The Bad Mom

The manager of the hostel walked me up to the room, he showed me around and I got really excited when I saw the bode in the bathroom. “Sweet! I’ve always wanted to use a bode,” I said to the manager as I sat on the porcelain.

It wouldn’t be a trip to Europe without the splash of cold water on your butthole after a big shit.” The manager laughed, “that’s not a bode, it’s a urinal.”

My first impression of Italians is that there really is no such thing as “indoor voices.” They all talk at the same time, the only way to be heard is to talk louder, but there’s no way anyone could possibly understand what the other is saying. Most towns shut down between two and four in the afternoon for Italian nap time, which makes sense, I’m exhausted just listening to them speak and their tempers are out of control. I was using the restroom at a McDonald’s when this guy started freaking out. His friends had to hold him back from killing the kid behind the counter for forgetting cheese on his McBurger.

The next day I hiked the five villages. I’ve always been a little clumsy but with the heavy backpack, my center of gravity was more off than usual. As I reached the third village, I noticed a Gelato stand and picked up the pace down a sandy sidewalk then BAM! I went down, flat on my face. I couldn’t get back up because my backpack was so heavy. I rolled myself onto my back but like a turtle I was even more stuck rolling from side to side. A family came over and picked me up. Both knees bled as I ate my chocolate gelato with satisfaction then went for a swim to clean myself up. After drying off I continued onto the fourth village. Along the way I thought I was identifying an Aloe Vera plant, to rub on my bloody knees. I broke off a part of the plant and like a porcupine I was attacked by needles. This was no Aloe Vera, this was an evil Italian cactus. I spent hours, picking needles from all parts of my body including my tongue. For days every time I ate something I could feel needles getting lodged deeper in my flesh, my new dieting secret: eat a cactus.

from my book:  Scars of Paris  available at Borders  Barnes & Nobles  Amazon

He then started pacing and yelling, “Fuck the white people in their assholes, I love to be black.”

For some reason hearing an angry black man yelling with a French accent is less intimidating. I wonder in France is it politically correct use the term “African French”?

I finally made it to Nice, France. I saw an advertisement for a cheap hostel in the area, so I checked in and rode the elevator up to my room where the others were hosting a party. I felt like an intruder and little uncomfortable with the George Bush poster being used as a dartboard. “Hey, I got one of these at my place,” I said. The floor was littered with beer cans and some guy was passed out in my bed. The group was gathered around one guy with a guitar, they were having a sing-a-long to such favorites by Sugar Ray and Smash mouth. I kicked the guy out of my bed and this lippy girl called me rude. Hey last night I slept on a bench with crack heads, I just want to crash in the bed I paid for. Fucking American, she mumbled. As my hostel grew hostile I said in a serious tone, “Is this because I’m black?”

Everyone in the room laughed, the joke being I’m obviously not black, but was being hated on for my existence.

Does anybody wanna smoke this joint I’ve been smuggling around in my vagina for the past week? The easiest way to make friends: offer drugs and try to make them laugh. I won them over and learned that they have all been living there for months, some of them years. They worked under the table doing odd jobs on the cruise ships that would dock in Nice. Travelers would pass through their bedroom as the guys bragged about how many of them they slept with. I was impressed.

The next morning I put on my swim suit and headed for the beach during lock-out which is where you have to leave your room so it can be cleaned from 11am-3pm. I stopped for a shot of espresso. In Europe they don’t have coffee. They will offer you an American Espresso, which is espresso and water but no coffee. A few blocks away I would find the most beautiful ocean I’ve ever seen.

I grew up on the West Coast, besides that the only other piece of ocean I’ve seen was a trip to Hong Kong with my grandmother when I was an adolescent. I started hating myself when I was twelve years old and my parents divorced. I felt emotionally abandoned fantasizing about the end, sooner better than later. I didn’t care anymore nobody else did why should I? But I was wrong, grandma cared, she saw my depression and invited me on a trip with her to Hong Kong. I didn’t know where Hong Kong was, I had never left California, it didn’t matter; it was the escape from my life that I needed. Grandma introduced me to a new world, I didn’t know existed. She believed in me and taught me the law of attraction. My mom on the other hand practiced the law of distraction.

