Block Party

I moved into the apartments where I live eight months ago. In that time I've not talked to a single person who lives there, other than the requisite niceties. Then, a few weeks ago, when I stepped outside a voice from above said "Hi, neighbor girl!" It was one of the two guys who live above me. One of them has a little boy who is Story's age. And now I have friends.

Being as they are apartments, in small town Arkansas, it's pretty fair to say that most of the people who live there have one or all of the following problems: They are former (possibly current) drug addicts. They are alcoholics. They are divorced/going through a divorce. They are in poor health. They are not employed or underemployed. They have been themselves, or are married/related to someone who is/has been in prison. They just got a check, their car won't start, and they need a ride to the beer store. Enough of those things describe me that I can relate to the people around me without being frightened of them, but not enough apply that I'm frightened of my future.

I don't spend a whole lot of time interacting, but the other night I got a knock on my door. It was one of the guys who lives above me. He said that everyone was hanging out at "the middle apartments." That's the complex just up from mine with the playground out front. They were all bar-be-quing and listening to music and drinking beer. There were tiki torches. I was nervous about the whole thing, being invited to hang out with people I don't know by the guy who lives above me whose name I don't know. But I spend a lot of time alone and in my head and thought, at the very least, it might be interesting to sit and listen for a while.

When I walked up Bob Seger was playing. Everyone seemed eager to get me a seat and show me what was on the grill. Story found a bicycle. In a group setting I do best when I just pick a seat a stay there the whole night. No milling about. I posted up next to Sharon. Sharon is an older woman with bleach blond hair. She was talking to me as soon as I sat down, mainly about her kids. Her son works for a scrap metal place here in town, and I should tell him I know her if I ever see him... at the scrap metal place. She leaned in, a cigarette dangling from her long fingers and told me about the day her daughter was born. It was August 17, 1977, the day after Elvis died. When the doctor walked in and presented the baby he said "One star dies and another is born." The daughter still lives in Russellville somewhere.

Metallica was playing, then Alice in Chains. The guy who lives above me was singing along. He stopped long enough to say "I'm not gonna lie, I love to sing. I'm good at it. I used to be in an Offspring cover band." He was good at it. He got pretty into it, and that kind of outpouring is appealing for some, but makes me totally uncomfortable. Luckily a rather large girl came up and offered me a shot of whisky, saving me from having to concoct some kind of response to dude's emotional rendition of "Man in the Box." I didn't take the whisky but I talked to her for a little bit about raising kids. She's got a seven year old, the father is one of the guys who lives above me. He later explained to me that she used to be a lot thinner. She used to look just like Drew Barrymore. "Right, man? Right?" he said nodding to his roommate and lifting his beer, as if I didn't believe him, as if I needed someone else to verify it, as if my judgement of him as a person was based solely on the current weight of the woman who he slept with seven years ago, as if I were the kind of person who makes judgments like that. I thought she was really nice. Despite her weight.

After a while I went back to talking to Sharon, rather she went back to talking to me. She said that her boyfriend was getting out of prison soon. She was going to have a big party and that I was invited. "Not everyone is invited," she said glancing around with narrowed eyes. She's going to set up a game of horseshoes in the back.

Story was still riding the bicycle. I kept telling him to share and play with something else, but every time I did the girl who owned the child who owned the bicycle said "No, no, it's fine, it's fine." So I figured any more fussing at Story would make it seem like I was turning up my nose at her generosity. Everyone was eating. I wasn't very hungry, but again, the same type of situation arose where if I didn't eat I might have been seen as someone who won't eat food being offered to them by generous strangers. They had grilled chicken and steak and corn and squash. There were beans and potatoes and we ate off of Sharon's real plates, that she wouldn't let me help her wash when we were done.

It was getting late and I needed to get Story to bed. We were all sitting around talking about our jobs and all the things we were going to buy when we got that good paycheck next week. Someone put on Johnny Cash. "Ring of Fire." Everyone started singing along, even the kids. I started singing along too. "I fell in to a burning ring of fire. I went down, down, down, and the flames went higher..." I was in the moment, and these were my people, of the moment. And with that I called it a night and went to bed.

Another Walmart Trip

Okay, I'm still sitting on my floor in front of the TV because I can't figure out my wireless problem. And even though I come home every night intending to call overseas for help, I always seem to find a reason to put it off. My internet days might just be over. No, I'll get it figured out eventually. Probably tomorrow. In the meantime, I wanted to write something about my most recent Walmart trip.

Walmart is Story's favorite place to go despite my every attempt to get him excited about the gas station, which is the only other place we go besides daycare and home. So when I have to go I usually plan to take him because it makes me feel like I'm doing something for my kid instead of being a sell-out to corporate America who buys produce from farms in Chile because it's cheap. And anyway it's good for him to experience all types of people, lest he become snobbish and judgmental. We all go to Walmart. Unless we're snobbish and judgmental.

