s my girl. Sweet dreams, honey.

    He kissed her forehead, turned off the lamp and closed the door behind him. Mama was standing near the door with her head down, quietly scrunching her apron in her fists.

  • 6 Years Old : Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner!

    The girl laughed as she ran after the chicken. She reached into her pocket for some more seed and flung it, her arm arcing in the air. The chickens scurried to find seed and pecked at the ground.

    GIRL: Cluck cluck cluck. Come eer. 

    The girl circled her little hands around the breast of one of the chickens and raised it in the air triumphantly.

    GIRL: I got one, Mama!

    Mama smiled, wiped her hands on her apron and beckoned the girl toward the kitchen with a wave of her hands.

    GIRL: Fried chicken tonight, Mama? Ooh, can I have honey with it?

    Mama smiled at her again.

    After the dishes were washed and dried and put up in the cabinets, Papa and Mama sat the little girl down in the den.

    PAPA: You almost all growed up now, six years old. We got to prepare you for the world out there. We gonna learn you to protect yourself, hear?

    GIRL: Yes, Papa.

    PAPA: That’s my good lil girl. Now, being six years old is very important. It means you’re ready for some real responsibilities, hear? I see you helping Mama with the chickens and the cows.

    And we appreciate that. But you are a girl. Girls are very special with God. God gave girls the power to make babies. Y’all got a womb. And this womb inside of you is like the resting place before a baby is born.

    Mama scrunched her apron in her fists. She peered into the little girl’s face anxiously.

    PAPA: This womb is very special, like I said. It only comes from God. And the only way God can bring a baby into this world is if the womb is a pure and clean place. God only wants a married couple to have babies. And a woman must be pure and clean before she is married.

    Papa chuckled.

    PAPA: Now, me and Mama don’t know when you gonna give us some grandbabies but it’s our job, see, to keep your womb pure and clean. You unnerstand what I’m saying?

    The little girl nodded hesitantly.

    PAPA: Good, now, why don’t you go get ready for bed? Mama will read you a story and I’ll be in after that.

    The girl was thrilled. Papa usually went to the barn after dinner, never to her room. She felt overwhelming love for her Papa and hugged his neck.

    PAPA: Off you go, lil one. As he patted her butt with his left hand.

  • A Bump and A Ho

    Another one. One in a million of these dates that I go on because I choose not to cook. But a girl’s gotta eat, capiche? Why fire up a stove when you can just swipe?

    The stepmother has forbade me from entering the premises of my childhood home, the bitch. She’s vacaying in Costa Rica. I hope a giagantoid botfly embeds itself into one of her enhanced butt cheeks and lays millions of eggs. I can see it now, she’s in her bikini next to Julio or whoever, and these worms start crawling out of her ass and then turn into flies and surround her in a swarm, some flying up her nose and some into her ears. Oh my God, sweet revenge.

    What, he’s ordering for me? But I hate chicken! And he ordered in pidgeon French? Poulet this, asshole. I bat my eyes and ask coyly where he learned to speak French like a native. Oh right, thought I heard a tinge of that authentic community college accent. 

    I tap lightly on the rim of my wine glass, make eye contact with the waiter and hope he knows that he should not be letting me go anywhere near empty. I hold my hand out a slight minute too long, admiring my nails. That mamasan really did a great job this afternoon, I must say.

    And the sparkler I picked up today looks amazing with the nails!

    So I took adavantage of the bitch being gone and strolled into the house today. Staff didn’t notice and didn’t care. They hate her too. Rummaged through the bobbles and tried on some dresses. She really thinks she’s a size 8? Hah! The sparkler was a nice discovery. 

    A strange shadow is cast over his face. I study the face, not hearing any of the words, as his lips are working at a rapid pace. And then it hit me, he has a fivehead. What’s that cartoon character who is all forehead? My date is all forehead and brow. Beady little eyes and an even smaller mouth. He could be a vole.

    I smile and comment that he must really be a brainiac, based on the size of his bulbous and bumpy head. I sip my wine. Funny I should mention that, he says. Really? How is that funny ha ha, that you have a head like the Elephant Man? John Merrick, that was his name. I saw that movie. Cher was in it. I hear her, “If you could turn back time.” I personally would have had some head reduction surgery.

  • Deadlines

    I know how to meet deadlines. When something needs to be done, I accomplish it. I am never late for anything, never on time, always early. I am highly efficient.

    All because I am basically lazy and procrastinate at everything.

    I wake up early every morning to get to work before traffic gets bad. And I like the little bit of quiet time before everyone else arrives. I read through emails I should have taken care of the day before, but I had procrastinated. Pisses me off when I reply to one and see that my boss has already replied before me. I resent that he replies to emails addressed to me.

    Patrick makes fun of how fast I walk the floor of the warehouse. But I want to get shit done. Scott makes a comment that my assistant shows no urgency, just look at the way she ambles, compared to my race walking. But I go through my work day like I’m vying in the Olympics because of all the impossible deadlines which I need to meet. I get shit done.

