Archive for June, 2011

I broke free from my ordinary routine and bought a ticket to Chicago. I was going just for the day. I am not a person that plays hookie from work. I haven’t ridden a train since I was six and living in San Diego. I remember this Navy brat childhood—parts and pieces of it—vaguely.

The fact that I am taking a train to Chicago amuses me. After buying that online ticket I found myself wondering: What kind of people ride trains? What do they look like? What am I to expect? Will I have a place to park my car? Where, exactly, is the Amtrak station?

I scope out the situation after Friday morning court. Amy told me basically where I could find it. After some driving around and calling information I finally locate it.

Who knew it was right near the strip club E.K. first took me to. The ticket kiosk was enclosed and smelled of urine. I made a mental note not to touch my nose or eyes after hitting the “print ticket here” button.

E.K. would have had a quip remark about all of that.  But even he won’t really talk to me anymore.  I don’t blame him —I really don’t.

On Sunday, as usual, it’s midnight when I crawl into bed. Monday I woke up late. I left late. I was lucky to get a parking spot at the station. I did not really have a plan B for the car. Turns out no plan B was needed and I would have wasted time creating one.

People that ride trains tend to look rumpled and tired. They have older beat up luggage, student back packs, and soggy, scuffed-up shoes. They come in groups and huddle. They seem to all own and play with some sort of electronic gadget. They text, they have the ipods, they have the lap tops. I have my cell phone and my book. I don’t think I fit this group, at least, not really.

When the train pulls in they all rush out. I am always amazed at this.  Passengers all do this at the airport. All wanting to be first. I am the type that likes to watch everyone else and get on last. I know the train isn’t going to leave with people waiting to get on it. I don’t understand that urge to rush on and be first.

I am sure they have their reasons to be first just like I have my reasons for being last.

I pick my seat and I always look to sit next to a fellow female. It is safer this way. I happened to sit next to a Jotee. She is a teacher. She teaches meditation. This so interests me because I am not sure how one goes about this practice. I have thousands of questions. I get responses but her answers seem mist like. Her practice is still not very clear to me. We talk of all kinds of topics ranging from controlling our thoughts to my passion for books. She confesses to me she was raped. Her words spill like a toddler spills a full glass of milk. I am not really sure how to handle the drippy mess.

Then comes that conversation lull. She falls asleep and I am back on my cell phone calling clients and talking business. The train whistle interrups the rocking clatter of the steel wheels. It got akward again when I opened the bathroom door on a man who was not quite finished. My face flushed pink and just called it as I saw it, “Well, this is so very awkward.”

We rolled into the underground station at 11:30. They fight to get off the same way they got on. I just sit and wait. The word “bussel” is so very cliche and appropriate in describing these underground tunnels. I ask a young woman a question about the shopping district and I ask an older Amtrak woman about my return train back. I should be back at the station by 5:00 and I will need to go to Tunnel E. The tunnel stairs lead me to Adams Street.

I love Chicago like I love Vitalie’s pizza. It’s tangy on my tongue and it fills me up. The wet asphalt has a used scent. Men in suits and ties look more smart and handsome. Tourists hold maps and point. Women in high heels and deep make-up are extra thin. Homeless people are wrapped in plastic and hold desperate card board papered messages. We are all mixed like a cocktail drink and then poured into a tall highball glass made of concrete and steel.

I want to drink this drink.  I want to sip it slow. I want to people watch.  I want to roam and get lost in the streets.

This visit did have an agenda and the destination was lunch. I was exchanging eight hours of travel for 4.5 hours of needed friendly conversation. I don’t feel uneasy here. I am not given ultimatums on this friendship (or it hasn’t happened yet). I don’t feel intruded upon. The banter is easy. I am not sure why I don’t stiffen or tense. I can’t define it. It just is. I am not worried about crossed boundaries. I don’t feel contained and I don’t have to carefully choose my words.  I am so used to rejection I no longer fear it.  I find it odd with this person I don’t anticipate it.

My meal included a mojito.  A few blocks up we find dessert at the base of the Water Tower. I explain to this person that I can’t leave this place without my ritual visit to the Cheesecake Factory. Lemon cake and coffee were served. Then it was off to get a parked car and I was bumming a hurried ride to Union Station.  Several cab drivers helped me find the way.

City time really is quick.

