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Jett Superior laid this on you on || March 3, 2007 || 3:41 am

“We have fallen off the map and here we lay….”

We were in a bar that could not unreasonably be called a dive. I wore boots, thick leather cuffs and black cherry lipstick. My hair was a mess, because my hair is always a mess when I drink that damned much.

Sydd wore thigh-highs stockings, a swirly velvet mini and her customary penetrating stare. We are exact physical opposites, me and this Sydd; she is five-one and raven-haired. We shared four things, though: Temperament, Addiction, Headspace and The Same Fierce Blue Eyes.

Miller wore his prettiest Stetson, a pair of ropers and the lean, woman-hungry look of a freshly-graduated boot. We missed him desperately while he was gone, and he kept a picture of us in his footlocker; he told everyone that we were his harem. When they kidded him about how small it was, this harem, he said, “You should try to keep up with ‘em. Hell, these two are all any man needs.” I was his best friend and Sydd was his lover.

The Prime Minister wore his trademark wide-open grin and a purple lamé bowling shirt with yellow stitching that only he could reasonably pull off; we still heckled the shit out of him anyway. He cared not a whit, carefully picking out eighty percent of the crowd one by one and prounouncing them closeted homosexuals.

Jayhawk, big and country and about as endearing as any one (well-raised Mormon) body could be, wore a snug tee-shirt that showed off his beefy six-three, two-hundred and ten frame. I had talked him out of sneakers at the very last possible moment: He’d nothing else, so there was a whirlwind buying trip whereby square-toed engineer’s boots were procured. He owned his own hobby shop, so there was never a shortage of cash in his wallet.

There was laughing. There was goading. There was dancing, one with another. And another. And another. There was peeling Jayhawk The Four-Beer Lightweight off a wall and placing his bulk gingerclumsily on a teak chair, me bracing my back and The PM bracing one capable shoulder against him. A sweet little love sandwich….Mormon on whiteys, ha-ha.

A cowboy, a farmboy and a hairdresser. However, he was a hairdresser who could drop your transmission gracefully or bale hay for a solid ten hours or sheetrock your house. A redneck girl with goth tendencies and a punk-flavored city girl trapped in no-man’s-land. Five was somehow a magic number for once.

We had danced elsewhere earlier. Entertained, Sydd and I watched Our Boys draw the women in unrelenting waves: Jayhawk smelled of fresh green innocence, The PM had the air of gorgeously unattainable and Miller was lean and self-possessed. They were all pretty and delicious in their own rights.

Now, though – now was for loosely together, whooping it up until we were hoarse. There were straight shots and garish gestures with pool cues and brutish, delightful musicks from a jukebox. Sydd sauntered over to it, dropped in her change and mashed some buttons. As the first strains of Joey by Concrete Blonde came swirling up, she turned to me and yelled, “DO IT.” Just before the clean acoustic opened up I dropped in and began to sing. By the second ‘I’m not angry anymore’ I was on my feet, eyes closing and tendons popping from my neck like some sci-fi alien sent to Earth only to struggle like hell at doing its best approximation of a human being.

I used to sing damn near anything, damn near anytime, almost anydamnwhere. Trick ponies get free drinks, dig?

Not so much anymore. I reserve my songs for more careful, meaningful moments. Just because you are given a voice doesn’t mean just anyone should hear it. That was a lesson hard-won.

We specialized in shutting places down, and this time was no exception. Miller pronounced himself the Most Sober And Able To Drive by virtue of a) his stellar metabolic makeup (skinny bull-rider’s ass, natch) and b) his having the keys in his front left pocket.

“Everybody who lusts boys: To the back seat!” and Jayhawk was dumped unceremoniously into the shotgun position while the other three of us jockeyed for purchase in pursuit of window seating.

We landed safely home, where we filled the ceedee changer and our glasses; I opted to write and curled up in one corner of the sofa. Jayhawk ended up with his head in my lap, snoring lightly and murmuring precious, indecipherable things. The other three pulled out a deck of cards and began to heckle one another in a spirited fashion. Eventually Creep by Radiohead came on and I could not leave it to my subconscious. I threw my notebook in the floor, lifted Jayhawk’s breathing deadweight as carefully as possible so that I could stand up. Then I ripped into the meanest air guitar I could muster.

SYDD: *eyeing Jett solemnly* “I’ve never been more in love with somebody than I am with her, right now.”