Unlike the West Coast, the Mediterranean is odorless, not a trace of seaweed and crystal clear. Not only are the beaches beautiful but so are the women and they are all topless! I’ve never been nude in public before, I’ve never been nude anywhere but my shower (and the red light district). My ex-husband on the other hand, loved to be nude and we would often go to nude beaches, where he would be naked and I would be fully clothed. One particular afternoon spent picnicking near a section of tall overgrown sea grass where we noticed men just standing randomly in the waist high grass. We couldn’t figure out what they were doing, our best guess was bird watching. They must be bird watching; Jack was curious and walked over then ran back to the blanket, “definitely not bird watching.”

“What are they doing?”

“They’re getting blowjobs, I’m going to need therapy.” he said.

“I thought that only happened at rest stops, and in the future, don’t ever run naked again.”

That feeling of not knowing anyone and not caring what these foreigners thought of me, I let down my fears and my top. I went for a swim and felt like a kid again, the Mediterranean was my fountain of youth, I’d never felt so alive.

I soaked up some French UV Rays while people approached me selling things like sodas, jewelry and massages. An Asian woman asked if I would like a massage.

“How much?”

“10 Euros”

“Sold”

After sleeping on a bench, the 10 Euros was a good investment. At the end of the massage, the woman had me sit up as she shook each arm as fast as she could. Still topless, my boobs flopped around and I knew this wasn’t a pretty scene, I opened my eyes to see if anyone was staring at me…. Just the kids from my hostel standing there laughing. I don’t blame them, I would have laughed too. I thanked the woman and put my top back on, so much for anonymity.

from my book:  Scars of Paris  available at Borders  Barnes & Nobles  Amazon

Do you want to share a room and save some money, two beds?

We found a rustic Swiss chalet. Vigen insisted on paying.

“No, then I’ll feel obligated to have sex with you,” I joked

Vigen ceremoniously unpacked his bags placing a self-standing wood cross on the nightstand. He took off the crucifix necklace he was wearing, kissed it then hung it from the cross. He placed a Bible next to the cross after kissing it then lastly a box of condoms that he kisses and placed on top of the bible. He did the hand motion of Father, Son and Holy Spirit then said a silent prayer.

“Are you joking, where are the hidden cameras. You better be praying to get laid.”

After analyzing the situation, I came to the conclusion that I may have had sex with this guy if he hadn’t pulled out the box of condoms. I would have looked at him and his crucifixes and saw a challenge, the condoms were too presumptuous.

“Just so there aren’t any further misunderstandings, I’m getting my own room.”

from my book:  Scars of Paris  available at Borders  Barnes & Nobles  Amazon

“Come on!” He shouted as he pushed Parisians out of the way.

I don’t know what this guys deal is, but I’m walking. I never saw him again.

It was a warm evening and I couldn’t be in Paris one more minute without finding the Eiffel Tower so I got on a bus that would take me there. The bus was crowded with commuters and I had to hang on for dear life, I couldn’t see out the window. I got off the bus and followed the crowd to an overlook of the Tower. My mouth dropped as I gasped for air while the sun was lowering. People covered the lawn with picnic blankets, dogs caught Frisbees, kids laughed and the air smelt clean. I made my way toward the tower and began the climb. When I got to the top I couldn’t control my tears, I just cried.

I felt like I had been struggling the last thirty years to get to this metaphorical spot. I was on top of Paris, on top of the world and finally free from my dysfunctional family, free from my alcoholic husband. My body was soothed by complete peace and for the first time I felt love for myself. I reflected on where I’ve been and where I’m going. I was proud of my accomplishments. Deeper into this story you’ll meet some of the demons I had to let go of on the top of the Eiffel Tower that day.

