Week 8 - Authorial Presence (Problem/Situation)

I still can’t even count how many times my mom has attempted to do something outrageously dangerous and I’ve had to stop her.  She’s always been an advocate for pushing her limits and proving she’s still just as tenacious as ever.  I don’t doubt her either but I also don’t believe the right way of going about it is to, for instance, lift things that are exceedingly too heavy, or walk briskly across a glare ice driveway wearing shoes with no tread whatsoever.  It causes me to worry often, especially given the unforeseen nature of what inevitably occurred.  

It was a beautiful summer’s afternoon; the heat and humidity were just right. The breeze rolled through the opened, screened-in windows and I could smell the lilac bush and freshly cut grass coming in from the outside as my sister, Amber, her girlfriend at the time, Jen, and I sat in the kitchen with my mom.  Amber and Jen lived with us for a short time in order to get back on their feet, so it was a typical day-to-day happening to all be seated around the kitchen table at that time, especially considering it would be getting close to dinner.  Jen had two kids from a previous relationship that also lived with us, and they were contently playing in the living room watching SpongeBob Square Pants.  The conversation wasn’t anything I found especially disconcerting, that was until the topic of the dreaded child’s swing came up. 

“So,” My mom said, and I could feel what was to follow, “It’s a beautiful day, why don’t we hang up the children’s swing in the tree outback?”

My face instantly looked as if one of our many cats had come into the room and shit under my chair.  As if it weren’t bad enough the last year she hung the children’s swing in the front yard and apparently had to get on the roof of the porch to do so; suddenly it had to go in the back yard where the closest branch for a swing was, in a rough estimate, 16-20 feet in the air.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, really,” I said as if it should be obvious to everyone that it was a horrible idea.

“Why not? I hung it by myself last year”

“Yeah…I know.  That’s not really compelling me to change my opinion, rather the latter - Because it’s safe to be doing that shit by yourself, Mom.”

“Pfft…whatever, stop treating me like an old lady, I bet I can run laps around you!”  This was another fact I did not doubt at all.

“I’m not challenging you; I just think it’s a bad idea, that’s all.  Do what you want.”

Amber and Jen sat quietly until the conversation finally changed to something other than the spat my mom and I were having.  After a few minutes, as I knew it would, the conversation turned back to the goddamn children’s swing again, only this time my mom felt differently, sort of.

“Look, I’ll just go into the garage and get the kid’s swing out, I won’t hang it yet, I’ll wait for my contractor Steve to come here next week and he’ll hang it.  He has a ladder,”   Mom said as if this was a consolation. 

“Ok Mom, Do what you want.”  I knew she was going to do what she wanted anyway, so after simply obliging, I went to the bathroom.

Within moments I could hear over the running water of the bathroom sink that she was recruiting help for something - something that clearly wasn’t simply going into the garage and digging out a swing.  She fully intended to get up in that tree, even though we didn’t have a ladder and the ridiculous height was dangerous in itself even with a ladder.  I came out of the bathroom to find Amber sitting at the table, drinking a beer. 

“Where’d mom go?” I asked.

“She’s outside with Jen, I’m not sure what they’re doing,” She said as she took another swig.

Suddenly and faintly in the distance I could hear someone screaming and it caused my stomach to sink to my feet.  The inevitable had finally happened and mom had met her match.  I ran out the back door and into the back yard to find Jen visibly shaken, paralyzed by fear.  It took me about a second to realize what had happen:  My mother had fallen the 16-20 feet from the tree and was lying on her side on the ground, motionless.  I ran to her and immediately attempted to get her to come back to consciousness without moving her.  Jen stood there, staring, until I screamed at her to go call 9-1-1 and it was at that point my sister came out to realize what had happened and ran over.  Jen immediately pulled out her cellphone as I managed to get Mom to open her eyes and say something, anything.  Mom instantly started to try and move but I managed to talk her into remaining still, something she already knew from her 22 years of nursing.  Even significantly injured, she was still going to prove somebody wrong.

