Chapter 5: Operation Keep PT Down: Car Shopping and Steve’s Supposed Schizo Ex#2

The next day, I picked up Steve at his place and headed to the nearest Honda Dealer in Old Town Pasadena. I didn’t know anything about cars and figured that I could always use Steve as a shield from the inevitable bullshit that would be thrown my way, being a clueless female about cars.

Steve wanted to drive my rental. “Do you want me to drive?” he asked.

“Do you want me to drive or did you figure that I wanted you to drive?” I laughed.

Steve liked trying all cars. It was a Chrysler 500 and had a continuous transmission. Generally, I hated automatics but this one accelerated well. The wheel was positioned high and close to the seat like a tractor. Steve imitated a farmer driving a tractor.

Wow, you are from Texas.

I swatted him for that, laughing.

AT the car dealership, a salesman starting talking cars, which lost me, so I let Steve take over. If the salesman lost me, Steve lost the Salesman. Evidently, Steve learned at lot at his internship with Honda because the salesman said maybe Steve could sell me the car. I test drove the Honda Fit, liked it, and Steve and I sat down with the salesman regarding financing. There was no way I could afford it. My credit was nonexistent. The Honda salesman sensed that he wasn’t going to make a sale but gave me the time of day anyway. After all, I was a beginning attorney. After feeling that I had taken enough of his time, I thanked him and Steve and I drove off.

I don’t know what started the conversation, but somehow it moved to Steve’s ex number two. He wanted to clarify to me that he had filed for divorce almost six months ago and that it would be annulled if she did not appear to sign the papers. Asra had disappeared on him in their second year of marriage. Simply disappeared. Without a word while he was deep in school at Art Center. Needless to say, this made it difficult for him to finish, and along with some other catastrophic events, Steve dropped out from the best Art School in the nation. That was kind of the story of his life.

After Asra disappeared, Steve started to pick himself up after the initial devastation. Then she appeared for a few days. Then left again, which deveasted Steve again. So that he was not able to pick himself up. But when he mustered his strength to start all over, Asra would appear. Perfect timing. Exactly when Steve was on his way without her, she would appear.

Steve thought that Asra was schizophrenic. She sure seemed crazy enough. Her father had beaten the crap out of her with a hammer to the head. But she wouldn’t die. Coincidentally, Steve’s father had thrown bricks at him growing up. He was lucky enough to dodge most of them. Steve said that Asra was out of control, paranoid about where he went, who he was talking to, especially women. She stalked him at Honda when he was doing his internship, stole his security pass, standing in the smoking area and glaring at him and his coworkers when they took a smoking break. Steve could not do anything about it, even though he told her to stop. Because Steve was not the type of guy who could make people stop when they were walking all over him.

These were the things that Steve could recount about his Ex#2:

-She was too young for him, as he was almost forty and she was 22. Although she was beautiful, he soon found they had little in common on a daily basis.

-She had a violent upbringing, which made her violent herself. She was the type of person who perpetuated the cycle of abuse and violence.

-She was Muslim Pakistani, raise super strictly, and wa supposed to marry a man arranged for her.

-She was torn between being a good Muslim girl and dressed provocatively so that men hit on her, then punched their daylights out when they hit on her. Steve attributed the way men hit on her to her distinctive odor she gave off when she did not bathe for long periods (lots of pheromones, he said).

-She was highly competitive, even with Steve.  

-Her family had a lot of money, which was necessary for most students who went to Art Center.

Asra’s family protested their marriage. Asra had threatened to kill herself if Steve did not marry her. And Steve, who had a kind heart, consented because he was afraid she would hurt herself. Pity, to Steve, often masked itself as love. Asra also had one of the best portfolios he had ever seen and never saw again, as Asra was unable to replicate the skill in her portfolio that got her admitted to Art Center.

“A lot of schizos wind up dead, Steve,” Probably not the gentlest way of informing him.

“Really, Steve slumped in his chair. Damn.

“Well yeah, men are more likely to be schizophrenic. Was she diagnosed?”

Steve shook his head. “I just did some reading.”

“Why do you think she was schizophrenic?”

“She was erratic, couldn’t control her emotions, aggressive.”

“Like a man?” I asked.

“Yeah, a lot like a man. She pursued me.” Steve admitted. Eww, not good. “She just lost control at the end and I didn’t know how to help her. I wasn’t paying attention to her. I focused on my work and found the best way to push her away was ignore her.”
“Why did you want to push her away?” I asked.

“Because she was stalking me at Honda. She wouldn’t do her own thing. I hate a woman who isn’t independent. She seemed like that at first but things soon changed. She followed me everywhere, when I was teaching at Art Center, too. She wouldn’t go to her own class, dropped out of school. Looked in all my things. Accused me of cheating on her.” Steve laughed. “After my exes, I really felt like turning gay.” I half laughed. Things sounded terrible.

“You can’t blame yourself. Schizophrenics need medication and intense professional help. You couldn’t have helped her more than you did.” Steve was lost in guilt. I started to understand the wretched look that wasn’t so much part of his physical but his mental.

Ex#1 who constantly cheated on him, Ex#2 who constantly accused him of cheating, and Steve not knowing where to turn except his work. Given how hard Steve worked, why didn’t he have a great job at a car company?

We were parked at the northwest corner of Steve’s intersection, car facing West. His house was one north of the corner, on the east side. I thanked Steve for helping me car shop and he laughed that it was nothing. I saw him in my rearview, walking with a hunch like that of either very tall men or men who lacked confidence.

I checked Google maps on my phone. It was a tangle of freeways that I had to navigate to get home and it was getting late. 

Chapter 4 Operation Keep PT Down: How Steve Got to L.A.

The next day, I returned, concerned about Steve’s hand. I wondered if he was having a delayed reaction to his accident, and despite the clear MRI, he was now feeling the effects of his motorbike accident. When I came, Steve came out for me. We walked in. his son, Alan, was playing a video game and looked up when I entered. Despite his barely looking up at me as I entered, I could tell that Alan was surprised at seeing me again.

Steve was fatigued. Who wouldn’t be after crashing into a car that cut in front of you on the freeway, flipping over the car and then hackey sacking into the bed of a truck that luckily had some padding in it. Steve’s lack of feeling in his arm probably was from some nerve damage.

“I can get my own water. You should relax,” I urged.

“Yeah, I am kind of tired.” Steve replied. “There really isn’t a place to sit down besides the futon out there. The only other room is the bedroom.” Awkward pause.

“So I notice you can lift your arm. Is it just your hand you can’t move?” I asked.

Steve lifted his hand. His wrist was limp, his hand hanging down. He made a noise like a motorbike, as if he were urging his had to rise of its own. Nothing.

“Maybe you should go see a doctor,” I stated the obvious.

“No, I’ll be all right.” Steve was the typical male.

“You said so yourself, your drawing hand is the most important part of you.” I reminded him.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay,” But it was obvious Steve was not believing himself. It was time to change the subject to something cheerier.

So we talked about Steve, I wanted to hear more and was uncomfortable talking about myself. These are the key points:

-Steve got his girlfriend, Darlena, pregnant when he was 18 years old and she was 20. She told him that she could not get pregnant and he believed her. They were married for ten years during which time Darlena cheated on him no less than half a dozen times, sometimes with Steve’s friends. Steve ignored it and buried his head in his work.

-Steve had wanted to be a designer but Darlena told him what could he ever do as a designer so Steve had jobs doing abatement, construction, etc.

-Steve was the family caregiver. He took care of his ailing mother when he lived in Kentucky. He was the youngest of ten children, Catholic family.