I made my way down the stairs and sat on the lawn were the sky was turning shades of pink and lavender. I lit up a cigarette when a man approached me saying something in French.

“I have no idea what you just said, but I’m guessing you need a light by the universal thumb flicking motion.” I handed him my lighter and he said,

“American.”

“Don’t hold it against me,” I said.

He proudly points to himself and says, “Egyptian.”

He looked down at my lighter, which had a marijuana leaf print on it. He asked if I wanted to go back to his place and smoke some Hash. Looking back, this goes against my better judgment of not trusting anybody, but I was in a risk-taking theme so we walked to his apartment, a few blocks from the tower. We stopped at the corner market (good, witnesses) and picked up some wine and cheese.

Our conversation was limited due to the language barrier but after the Hash, wine and cheese, conversation wasn’t necessary. We spoke the universal language of love.

I found the condoms I had got for free from the PSU health clinic and rolled it on. I’ve seen a lot of penis. I had never seen one of this size and caliber. His penis was ridiculously large and I wasn’t sure that I could handle it. Before I could find out he was finished. He went to remove the condom and we discovered it had broke. We both went into panic mode and he pulled me to the bathroom and pointed to the shower. I took a shower and jumped up and down. We fell asleep and the next day exchanged information. He wanted me to stay but anything more than one night would start to feel like a relationship.

I was on a mission to find the morning after pill. It was hard enough explaining to the pharmacist that I needed a laxative where I found myself doing charades of going to the bathroom. I was unsuccessful in acting out the morning after pill. I decided to let it go and whatever happens happens.

from my book- Scars of Paris  available at Borders and Barnes & Nobles

“Can I call you back in about twenty minutes; some guy is here to have sex with me now.” There was something for everyone, from the little to the big in every flavor; some were the ugliest women you could possibly imagine. Hairy, teeth missing mentally challenged looking women. There were men posing as women and women who were pregnant. Do you think the politically correct Dutch people call black people African Dutch?

Then there were Barbie dolls with angel wings, the most beautiful women in the world. Never in a million years would I have thought about participating in the activities. My curiosity overcame me; this is the trouble about traveling alone, there’s nobody around to stop you. After close observation, I figure out how the system works. If you see a girl you like, you open her door and negotiate a price. There’s a level of anonymity, which could give one permission to do things I wouldn’t ordinarily do. Fuck it; I went up to the door of a chubby girl and knocked. I thought it would be more polite to knock. She shook her head no in disgust and shooed me away.

Strike One.

Ouch that hurts the old confidence level. Fuck it, next time no knocking, I’m going in and I’m gonna tell her it’s not what she thinks. I’m not looking for sex (even I have to draw a line), I was interested in a massage; that and I’m dying to talk to one of them. I noticed a beautiful Swedish woman wearing a skimpy bikini, blond pigtails and high heels. Golden bronze skin and a cute smile she danced in her room to some trance music. She was approachable because she wasn’t on her cell phone. I bet the cell phone cuts down your clientele. “Sorry to bother you, I see you’re on the phone but would you like to have sex, when you’re done.”

I walked in; she stopped dancing and looked at me strangely as if I was lost looking for directions. I had a feeling this might be strike two. “Can I help you?”

I stuck out my hand and introduced myself; I said I would like a massage.

She shook my hand and apologized, she had never been approached by a woman.

“How many other women have you asked?”

“Just one chubby girl, but I knocked; I think that’s where I messed up.”

“No No don’t knock,” she said. “But I will have to charge you what I charge for men, sixty Euros.”

“You’re worth more,” I said as I kissed her hand I was still holding, “Hey time is money and I’m sure you keep busy as cute as you are.”

She locked her door and closed the blinds, still holding hands we walk up some stairs where I noticed the angel wings tattooed on her butt cheeks leveled at my face.

