The soft beige carpet is heated from filtering sunlight. Tabitha’s eyes are watering as she opens them against the insistent glare of sunbeams. She swipes her hand over her face to block out the morning, then takes a moment to survey the room. Sometimes it takes her a few seconds to remember where she is when she’s away from home, or away from her city for that matter. Buffalo has a different feel, a different smell, and an entirely different atmosphere. It is remarkably quiet. The only sound in the neighborhood is that of waking sparrows and robins shuffling from tree to tree in Aimee’s front yard. A distant lawnmower motor is playing hopscotch on overgrown grass across the street.
Tabitha sits up slowly, feeling the day old alcohol sending out an s.o.s to the nerve endings in between her eyes. The inside of her mouth is cottony and it tastes like wet cigarettes in a carnival glass ashtray. “Man, I feel like I’ve been beaten against a rock. I don’t feel this bad when I play at a bar all night. Must be that Buffalo air. What time is it?” She tips her body to the far right, leaning on her palm to see the clock on the dining room wall. “Nine ten, huh. Ten minutes later than yesterday. That’s the problem. I usually sleep through the hangover hours of the morning. When I’m away from home I can’t seem to sleep in. I guess I also have a tendency toward nightmares when I’m away from home. That was kinda freeeeaky. Looking at that psychiatric center last night must have befuddled me brain a bit. Where the hell do they keep the caffeine in this joint anyway? Hope I don’t have to wait for everyone else to wake up.”
“Good morning Tabby. How’s your head? I probably should have warned you that Petey is generous with the shots. Sure hope we didn’t scar you for life or anything. Sky and Charlie are still sleeping upstairs. You want some food or something? A nice hot steaming cup of rocket fuel perhaps?” Amiee pulls the strings on her teal pajama bottoms and ties them together in a loose bow at her waist. “Come on. Ma is sitting in the kitchen. She wakes up before the ass crack of dawn. Early bird you know.”
Gravity is against Tabitha as she tries to lift her body from the floor. “Yeah, coffee would be a good thing right about now. I had the weirdest dream. Is your house haunted or something? I’m telling you, super strangeville my friend. I haven’t had a crazy dream like that since I was a kid. In fact, this was one of those recurring childhood nightmares. Maybe you can psycho analyze this one. I’d make a great subject for a psychology thesis, whatta ya think. Bring me to school with you sometime. I’ll keep your professors amused for years.”
“My professors are going to be pissed at me this week. I skipped school today to hang out with you guys, and I’m going to have to make up that ‘really, really important’ test that they told us not to miss under any circumstances. How good are you at forging a doctor’s note? If you can’t do that for me, I might have to tell them that I was abducted by aliens or something. Screw it. It is my loan money that I’m pissing away. I’m taking a mental health day. I’ve earned it, and I’m twenty- one years old for the love of Shanghai Pete. Geepers. Can’t a girl have an early-twenties crisis without the pressures of homework? Don’t those people know that I have other things to do? And by the way, if I have to deal with one more teenage girl crying about her boy troubles I’m going to lay a pastel Easter egg! These are women studying to be psychologists, and I think they need to see one. The next flake that I see blubbering about her beau is going to get a five- subject wide ruled notebook upside her head. Oh, sorry. Did I say that? You can see why I need a mental health day. It is not good for psychology students to attack each other. Looks pretty bad on a resume. ‘Aimee does not get along well with others’ printed in bold letters on the first page of my portfolio. Yep, I’d get one hell of a client base with an assault record. ‘Dr. A. Thompson – assault and battery specialist. If I can’t fix your trauma with therapy, I’ll have to smack it out of you!’ I’m going to print that on my business cards.”
Terry is sitting on a stool at the kitchen’s island sipping unsweetened herbal tea, both hands cupped around the mug to feel the warmth of the ceramic. “Good morning. I thought you would never wake up. I get up around four, five if I’m lucky. I’ve never been able to sleep past that time. Not even if I went to bed late. I’ll make you girls some coffee. I take it you have no desire for decaf.”