It ended with my running, in heels, to Tunnel E track 20. I only had two minutes to spare. The same ritual applied when I scoped out my return seat. Her name was Jane who informed me that we must have met somewhere before. I am used to this. It really happens to me a lot. I am someone else they know or have met. Sometimes I remind them of a movie star. On good days I am a Nicole Kidman, Julianne Moore, or a Diane Keaton. On bad days I am Howdy Doody or Angela Lansbury. Whatever it is I draw out some type of chatter. I don’t mind. Jane was nice and her story rolled on like our train. This led me, of course, to discussing more of my books. Her story mirrored that of The Middle Place. She had the book. A friend gave it to her but she couldn’t bring herself to read it yet. I know that her story appears even more desperate and tragic because during that whole chemo mess her husband lost his job. Now he was living in Chicago hence her weekend visits via train. She talked of her God, her garden, her children and how everything just is in the palm of someone’s hand.

I often wonder about all of that.  When I do I can’t help but have visions of Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian or The Road.

Jane gets off in Holland. It gets dark. The trees start to take on a sinister dimension. My mood starts to mirror the landscape. Her story reminds me how things going good can just go bad. My thoughts are ruining my mood. I cannot, like Jotee, control them.

All those “what ifs” come out and haunt me.

I don’t sleep well when I get home. The worry of health, death, and loss of money all seep into my dreams. I find my ex-husband there in my bedroom standing next to my youngest child. I feel his hate and hurt.  I am desperately looking for my gun. I wake and the whole scene is gone.

I am left mulling over my day. I mull over my direction and lack thereof. I think of controlling my thoughts. I wonder about my apparent lack of ability to control my night-time dreams. I wonder about broken friendships and broken relationships. I think of ultimatums and how they present themselves. I think of puppets, puppeteers and strings. I think of my grueling day and how I really need to get back to sleep. I think of my girls. I focus on my flaws. I focus on my strengths. I mull over everything and nothing all at the same time. My mind is a movie reel.  I can’t shut the projector off.

But really maybe our life is just one big train. Maybe we really are supposed to go from station to station. People get on, people get off, you go from one city to the next. Some are commuters and discount ticket holders. Others are just one time riders. At times, like the conductor, we find ourselves operating the train. Other times you find yourself taking the tickets or working behind the concession counter. We all have to go though some dark tunnels. There are times we are just finding ourselves sitting next to people named Jotee and Jane. We find ourselves mindlessly waiting for that clean open bathroom or paying $10.00 for that drink and dry sandwich combo. Regardless of route or role we all have our own timeline, station stops and interlopers.

Right now, at midnight, this is all I can think of.  This is the best I can do.  This is all I got.

I like to tell this story. It is a funny and true story. One of the few I have from the University of Michigan.

I was not your usual student. My existence, at this place, was focused entirely on my education. I only went to two parties my whole time living on campus. I worked two jobs. I was housed, by choice, in an all girl’s dorm next to the law quad. I worked my ass off and studied all the time. I loved this existence.

I was the complete opposite of my M.S.U. party and fun loving sister.

In my infinite wisdom I chose to major in Romance Languages (one step up from basket weaving when it came to future employment opportunities). It didn’t matter. I was studying something I loved.

I only had a handful of friends. I obviously did not have any free time to make them. My classmate and best friend was Melissa. We had the same major and we were the only non-native Spanish speakers in our course group. She was a grammar queen. I spoke excellent Spanish and understood everything said. Together we were stunning in our work. We ranked top above the native Puerto Ricans and Mexicans.

We finished each other’s thoughts. She was a man magnet. We planned that we would study abroad through Cornell University (later proving we were the most crazy and fun set that ever would hit the center). Like most students, we both were strapped for cash. We were on an economic time line. The University of Michigan offered the last 400 level course. It was the only requirement keeping us off of that Iberian plane. I could not afford to go an extra term if I didn’t get that course. Neither could she.

We were looking at Spanish of the Middle ages (think Chaucer but in Spanish). It was the only course filling that needed requirement. So there we were treking down into basement of Angel Hall. A small windowless cramped classroom now overflowing with students. I counted over 50. They cascaded into the hallway. Most were upper class men. Everyone needed this class. I was squeezing my way in.

Professor Goich, the Argentinian, entered the room. This man was impeccable. He wore a double breasted suit and tie. He was short. Well groomed. Elegant and distinguished. Everyone stopped talking when he walked in. Briefcase in hand he marched up to the front of the classroom. He took us all in. It fell silent. He commanded the classroom with just a look. He was no nonsense and efficient. He smacked his briefcase flat onto the desk. He took out a stack of thick paper.

