The Christmas Story

“So, how was your Christmas?” my friend asks while taking a sip from her hot chocolate.

“Yeah, how was it?” another one chimes in.

I stare at my three friends who are huddling around the table, eyes fixated upon me as if I’m holding a piece of steak in front of my face. Not even men look at me with such intensity. My hands are wrapped around a hot cup of Chamomille tea, I’m blowing on it every couple of seconds while keeping eye contact.

“What’s up with you guys?” I say with a giggle, however, highly suspicious, “you’re acting all eager.”

“Something always happens with you,” my friend says with a slight whine, “come on, so… anything good happen?”

I stare at them for a moment, thinking if I should fall into their trap.

I sigh heavily and put my cup down on the table. “Yes,” I reply, with a slight disappointment. I bend down, grab my bag off the ground and place it on my lap. I’m rummaging through it and pull out the package, placing it onto the table.

“I don’t get it,” one friend says.

“That was my Christmas gift,” I reply in a monotonously.

---

“My god, can you imagine,” my great-aunt says to me with while anxiously chewing on a sugar cookie while she stares at the tv, “they let colored people on tv now.”

I close my eyes and press my fingers onto my forehead, “that’s the thing with equality, eh.”

“Natasha,” my great-uncle yells out with a thick Croatian accent, “you-you, you know, your friend came to pick you up yesterday?”

I pause in figuring out whether that was a statement or a question. “Yeah, she did,” I reply.

“She got stuck in snow, yes?” he asks eloquently.

“Yeah, she did, it wa–.”

“You know,” he starts to laugh, “this is what happens when woman drive.”

A wheezing sound escapes my mouth, “that’s right, Karl,” I reply with one of those smiles that don’t reach the eyes. I turn my head and I watch my grandpa’s head fall into his chest as he lets out a humbling snore. His pocket protector that’s perched in his chest pocket lightly grazes the bottom of his chin, he doesn’t notice.

“Everyone!” a voice sings out from another room, “it’s time to open presents!”

I calculated that I could possibly walk away with $300 if people get with the program and just give me cash. I figure that this cash is a ‘thank you’ for the racist and sexist banter that I calmly sit through.

Within minutes, the entire family pours into the family room and grabs whatever seat they can claim. We’re at my uncle and aunt’s house, who, are the original hipsters of Vancouver. Beside the tree, a stuffed deer foot lamp lights the room, while a painting saying, “go fuck yourself,” hangs in the corner. Underneath the humming of idle chatter, the vinyl record, Music for Plants is playing.

The presents get called out and are passed down the assembly line, one by one.

I’m the last name to get called and a small brightly wrapped package gets handed to me.

A present, I think to myself. How unusual nowadays to get an actual gift. I start feeling warmth springing inside my chest, I start smiling with uncertainty and excitement. Perhaps getting cash is overrated, perhaps being surprised with an unknown gift and unwrapping it to reveal the surprise is what we should all aspire to experience.

I open the card, it’s from my great-aunt. I look at her and thank her for the gift. I place the card on the table and slowly start to open the package. I undo the sides and then wiggle my finger under the tape on the top of the gift. The wrapping paper delicately falls open.

“What did you get?” my mom asks across the room.

The room goes silent, all eyes fall on me with the only thing being heard is the song from  Music for Plants, “For cactuses and other thorn-based plants.”

I hold the gift up and try to muster a smile, “I got the complimentary toothbrush and eye shade from a KLM flight.”

“That’s very useful,” my dad says, nodding his head from his chair in the corner.

 

I look at my brother from across the room, “what did you get?”

He lifts up a package, “the complimentary toothbrush and eye shade from possibly the same KLM flight.”

---

 

Two years later.

“Your flight has been delayed for a couple of hours,” the customer service lady says to me with a smile, “so, you’ll have to wait for your next flight at 2pm.”

I stare at her with bags under my eyes, “is there any lounge I can go to so I can sleep?”

“Unfortunately, you’re not in our star member program, so you’ll just be able to use the airport services.”

I aggressively grab my carry-on bags and search for an unclaimed bench to lay on. The bright lights burn my eyes and I wiggle around trying to find a position that’ll provide me comfort, yet darkness.

“Fucking, fuck,” I say, aggravatedly, as I get up and start to rummage through my bag. “Fucking star member program,” I unzip a side pocket on my laptop bag and pull out the complimentary toothbrush and eye shade kit, holding it in my hand in silence.