The ambulance arrived promptly and put her gently on the stretcher.  None of us were able to ride with her because they needed all available room for staff to immediately start helping her.  I panicked the whole way to the hospital, riding behind the ambulance.  It wasn’t until we got to EMMC that I started to relax; once she was in Triage but as if it couldn’t get any worse, they put her in the same triage room my father was pronounced dead in.  Ominous feelings filled the room as I tried to remain calm and get into the mindset of being her medical proxy, not her daughter. Amber and Jen went out to the waiting room as the head triage nurse came in and immediately tried to administer Dilaudid for the pain. I was told she needed it because it was too soon to get into MRI and X-ray, the doctor still needed to assess her and the pain would cause her blood pressure to skyrocket.  The problem with that was the nurse clearly didn’t examine her charts beforehand, otherwise she would’ve noticed that not only is my mother allergic to MSG, she’s highly allergic to Dilaudid, Morphine, Codeine, Aspirin, Acetaminophen, Sulfa Drugs; basically you name it, she’s allergic.  I immediately deflected the nurse’s attempt to sedate my mother and sent her back to check her charts.  Moments later I was told to leave the room so they could perform something, and my mom said she was okay with it.  No sooner than I left did that nurse slip back into the room and administer the Dilaudid anyway. 

Soon enough my mom was put into a triage transport waiting room and was violently puking from an adverse reaction to the high powered narcotic.  I managed to get it under control before she was transported, via some whole milk, and we managed to make it to the third floor where she would be staying for an extended period.  After she was moved to her bed, it was about 8:30pm and I was informed that none of us were allowed to sleep in her room. 

“You going to be okay here overnight?” I said optimistically, hoping it would only be a night but knew it wouldn’t. 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” My mom said also lying.  She hated hospitals for good reasons, and in some way she was trying to make me feel better as I was to her.

We all then went home and called it a night.  The next day I was there as early as they would let me, and I found out that mom had broken her pelvis, several ribs, her sacrum, and other various bones.  The only good part is that every doctor told me there was no reason she wouldn’t fully recover, but the downfall was they slated her to be there for three weeks.  My mom’s expression instantly dropped; although they managed to regulate her pain with something and I attributed her statements to it, she was adamant that she would not take that long.  The doctors insisted she stay bedridden until they felt she could get up, to prevent further injury, and told her the drugs would make her feel as though she was better.

Every day I went and visited her, and the progress seemed to be unrealistic.  I couldn’t understand how she was able to move about as she was, even in her bed and having the pain sedated.  It wasn’t until I caught her venturing to the bathroom that I realized she was back to her old habits; defeating the odds and maintaining her resilience. 

Week 7 - Person (REVISED)

Matt is the second oldest of five children, and comes from a large family of people who were religious in some way and did not drink whatsoever.  He attended a local high school and graduated with a good portion of some of my present friends; many found his behaviors to be odd or of ill-repute, but gossip is only words, not fact.  As the years went on, Matt found himself working odd jobs in random kitchens around the area shortly before moving to Portland in 2006.  It wouldn’t be until years later that he would move back to the Bangor area.

I first met Matt in the summer of 2008 while frequenting his apartment to visit other people I knew; his daily routine consisted of racing to the bottom of a fifth of Jameson’s and trying to remain straight enough to buy another.  He would stagger around, sometimes happy, sometimes ornery, but always somewhat inebriated.  It became obvious after a few casual visits that the occasional drinks at night turned into daily events and evenings turned from afternoons into the late hours of morning.  On occasion, there would be others partaking in this self-indulgent drunk fest, but the others slowly started to dwindle away as I noticed his drinking starting to spiral out of control.  I often wondered if he could see exactly what was happening to him even though I was right there with him entertaining drinks myself. 

Always a worker, Matt had many jobs throughout the times I spent with him.  After several trips of bringing Matt to work, it became clear that he was only able to make it through these jobs by drinking while on the clock.  Sometimes even after work, I’d pick him up and even though he had clearly had numerous shots of whiskey and other random liquors at work, it wasn’t enough.  He would then request to go to local dive bars and down some beers and even still to no avail, he would request to stop at a store to buy more to consume.  Often, I would make random comments: “It’s only 11 am, why don’t you wait a little bit longer first?”or “You shouldn’t mix the beer and liquor, that always makes me sick…”  Still, he felt that as long as he could hold a job his drinking was not an issue.  Eventually the constant intoxication began to take a toll on his jobs and one after another, he started “quitting” and “walking out” on fairly lucrative jobs, when truthfully, he was being fired for gross negligence for being drunk at work. 