-When he was 30, Steve saw the movie “The Island” and fell in love with the design of the movie. The lighting, setting, cinematography. He also learned that the design and look of cars were sketched and designed on paper, not built by engineers. (That didn’t make sense to me either the first time he told me.)

So, Steve decided to apply to the best art school in the country, in Los Angeles, and without bothering to open his reply letter (or submitting all parts of the required application), set out to California in his Honda Civic. That was the first time he heard the song “Hotel California” by the Eagles because sadly, Steve had had a sheltered life. He rarely saw anything beyond his home town because the big wide world was scary.

Steve had done a short stint in New York but found the real world to be too hard to survive in. Random men approached him picking fights (all of which Steve won, even with the legend Akira).

When Steve arrived in Los Angeles, he went to Art Center and basically said, “I’m here to start school.” And found out that he had not been accepted. The Registrar gave Steve a chance by requiring him to take some satellite courses to prove himself. Rarely happens. Steve did and was subsequently admitted into the Transportation Design department with a full scholarship. When I first saw Steve’s designs, I knew he was a rare talent. Just didn’t make sense why he wasn’t designing and doing better in his field.  

Steve never finished his degree at Art Center. Something happened. For some reason, his younger son, Donny, was not living with him. Why not?

“Oh, it had something to do with my second ex. You want to sit on the couch and watch my son play?” Steve asked.

“Sure,” we walked the two steps down to the living room and to the futon, which was folded up for sitting. It was a comfortable brown velvety fabric. Steve sat on the corner side. The far wall held a closet with folding doors. The doors were partially opened and tools and towels were tucked inside. I sat on the side near the door. Near the corner that turned into the kitchen on the right, were a washer and drawer, also with folding doors (like an accordion). My feet hung over the side so I slipped my shoes off and tucked them under my legs. Steve pulled up a small table for me to rest my feet. “That’s okay,” I laughed. That was too princess for me. “What are you playing?” I asked Alan.

“Uh, Zombies,” he answered.  

Steve looked impressed. He whispered to me, “He likes you. He rarely talks to people so respectfully.”

Macy walked in at that moment. Steve's door was always open. Macy looked at me in surprise while I pretended to be absorbed in Alan’s skill in killing virtual zombies.

“Hey, my dad and I went to the store. He’s bringing in some groceries. Hey,” Macy greeted me.

“Hi, Macy, how are you doing?”

“Fine, thanks, how are you?” Macy asked.

“Great, thank you,” I answered, as Macy’s father entered laden down with two bags.

Macy’s father: “I got some crab and other good stuff. It was on sale--” his eyes fell on me.

Okay, what was so surprising about me being there? I was only sitting on the futon watching a teenager play video games.

The conversation went on about something I don’t recall. I was waiting for when I could make a respectful exit. While I was waiting, I noticed that the outlet beside the table that held the flat screen TV was uncovered. That could be a hazard, I thought. Even from where I sat across the room (approximately 12 feet away, this place was too tiny for the five people in the living room), I could see the red and white wiring in the wall. I noticed that some of the wires that ran into the kitchen floor extended into the living room, against the TV wall. Some wires went into the bedroom, some went elsewhere, I could not tell from my vantage point. The living room wall was painted a lime-ish green. Probably Steve’s favorite color since his ZX-10r no ABS was lime green.

There was a lull in the conversation and I leaned over to Steve. “I should run,” I smiled.

“Oh, yeah, okay, I’ll show you out.” He got up. I made my greetings and exited, passing the wooden frame that was for no purpose, hung left to the side of the house, passing the covered patio. It was dark inside and the furniture, pieces of wood were askew. The mesh windows blocked a clear view, as did the midday sun. Up two concrete blocks to the driveway where Steve’s Honda Civic was parked, south one house to the corner around which my car was parked.

“Does Macy live there?” I asked.

“He’s Alan’s friend. His father sort of dropped him off at my place one day. They lost their place.” Steve explained.

“That was nice of you. He didn’t ask you? Just dumped his son, there?”

“Yeah, poor kid misses his father. Sometimes, he doesn’t come around for a week at a time.”  

“Hmm, odd.” I did not know anyone who took so much presumption with their friends. “I hope your arm gets better. Let me know if you need anything,” I said.

“Oh, right, right, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.” Steve said.

“I gotta’ look for a car tomorrow. Want to have my own when I start work next week. Since you know so much about cars, can you help me find one? There’s a Honda dealership near here that I wanted to hit.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Steve sounded excited talking about cars. I smiled, happy that I was able to cheer him up. Steve opened my car door and I drove away. 

Operation Keep PT Down: Cast of Characters

***Note: As you read, please keep in mind that Operation: Keep PT Down is a work of fiction. It simply could not happen, a real life Truman Show. (Is that a contradiction?) Any character’s resemblance to real life people is merely…uncanny. And the best affirmative defense to libel and defamation is the truth, as can be decided in a court of law.*** 

Remember the Truman Show? I always wondered how the writer for the Truman show came up with the concept, as well as the hilarious details. I know there could never be a real Truman Show. It isn’t possible. You cannot keep a person within the confines of a giant studio and produce his entire life without him suspecting.

To keep a person living a certain life produced by an organization would take a phenomenal amount of resources. No one has that type of power. Except perhaps the government.

Can you imagine the cast of characters that would be needed to keep a person oblivious to the real world around him? Especially if he were physically strong so that you could not quarantine him? It would require a type of mental brainwashing that kept him from questioning things. Kind of like Stockholm syndrome and battered wife syndrome. In other words, a constant and unrelenting amount of physical, mental, and emotional abuse to keep him down. Doing the things that you wanted him to do.

When the spark of humanity and rebellion arose in Steve, the government set out to destroy all individuality, hope, and life in him, until he returned to the same old, unfulfilling path that they chose for him. No real friends, no love, no real job creating things that could progress society.

But why would the government want to keep one of its citizens in a type of Truman Show? Why not just quarantine him?

Because some of us are born a little different. You know, a slight error in the cell replication process and a couple of genes are not in the range of “normal”. This normally provides for someone to be incredibly smart, or strong, or flexible like a contortionist (cartilage never hardens to bone), a female have more mannish characteristics (XXY gene or high levels of testosterone).

All of these people are still normal. They are still people. They still are endowed with the inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That is, under our American Constitution. That’s what I used to believe.

Go to my link on how I helped campaign for President Obama. I did not have two nickels to rub together but I believed that active participation in your civic duty is the best way to change the world.

But with the new Homeland Security, so many citizens’ rights are being trampled upon. Some, in the name of safety really are being kept safe. Some, like Steve, are being beaten and brutalized until all the spirit and life are quashed in him.

And it almost happened to me, too. Look at how long it took me to post again. It has been almost a year. I wanted to write but what do you think was happening? Well, I shall tell you…Enter the cast of characters.

CAST OF CHARACTERS OF OPERATION KEEPT PT DOWN

Steve T. Patinae - Concept Designer who has had the most bad luck anyone has ever seen. A daredevil bike rider whose stability drives his risky stunts. He has been in over 100 fights, for random strangers constantly approach him…

Alan Patinae - Steve's oldest son, who has inherited his father’s instability through external factors. How can Steve help his son when the government won’t allow Steve to help himself?

Donny Patinae - Steve's youngest son, who has yet to be knocked off by the cruel puppeteers of Steve’s own private Truman show.

Darlena - Steve's first ex-wife. Filippina, Italian. She is very strong, more than the average man. Very feminine and faithless, yet also very masculine.