    When I get home, all I want to do is lie down in my incredible bed and put my feet up. It is the most incredible piece of furniture that I own. It is adjustable, it goes up and down and any which way I want. It is by far more comfortable than any sofa or recliner.

    I don’t cook, therefore, I don’t eat sometimes. I don’t neaten, I don’t organize. I do the bare minimum needed. I take my meds, I floss, I brush. I make up deadlines for myself, iron clothes, file paperwork, I don’t ever meet these deadlines.

    I don’t get shit done.

  • A Grieving Aurel

    Poor Aurel was wrought with grief for his wife, Greta, who had died from black licorice overdose. He had spent all of their remaining money for her funeral. He had fashioned a beautiful coffin, just for her, because she had turned into a sphere and could not fit into a manufactured coffin. He steamed and bent the wood so that it curved into a round shape, reminiscent of a beautiful carriage, her vehicle into heaven. He decorated it with pieces of licorice shapes which he carved out of wood. He wanted it to be the most beautiful coffin ever made since her service required a closed coffin. Her tongue, lips, and finger tips had turned black from the licorice and Aurel did not want anybody to assume that she had succumbed to the black plague.

    The neighbors brought strudels and smoked hams, jam and bread to the little house after the service. Aurel poured elderberry wine and they all toasted Greta, who had been a perfect wife before her weakness for black licorice had overtaken her. They commented on her culinary skills, how her jams were the best on this side of the mountain, how her sewing and embroidery were exceptional.

    Aurel sighed a heavy and prolonged sigh after all the neighbors had gone. He sat alone in the empty little house that he had built with his very own strong back and calloused hands. He was lost. He did not know what to do with himself. He drank all of the remaining elderberry wine and stumbled into bed.

    In a fitful dream, Aurel saw Greta, but she was almost 30 meters tall and as round and wide as the barn. She did not talk but roared at him for licorice. Even though she was not making words, Aurel knew what she was saying. She was berating him, demanding that he should provide her with more licorice. And then, without feet, all 30 meters of her, was rolling toward him faster and faster. He tried to run away but his feet were paralyzed from fear. He felt her soft plump flesh mold into him as it rolled over his entire body, pressing his face into the ground. He couldn’t breathe, his nostrils filling with dirt. He tried to scream but no sound came from his mouth. Instead, dirt just clung onto his tongue.

    When Aurel awoke with a start, he found he was face down on his pillow. He had drooled a large wet circle onto it. He swiped his sleeve over his mouth and thought, thank goodness it was only a dream. He chided himself for letting a nightmare alarm him.

    Aurel drew water from the well and washed his face and beard. He then gathered his axe and some bread and cheese and went into the forest. Today, I am no longer lost, he thought. I am a wood worker and I will create again. I will search for a tree that wants to be a something other than a tree. Aurel walked through the forest, gazing and sizing up different trees. But none spoke to him. He sat on the ground at the base of a tall pine and ate his bread and cheese.

  • Ike

    Auntie and nephew (fav)

    Rice, and meat and veggies

    Four-year-old, in highchair

    “Let’s peetend we’re in a bar”

    Hunnnhhhh?

    Lifts his apple juice in one hand 

    Tilts the sippie cup and sucks

    “Let’s peetend I’m drinking beer”

    Auntie scratches her head, puzzled

    Chuckles silently, stomach cramping

    “Eat your dinner” Mom demands

    “Peetend I’m coming from work, OK?”

    Leaning closer to Auntie, suggestive

    “So . . . do you come here a lot?”

    Eyes agleam, pick up line delivered

    Auntie in a panic, shit shit shite!

    Four-year-old in highchair

    Playing Casanova!

  • Erasure Poem

    Original source from Google News

    A deadly heat wave in Western Europe has triggered intense wildfires, disrupted transportationand displaced thousands of people as the continent grapples with the impact of climate change.

    The record-breaking heat is forecast to grow more severe this week and has prompted concerns over infrastructure problems such as melting roads, widespread power outages and warped train tracks.

    Several areas in France have experienced record-breaking temperatures that approached orsurpassed 100 degrees Fahrenheit, according to the national weather forecaster. In Britain, where few homes have air conditioning, the highest temperature has also reached nearly 100 degrees Fahrenheit, falling just below the national record.

    Climate change has made heat waves and droughts more common, intense and widespread. Dry and hot conditions also exacerbate wildfires, which have grown more destructive in recent years. And lower nighttime temperatures that typically provide critical relief from the hot days aredisappearing as the Earth warms.

    A deadly heat wave
    intense wildfires
    disrupted and displaced
    people grapple with 
    impact of change

    record-breaking heat
    forecast more severe
    concerns over infrastructure
    melting roads, power outages
    warped train tracks

    heat waves and droughts more common
    intense and widespread
    dry and hot exacerbate 
    wildfires more destructive
    relief disappearing as
    the Earth warms.