Tabitha pulls a stool out from under the island and sits at the edge of the cushion, as though she might need to get a head start at running away from something sinister. Reflections of the dream are playing over in her mind. She is so enthralled that she almost forgets to blink.
“Wow. What’s in the water around here anyway? Usually I just have these drab black and white films for dreams, but last night was a damn epic. It was in living color, and it bugged me out severely. Holy geeze. I gotta stay away from all that cheese! Oh well. I guess I should just cowboy up like the old Chuckster told me to. No biggie. Want some help with that coffee? Wait, think about that before you answer. Yesterday I made a huge mess in Lu-Lu’s kitchen. There were coffee grounds and Danish everywhere. Not to mention talk of bowling. I wouldn’t want to throw any bad jokes around you’re new kitchen, might mess up the curtains er somtin. Who wants that?”
Aimee positions herself close to Tabitha. “So, what was this dream about? You don’t seem like the type to get your panties in a twist over nothing. Of course, that’s just a guess. I don’t really know you, so I can’t say for sure. Anybody starting trouble with you? I’ll kick their asses! Any friend of Sky’s is a friend of mine. We are sisters now. Sorry, but we’re related. That’s just the way that it has to be. Everything is relative when you think about it.”
“It was a strange thing man. I used to have this dream all of the time when I was just a wee nipper. It’s been piles of years since the last one. The reason that it freaks me out so bad is because it is so real. Know what I mean there Sparky? Have you ever had one of those dreams that are so real that you wake up, and you’re not quite sure if that just happened, where you are, and what you are doing here? Makes you wonder about the human brain. I think mine has some cracks in it. Too many head traumas maybe?
Anywho, in this particular dream, I’m in this huge lavish hotel. All decked out and what not. Fancy chandeliers, gold platted everything, marble floors, and people who look like they’re headed for some magnanimous high school prom. Women walking around in big feathered hats, and men who look like they just stepped off of the poop deck of the Titanic. The lobby has ceilings that are like thirty feet high, painted with clouds and cherubs, that ornate chapel look. There’s a big marble fountain in the middle of the room with mermaids spitting recycled water from pursed lips, and their hands outstretched like they could grab onto your shirt if you dare to walk too close to those cold hands. That alone is scary enough, but my trip to the elevator is the really spooky part.
I’m struggling to make my way to the open doors before the elevator attendant pulls the big metal cage closed and calls out ‘going up’. There are all of these people in my way, as if they’re trying to block me out on purpose. As I’m pushing my way through the crowd the other elevator stops to let people off. I’m watching the passengers from the other elevator as they blend into the masses. So, I’m watching them right? It seems weird to me because they’re all dressed in different period garb. You know, some look like they’re from the middle ages, some look like they’re from the twenties, and others from like the forties. I’m thinking, okay this is different. Then these mysterious time travelers just disappear as they’re walking, but no one notices them but me. I’m wondering what in the wide world is going on. These ghosts or whatever are just walking into the realm of the living, and then vanishing like one hit wonders from the eighties music scene. Okay, now I’m flipping right?
I finally make it to the elevator, and I’m looking at the attendant. She doesn’t have a face. I don’t mean like I can’t see her face. I mean that she literally doesn’t have a face. Somehow, she loses control of the elevator. She says ‘going up’, but the lift starts heading down. I’m crammed in with all of these other people, but as the small wooden box travels further into the earth folks just start disappearing. Now it’s just me and the faceless woman in uniform.
The elevator stops abruptly. I look up at the ceiling, and there is no top to the box, just wires and this big black cave reaching up to god-knows what. The glowing red button on the wall reads ‘SB’. I’m guessing that stands for Sub-Basement. I hate basements. They have always bothered me. Something to do with the subconscious maybe? I’m not sure. The gate lifts, and there I am in this long dark tunnel. It’s like something that might be under a medieval castle. The walls are made of large slabs of black rock covered in bright green mold, all slimy and what not. These big pipes are running through the tunnels, dripping funky water all over the cracked floor.
