WILD CARD POSTS
I’m often thinking about how the blog is doing and where it’s going. I’ve gone through periods of daily posting and I’ve fallen silent for long periods of time. Recently I decided to try a more structured schedule, which is getting off to a decent start.
The plan, in case you haven’t already figured it out, is to do Macabre Media on Mondays, Halloween Countdown on Fridays, and a topic of paranormal interest on Saturdays or Sundays. (Plus, on some Sundays, a Body Preservation post.)
I have to be careful, though, to not box myself in too much. If it gets too rigid, it stops being fun.
In the interest of keeping things lively, I plan to reserve Wednesdays for off-theme posts. I don’t promise to post every Wednesday, but when I do it will either be about the paranormal hotel or it will be a straight up wild card. Tonight, to get things started right, you get a wild card.
[Unless you're a night owl like me, you're likely to see these posts on Thursdays. For me it's still Wednesday until I go to sleep.]
I was just reading through my personal FB feed and I came across an article about courtship.
I should remind you that I educated my son at home from fourth grade to tenth, and then I turned him over to the local community college for his junior and senior year. He has now been graduated from my high school curriculum and earned an associate degree in the process.
Yes – despite my dancing around the word – that means we “homeschooled.”
I always hesitate to use the term, because of the stereotypes surrounding homeschoolers. Sadly, some of them are more true than not. Most of the families we met through homeschool organizations were homeschooling, at least in part, for religious or political reasons. We did ok in that world, though we were clearly in the minority when it came to our (nearly non-existent) religious practices … and we were almost unique in our liberal political views.
Still, these were good people and I maintain casual relationships with several of them.
And that is how I came to be reading Why Courtship is Fundamentally Flawed.
At first I didn’t realize that the author was using the term courtship in a very specific way:
Courtship is a relationship between a man and a woman in which they seek to determine if it is God’s will for them to marry each other. Under the protection, guidance, and blessing of parents or mentors, the couple concentrates on developing a deep friendship that could lead to marriage, as they discern their readiness for marriage and God’s timing for their marriage. (Quote from Institute in Basic Life Principles, for clarification purposes.)
To be honest, I was unaware that this was a thing. I don’t know how many of my fellow homeschoolers subscribe to this kind of thinking. (In my son’s age cohort, there just weren’t very many girls — plus, you know, there were some obvious ideological issues with the few that were around — so that’s not where he’s done his dating.)
Photo by Samantha Jade Royds
COURTSHIP, DATING, AND GOING STEADY
Read the articles if they are of interest to you, but I want to talk about a particular gem of wisdom I found in Why Courtship is Fundamentally Flawed.
It seems that we as a society have changed the definition of dating since it was being done in the 40s & 50s. According to the article, it was common at that time for parents to make one major rule when it came to early dating:
You can’t go out with the same person twice in a row.
It was perfectly acceptable, and expected, that in any given month you would go to the movies with Tom, have a malt with Dick, go to the dance with Harry, then – perhaps – go to a party with Tom again. The idea was that you’d get to know a lot of different people and there would not be so much pressure to pair bond with one person. By the time you’d dated 10-20 people, you had a much better idea of what kind of person you wanted to go steady with and, maybe, eventually marry.
An argument for this kind of traditional dating, from the Christian viewpoint of the article, is that there isn’t much sexual activity associated with it. I’m probably less concerned with “purity” than the author of the article is, but I can see how this kind of cultural norm would be a healthy way for people, especially young people, to develop relationship skills without feeling so pressured. And I can see how such casual dating would be less likely to contribute to confusion between raging hormones and burgeoning love.
Plus it sounds like a hell of a lot of fun.
This is NOT the way it was done when I was in high school. It was much more like serial monogamy. We hung out in groups until a couple decided to “date” at which point they would see each other exclusively for anywhere from a week to several months or more. When you stopped dating someone, there was a breakup. Then you would do it all over again with another person. Some relationships included sex, some didn’t. The concept behind the process, though, was that each person you dated could be The One. Once couple-hood was declared by going on a date, you ran that relationship out to its end.
Right now I am totally taken with the idea of bringing back real, old fashioned dating. Assuming it isn’t already being done and I just don’t know about it.
HOW IS IT DONE NOW?
From what I’ve seen in my kids, and my nieces and nephews, it’s still pretty much the way if was when I was younger … serial monogamy.
I have questions for you:
- What was your dating experience?
- What have you seen happening these days?