A year into our friendship, Matt wasn’t able to pay for the rent at the apartment where he had been living, and I invited him to come live in my house for a substantially cheaper rent; he would also have his own room.  It was at that point that he was working at what would be his last job around the area, considering he had exhausted about every option and jobs were scarce for those without education past a high school diploma or GED.  Life was cohesive for the first few weeks, but I had been previously warned by his ex-roommates that until I started living with him, I would have no idea who Matt really was when he was drunk. Ignoring their remarks, I welcomed him in - I should’ve had a more objective opinion.

Matt’s father was someone that no one in the family liked to talk about.  From what I did gather, he was a loving man but rarely showed it.  He also suffered from various ailments that took a toll on the family life and their dynamic.  It didn’t shock me, given those facts, to hear many interesting stories throughout my time knowing Matt - some of which I am still unsure about.  Apparently there was a time during his teen years where he decided that he was going to be a skin head, and marched through school dressed as such; rebellious nature seemed to fit the bill. But there was this one disturbing story another of my male friends who went to school with him mentioned. When Matt was in his early twenties, my friend went to visit him one afternoon. Upon reaching his apartment, my friend walked in to witness gratuitous, fetish porno playing full screen on his desktop monitor.  Apparently, Matt was showing it to one of his other male friends as well, who looked equally as disinterested. 

Within two weeks after Matt moved in, it became obvious that he was drinking a lot more than I had anticipated previously.  He would come out of his room at 8am every morning clutching a Pabst Blue ribbon can of beer, slugging it down on his way to the bathroom.  I noticed that this was a trend of his that I had previously overlooked at the old apartment he lived in.  There were a lot of things starting to surface that I hadn’t noticed.  Matt seemingly liked to get volatile at a certain point in the night, clearly once he had had one too many.  Being that he was into his thirties, I thought he could handle himself and didn’t need a babysitter when it came to drinking, but that was disproven immediately.    

It wasn’t until he decided to attack the stairway banister with a knife after a long day of belligerence and ire that I decided maybe my house wasn’t the best living situation for him, or anyone residing there.  The following morning he was asked to leave and arrange to live elsewhere; although my behavior might’ve been subpar, his was becoming exceedingly dangerous.

I haven’t seen much of him since that day, especially in the past years, but I’ve kept him in mind, hoping he’s found some kind of resolve as I have.  The last thing I had heard from him, he had found some sense of sobriety, was married, and moving into a new home.  I wished him well, and that was the extent of our conversation.   As of recent, my mother was reading the newspaper and found an article about a man who got combative in the middle of a fast food restaurant.  After further inquiry, I found out it was none other than Matt.  The cops discovered after patting him down that he was smuggling a bottle of whiskey under his jacket.  A few weeks later, Matt posted a message on Facebook about how he and his wife were divorcing.  It makes me wonder how we could’ve been so content living destructive lives way back when.

Week 6 - Autobiographical Slice

I remember the first time I realized that there was something different about me.  I was five years old and had just eaten lunch 30 minutes prior to the vicious migraine that came on out of nowhere.  Hell, at that age I didn’t even know what a migraine was, let alone what was causing it to happen to me.  I don’t even remember what I ate but I do remember one thing; it was the first time that I would have an allergic reaction to Monosodium Glutamate.  My mother and I shared a lot of common things, though the most common things we shared were allergies.

My mother was the sixth and last child in her family to be born.  Born May 23, 1957, she had a long road in front of her.  Right off the bat she was afflicted with health issues, including a defective heart, something she would not discover until much later in life.  Spending most of her early childhood in and out of hospitals and incubators, it’s a miracle she’s here today and that I am as well. As she grew up and entered into adulthood, she slowly began to realize that something was amiss regarding her body and sure enough, she discovered that she was allergic to not only MSG but every pain killer and analgesic on the market, among various other things.  It wasn’t until I was born that she realized it could be passed on.