“I like your ass, I mean tattoo.”

“So you are a lesbian?” she asked as we entered her bedroom dimly lit in black lights.

“No, I like men too; I’m an equal opportunist in the love department.”

We got naked and crawled into her pink satin sheets. I’m on my stomach she straddled my butt and began rubbing baby oil on my back.

“Why did you come here?” she asked

“I wanted a story, so when in Rome. Do you say that expression here?”

I think she had mistaken me wanting a story for me wanting her to tell me her life story.

It felt nice to have her greasy hands all over me and I was interested in what she had to say but I was hoping for less talking and more touching. I offered to return the favor and gave her a massage. Her body was so beautiful; I loved rubbing it. I flipped her over and educated her on the importance of massaging breast tissue to prevent clotting.

“My husband would be jealous,” she said.

“Why, because you’re enjoying yourself” I asked as she placed my hand at the entry of her vagina where moisture oozed.

“You’re so wet.”

“I never get wet at work,” she whispered, “I will never forget this.”

“I hear that a lot.” I joked as I put my clothes back on.

“What will you do after this?” she asked.

“Go smoke a joint.” I said as she girl slapped my arm.

“That’s bad for you!” she lectured

“I like to be bad” I teased then I quoted a T-shirt I saw in a souvenir shop that said, “Good girls go to heaven, Bad girls go to Amsterdam.”

Next thing I know I’m being admitted where I was induced due to my high blood pressure and risk of preclampsia. I called mom, who rushed to my side.

My pain plan was to wait and see if I really needed an epidural thinking I should be able to breathe my way through the pain. I’ve always prided myself on my high threshold for pain as you can see by my various tattoos.

Mom took me to get my first tattoo when I was sixteen years old. At first she said, “Over my dead body!” I threatened that I was going to do it anyway so she could either take me or I’d go alone. She said she wanted to get one herself and that we could do it together. I picked out a clover and mom picked out a dolphin that we were having injected into our ankles. Mom chickened out so I got hers tattooed on my other ankle where again she was by my side holding my hand.

Eight hours later I was demanding an epidural. Mom got in my face and asked, “Do you want some Chap Stick?”

“Why the Fuck would I want Chap Stick! GET OUT! GET OUT! There’s no point in you watching me roll around in pain with your silly Chap Stick. GET OUT!”

Mom left to see about that epidural. She came back with the anesthesiologist, “I can tell how much pain a woman is in by the number of pillows she’s clinging to.” He chuckled.

“Don’t try to be funny, you’re wasting time!” I snapped at him.

He asked mom not to watch as he threaded the tube down my spine. The idea of this kinda freaked me out but it was totally worth it. I was in pure ecstasy and any woman is crazy not to get it.

I closed my eyes feeling completely relaxed as the heart rate monitor had a steady beeping noise. A few hours later I heard the beep go flat line. “beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.”

Two nurses, two residents and a med student all ran into my room in a panic unplugging the monitors and yelling at one another to push the bed down the hall to emergency. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“Your baby is in danger, you need an emergency C-section,” as the nurse held a clipboard for me to sign. I was numb all over, so she placed the pen in my hand and moved the clipboard for a scribble of consent.

My body went into shock and my mouth wouldn’t stop shivering, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I could hear the anesthesiologist shout my name shaking my arm. I could hear what was going on I just couldn’t keep my eyes open. I heard the panic in their voices, “he’s not breathing,” one said as I heard them slapping him without a cry. I began preparing myself for the worst, he wasn’t going to make it, I thought. I just kept saying to myself that it’s going to be ok and this is just what was destined to happen. I was happy to have the experience that I’ve had with him growing in me for nine months and if that is all I get it was still worth it.

“Is the mother on narcotics?” the doctor resuscitating him asked.

“Prozac,” the anesthesiologist replied.