We groan. We all know what is coming. The dreaded course syllabus. He hands them out. It is over 20 pages thick. I feel panic rise up. A buzzing enters my ears. I look at all the required reading. I look at all the required papers. I flip. I read.

I blink. I read.

This is totally impossible. I mean this really is physically and mentally impossible.

I look around me. I am trying to read the other student’s faces. I don’t even know what the professor is saying because I am like:

This is unbelievable.
This is impossible.
I feel panic. This academic panic, my future self, would only again face in law school.

I am facing 30 novels. I am writing over 20 term papers.

I have taken this University’s grueling courses. I have dealt with professor Hafter and the rest of the Harvard clan.

But this, this is impossible.

But here it is sitting in front of me. My mind races. I cannot take this class. But I have to take this class. There is no more time and no more money for another term at this University.

How in the fuck am I going to do this?

I don’t know the When’s and the Where’s and the Why’s. I just know that I am in this corner and there is no way out. I cannot drop this course because there is nothing to add.

Goich calls the class quits and sends us out.

He marches out with this irk like grin on his face. I am sick, literally sick, to my stomach.

Melissa starts to bawl. I mean bawl as in snot, sobbing, shaking, bawl. She is now in the hallway. There is no way we can do this. This is impossible. We are non native and this is old Spanish this is not possible. She slinks to the floor. Sobbing and bawling and sobbing. Heavy, real tears, womanly bawling.

I hug her. I feel anger and sickness. I am on the floor next to her, rocking her, holding her.
I am consoling her and I find words:

“We will do whatever we have to do to pass this class. We will steal all of the books out of the stacks and reserve all the required reading right now. Not one Puerto Rican is going to get their hands on that required reading. Hell, I will hide all the books if they won’t let us reserve them. We will plagiarize. We will violate the honor code. We will double up on the homework and write each other’s papers. You take one topic. I will take another. It will be a divide and conquer course. We have to take this class or we cannot go to Seville next term. We will not finish nor graduate on time.”

She is bawling and telling me how this is impossible. She is giving me all the cant’s. I see them very clearly.

I am not sure of my words. It reflects in my tone.

I do know that I would hide and steal the books. I do know that I am not dropping this class.

I am sick, that whole next week, thinking about the work load.

That next Wednesday we both crawl back down to the basement of Angel hall.

Goich is sitting at the front of the room. Out of habit I take the table located in the very front. Melissa sits next to me. We just look at this man. He is reading a newspaper. A quarter past the hour he looks up. We look around. We say nothing. I count on my fingers.

There are only 8 of us in this basement classroom.
I remember asking God to help this 8.

Goich puts away his paper. He picks up his briefcase. He smacks it back down on the desk and flips the top open. We hear the familiar click. His head pops up behind the lid. He says, “Ahhh…yo tengo una revision.”

He has a small stack of papers in hand. He proceeds to tell us how he, over the last week, had a change of heart. That he thought his class requirements to be way too demanding and impossible even for students of such an esteemed school as this.

As a result, he had made some minor changes.

The course syllabus has been officially revamped and revised.

I am now looking at one page. We have three books to read. I only have three papers to write.

There he sits grinning like that Alice in Wonderland Cat.

I am full of a mixture of extreme relief and utter disbelief.

I think about my wasted worry and that horrible week. I start to think that someone should inform Hafter, the Dean.

Then it hits me.

I now digest the fact that this little man has reduced his grading work load from over 50 students to a mere 8.

He then informs us that class is dismissed. Apparently we all need to get a jump start on all of that heavy required reading.

Melissa and I agree. This man has a lot of moxie for a non-Italian.

It has been over a year since my breakup. Many people think my struggles are a result of my divorce. Indirectly, I agree, that they are right.

I know I did not come out of that relationship unscathed. The ultimate freedom I have experienced has been intoxicating and wonderful. I have no regrets, at all, about dissolving that toxic relationship.

On my divorce day I was exhilarated and happy. I finally felt I could breathe. The cancer I had was expensively removed. I was given a clean bill of health.

The legal seal on my divorce decree gave me the only two things I loved and cherished:

My children & my law practice

The rest I didn’t give a damn about.

