i had a dream

Last night I had a dream, one of many, and, like most of my dreams, it was a tad distressing. Come to think of it, almost all of my dreams are stressful, some of which still involve waiting tables - chiefly without vital articles of clothing. It's a wonder I love sleeping so much. Maybe it is the relief I feel when I wake up and find all those problems are gone and the only real trouble I have is a full bladder and a crooked neck.

Anyway, last night I dreamt my dad was mad at me, not just mad, but sad (and all good Catholics know disappointment is more powerful than anger). I honestly think he was crying, but his eyes were blue, which is weird since they are actually hazel. Why is it I got almost every feature from my dad except his cool eyes and his thick hair? Sure, he had the whole premature balding thing but as a girl I wouldn't have that problem (and besides, male pattern baldness is passed down from the mother - I've heard it somewhere and my brothers are proof enough...). And, for the record, he looks much better since he ditched the comb over.

Anyhow, my dad was upset because of what I had written in my never-meant-to-be-published so-called-novel that I am working on for National Novel Writing Month. Really it's a memoir with very thinly veiled references to actual people, places, and events in my life. I'm currently stalled because I've just gotten to the really icky parts that involve, chiefly, my father's infidelity and my own series of poor choices that followed my departure from the family nest.

But I am determined to power through this darkness this evening. I have a tub of chocolate covered espresso beans and nothing on my agenda for the morning. (BTW, funny side note on my oh-so-busy unemployed calendar... I rarely know what day of the week it is, as it usually doesn't matter. Today, however, I forgot it was Tuesday and I got all excited about ordering take out from Taco Temple. It took about 5 rings for me to realize they weren't going to pick up because they weren't open. Now nothing else sounds good...)

So, though I'm certain I'll never be publishing my novel due to its personal content and generally self-serving suckiness, I did think I could go out on a limb and share with you this excerpt from my earlier years. This story took place in 4th grade. (Wendell, I'm curious to see if you can decipher the pseudonyms of the key players?) For the record, I am more proud of the actual story than the story telling. Keep in mind the goal of NaNoWriMo is volume, not quality. The time to edit is later.

Enjoy:

Though we never got to any sort of base together (except, truly the contact in square dancing could be considered rounding first), our version of elementary school dating created a bond. We began hanging out during recess. We were never officially “going together” which is what, I believe, gave Naomi Largo the audacity to turn our couple into a crowd. Naomi hailed from a tall family and had experienced an early growth spurt. She didn’t have the good sense to be shamed by her stature like Christine, my flautist friend, who slouched quietly in the corners, covering her budding breasts with patchwork vests, whispering news of her unexpected menses in tones reserved for cancer and pregnancy. She also didn’t have the genetic gifts of Lisa, who poured her perky boobs into bright colored sweaters, bouncing around the schoolyard and chatting frequently with the well-groomed yard monitor, somebody else’s mother, a future version of her bomb-shell self. Naomi ignored her unnatural stature, flirting shamelessly with shorter boys as she would end up doing all her life. She was doomed never to fully blossom, making it difficult to compete successfully for the few men who topped her height. She always hated short girls for their ability to attract tall men. So many tall guys were wasted on short girls. It was infuriating. And thus, Naomi instinctively aimed lower, dating men who were not just shorter, they were just plain short.

Naomi, my nemesis, lived in the neighborhood by the school – Roy's neighborhood. She often sought him out after hours and, for all I know, he sought her out too. Not even actually dating and I already felt cheated on. Still, I knew I was Roy’s favorite. After all, he’d crossed the great divide. I made a point of thanking him for his visit in front of Naomi. Her face fell as she too recognized the significance of his migration.

Undeterred, Naomi continued to cast a shadow over our relationship, literally. Standing by the tether ball courts, the outline of her bean pole body impatiently waiting its turn inspired me to punch the yellow ball just a bit harder. Until then I had really liked tether ball. It was a sport that required very little athleticism. There were no teams or tournaments so being selected (or not) and winning (or not) never mattered. There were no ribbons (none white, none pink), no trophies. You could even play it alone, wrapping and unwrapping the nylon cord around the pole. It enabled conversations and, occasionally a casual glance into each other’s dirty brown eyes.

Other days we simply tossed around the omnipresent red rubber ball that was intended for dodge ball or four square. Four square which, ironically, could be successfully played by two people but not, thank you very much, by three. Naomi was always there, like those red rubber balls. She bounded into our every conversation as if she had just slipped from the hands of another careless pre-teen. Sadly, no one ever came to collect her. She was the lonely ball that is found by the landscapers in the summertime, neglected in the far perimeter of the school grounds, faded, deflated, the rubber ruined forever by over exposure to sunlight.

It was just one such day as we were trying to adapt games meant for two into games for three, that we began tossing the dodge ball between us in the fashion of various actual sports. We hiked it like a football and dunked it like a basketball. Naomi, of course, played the part of the basketball hoop so it was only natural she would later provide the field goal posts. We weren’t picky about the rules, my attempt was passed, not punted, but I knew it was important to make sure the ball passed between the poles. I always have been a stickler for following instructions. Naomi, unfortunately, held her hands out the either side of her face, perhaps not wanting to exaggerate her height by extending her arms to their full potential. I will never forget the satisfying smack of the rubber as it met her face, the sucking silence that hung in the air briefly just after, followed by the wail of the child inside my nemesis. I didn’t go with her as she ran into the classroom, crying. Tellingly, Roy didn’t leave either. He congratulated me on my field goal, awarding me three points.

I honestly was surprised when Naomi returned, our teacher in tow. Though in my heart I knew I was guilty, my toss was particularly forceful, my aim painfully accurate, the Catholic girl in me already knew how to separate two truths. I presented my defense convincingly, explaining the importance of a field goal passing through the posts, not above them. And though I was new to the school, I had already built a reputation for being dependable, well behaved, cooperative, a bit physically spastic. After all, I was the one who tossed a dictionary across the classroom, squealing from surprise at the silverfish who emerged between the gilded tabs of R and S. I was also the one who released a trumpeted fart, one brief and blissful scentless blast, as I descended cross legged onto the carpet for story time. My embarrassment prompting paralysis, unable to even utter “excuse me.” Mrs. Winters had no problem accepting my version of events. Instructing me to be more careful, she left me in the school yard, satisfied by my experiment with violence and deceit.

Roy moved away at the end of fourth grade. I should have been more devastated, and probably would have been had we ever been to second base. I think we both knew our long distance relationship was doomed. Besides, we’d never be free of the persistent Naomi Largo. And I had gotten used to saying goodbye to boys I liked. It was par for the course. Besides, the summer of 1981 brought me a new boy to play with, my baby brother Brian.