Throughout the majority of my childhood and adolescent years, I had to refrain from eating everything that I found appealing; my god, what I wouldn’t have done to eat Doritos at lunchtime like all of the rest of the kids, and the smell of ramen noodles made me salivate instantly, even though I had no idea what they tasted like.  If I even as so much as sampled the slightest bit of food with MSG in it, I would be in for a hellacious night.  Tylenol wouldn’t even touch the migraines that MSG would cause.  I’d have to sit and writhe in pain, hoping for relief, or anything to make it stop. 

The migraines were insane.  Picture this:  Take the worst migraine you’ve ever had, and magnify it by ten-fold, and that’s what it felt like when I was poisoned with food tainted with the dreaded food additive.  Nothing could quell the insidious ache it would cause, not even mass amounts of water.  Within an hour after ingesting it, I would be puking and crying because the pain would escalate to outrageous levels.  It didn’t take me long to realize that despite how good any food smelled or seemed, it wasn’t worth being thrown back into that kind of heinous torture.  And although I avoided food with it in it at all costs, there was always those times MSG would go undetected and I would get it by accident.  It’s funny, because there are many names for MSG one wouldn’t even think about:  Hydrolyzed Soy Protein, Soy Protein Isolate,  Autolyzed Plant Protein, Sodium Caseinate, and the list goes on.  No wonder as a child it would get slipped into my food, thanks to the FDA. 

It wasn’t until my mother suffered a heart attack at age 36 from the chemical that I really considered keeping my diet in check, I was only 6 and I knew I never wanted to live that reality.  My mother has mitral valve prolapse, and MSG directly triggered her valve to stay open, allowing bad blood to flow backwards into the heart.  Given how many allergies we share, and that both of my parents have bad hearts, I am not excited to see my mid 30’s.  I never thought that I’d be able to enjoy take out or fast food like other kids.  But that all changed when I turned 13.

I was sitting in the cafeteria one day in Leonard Middle School and again, the ever alluring Doritos were being eaten by just about every one of my friends.  I sat and stared longingly as I always had at their snack size bags, hoping for just a little taste but knowing what was to come.  Eventually, I couldn’t control myself any further, and I asked for a chip; just one whole one.  My friends looked at me puzzled, for they knew what happened when I ate the stuff, but I insisted and one of them obliged.  It was a bag of Cooler Ranch, and the one chip I had was delectable.  I know most people don’t think “delectable” when it comes to chips, but being that I was restrained from having basic junk food like that, it was amazing.  The bell rang to go back to class and I immediately began regretting what I had done.  We still had another two and a half hours of school left, and it would only be a matter of 30-45 minutes before I would be in my own personal hell. 

I sat through Social studies, staring at the clock and expecting the worst to come.  Then I sat through Pre-Algebra, also waiting for the inevitable.  It wasn’t until the bell rang to go home that I realized I wasn’t getting sick at all, not even a minor headache.  I left school and jumped in my mom’s car, but decided not to mention my little test of my allergies.  We drove home and as I walked in the front door I still felt nothing.  It was as if I had been absolved of my hereditary issues, but how?  I couldn’t be sure, but slowly after that day I began trying lots of things with MSG, in small amounts at first.  Within two years, I was able to eat anything with MSG, no matter how much of the food additive that was present. 

My mother to this day cannot eat Monosodium Glutamate, and she’s never lost any of her other allergies either.  What frightens me is that I know eventually, this demon is going to come back to haunt me.  It’s only a matter of time before my body switches back over to being highly sensitive to the additive.  But in the meantime, I am going to stuff in as much Chinese, Doritos, and everything else under the sun with MSG in it so when that time comes, I don’t feel like I’m missing out so bad.  It’s probably the worst thing I can literally do, but we only get one life and I love food, so even though its cliché, I’d rather have loved and lost then never loved at all.

