Iron Fist

“-but then my friend Maria came over and brought drinks with her and then we totally were just all hanging out after that.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sweet.” She was a cool enough girl, and we’d gotten along great before, but as far as dates went I had lost interest in this one some time ago and was sleepwalking my way through the rest of it. I went to my next generic conversation question and tossed it her way. “What else are you up to these days?”

“Oh, you know, trying to get a writing job. Hopefully. I mean I hope I can get one. I haven’t looked around much. I’m still technically freelancing for the paper, but that’s some work, you know? I mean, you really have to put yourself out there, and pitch a story, and then bust your ass to go do some research and then they still might not want to run it.”

“Sure,” I said. And there it was again.

I have any number of skills I excel at, but are neither marketable nor worth mentioning to an employer. For example, “Able to keep an interested smile in place when fury suddenly bubbles up inside” is not something you’ll ever see listed on my résumé.

She was still talking. I had turned my head to one side and looked down, contemplating my pint glass, in a pose that might mean I was listening, but maybe not to anything in the bar. Jesus. Urr.

-Little upset, are we? You figure out why yet?

Figure out what?

-This is the third time since you sat down that she’s said something that you reacted to by getting angry inside. There’s a common theme, if you haven’t put it together yet.

And what’s that?

-She fancies herself a writer. But each time she brings it up, she immediately follows it with some excuse for not actually putting in any effort towards becoming one.

Maybe. So?

-Remind you of anyone else?

I looked up then, at the mirror that lined the back of the bar, and locked angry gazes with my own reflection. Yeah. Yeah, maybe it does.

Suddenly I was draining my glass, bringing the empty pint down onto the bar, following with a stand-up-reach-for-wallet combo. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

“I - what? Okay.” She finished her drink. “Where to?”

“It doesn’t matter. The next bar. I’m just tired of being in this place.”

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If not for a few days spent on the east coast in May this last weekend I would have set some sort of personal record for miles traveled and bloggers visited. It all started out in Seattle with Daveattle (appropriately enough).

I knew Dave and Dustin, obviously, and Sizzle was a fellow TequilaCon alum, but everyone else was new to me and so I got a chance to meet Matt and Scott and Nicole and Patty and Tracy and Chris, and The Fella and Bryan who were great fun even if I can’t link to them. Kristin arrived and brought glittery tattoos, and we all set about looking for clean, dry hairless patches of skin and documenting the process with dozens of photos. Hilarity ensued.

The next day found me back on the road, having recognized that state in myself where I’m close to going mad if I don’t get to breathe in great big lungfulls of sea air, and so I wound up in Cannon Beach where I finally got a chance to see Mad William’s gallery. We had a few beers and some oysters at the local tavern, and spent some time chatting about Oregon coastal life and San Diego and art and of course favorite blog reads, and all the people we were lucky to know through blogging. Oh, and I brought my new charges along with me, and they were remarkably well behaved, not quacking once during our lunch.

It was a fantastic weekend all around. And I slept like a baby that night and am only just now updating my blog, which is why you’re getting a weekend update on a Tuesday morning.

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Oh, North Bowl. You had no idea, did you? No idea at all what was about to happen when we walked up your stairs with arms full of swag to survey TequilaCon’s latest home. No idea when the tweet went out to put the world on notice that aught-eight’s event had begun.

Lisa was the first to arrive, and I got a chance to sit down and talk with a woman who radiated such courage and gratitude in equal parts that she gave me hope for the future, and I think all my tomorrows will be a little brighter for having had the chance to meet her. She and Dude helped us to defend our claimed couches, and it wasn’t too long before the next blogger came up the stairs. I was probably a little intimidated, but black belts are so good at their art that she was able to disarm me using only her dazzling smile and engaging wit. (Mr BBM deserves a lot of credit, too, for being such a good sport, because the Internets can be a little intimidating when they all show up in person).

I figured that with TequilaCon underway it was time to start offering to give people tattoos, and Christine one-upped me by flashing her real tattoo, but ultimately I gave one to both her and Jan. People started arriving in droves about then, and I suddenly realized that any hopes I’d had of being felt up by Karl were probably going to go unrealized because he already had people lined up for just that. My spirits were lifted, though, when I ran into my favorite cupcake and when I asked her if she was ready for a tattoo, she showed me exactly where I could give it to her, and she decided to pay it forward by giving Becky one in the same place. I picked up a cool piece of swag from Avitable, and later he told me that if it didn’t work out for me I could name my first child Adam.

People were arriving faster than I could greet them at this point, and it looked like pandemonium, and I asked around to see if anyone knew who was responsible for all this. Dustin told me he knew exactly who, so I tapped on my glass as he stood up on a chair and told everyone that Jenny was the reason we were all here. I think this really struck a chord with Dave, because then he pulled Jenny aside and told her to take a look at what she’d done, but she only kicked up her feet in defiance. I didn’t think she was taking taking this too seriously, so I stole one of her curls and then challenged her to game of pinball. This didn’t work out so well, because it turns out she’s pretty good at pinball when she doesn’t have a scarf over her eyes, and I suffered an epic defeat, and the worst part was when she racked up the last ten million points with one hand while she chatted with Shari. (Asia, if you’re not worried yet, you should be.) I figured I couldn’t do much worse so I tried my hand at Ms Pac-Man, but Dee-Dee demonstrated how lacking my skills were in that department, and then after all this abuse I think Sir must have taken pity on me because he told me I could go ahead and call him whatever I wanted, and then Farnsworth became my new best friend by buying me a vodka.

