Description

Steam rises from terra cotta ground. They call it red clay; they say nothing grows in it. But they’re wrong. Everything grows in it. This place is teeming with life. So much so that it’s trying to take over. Embolden deer march right up the the patio to dine on the potted plants. Possum families take over the front porch late at night. The little ground squirrels busy themselves with their assault on the retaining wall. Alll this happens within the city limits. You can’t coax them away. You can’t scare them away. They are the proverbial camel with its nose under the tent. They would commandeer your sofa if you let them.

I have been moving sideways here for months. It has me climbing the walls – giant, bulging walls. Too many and too often. This might just be the place of no forward motion. Everything is slow and languid. And if it must come from the heart to be great, it will. I shall bury my heart deep in the red earth here. And here it will remain, beneath the cucumbers anxious to cover every square inch of real estate above it.

And then there’s Dan; he will always have my heart. Dan rests in peace somewhere north of Kennesaw Mountain – most of him does. The rest of him remains with me. We go everywhere together these days. Dead men travel well. Dead men don’t get liquored up and fall on fragile hips like big burlap sacks of potatoes. Dead men are easy to lift when they’re down. Dead men don’t squeak when they move. And they don’t cry. And I don’t either. I don’t pine for Dan; I ask him for favors, and he responds in kind. Long live Dan.

The official flavor of the region is salt pork. Its presence is ubiquitous, in every dish that graces a southern table. However, you’ll seldom see it, and when you do, it is the white lump in the black-eyed peas or the layer of grease that congeals on top of the left-over lima beans. It is uniquely Southern, born from the backs of the sweaty hogs that cool themselves rolling in red clay.

Here, there is space to move and space to live. Roll around in the grass. Every house is surrounded by a lush green lawn of grass – to some degree or amother. They keep the ruddy earth in place during the daily torrents, which can get violent. This place stays saturated - hence the steam, hence the aggressive cucumbers, hence the furrowed brow and the lazy eye. You know you will sweat when you step outside after a deluge, and you hear an insect symphony. They sing to the sweat. They revel in the moisture.

Look around. All you see are the green and tall trees, and they tower over you like a kindly overlord, who strokes your hair with his long, slender, gentle fingers.

Fireflies used to light up the summer evenings, flickering and twitching in a brilliant mating ritual. I haven't seen one in at least ten years. The farmer's almanac says their numbers are declining due to light pollution, habitat loss, and pesticides. We used to trap them in glass jars. We did the same with the beautiful butterflies. We used to do a lot of things. We didn't know better. These days I buy organic; I love fireflies. I am hoping that helps; I am also hoping it's not too late.

I know the East, and I know the West. I know nothing of the in between. I have observed that every Easterner is married with children, while the Westerners make love to their pets. They dress them in little sweaters and spoon with them at night. They drive them to special parks and take them on play dates. They give them report cards and table scraps. And if Rover needs a kidney, by golly, they make that happen. They will take out a second mortgage to put Rover under the knife. That’s what happens out there but not here. No one does that here. Here, Rover might just get a bullet to the head; here he’s lucky to get coffee grounds. Here, Rover sleeps under an oak tree tethered to a 6-foot chain. No one here takes Rover to bed.

The afternoon reaches its peak around 4pm. That’s when the sun strikes the hardest and the walls come down. That’s when the wine splashes and the knives come out. That’s when the sweating stops, and the conversations begin. And you talk until the evening news puts everyone in a most somber mood. So, you splash some more wine, and the world seems better. Apparently, the sky is not falling. Apparently, it’s been this way since the pharos – pharos, kings, oligarchs, CEOs, deep state. What’s the damn difference? The names might change, but the song remains the same. Tomorrow, the world will still be turning on a tilted axis. Apparently, it's not ending.

But, then again, her’s might be. Her world might be ending any day now or, perhaps, it had ended already. Wait. I am getting ahead of myself.

For now, let me introduce myself. Let me prove my credibility. Or, at least, let me attest to my ability to tell this story with accuracy. I know her, and I knew him. I know them all. I have been dancing on the periphery of their social circle for quite some time now, long enough to see through the thin veil of normalcy they strive to project onto the world. I have peered inside and seen the broken hearts, the quiet desperation, the longing for freedom. It just life. We all must make choices. And some choices preclude other choices. And sometimes, it’s simply luck that turns the tides of fate.

As I said, I am merely a keen observer. I flirt with that life from the safety of the sidelines, occasionally dipping my toe into its turbid pool. I am the traveler. When it gets too hot, too cold, or too anything, I pick up and move. My roots are shallow, my needs are few, my wanderlust profound. I have no family. I will likely die alone. But then again, won’t we all?