I hear this female voice echoing from a great distance, like she’s trapped somewhere in the tunnels, or walled up in the rocks. I get the feeling that she’s no longer with us. If you know what I mean? She tells me to warn the others. She says that there is going to be a great fire, and everyone will die if I don’t warn them to get out.
I’m completely freaking out at this point. I run back to the elevator. It seems like I'm running for days, like there are cement blocks attached to my feet. I just can’t seem to run fast enough, and I feel the urgency to get people out of the building. I’m not thinking about the fact that they will all look at me like I’m a deranged mad woman.
I get back into the elevator, but it’s much smaller this time. Both of my elbows are touching both of the walls. It’s smaller than a bathroom stall at a football stadium, and it just keeps shrinking until the doors are only wide enough for me to squeeze through sideways. This really bugs me on accountta I’m a tiny bits claustrophobic, you see? It feels like there is some evil force preventing me from moving. Yikes! I get the chills just thinking about it.
So, I get back to the lobby by some act of god. The faceless attendant has disappeared too. I step out of the elevator, and I want to run into the crowd to warn people, but everyone is still in my way. I’m looking at their faces. They’re all smiling and having a grand time. Mother’s are walking with children at their hips. There’s a man sitting on a bench near the fountain, he’s sifting through some paperwork from his briefcase, and munching on half of a glazed donut. Just people going about their normal business, but I have this sense of doom. I’m sweating and shaking, trying to find my voice and make it loud enough to carry over everyone else’s. I start yelling at people to get out of the hotel. Even the people standing right next to me are ignoring me. I want to grab them by the shirt, and shake them to attention. Alas, my attempts are futile. I squeeze through the sea of ignorance, imploring them to heed my words. Nothing works. At this point I’m feeling like one of those crazy people on the street corner. The one’s who are wearing the big wooden signs over their chest and back that say something about Armageddon and the last generation. Like I’m handing out pamphlets on the end of the world, and other people are throwing them in the round file right in front of me. My frantic attempts to warn people about the fire are about as effective as exercising by standing next to heavy weights.
I finally make it out to the street. There are only a couple of people near me. I’m looking up at the face of the hotel. The outside of the building is just as fancy as the inside. It is covered in all of these great hand carved stone sculptures along the top and edges of each floor. The windows are slightly crooked in their rows from the age of the structure. Not quite dilapidated, just a sign of antiquity. I’m scoping out the perimeter of the building, trying to see any smoke or flames, but I don’t see anything. The sun is set at high noon in the sky, and the windows are reflecting the orange light down onto the empty sidewalks in big white squares.
I woke up at this point. I’m curled up on your floor, and it takes me a minute to figure out where I am. I’m wondering what the hell this dream means, and I’m wondering why it has come back to me after all of this time. How freaky is that?”
Aimee is digging through the psychology vocabulary filed away in her brain from all of those classes that she attended. This dream of Tabitha’s could have so many meanings, and she is trying to be careful in her presentation of theory to the punky girl sitting in front of her. It has always been her feeling that it is better not to delve to deeply into the assumed trauma of people who are associated with her in any social way. At least, that is what her teachers have always said.
“Well, that’s a tough one, Tabby. I would have to know more about you I think. Some of the things in that dream are your basic subconscious fear type stuff, like claustrophobia and fear of death. Buildings can mean long life. Hotels can mean travel. Descending elevators can mean misfortune. Basements mean opportunities with trouble. Unfortunately, hearing distressed voices can be a warning of misfortune for someone close to you. Do you think that your brain associates this dream with certain events in your life? Maybe traveling has something to do with it. Being away from home can cause stress, even if you don’t think about it consciously.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. I used to have this dream a lot when I moved from Zanesville to Brooklyn when I was ten. That was a pretty weird time for me. I’m probably just a little bugged out because I haven’t left the city since. Thanks for the quickie session there ‘dream analyst’ of the stars. The check is in the mail, I swear.”