Week 5 - Adult Memoir/Audience (REVISED)

I knew when I saw him that night, it would be the last.  I always wondered what it would be like to experience such heartbreak and sadness, but nothing would compare to the way it actually felt in reality.  I sat in the mirror, primping and preening as if the makeup on my face really mattered more than what he was saying.  The words that came from his mouth for some reason seemed insignificant, probably because I believed he’d be there forever.  I stared into the mirror for what seemed like moments, but now seems like an eternity.  Why couldn’t I have just taken a few more moments to appreciate your jests and jokes?

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

I flew out into the night like an owl with no care or consideration for the next days to come.  Waving vigorously as I ran towards the car, I only looked back to sign the “I love you” gesture.  He never seemed to be able to do it back, but the attempts showed just how much he cared.  Riding along down the dimly lit side streets, I didn’t think anything of the way he seemed sluggish and off.  As I rode along, passenger to Andrew, a somewhat new boyfriend, we drove for miles until we became bored with the usual scenery; trees can only be so interesting.  Eventually, we pulled into an unknown place to visit people I had barely met before - typical for a 19 year old girl who hasn’t a care in the world.

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

I sat for hours with Andrew, listening to him and his friends tell the most asinine stories.  One second they were talking about the various pot strands they had tried, to opium smoking, to how long they had all been playing their perspective instruments.  Being they were a bit older than I, it was interesting to hear of their escapades into adulthood; a journey I had just begun to embark on.  The night rolled on with insane stories of running into cow pastures at night, my new boyfriend totaling his ford taurus at high speeds when he was 18, and the lack of appreciation they had for the government, something I would come to with age.  We laughed hysterically into the wee hours of the morning, and I watched them all play guitar and sing with each other as if it were an everyday occurrence.  The thoughts running through my head of the excitement I would experience similarly in my own life were insurmountable. 

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

1 am and it was time to ride home in my pumpkin carriage.  As Andrew and I strolled hand in hand through the parking lot back towards his car, the night sky was mysterious and ominous all at the same time.  The February air was bitter cold.  As the moon shone overhead lighting the way, I stood and began to shiver in waiting for the passenger door to unlock.  The ride back to my house was a serene one; not a car in sight and my front light danced in the dark, showing me the way back home.  We pulled into my driveway and retired to my bedroom, that is, after a few chilly moments of fighting with the door lock. 

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

5 am and the screams ripped through the foundation of the house.  I jumped out of bed and ran, towards what? I wasn't sure of.  I falling all over myself along the way.  My mother, besides herself screamed for an ambulance, for help of any kind.  I couldn’t have been more confused, I really didn’t grasp what was going on until it was too late. My mother sat silently as we sped to the hospital behind the ambulance.

***********

I saw my mom fall to the floor in the triage unit of Eastern Maine Medical Center.  The nurse had whispered the inevitable truth into her ear and I ran to her from down the hall.  I grabbed her as she wept into my arms, and I told her calmly that I would never leave her so long as I live.  The tears came on like a flood – he was gone.  My father had suffered a massive heart attack that morning, one that he would never recover from.  We sat silently in Triage unit three, hoping and praying for a better resolution which was completely irrational.  To this day, I still wait for him to walk back through the sliding glass door but with every year that passes, I succumb to acceptance.  To anyone that says a death gets less painful with time, I say it only gets different.     

Week 4 - Childhood Memoir/Voice (REWRITE)

When I think about my childhood the first thing that comes to mind is how awful I was; I mean really, I was a terror.  I always held the utmost respect for my parents, but when it came to other kids I was relentless with the teasing.  I attribute most of it to my sister, who instilled the teasing in me by tormenting me to no end.  I can’t even count how many times she locked me in a steamer trunk or had me doing some suicidal stunt for her own pleasure; having your younger sister riding on a flipped over picnic table bench sled with a 120 lb. wolf towing you full speed through the snow was probably not the best idea she’s ever had.  As I got older I also started in with the same behavior and once that point came, my sister and I agreed to disagree and instead of torturing each other, we decided to turn our attention onto our foster brother. 