Asra Abassi - Steve's second ex-wife. Pakistani, White. She is scarily strong, like an MMA fighter. Deceptively feminine, with a cruel streak rarely seen in a woman. She claims that her family is into a lot of incredible illegal activity. So incredible, it is hard to believe.  

Ssal - Innocent outsider who tried to help Steve. Average woman with no enhanced masculine powers. Finds herself in a curious web spun by the government. Instead of running away like every real person in Steve’s life, her curiosity got the best of her. This time, curiosity almost killed the cat, literally…

Roger Yamada – Japanese-American landlord who built an addition to his house and immediately rented it to Steve.

Jackie Yamada – Roger’s White Caucasian wife. They have a son graduating from high school.

Mike Yamada – Roger and Jackie’s son. He’s one of those lucky teenagers who developed early. Built like an adult who just looks very young. You know, Asian genes. (I mean, when I was 25 years old, I looked 17 easy if I dressed the part.)

Lorraine Hernandez – My landlady, until her house started getting infestations. From Jamaica, she is nowhere near as mimsy-pimsy as she made herself out to be when I first met her. Her art of dressing so that she looks different makes people feel that she is a different personality according to what she wants you to believe.

La Princess (emphasis on the “La”, no kidding) a.k.a. Dominque Jackson – My housemate. From Kentucky, a beautiful aspiring actress working at Toyota in Torrance. She has a ready laugh and easy manner. Who could not love her? Reminds me of a classmate I had named “Beauty.” Emphasis on “BEAU-Ty” (no kidding.)

AJAX – Gardener who helped build the extension to Roger’s house. Sometimes, he is suicidal, as is pretty much everyone in Steve’s life.

Arthur – Armenian who heals quickly. He gets a bad cut, it’s gone the next day. Band-Aid really works for him! He ruined two of Steve’s art projects so that Steve lost his scholarship at Art Center. Why is Steve still talking to him?

Edgar Motivated – Mexcian German, he has The Worse accent you’ve ever heard. Have no idea what accent it is he has, but it is the worst. Typical rich Art Institute student (parents pay his way and endow the school with money, money, money when their child has no art talent whatsoever), Edgar has a knack of being around just when a crisis explodes in Steve’s life.

Dolores – Indonesian Woman trying to escape her abusive husband. That has always been Steve’s weakness, protecting women…even when they do not need protecting. Dolores is the only person Steve ever helped who remembered to help him in turn…or so he thought.

Ron – Steve’s childhood friend from Kentucky. Sure, Steve has real friends, only they keep their distance. Too many crazy things happen around Steve for his real friends to jump in and help. For if you do, then bad things start happening to you…

Stan – Steve’s friend in Kentucky. Steve helped David out of a gang, and David would give his life for Steve. Only, David is in Kentucky. Steve is here in L.A.

I’ll update this occasionally, and you will get to meet all the interesting characters as the story progresses.

Chapter 3: The Weird Place in Which Steve Lived (Operation: Keep PT Down)

The weekend past uneventfully and on Monday, I had another interview. Even though I had accepted an offer last Friday, I had only one interview and one offer. My interview skills could use practice. It was in West Covina, near the foothills. The interview went well, I was on time. The interviewer was late. I had no experience as an attorney, nonetheless did my best. Success in my book.

I remembered that Steve’s place was in the foothills and mapped the directions. Not too far. I texted him that I was near.

Ssal: “Hey, I’m in the area. You around?”

Steve: “Yea.”

Ssal: “Mind if I drop by?” Steve:

Steve: “sure.”

Steve: “Not in to [sic] good shape.”

Ssal: “oh. Are you okay?”

Steve: “Yea. My arm is dead.”

Ssal: “What?”

Steve: “Can’t move it.”
Ssal: “What happened?”

Steve: “Dunno.”
Ssal: “Do you have someone to help you?”

Steve: “I’ll be okay.”

Ssal: “I’ll be right over.”

I went up Lake Ave, to Marengo Drive, headed west some way. Eventually, I reached Steve’s corner. I parked on the northwest corner, south side.

Ssal: I’m here.

Steve: Be right out.

Steve walked out of the house one from the corner. The house on the corner had an arching driveway and windows looking out the south side. Steve walked toward my car where I was waiting. He was smiling, his arm swung normally.

“Did you want to come in?” Steve asked. He seemed cheerful. It was hard to tell. The bags under his eyes were so puffy.

“Um…” I had rarely been in someone’s place.

“My son and his friend, Macy are playing video games.”

“Oh, okay.” He had a son. “How old is he?” I asked.

“Alan is eighteen. My younger, Philip, is sixteen.” He’s in Kentucky with his mother.

He had sons plural. “Oh, okay.” I nodded, not knowing what to say. Steve took that for a yes. Here, I’ll take your bag. He took it from my shoulder.

My bag was a huge tote in which I carried well, everything that I could. It was difficult for me to leave the house without, well, my house. We walked around the corner north to the second house on the left, through the driveway, which was paved for an extra car. The new pavement struck out at an angle into the front lawn. I looked up and saw crappy blinds that did not really cover anything.

Maybe that’s why they have Aluminum foil sealing the windows, I thought.

I followed Steve to the left side of the house, down two makeshift steps made of concrete blocks that had grass growing between them and down a very cluttery side path that was precarious, even in flats. I had on heels for my interview.

But why Aluminum foil? I was about to ask Steve when my heel caught in one of the cracks of the side path. “Oh!”

“Oh hey, I’m sorry,” Steve caught me by the arm. “Been meaning to clear this. Almost there.” To the right of the path was a side patio closed in with rickety boards and mesh windows. Through the other side was a rough view of the inside of Steve’s landlord’s house. It appeared as disshelved as the patio and window treatments.

The side path led to the back of the house. We hung a right past something that did not have a name, sort of a wooden frame that held, nothing. The frame consisted of the bare number of wooden lengths to from a rectangle. Some crates on the ground inside the frame, but not a part of the frame, held up a mattress. Vines grew up along the side of the frame.  

The door to Steve’s private entry was open. Immediately to the left of the door was a bunk bed futon. The bottom bunk bed served as a couch and a bed. Currently, it served as a couch. A young white boy, Macy apparently, with Mr. McDreamy hair in hazel blonde sat beside his father, another pale, curly haired Pillsbury doughy type. In the corner sat a woman I apparently did not notice. In front of the flat screen TV in a chair sat Alan, Steve’s son.

I nodded to them as I passed. His son glanced up from playing his video games, a big homage given how intense the game was. Steve led me up to steps to the right which opened into the mini kitchen. To the right, the refrigerator. The left, a small counter, less than 3’x2’ with two barstools which faced a small black board.

Steve indicated one of the barstools. I sat up on one of them.

Did you want something to drink? Or eat? Macy’s dad just bought some crab. It’s real good.

“Oh, that’s okay, not hungry. I’ll have some tea, though.”

Steve nodded and got a mug from a cupboard, filled it with filtered water from the refrigerator, and heated it in the microwave for two minutes. The microwave hung above the stove.

“I can do it. How’s your arm? What happened to it?”

“Oh, I crashed my bike.”

“You what?” I was stunned. Mostly because Steve was standing in front of me apparently unharmed. “Wh-what are you doing? Sit down?” I jumped up and offered Steve a seat.

“Oh, ha ha, it’s nothing really. I’m okay. Except my arm went dead when I woke this morning.”

“Sit.” I led Steve to a barstool, then sat down on the other. “I can make my own tea. Did you want something?”

“Oh, no, just finishing my beer.”  There were beer bottles stacked on the kitchen counter.

“Did you drink all of those?” my left eyebrow raised in a tone of disapproval.