- What are you doing (if you’re unmarried and still looking)?
- Do you think anyone is dating casually the way I described it above? Who?
- If traditional dating isn’t happening, do you think it should be?
- If traditional dating isn’t being done, how on earth could it come back into practice?
- If you are (or were to start) dating, what do you think the reaction would be if you said, “I don’t date anyone more than once in a row and I don’t want you to either?”
On the anniversary of the release of The Conjuring, (which is one of my picks for the 13 most haunting films for ghost story lovers,) I’m noticing some internet buzz about the aftermath of its production and its subsequent popularity. For fans of The Amityville Horror, this is a familiar scenario. In short, the current owners of the home are asserting that their lives have been turned upside down by the fallout from the film. There has been trespassing and vandalism, not only at the allegedly haunted house, but also at the grave site of a local woman.
For those of you who are not ardent followers of developments in the paranormal world, I’ll provide a little cheat sheet, so you know who all these real-life people are.
- The House – built in 1836, by Dexter Richardson, in in Harrisville, RI. It was then owned by several generations of the Arnold family before passing out their possession. In 1970, the Perron family bought the home. In 1983 the home was purchased by Norma Sutcliffe and her husband, who have occupied it since that time. Originally the estate consisted of 200 acres, but is now a little over eight. The property includes a old barn that figures prominently in the movie. The house itself does not look very much like the house as shown on The Conjuring movie poster.
- The Perrons – a family of seven (including 5 daughters) that moved into the house in 1970. They lived there until 1981. One daughter, Andrea, has already penned two volumes about her paranormal experiences in the house, and a third is on the way. The Perrons co-operated with the filming of their story, and appeared in publicity materials for The Conjuring.
- The Warrens – a religious paranormal investigation team (Ed and Lorraine) who have investigated many haunted houses and paranormal incidents. According to everyone involved, they investigated the experiences of the Perrons while they were in residence at the house. According to the film makers, the movie is “based on a true story” drawn from the files of the Warrens. Lorraine Warren co-operated with the filming and appears in some publicity materials. (Ed died in 2006.)
- Bathsheba Sherman – an actual woman who lived in the Harris, RI area from 1812 – 1885. She was named in the film as a child-murdering witch. Until recently, her tombstone stood in the Harrisville cemetery. Since the release of the movie, her marker has been repeatedly vandalized.
- Norma Sutcliffe – purchased the home in 1983 and currently lives on the premises. Prior to the release of The Conjuring, she seemed comfortable discussing the haunting of the house. (As evidenced by some of the videos in the articles I’ve linked to below.) Back in 2005, she invited the Syfy show, Ghost Hunters, to do an investigation of the house. Since the movie opened, she and her husband are being plagued by thrill seekers and paranormal investigators. She is now denying, or at least down-playing, any paranormal phenomena in the house.
This particular trailer shows how deeply involved the Perrons were with publicity for the film.
STUFF YOU MAY NOT KNOW
GHOST HUNTERS PROFILED THE HOUSE IN 2005
The T.A.P.S team, of Syfy’s Ghost Hunters fame, did an investigation of the Conjuring House itself in 2005, long before the movie came out. The profile is on an episode called Two Houses: Springfield, MA – Tanguay House and Harrisville, RI – Sutcliffe House; it’s in the second half of this episode, Sutcliffe House, which starts approximately 20 minutes in. (Depending on which video you find.) If you can get your hands on a copy, it’s worth a watch.
I searched on “Ghost Hunters S02E07″ and found a working video. (YouTube videos are notorious for being there one day and not the next, so see what comes up when you search on the terms I’ve listed.)
THOUGHTS FROM ANDREA PERRON & NORMA SUTCLIFFE
Patrick Keller, of The Big Seance, has been doing some in-depth study of this haunting. He is reading a series of books written by a Perron daughter, Andrea, and has had some interaction with Norma Sutcliffe at his blog. Read what he knows at his post: The Current Owner of The Conjuring House Speaks Out!
In his piece, he has posted the link to a video Sutcliffe has posted on YouTube to dispute the idea that the house is haunted and to ask that people stop trespassing and vandalizing her home. (He’s also summarized its content for those who don’t want to watch the whole video.)
REPUTATION & GRAVESTONE OF BATHSHEBA SHERMAN
J’aime Rubio, of Dreaming Casually (Investigative Blog), has done some real historical research on the haunting, as it is depicted in the movie here: The Real Bathsheba Sherman – True History vs. “Conjured” Fiction.
