That Kiss

 

Photo;Shandra Beri

He pulled me up onto the bar and instead of the drunken tickle I was expecting, he pressed our intertwined fingers around to the small off my back and drew me in close. He woke me from my intoxicated laughter by looking into my eyes with absolute love and clarity. In that moment, so much passed between us that tears came- but they shined and balanced on the rims of our lower lids without spilling over. We had spent so much time together, confessed so many secrets, we already seemed to be one. He was my best friend and I loved him with every beat of my 20 year old heart. His free hand moved up the side of my body until he cradled my neck and threaded his fingers into the wet tangle of my dance-sweat hair. We stood on the bar, solidly embedded in that beautiful transaction while The Frolic Room spun around us and did not blink an eye. When he finally- slowly and deliberately- kissed me, every nerve ending in my body was tipped with a little green light and I felt myself hum with a sensation that set me afloat. I understood for the first time what the big deal was about being kissed.

Over the next few hours, that kiss sculpted us into The Oblivious Young Lovers we were. At closing time, it spilled us out into the warm night to wander over the stars of Hollywood Boulevard. Without trying very hard at all, I can still feel the wind breathing shapes onto the vintage silk of my dress as we paused our romantic amble again and again to press our lips together. That kiss bound us and came in like a hot tide to drag us out and ultimately toss us around in a sea of disheveled romance for years. That kiss became the one by which all others (not shared with him...) would be judged. That kiss was the starting point for my first grown up heartbreak. That kiss, with the backdrop of inexperience and fully intact optimism, I now know was the best kiss of my life.

Prisoners From Another Kingdom

He said the chimp was 5, but when I remarked that he seemed very small, the wrangler admitted that it was probably because he'd been sick for a few months. When I asked if he was well now, the wrangler quickly changed the subject. The wrangler was gruff and crotchety but he tolerated my proximity because I was careful to stand just far enough away not to disturb his ring of control. He spoke to the chimps ( there were two in case one was uncooperative when the camera was ready to roll ) like they were prisoners in a concentration camp; 'Stand up! Look away from that! Put your hands to your side and keep them there!'. Each time he barked out an order, the little apes fully complied but seemed to move almost in slow motion. They kept their heads perfectly still but I saw their curious eyes carefully, almost imperceptibly, moving to take in their surroundings from behind the iron bars of the wranglers voice. The entire interaction was awful and sad.

By the end of the day (in between takes) I'd worked my way into a running conversation with the wrangler in the hope that I might be allowed to interact with my poor little cousins in some personal way. After many hours of showing interest from a respectful distance, he relented and and directed me to stand next to the little male crouching on the floor. I held my hands behind my back and moved slowly forward (in the same way I had seen the chimps do). The little male looked at my shoes and then into the face of his 'trainer', 'You better be good!' ordered the man. 'It's okay...' I said gently to the little boy ape. The little ape slowly traced the shape of the rubber toe of my Chucks with his index finger. He felt the difference in texture between the rubber and the canvas of my shoe and then began carefully following the path of my bright red crisscrossing laces. He looked up at my face and I smiled. When he found the end of the lace, he slowly pulled until the bow was no more. 'Good job.' I whispered. 'You watch yourself!' the wrangler said sternly to the chimp. I stepped back not wanting the boy ape to be yelled at anymore. 'Thank you so much,' I said to the wrangler, 'that meant a lot to me.'

I looked into the face of the wrangler fully for the first time and saw that his skin was a healed jigsaw puzzle of scars. He tossed his long hair over his shoulder as he stood up and I noticed that his ear was missing. On cue, he began to tell me about the day it had happened. He was driving three chimps he'd raised from birth to their weekly romp in the wide open. As usual, all were uncaged in the van since they all enjoyed that. He said up until that day he felt like the chimps were his children. Without warning, his 'boy' (the other two were females) jumped on him from behind and began to rip off the wranglers face with his powerful hands. He said the only reason he survived is because he crashed the van (going 70) off the freeway, rolled out, kicked the door shut behind him and scrambled to hide in the dense scrub. The temporary confusion allowed him to do this unseen by his assailant.

Bleeding and terrified, he watched from his hiding spot as the powerful ape effortlessly ripped the door off the van and began a systematic search for him. His 'son' was later shot and killed, the two females recaptured without incident. He said it was a bid for dominance that he didn't see coming.

I looked down again at my miserable, sentient little cousin crouching in submission on the cold cement floor of the sound stage. I thought about how I would absolutely choose the freedom of death over 70 bleak years lived as a prisoner.

I thanked the wrangler again before I excused myself for the last time.

American Girl

I felt like shaking her and shouting, 'Look at him! Why are you wrapped up like a fucking mummy and sweating your ass off while your husband is wearing Versace flip-flops and a short sleeve v-neck douche-bag Ed Hardy tee shirt!' I wanted to shove her arrogant, hairy husband to the ground, snatch the scarf off of her head, grab her hand and run to my car like Thelma and Louise. I wanted to drive her to the cool, blue beach with the windows down and laugh while she wrestled with her newly free wind-whipped hair. I wanted us both to sing 'American Girl' at the top of our lungs as we wound our way through Topanga Canyon toward the water. I wanted to see her alive and fully herself. I wanted us each to drink exactly one too many icy, salt-rimmed margaritas at Casa Vista while we breathed in the briny ocean air and talked about what a load of crap it is to think that a deity might form it's opinion of you on the basis of fashion (if that was true, her husband was absolutely going to hell...). I wanted to hear her say, 'Guuurl, thank GOD you grabbed my hand and pulled me out of there when you did 'cause I was about to flip.my.shit. breathing that prick's exhaled hot air he sashayed around in his cotton tee shirt and 'Affliction' jeans!' I wanted to crawl into the cat box with her, talk like girlfriends and laugh like her god wasn't listening.

Instead, I stared at her long sleeve turtleneck and tightly pinned polyester scarf that left only the smallest possible area of her face exposed. I noted that she, in a modesty overkill, held her knees tightly together under her full length, heavy weight skirt. A layer of visible perspiration glistened on the backs of her hands and the part of her face that was not covered. When our eyes met, neither of us looked away. I knew she could see contempt in my eyes. It hurt me to think she had probably already assumed it was for her. I struggled with myself about how to reach out to her. Was she brainwashed? Would any clumsy words I uttered be anything but an insult? Would her husband (never standing more than a few inches away) beat her later if I spoke up? Would it make any difference at all except to make this crappy little strip mall shop feel more claustrophobic and hot? As I dug in my purse for a 10 dollar bill, I felt myself growing more angry.

I paid her husband for the cheap ear-buds I needed to get me through the weekend. I walked out of their stifling store into the obliterating 109 degree oven of the Valley. I forced my way through the searing heat waves rising from the tarmac of the parking lot. I slipped into my car, turned over the engine, blasted on my AC and wished she could have read my mind. I cued Tom Petty, cranked the volume up to 11 as I drove away singing 'American Girl' at the top of my lungs.

Back When I Was A Baby...

...my friend Pete and I had a band. We called it, 'In Vitro'. So. Much. Fun.

These are potato quality videos of that moment in time. Pete miraculously fished them out of the archives, transferred them from analogue to digital and sent them along (thank you, beloved friend!).

As ever, the tumescent, unbroken, incontestable armor of flaming youth made us blind to fear. We created accidental perfection from our incomplete understanding of the world and found ourselves soaring on a thermal of undiluted will when we attempted to fly.

Here's to running head-first toward whatever moves you. Cheers...