“Oh no, I had help.” Steve laughed, then stopped. “Macy’s dad, I mean.”

The microwave beeped. Steve began to get up. I put an arm on him to stay. I jumped off the stool and walked the one step it took to get to the microwave, reaching…way up high to open the door. I am 5’9” in heels and could not see the inside of the microwave. I eyeballed it.

“That’s a high microwave you have here,” I mentioned to Steve. He laughed.

“Yeah, even I can’t see inside.” Steve was a few inches taller than me.

“That’s odd, was it built for a basketball player?” I asked, not really thinking that it was.

“No, no. This place is new. My landlord just finished building it when I moved in.”

I walked over to the cupboard to look for the sugar.

“Oh, yeah, corner one over there.” The cupboards, 1-2 steps away, were built for a freakishly tall person. Neither I nor Steve could see the bottom of the lowest shelf on any of the cupboards.

“So what happened to you arm. You mentioned a bike accident?”

“Yea, I was riding on the 134 going west and this guy cuts into my lane, and I had the weirdest feeling he was gonna do that so I was already slowing down when I hit him and flew over his car and hackey sacked into a truck that was carrying tools and shit in the back of the bed.”

“Oh my god, are you okay? You didn’t break anything?”

“No, no, apparently not. The paramedics brought me to the ER, gave me an MRI scan and everything. I checked out clean. They let me go.”

“Was this the night we met?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Steve’s face had that fuzzy look of a person in a dream, or one that had been recently in an accident. I shook my head. How did he survive that and not break anything. How did he not survive that period?

“Was this during rush hour?” I asked.

“Yeah, I was going only 70-75 or so.”
“During rush hour traffic?” I remembered how Steve had accelerated at such an unearthly rate of speed. I did not realize that I was still stirring the sugar in my cup absentmindedly. This was a lot to absorb. “Can you do anything with your arm?” I asked with more concern than I realized. Steve lifted his right arm. He made a grunt as if to move his fingers but they were immobile.

“I might as well die if I lose this. A designer’s drawing hand is his life source.” I could see the worry behind Steve’s smile. Such a sad feeling behind that smile.

“Well, why don’t I help.” I looked around and jumped to do the dishes.

“Oh, no, no, no, I’ll take care of them.” There were only a few dishes in the sink. I started to wash.

“So what are you teaching this semester?” I asked.

“Transportation concepts. I can do that you know.”

“I’m almost done. How do you like it?”

“I love teaching. And I listened as Steve talked about how much he loved teaching. The faucet was installed backwards. Hot was on the right, cold was on the left. I burnt myself the first few times I turned on the water.

When I washed the last glass, I walked the two steps it took to sit down.

It didn’t make sense, I thought, everything is built for a giant, yet a midget could not walk three steps before bumping into anything. A 6’6” person would literally have to turn around if he wanted to go from the stove to the sink or the little counter.

Because I was thinking so hard I tripped getting on the stool. My foot caught on something and I caught the counter same time as Steve caught me. “Oh!” I said.

“Whoah, there! Don’t need both of us crashing.” We laughed. I looked down to see what tripped me. there was a clump of wiring and cords bound together running into a hole in the floor. I leaned over. Red, white, blue, yellow cords like those for a VCR only there were so many they made a clump almost two inches in diameter. What were they for? The cords ran out of the kitchen into the living room. I wanted to follow the trail but thought it would be rude.

“What are all these wires and cords for?” I asked. Steve shrugged.

“I don’t know.” He did not seem curious.

“Is there a basement down there?” trying to peer between the clump of cords and the hold in the ground.

“I don’t know.”

“What does your landlord do down there with all these electronics wires?”

“I don’t know.” Steve was an Enquiring Mind.

“Basements are for the Midwest, where it snows. We don’t have basements here in Southern California. Does your landlord have a workroom or studio down there?”

Steve shrugged. “I’ve never heard anyone down there.” I noticed that the hardwood floor was high quality, the type that had texture and soft on the feet. The kitchen had beautiful fixtures, colors, and overall high-end quality. The crampedness of the place and the circumstances of being an add-on to the main residence, suggested otherwise. It certainly was cozy.

And perhaps because I had been looking down, I now looked up. The lighting was sunk into the ceiling, the new fangled kind. Expensive. Things could be lodged in the recesses of the ceiling lights.

Steve continued talking about how he loved teaching. I asked him about his designed and listened. The dark granite counter tops had deep sparkles in them. all very nice.

“Do you mind if I ask how much your rent is?” I asked?

“I negotiated paying a year up front. Got it all for $8,000 a year. My lease ends in December.”

“Including utilities?”

“Yes, water and everything.”

“Wow.” A one-bedroom, with a private kitchen and bath, tiny size regardless. I had passed by the washer and dryer, new Kenmores. This place was a steel in this part of town. Upscale, quiet, near the mountains.

Steve and I talked into the night. For some reason, the first night we met, he told me all about his family history, mostly about his son’s mom and his other ex. He had been married twice. Two children to his first wife. Where was his second wife, I asked him. Steve shrugged. She disappeared.

It was late when I told Steve I should go. Before that, I used the bathroom adjacent to the kitchen, like an airplane bathroom with kwalitee fixtures. It closed with a sliding door no lock.

“Um, can you hold watch while I--”

“Oh, yea, yeah, no one will come in,” Steve assured me.

“Nonetheless,” I answered. When I was done doing my thing, I tried to slide the door open. No knob. “Unh,” I stepped out, “ready.” Steve led me down the two steps into the living room, hung a left, I waved to his son Alan, his friend Macy and Macy’s father who had left, and a woman who looked Filipino sitting in the corner of the futon couch.

That was rough. Outside, Steve and I kept talking until we reached my car. I dawdled to give Steve a chance to invite me back. My feet hurt waiting.

“So did you want me to come back?”

“Sure, sure, anytime, anytime. I’d love it if you came back.” Steve seemed relieved.

“Okay, I will. Take it easy on your arm. I’ll help you out tomorrow.”

“Right, right, right, see you tomorrow.” At least Steve’s smile seemed genuinely happy when I left.

Chapter 2. Operation Keep PT Down: Meet Steve Patina

I rolled along the ten freeway going west, going as far west as Horace Greeley urged. I was almost at the end when I heard a roar of a bike coming up on my left. A rider sped by with the wind maxing out his jacket like a sail, fullblown and free. I looked at my speedometer. I was only going eighty…five, plus or minus ten…or so. And he was long gone. I hit the accelerator and it the steering wheel. Where was the damn horn? (Rental car.) Was it one of those side horns or button horns? My left hand steered while my right groped for the—there it is. A loud honk.  Someone had told me once that if you honk at a cute guy riding a bike, he would most likely stop if you were a cute girl.

He didn’t stop or even slow down. Maybe he isn’t so cute, I thought. I couldn’t tell if the rider was cute but he was skinny and rode that bike like a demon. The freeway was ending so I exited to hit a starbucks. Starbucks wasn’t one of my favorites, I rarely go there for overpriced coffee didn’t suit my limited budget and lifestyle. Yet, I didn’t have many places to go, and they were always open late with free Wi-Fi. I was still living at my friend’s place, used it as home base until I could find a job and move out, and I had just found a job. I had used Starbucks to search for a job, so don’t know why I was there. Probably because I had no one to celebrate my newfound job with.

So while I was looking for a place for my laptop (I automatically took it with me everywhere), my hot chai tea, not iced but full-leaf was ready and I went to the condiment counter where I loaded up on sugar. I like to take some tea with my sugar. I reached for the straws when I bumped hands with someone.

“Oh, sorry,” that someone said.