HISTORY VS. HOLLYWOOD
History vs. Hollywood has an extensive overview of fact vs. film in their post, THE CONJURING (2013). this article features photographs of the actual persons involved in the story, as well as of the house. Note that J’aime Rubio (listed above) disputes much of the Bathsheba Sherman story as it is written in this article.
A QUICK OVERVIEW
Mental Floss has a good short article up called The Real Story Behind The Conjuring. It features a link to a video of a conversation between Andrea Perron and Norma Sutcliffe.
MY (RANDOM) AFTER-THOUGHTS
BASED ON TRUE:
I think the movie is a great addition to the paranormal horror film genre. It strikes s a nice balance between maintaining a generally creepy atmosphere and subjecting the audience to the right number of effective jump-scare moments. The plot, as in unfolds in the film, is engrossing. The acting is superb. It’s flaws, in fact, all lie in the based-on-a-true-story nature of the film.
As a genuine paranormal horror fan AND a woman with a deep interest in real-world paranormal occurrences, I dislike based-on-true stories. There is a distinct difference between fiction and documentary … and based-on-true is neither.
Of course, I understand the commercial value of the genre and I understand that it’s not going to go away. In the interest of protecting historical sites and bystanders, however, I believe it’s time to start obscuring details. It would not be difficult to cite the Amityville House and the Conjuring House as examples of the reason that “names have been changed to protect the innocent” in future projects. In this case, if the Perrons were comfortable being identified, that’s fine. The house, however, should have been located in a fictional town and the name of the “local witch woman” should have been fabricated.
The headstone belonging to Bathsheba Sherman was 129 years old. She may very well have been a fine, upstanding woman. Even if she wasn’t, her grave should not have been vandalized. Some of the blame for that goes to the idiots who did the damage, but Perron and Warren and New Line Cinema must be held accountable too – for putting a spotlight on the stone.
I may be conflicted about Norma Sutcliffe’s seeming back-tracking about whether the house is haunted or not, but in light of the vandalism to the grave I completely share her fear that her historic barn will end up being another casualty of this film’s popularity.
Even before I learned of the negative after-effects of the movie, I was unhappy with the way the Warrens were portrayed in the film. When I added The Conjuring to my 13 most haunting films list immediately after seeing it, I wrote:
I am not a big fan of the real-life Lorraine and Ed Warren. There I said it. ‘Seems to me they have a clear agenda, and that is to assign a demonic nature to the hauntings they come across. On the way to the movie with my husband, Ogre, I shared that opinion. (He’s not well-versed in paranormal studies, and had never heard of the Warrens.) AFTER the movie, he said, “Well it’s no wonder the Warrens approved the film, considering how the studio bent over backwards to …” be so complimentary. (I’m paraphrasing that last bit – I can’t repeat what he actually said. This is a PG-13 blog.)
I’ve never been comfortable with the methods and ideologies of the Warrens. Though I believe some hauntings are demonic or evil, I also believe that the vast majority are not. It might be worth noting that Ed often referred to himself as a demonologist rather than as a paranormal investigator.
HYPOCRISY & THIS BLOG:
I’m actually a little uncomfortable posting this because I am listing real names and places myself. Please understand that I would not do that it the cat weren’t already out of the bag. All these names and addresses are readily available on the web. That is not going to change either – even if authors and studios do implement a protection policy, hard-core folks are going to be able to find the information they need. My hope is that changing the policy would weed out the casual viewer that is likely to do spur-of-the-moment, on-a-dare-while-wasted, damage. In contrast to those nitwits, I believe most true paranormal people are respectful.
In the event that any of my readers visits the area of the alleged haunting, I would hope that an understanding of the consequences of thoughtless actions would moderate their behavior if necessary. I’m pretty sure anyone who see this would be far more likely to leave flowers and a note (perhaps, “Innocent until proven guilty.”) on the grave of Bathsheba, than do damage or make trouble.
Sixty-nine years ago today, the first atomic bomb was detonated at the White Sands Proving Ground, in Socorro County, New Mexico.
That was long before I was born, of course, but my entire childhood was lived in the shadow of that day. I was a tag-along baby, born to my mother when she was 40. My youngest sister was 14 when I was born in 1967. The middle one was born in 1950. The eldest was born in 1945 — she was about two months old when the Trinity test happened.
(Yes, that’s the same sister I recently wrote about. She is recovering beautifully after an emergency surgery to remove a bleeding brain tumor that no one knew was there.)
