My Girl is Home (at Last)

I want to smooch her fury face.

Minime’s fuzzy little presence makes the Treehouse home.

I feel about my living quarters the way I feel about my job.  Unless I’m signing a book deal, never again do I want to sit across from a stranger, presenting some limited version of my best self, trying to convince her / him that I’m worth his / her investment.   Likewise, why bother moving unless it’s for something really great?

Up north they call it a FROG room, for Front Room Above Garage, but “Treehouse” fits.  Except for the tile floors and bathroom walls, it’s all wood.  It’s shaded everywhere by a variety of Coral Gables’ foliage.  The name also gives my dwelling a little je ne sais quoi.

I’ve hidden all sorts of fun things in the Treehouse for myself.  There’s a Hopper print, a signed Palahniuk poster, my 2nd-place cook-off ribbon, and a Bright Eyes concert poster taped inside various cabinetry.  A framed Tank Girl picture hanging in my walk-in closet.  A typewriter by the door is my mezuzah. There are tiny stone turtles and large dream catchers in the windows.  As a little bit of cheer to ease the transition into living alone, the name works.  I’ve only realized now that the name has allowed me to avoid saying “home.”

I used to have artwork from Cake CDs in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, but I took them all down this week. They stopped looking cheery and started looking like clutter. I must be more acclimated to my own space.

I also realize why I waited three months to bring Minime here; she is tied into my past with Andi.  Of course she is, you vacuous, imbecilic moron, I hear you saying (I’m just kidding; we rarely think thoughts as hateful of others as we think of ourselves), what’s your next keen insight? Teenagers are hormonal? Chocolate is yummy?

When I was packing up to move, some of the things I left behind surprised Andi.

“Are you trying to eliminate any trace of me?” she asked, only half-joking.  As if I could.  If I stripped naked, tossed all my possessions, and moved to a new city, my tattoos would follow me.  I don’t have “Andi and Aaron Forever and Ever” tattooed on my heart or anything, but we used to go to Zopie’s Caffeine Fix together.  Does that reminder of Zopie's count as a reminder of Andi?  What about the time we were tripping our balls off, making fun of the Tank Girl tattoo on my thigh, which barely looks like Tank Girl’s tattoo?

This is my problem with Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind; “Go through your house and take away anything which reminds you of her.”  It’s a neat idea for a story.  Charlie Kaufman looks at mementos of past relationships and thinks, what if one could use these objects to map the human brain and eliminate memories?  There is no collection of objects which can contain a person, and no way to remove all traces of a person from your life without removing yourself.  The way every song speaks to you when you’re falling in love, it works in reverse when you’re falling out.  Even if I had those tattoos removed, our sixteen years together would remain in me.

Is Minime a stronger connection to the past than my CDs, DVDs, clothes, dishes, shoes, and sheets because she’s alive?  Is it harder to make new memories around a fuzzy, pink-nosed baby than an object?  If Minime hadn’t scratched a little girl's eyelid badly enough to warrant a trip to urgent care, how much longer would I have dragged my heels?

Both my delay in bringing her here and the motivations behind that delay are obvious in retrospect. Most likely, they were obvious to an outside observer.

It makes me worry about what other obvious things I’m missing.

Two Weeks After the Fact

If New Year’s Eve isn’t the time for knock down drag out partying, what is?

“Knock down, drag out” is an interesting phrase. Google has killed speculation on such things; you can learn the origin of any phrase with a few keystrokes. I’m going to fly Google-free and mention that song which exhorts the listener, “let’s have a knock down, drag out, rock n’ roll party in the street.” Which came first, the phrase or the song? If the song came first, it sounds like we’re coming into your house, pushing you off your feet, dragging you out of your home, and forcing you to party whether you want to or not. That’s dedication to having a good time.

Maybe “knock down” connotes partying so intense walls come down, which I’d prefer. It’s less predatory partying.

“Drag out” could be a reference to all those gender-confused men on Halloween, or a New Year’s celebration in Key West.

On Halloween, men dress in drag, women go soft-core porn slutty, and it’s beyond encouraged; it’s a given. Likewise, drunken revelry on New Year’s. During my eleven years as a non-drinker, I managed a Starbucks and a Borders. I scheduled myself to open New Year’s Day, knowing I could trust me to show up. I told my co-workers if they called out, they were calling out for good.