“That’s okay,” I replied without looking up. I reached for the half-and-half and bumped into the same hand.

“Oh,” the voice laughed, “sorry again.”

“That’s okay,” I replied again, without looking up. I reached for the straws and nearly bumped hands again when we both stopped and looked up. I saw the face attached to the hand I kept bumping into and gave a short laugh.

The face was worn. And wretched despite the hearty laugh. He plucked a straw for me, a short one and I accepted it, looking at the long straws. He laughed again and reached for a long straw and offered it to me.

“Oh! Thank you.” I was unabashed. I reached for a stirrer, safely this time, tasted my tea and reached for the sugar in the raw. The guy laughed again.

“You like your sugar,” he laughed.

“Sometimes I like it with tea,” I smiled. He laughed again, loudly. I looked more closely at the fellow with the loud laugh. He might have been tall, it was hard to tell he slouched until his back was curled. His eyes were bloodshot with bags that dominated his face. His singularly gaunt cheeks were stretched over an alien skull, long and narrow. Full lips contrasted with his sleek strait nose, probably the only perfect thing about him. It saved his face from sinking into common dreariness, I thought.  He sported a five-o-clock shadow that seemed permanent and a hematite hoop earring in his left ear. His hair was cut short, and his teeth were big and yellow. I didn’t notice as his laugh was so big.

He had on a beige jacket, worn, like the rest of him. His jeans, his shoes whose seams were stretching, his tee, that looked velvety soft from a thousand washes.

“—yeah this place is pretty busy on weekends.” The fellow commented. Weekend? I had not noticed. He was looking around for a nonexistent empty seat.

“I’ve got a place.” I answered, unsure if I should invite him. There was something troublesome about him. I think it was because his laugh was genuine, as if he could have been happy had not so many miserable things happened in his life. I started walking toward my seat, glancing around at the tables. He made as if to follow me and I looked back at him.

“You can sit with me,” I thought I would try something new. It had been so long since I had been social. We reached my laptop bag, which I took off a chair. “You can sit here,” I motioned, as I squeezed into the booth on the opposite side.

“Thanks,” he said. “Come here often? I love Starbucks.” He took a long swig of his coffee.

“Really? I come here for the wi-fi. I think Starbucks is overpriced. And I have better tea at home.”

He laughed. “Right? You think Starbucks groupies are yuppie-wannabe’s?”

It was my turn to laugh. He caught on fast. Whatever his name was, he lounged back like a lizard. So comfortable in his skin and yet so Starbucks avid. Dark skin with a touch of Rhett butler mustachio, café groupie. He had that seventies post-disco sidewalk café look about him. All he needed was a cigarette with a tendril of smoke slowly curling around the table.

“Oh yeah, I’ll be right back,” he held up the cigarette in his hand.

 “Oh, okay,” I laughed.

He held out his hand. “Name’s Steve, by the way. from Kentucky.”

“I’m from Texas.” I don’t know why I said that. Just because he identified his home state. I was losing it.

“Really?” he smiled sidelong at me. this piece of bio evidently stopped him from rising. “Yea, you are. You cared enough to offer me a seat.” Steve laughed.

“that’s basic considerateness.” I shrugged.

“Right, right. You’d be surprised,” Steve laughed. “People out here in California are so…” he shook his head, lost in thought, “not really genuine, you know what I mean?”

“It’s Hollywood. Attracts a certain kind of people. I love California, probably because of the people almost as much as the weather and the varietiy.” I answered.

Steve laughed, “are you going to tell me your name?”

“Oh, S-su-e.” it made my lips pucker funny. Steve laughed.

“Wanna come out with me for a smoke? I mean you don’t have to smoke.”

“I won’t then,” reaching for my laptop bag but Steve already hefted it off the seat beside me and was walking toward the door. Must have rode a lot of horses in Kentucky, I thought.

Outside, Steve lit a cigarette and inhaled it from between his second and middle finger. Not as cool as I thought.

“So, ah, what do you do, Ssal?”

“I –uh-I represent injured people.” I could finally say that I was working as an attorney. It felt weird and almost wonderful, almost because it hadn’t happened yet.

“Awesome, you’re an attorney?” Steve seemed impressed.

“Mm hmm, just starting.” I nodded. Somehow, I didn’t seem so impressive to myself.

“Where do you work?” he asked.

“Inland empire.”

“Ooh, that’s far.”

“Yeah, gotta take what I can take to start.”

Steve nodded, “Right, right.”

 “What do you, do?” I asked.

“Concept designer,” Steve was searching his iPhone and showed me the screen. “That’s my website,” Steve’s website was dreamy. He designed cars, and also had ideas about evolution, renewable energy sources, a new type of engine.

“Wow, that’s really good.” The colors of his design were so vivid. Everything looked so 3-D. “Do you work for a car company?”

“Ah, no. I teach design at Art Institute. I worked at Honda, though. Internship.”

I nodded, clicking on Steve different pages, I was on the entertainment page. “You’re really good,” I looked up and smiled at him.

“Really?” Steve was really asking.

“Really,” I laughed. “You don’t know how good you are?” I tilted my head, my glasses sat low on my nose as I considered him. He really didn’t. A cool wind woke me up to the time. I shivered.

“Here you want my jacket?” Steve started taking off his jacket.

“Oh, that’s okay,” but Steve held his jacket out for me. what the hell, it was odd being receptive to someone other than my love of twenty years. I hugged the jacket around me and smiled up at Steve gratefully. He blew out his last puff of smoke. I looked around, my eyes big and finding nothing to latch on to.

“Well, it’s getting kind of late. Gotta head home.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. I’ll walk you to your car.”

“Thanks,” I looked around, wondering what sort of car Steve drove because he designed them. “Where’s your car?”

Steve laughed, “Oh I ride a bike,” motioning to a lime green bike an aisle over. I hadn’t noticed it. How could I miss it? I laughed as loud as Steve.

“He-ey! Can I have a ride?” I loved the feeling of freedom with the wind whipping against every part of my body and the uncertainty every time I shifted on a bike. What if I fell off trying to adjust a wedgie?

“What’s so funny?” he asked, laughing himself.

“Were you riding on the ten just now?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” he asked, eyeing me quizzically.

“I followed you,” I joked. Steve laughed. I waited. And then opened my car door. “Well, maybe see you sometime.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, ah, hope you don’t mind my asking, are you Chinese?

I pretended to be offended. “Do I look Chinese to you?” Steve laughed but still hesitant. “No, I’m not Chinese.”

“Oh, cool, cool. If you wanna chill sometime, you can come over to my place.”

“Where is it?”

“Foothills of the valley.”

“Text me your address. My number’s 310-xxx-xxxx” Steve smiled as he texted me. my phone buzzed as I got in my car and started it. As I backed out, I heard the sharp roar of Steve’s bike. He rode by my car and leaned over. Ninja: ZX-10R, no ABS. I could smell the nicotine and tangy pine smell of him, and something else, Asian fried food, I think.

“I’ll race ya’ once we get on the freewa-ay!” I slid out of the parking lot and headed toward I-10, leaving Steve laughing way behind.

I turned a few corners, losing him. I was smiling to myself. He was probably one of those bikers who picked a bike for its color. I chuckled to myself, driving along. Where was the entrance to the 10 heading east? There was a starbucks ahead. How many Starbucks are there? I wondered, driving past. It looked awfully familiar…as I realized that I had gone full circle. I laughed at myself for prematurely thinking that I had won the race, as I tried once again to find the entrance to the freeway. That’s what I get for not  having a car for seven years, I swore I would never be without wheels ever again.