“I can’t believe this,” I mumble to myself as I tear it open.

I take the shades out of the package and start to place it over my head.

“Oh, ma’am,” a woman says, stopping in mid walk. “Can I ask you where did you get those eyeshades from? My flight didn’t come with any.”

I stare at her for a moment, “it was a gift.”

 

 

Jesus and Cream Sauce: How to survive the Arizona desert

“I don’t wanna walk this fucking mountain,” sixteen-year-old me says, as I stare out of the car window.

“Did you know it’s called God’s Thumb?” my dad says, ignoring my bitch moment.

“It doesn’t even look like a thumb,” I say with slight tone in my voice, hoping that it will instil fear in my family and result in us going back to the vacation house.

“It looks like a thumb,” my brother says, tying up his shoelaces. “you’re just being an asshole,” It does look like a thumb, I am just an asshole.

“I don’t see a single thumb resembling a mountain in sight, actually,” I reply, as I unlock my phone and stare at the screen. I realise at that moment, that my dad didn’t provide me with an out of the country data plan, leaving me virtually disconnected from my boyfriend of a week and a half. I wonder if we’ll make it through the week a part, but only time can tell. I continue staring at the screen for dramatic effect.

“Listen, Natasha. We’re going to climb this mountain,” my dad insists firmly, as he drives the rental car into gravel parking lot. We drive past a couple people, the car creates a giant dust ball, I watch the people choke as I see the mountain peering through behind them. Fuck you, thumb.

“Can’t I just stay in the car?”

“No, you out of all people cannot. We’ve already seen how the Mexican guys like you, I don’t need you being taken,” my dad says concerningly.

“They won’t take her, then they’d have to feed her,” my mother chimes in.

My family laughs as they undo their seatbelts. I did not share their emotional response as my love for food was no joking matter and Mexican men did terrify me ever since I ordered a burrito at this Mexican joint in a strip mall. The restaurant was next to a laundry mat, so, you knew it was authentic.

I had ordered the beef and bean burrito and was extremely excited to venture into Mexican cuisine. I had tried Taco Bell, but I knew, there had to be something more out there. When the food had arrived, everyone received their meals, while I waited for mine. The waiter was a young, Mexican guy who had soulful eyes, though they were hidden by a New York Yankees baseball hat. His name tag read ‘Jesus‘. He was lanky in stature but had veiny, strong hands – something I noticed while he came to the table with my burrito in hand. He placed the plate in front of me and without breaking eye contact said, “here’s your burrrrrito”. I don’t get who’s supposed to break eye contact first. Wait, why did he roll that many r’s? Just eat your burrito, Natasha.

I looked down at my plate and noticed my dish was the only one to be garnished with a white, yogurty substance. Though I was sceptical, I scraped the white sauce off my burrito and ate it. Ever since then, my love for burritos has been slightly tarnished.

I get of out the car, lugging my body towards the beginning of the trail. “God’s Thumb” the sign reads. I stare at the mountain for a moment. God’s Thumb is probably the most inappropriate name for this mountain. Other than the fact that it looks like a thumb, I can only describe it as being the color of desert sand with the only visible plant life being giant cactuses scattered amongst the slopes.

My mom and brother are already making their way up the mountain, finishing off the topic of me being unappreciative while then moving on to the discussion of Arizona’s vast nature. My father is walking along side with me, I can hear his New Balance runners crunching down against the gravel beneath. They’re highly supportive shoes.

“Why did we choose Arizona anyways?” I ask curiously, determining who I can blame for making me exert sweat.

My dad bends his arm in front of my face, “I have tennis elbow, Natasha.”

I stare at his hairy arm that’s being flung in front of my face, “right, the elbow,” nodding supportively.

This is all because of tennis elbow. If he didn’t have tennis elbow, I would have already made it to first base with my boyfriend, who at the time, lacked a fully developed chin.

We continue on the hike with the terrain becoming steeper and the potholes becoming more holy. My dad warns me of the giant potholes. I pat him on the back and tell him not to worry. I can see a pothole a mile away. Though I lack agility, I make up for it with my mountain goat hiking strength, it runs in the family. Give me a slope, and I’ll get up it.

“Look! It’s a snake!” my dad yells out suddenly with great excitement.

