4 Conversations.

#0.

This isn't college.
I am not in a lecture hall, pretending to be taking notes about something I don't give a shit about, periodically nodding at the professor--even raising my hand here and there.
I am at school. At work. I should be working.
The classroom is empty. It's just me in here. No kids.
And I should be working on my lesson plans for the rest of the week.
But I'm not.
I am listening to Camera Obscura and getting that heartbroken wanderlust I get sometimes.
I want to run. Or drive. Or run.



#1.

"I dunno," I said. "I liked institute."
"That's cause you were never working. You always hanging out with guys," she said.
One in particular, I thought. For a second I could see his gorgeous smile, but it turned back into her stern unwelcoming face.
"Speaking of which, tell me about this guy."
"Who, Sean?"
"No. Fuck Sean. That guy I saw you hanging out with the other night."
"Oh, him."
"Yeah. Why don't you date him? Or are you already?"
"No."
She gave me a look. One of those looks that infuriates me. One of those looks that insists that I'm lying.
"I'm not. I'm not interested."
"Why not?". Her 'O' in 'not' was that wide-mouthed, annoying, Chicago 'O.' It sounded like an 'A.'
Women have trouble seeming both vulnerable AND stupid in the presence of one another. I bit my bottom lip.
What could I say?
("He's just not the man I want to see.")



#2.

The old woman smelled sweetly and the powder on her face was just a little too white. They call her Barbee. Her name is Patty and she is a Texan Rose. She really is. Pushing sixty and still just as charming as she ever was, I'm sure.
I called her a monster for turning her porch light off and turning her sprinklers on for Halloween.
"And how about you?" she asked. "Did you go out in your little French Maid outfit for a night of debauchery?"
I gasped and smiled. I could feel it like bending a dry sponge: it was the first time I had smiled all day. "No, I stayed in and watched a film." I assured her if I had a porch, I would have given candy to children, unlike some people.
"Scary movie?" she asked.
"No. I was hanging out with my friend and he didn't want to watch a scary film so we watched The Jerk."
She smiled. "Did you say 'he?'"
I nodded hesitantly.
"So that fella from Arkansas came to see you?"
I stared at her wide-eyed. I was a deer in her headlights. I shook my head, slightly. "No, we broke up."
She gasped. "What happened? Another woman?"
So I picked at the scab as I am wont to do. But only a little.
"Well, what does he do out in Arkansas?"
"He's in TFA..." Sometimes, I feel like I could be his PR agent.
"And he's unhappy?" she asked.
I nodded. I could hear his voice in my head. "It's not you, Vida."
"You're lucky," Patty said. "My first husband was that type. Always looking over the fence at the greener grass. They never appreciate what they got."
I looked down at the table. I didn't know what to say.
"Well, what about this new beau of yours?" I loved that she used words like "beau" and "fella."
I shook my head, playfully. No, not a beau.
"Uh-huh," she said with a stern playfulness.
I blushed.
What could I say?
("He's just not the man I want to see.")



#3.

He called me. Asked me to come over tonight.
Even though he is not in the room, I am shuffling my feet and trying to keep a poker face. I don't want to. I've never been there. But I don't have a good reason not to.
So he asks me all the time: "Why don't you want to come over? Why do I always come to your place? You'll drive ten hours to see someone who doesn't want to see you but you wont drive half an hour to see me?"
I was quiet.
"So, do you want to come over tonight?" he asked again. "My sister won't be there."
"So? What does that have to do with anything?"
"I don't know," he said.
"Look, I have shit to do. Maybe some other time."
He sighed, frustrated. "Really?"
What could I say?
("You're just not the man I want to see.")



#4.

"Colin left?"
I smiled and said cheerfully, "Yes, he left a while ago!"
"Alright, well, Goodnight." He always says it so suddenly.
"Wait. Did you think of when you might come here?"
"We're not talking about that."
Things like that make you feel like your lungs are deflating too fast and are writhing into your stomach.
"Why not?"
"We're just not."
Don't fight. Don't fight. Don't fight. He always wanted you to shut your mouth. Just shut it for once.
"Okay." It was resolute but not cathartic--like throwing up, but swallowing it after.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
What could I say?
("You're just the man I want to see.")

The Empty Shell That Was She

Corps Values

What I need to learn.

To do.

Is develop a poker face (becauseI'mtired,ohsotired,ofpeoplegettingthebetterofme).


What I need to do.

Is act.

Like I don't give a shit (evenwhen,inmyheartofhearts,Icareaboutitmorethananythingintheworld).


What I need to say.

To him.

Is, "That's fine" (whenIreallywanttosaywhywhywhywhywhywhywhydoyoudothistome?).


What I need to spend.

On him.

Is nothing (thoughIwanttopamperandspoilhimandtreathimlikethekingheis,soworthyofmyworship).


What I need to be.

Outside.