She lifts the mug of hot liquid to her lips, settling into her seat on the world, and feeling better about the dream now that she has shared it with someone. This isn’t like her at all. She is not known for her self-disclosure by any stretch of the imagination. Jokes and lighthearted banter were her usual ticket to socializing, but something about this family brought out a sense of comfort. Unlike Charlie’s mother this group was warm and inviting. Tabitha feels like she belongs instantly, a misfit amongst a band of misfits. A free spirit traveling with a pressure system across the map.
“Thanks for the coffee Ma. This really hits the spot. Sorry about the ranting, but it’s pretty rare that I have this type of dream. I figured that I’d share for once. Okay, now you tell me about one of your wacky dreams and we’ll be all square, deal?”
Terry smiles warmly at the distressed girl in her kitchen. “I can’t think of any weird dreams at the moment…No wait, the other night I dreamt that I was on a train headed for Australia. That idea scared me a little because I don’t know of any trains that can travel across oceans. Of course, I’m afraid of deep waters. So I guess that I already know what that was about.”
The humor pole vaults back into Tabitha’s voice. “Did you have a bluey?”
“What the heck is that?”
“Oh you know, a bluey. It’s a bag or bundle that a swagman carries his clothes in.”
“A swag what?
“A swagman. It’s Australian slang for a drifter who carries a bluey. Makes sense right? Although swagman sounds like a term that could be used for a real hep cat, like a swinger, or a disco dancer who’s all svelte and suave. Check me out, I’m a swagman. ‘Care to join me for dinner and a movie, you sweet thang you?’ Doing her best impression of a nineteen seventies hipster decked out in polyester threads and gold chains. Snapping her fingers and winking at Aimee like some loser who had too much to drink at the local pub. “Just you, me, and my overstuffed bluey. Can you dig it, baby?”
Sky wipes the crud from her eyes as she enters the kitchen, too amused to be distracted by her hangover. “Tabitha, you are hereby banned from social interaction in any kitchen anywhere. Every time I catch you in the presence of large appliances you’re rambling on about something loopy.”
“Well good morning to you too, my little nectarine. No need for hostilitosity this early in the day. Speaking of loopy…Did I tell you that joke about the famous cartoon mouse? He walks into a lawyer’s office, and says “I want a divorce from my famous cartoon mouse wife.” The lawyer says “I told you that you can’t divorce her just because she’s a bit loopy.” The mouse turns to the lawyer and replies, “I didn’t say that she was a bit loopy, I said she was fucking goofy!” Tabitha bows at the crowd, waiting for her well- deserved applause.
Sky rolls her eyes, snickering faintly. “Okay, that was just sad. You’re slightly off in the morning aren’t ya? A pun is the lowest form of humor, or so they say. Drink your coffee before somebody gets hurt.”
“Psst, ha, who are they anyway? Funny is funny, even when it isn’t. I thought you liked to play with words, honey. I’ll give you a butt load of words to work with. Let’s start with…hmmm, bite me! How’s that grab ya hot stuff? Did you sleep well? Where’s your boyfriend? Is she dolling herself up in the water closet, squirming into something pink and frilly for the events of the day ahead? I bet she’d look adorable in a cotton sundress with daisies all over it. I’m gonna tackle her when she gets down here, and smear bright red lipstick across those collagen imitation lips of hers. Oh baby, that’s a picture for the old scrapbook. I’ll send it in to that show about amazing occurrences. Believe it or don’t, Charles P. Charles is wearing rouge! It’ll grow on her. We just need to help her take that first step into girlhood. Not that I would be the best coach. I’m an evil little liberal feminist, and I have plans to convert all hard core conservatives into latex wearing, bra burning, banner waving anarchists who examine their vaginas with hand mirrors in the middle of crowded city streets. You Homo’s are into all that pride parade crap right? I’m going to start a new parade for people who are preaching to the choir. I’ll call it “We’re here. We’re queer. You’re used to it already.” I don’t think that the word ‘queer’ should be limited to gay people. I’m pretty freaken queer. I mean have you seen me lately. I want a parade too, damn it!”