I'm not sure what he likes about Walmart so much, but he's three so it might just be the fact that it's not home and not daycare. He does have this horrible habit of starting every sentence with "I want..." And I suspect he likes riding up and down the aisles pointing out all the things he wants. On this particular trip I had said "no" so many times by the time we got to the juice aisle that it was clear that we were going to have to have a little heart-to-heart.

I stopped the cart and got down on eye level with him and tried to explain that when all we do is want things, we spend most of our lives unhappy because people simply don't get what they want all the time. The more you want, the more you are disappointed. So the less you want, the more happy you have the opportunity to be. "Be satisfied, son. It's a beautiful day outside. You got to come to Walmart, your favorite place. We're buying food and bubble bath. Just be happy to experience these things, not everyone is so blessed." I was at the "you're a very lucky little boy" part of the talk when someone I knew from church surprised me by saying "Hi, Annie!"

We greeted each other and I tried to kind of minimize the fact that I had just been standing in the middle of aisle four having a philosophical talk with a three-year-old by bringing to attention the fact that I was standing in aisle four having a philosophical talk with a three-year-old. We both kind of laughed about how silly it was and went on our way. But not before Story could get out "I want Daddy." My life is absurd.

A call for help

I know that I'm writing less and less, but this time it's because of something besides laziness and lack of inspiration. I received a letter from my Internet service provider informing me that last month my Internet account used over 60 more GB than normal. It went on to explain that that could be caused by several things, all of them terrible. Viruses and spyware were the first listed and that scared me so bad that I can't even think about it. This is my one computer, if something happens to it, or if it needs to be repaired for some reason, that's the end of my relationship with pretty much everyone I know. What makes me fearful is the fact that every time I check my email I have about 1,000 "returned mail" emails, informing me that my message "Tits (expletive) cum (expletive, expletive) dick" could not be delivered. These emails are NOT from me. Where are they coming from? Who is doing this? And, most importantly, how can it be stopped? Could that be what is causing this increase in Internet usage? I suspect this could be the problem. In the time it's taken me to write this I've gotten five of these emails. Now six.

The other cause listed in the letter is that if you have a wireless router (which I do) I may have unauthorized users logging on to my account. When I set up the router I was on the phone with India for about two hours and was exhausted and in tears most of that time. By the time the Internet was working, I didn't want to mess with anything else, anything else being setting up a password protected account. That is not a mistake I will soon make again. I imagine all of my neighbors having wild Internet parties where all the guests are told to bring their computers and hand-held devices for a night of YouTube and porn compliments of the sucker who is actually paying for Internet. I attempted yesterday - when I had Internet - to secure my account and now I don't have Internet. None of us have Internet. I don't know what happened. I managed to lock the account, but now even I can't get in.

Other causes include innocuous things such as someone leaving a streaming music player on or a newsreader set to automatically download message bodies. I suspect my problem is one of the two things I mentioned above, or a combination of the two, or as my attitude towards my thieving neighbors grows increasingly hostile, one was somehow caused by the other. How else would such explicit stuff be being sent from my virgin computer?

Right now I'm sitting on the floor in front of the TV tethered to the modem. Story is on my back "driving a truck." I just wanted to send out this urgent call to the more computer literate masses. I can't go another round with India tonight. How is this happening and how can this be fixed? My back is hurting and don't care to sit on the floor and angrily pound at my keyboard any longer. Although I guess it is my fault for not securing my Internet account... I'll be checking my email when I can.

Eating out in rural Arkansas

Once you drive past all the towns large enough to offer restaurants like Denny's and Cracker Barrel, you will find one of two things: A tiny place set into the side of a cliff with a breathtaking view of the mountains in the springtime, or the Memory Lane Cafe. I imagine the Memory Lane Cafe started out as a woman in a kitchen who made good hamburgers. Then maybe she got her Big Idea, bought a small house and converted it into a place that could eek through a restaurant inspection. As popularity grew so did the haphazard additions marked by uneven floors and single doorways connecting them to the rest of the establishment. That's what I was thinking about when the waitress came in to replace the three burnt-out light bulbs above our table and I realized I was actually sitting in a small shed with one doorway to the original dining area, one doorway to the newer "Game Room" and one doorway outside with a doorbell sound to alert the staff that someone has just come in the back.

The menu at the Memory Lane Cafe is what you might expect, hamburgers mainly, but what is exciting is the selection of things not otherwise ever fried. The fried pickles are always good, but can be found in a lot of places now. I got the fried green beans. With a side of ranch dressing. It seemed like the healthiest choice, and I would never get on my high horse to order a salad or seasonal fruit in a place like that anyway. I don't care for the "so you think you're better than me?"-look. Best just to try to fit in.

