it was supposed to be a holiday fling. nothing complicated, drinks, dancing, sex, temporary companionship. something to scratch an itch while she was on vacation. this woman fit the bill – she was smart, she was funny, she was hot, the sex was mind-blowing and best of all they were being adults about it. no strings attached, they would say to each other as they lay naked and sweaty in bed. repeating it like mantra trying to convince themselves that wasn’t something about this that made more than their loins sing. there was the unbridled joy in every moment that neither of them had really experienced before. deep down they knew. they had become inseparable and although they were loathe to admit it, they were in love. the signs had been there from the beginning and all their protestations had the ring of trying too hard. in the end we found it easier to enjoy the strings, and rope, and the occasional handcuffs because scratching this particular itch is always so satisfying.
a decade ago I got hired to work at my favorite fruit company and in the immortal words of the Grateful Dead, what a long strange trip it’s been. No one works anywhere for 10 years, well no one works for someone else for 10 years. That’s the thing about this job, I enjoy what I do. It’s not been perfect but that’s true even if you’re self-employed.
I’ve grown and I have surprised myself. Me, a self-described misanthrope, working in retail for a decade, oh the stories I could tell. I have seen so much change in technology and not only on the customer facing side. Through all the shiny new products, changes of shirts, changes of management from the top down, one simple truth has remained – the best of us are here to change people’s lives.
It’s the thing that kept me going in everyday for the last 10 years and will keep me going in. I’m may not like everyone but every day there is at least one person whose life I can make better with what I do.
If nobody ever understands, you give up trying to explain…
I had that dream again. That dream where my words kept getting jumbled. That dream where I’m awake but I think I’m dreaming. Am I dreaming now? I think I’m always dreaming. I have to be dreaming.
My doctor is no help. He mumbles some platitudes about my subconscious, fugue states and gives me more drugs to sleep. I go through the day in a fog. I feel like I’m constantly asleep and I am dreaming. Even my waking moments seem to be vivid dreams.
I talk to my co-workers. I ask them if they dream. They talk about their aspirations. They talk about the things they plan to do. They talk about vacations. They ask me about my dreams. Do I have co-workers? Are they part of my dream?
I should talk to my friends. Do I have friends? Why do I dream alone?
I talk to my doctor again. The drugs are not working. Are the drugs working too well? Am I awake? Am I always dreaming?
I have to be dreaming. I have no recollection of getting from one place to another. I see my doctor. I am in my apartment. I go to work. I am in my apartment. I see my doctor. I am writing this down. Where did I get this book? How are the words appearing on the paper. Am I dreaming? I see my doctor. I got to work. I am in my apartment. I must be dreaming.
[inclusion] trigger: miss, bliss, kiss, hiss
Miss Treatment was her professional name. She was a sex worker. She came to that particular career arc after a number of soul sucking adventures in a variety of corporate structures. She had always been amazing at what she did but until she became a sex worker she had been following someone else’s dream. Now, as a professional dominatrix, she had found her bliss.
Her male co-workers always accused her of being bossy and demanding, something they had no problem accepting from each other. One day as she muttered, “kiss my ass, you mysognist asshole” to the back of a director who couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on the bottom, she thought, he would probably pay for that and set about researching how to become a professional dominatrix. Three months later, she quit her last corporate gig, rented a space and never looked back. That was two years ago.
“Lick my boots” she hissed to the original inspiration for her career change. In the two years he’d made COO and become one of her most regular clients. She’d been right, he would pay for the privilege of kissing her ass.
I sat in front of the building applying lip gloss, not out necessity but as a means to pass the time as I waited. My boss was perpetually late, but I had a plan for that. The invitation in the calendar was 60 minutes before they were due to meet with the client. This is why I was sitting here, dressed to the nines in my moss green power suit and matching pumps, applying lip gloss and watching the 10 o’clock people speed smoke in the plaza. As I sat there crossing and uncrossing my legs, admiring the flex of my calves, I wondered what new eccentricity my boss would loose up on them today. Thus far I had experienced: the skirt tucked inside pantyhose, mismatched shoes and at the last meeting the mis-buttoned shirt and jacket combined with the large bit of salad still stuck in her teeth. That was the other reason I was here early, I could prep the boss in the ladies room. I could adjust clothing, I had floss, I was prepared. It’s not that my boss was a bad person, to the contrary she was brilliant and simply did not get the minutiae of everyday life. That was my job. Honestly if you let the simple missteps get in the way of her brilliance then it was your loss.
I was 22, first person in my family to go to college. I was living the dream, cushy law firm job in the big city, apartment with a view and a doorman. Traveling for work and for pleasure. All the things I was supposed to aspire to growing up black and poor were at my fingertips. I wasn’t thinking about Ferguson or Eric Garner. I had escaped. If they’re done as they were told they’d still be alive besides I had all the time in the world to fix this. I would make partner, establish myself, run for office. I could show everyone that if you studied hard and dressed properly you could be black and successful.
I’d rented a car to drive to a formal affair on a client’s property that was outside the city. I was trying to impress the client and I could write it off so I went with expensive but not ostentatious or I chose the Mercedes instead of the Jaguar or at least that was my 22 year old justification. If I got this client to sign a new contract I could lease one of these instead of renting it for the weekend.
I was on my way back to my building, luxuriating in the ride when I noticed the flashing lights in my mirrors. I hadn’t been speeding or ran amy lights so I moved to the slow lane to let the police car go by. The police car stayed behind me and as I braked at the next set of traffic lights I heard the officer demand that I pull over. I stopped, still puzzling over the nature of my infraction. The office approached the car and put my window down.
“Can I help you officer?”
“Do you know why I stopped you?”