“Ah!” I scream, turning away for safety. I lose balance, and slip, sliding down the mountain side. I try to grip onto anything in my reach, however, my hands slip off of the loose rocks that tumble alongside me. I realize that the only thing that’ll stop me is the giant cactus that’s coming up ahead. I’m totally gonna hit this cactus. I hit the cactus with my leg as I fling the rest of my body upwards, grabbing onto the dirt, trying to prevent myself from wrapping around the cactus. I remain motionless for a moment and take a deep breath, looking up the hill to see where my dad is. My dad’s still standing on the trail, staring at me.

“Are you okay?” he yells.

I turn my head, take a deep breath before evaluating the damage. From this angle, my leg looks like it’s simply resting against the cactus. I jiggle it slightly. Nope, not resting, definately stuck.  I grab my thigh with one hand and my calf with the other as I slowly peel my leg off the cactus.

“AHHH, FUCK,” I scream out loud, seeing the thorns embedded in my calf.  I get on my knees and start crawling up the hill, feeling the thorns rub into my muscle. I make it to the top of the trail where my dad’s standing. He looks at me in silence as I collapse onto the trail, staring at my leg while crying.

“My…leg…,” I say, as the tears pour down my face. I start pulling thorns out of my calf, whimpering as I remove each one.

My mom comes half-way down the mountain to see what the commotion is.

“Natasha landed on a cactus,” I hear my dad loudly summarize.

“Oh god, well, we’re going to keep on walking then,” my mom says as she turns away.

“What happened?” my brother yells up down the hill.

“Your sister landed on a cactus,” she yells.

“Oh, okay, let’s keep walking,” he yells back.

I turn my head and see them continue their hiking up the thumb of God. Fuckers. I pull the last thorn out of my leg and watch the blood stream down. I continue crying for a couple minutes as I remain on sitting on the gravel trail.

“Okay, get up, Natasha,” my dad says with a short tone.

“I do-do-don’t wa-wa-nna go,” I stutter, “y-y-you go, I’ll be h-h-heere.”

“Natasha, get the fuck up!” he yells as people walk by, “Get up! You’re an Ivanovic! You’re a fucking Ivanovic! We don’t give up! Now get up!”

I’m shocked by the sudden profanity used in an attempt to inspire me. My dad takes my arm, lifts me up, shakes the dirt off me and grabs my hand, pulling him behind me as he walks up the hill.

“Don’t be a pussy,” he says, continuing to pull me behind him.

“You assholes, I just landed on a fucking cactus,” I begin to rage as I wipe my nose in my sweater. “Don’t be a pussy,” I say mockingly, “you go fucking fall on a cactus.” I stop walking and kick the dirt with my good leg, “God’s Thumb, this stupid fucking mountain.”

“See, someone’s watching over you.”

I walk up the rest of the mountain and back down in silence. We all bundle back into the car, turn on the AC and stop by a gas station next to a juvenile prison.

“Natasha, can you go pump the gas?” my dad asks.

“But, I just fell on a cac–” I saw, looking around the car for support.

“You’re the closest one to the pump,” my dad replies as everyone else is looking out of their windows. Oh, I see what this fucking is.

“Fine!” I open the door aggressive, get out of the car, undo the gas tank and start to pump the gas.

In the background, I hear fences shaking and people yelling, ‘chikta’. I ignore the background noise for a minute until it starts reaching an irritating volume. I turn around and notice that the fenced area is filled with men wearing neon orange jumpers.  They must be on lunch break since a small riot has developed up by the fence, yelling and hollering at me. I try to pump the gas faster, but realize that I’m an idiot and that you can’t pump gas faster. Knocking on the car window for reassurance, my parents turn and look at the group of men gathered by the fence. The car doors lock and I see my family laughing through the tinted windows.

I bang on the window hesitantly, “open up the car! This isn’t funny!”

The shaking and hollering become louder and louder as I’m rushing to put the gas cap on. I crank the door open, however, it remains locked.

“I fucking hate this place!” I scream at the car as I pound my good leg into the ground.

“Ay, chikita.” the voice says above the crowd, “I’m here baby, you don’t gotta be mad no more.”

I turn my head, squinting as I stare into the crowd, “Jesus?”

 

 

 

Hunting the blind

“Natasha, you have to get up,” a voice says from the bedroom door. The footsteps walk away and I hear a door close.