Because of my position in the family, my world was clouded by more nuclear awareness than the worlds of most of my age-mates. My uncle served in the Pacific Theater during WWII. He was a big fan of atomic warfare. My mother seems to have avoided much real political awareness and thus never commented on her feelings about the atom bomb, other than to say she was glad it ended the war. My sisters, on the other hand, actually remember doing duck and cover drills in school, and they mentioned it often as I was growing up. (Apparently that sort of shit will scar you.) The oldest was 17 in 1962, during the Cuban Missile Crisis.
To further intensify my fear of impending nuclear doom, I came of age in the 80s – a time of elevated tensions in the Cold War. I was 16 in September 1983 when a Soviet Su-15 interceptor shot down Korean Air Flight 007, which was en route from New York City to Seoul. Just a month later, NATO, including the US, conducted nuclear war games despite the thick tension between the US and the Soviet Union. The Soviets believed the simulation, called Able Archer, might be a smokescreen for an actual first-strike attack.
Now, in hindsight, many historians assert that November, 1983 was the closest we’ve been to full-scale nuclear war since the Cuban Missile Crisis.
Thank God I didn’t know how close we were to total annihilation at the time.
Not that my paranoia wasn’t already full-blown, thanks to some of the films of the 80s like:
- The Road Warrior (1981)
- War Games (1983)
- The Day After (1983)
- Red Dawn (1984)
- Threads (1984)
- When the Wind Blows (1986)
By the time the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, I was permanently scarred.
Nowadays, I keep close track of which nations have nuclear capabilities. I worry about the antics of Putin and Kim Jung-un. I continue to have nightmares about nuclear winter. And I still notice the anniversaries of nuclear events. I’ve always figured I’m fairly well-schooled on all things atomic, but I did not know that this memorial existed until today. Now I’m trying to figure out if I want to visit there someday or if I never want to go near it.
What about you?
In an interview in 1965, Oppenheimer was persuaded to reveal the thought that entered his mind after seeing the explosion.
We knew the world would not be the same. A few people laughed, a few people cried. Most people were silent. I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad Gita; Vishnu is trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty and, to impress him, takes on his multi-armed form and says, ‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’ I suppose we all thought that, one way or another.
According to his brother, at the time Oppenheimer simply exclaimed, “It worked.”
We went to visit my sister again today. She looks and sounds amazing! Though the expectation was that she’d be in the hospital for weeks, they are talking about letting her go home in another two or three days. Her spirits are high and there seems to be NO residual effects from the incredibly invasive brain surgery she just went through. As my Ogre said, “She’s a resilient little thing.”
I hope everyone had a great holiday weekend. I know I did, after all was said and done. I’m also looking forward to getting back to the work week … I have some serious catching up to do.
Yesterday, not long after updating my post about recommitting to productive routines, and crowing about how I control my own schedule, I got a phone call.
One of my sisters needed to tell me that another sister had been suddenly stricken by a “bleeding brain tumor.”
My beloved Ogre came home from work early and drove me into St. Paul. We spent the evening in the neurological ICU, gathering and relaying information to further-flung relatives.
Right now I’m at home. The surgery is happening as I type. We won’t know much of anything for several hours, and we won’t know everything for many weeks, perhaps months. Because this isn’t my story, and because many of my family members greatly value their privacy, I won’t say much more about it, but I will make an all-clear update if I get one. (If you know the family in real life, and want more details, please don’t leave any identifying comments or questions. Just call me.)
I was reminded last night, though, of how I got to be the way that I am. Because that’s almost entirely about me, I feel okay about telling what happened. Besides, I need to do something to keep my mind and hands busy.
The time came when all the necessary decisions had been made and my sister needed to be left alone to rest. Those of us who were in attendance had moved to the hallway so we could talk. As I looked around the circle of my sister’s children, I was struck by how different everyone looked — it had been a couple of years since I’d seen most of them, outside of snapshots and profile pictures on Facebook. Because all my sisters are a generation older than me, their children are about my age. A couple of my nieces are actually a year or two older than me. As children, we were pretty much raised together by a close-knit pack of four women. In the last 20 years or so, though, we’d spread out and fallen mostly out of regular touch.
Right about then, someone called me for another update, which made my cell phone go off.
My ringtone is the theme from Halloween.
I dealt with the call then responded to the quizzical, slightly shocked expressions around me with a defensive, “What? You all know me!”