Kids can be so cruel, but we weren’t exactly that.  We all actively would be teasing each other, but for some reason this one day I knew it was going to end in turmoil.  My parents decided to leave the babysitting of myself and my foster brother to my older sister.  Given the fact that my foster brother was older than my sister by a year, I found it interesting but realistic - My brother Sam wasn't exactly mature enough to handle the task, in all honesty.  Directly before leaving, my parents turned to all three of us, but more specifically my sister Hannah.

"Are you sure you're going to be able to handle them?"  My mom said to Hannah, as if she didn't even believe it to be possible.

"Yeah, no problem, we'll be fine," Hannah retorted with confidence, "We're just going to sit here and watch TV."


My father stood quietly as the conversation was had, for he already knew leaving us all together and alone was a terrible idea, but he had already agreed to try it out for once.


"Sam, are you going to listen to Hannah and not be antagonistic?" Mom inquired.


Sam merely shrugged off the comment with a simple, "Uh-huh."

As I stood facing my parents I felt the urge to tell them that I had my doubts as well, but being 11 years old and given the chance to have free reign in the house, I held my statements to myself.  Within moments, our parents had left and we sat back in our perspective places in front of the television.  As Hannah began to flip through the channels, I could sense Sam was on the verge of doing something to annoy us.  With every channel that passed, Sam began incessantly complaining about playing his Super Nintendo which was in our room.  Why was it in our room? Because my parents didn't want us preoccupying the living room tv with video games 24/7, so we made the compromise with Sam to let him keep it in our room under one condition: one of us had to be present when he was in there.  We only lived in a four room apartment, so the space was definitely limited, and being young girls the last thing we wanted was Sam rooting around.   

Eventually, my sister and I settled on watching MTV, considering that was a no-no channel when my parents were home.  It was back when MTV still played music videos fairly often, but this still wasn't enough to suffice Sam.  Continuously the complaints rolled on about how he desperately wanted to play video games, and it got to a point were I was about to accompany him into the room so that we could, but that's when the whole situation got shitty.  Sam decided that because we weren't listening and respecting his complaints that he would seek out a new method to grab our attention.  I as a child was somewhat of a hothead - I didn't like other kids teasing me or badgering me in any way, and when they did, I would lash out horribly.  Considering I was 11, I really didn't think I had the capacity to even take on a boy three years my senior, but when butting heads, little is considered rationally.


Sam decided it would be a good idea to stand in the doorway of our room on the edge where the carpet met the tile and relentlessly taunt me.


"Sam, get AWAY from our room," Hannah said from the comfort of the armchair, "Don't piss Erin off, I don't want to deal with this."


"But I'm not in your room, I'm on the edge, I'm not in it, I'm allowed to stand here!"


The way he responded reminded me of the "I'm not touching you" game while pointing within someone's personal space, and that coupled with his incessant tormenting was enough to push me over the same edge he had been teetering on.  I felt rage overcoming me as I approached Sam and stood in front of him as he blocked me from Hannah and I's room.

"Seriously," I said curtly, "Cut this shit out Sam, get the hell away from our room!"

"But I'm not IN your room!" He responded while dancing his big toe on the tiles of bedroom.

"That's it."

With the final antagonizing statement, I lost my cool and what was a heated discussion turned into a physical shoving match, which ended with me on top of Sam, punching him on the floor as my sister sat in the armchair content with the entertainment she was witnessing.  As soon as Sam started to get upset, I heard the door keys but it was too late; My mom was on me before I could even gather that they were really home.

It was then Hannah decided to jump up and say "No you guys! What are you doing?!" in the most fake demeanor.

"What the HELL is going on here Hannah?! I thought you were watching them?" Mom said as she wrestled me into my room, "Nevermind, I don't care, get in the room too!"

We were sequestered to our room for the rest of the night, but to be honest it probably wasn't going to play out any other way.  I had a short fuse as a child, a short fuse I still fight daily, but luckily with age the compelling nature to get physical when I am angry has subsided.  I feel bad to an extent for the way things played out that day, but most children fight at least once in their childhood so it was inevitable in a sense with the numerous attempts at badgering.  It wouldn't be until we were older that Sam would actually laugh about the situation, but as of recent, we all sit around and give a little chuckle for the things we did that were so ridiculous and stupid.  Kids can be so cruel.