                                                                                                                            

Ah, here it is, as I found the freeway entrance and stopped at the light. Steve was probably long gone. The light turned green. I started up the ramp. A loud buzzing of a small engine came from behind as the entrance lanes merged into the freeway. A blur of lime green sped by with the billowing jacket of its rider ripping in the wind. It was unreal the way he accelerated. As he disappeared from sight, he was still speeding up.

That guy’s on a death wish, I thought. And also about the complications of a daredevil personality. Well, tomorrow is another day, I thought, I can always beg out of meeting later. The whir of his engine still sounded in my mind. Then again, I really wanted that ride. 

Chapter 1: My Landlady is an Undercover Fed

This is how I began my story months ago, in the midst of all the craziness. It sounds frenetic because yeah, I was frantic at times. I was trying to squish the background down to a few pages to get to the substance of the story. Now that I’ve stabilized, I’m trying again. After you read the first chapter below, you can read subsequent rewrites. There is more cohesion to them, now that I understand what’s going on.  

My Landlady is an Undercover Fed

(And so is my roommate)

Or housemate. We don’t share the same bedroom, only common areas, kitchen, bathroom, laundry facilities, pantry, and it was great for a while. Until I started noticing things. 

The mobile home that I lived in was beautiful. One could not have guessed from the inside that outside, it was manufactured upstate and shipped downstate. The residence I moved into was spacious for a pre-made house, bigger than the ones around it. Inside, it was richly renovated, with uneven hardwood floors that mimicked real trees. The kitchen fixtures were new: the cabinets high for tall people, the hanging microwave even higher so that I could not see the tray, earthy granite countertops, picture frame table dressings, Moroccan rugs under the dining room table and the living room coffee table.

The curio cabinet showcased dinnerware and all forms of alcohol that I did not understand, Jack Daniels, crystal wine glasses, wedding gifts that Lorraine had yet to use. She said I was welcome to use anything.

My bedroom was an invitation to a homeless creature and I grabbed it at first sight. Sage green linens on the bed, which was set right of the door. No bedframe. Cream colored comforter with Chinese characters scrawled in rust, a black night table on the far side of the bed between it and the recessed space where a closet was meant to be. The dresser matched the black hole black of the night table. Inside the closet pace, a matching IKEA floor-to-ceiling shelf filled the entire recessed area into the wall. There were no closet doors. Instead, a plastic ivory bar was hung with rings from which black nylon curtains hung. The windows faced west.

Outside, there was a wall-sized bush that separated Lorraine’s mobile home and her neighbor’s. In the far corner from the bedroom door was a white nylon fabric wardrobe with plenty of hangers. Nice ones, too. Why the recessed space meant for clothes was filled with a wall-sized shelf and a portable wardrobe bought for when closet space was tight I did not question. Actually, I needed more shelf space that hanging space so this setup was perfect.

The floor was newly installed. I loved it. Asthma prevented me from living in carpeted homes, and trying to find a room in a house or apartment that had hardwood floors on my budget was difficult. The walls were painted in robin’s egg blue. My favorite.

Next door between the master bedroom and my bedroom was my housemate’s room. It was slightly larger than mine. The good room always gets taken first. Across the narrow hall, two steps away was the bathroom. Rustic tiling, shower curtain hung for a seven-foot basketball player.

Before I tell you the things I noticed—it’s important that you practice the same vigilance so that you do not find yourself trapped in a house surrounded by federal agents—please allow me to step back, for I really need to catch my breath.

The last few months have been an archetypal action-adventure movie. The only difference is that it’s fun watching the poor slob on the screen running around for dear life without anyone to help him. When it happens to you, it feels as if you are going to die. If you are lucky that is.

If you live, you will understand what Godot was waiting for.

Even if you never wanted to.

I never did because I was too happy waiting for nothing and doing everything. That was me as a child, bouncing around until it hurt. I was lucky, I never hurt too much but maybe others did. I don’t know, or I did and I didn’t care. Or rather, I knew the difference when to care and when to move on.

Somewhere along the line I lost it. That ability to move on. I got clogged on in the trivial, I magnified the minutiae, I inhaled deep regrets that should have been tooted out as applesauce is that does not agree with a toddler.

“Don’t notice so much,” my mother often told me. I couldn’t help it. Noticing is the foundation of progress. And I have always been a progressive liberal. Too progressive some say. Overly liberal, others claim. So much so that my friends are libertarians.

I raced through school with an enthusiasm that was marred pretty much with only the fact that it didn’t last long enough. I went to college then grad school, then did my postdoc, you get the picture. Had I gone slower, I wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much. Huh? That’s me. The negatives of any positive are a direct consequence of my happiness, and any reduction in my discontent would have been proportionately matched by a decrease in my happiness, such that I preferred the extremes.

Greater happiness paired with greater sorrow outranked moderate happiness coupled with moderate discontent.

Such was my utility function, the first that will explain why, when I discovered that my landlady was a federal agent, why, I did not hightail it and run out of there but instead stood my ground, dug a trench into her newly renovated hardwood floors, and battled it out while on all sides of me the enemy spun a web so voluminous its incompetence was insured by layers of stupidity that when stacked against each other translated to this:

At the universal level: Where an enemy has relatively unlimited resources, and you have no money, no job, no friends nearby, then in the end and in the beginning, they will win.

At the particular level: where the strongest government in the world has its most elite federal agents on a mission to smash you into the pavement, it does not matter that you are lucky enough to find a pothole to keep from being smeared into smithereens.

Eventually, that is your end. If you be so foolish to fight the mightiest nation in the world. Remember, only one country came out victorious in war with America the Beautiful. Maybe it was that heritage that pulled me through. Who knows. I only know that I speak one language, English. That I believe that I live in the greatest nation in the world, even after my government, whose President I love so very much, beat me up with an insensitivity that would have even made that harshest of judges on American Idol cringe.

Then, my government spit me out when it had no further use of me. That’s when I picked myself up, dusted off my only decent suit that I had been using for interviews after being so long out of the job market, and decided to get back into the ring. For if you think fighting nine rounds with the government is rough, you have not lived through the last eighteen years with me.

Those were the best and hardest years of my life. I was in the only long-term relationship in my life. It lasted eighteen years. Although I wanted it to last another eighteen years, fortunately for me I did not get my own way. I finally pulled myself out of a relationship with the only man I ever loved and likely the greatest love of my life. And each pull was like a screaming wrench to my heartstrings because they were made of elastic and were durable with each stretch and snap of my heartstrings.

Each time I thought I could take no more of days fixing oatmeal, potato, defrosting whole wheat bread, orange juice and tea, followed by some chores, a walk within mmm, seven or eight blocks where I lived for I did not have a car, then home to do some more cleaning and attend to the list of things left for me to do, I rallied myself for another day of neutral repetition. It took me a while to understand why battling the government was so similar to my days of doing nothing, when the principle for which I fought was freedom. Freedom in spite of my fear. 

The first ten of those eighteen years, I was in academia, student, postdoc, lecturer. For the last eight years I did not have a job. For a mind like mine, you might as well lobotomize me and go watch the celebrity news on your flat screen because that would have been more merciful: ending me at the beginning, than letting me die by epsilons those eight years. You would not have seen anything, I mean I was certainly dying because I sure as hell was not living, but you could not have noticed for it was even less imperceptible that watching your fingernails grow. But it was there, the process, its results, so irrefutable you could not have noticed had the results been displayed on a billboard in New York Times. Only the message took near a decade to deliver that the obviousness got lost in sheer “doing-nothingness” state, if that makes sense.