I groan and readjust my body that was reverting back to my fetal position days. With a solid stretch, I rub my eyes and stare at the ceiling. I can hear footsteps crunching in the snow outside my window. I grab my shitty drug dealer phone and look at the screen, it’s dead. I get up and shuffle to the bathroom with eyes half shut, untying my pajama pants in preparation. As I let the warm stream of pee flow into the toilet, I inspect my ripped bright green pajama pants slumped around my ankles, debating at what point do I have to get new ones before people start assuming I’m unhygienic. Fuck em’,  I love these pjs. With that thought, I look up from the floor and stare at the bathtub.

There’s a dead deer laying in the bathtub.

Fur is plastered onto the tile walls with one hoof elegantly draped over the rim of the tub, blood dripping onto the floor. I look around the bathroom for reassurance that this is normal, but I’m alone in silence.

“Uhh,” I say to myself, as I quickly tear off a sheet of toilet paper. I recently became environmentally conscious, however, my reduction in toilet paper sheets makes me uncomfortable in securing the moisture when I wipe.

“Dan!” I call out in a slight panic. No one replies.

I wash my hands quickly, forgetting the soap because I figure that time is limited since there’s a dead deer in the bathtub. I leave the bathroom and quickly walk around the cabin. There’s a kettle of water boiling and a barrel of sauerkraut next to the fridge.

What…why is there… a deer…

“Where is everyone,” as I curiously peek around corners, “….Jim? Dan?” I call out.

I walk to the hallway, slip on a pair of winter boots and the first jacket I see. My feet are swimming in the boots, struggling to lift my feet up, I scrape my heels along the floor to the front door. The arms of my jacket are so long, you can’t see my fingers, so I spend a couple extra seconds trying to turn the door knob. I open the door and take a step into the snow with the only sound being heard is my breath.

“Dan! Where ar–”

“Shh,” a voice says.

I look around trying to find the voice.

“You look like you’re swimming in that jacket,” a voice says behind me.

I turn around, surprised, and see Dan who’s looking more tired than usual. His 6’4 frame peers over me as I stare at his beard which isn’t able to grow on his cheeks. He’s carrying a black backpack.

“Where were yo–”

“Talk quieter, you’re so fucking loud,” he says annoyed. “You know you’re voice carries, right?”

I make a disgruntled face and stare at him in silence.

“Better?” I whisper offendedly, I pause for a moment, remembering the deer, “did you know there’s a deer in th—”

“Give Natasha this gun,” a deep voice says behind him.

The man approaches us with a couple of rifles, handing one to Dan, who passes it to me. He has a thick head of peppered hair that matches his long beard. He’s wearing a camouflage jacket and is chewing on a toothpick.

“Can I have one?” Dan asks as he passes me the rifle.

“No, you’re an idiot,” he says with a growly voice, extending his arm that’s holding another rifle. “Here, give this one to Jim.”

Dan takes the rifle and holds it against his torso, making a face that’s similar to when you’re constipated.

My eyes bulge and I take a step closer to Dan, “are you fucking kidding me?” I whisper, “Jim’s fucking blind. What the fuck is he going to do with a rifle.”

Dan shrugs his shoulders, “ I dunno, but Jim gets a rifle and I don’t.”

“I had to help you put on your sweater yesterday because you couldn’t find the hole, so yeah,” I say as I wipe the steaming snot dripping down my nose, “I get why you shouldn’t hold a loaded gun.”

“Dan! Natasha!” the man calls out, “Jim’s waiting over here, let’s get going.” There’s a moment of silence, “oh and Dan, point the gun away from your face.”

Dan and I start walking towards the voice. My feet drag in the snow as I’m staring at Dan limply holding the rifle. I wonder if, at some point during this walk, he’ll shoot himself in the face.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to yell? Also, can someone please tell me why there’s a dead deer in the bathtub?” I ask, walking behind him.

“You’ll see,” he replies, he adjusting his backpack.

As I walk behind him, I’m staring at the backpack which looks a little weighed down, “what’s in the backpack?”

Dan shakes his head as he continues walking.

We meet up with the man and Jim, who is holding a loaded rifle. Jim’s wearing Matrix shaped sunglasses with red lenses and a navy blue toque. He’s getting acquainted with the rifle as he runs his fingers along the barrel then gently circling them over the trigger. I breathe nervously and casually move myself, using Dan as a body shield as I pretend to admire a tree.