Harsh? Not really. I was just being realistic about Miami the day after a given party night. I was a good enough manager the rest of the year that I could make that kind of threat / promise and have it honored; no one ever called out New Year’s Day.

Since I began drinking again (“re-drinking?”) five years ago, I’ve had a few hangovers but nothing on par with my college days (when I quit drinking in the first place). Words of wisdom from my friend Jeffrey have guided me through 100 proof waters. He was working St. Patrick’s Day at Books & Books while I was drinking at the bar in the courtyard. Several beers into feeling no pain, I asked him if he thought I should have another. Jeffrey, who calls St. Patrick’s Day “amateur night,” leaned in close.

“Aaron my friend,” he said, “once you’re over thirty, there’s no reason to throw up from too much alcohol.”

It deflated my buzz the tiniest bit, but even a drunken reveler knows truth when he hears it. I ordered a bottled water.

New Year’s Eve 2004, two beers were enough to make my head spin. 2005 – 2008? Let’s just say, more than two beers were required to get the job done. I didn’t throw up from drinking, but man, I would’ve hated to work for me the next day.

This year, my New Year’s Eve consisted of a dinner party for four. Hor D’Oeuvres a plenty, tossed salad, chicken pot pie, and carrot cake. One of our number fell ill (truly ill, not amateur-hour ill), so three of us stood on a balcony and watched fireworks ring in 2010. Becky and I shared a New Year’s Eve kiss. Since we didn’t want our host to feel like a third wheel, our kiss was hardly Miami style. It was more the smackaroo you give when your whole family’s watching.

Still, this was a good New Year celebration. If Akimbo hadn’t gotten sick, it would have been a great New Year’s Eve. No pressure to party, no awkward mingling with strangers, no dodgy characters, just solid friends you love. At midnight, texts were passed ‘round the world, friends and family at various parties coming together for one big virtual celebration.

I popped out of bed the next morning bright and early, but with a headache. Not a hangover, just a headache. It lasted all day, through breakfast, lunch, and dinner, through coffee and juice and water, through Bayer and Aleve, through reading and writing and movies. I’ve decided champagne is absolute evil.

Next year, I’m toasting with Jack Daniels. If I’m going to feel the punishment the next day, I might as well feel the buzz the night before.

My First Christmas

When I wrote this previous post, in the back of my mind I knew there would be other firsts. Not in those terms, exactly, but I knew it was just the beginning of my separation. I had already made it through Andi’s birthday and I had a plan for mine, but I hadn’t even considered the holidays.

Andi has missed Thanksgiving a couple times before, and she rarely took off as much time from work as I did. It’s not like her absence up north was unprecedented, it was just a new kind of absence.

When I asked why no one had mentioned Andi this year, my mother explained, “We wouldn’t say anything because if you got back together it would be awkward.”

Ah.

“Even then, we wouldn’t say anything,” Mom said.

“We’d just look at her,” Aunt Jeri agreed, demonstrating her flinty-eyed stare.

I told them about Becky.

Friday the 25th, I woke up alone on Christmas Day for the first time in my life. I didn’t play music. I made myself a mushroom and cheese omelet. I opened the Christmas gifts from my Aunt Jeri (and the Starbuck’s gift card from Uncle Nicky), who’d drawn my name this year. I brewed coffee and read for several hours. I showered and walked to Books &Books, not to work but to use it as my personal Kinkos.

It was a blindingly gorgeous day, Christmas served up Miami style. Not cold yet, but cool. Periwinkle skies, fluffy clouds. Jeans and t-shirt weather. I passed three fathers helping their sons ride the bicycles they’d just received, one boy far too old to be wobbling on his first bike. I couldn’t help but think of the bike Santa had brought Becky’s boy on Christmas. I also thought of learning to bike myself.

I remember my father jogging behind me. I’m not sure how long I’d been biking, weeks or months, but the training wheels on my hand-me-down bike were raised maybe an inch off the pavement. Dad urged me to go faster, jogging behind me while he held the bike seat steady. Everything clicked. I found my balance. I left dad behind like I’d been shot from a cannon. I remember him trying to keep up for a couple of steps, then giving up and just watching as I biked to the end of the block and back.

I’d like to put a smile on his face, add some triumphant shouting, but all I remember is his hand, letting go, and those two jogging steps he took before standing still. He was wearing jeans.