It’s as if the word “Help!” were to be flashed on a Times Square Billboard one letter at a time but so slowly that the “H” was left hanging, “H--” and everyone in the square got tired of looking and walked on and the newly entered into the square or the few who continued thinking about it asked themselves, “H—ello?” “Hi?” “Hey there?” In other words, the urgency of the message never came through because it came through too slowly. “H—ee—l—pp--!” Snore.

Seriously, Ssal is dying because she is doing nothing with her life except tending to the ones that she loves. Huh? Wouldn’t this be the ultimate reason for living? One would think so, except if one were able to care for the masses, then caring for the individual one. at. a. time. is so inefficient it goes beyond thinking how long it would take to care for all the individuals one vaccine or scientific discovery could do in an instant.

That was my dilemma. Like the prodigal son, I had squandered what god and prosperity had endowed me with and when famine struck, I was left to my own devices.

The details of having failed for doing nothing for the last eighteen years so clearly set my path for my unprecedented battle with the government of goliath proportions, epic when you have no weapon but your mind—the one that I did not use for better during the past eighteen years, over half my life ago—but hey, David only had a boomerang, right? I mean, correct?

My battle with the government started immediately after I wrenched myself from an eighteen-year relationship. It’s so painful to think about, it made my experience with the federal government seem like a joke, for I certainly laughed a lot, deliriously sometimes with my new partner in battle, Steve. He laughed a lot too, a loud laugh that made everyone in the room look, and then quietly think, thank goodness I’m not him. But that never stopped him from laughing, which is why I loved hearing him laugh so much, even when he got on my nerves. Not really.

I had just found a job, too, quite proud of myself. Being out of the job market that long with such a promising resume made me seem like a joke. No one took me seriously. It was either, “We want someone who will stay, not leave us after we’ve trained them.” They had no idea what a stable rock I was for the last two decades. Or it was, if you read between the comments, “We want someone dedicated, not a dilettante who has the luxury of practicing as an attorney years after she passed the bar.” It was not until I had engaged my foe that anyone realized how seriously I was about the law. For law and order are ideas that I cherished, before I saw those endowed with protecting order abuse the law.

What did I want to do in the long run? I was asked during my first interview, to which I stuttered something about partaking in the firm’s profit share. Considering that the firm was wholly owned by the bossman, who incidentally, was the one interviewing me, that sounded quite lame. I had done my research the night before, when I had been called in for an interview, but there did not seem to be very many good answers for this very obvious of interview questions. It seemed a bit less lame than, “I want to argue in front of the Supreme Court on one of these issues: Civil Rights in terms of equality that eliminates discrimination even though I will never benefit from affirmative action, healthcare because no one deserves to wait longer in an emergency room because they do not have health insurance, freedom of speech because Americans are way more squeamish about sex than violence.” How would a workers’ compensation case ever get to the Supreme Court of the land? So I gave the profit sharing answer that was suggested in the “How to Land a Job by using these 100 Best Answers to the 100 Most Obvious Interview Questions Ever”.

I didn’t get the full-time job, but the independent contractor position instead. I was happy with that, as it could swing me into a permanent position elsewhere. Things were good, as I looked at the cuffs on the sleeves of my suit. Thought I had removed all the lint from my suit prior to my interview, peering closely at why the lint would not pull off. Oh, I realized, it was not lint sticking out, the threads of my suit were fraying I had worn it so many times even if not recently. My best black suit was almost ten years old. It fit pretty well considering. I had a few that fit better but those were stuck at my ex’s place. I choked on that word, even in thought. “Ex,” how do you call someone whom you’ve been with for almost two decades an ex when you will always love them? And definitely no less tomorrow than today. I stopped picking at the threads of my suit because I was only making the threads longer.

The day I got offered one job, I got offered a second. Life was wonderful. I had finally picked myself up by the scruff of my neck and was ready to conquer the world, a decade or two late but ready nonetheless. This called for a celebration. But with whom, I chuckled to myself. I had spent the last ten years laser focused on everyone else except myself. I had let friendships slide by until friends became acquaintances and strangers looked more familiar than my acquaintances. But no more. I knew how to say no. I was going to hoard my time for myself. Even if it killed me. Little did I know how often I would be repeating that to myself in the near future.

So there I was, a middle-aged woman, a cougar almost, beginning her career. Single, having to find roommates, driving a rental car, with no one to celebrate with except my mother. I called her first, she was proud of me. I smiled at her support, which was always there. The comfort and the security only a mother could give.

Had some interneting to do, so I set off looking for a Starbucks or a Coffee-Grind. Somewhere young and hip, I needed to feel alive. I did feel alive, as I drove my car to the Westside on a Friday evening. I looked at my dashboard, which warned me: 51 miles to empty. That’s plenty, I laughed. The windows were down and the wind cut my cheeks sharply so that I wanted to feel more. I felt footloose, free, and no longer in need of refueling.

Part 2. Meet Steve Patina

I rolled along the ten freeway going west, going as far west as Horace Greeley urged. I was almost at the end when I heard a roar of a bike coming up on my left. A rider sped by with the wind maxing out his jacket like a sail, fullblown and free. I looked at my speedometer. I was only going eighty…five. And he was long gone. I hit the accelerator and it the steering wheel. Where was the damn horn? Was it one of those side horns or button horns? My left hand steered while my right groped for the—there it is. a loud honk.  

Introduction: Operation: Keep PT Down

Steve Patina was a guy I met by accident. He was a great concept designer. Specifically, he designed cars but modestly, he could create anything that he designed. He just had a problem with follow through. For up until the day we met, Steve had not been able to execute any of his great ideas. And he had many.

That’s where he was at on the day we met, in neutral with his wheels spinning and the emergency brake on.

So, I decided to help him unstick because he was digging himself in deeper, looking out the gray-tinted windows of his life with more than a little bit of desperado in his eyes and a loud laugh that tried so hard to be happy. Just a little shove, I thought, and he’ll be on his way.

Hardly did I suspect that in trying to dig Steve out of his sticky limbo that I would get pulled in. This is the story of a guy who lived most of his life being monitored by the government and what happened to us when I tried to free Steve from his virtual prison. It was not easy, and it’s still ongoing. A daily struggle for the pursuit of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, none of which our government will allow Steve.

Steve hasn’t done anything wrong. He is just…different. It took a long time to figure out just how and still, I don’t know everything. I don’t want to. It has cost too much. What I do know is that the U.S. Constitution grants every one of us those inalienable rights, yet our government has violated those rights in regards to Steve and continues to do so. Every. Single. Day. Without exception.

As you read on, please note that Operation: Keep PT Down is a work of fiction. It simply could not happen, the federal government spending our tax dollars engineering a synthetic life for Steve. The people he met, the accidents that befell him that he took for really, really bad luck, even the women he married…Thus, any resemblance to real life people is merely…uncanny. 

On Angels Wings

Well, this blog was about poetry and stories. The election was an interesting tangent but let's get back to basics! I don't know about you guys and gals, but I like rhyming poems...

~*~*~`*~ ~*~ ~ ~ * ~`*~ * ~ ~ ~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~ ~ ~*~*~ ~ ~**~*~ ~ `* ~ ~ ~

on Angel’s wings

Past mundane . . . of

                  nights come home

From Lover’s search

     And aimless roam

Says he, “have I been

        beyond

  And back

To find you

     what. . . you sorely lack

“The only thing they granted me

See here:

A pair.

   of rainbow clear

 Angels wings -- for a fee.”

He puts them on

    Soars past the moon

Not

   beyond.