“Can’t say that I do”
“OK. License and registration!”
“Sure let my grab…”
“HE’S GOT A GUN!”
My final thought as I sat at that redlight trying to catch my breath as fluid filled my lungs was what picture are they going to dig up to justify this?
As soon as you finally start to relax there is the fear we’re going to start arguing again.
We’ve both been at it for months, set off by the slightest hint of anything. The lights, the tap, a bit of hair on the floor, burnt toast, late responses to texts, anything, everything was grounds for an argument of epic proportions. Prolonged screaming matches that left us both exhausted and asking is it worth it? How did a relationship that started so well all those years ago come to this?
We were both rebounding from relationships that quietly run their course. We ran in the same circles and kept seeing each other and you went from quiet acknowledgement to actively seeking each other out. Accidental encounters became planned rendezvous and those turned in to dinner and a movie, and dinner and a movie turned into weekend trips and on and on until we were spending as much time at each other’s places as we were at our own.
Summed up like this, the relationship seems clinical but words on a screen can’t describe the passion of our first kiss or the unbridled joy of the early years. Yet at some point in the last six months something had changed and the passion and joy were replaced by bitterness, jealousy and acrimony. It was like a switch was flipped and everything that we enjoyed about each other became an irritant.
The screaming matches were part of the daily routine now. The violence was there under the surface, in words, the plethora of broken dishes and the tchotchkes crashing to floor when doors were slammed shut. Until that night at least. It was not intended, I simply wanted you shut up. I was tired of the sound of your voice and threw the closest thing at hand. I knew something was wrong, the immediate silence was almost oppressive. As there you lay, on the ground, mouth still agape, blood pouring from your wound, all I could think was I still love you so much. It was as if all the fights had never happened as I cleaned around you in the kitchen before turning my attention to you. There was never a thought about how I was going to explain this or what I was going to do with you. We were in this together, we were going to get over this rough patch and get back to where were before and for the first time in months we could breathe.
Or at least I could.
I never used to dream, I would put my head down on the pillow and I was out until I awoke the next morning. I was like this for a long time until one day on my way home a woman stopped me in the street and give me three stones. I never used to take things from strangers either. Yet, suddenly I was standing at the door to my apartment with three colored stones in my hand searching for my keys. I never searched for my keys, I knew where they were at all times — they were always clipped on my left side belt loop and tucked into my pocket. And now the stones were gone in their stead I was holding three oranges, and in pocket instead of my keys there were two small limes.
What’s the hell is happening to me?
I never used to lime, I kept my head down at work, didn’t really try to make friends and simply went straight home. I was like this for a long time until one day on my way home a woman stopped me in the street and give me three oranges. I never used to take things from strangers either. And suddenly I was standing at the door to a strange apartment with the three oranges in my hand. I had never been to this apartment before, but I knew the keys I had in my pocket could open the door.
What’s the hell is happening to me?
I never used to orange.
Wait! That’s not right…
I never used to keys.
I never…
“Doctor, test subject Deckard continues to show unusual brainwave activity in reaction to sheep stimuli. Shall I continue the test?”
My former partner once said of an affair, “I don’t know how it happened.” To which I responded, “did you simply trip and fall into her pussy?” Now here I was barely in the door, furtively trying to take off our clothes off while simultaneously attempting to keep my hands and mouth in contact with my oldest and dearest friend. We weren’t drunk and less than five minutes ago I was standing on the other side of the door saying my goodnights. I honestly couldn’t tell you how it happened. Except, maybe logically, I can.
Thursday night dinners have been a regular thing since we got married. We decided we were not going to our friendship whither. The dinners entertained us through our marriages, gave us solace during our respective divorces and allowed us to swap tales from the front lines of our jobs. During one dinner we sat with laptops on the table and created profiles for each other on the usual singles sites as we shared horror stories of dates gone wrong.
Tonight’s dinner didn’t feel different in any way. We ate, we caught up, we commiserated, we mocked and then we made plans for another dinner and drinks with friends. Then we started our goodbyes, which when you’ve been friends this long can take anywhere from five to 50 minutes.
Which as the song goes, brings us back to do-do-do. We were standing at the door, hugging like we have for the last 25 years with the usual provencial cheek kisses when it happened, a slip of the lip, but instead of pulling apart we were kissing. I could taste that combination of wine and chocolate mousse on our lips and I wanted more. We wanted more, which why we were now falling back through the door starting what’s clearly a new chapter in our friendship.
I’m fascinated by the media. I have been and continue to be a consumer, albeit in a more selective manner now than ever before. I have been a contributor of both advertising and editorial content. I am fascinated and appalled. Fascinated and appalled enough to be drawn into the train wreck that is the Brian Williams fiasco. Appalled by the notion that the likely most accurately researched news programs are hosted by comedians. In 2004, I wrote my unique perspective of the newspaper business and Trinidad’s ranking on the World Press Freedoms index. Since that time we have continued to endure malfeasance from the purveyors of our news and both Trinidad and the United States have slid down on the index.
Trinidad currently sits 41st with a score of 22.39, sandwiched between Samoa and Botswana while the United States sits 49th with a score of 24.41. The score puts both countries on the low side of the ‘satisfactory situation’ benchmark. Just for reference here are the categories and scores in context.
From 0 to 15 points: Good situation
From 15.01 to 25 points: Satisfactory situation
From 25.01 to 35 points: Noticeable problems
35,01 – 55 points: Difficult situation
55,01 – 100 points: Very serious situation
Although the index does not measure the quality of the media, some the variables they grade on like pluralism and media independence should give pause to any country clawing up from the bottom of the satisfactory category. Find the index and methodology here.