Walking alone under Miami’s sun, I realized how lucky I am. I’ve gone directly from a family-filled home to a girlfriend’s house to another girlfriend (and eventual wife)’s house. Every year of my life, I’ve woke on Christmas in a home filled with love. This year, I woke alone. But that was important to do, so I could realize the first part.

At Books & Books, I printed some things out and wrapped some gifts. Becky called. Her son’s second Christmas at her ex’s had begun; was I ready for our private Christmas?

“Nah, I’m enjoying my solitude,” I said.

Right. Solitude is great when it’s a state you know will end soon, but you can’t end solitude alone. I told her I’d race her to the Treehouse. I hopped on my bike (which I’d left at work before), the day so perfect I wanted to take a few extra laps around the gorgeous houses on my block. Instead I got home, showered, cleaned up, and ate a bowl of vanilla ice cream drizzled with one of the syrups my aunt had given me.

The syrup gift set wasn’t on my Christmas list, but it’s the things you don’t expect which make the best surprises.

Becky and I exchanged gifts. I thought she was a mind reader, but apparently she had asked what I wanted for Christmas while we were drifting off one night and I sleepily gave her the rundown. Along with all the fun stuff, we exchanged some personal gifts upon which we could hang the memories of our first shared Christmas.

Get your mind out of the gutter, I’m talking about the stories I printed out at Books &Books, which she’d been after me to give her for some time. She says lingerie is a gift more for the giver than the receiver, but really, giving her those stories is a selfish gift. She might enjoy my words, but I enjoy her reading them more.

Becky also drew me a picture and had it framed, a pencil drawing of us together on the beach in Sarasota, enjoying the sunset and each-other’s company. I hadn’t thought I could look on those days with any more fondness, but she proved me wrong.

This was a Christmas I'll never forget.

Christmas with Clan Cleopatra

The Christmas Eve Eve Party at Hilldawg’s was a little north of Miami, so Becky and I decided I should spend the night at her place to save her some driving. We left Books & Books, I packed an overnight bag, and headed up. Becky’s sister was in town from Orlando. Her parents, her son, her sister – all of them were waiting on us to go out to dinner.

When I walked through the door, Cleo Jr. smiled up at me and took my hand. He led me upstairs, down the hall, to his bedroom, and through a doorless frame perhaps a third of the size of a standard door. From the bedroom, the finished attic space looks like a picture you can enter. Inside is a little bookshelf, a cot, a lot of levels, and toys. It’s the kidspace you wish you had growing up.

Cleo Jr. and I flipped through a copy of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein too advanced for his reading level. He liked looking at the pictures, though. For my part, I was amazed at how faithful Kenneth Branagh's adaptation was to the original text. Of course, I’ve never read the original, so all my preconceived notions come from the various movies.

Anyhoo, Cleo Jr. wanted me next to him in the car and at dinner. He didn’t want Becky accompanying him to the bathroom, but me. Becky assures me this behavior is unusual, but I find it difficult to believe I have some kind of special connection with children only manifesting itself now (cats, on the other hand…). I think I’m just lucky enough to meet him at an age when he loves most everyone.

The Eve Eve party was great. Shooting the shit with folks who I don’t see nearly enough, all of us loose with drink. That’s a good night for me.

Some of our friends decided not to pick one Christmas party, but instead to attend them all. Festooned with lights and garland, wearing elf hats and painted shirts, carrying sheet music, guitars, and bongos, these folks caroled their merry way from house to house. They’d stop at one party for three or four songs, mingle a bit, then head out for the next stop. To hear them tell it, they will attend fifty different parties this year. They filmed the whole thing. It was all very Fellini.

On the day before Christmas (Christmas Eve morning sounds off to me), Cleo Jr. roused Becky bright and early. I slept until well past eleven. I’d planned on making Ropa Vieja for Noche Buena at home, perfuming the Treehouse with delicious cooking smells and avoiding the watchful eye of Cleo Mater.

I’d seen Cleo Mater hovering over Becky’s sister when she made rum cake. I didn’t want that kind of scrutiny. Unfortunately, being a non-Cuban on a Cuban holiday making a Cuban dish, the idea of my flying below the radar was ridiculous.

Since they’d begun cooking the night before – on the Eve of Noche Buena - there was room on the stove for my Old Clothes. The kitchen is right off the side entrance, which everyone uses because only strangers use the front door. After “nice to meet you,” the phrase, “I hear you’re making Ropa Vieja” immediately followed, again and again.