I call him back . . .

       to his ruin

And Lover falls down

     on angels wings

Too lame to burden wind

He sweetly parts and sheds

       his wings

            And flings . . .

me high above him

Part Two: How I Got to the Official Inaugural Ball

Wow, I couldn't believe it, I was inside President Obama's Official Second Inaugural Ball at the Washington Convention Center! The top floor was for the Military Ball; the first floor was for the elite. Funny thing is, all the performers, like Usher, Smokey Robinson (I think it was), Alicia Keys performed on one floor and then rotated to the second floor. That was efficient in that it minimized transportation and security costs, the budge being a huge concern for B.O.'s second inauguration. Slimming down from 20 official balls to 2 was really tightening the budget!

Each ball took the entire length of the convention center, first floor and second, one inaugural ball directly and completely above the other. The buffet tables were set up on either end. Three stages lined the banquet halls. The red, white, and blue lighting, you can see it on YouTube had some sort of weird glow to it. Every time I tried to take a pic or video, all you could see was either darkness or a bright glare. I think the Secret Service had some funny light filters installed so that it was difficult to take pics unless you were directly across where the press was staged in the back.

Unfortunately, I did miss Fun. Whose songs I like since they have an upbeat, fun, happy rhythm to all their songs. That's okay, I was at the Inaugural Ball! And Obama's nonetheless. I don't think, if Hillary 2016 happened, that I would be as blown away and as ecstatic as that night! I probably wouldn't have such a bright pink gown on either! The eats were good (but they took them away too soon, budget problems again, I think). It's a good thing I concentrated on the buffet before anything else! But even I couldn't think entirely about food this evening. (Just largely.)

Shortly after I arrived, the Biden's came in. It was funny, when they were announced, we didn't know what stage they would enter on and after it was evident that they were entering on the FAR stage of course, a small, safe, orderly stampede trotted to the far stage to take pics. I didn't, as I'm not used to being in heels and my phone doesn't take good quality pics anyway. That was exciting and I could catch a tiny glimpse of the Second Couple. But what I was really waiting for was the First Couple.

After more time to eat, I did phone one of my friends and ask, "Hey! Guess where I am?" And he says, "No." I said, "Yea, really." I held up my phone to let him hear the general ecstatic crowd and he said, "Wow, have fun!" Which I did! I walked to the front corner of the hall and saw the souvenir table. Now usually, I will barely buy a postcard when I travel, but today, that night, I bought my heart out. I really wanted an inaugural blanket in navy blue instead of burgundy red. I didn't want to lug it around all night, so decided to purchase it later. When I came back, they sold out! Too bad, and they sold out online as well. (I can't even find one on eBay! If someone sees one, give a holler please!) That's okay, I got lots of magnets, pins, maps, engraved pens, totes that I pinned the pins on, things I would NEVER buy, and a pair of champagne glasses, which really bugged my family, most of them voting straight Republican, lol.

When the First Couple was announced, I could feel a general rumbling in the floor. This was going to be a controlled stampede of slightly larger proportions than the one that met with the arrival of Vice President Biden and his wife, Dr. Jill Biden. I was standing on the far stage, the opposite of the one on which the Second Couple made their entrance. Some people thought that since the Second Couple entered on the far (stage) right, the First Couple would enter on the far (stage) left. No such luck.

The First Couple entered on the same stage as the Bidens and there was another stampede, in which I was left in the dust, lol. No matter, because I couldn't have outrun the general gorgeously dressed herd of politicos had I tried. And concentrating on taking pics instead of absorbing in the amazing things and happenings all around me...I figured I could watch it on the news or YouTube, which I did. So yes, I was there when Michelle Obama debuted her red gown for the second inauguration, a red number by Jason Wu again. I did stick my phone in the air to catch something of the First Couple as they danced but the only thing I caught was their exiting the stage hand in hand. After that, the remainder of the singers performed. I was pretty ecstatic but realized there was none of them I'd actually pay to go to see them at their concert, great as they were. Every time a performer would finish on stage, there was a general stampede from one floor to the other floor because if you liked Jennifer Hudson, you wanted to videotape her twice, not once, lol.

By this time, I was really thirsty because all the food tables had been taken away, gasp! Somewhere during one of the performances, I assume, because even the nonalcoholic drinks were gone. So, I had to stand in line at the open bar for a simple orange juice. And it was slow.

Very slow. As in over half and hour slow to get some apple juice. I could've reached over a dozen times to grab a cup and can of juice, but figured I should be genteel this night. I took my OJ and wandered to the other ball on the second floor. It was much the same, identical, practically. Evidently, security wanted to minimize people roaming from first floor to second and vice versa. The people at the military ball were in general younger and a tad louder, which was cool given the reason we were partying!

After the the celebrity performers were done, people started hopping onto the three stages to take a pic in front of the glowing stages. The Seal of the President of the United States was emblazoned in laser lights on each stage. Everyone was taking pics of each other. Someone helped me up on the almost 5 foot-stage, very tricky in heels and pants that sweep the floor and a skirt/dress that gets stuck between revolving doors (yes, it's happened to me). And right when it was my turn to take the pic, had to wait for all my fellow party goers who got there first, the Secret Service ushered us away. In other words, we Could Not Be There On The Stage. And when Secret Service commands, everyone listens. So, I couldn't get my pic. It's not a "can i get a pic first?" type of situation, but I still asked, and when SS shook their heads, I was helped down from the stage to the floor.

Then there was the announcement that the party was over! It was shortly after midnight, way to soon, I thought, for an inaugural ball. The lights were slowly turned on and they let us linger for a good hour longer. I limped to the back in my heels and climbed some stairs where there were seats in the back, taking it a-all in... because this was a once in a lifetime kinda' thing! A few other women were there sitting, resting their sore toes, as well. When finally we were ushered out, I dawdled at the Inaugural Store set outside the banquet halls, but no fleece blanket, too bad. There was a set of flags lining one side of the foyer and i helped a young girl take a pic beside her national flag. And asked her to take mine, and then a group of nice young men offered to take both of us in one pic, they thought we were together, so I said okay, not wanting to turn down a random act of kindness, lol.

Outside, I could see the wind whipping and hear the icy gales. That's when my feet really started hurting because it was two blocks to the taxi cabs and everyone else caught one right ahead of me. I was too tired to run after one. Finally, a cabby let me share a cab with another customer going in the same direction but dropped me off two block from my hotel (my hotel was only 5 blocks from the Convention Center) and said to walk that way, he pointed, for only two blocks. Well, I did, but no hotel and no, I wasn't going to pull out a map in 35 mile per hour winds, it was hard enough to keep from being blown away! Then one of those bicycle peddlers with a cab in the back offered me a ride and I took it, even for 2 blocks for somehow I was still two blocks away. The bicycle cabbie said he came all the way from New York to get some work during the inauguration, so when he got me to the front of my hotel, I tipped him more than the regular cabbie that drove me one block and still left me not knowing how to get home.

Rushing inside, I got some hot tea and went up to my room, in a trance. I felt as if I had frostbite on my toes (don't wear open-toe heels in the winter, btw!) I couldn't believe it! I got to the swearing-in ceremony AND the Official Inaugural Ball! Who would have guess one week ago where I would be and how I would get there! That was truly an awesome once-in-a-lifetime experience. I am sooo happy I decided to go. Everyone was so scared for me that it would be co-old and rain in the morning but I wasn't--sometimes you just have to brave things, lol! A little icy rain may mean nothing to you, but it does when you've got the insulation of  Gore-Tex (not Thinsulate) meaning I've got virtually no insulation on my! I barely made it out of my clothes and could sleep well after the sun came up. Finally, when I crashed, it was a slumber of the deepest and most peaceful magnitudes.