I am a mature woman, though in no way matronly - math nerd, communicator, dutiful daughter, rock climber, wall climber, lover of the grape, nature enthusiast, Rick and Morty fan, bitch, friend, people person, loner, traveler, writer, joker, artist, sister, aunt, former potato chip addict and self-medicator, former skydiver and proud member of the Mile High Club, blah, blah, blah. I have become quite disillusioned with my current role as landlord. Sadly, it has not lived up to my fantasy. But that is another story for another day. And this is quite enough about me. Let's talk about her.

Alicia floats through her lovely life with effortless grace - the picture of pure perfection.  The quintessential mother and ideal wife. How the neighborhood boys whisper and giggle when they see her in her white hot pants watering her lush green grass. It's a perfect lawn, surrounding a perfect house.  She is a MILF, and her husband Jason is hot, hot, hot. They are the "it" couple; all the neighbors fantasize about what goes on behind their bedroom door. And if the truth be told, it's routine. Sadly, it wouldn't live up to any of our fantasies.

Naturally, there are children - two delightful, beautiful pre-adolescent children - Jay  JR and Violet. How could they not be delightful and beautiful? She takes them to the pool in the summer, to soccer practice in the fall, to scouts after school. They do all the right things and go to all the right places. It's an easy, casual life. It's all smiles and perfect report cards. Of course they play well with others. Of course they respect their elders. They excuse themselves from the dinner table, and they would never put a firefly in a glass jar. They love Jesus, and Jesus loves them right back. It's easy to love Jesus from inside a church with Tiffany stained glass windows. It's easy to say your prayers after your Mommy tucks you into Egyptian cotton 500 thread count sheets at night. It's natural to look forward to Sunday school when it's followed by a sumptuous champagne brunch at the Hilton.

It's possible that they do not sweat. Or perhaps they do all their sweating behind closed doors. I've never seen so much as a bead of sweat or the smallest hint of a blemish on any of them. But I'm not privy to their secret lives. I suspect they play their cards close to their chest, and there's more going on than meets the eye. However, inasmuch as I don't know what they do behind closed doors, I am left to fantasize and conjecture with everyone else. 

They are the quintessential Southern family. Alicia busies herself with matters of the home and the family. Jay Sr. is the man of the house. He works. He provides. Lovely Alicia has the luxury of not having to bother herself with such mundane matters. Fiddle de dee; fiddle de dum! She has never balanced a checkbook in her life, and, right behind that, she doesn't care to learn how. After all, pretty girls don't do those things. Pretty girls collect shoes; they don't do math. Pretty girls make pretty moms, and Alicia plays her role with fierce devotion. She is a momma bear. She gets her two little darlings up at 7 am sharp, makes them breakfast, and drives them to their private school. During the day, she's a volunteer at the church, she's the den mother, she's the PTA treasurer, she's a member of MADD, etc. ad nauseum. She has made all the right choices. And she's happy; overall, she's happy. Oh sure, there's a frequent longing for freedom that stabs her right in the gut. And yes, she often wonders what the big, bad world looks like out there. And, hey, is sex with other men better? Still, all in all, she's carved out a swell and a comfortable life. Even with those deep, nagging questions, it's better than having to work for a living. Plus, the answers to those questions always gave Alicia pause. The world sounds like a scary place, exciting, but scary. At home there is comfort and love.

As I said, it's a good life and Alicia makes all the right choices to ensure it stays that way, but sometimes fate takes over and spins the wheels of change, carrying one in directions one never imagined possible.

One beautiful day it happened; fate struck - a fate Alicia had never, ever planned on. Jay died.. And that's when everything changed.

As they tend to be, Jay's funeral was a most somber and dark affair. The preacher, a rotund fellow with a voice like thunder that spit out the Gospel with all the emotion of a player piano began, "Ladies and gentlemen, family, and friends, we gather here today with heavy hearts to remember and celebrate the life of a young man, who left us far too soon. Jason's life was tragically cut short in an auto accident, which leaves us all with a profound emptiness."

" Friends, Jason Miller was a man of God who walked the balanced path. He avoided both unchecked ambition and extreme sloth. For while these two sins may appear to be opposites, they are both bound by a desire for reward without effort. Jason Miller found great joy in his work; he served a greater purpose - that of deep love. He was a devout father, son, husband, and a true believer."

The words droned on and on. This was not the first time the preacher had spoken them. He delivered that sermon with the practiced indifference of a high school geometry teacher. Alicia sat in the front pew, her eyes red and swollen, clutching a handkerchief that had seen more tears than it was ever meant to bear. I was right there, silent of course. I have never been good with the grief of others.

There were a few sobs and sniffles from other audience members. But Jay Sr was a taciturn man, who mostly kept to himself. He had few friends and even fewer loved ones, and it was a thin crowd - most folks there came in support of Alicia.

