Maria (cont.)

continued

     And with a key half-turned everything's crushed together, and I screamed once when I bird flew in. I ran for the door, but I ran into Maria. And as you know these days she really shows.

She said:

     "What's all the commotion? Put the chairs up; we're closing, and I want to go home. I'll try another nicorette and break down in a sweat and cry on the kitchen floor. But it could change everything. It could change anything at all...

     "Now, Joe, you've got me thinking... It seems you know that we're all sinking, and you're waiting to throw a line. But kiddo, I don't need a hand. Please just get out while you can before this world gets you for good. Because I've never met a kid like you who dreams and then follows through. I know because in my fragile hands I let it all slip through. It was the summer of '99, and I was barely ten years high when I walked two miles to buy figure skates at "Go Figure." And the moment I tried them on I felt like mom did in the 80's. Her dreams, they really took off. She's damn pretty in the pictures on our wall in front of which I'd sit and think to myself that I could change everything.

     "Last summer I turned eighteen, and I had held tight to that dream until June 12th when I got home and that dream shook free. Dad's car was parked in front and I hadn't seen him since he since he jumped our family train. And down Yeatman Ave I saw the ambulance pull up. Clenched tight in her hand was a note wrapped in rubber band. It was to me. It said "Happy Birthday." It's not my birthday. Mom was face down on the floor as my dad swung open the door, and they stormed in and rolled her out. An overdose. And that changed everything...

     "The day the plus sign came, I went and knelt down in the rain and crid "Holy Ghost, give mom the strength she needs to come back home." But it was weeks since I heard a thing, and as I went through mother's things I found a box that I opened up and wept. Because there in white and grey were mother's rusty figure skate with a note that said "Happy Birthday." The day that mom came home, she asked if I had got her note. I said "Yes" and she looked ashamed to the closet door. And to her I said, "I will change everything." "

Chuck

"... but her son just sat in embarrassment and rearranged his silverware."

     That summer, it seemed like Kelsi was slowly reaching her breaking point. And when I saw her from a distance turn around, ready to break down after ninety-four said something about her jeans, I realized there was nothing I could do. Kelsi is one of those few people who keep getting the short end of the stick, and the worst part of it: she had grown used to it. I wanted to help her somehow, but the managers had said that because of last time, I was not to communicate with disruptive guests.

     Last time I had to escort a drunk woman out of the restaurant. I can still picture her at table forty-four, with her twenty-or-something year old son across from her. He slouched over the table in his black Spider-Man t-shirt, and took every abuse thrown from his mother.
     “You’re not here to talk at me, Chuck. You’re here to buy me drinks and drive me home.”
     “Mom, I think it’s time to…”
     “F*** off, Chuck!” She interrupted and the whole family establishment heard. “You wanna go home? Then buy your own ******* house!” She tried to stand up quickly to walk toward the bar, but she instantly lost her balance and pulled an entire drink tray on her way down. That is usually the part where the other party member escorts the guest out, but her son just sat in embarrassment and rearranged his silverware.
     I was the only male on the clock, and somewhere in Stanley’s handbook, it stated that only able-bodied males were to deal with intoxicated guests… at least that’s what the manager told me. I helped her up and brought her to a bench beside the arcade room and tried to find her son, but he had vanished.
     “M’am, can you tell me where you live?”
     Without a moment's hesitation she brought her fist to my face in one sloppy motion. The manager took care of the rest. Since then, they mandated that only managers may deal with intoxicated guests.

Maria

     I came into work the next evening as scheduled. We got slammed with a standing line of customers out to the parking lot. Luckily the new managers over-scheduled and we had more bussers than we needed. Someone needed to break down boxes, and I did not want to buss so many tables. I volunteered immediately, though aware of the mountain of boxes piling in the alley.
     The bulb had blown out leaving half the alley dark. I launched into my project as the sky darkened. Not long after I had started, Maria came out and pulled up a crate. She had long dark hair that she would release from her ponytail prison whenever she came out to smoke. I never understood why she did this, because when she was done, she had to put it back up again and she came out a lot. She lit up, and sighed.
     “I’m beginning to enjoy these more and more.” She looked at me but I showed no response. She chuckled and filled in the blanks.
     “I’m pregnant. Soon I’ll have to get off ‘em.” Again, no response. It was not my place, and anyway, I wouldn’t have known what to say. It always perplexed me: she was less than a year older than me but she seemed so much older. But as I thought more and more about it, it became less and less about how much older she seemed. And I would gravitate towards some other source.

She changed gears.

     “I don’t know. Every time I come out here, I feel trapped.” Looking up, “It must be the fence. I mean, who puts a fence over an alley? Some retards I guess.”
     As she said this, a young family walked past the window towards the front entrance and I dragged my fingers through my hair, “There are so many boxes!”
     She gave me a short look and agreed; flicking the filter into the broken glass bucket, she retreated back to her tables. The mountain was half the size it had been.

to be continued...

Reflecting on the Fine Print

Having just finished writing "The Fine Print*" I thought it would be best to begin this blog with a recap on the writing process during the past five years. I'm going to be absolutely honest with you guys in this blog because I'm not the typical musician. While I take pride in the work I've done, I have to be honest, writing "The Fine Print*" was very difficult. It became a discovery of what I really value in music. A few songs from the album originally had explicit lyrics. I decided to edit these because they distract from the sincerity from the songs. With this in mind I have started "Life In The Hive." Enjoy!