“There is a parade for people like you. It’s called ‘Dr. Wacko’s parade for the mentally disturbed.’ I think they hold it every year at the state hospital for the criminally insane in New Hampshire. You should sign up before they run out of room.” Sky winks at Tabby. “Kisses.”
Aimee smiles at Sky from across the marbled counter top. “You still got it. There wasn’t a safe place to be found for the kids who picked on you in high school, and you still got it. I just threatened to beat them to a pulp, but they were afraid of you because they knew that you would rip them apart with words. Now that I’ve met Tabitha I understand why you guys are so close. You can keep up with each other. Right on! I’m taking you, Tabby, and Charlie out for breakfast. How’s Pano’s sound?
“Paa noze” Tabitha grins at her own reflection in the coffee mug.
The big royal blue awning is a welcoming drapery hanging over an open patio at the front of Pano’s restaurant. Traffic on Elmwood is bustling for a Monday morning. Fatigued college students struggling to stay awake behind the wheels of their fourth hand vehicles, praying that they don’t have to stop at any red lights before they hit Buffalo State’s parking lot. The fact that there weren’t fifteen stalled out rust buckets lined up along the side of the road with frustrated scholars kicking the side panels was as close to a miracle as humanly possible.
Tabitha feels right at home as she watches a car full of tardy students whiz by. A ribbon of dyed hair and silver nose rings passing at forty miles per hour, folk music blaring from blown out speakers.
“I’m guessing that’s the art department. I’m also guessing that they’re late. If I know anything about artsy people, and I think that I might, they are only rushing for their ‘underwater basket weaving’ class. I only rushed to the classes that I was good at in high school. It’s a classic art major’s move. Selective education is a flaw that applies to those who are really good at some things, and suck at everything else.”
Aimee waves at the young man hanging out of the rolled down window, then turns to Tabitha with a smile. “How did you guess? Yvonne, Scott, and Monica are always late. They are cool enough to get away with that sort of thing. The professors wouldn’t have a job without talent like that. Those three are the art department. Scott is a theatrical genius. Monica has been accused of painting the very world that we live in, and Yvonne can do anything. We’re talking poetry, photography, and music. I don’t know how she does it. She can play any musical instrument that you put in her hands, take a meaningful black and white picture of the event, and then write a heart-wrenching poem about the experience. Oh, I almost forgot that she does sculptures too. Talk about a right brained person. I don’t think that she has ever been acquainted with the left lobe. I am incredibly jealous. People ask me ‘what’s that supposed to be?’ when I draw a stick figure. That’s probably why I associate myself with artists. I’m hoping that some of that talent rubs off on me, and they’re loads of fun on a Friday night.”
Sky is not listening to the conversation as she tries to flag the car down. “Monica! Hey, Monica! Stop the damn car would ya?” Her arms flailing up and down as though she might take off into flight.
“I take it that’s your friend Monica, Sky.” Charlie is trying to contain her laughter as she watches Sky bounce around like a cheerleader on crack.
The loud muffler of the beater car rumbles as Yvonne turns the steering wheel sharply to clear the corner of Forrest Ave., almost tipping that hunk of ancient metal onto two worn tires instead of four. Muffler music fades slightly, and then grows louder as the car heads back to Elmwood. Yvonne takes the turn, creeping dangerously close to an oncoming mini van that is pulling out of the gas station. She parks the dying animal in front of Mr. Goodbar, and the three artists jump out to greet Sky and Aimee with a level of enthusiasm that might be considered ‘uncool’ by the rest of the art community.
Aimee has to yell at Monica as she darts off into the middle of the street without looking. “Watch out! We’ll wait for you to get over here. I promise.”