“Natasha, you’re going to walk behind Jim and Dan will walk behind you,” the man says. Great, I have a blind guy leading me and a 6’4 jealous gun enthusiast walking behind me. “Oh,” the man continues, “since you’re the only one out of you three that knows how to use a rifle, you need to be the eyes and ears while I guide us.”

“Okay, but I –”

“Let’s go”

“What the fuck am I looking out for,”  I mumble to myself as I shuffle my feet. “And who gives a blind guy a gun.”

Now piles up inside my boots as we walk up and down slippery slopes, through frozen streams and thick bush. All while the whole time I’m staring at Jim’s gun carelessly dangle off his shoulder in front of me.

The man hand gestures that we stop. We stop. He then gestures that we duck. We duck, falling into the snow and I hold my rifle, aiming it at a tree I found to be suspicious.

I don’t know what it is about this tree, but I genuinely don’t like it. 

“14 o’clock,” the man says, staring at me.

“Oh fuck,” I whisper to myself. I keep the rifle in one hand while I try to figure out the time in the other. Okay, so 14 o’clock is 2:00pm and then if this is the clock so, okay, right, up to the right. I point the gun to a single bush. As I lay in the snow, pointing my gun at the bush, I feel my pyjama pants quickly getting wet and my feet starting to freeze. I should have just said I’m having my period. 

“Let’s go,” the man growls quietly while waving.

We walk down a hill and come to a clearing with a steady river flowing through it. The only sound to be heard is the water, babbling down the river.

“Okay everyone,” the man lowers his rifle to his side. “Dan, give me your backpack,” he says, pointing to an area in front of the river, “Natasha, Dan, stand there. Jim, here’s the camera.”

I think I may die.

Dan takes off his backpack and hands it to the man. I hesitantly move into position and Dan puts his arm around my shoulders. Jim’s in front of us holding the camera up to his face, ready to capture a memory. I hear the backpack open behind us.

“Why is Jim taking a picture of us,” I whisper to Dan, “if he’s blind?”

“Just smile,” he mumbles back.

As I smile, I hear a large thud and then a splash. I turn my head to the side and see a deer head floating down the river. I quickly turn my head back, facing the camera.

“You carried a deer head in your backpack?” I say, twitching nervously as I smile.

“Apparently, it’s illegal to shoot deer here.” he replies, smiling.

“Right,” I mumble back, “also, why are we even smiling for the photo,” I say, relaxing my cheeks, “Jim’s not even pointing the camera in the right direction.”

“Jim!” Dan yells, “move the camera more to your left.”

Jim repositions the camera while holding it up to his face.

“A little more,” Dan yells and pauses for a moment. “No, no,” he waves his hand, “now a little to the right.”

“Why is the blind guy taking the picture?” I say, wiping my nose in the sleeve of my jacket. “There’s no one else on this mountain, why do we need to pretend to take photos?”

“If someone sees us,” Dan says smiling, “it looks like we’re just out for a family walk.”

“With rifles,” I reply monotonously, “this has to be the stupidest shit you’ve gotten me into. Not only that, I googled this mountain and found out that there’s a rehab facility close by where they literally beat the addicts sober.”

Dan stares at me in silence.

“Don’t deny it.” I say, resting the rifle on my shoulder, “I saw the YouTube video.”

---

 

I’m sitting at the dinner table, next to the barrel of sauerkraut. Dan is across from me and Jim is at the head of the table feeling a loaf bread. A woman with a long black braid and thick long johns puts a giant pot of soup in the middle of the table.

I lean into the pot, smelling it with delight and entitlement , “ooh what kind of soup is this?”

I rip off a piece of warm bread and stuff it into my mouth. “It’s deer soup,” as she ladels it into my bowl.

“The one from the bathtub?” I say with a mouth full.

 

 

 

How to make a murderer

“So… remember how you had a theory that I murdered my guinea pig?” I stare at the floor of the cafe, there’s a feather stuck between the waxed hardwood floor and my chair’s leg. My friend stops stirring in her cup of tea and looks up at me.

“Yes…”

“I didn’t exactly kill h–”

“I fucking knew it.” She takes a bit of her complimentary cookie, “you’re a murderer.”

I stop stirring my tea and look up at her, “Can you just listen, okay? I’m not a murderer”. I pick up my stirring spoon and continuing to dissolve the honey crystals at the bottom of my cup.