On this downward slope of my recovery I thought I met someone wonderful. Someone I thought to be amazing. You need to understand that I wasn’t looking for any solutions. He just happened to be on my trek down or walked into my path. I thought him kind. I really enjoyed spending time with him. He appeared safe. I had known him for a long time. He was amazingly smart. He knew the pressures of a law office. He was a comrade in arms.

That we had in common.

It was an entire year before he met my girls. I figured in this wait, this exceedingly intelligent man, would figure his intentions out within a year. He was witty and funny. I loved the sound of his voice.

He said I was everything wonderful and more.

He talked about wanting a family. He was alone. I could provide him one.

In a sick way maybe that was his way of luring me in.
But between you and me by year three I was tired of words. I was tired of hearing about a future. He confessed to me the thought of buying us a home. He told me how we would run our finances (he even wrote this down on a legal yellow sheet of paper).

He was so very rich and smart about all of it.

He talked about taking the girls and I on trips together. So I planned one. We discussed the destination. In his cheapness and procrastination I decided to move us along and pay for it.

A week before it was time to get on that plane he informed me, quite simply, that he had just changed his mind.

Then his confession poured out. This is not something he wanted. This is not something he would enjoy. We were a mistake. Our relationship was a mistake.

My thoughts tumbled out. My innocence was my demise.

I asked him when were all of his words going to become a reality? Why just talk about a future if there isn’t going to be a future? I just simply wanted to know when all this future was going to start.

He couldn’t seem to give me any answers just excuses. He wasn’t attracted to me anymore. We did not have any fun together anymore. We didn’t have those intimate discussions or time alone together.

Just so you know I am not a baby nor a child. I could have handled the truth. I could have handled I only want you as my whore. I only want you when I want. I only need you when I need you. I make all the decisions. All this wife and family and baby talk was a ruse.

I only told you those things so I could just continue to have sex with you.

I would have respected him more for the truth.

My inner voice hissed: Stupid, stupid, stupid woman.

It hits me. This is a Judas I have linked myself up to. He is a cheap coward.

I am not use to this concept of being cruel. I don’t like it. This is not a person I want to be. These thoughts of hating him are not what I want either. They are stones I throw back. I am wounded and so very hurt. I am, after all, human.

This is the moment that I carefully collect up all that shattered glass from my heartbreak. I put the shards in a shoe box. I shove it far back under my bed.

(You all know that I have this odd habit of storing things so I can look at them later).

Over those weeks I make myself get out of bed. I make myself go out and meet people. I make myself stop crying. I make myself focus on my work. I try not to sleep too much. I try to appear happy to the girls.

They hear me crying myself to sleep at night.

Then I met Amy. I start to write. I decide that I am going to create something. I work on my house and yard. I go on trips. My house takes on some beauty. I have friends that stop bye to see me. Even the neighbor comes over for a coffee and to sit with us for our lunch in the front yard. I decide that I want to offer something lovely to this world.

I haven’t cried in months. I feel myself getting well.

I like this person. The one who decides to take all of her hurt and try to turn it into something beautiful, sweet, tragic, honest and good.

Over the past few weeks I think maybe, just maybe it could be possible, that I might even be able to fall in love again….

************************
And there it is. A white line in my in box. There it sits holding his name.

************************

I suck in my breath. (It’s like hearing my childhood sweetheart’s name called out from that distant swing set).
I make a pact with myself.
I will read it. I will not answer it. (In the past I would have responded in seconds).

My apparent non answer must have irritated this man who is always in control and gets what he wants.

On Tuesday a white envelope is delivered to my office. It contains that familiar left hand scrawl.

I know this card is from a person who, in his 80 hour work week, rarely ever takes the effort to go to any store to buy any type of card.
This is from a man who professed his love but yet forgot my birthday.

I question the motivation for this contact.

But it goes deeper. The card is to my oldest for her graduation.

When I tell Amy about this she takes on her angry tone. In her matter- of -fact- no- nonsense voice she tells me exactly what it is.
(This is why I adore her. She does not spare me her harsh truths)

On the flip side my associate points out, “Jodi, sometimes a card is just a card.”

O.K. but I know that this is from a man whose actions are planned, deliberate, and calculated.

You reader, tell me, why did he send a card?

I look at that scrawl. I don’t like that it came to my office. I don’t like that it sits on my paralegal’s desk. I don’t like that it is sent to my child.
I have no right not to give it to her. It is her mail.

He just intruded in on my tranquility. The pond water was a glassy mirror. I was doing great. He just threw a tiny pebble into the middle of it.