Week 3 - Tone/Travel

We were Portland bound on a new adventure once again, only this time it was to modify some part of my flesh.  The amount of time I had waited for that day was nothing compared to the reality that it was actually about to happen.  I am terrible at saving money, it literally burns a hole in my pocket but for once I was able to hold onto enough cash to begin fixing my chest tattoo; a piece that is a dedication to my family.  The amount of trouble and damage I have gone through simply to get this artwork conveyed and finished is amazing, what’s even more amazing is why.  My boyfriend and I left Old Town at 12:30pm the day before my appointment since I had to go in for a consultation to make sure I liked the ideas and so the artist could get a good look at it.  Plus, I thought it a good idea to be more familiar with the area in hopes not to get lost and be late the next day.

The ride out of Old Town was a familiar one, nothing new in the slightest: two Dunkin’ Donuts in such close proximity that it makes little sense to have them both, Sullivan’s garage and the parking lot out back stuffed with totaled cars and trucks,  Hannaford’s, and multiple other fast food establishments and gas stations.  The trees were almost bare and the sky was clear – it was the end of October, right before Halloween.  Traffic plugged on monotonously but even though, I still tried to speed through town as if it would’ve shortened the two hour ride by any amount.  Eventually the road split into two lanes and most of the congestion cleared into the opposite throughway, leaving me a straight shot through the last two lights and onto interstate 95.

Coasting along down 95, we listened to 105.1 TOS as the scenery flew by.  A combination of deciduous and coniferous trees lined the right side of the highway, the former looking very lackluster just as they did leaving town.  Cars were scarce once we passed Bangor, which appeared to be bustling with people from our perspective.  Between watching for police at the well-known emergency turn-arounds and sporadically commenting on the music or the people in traffic who irritated me with their asinine driving, there wasn’t much else to do.  The smell of the mill in my hometown was behind us and the sight of the expansive tree lines of the pine forests between Bangor and Waterville were vast. 

 

Augusta was steadily approaching and the excitement began to well up in my stomach again.  Becoming antsy, I decided to set the cruise control in order to avoid speeding.  An occasional eagle’s nest atop power lines dotted the highway, along with desolate marshlands scattered amongst the foliage holding only fallen and dying trees.  Every mile marker along the interstate was evidence that I was getting closer to my goal; it was then that I started worrying. I had begun hoping that the artist I had picked would understand what I wanted to come of the artwork versus the last two “artists”: One of which intentionally fucked up the initial design for petty reasons, and the other who took my request and skewed it into what they wanted.  In turn, both left my skin marred and the original purpose of the piece which was to commemorate my family, tainted.  We passed through Augusta and headed onwards.  The truck stops randomly lining the interstate were stirring with truck drivers taking breaks from their extensive journeys, vacationers relaxing from the long trip ahead and of course, deep fried and greasy concoctions and the tired, worn from living wait staff serving them.  I realized I wasn’t alone in my strife.

The closer we got to Portland, the more my anxiety faded and the anticipation took hold.  Regardless of any qualms I had been having at that time, the moment seemed surreal as we crossed the bridges leading towards the Portland exits towards the center of the city.  I glanced around taking extra care to watch for the exit we needed.  The highway began glutting with cars whizzing in and out of the three lanes and the pressure was on.  As the sun set over the bay, we frantically searched for the exit we needed, exit 6A, and merged as soon as we could.  The exit put us right around Congress Street, which is where the shop was located. I took extra precaution to listen to the directions read by my boyfriend that we printed off mapquest, but in my experiences mapquest isn’t very precise which was the case yet again.  City driving is no fun task and as I searched for the turns listed in the directions, the sweat began pouring from my forehead and upper lip.  The other drivers were anything but lenient; for every mistake I made, a horn was honked and an occasional middle finger was also given.  After several panic attacks and a few wrong turns, we finally made it to the shop.  The one last hurdle I had to face was the dreaded parallel park, and traffic wasn’t any less relentless, but I made it after only two attempts.  