My physiatrist warned me that the risk of taking Prozac during pregnancy could result in difficulty breathing at birth as well as low birth weight. I chose to take that risk, to keep myself emotionally stable. When I found out I was pregnant the suicidal tendencies came back to haunt me. I stopped wearing my bike helmet and hoped something would kill me. Mom argued with me about taking the medication while pregnant, but I convinced her that it would be more risky taking me off rather than keeping me on.

One of the doctors handed my mom a six pound two ounce bundle and said, “He’s fine now, he’s just not crying.” Mom held him and cried, I guess somebody had to.

The look on mom’s face reminded me of the night my fourteen-year-old sister went into labor. Scarlett and I got high in the parking lot then passed out in waiting room. We were woken by a security guard nudging us with his nightstick, “This isn’t a Motel 6,” he said as he shined his flashlight in our face. “Our sister is having a baby,” I said surprised I remembered where I was. “Oh, Yeah? What’s the name?” he asked suspiciously.

“O’Brien.”

“Oh, the fourteen-year-old? That makes sense.” He says with looks of judgement in his eyes, “congratulations, it’s a girl.”

Scarlett and I looked at each other than ran down the hall to Beth’s room. There she was. The most precious baby girl surrounded by my parents and grandparents. We all cried and hugged one another. This baby would have no idea that she helped save my family. This little girl became the glue that held us together. She was the reason Scarlett didn’t kill herself that night. She reminded us that we were a family through the good times and bad we loved each other unconditionally.

The hot doctor poked her head over the paper divider, covered in my blood and freshly applied make-up to congratulate me.

Mom turned the baby so I could see his face. I wasn’t sure what to expect maybe bushy black hair and brown skin. Mom pulled down the blanket unveiling the most beautiful angel I’d ever seen. My only thought was, “Oh Shit… HE’S WHITE!”

from my book   Scars of Paris  available  at Borders or Barnes & Nobles

“Molly- you were given one brownie, you always do this and it needs to stop. It’s disrespectful! -Lily.”

Guilty.

It’s true I came home from my doctor’s appointment and decided to celebrate my clean drug test with a pot brownie Lily had given me. I was being good and decided to save it for this very moment; I licked the top like I was giving a blowjob. I tore the wrapper off while thrusting my tongue when the brownie fell from my fingertips and into the mouths of two beasts that stood at my feet. No! Bad Dog! My Brownie! So I helped myself to another and gobbled it down as the pugs gobbled mine. I’m not saying what I did was right, and I have raided the brownie stash in desperate times (I can’t wait till they’re pregnant) but I didn’t mean to disrespect anyone. I felt humiliated, fat, embarrassed and the biggest asshole on Troy St. The self-absorbed side of me got pissed and thought, for one minute put yourself in my shoes. I’m alone with nothing and expecting a baby, I know that’s not your problem but if you could give me a fucking break for two minutes, I’d appreciate it. I spoke to my therapist about my situation. She tried to reassure me that people have weird reactions to pregnant woman sometimes and may not know why, something about the hormones in the air. Kat has brought her massage practice into the home, which doesn’t coincide with a crying baby. My therapist suggested I move out. I was planning to move out by fall due to the public transportation hell with a baby. I’ve seen enough women struggle with their strollers on a crowded standing room only bus where young able bodied men have forgotten their manners and have no problem watching a pregnant woman hold on for dear life as the bus slams on the breaks then gases, then breaks again. Maybe if the bus driver hung up his cell phone and drove with his hands at ten and two o’clock I wouldn’t need to be apologizing to the old lady I just fell on top of. I was running late for a doctor’s appointment one afternoon when our bus driver abandoned ship. His relief driver didn’t show up, so rather than wait or continue the route he just grabbed his lunch pail and put on his jacket and left the bus running filled with people who had places to go. I’ve lost my temper a few times shouting, “Move!” to those who think their bags deserve a seat but people don’t. I got so mad once, when I got off at my stop I mooned the other passengers.