Imagine a Cuban dating an Irishman and deciding to make bangers and mash on St. Patrick’s Day. Although I’d made the dish dozens of times over the years, I still felt nervous. Maybe I should have done a practice run earlier in the week. Cleo Mater raised an eyebrow at the method I used to prepare the skirt steak, smiled broadly, and left me to my own devices.

Apart from Cleo Mater’s signature black beans and a mojito turkey, mine was the only Cuban dish on the menu. Becky made Cheesy Potatoes and Beef Brisket. Becky’s sister made a green bean casserole. We had tossed salad to start and bread rolls to wipe our plates clean. A delicious meal, with a large family gathered around the table. Clan Cleopatra reminded me very much of my family during Thanksgiving, except it’s only one night and they serve wine.

The Texan at the table pronounced Becky’s brisket the best she’d ever eaten (apparently brisket is big in Texas, so this is high praise indeed). It was the tastiest piece of beef I’ve ever had. While my Ropa Veija turned out perfectly, it may as well have been cardboard next to the brisket.

I was the only one who expressed this sentiment, but I’m sure it was universal. Cleo Mater had seconds, though, which I’m told is a rarity. At least I made a believer out of her.

After dinner, we stepped outside. Cleo Pater had built a landing in the back yard for his grandchildren. Palms and oaks shaded the flagstone paths and firepit he’d built. He’d done all the renovations on the house himself. As if that’s not enough skill, Cleo Pater pulled out his guitar and sang a beautiful rendition of a Bob Dylan song. I can’t remember which one, but his daughters said they always thought he’d written it.

The group of us gathered around a fire in the dark, drinking, thinking, chatting. Again, I was forcibly reminded of my own family. I thanked Becky’s parents for inviting me, but sometimes words can’t encompass the depths of one’s gratitude.

The hiccup came when Becky and I tried to make it to another Christmas Eve party closer to the Treehouse.

After lulling Cleo Jr.’s holiday spirit down with four Christmas stories, Becky’s lack of sleep caught up with her. She looked so peaceful cuddled up next to her son. I knew we’d be late, but I also felt guilty at the extra three hours of sleep I’d gotten the night before. Being pulled back-and-forth between a promise to attend Akimbo’s party on one side and affection for my girlfriend on the other won Becky a half hour of sleep. Being new to the whole child thing, I’d forgotten Santa Claus. There were presents to put under the tree, notes to write, cookies to eat, milk to drink.

It was Akimbo’s first Christmas Eve in the condo she’d just bought. But by the time we began driving back to Miami, Becky was near to nodding off. Exhausted as she was, knowing she had to drive back home and be up early for Christmas with her family, I couldn’t ask Becky to chauffeur me.

Andi was also at the Christmas Eve party. Andi, Akimbo, and I have known each-other since we were nineteen. Andi texted me, asking if she should leave. I didn’t know how to answer. If Becky just dropped me off, wouldn’t that eliminate any awkwardness? But Andi and I haven’t spoken in so long, was a Christmas Eve party the best venue to start? Plus, how would I get home?

In the end, we didn’t go. Becky dropped me off at the Treehouse and drove home. For the first time, I felt terrible not having a car.

A few days later, Akimbo gave me bag of some of my favorite things (Raven’s Wood Zinfandel, Starbucks, dark chocolate peanut M &M’s, and “He’s Just Not That Into You” on DVD) and I took her out to dinner.

Becky said she knew I didn’t have a car going in, and didn’t blame me for anything. Her family dug me.

All in all, my first Noche Buena was a great evening.

A Full Confession

Writing hasn’t been going so well. The holidays always play hell with my schedule; I’ll lug my laptop on Thanksgiving vacation but the only times I know for certain I’ll use it are at the airport on the way up and at the airport on the way down. I’ll probably do some editing and I might, might, get an idea worth a few fresh pages, but usually if I’m not chatting with family, I’m reading. Then Christmas parties play hell with my bedtime, which plays hell with my early-morning writing sessions.

In the past, I haven’t judged my muse for needing a break as badly as I do.

This feels different. I’ve had this problem since I moved to the Treehouse, and it goes deeper than non-fiction taking over fiction. Stephen King says the secret of his fecundity is stability. Interviewers point to his horrific accident and his struggles with addiction; he points to his wife, Tabitha.