There was general laughter. Then one of my nieces reached out and grabbed my hand. To everyone she said, “She’s always been … spooky.” She positioned my hand in mid-air, waist-height, palm up. She asked me, “Do you remember this?”
I had no idea what she was talking about. She told me to close my eyes. I did, and I waited. A few seconds later, I clearly felt her hand take an opposing position above mine.
Understand, she didn’t actually touch my hand with hers, she just allowed her palm to hover a few inches above mine. The heat and the charge that quickly built up in the space between our palms was intense. The sensation was both shocking and totally familiar.
Suddenly I remembered playing this game with my family all the time. If I recall correctly, we used a blindfold to avoid accidental cheating. There would be at least three of us together — one receiver, one sender and one witness. We’d always start with with making the connection with our hands, just the way my niece did it in the hospital. Then the blind-folded receiver would stand quietly while the sender would hover over different body parts, from different distances. The witness would make sure there was no actual touching, nor sound clues being passed.
Some of us were better at it than others. This particular niece and I used to be very good at either role, especially when we played together.
Last night, standing in the hospital hallway, it all came back to me. The thought that sort of exploded in my mind at the time was this, “Oh, that’s right. We were all a family of unschooled heritage witches.”
Now I’m remembering lots of things, but it’s time for me to go pick up a couple of young menfolk and let them ride home in the bed of my pickup truck. (I checked. It’s legal here in Minnesota. It’s a short ride, and I’ll be extra careful.)
Us kids, we rode in the back of dilapidated trucks all the time.
God, that was a long time ago.
[update] It’s late. The surgery apparently went well. I’ve gone for a long walk and now I’m going to soak in a hot bath. My shoulders are sore down to the bones and I need to try to get the muscles to relax.
I’ve returned from visiting my daughter in North Carolina and I’m settling in. Today, I’m heading into Anoka to see a dear friend, but I wanted to let you know I’m fine and I had a great time.
Soon, I’ll have a story about a check-in nightmare at a “paranormal” (like my hotel is paranormal) motel on one of the barrier islands. I’ll give you a tour of a 300 year old graveyard. I’ll update you on some new info about Mary Merrill Hersey, whom I posted about before I left. I will inflict some vacation photos on you. (You’re welcome.) For now, I thought I’d just share one of my favorite shots from the graveyard:
It was beautiful.
Some happenings at the #paranormalhotel are too complex for tweets of 140 characters, and I’m not a fan of twitter tales that run over the course of multiple tweets, so I’m sharing one mini-story from my recent run of back-to-back graveyard shifts here.
On a recent Tuesday night, a middle-aged woman, wearing rhinestone-studded skinny jeans and a tiger-print halter top, came in and rented a room. She was with a bulky, slow-moving man who never looked up from his cell as she and I conducted our business. After I gave her two keys, she batted at her companion’s phone, hooked her arm through his, and tugged him toward the elevator.
A couple of minutes later, my desk phone rang. The couple was not satisfied with the room I’d given them. Apparently it was very important to them to have a microwave and a mini-fridge. I I explained I’d given them the last smoking room I had. They decided to get a refund and try their luck elsewhere.
The pair was not particularly difficult or remarkable, so I didn’t even tweet about them on Tuesday night.
On my next shift, though – on Wednesday night – that same woman appeared in the lobby at about two o’clock in the morning. She was wearing a different halter top (this one leather, with fringes) but the same jeans. She asked me if I’d seen the man she was with the night before. I hadn’t. She said, “Good,” but she didn’t actually look happy about my answer. She walked out the front door. I checked the register and found her name among the guests. She had obtained one of the rooms that had a fridge and microwave at 11:37 on Wednesday morning – just as soon as the housekeepers had finished cleaning it, I imagined.
Within fifteen minutes, she returned with a man. I didn’t get a good look at him because they didn’t need to register and they were moving fast, but his slight build told me it was not the man she’d been with the night before. The gentleman was in uniform and I caught the glint of a law enforcement badge on his chest. I wondered if she was going to give a statement of some kind in her room. (About a domestic with her boyfriend, perhaps.) That often happens at the paranormal hotel.
There was something about their body language as they whisked through the lobby, though, that made me wonder.
I tweeted (in a string of tweets about the police presence at the hotel):
1st cop: woman avoiding the guy who was with her last night brought a cop back to hotel … not sure it’s an official visit
I watched them via the security cameras as they moved through the hotel. When they tumbled out of the elevator on the fourth floor, they paused under the camera to grope each other a bit. She broke away from the clinch, tip-toed over to a door, and pressed her ear against the wood. She laughed, grabbed her companion’s hand and pulled him along the hall to her room.