MILLER: “I know exactly what you mean.”

THE PRIME MINISTER: “Can we put on some Prince? Please??”

Miller has twice been to war overseas since then, has helped fish a city out of fetid, rudely-encroaching Gulf waters here in his homeland. The Prime Minister has lost his round-faced innocence in the crass world of gay afterhours clubs. Sydd’s gone a little slack-jowled from living with her Flaming Dickface of a husband. The beautifully open Jayhawk now sits in a self-styled fortress of iron, shit attitude and suffering liver eating him from the inside out.

And me? I’m just trying to map my way in a world that gets more and more crazy, all while trying to keep what parts of me that I think are still true.

Jayhawk came home from Honduras after a long, grueling worlducation there. While he was gone his petite little wife took him for all he had, simultaneously fucking her boss all the while. Overseas duty sometimes does that to the left-behind wives. They run crazy from a combination of The Lonely and The Freedom.

When I heard he was in town and looking for me, I nearly pissed myself. Sweet Prodigal Jayhawk, he returneth! We made plans to get together, the five of us. The fates conspired with –rather than against– us for once: Sydd’s husband was out of town on business, Miller’s wife (who is a gradeschool pal of Maxim’s and knows that I am solidly cemented in the Really Best Friend category and not the one entitled Turn Your Back Bitch And I Will Hump Your Husband) gave him a kitchen pass and the PM just happened to be home for the weekend.

We all started drinking, and laughter flowed. Sydd got up to visit The Laydeh’s, affording a moment for truth to come flowing, too.

“I haven’t stopped loving that girl for one. fucking. minute,” said Miller, putting voice to things I already knew. I swear, even though it was dark in our chosen watering-hole, the Prime Minister got misty-eyed. Jayhawk eyed me in a sidelong way: “Fuck this. Let’s dance.” We did; two songs later he grabbed my ass, grinding in to me, and I stopped dead where moments before I bobbed and gritted my teeth with the pound of a heavy backbeat.

Chin up, stiff-backed, I looked him hard in his eyes, “Jayhawk, I’m sorry your wife turned out to be a whore.” He tightened, pulled his errant hands to his sides, pumping them in and out of fists, then spun on one foot and disappeared out the door. The night ended prematurely then.

“He was so wanting where you were concerned. Always.” This is what Sydd said to me, via cellphone, as she drove home later. “I know that,” I snapped. What’s with all these people speaking all these bygones tonight my brain bellowed straight down into my chest. I know how that boy felt about me; he kept me from starving on more than one occasion, he kept me company three times as often. I never asked, he just showed up magically right in the nick of when he was needed. I also never once led him on, preferring not to be the sort of woman who operates on that level.

Sometimes he dressed up in false bravado and got all cocky but I always saw straight into his guts and never, ever bought into the routine. One particularly bellicose night, spurred on by the presence of too many alpha-males, he tried once again to best me. He ended up, humiliated, having to fish his car keys out of my bra with his teeth; never has there been a face that flamed brighter red. I don’t guess the Mormon religion preps its young saints adequately for Girls Like Me.

Now I sit here rattling this all out, my blood freezing up from the collision of past and present. My computer is freezing up from an overload of applications. I keep too fucking many windows open on it. And in my soul. And elsewhere.

My poor machine, my poor weeblog, my poor emotions. I subject them all to too much. Good lord, forgive me my foolish self-indulgence.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

I slipped / Didn’t mean / Didn’t mean to do it that way / But I blew in on a whim, gone tomorrow / (shit) I’m gone today

Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh-ohhh-ohh yeah

Come, lets play along / And let each other lose / A win would cause an alarm / Don’t matter to me / Don’t matter to you

Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh-ohhh-ohh yeah

I could keep you all for myself / I know you gotta be free / So free yourself / I could keep you all for myself / I know you gotta be free / So free yourself

A self-inflicted wound, your gift / Impeccable aim / Can really clear a room / All the bodies piled up in your way

Oh yeah, it hurts / So bad, and it must / oh-ohhh-ohh yeah

I could keep you all for myself / I know you gotta be free / So free yourself / I could keep you all to myself / I know you gotta be free / To kill yourself

// Queens of the Stone Age, ‘Tangled Up In Plaid’

1 worked it out »

  1. becky 3.7.2007

    damn, you blow me the fuck out of the water.

     

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