I had come up with a plan of moving to Santa Cruz for the summer to stay with my sister Beth. I would help watch her three kids and she could put me through baby boot camp. I would consider it my new writing project where I learned the ropes of surviving when you have nothing. For example Beth bathes her kids at night then dresses them in their clothes for the next day so she would have one less thing to think about in the mornings. I called my niece to wish her a happy birthday, I could hear the phone drop and she ran off screaming to her mom, “it’s my birthday?! You said my birthday was on the first!”

Beth picked up the phone and said, “Thanks a lot! I was postponing her birthday until next payday! Click!

My sister has had an interesting life: pregnant at 13, at 15 she began writing to men in prison, she fell in love with Jose, and he was released a year later. Jose’s citizenship was revoked and he returned to Mexico on a bus. Beth smuggled him back in, he lived with my family and they had two more kids. Beth developed a meth addiction and has been struggling to get clean. Mom, my sister Scarlett and her husband Alex took a trip to Santa Cruz for a visit. Beth’s apartment was disgusting. The floor sticky and covered in garbage, the counters have become an ant farm fed by the rotting food left out. Alex stepped outback to smoke a cigarette, before he could light up he returned back into the house and whispered to Scarlett, “We have to get a Motel room, you gotta see the backyard.”

The lawn was covered in pots of Spanish rice molding, pans with flies feasting on fish bones. Scarlett went inside and jokingly said to Beth, “doing some dishes outback? What are you waiting for it to rain?” We were use to giving each other a hard time. Beth exploded screaming at mom and my sister; she locked herself in her bedroom where you could hear the flicking of the lighter go off every few minutes. She was obviously using again. You could tell by looking at her, she had lost so much weight to where her face was sinking in. The kids were left to fend for themselves, for breakfast they ate a cup of sugar with a spoon. The youngest is five-years-old and still wears diapers, probably to get some attention. His favorite phrase was, “Fuck you Grandma!”

Beth came out of her room a few hours later and said she was running to the store. She didn’t return until 3am.

Mom called me immediately and said we need a new plan. Out of the blue mom received a card and a check from my uncle. His mother in-law had just passed away leaving his family a lot of money so my uncle shared it with his siblings. It was only a few thousand dollars but it was just enough for mom to be able to help me get into a dorm on campus. I’m bummed out because I was looking forward to being at the beach spending time with my family, but I can’t put my kid in that kind of environment. I’d like to help out but I may be just enabling her. I don’t know how to help my sister.

Scarlett called and suggested I spend the summer in Kentucky. It’s generous but two summers ago I moved to Kentucky and can’t really imagine going back. The weather is miserably hot, the public transportation system is obsolete and I refuse to drive a car until this war is over. “No blood for oil, a silent protest.” The pot sucks so everyone drinks bourbon; they have drive-thru liquor stores on every corner open till 4am. A diet of bourbon can make people want to kill themselves; I wanted to kill myself. I also left because I thought I had a warrant out for my arrest.

The warrant was a result of a retail job I had gotten at the Retro Rocket. There was a “now hiring” sign in the window. A blonde woman in her fifties wearing leopard print and smoking a cigarette sat behind the counter.

“Hi I’m Molly and I’m looking for a job.”

“You ain’t from around here, is you,” she said in her scratchy voice.

“No ma’am, I from California.” The minute I set foot in Kentucky I started talking like a redneck with phrases like “how ya’ll doin?”

Miss Lucy handed me a set of keys and said, “We close at eight and don’t forget to lock the door.”

No W2 forms or application, Miss Lucy goes with her gut. It seemed perfect, I could walk from my sister house, so transportation wasn’t an issue. I love everything vintage and my new boss seemed pretty kick back. The next day Miss Lucy stopped by the shop to promote me to manager and that I might want to consider hiring someone else to help me out if I ever wanted a day off because I was on my own.

“Why is it so quiet in here? I want the music loud and the incense burning,” Miss Lucy shouted like a crazy person. I turn up the volume and she kept yelling: “Louder! Louder!” I turned the volume as loud as it would go which was a ridiculous clatter.