On the walls were things that might take you down memory lane, if your particular lane went straight to Graceland. There were the typical lacquered tree-trunk-clocks with airbrushed Elvis, but there were also photographs of Elvis with grease stains on them that had finally been taken down from above the stove of a person whose lane might really have lead to Graceland and put in a frame for all to see. There were drawings of Marilyn, and lunch boxes with Buddy, all the typical "Memory Lane" stuff. In addition to the memorabilia there were posters for local events and community projects, such as the "Eating Our Way to Proficiency!" program with the local grade school, and the upcoming "Donkey Basketball" event. That one had to be explained to me. The donkeys don't play basketball, people do-riding donkeys. People attend because it's funny. Also funny is that while the rest of the country takes on the childhood obesity epidemic, we're eating our way to proficiency and playing basketball riding on donkeys.

It was nice though to sit there and listen to the people around me, especially right before lunch time. Everyone knows each other, of course. Most of them come there every day. When a couple walks in the woman requests the seat facing the door, "in case anyone I know walks in." The Memory Lane Cafe was more of a curiosity to me, but for the people who eat there it really is a kind of time capsule. They've lived in that town their whole lives and knew everyone who walked in the door, their parents, and their children. Curious though it was, it seemed like the familiarity could be kind of comforting. It would have to be, right? It made me kind of want that life, just the knowing what to expect out of every day and every person. That might have just been the ranch dressing talking though. Everything is better with a side of ranch dressing.

Springtime

Once again, it's been a long time since I've written anything. Mostly that's because I've been lazy and have had nothing to write about. About the time I started feeling guilty and getting serious about writing something, I got sick. It started last week when I was getting headaches everyday. It's been years since I've gotten headaches on anything like a regular basis and I attributed it to the horrifying green wind that we get down here this time of year. I think it's the pine that irradiates everything with its pollen stuff. About this time of year everything is green, and not the good "everything is so GREEN!"-green like you might get in the Pacific Northwest. The worst is the cars, everyone's car is coated with a thick powder that looks like pale moss. It's awful. I feel safe in saying that that is why I was getting headaches. Then the headaches turned into a persistent cough and congestion, which I called "really bad allergies." I never had allergies until I moved down here, but Arkansas will test even the most healthy. And that got worse and worse and worse, quickly. My whole body ached, I was going to sleep at 8:00 every night, my eyes felt swollen shut, on and on.

I have a thing about going to the doctor. I don't like doing it. I'm not totally against doctors in general, it's just a major inconvenience and I never seem to get out of the office without a prescription for antibiotics. I do have a thing against antibiotics. I think their over-prescription is contributing to the very real possibility of some sort of virulent superbug that will wipe out most of the world population. Plus I feel like they throw my whole body out of balance and it takes a month of eating yogurt to get all the internal flora back in order. The major inconvenience is mainly because I don't have a "regular" doctor. I only get sick once a year and it's about this time of year and it's always bronchitis and I have no need for an annual physical, so when I get sick I call the local clinic and they squeeze me in to see whatever doctor is on call. Which means I spend two hours sitting in the waiting room.

So yesterday every breath felt like it was ripping my lungs in half. I could hardly swallow anymore and would have liked to cough, but couldn't for fear that my whole head might explode. I called the doctor. As usual it was a doctor I had never seen before. I think I waited about a day too long because I couldn't do anything but calculate my odds of being the next person called the whole hour-and-a-half I was in the waiting room. I watched people and figured the probability of them being a regularly scheduled patient (who will go in before me) or someone who, like me had called in to take their chances (who will only go in before me if they got there before me). I counted the number of people who went in versus the number of people who came out. "Why aren't they calling someone, I know there's an empty room back there!" It was all I could do. I was desperate to get through those doors.

The doctor on call yesterday was a woman. Most women down here seem to be either gynecologists or pediatricians, so it was nice to actually have a woman doctor treating me, looking in my mouth. She didn't take any x-rays or anything, which they usually do on my annual bronchitis visits, but I guess she pretty much had the case closed when she opened my chart and saw my history. All she had to do was listen to my lungs and ask me how I was feeling. I left with an inhaler and some antibiotics.

I'm feeling a little bit better today. I've got to go to the store and buy some yogurt, but at least I'm starting to feel up to it. I'll try to write more regularly. Thanks for sticking with me.

Small things that make me feel like everything might be okay

I can't remember a time in my life when I thought "I can't believe I'm getting paid to do this!" Any time I've ever been paid to do anything it's been something horrifying that you'd have to pay me to do, like calling people and asking them to give me money for handicapped people whom I've never met, or driving out past the civilized world of cell phone reception and down into a canyon in order to get out of the safety of my car, hike up an un-passable drive, to a trailer home with the door open just wide enough for me to see someone shove something out of my line of sight, and say "Hi! I'm here on behalf of the US Government!" Those are things that you have to pay me to do, and no matter what you're paying me, I feel like I'm getting cheated.