I mentioned some good ideas I had a few weeks back. New ideas usually spring from stepping away from the daily cursor push and giving my subconscious time to shift things about. I’ll find a new way of looking at an old story, the realization of what it’s lacking or where it went off the rails, or I’ll discover an entirely new story. I credit this latest batch to Becky. I didn’t feel particularly desperate before we started dating. I felt sad and lonely, but not desperate.

I fooled myself, but not my muse. Like any good woman, she smelled my desperation and stayed away. As Becky’s presence has allowed me to look back on my marriage with more honesty, being with her also brought the sense of play back to my writing. Playing is what I enjoy most about fiction. The examination of reality is necessary for my mental health, but it can be exhausting when that’s all there is.

I’ve allowed my self-discipline to slide. What the hell, my life fell apart, right? Who would expect me to stay one hundred percent grounded? Now, I’m in the glow of new love. What the hell, I’ve been miserable for months, right? Who would demand I pull my head out of the clouds and do the work than needs doing on me? Emotional growth, self-examination, reflection, re-examination, yada-yada-yada. Not fun, but vital. And there’s work to be done on my stories, new characters to introduce to the world. Not vital, but fun.

For the most part, my family legacy is not steeped in success, it’s one of setbacks, lowered expectations, and bitterness. My goals this year should be loftier than getting my love life back in order.

Of course, it took getting love back in my life in order for me to see that. Life is odd.

I’ve often told people I’ve written past the point where it matters whether I’m published. True, but only part of the story. John Dufresne, in the excellent Lie That Tells a Truth, has an entire chapter on the profound indifference with which you can expect the world to greet both your decision to be a writer and the work itself. Basically, Dufresne says if you want to change the world, stop writing now. If you want to change yourself, have at it.

In that sense, I have written past the point where being published matters. I need it like sleep. I’ll have some restless nights, or stay out late reveling a few evenings in a row. I can still push through my days, but I’ll be irritable, on edge. Sooner or later, I need to make up for that deficit with a deep, coma-like sleep.

A friend of mine uses coma to describe any activity so powerful that it shuts out the rest of the world. Book coma. Food coma. I’ve been skipping days of writing and then settling at the keyboard for hours, but I’m missing a good writing coma. The one that pulls me out of bed the second the five am alarm goes off because it was the last thing I thought of before I slept, the one speaking so vividly it nearly writes itself.

The project which had been giving me that feeling – the third, final, and correct re-imagining of my first book, Scratch the Dead Places – died when my marriage died. I’m not sure why. I look back at things I’ve written before the accident and see how I’ve evolved (some have commented that the first and second drafts of Scratch could have been written by two different people). Writing starts with knowing where it put your commas and shit, but the process itself is about finding your voice, being able to communicate exactly what you want. But it you want more than your friends and family to read it, there better be truth, and depth. I was working toward those things, but the accident saved me many years of cursor pushing, putting me more in touch with my emotions and therefore the emotional lives of my characters.

The end of my marriage is more than a broken heart. It’s a broken world view. Love conquers all, until the end of time, etc. etc. I believed in all of that. Now, I don’t. To some people, that’s maturity. It’s left this former hopeless romantic floundering.

I don’t think I woke from my Scratch the Dead Places coma for the usual reasons. I don’t think the story went off the rails, that I need to step away so I can realize where I took the wrong turn. I don’t see a lack of depth or truth which makes it the unsalvageable effort of a fledgling writer. It might be a measure of guilt. It involves the murder of five children, the sort of lurid thriller I judge harshly. Really, Aaron? This is how you want to introduce yourself to the world? Isn’t there enough ugliness out there?

One of my favorite books in the thriller genre is Stephen Dobyn's The Church of Dead Girls. It’s disturbing, and grotesque, but not bloody or puerile, a literate study of small-town paranoia about as far removed from Chelsea Cain or Jeff Lindsay as you can get. I don’t think I can judge myself too harshly for following my muse down this path; my story is about consequences, not dead children.

If I push that safe reason aside, I’m left with the relationship between the protagonist, Thomas Walters, and the woman to whom he is telling his story, Laura Moya. Thomas Walters is not me. Laura Moya is not Andi. But they are only a couple turns of the kaleidoscope from reality.

Just now, those turns aren’t far enough.