Nothing like parking meters to remind you you’re in a city.  I got out of the car and saw that I needed to pay for the spot, which was typical but something I had forgotten over the amount of time I had lived in Old Town.  As we crossed the street, hand in hand, all of my fears, joys, and emotions in general washed away.  What was I to expect?  What was to happen?  I would only know if I opened the door and went in.  I took hold of the shop door handle, and never looked back. 

Week 2 - Coherence: Observation and field work (RE-DO)

Lunchtime: What to do, where to go?  I am starving and I can’t eat anymore fast food, it’s so greasy and filling.  I have just left class and my mom, boyfriend and I are equally experiencing hunger pangs.  First stop, Giacomo’s; none of us have ever been there before and it has always been in the back of my mind to try it.  I park right on the corner of State and Franklin Street, anticipating at the very least a good Italian sub sandwich or a cannoli.  I should have known that it might’ve not been the best place to go given the man that had parked in front of me who is now staring me down for parking behind him.  It always interests me how people become so offended over the littlest, insignificant things.

Giacomo’s is interesting to say the least.  I don’t know, maybe it’s just me but I don’t understand how people feel as though they have the right to judge not only myself but my family based on appearance.  I am used to it but I don’t believe my mom has anything to do with who I chose to be.  Regardless, we are looking at menus despite the trendy populace shooting us the death glare.  After a few moments, I can tell that the menu is anything but authentic:  My mom asks if the soups are made in store, the girl at the counter replies “No” snidely, the cold-cuts are all riddled with sulfites and they only offer one brand, and the dishes are extravagantly priced given what they offer which is very little.  After a few moments of reviewing the choices, I have decided to leave so that we can go to our favorite place a few feet down the street.  

The Bagel Shop has been a favorite of mine for some time now and given our wonderful experience at the other restaurant, I have no qualms about eating there.  We walk in the front door and the line is not so bad, fairly short with a variety of people looking to get lunch on the go.  The menu is extensive, but I already know what I want.  We order, get our number and take our tray in search of a free table.  The dining area is filled with people indulged in their own conversations and meals, just the way I like it.

After taking my seat, I’m glancing around at the people who are coming and going.  First person I see: A gruff looking older man, probably in his late 50’s. He’s wearing a winter coat and has quite the big bushy beard.  Sadly, he’s sitting quietly by himself eating a bagel with cream cheese and the cream cheese has unknowingly spread into his beard.  He’s reading a newspaper with his backpack and hat on the floor next to him. 

Next: A couple in their late 20’s or 30’s, could be friends or on a first date having lunch together .   The man is seemingly trying to act confident but is clearly nervous by his anxious position.  Perhaps it was an adulterous affair, who knows?  He wore a button up shirt and khaki slacks as if on a lunch break from work and he removed his tie for a more casual meeting with his friend.  The woman was far more lax in her attire, sporting jeans, a button up shirt and a messy pony tail as if it were a spur of the moment tryst.  She seemed to linger on his every word despite his blatant attempts to impress her.

As I continue to survey the lobby, I just heard our number called which has pulled me back to the table.  My boyfriend gets up to retrieve the food and I am sinking back into people-watching.  Who’s next?  A pretentious woman in her mid to late 30’s pounding away at her laptop. Her stringy hair is hanging in her face and it barely reaches past the shoulder of her green floral print dress.  A man is approaching, and I think he’s asking to join her, to which she is shrugging him off as though he were an insect invading her cyber-picnic.  She is however smiling on occasion as her fingers tap at the keys in front of her.  Maybe she is a writer or talking with an old friend? She is absorbed in whatever she is doing; the building could be burning down and she wouldn’t notice.

My boyfriend drops the tray on the table, retaking his seat in order to enjoy his turkey and bacon sandwich, my mom is having lentil soup and a bagel, and I am having a Reuben.  The people continue to come and go, but I am now too engrossed in my food to watch people any further.  The coleslaw is amazing and the pickle makes me forget that I was even concerned with my surroundings.