Miss Lucy said, “I almost forgot to show you the intercom.”

Miss Lucy thought this was a genius selling tactic, where she had and intercom and camera set up in the back of the store at a mirror. Whenever someone looks in the mirror you say: “that’s hot!”

“When do I get paid?” I asked.

“Hold up! We gotta make money to earn money. I’ll pay you six bucks an hour, under the table that equals eight an hour, just keep track.” Miss Lucy said without really answering my question. She was good at this game.

A few weeks had passed and I started bombarding her with spreadsheet of my hours worked and how much I was owed. She would respond, “Next Tuesday.”

A former employee kept calling the shop looking for Miss Lucy. She disclosed that Miss Lucy never paid her so she quit and still hasn’t seen a dime. Miss Lucy came by the shop before I could give her the messages she broke down in tears and asked if she could borrow some money. “I’m broke until next Tuesday,” I said

“Can you ask your parents?” I laughed as the red flags went off. She owed me about four hundred dollars. My gut was telling me I wouldn’t see this money. So I decided I would pay myself. I took a three hundred-dollar bike and a hundred in cash out of the register. I left Miss Lucy a note telling her I went with my gut and that I quit. She left a message on my answering machine saying, “your gut should of told you that was stealing and you better run cause the cops are coming after you!”

I took her advice and bought the next plane ticket to Portland.

I moved in with my ex-boyfriend, Lou. I met Lou at beauty school; he was one of my first clients. “So what have you been up to today?” I asked as I draped him in a plastic cape.

“Just spreading the word.” He responded with a smile on his face.

“Do tell,” I said which is the only reason I enrolled in beauty school. I had this vision that I would cut people’s hair, they would tell me they’re story and I would write about it.

“The word of God,” he said happily, as I was thinking, “but you look so normal.” In fact he was a gorgeous Hawaiian surfer who had just moved here from the islands to be closer to his son. He and his wife divorced and she moved back home to Portland, he followed and was now an art student at PSU. He asked if I wanted to go to an art show with him that evening. We shared a lot in common. Lou inspired me to fulfill more of my potential than cutting hair. He would always use the quote, “work smarter not harder.” You should get your carpal tunnel syndrome from writing not cutting hair. He helped me fill out the student loan packet at PSU and I can now call myself a: “beauty school drop out.”

I was curious about this whole word-spreading thing. Apparently he had just found God with some campus group that calls themselves “The Disciples.” He said it’s helped him get through his divorce and deal with his schizophrenia. For some reason I’m attracted to the crazies. I saw him every night that week. He invited me to his apartment that he shared with some of the other “brothers”. They did not approve of me.

“What happened to: flirt to convert?” Lou asked the brothers.

I’d like to think that the brothers knew right away that I wasn’t falling for their crap. So they tried to convince Lou that I was sent by the devil as a test of temptation, which I found flattering. Maybe I am the devil in disguise and I don’t even know it…cool. They pulled out all their bag of tricks: they would never leave us unsupervised. Lou and I were watching a moving when they sent in one of the hot “sisters.”

“Will you walk with me to the store,” she asked, “I’m making a big dinner tonight if you wanna come over.”

“I have company,” he said, looking at me like duh.

The brothers gathered Lou for an intervention, and explained how sad they felt and challenged him to fight the devil (me). These dudes were defiantly starting to bug, so I invited Lou to come live with me. That’s when the schizophrenic side of Lou emerged. He was extremely paranoid and would accuse me of cheating on him regularly. He said he could hear me through the heating vents having sex with our neighbor, who I’d never even seen. “I heard you!” he would shout convinced this was true. He started watching me at work from the coffee shop across the street. After a month of crazy hell, Lou checked himself into a crazy hospital then returned to his island.

from my book:  Scars of Paris   available at Borders or Barnes & Nobles