During the ensuing days, the condolences and casseroles kept on coming. Oh, how empty the unending stream of "bless your little heart" and "so sorry for your loss" sounded to Alicia's ears. The casseroles were busting out of her refrigerator like a hungry pack of lions. I reckon those kindly neighbors meant well. Isn't that's what one does when there's a death of a loved one? One brings a short dish with a long shelf life. While it's a nice enough gesture, no amount of salt pork, starch, and cheese could assuage Alicia's grief. This outcome was never part of her "pretty girl plan". 

I did what I could. I answered the phone for her; I made excuses for her; I sorted her mail - sympathy cards and bills. Those bills piled up like mountains to the heavens on the desktop, many of them with the dreaded "Final Notice" sticker or "Immediate Attention" stamp. As someone who has had to pay bills all my life, I recognized that their assault on the household came rather fast and hard, but I chose to ignore that. Why open them? Why even bother? There was no money coming in. Alicia had never seen the inside of a bank. She didn't have a bank account and was not a joint holder on any of Jay Sr.'s accounts. Alicia was a trophy wife with a credit card and a shoe allowance. She was clueless; she kept right on using that credit card until a few days after the funeral, when she was grief shopping. Our girl had amassed a cart full of more unnecessary impulse items - more candles, more shoes, more toys for the children's already overflowing toy chest. Convinced that these items would give her some much-needed joy, she marched up to the check-out line, as she had done countless times before. 

Now might be a good time to mention that Alicia's beauty and easy life had not imbued her with great empathy. She never considered the fact that she was indeed fortunate and that roles could so easily have been reversed. Sure, she was charming and nice almost always because that's what one does, but, in truth, she didn't regard people in roles of service as her equals. She didn't regard them at all. They were there to serve; and she was to be served. That was life. 

And these people felt her disdain. Her utter indifference came through all the "honeys" and "sweeties" she called them. She never bothered to read their name tags. She never thought to inquire about their struggles. She couldn't care less. This is why when Nancy, the clerk, rang-up another one of Alicia's exorbitant purchases and ran the credit card, it gave her great pleasure to announce, "Declined."

"Sweetie, you're gonna have to run that again. There's something wrong with your machine." Alicia declared.

"I've been using it all day, and it's fine." Nancy, the clerk, answered with a smug satisfaction.

"Now, Darling, just run it again. That card is good as gold." Alicia insisted.

"Sure Mrs. Miller." She muttered, barely able to conceal her contempt. And Nancy, the clerk, went through the perfunctory motions, running the credit card through a second time with the same results. 

"Declined, Madam." Nancy bellowed in a voice so loud Alicia was convinced the entire store heard. 

Alicia was outraged at this clerk's insolence. However, not willing to garner more unwanted attention, she politely requested to speak to the manager. After all, this was a mistake, and she was determined to resolve it quickly and quietly. And while Alicia knew little about the ways of the world, she knew enough to ask for the manager. Managers have more knowledge and authority than lowly clerks, and they can actually solve these kinds of pesky problems.

"Manager on one." Nancy announced because the customer is always right, even when the customer is wrong. 

Presently, the manager appeared, a tall, lanky, nervous man, outfitted in business casual. 

"Nancy, what seems to be the problem here?" He respectfully inquired.

"The card..."Nancy began.

Alicia, indignant and irritated, interrupted most politely, "The problem, Sir, is your machine." She presented him her gold American Express card. "Can you please approve this purchase now? I have to pick-up the kids from school in 20 minutes."

Jake, the manager had seen this situation about a million times before. Normally, he would have gently told the customer that there was nothing wrong with the store's machine and suggested that the problem might be on his or her end. But Jake was a hot-blooded American male, and he was completely taken by Miss Alicia's pulchritude. So, Jake found himself making concessions he normally would not have made.

"Certainly, ma'am. I'll see what I can do," Jake obeyed, his voice slightly tremulous under Alicia's intense and beautiful gaze. He took the card and swiped it again with a bit more energy and enthusiasm than Nancy had, as if the added effort might alter the result. The machine beeped, displaying the same dreaded message: "Declined." Jake sighed and looked up at Alicia, his eyes full of reluctant sympathy.

"I'm very sorry, ma'am, but it seems like there's an issue with the card itself." He whispered. "I bet it's just an error at the bank. Why don't you contact them?" He softly laid the card in Alicia's pretty hand. 

Alicia, irritated at the inconvenience, yet always the epitome of southern grace, took the card, politely thanked Jake for his time, and exited the store. She was convinced that this was all a huge misunderstanding and that tomorrow, after her meeting with the estate attorney, she would return to her familiar modus operandi of seamlessly swiping her way through life. But, apparently, that's not what fate had in store for the lovely Alicia. 

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