Yvonne and Monica are fighting for hugging dominance as they head for Sky, arms outstretched and smiles blaring. Yvonne wins the fight for Sky’s affections. She crushes the girl against her chest.
“What are you doing here baby? We thought that you were some big city journalist by now. You know, for a writer, you sure don’t know how to pick up a pen to write a letter. Even an e-mail would work. There are no excuses in this age of technology. That’s okay, don’t worry about me. I’m not hurt at all.”
Monica pries Yvonne’s arms from around her friend. “Yvonne, you sound like a stalker already. It’s my turn!” She grabs Sky in a tight hug. “Why haven’t you called!”
“Okay guys! I’m sorry, and you both sound like stalkers. This is my girlfriend Charlie, and my buddy Tabby.” A hint of apology lies just beneath the surface of Sky’s declaration, and she is sure to change the subject as quickly as she can. She throws her arms around Scott’s neck. “Hi Scott. How the hell are ya? Still acting like an actor, or are you directing like a director these days? You working at Shakespeare in the park this year? There are so many things that I miss about this town. New York is great, but Buffalo’s art community is like a big functional work in dysfunction. Kind of like a family of temperamental pre-teens living in the same house. Fighting over the last scrap of creativity and bitching that everyone else is far more talented than they are. Every artist in this city is good for the next, what with all of the self-esteem issues that go hand in hand with creation. If it wasn’t for you guys, I never would have let anyone read anything that I wrote. I might have ended up like one of those weird old ladies that smell like the interior of a downtown phone booth. You know the kind that have six hundred cats nesting in their apartments.”
The short thespian stands in a mellow pose. His jet-black hair streaked with brilliant orange highlights, falling about his pierced ears and round baby face. Inky eyeliner smudged around his merciless crystal blue eyes, giving him the aspect of a surly gothic pariah with hypothyroidism. Scott is far too reserved to display his excitement about reuniting with Sky.
“Yep. You know I always work on Shakespeare in the park. It’s the best thing since peanut M&M’s. I was hoping to direct this year. Word on the street is that I have a good shot for next year. Right now I’m supposed to be taking an exam, but who can sit through a test when Sky Madison has landed on Elmwood. We can make it up tomorrow, right Yvonne? Not that I’m going to pass the damn thing. College math is a requirement, but it sure ain’t no fun for me. I’d rather chomp on some chocolate chip pancakes anyway.”
Pano’s patio is directly in the avenue of rejuvenating spring air born of last evening’s cloudburst. Sitting beside the two foot high metal fence is the equivalent of pulling a chair up onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians passing by could stop and filch some scrambled eggs right off of a patron’s plate, then run next door to pick up a new CD from the music store, or two doors down to sift through vintage garments. The best seat in the house is on that paved path, despite the dangers of losing a morsel of one’s sustenance to strolling strangers.
Sky notices three people facing each other in an askew triangle at the far end of the fence, alongside the rolled plastic cover for the patio. The tall handsome boy with freshly shaved raven hair is perched sideways in his chair with one long arm stretched out across the level alloy top of the seat, and his knee suspiciously close to the thigh of the stunning red head at his right. The person opposite the obscurely obvious lovers is a man dressed entirely in black, a tiger pendant hanging at his throat from a thin faded leather string. He appears to be in his mid thirties with short blond hair, black framed glasses, and an apparent sense of self as he speaks to the others. It looks as though the man is explaining something important to his company, and his company is too preoccupied with each other to pay him any mind. It seems as though the two will do what they wish, regardless of the specific instructions that the man is attempting to hand them. Sky can sense the man’s frustration with the two other characters from clear across the outdoor room. She all but chuckles at the melodrama in front of her, but she is cautious not to gawk at the trio for too long.
She whispers under her breath. “Must be rough trying to give direction to a young stud when he’s so close to his irresistible girlfriend. I feel for you my friend.”