I think this is the part where The Collective arrived (minus one, but three out of four is still pretty good), and they brought their A-game and their exclamation marks, and I probably went a little fanboy on them, especially when they wanted to start doing shots right away. Kat! was every bit as bad-assed as I thought she’d be, because I didn’t see anyone else get a hat-trick at Buck Hunter that night, Jennie! showed me the secret to playing MASH so that you always wound up with Jake Gyllenhaal (and then I let her down right away by not remembering who did that space cowboy song), and Abigail! let the DJ know that he was working for us, and not the other way around.

Things start to get blurry about this point, but I do remember that I finally found out what a Delmer looks like, and I shared a few words with Dawg while he watched over us, and I’d heard Shiny’s voice before but this was the first chance I’d had to shake his hand, and Dan, I may just have to drive down to this Chucklehut of yours because I didn’t get nearly as much time in to talk to you as I did last year. I probably got a little sentimental on Shelli when she asked for one of my buttons, and although I never actually heard Britt say ‘woo hoo! fuck yeah!’ her dance moves spoke volumes more. Avitable called me over then because Poppy needed a tattoo, and she probably had the sweetest smile of the night and she told me she loved her mermaid, but she was probably just being kind because the room was spinning so fast at that point I’m sure I must have put it on crooked.

This is about the point where the living embodiment of tequila appeared in a flash of light, and called for someone to bring him the head of Brandon, and it was all pretty scary so Sandra showed us all that it was probably best to bow to Tequila Man’s wishes. Sarah got a hold of Brandon’s head, and she took him to places I can’t talk about here, and come to think of it Heather probably got a little fresh with him, too, and it was all getting a little crazy so I ducked away for a minute to exchange text messages with my partner in crime, and I’m sure I told her that I wished she was here because I really did.

Things started to wrap up after we had the last call for fake mustaches, and there were hugs aplenty and hand shakes as people started to leave, and I don’t remember much about this part of the evening but I know that Jill was the last to leave, and then we were left with one last Tequila Duty to perform so the four of us visited the photo booth, and then we were well and truly done for the night.

Good old North Bowl.  You had no idea, did you?  But I think we all left you better than when we found you.

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I found myself thinking about simpler times, when news good or bad traveled across the sea only as fast as the wind could bring it, crawling across the ocean accompanied by a hold full of spices or tobacco. The speed of grief had an upper limit in those days, borne by canvas sails and then by beast of burden, and a loved one might linger like Schrödinger’s Cat for weeks, either dead OR alive, either in sickness OR in health, superpositioned to be either when a clatter of hooves would announce the arrival of a wax-sealed message, waiting for the observer to read of their fate on ink-stained parchment.

I thought of this as I discreetly checked my phone underneath the conference room table for the tenth time in as many minutes, because in this modern age, I need to know now, I need to know what’s happening this very minute, and we’re done with the slideshow and why are people still talking? I focus my mind into diamond-tipped needles bearing the simple message STOP TALKING and launch one fusillade after another at the other attendees. They give way, finally, and I’m already pushing away from the table and walking out into the hall, gripping the devil’s own handheld device, this thing wrought of copper filament and crystal that has brought me only bleak news lately, first the cat and then my grandfather, and I must be some sort of glutton for punishment because there I am pressing the speed-dial button to see what it will whisper to me today.

Hello?

Mom? Talk to me. How’s my sister?

Oh, honey. I was just getting ready to send you a text message. She’s out of surgery and in the recovery room. She’s doing fine now.

I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, must have been holding for, what — hours? Days? Since the beginning of the previous week, at least, when my sister had called to tell me her checkup showed she hadn’t quite healed right, and they were going to have to take her in to operate.

No complications, then? She’s still going to go home today?

Yes. They’re going to get her some painkillers and keep her in the observation room for a little while longer, but then we’ll take her home.

Well, then. Well. (Relief, fortunately, also travels at near-lightspeed these days, although upon arrival it slows down considerably as it percolates through the knotted muscles of the receiver, each fiber whispering to its neighbors it’s okay now, did you hear? It’s going to be all right.)

She’s going to take it nice and easy today, so don’t you worry. How are you? Everything okay at work?

Yes. Everything’s fine here. Listen, just…tell her I called, please. Tell her I love her.

I will. You take care, honey.

I will, Mom. You too.

I click the phone shut. I stare at it for a moment before I put it in my pocket. I have a feeling it’s done with bringing me bad news for a time, these events receding now like this winter that has overstayed its welcome.  I’m ready for the sun again.

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The most reliable metric I’ve found yet to determine when one is overdue for a haircut is morning hair.

Normally I try to keep myself at around 2.4 kilocurls, which is below the legal limit, but as you can see above I am rapidly approaching a 7.0 kilocurl estimated level, which is potentially dangerous not only to my self but to others within striking distance.

Sigh. Haircut time again.

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