Perhaps an hour later, the pair came back to the lobby. He was tucking in his shirt. She straightened his tie and kissed his cheek before sending him out with a pat on the ass. I was able to determine that his uniform was actually that of a security guard, and not a police officer. I was also able to see that he was quite young – fifteen, maybe twenty, years her junior.
Correction on 1st cop: not a cop; a security guard … but I was right about it being not official.
After he’d left, she asked if she could borrow my lighter, then invited me to come outside for a smoke. I joined her in the quiet night.
She was still looking for her “old man” (whom she alternately referred to as her ex.) She told me that she was hoping he was around, because she was trying to make him appreciate her more. She suspected he was checked into a different room at the hotel. She told me nothing had really happened with the guard; she just wanted her ex to think it had.
I made noises about how challenging maintaining a relationship can be. She said, “You got that right, Momma.”
The endearment surprised me. Some of our guests have called me “Sister” when I do something to please them, but this was my first “Momma”. Apparently the paranormal hotel is just one big happy family.
I asked her if she had any kids. She said she had two girls, 23 and 27. I said I had a girl about the same age as her eldest and a boy, ten years younger. She asked if I was married. I told her yes, for more than twenty years. She exclaimed, then gave me a high-five. I volunteered that there had been some stormy years early on. Then I said, “Now though there’s not much trouble; just the right amount of drama every now and then.”
She laughed an open, appreciative laugh and surprised me by grabbing me in a tight hug. She smelled like flowers, clean and fresh. I thought, she even wears a young girl’s perfume. Up close, I could see her crow’s feet were deeper than mine … but then she was also very tan. This was a woman who had never been afraid to worship the sun. “You’re all right, Momma,” she said, “You’re all right. I knew that last night. I hope you didn’t think we was hassling you. We was already having trouble by then, you know. And I know you just have to do your job, right?”
We finished our smokes. She wandered into the darkness to check the parking lot for evidence that her ex / old man was on the premises. I went to fold laundry.
Sometime around 4:30 am, she came looking for me because she needed a light again. This time when we went outside there was a faint gray glow in the sky, prompting an anxious bird to sing every few minutes. I lit a cigarette and handed her my lighter. After checking traffic levels on the street, and scanning the lot, she produced what looked like a slim cigar from the watch pocket of her jeans. She carefully straightened it out and lit up. The pungent sweet scent of marijuana bloomed on the still, cool air and I was reminded of a night-blooming flower called nicotiana alta that I used to grow.
After taking a deep pull, she half-offered it to me. I told her I was good as I stepped off a few paces.
“Oh, that’s right. You’re working. Should I put it out?”
“Not on my account. You’re a grown-up. I just don’t want my boss to smell it on me when he relieves me in the morning.”
“Yeah. That’s good. That’s why I came out here. I don’t want to stink up the room, you know?”
She sat on the hotel’s concrete picnic table checking her cell while she smoked her blunt. I patrolled the parking lot halfheartedly picking up garbage while I smoked my cigarette.
I was pushing trash into the flappy maw of the garbage can when she came over to me, holding out her cell. “Listen. The fucker is trying to piss me off.”
All I could hear through the speaker of her phone was some rustling and clunking and heavy breathing.
“He’s letting me know he’s with a woman.”
For a moment I remained confused, then the context she’d provided hit me, and I realized I was listening to someone having sex. “So, he’s, like, pretending to pocket-dial you?”
She nodded. “I’m betting that’s my kid he’s with too.”
“Your kid? You mean one of your daughters–“
“Not the good one. The good one has had the same old man for five years, and all three of her kids are his. This is the 23 year old. I don’t know why she likes to get with my boyfriends, but she does.”
I don’t remember what either of us said after that, or how the conversation came to an end. I think, maybe, I finished my cigarette which made her decide that she was done smoking for the time being too. I remember she said that she was plenty high and that she should get some sleep.
We went inside. She went upstairs. I made a fresh pot of coffee, then returned to my laptop, and my latest work in progress, behind the front desk.
You know, I hope, that I mean no disrespect when I write about these people. You know, I hope, that I know this could have been me, had the breaks gone differently … and if I hadn’t believed – somewhere deep down inside – that I could write my way into the life I wanted.