Is prude and utterly Victorian (eventhoughmypiousecstacybringsmetomykneesandmakesmecoveteachdropofbloodthatpulsatesbeneathhisimmaculateskin).


What I need to stay.

Each day.

Is demure and shy (soevenhewontknowthatIwanttobiteintohimlikeforbiddenfruitandseducehimuntilhehasforgottenthefaceofgoodness).


What I need to see.

Is me.

Without him (ifthat'sevenpossibleconsideringthefactthat,everytimeiblinkmyeyes,I'minhisarmsagain--againandagainandagainandagain,harderandharderandharderstill).


What I need tonight.

Is him.

Just him (justhim).

I've been wondering if I should start a Teach for America blog.

Considering the fact that I am one of the fourteen unplaced people out of two hundred an fifty corps members in Houston, maybe I should hold off on it.

I could start off with this: This summer, at Institute, I got more sheets of paper that I want to throw away than I have my whole life. I sat up the other night and started throwing out stacks and stacks of papers that I don't and never will find useful. Ever. Thanks TFA.

Being unplaced is strange though. You don't have to work or go to meetings that make you want to gouge your eyes out. But you can't feel comfortable in your own skin; you've prepared yourself for a couple of months for really hard work that never materialized. You can't go home to your family. You can't leave town for anything. You just sit. And wait. You can't even be proactive and look for your own job. You wait for the TFA gods to hand one to you.

Since my shit interview, I haven't left the house. The towels are still in the dryer. The stacks of paper are all over the floor. The dishes are piling up. It's okay. I'll run out of food eventually.

Film Discoveries

There was a commercial on TV for a movie coming out in which the announcer said, "Critics have discovered the best movie this summer."

What the hell is there to "discover?" Movies are hugely budgeted, heavily advertised for, and critics are forced or bribed to see them.

So how can you "discover" something that was shoved down your throat?

Not My Hand

Parked under a dripping canopy of leaves today.
Sat and wept and called Adam.
Told him it has been ten years since he called me Jean Gallagher.
Jean Gallagher--he held my wrist--not my hand.

It rains in ninety-degree weather here. Hard, fat, drops that smack your windshield and your scalp.

Guy was talking to himself next to me at the coffee shop.
Talking to himself and typing away. Looked like he was playing a piano, the way he bowed and swayed his head with emotion.
We talked about Baudelaire. He read the poems. I read the essays. Usually it's the opposite.
His hair veiled his eyes in waves. I can't even guess what color they were.

Gay guy on the phone, helping me find apartments. From California.

Flipped out on Chuck last night. No reason. No real reason.
Said I made him sick. Before bed.
He asked if he was still welcome to come to Houston.
The fact that he felt he needed to ask made me feel hollow inside.

I told Johnny I would call him back. Never did.

I was asked what my mother and father did for a living.
I told them what my aunt and uncle do for a living.
Called Fatemeh my mother. Made me sad.
Called Massoud my father. Made me sick.

I wish Mom would call me. "Why the hell would you want that?" Bita asked.

Parked under a dripping canopy of leaves today.
Sat and wept and called Adam.
Told him it has been ten years since he called me Jean Gallagher.
Jean Gallagher--he held my wrist--not my hand.

My desk calendar is covered with doodles because I have nothing going on.

So when God came by the other day and asked if he could borrow my flash drive, I became quite irate.
"You know, they're only, like, twenty bucks for 2 gigs." I then retracted, "Actually, I haven't bought one in a long time. I think they give out 2 gigs for free nowadays. Just go to a conference or sign up for a free checking account. I'm sure they'll give you one."
He just stared at me like I was insane. Then he grinned. "I like using your shitty 156 megabyte one with the broken cap."
"Whatever," I said as I handed him the flash drive. "I just don't see how it could possibly be worth paying for the bus every time you need it and hauling your ass over here. Just go buy one."
"I don't think this is about a flash drive," he suspected. "I think you don't like me coming over here. Hey, is that Chex Mix?"
"Yeah," I said.
Then God barged into my apartment and started eating my Chex Mix.
"Dude. Don't eat them all."
"I wont." He said. Then he started breathing in through his nostrils as he munched on them. I waited and watched as he held the open bag to his lips and slid the last of the salty garlicy Chex Mix into his mouth. He looked at me knowing full well that he was pissing me off but he just smiled. I think he liked it when I was mad.
I didn't say anything. What could I say to him? He was just standing there.
"What do you need the flash drive for this time, anyway?"
"Oh, same shit." God said. "I'm just uploading some stuff on the other computer and it's quicker than burning them or e-mailing them to myself."
"Yeah..."
God stood, picking the Chex Mix out of his molars with his tongue for a minute.
"Well," he said. He smacked his tongue on his teeth. "See ya." Then he walked out and disappeared down the hall, dragging the torn ends of his jeans on the carpet as he went.

Needless to say, I really hate God sometimes.