So it was new and exciting the other day when I was driving out to Dover, Ark. on a delivery when I caught myself thinking "I'm getting paid for this!" The weather had just turned nice so I had the windows rolled down, the radio was playing something like Steve Miller Band, and I was on a long stretch of road, going somewhere, doing something - and getting paid. Usually I'm getting paid to sit in an office and look at columns of numbers, which I certainly don't complain about. I like the people I work with, I have my own desk, and the freedom to do pretty much whatever I want as long as I get my work done as well. And the actual work isn't that bad. It's not studying lost manuscripts in a language only I understand or impressing the world with my creative spirit - but it's close. And it's the best thing I can hope for right now. And it offers me the opportunity to sometimes, if one of the delivery people calls in, deliver parts and listen to the radio in a car I don't own, whose gas I don't buy.

Most of the time my life makes me feel like I'm trying to run through deep sand, choking on my lack of self-confidence and inability to communicate along the way. I worry a lot about how I'm going to get through all the days that are left, which at my age could be very many. And driving to McAlister's Station, I wasn't worrying about all of that. I wasn't worrying about anything. I was just driving, moving fast and easy, cheerful and calm. I was relieved to find that, at that particular moment, despite the many things that stress me out, all it took for me to be happy was a beat-up Chevy with no air or floorboards and a person in need of some shop towels and a blower motor switch. And surely the world will never run out of those two things.

Spark!

When I was sitting in my office today I thought I had a great idea. Something fun, interesting. At the time I couldn't wait to get home and share my idea with everyone and now that I am home I'm feeling a little self-conscious. But I'm going to share my idea anyway.

Stanley Milgram was a social psychologist. He went to Harvard and was a professor at Yale. And he conducted two of the two experiments that I remember studying in my psychology classes. One was, simply, "The Milgram Experiment." That's the one about obedience and authority, morals and personal responsibility, in which participants willingly administered 450 volt shocks to another person, who in these experiments was an actor pretending to be electrocuted by the fake shocks - but the actual participant didn't know that as he was steadily turning that dial higher and higher. It's memorable, and worth reading about. I tried to attach a link, but I can't figure out how to do it. Just look up "Milgram Experiment" on Wikipedia. I know there's an extra step there because I'm computer illiterate, but it really is very interesting.

The other one is his "Small World Experiment." That's the one that taught us all about the six degrees of separation. He sent packages to 160 random people living in Omaha, Nebraska with instructions to forward them on to someone who they thought would get the package closer to this one particular person, unknown to them, a stockbroker in Boston, Massachusetts. In the experiment it took an average of six people to get the package to him. Thus, we live in a small world where we're only six people away from anyone.

Here's the idea: Since I'm financially, emotionally, and in most other ways stuck in Arkansas, let's play. Six degrees of separation, that is. I'll write the name of someone who I want to contact me and every one of you reading this (all 10 of you) think of someone you know who could get my message one degree closer. Let's see how long it takes. I mean, if you're interested. I'll start easy. Someone not famous. Someone who is probably local to most of you. The person who actually started this whole thought process for me was Dr. Fred Durer. He is the doctor who delivered my seven-year-old, Adam. I liked him a lot and I was thinking that, if I delivered babies for a living, I would be desperately curious about what these babies were like as children and adults. I wanted to tell him that Adam is an artist, and that he's really good at building things with Legos, very focused and serious, and that his hair still isn't dark like mine.

I could Google him, or give his office a call, but I don't need to actually have a phone conversation with him, and I could write a letter, but I'm not a savage, if I don't have your email address I can't write to you. I don't even think I own any paper. So what I need is the email address for Dr. Fred Durer. Or better yet, slip my email address, somehow, into his pocket with a note about how it got there. Maybe that's too creepy, I just thought that rather than getting information back to me through the chain it would be easier to just have the information going one way. That would be a bit too much like telephone and we all know how that ends up. I'm usually too embarrassed to even say what I think I heard. Okay, information going one way. Get him my email address, surely he'll be curious enough about this crazy experiment to contact me. He'll really have no idea who I am, so we better clarify that I was a patient and he delivered my son. Also, I'm married and an entire state away, so there's no funny stuff going on. That's your task. I send you out into the world, each by your own paths, in search of this one man. And how much more special will he feel knowing that a whole army of bored people who waste work hours reading their friend's blogs have been mobilized on his behalf, instead of a nice card? I'm excited. I am the spark that becomes the flame, the stone that causes the ripple that becomes the crashing wave! We can do this!

If this works, we'll try someone else. It's doesn't have to be all about me either, give me ideas. Who do you want to draw near in six degrees? How about Kevin Bacon?