tactfullyblunt

Miss Bonny's Elvis Shrine

This is dedicated to Miss Bonny Rose Matejowsky, who reached the ripe old age of one-year-old today. May you always have humor in your life, and may you always have some Elvis in your soul.

A frigid night in December 1992 found me riding through the streets of an unfamiliar (at the time) neighborhood in Baltimore. The resident expert, Victor, assured me as Brian's Dad's 1984 Ford Mustang (can I just say eww?) chugged up the hill that we were going someplace magical, where only True Believers went. As we passed the Canton rowhome with the two-story mural of Elvis on the side, I knew we had reached Mecca. We lept from the vehicle, me with a delighted squeal, and raced toward the warmth awaiting us inside Miss Bonny's Elvis Shrine.

When we got there, the place was empty and we skittled quickly up to the bar, taking in all the Elvis memorabilia like true scholars of American kitsch. Heather blondely asked for a Mud Slide and the 70-something proprietress hacked through the smokey haze, "We got whiskey and beer, hon", despite the rack of liquers on the shelf behind her. A second time Heather asked for a Mud Slide. This time Miss Bonny replied "Eh-heh" as she slammed four shot glasses on the counter and sloshed Bushmill's in each one. Victor laughed and said that Miss Bonny still hadn't lost her touch; Miss Bonny asked after his father and brother.

The door opened and in walked a man in need of a bath with a plastic bag. He slammed three pennies on the counter and mumbled something to Miss Bonny. She looked at the change obliquely and gave him a Bud, never touching the money. Then he turned to Brian and asked him was I his girl, to which he said yes.

"Don't you want to give her some red roabses?" the man asked.

"What?" Brian replied.

"A woman like her needs red roabses."

Being that in Baltimore you get hit up by gypsies all the time for roses, Brian said no and we all continued to drink and chat, catching up after a long semester at school. But the man was not to be dismissed.

"Hey! Man!" the guy called, finishing off his beer. "Hey, you want some red roabses or what? I can see your lady's interested. What kind of cheap man are you that you don't want to give a lady like that a dozen red roabses?"

Miss Bonny told the man (Harold) that he was going to have to leave for harrassing her customers like this. She'd done told him before not to bother people like that, and she didn't care how sick his mother was, she'd call her in the hospital and tell her what Harold was doing, by God.

By this point more people had come into the bar, and all of them were looking at Brian. So he did what every man in his position would do--he asked him how much.

"Two dollars for a dozen red roabses." We'd never heard of such a thing, and Brian was feeling magnanimous after the whiskey shot and agreed to give him $5 instead. The man really looked like he needed some food, and being college students, $5 was a lot of money to us.

"Thanks, man, I hope your lady likes them." With that he handed Brian a white plastic bag, squeezed my arm leeringly, took his three pennies back off the bar, and stumbled out of the bar and into the night.

We exchanged a puzzled look over the bag. A dozen red roses don't generally come in a tied up, heavy white plastic bag. With some trepidation, Brian undid the bag and we all peered inside. I realized first what was in there and burst out laughing. The other three looked up at me in confusion until I announced with an evil cackle:

HE SOLD YOU A DOZEN RED ROBES!!

There were twelve people in the bar. In the spirit of the season, we figured any lice the robes might contain were probably less likely to infest us, so we gave a red robe to each person there.

It was probably the most festive night that bar had seen in a good while, and I'm certain Elvis cried.

Dedicated to the One I Love

I wrote this last summer, but I thought I would recycle it in honor of my brother's birthday tomorrow. I'm glad so much has changed since we were kids. You're a rockstar, my brother, and don't you let anyone tell you any different.

.............

Jeekies!

I remember how you and me used to sit in the fort across the street from 143. Well, it wasn't so much a fort as it was a circle of pine trees that you found to hide out in from mom.

You showed it to me one day during those hot as hell summers when we were sitting on the front porch wishing we had some money to go to Ames and buy some candy or maybe to Hallmark to buy some stickers. You said you had a secret fort. I knew you were too stupid to have a fort and told you so. You insisted you had a fort. And we sat in silence staring at the street.

Your face was so beautifully pudgy. Your blonde curls kicked up all around your head like they wanted to take off and play without you. But I saw it all through the eyes of someone too close and too full of self-preservation. To me you were never cute, you were just there.

A long moment passed. Another heavy sigh from me. And you squinted up at me, your little sausage fingered hand resting on your knee as if you were an old man and not four-years-old, asking me again did I wanna see your fort.

I remember looking at you and wanting to tell you no, I didn't want to see your imaginary fort, to share anything with you, to even acknowledge your existence. I wanted to tell you how much I hated you since that day three years earlier when mom threw me against the wall for something insignificant that you did. I wanted to tell you how that experience made me discount how happy I was when I got to see you for the very first time, blocked out how lucky I felt to have a baby brother when I thought I'd never have one, and made me forget how scared I was when you went into the hospital as an infant that you wouldn't come back. I wanted to tell you how quickly all that love turned to hate and that that was all I felt for you now. I wanted to tell you that my skin crawled every time you walked into the room, waiting for something else bad to happen to me.

But I didn't tell you that.

Because when I looked down into your face with all of those thoughts going through my mind, all I could see was your eyes squinting up at me, hoping that if you showed me your secret fort I would magically love you the way you needed me to. I saw your nonexistent eyebrows crinkle up in a righteous plead, with all manner of raw emotion battling to win acceptance into my tribe flitting there.

And in that moment I loved you. I loved you more than I could let you know and expect to survive.

So I didn't.

Sure, Rob. Show me this fort that you don't have and then shut up and get away from me.

For a split second the furrow got deeper, but when I stood up and offered you my hand, it melted into a huge smile and you went flying across the yard, dragging me behind you. You were talking the whole time, telling me the story you made up about how the fort came to be, where the windows and doors were, and what games we were going to play there.

And I silently loved you.

karma chameleon

The Sky Pilot must've heard me yesterday and decided to throw me a few bones. I'd like to be able to permanently upgrade to this particular G-man, because the previous Almighty, he be falling down on the job.

This afternoon I had a loverly luncheon at Golden West with the new and improved Shellyboggs. I call her new and improved because she just keeps getting better all the time, and constantly surprises me with her leaps and bounds in the personal growth arena as well as showering me with much love (which I need right now). Shine on, Silvergirl.

And then I got home, and lo! fifteen messages were on the answering machine. After I skipped over the year-old messages from Lorena Maria Conchita celebrating the birth of the most beautifulest baby ever (Miss Bonita Rosita) and waded through 10 messages for Bill from the yo-ingest of yo-people interested in the CD changer he posted in the Pennysaver, I found a message from yesterday's culprit offering me some freelance starting tomorrow.

It's money, people. And mama gots five chidren to raise.

Sorry, I don't know what's come over me. It must be all of those messages for Bill.