Over the last week I say nothing to him about any card. I know he will wonder. True to form I receive another e-mail.

I am not a rude person by nature but I don’t want to lead us into any more dialogue.

I go home and crawl under my bed. I take the top off of the shoe box. I see the sharp broken pieces I collected up over a year ago. I don’t dare touch them. I don’t have any desire to get cut again.

The evidence is sitting on my office desk. A card from him is not just a card.

Or is it?

My inner voice whispers: He misses you. He misses everything about you. He misses your e-mails. He misses your questions. He misses your wit and exquisite sense of humor. He misses that when you walk into a room everyone asks how he caught you. He misses that when you go into a bar you get him free drinks. He misses your kisses. He misses your fingers running through his hair. He misses your friendship. He misses you naked in his bathtub. He misses your homemade dinners. He misses going to the movies. He misses your dining out and those thousands and thousands of dinner conversations. He misses your smile and eyes and laugh and……………..

I close the lid on my shoe box. I am taking it out to the corner curb trash.

I am 19 again. It’s Ted and I in that corner booth just down the street from my office. This gorgeous witty boy (who I was crazy about) confesses that he really screwed up. That he wants me back. Debbie was not the right choice. That he is so very very sorry. He misses me terribly. That he was young and stupid. He was trying to explain it to me. It’s like having two really fast cars. One of us was a Porsche. One of us was a Ferrari.

How could a stupid boy decide?

This is the part where my younger self stops crying. I have been reduced to a type of car. I go to that front restaurant pay phone.
I call my best friend Jen. She is coming to get me. She will be right there to take me home.

I love Michigan in summer.

It is so empowering.

I think of everything in terms of it. It takes me .1 to get to my office by car from my home. It takes .5 to drive one way downtown. A divorce intake or bankruptcy intake costs me an hour. A bath is .4. Dinner and clearing dishes 1.5. My work outs to the gym and back about 1.5 hours. It takes me .2 to get to the girl’s high school and back. I usually try and sleep about 8 hours. An average date with great conversation usually runs about 4 hours. To write my blog usually about 2 hours. To work on my book about 4 hours. To grocery shop about 1.5 hours. A good movie about 1.5 to 2 hours. Spending time with my girls at night about 2 hours. Running to soccer practice and games 4 hours.

Paulo Coelho wrote 11 minutes. That was his calculation as to how long it takes us to actually have sex.

I suppose he used a stopwatch.

I never thought of timing sex until now.

I guess this is how I, a lawyer lady, stacks up and adds up all of her spent time.

In a sense I acknowledge that this is a sick way to go about living. To weigh and measure everything in terms of time. When my clients complain about their bill and the time spent. They are not just trying to take away money—they are stealing my time.

I can’t give it to anyone else. It’s been used up and wasted. I can’t get that back. That .2 is forever gone. It’s not like I can ask my client for my .2 time back. I can’t use that .2 toward anything or anyone else.

So this week I have been wasting precious minutes being in and out of sadness. It is a sadness that seizes me at random. I feel my whole chest get tight. My eyes just fill up with tears. It is hard for me to breathe. These events last minutes. I lose concentration and focus.

My favorite aunt (if I could say I had a favorite) has been diagnosed with cancer. It’s stage three and in her lymph nodes. I wonder about my time with her. How much do I have left? I love this woman. I really really love her. I know that she really loves me. I cherish my aunt. I am filled with grief and am so consumed by it. I want to weep into my pillow and sleep. She has been so kind to me. She loves and adores my girls. She bakes me pies and cookies. She makes me stain glass art that I hang on my windows. This lovely woman crocheted a soft blanket for me. She is my second mother. I want more of her and her time. I hope that I didn’t waste any of it. I am selfish. I know.

I think of Salvador Dali’s time explosion. The clock’s inner workings and numbers are flug out into the desert. I wonder what he was thinking when he painted it. I am mad at him.

I hate this world sometimes. I don’t like this pain and loss. I am no good at it. I don’t like the thought of this beautiful person suffering because this person is someone I know and love. Her ticket is up— I feel this like I feel everything. I feel the color. It is cold and very black.

I hate Salvador Dali and his time explosion. I hate that hour glass. I hate the hour of death. I hate the second hand.

In my hate and sadness I feel useless. There is nothing I can do to stop the clock.

I am reminded I need to carefully pick and choose how I spend my minutes.