Squeaky breaks on city buses hiss every five minutes as unionized drivers pause to deposit old passengers at the corner and pick up new impatient travelers who have ten thousand places to be ten minutes ago. A nickel and dime dance between supply and demand, between need and want.
A frustrated young man runs by Sky’s shoulder, creating an audible breeze for her ears. His half-wrinkled black suit hangs loosely over a scrawny torso and thin arms, a heavy leather briefcase smacking into his lower back as he beats feet to the open doors of the bus. Sky thinks that he must be a recent college grad, headed for his first job interview in a suit he borrowed from his father. She turns to Charlie with a playful smirk plastered across her lips.
“That boy should have spent less time cramming his hefty portfolio with scraps of achievement, and more time ironing that wrinkled suit. My guess, he’s a computer guy who is used to wearing jeans and beat up chucks with holes in them. What do you think? Am I right?”
“You spend a lot of time observing others in their natural habitat. You should have been a scientist. Think you missed your calling?” Charlie passes a laminated menu to the curious cat. “Here, observe this for a minute. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” There is nothing but love in her voice as she admires Sky from across the square table.
Monica is leaning back in her chair with the menu stretched out an arm’s length in front of her, as if she wishes to create distance between her body and the words, or as if she needs her reading glasses. Her shoulder length hair is a blend of over processed multicolored straw that makes no attempt at commitment. It must have been red, blue, green, stripped, bleached, and darkened at various points in her recent past. She will be lucky if the whole untamed mess doesn’t jump ship to her pillow one day out of sheer exhaustion from such abuse. Her lips are outlined in black and filled in with crimson. A shiny loop protruding from the middle of her painted lower lip, like a staple holding the fleshy fold to the ghost pale contrast of her face.
“Pancakes it is! I don’t know why I even look at the menu. I always order the same thing. Pancakes-well done, two strips of burnt bacon, coffee-black, two and a half sugars, and two slices of toast- to dip in my black coffee. Man am I boring, or what? I’m like an old man or something. Don’t rock the boat. That’s probably why I can’t function in a normal relationship. Most likely I drive women crazy with my dumb routines.” She drops the menu into her lap, transparently reminiscing about someone in particular. Her eyebrows pushing toward each other like a drawbridge closing behind a passing tugboat.
Yvonne is ripping her paper napkin into tiny bits and arranging them into abstract patterns on the table in front of her. A neatly folded paisley workman’s scarf wrapped tightly over the front of her skull, exposing the random greenish-blue spikes of hair trying to run for the clouds. It is apparent that her thick brown eyebrows have never been assaulted by hot wax. Her eyes the color that cinnamon would be if it were sanded into stained glass. She raises those seasoned eyes to Monica and speaks in a motherly tone.
“Are you still pouting about that psycho bitch? Nicole was no good. Don’t you remember how she treated you? You couldn’t even go to school without her thinking that you were visiting your harem, which is ironic because she was the one sleeping around. You only miss her because you can’t have her. Artists! We’re just not happy unless we’re miserable. I shouldn’t talk. I don’t have the best track record, but it’s just so hard to find a nice Jewish boy, or a nice boy period. My mother would prefer that I marry a nice Jewish boy. I plan on marrying the man I fall in love with. Either way my kids will be Jewish. That should make her happy. She was heartbroken when it didn’t work out with Brett. She set me up with him because his father was friends with my father. More of a business deal than a relationship. We agreed to give it a shot to make our parents happy, but that never ends up pretty. He was a cocky little bastard, always trying to talk me into a ‘conservative’ lifestyle. I wasn’t having any part of it. He was the king of insults. He should have worn a crown of cut up pop cans. I was sure tempted to crown him!”
“Pop! You wacky Buffalonians are the only people in America who call soda ‘pop’. What is that about? You folks need to be different or something? I make fun of Sky all the time for that.” Tabitha is feeling a little vulnerable after her outburst. The rest of the company is staring at her in puzzlement. Here she is, in a diner full of Buffalonians in the city of Buffalo, making fun of the way that they talk. She thinks about the irony in that, considering that she has a heavy Brooklynite accent.
Yvonne studies Tabitha for a second. “You look familiar to me. Do I know you from somewhere?”
“Tabitha’s a rock star. She plays bass for ‘Mental Floss.’” Sky points her fork at Tabitha. “She’s the punk rock goddess of the village. Women chase her around with drool stringing from the corner of their mouths. Too bad she’s not a lesbian, hey sweets?”
Yvonne looks over at Monica and then back at Tabitha. “Oh my god! That’s where I know you from. I love you guys. I have your new CD ‘Vociferous’. If I go get it, will you sign it for me?”
Tabitha is both tickled and surprised by Yvonne’s reaction. She had no idea that anyone had heard of her music outside of the city. ‘Vociferous’ is the band’s second album, and she thought that the first one was missing that certain something that could have made it excellent. The band wasn’t really getting along at the time that they were recording. Smew never showed up on time. Penny, the drummer, had a sprained wrist, and Shontai had to scrutinize every damn syllable of every word in the lyrics. Tabitha thought that the whole ordeal would be the end of ‘Mental Floss’, but they pulled it together for the second album, and apparently it was a success. Probably because ‘Vociferous’ contained a lot more anger and honesty than the first cut of ‘Quasi-Erotic.’ “Sure. You want me to get the rest of the kids to sign something for you? I can mail it if you want. A poster maybe? Well, more of a flyer for bar gigs, same thing. If you guys visit the big golden delicious we can hang out for a bit. We’re all getting together for the fourth of July. We’re gonna sit on a scratchy wool blanket to watch fire works over the East River, and play a midnight show in the village. Tons ‘o freaks will be out that night. You guys should come out. It’ll be more fun than frying bacon naked!”
“Sounds great. We’re there! That is, if we can find a car that won’t die on the way, and we have a place to stay.” Yvonne glances over at Sky to ask her if they can crash with her without actually saying a word about it.
Charlie feels as though she should step in and invite Sky’s friends to stay with her even though she is not big on the party scene, and fears for her belongings. “You can stay at my place in Chelsea. Sky’s dorm room won’t hold the lot of ya.”
“I won’t hear of it Chukka. I’ll take the kids. You and the Mrs. can have your little love nest all to yourselves. You two need to start producing some nieces and nephews for old Aunt Tabitha over here. I ain’t getting any younger. Besides, these wild art students don’t want to stifle it on their vacation. My neighbors are used to all the ruckus. The nosy pain in the ass downstairs from you would call a special ‘building’ meeting to have you evicted. No sir, the rowdies stay with me.” Tabitha is excited at the very idea of house guests. She loves having company. It sure beats sitting alone all the time.
Monica’s face lights up like the tiny twinkling bulbs on a Christmas tree. “I’ve never been to New York. Can we go to the top of the Empire State Building? It would be cool to see the world from King Kong’s point of view. I’m afraid of heights, but how many opportunities am I going to have to stand on top of the world?”
“Cool. It’s a plan then. If you peoples don’t show up, I’m going to be hurt.” Tabitha puts her clinched fist up to her mouth to bite her knuckle, pretending to cry at the very idea of such a thing as being blown off by complete strangers.
A waiter saunters up to the table to deliver the food. He is a dapper young fellow of no more than nineteen, dressed in a stark white button down shirt and a pair of painted on black pants. Lucky for everyone at the table, Tabitha and Yvonne don’t start fawning over the barely legal lad until he is out of ear-shot.
During breakfast Sky answers all of the usual questions about her school, her work, the city that she resides in. Her friends are curious about her new life, and they want to know every detail about her new love interest.
Monica asks Tabitha to join her the following afternoon to see an art film at hallwalls. Tabitha agrees and they make plans to meet up around eleven o’clock the next day. A smile creeps across Sky’s lips as she realizes that she will finally have some time alone with Charlie in the pool house.