---

“I killed my guinea pig,” I say, slamming the front door behind me.

“Oh god, Natasha, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Hey, this is my therapy session,” I say, taking off my coat and throwing it over the back of a leather chair, “you can’t be judgemental, it was like a year ago.”

“I’m your mother, Natasha.”

I stand for a moment in silence, staring at her as she shakes her head while continuing to peel a potato. Though I’m feeling guilty, my stomach is grumbling. I walk halfway to the fridge but am unsure if getting a snack is inappropriate at this time. So, instead, I stand with my hands on my hips, looking around the room, thinking of how I’m going to change the topic.

“Well, who buys someone a guinea pig when I specifically asked for a Vietnamese pig.”

“Wasn’t it dressed in a Vietnamese headdress?”

“Yes, but does that make it a pig, no?” I take a couple steps closer to the fridge. “And plus it was shitting all the time.”

“This is coming from the girl who likes the smell of sewage plants”

“When did I ever say that?” I ask, opening the fridge door. “I said, I don’t mind it, I’m not gagging when we drive by it – I can tolerate it.”

My mother stops peeling the potato in her hand and places it down while she stares at me.

“I cannot believe you killed an animal.”

“I didn’t kill it,” I say, opening the fridge with mind calculating what I could make with a jar of pickles and a red pepper, “it committed suicide.”

---

My friend slams her fist on the table in victory, “I knew you killed it!” 

“Can you let me tell the full story?”

My friend takes a sip of her tea, smiling.

---

“Natasha, how can a guinea pig commit suicide?” My mother asks.

I ignore her question and continue looking through the fridge, what can I make with a jar of pickles and a red pepper?

“Mom, listen, I need to tell you what happened. You know Clarisse, she was shitting everywhere. Like, the house was filled with her shit, I couldn’t handle it anymore. People come over, play with her but I’m left with the shit. And I know you don’t think I clean, but I was cleaning her shit every day. So, that day, like every other day, I put her cage outside on the balcony while I was vacuuming because she was scared of loud noises.” I place the jar of pickles on the counter. “I guess the door of her cage just happened to be unlocked and when I came to take her back inside, her cage was empty.”

“Oh my god, Natasha. The poor thing jumped off the balcony, terrified.”

With a pickle in my hand, I take a bite, “Don’t they have depth perception? Don’t guinea pigs come with that?” I take another bite of the pickle. “You’d think that was just a natural instinct.”

My mother puts the knife down and turns to me, like a detective discovering the hidden clue, “you put her on the balcony on purpose.”

I lick the pickle juice off of my fingers, “did I know there were pigeons on the balcony? Yes. Did I hope one would eat her? Ehhh”.

My mother shakes her head and gets up from her chair with a bowl of freshly peeled potatoes in her hand. I take a step towards her to grab the bowl of potatoes, she jerks away from me, “I can’t look at you right now.”

“What? I was just being honest!”

“I hope you buried her.”

I stand in silence, turning around to go back to slicing the red pepper.

“You did bury her.”

My brother walks into the kitchen, wearing a white wife-beater and gray sweatpants. He takes a bite from the half eaten apple in his hand.

“She threw her in the trash after leaving her in a cookie jar for a week on the balcony.”

I stare at my brother as he gets a glass of water.

“You did what!”

My brother has his back leaning against the sink, with a glass in one hand and an apple in the other.

“Yeah, she sent her guinea pig to die.” He says, putting his glass on the counter. “What’s even a better question, why didn’t you just put her in another room while vacuuming?”

I shoot my brother a look. He takes a slow bite of his apple while keeping eye contact.

I stare at him without flinching, “Because she needed to get some air.”

My mother placed her hands over her mouth gasping, “you murdered her.”

“Why does everyone keep using the word murder?” I say, placing a piece of red pepper on top of a sliced pickle, perfection. My mother and brother continue speaking, but I don’t hear anything. I’m thinking about red peppers and pickles, how two opposites foods blend in my mouth so delightfully.

 

---

“On the bright side, there’s no more shit”. I mumble to myself.

“What?” my friend says, leaning over the table.

“Shit. There’s no more shit.”

How to go on a road trip with your 75-year-old roommate

“You come with a-me on holiday tomorrow a-morning?” the words struggled through the lips of my 75-year-old Italian roommate, Dina. She sat on the other end of the table with a napkin laid out in front of her that was safely holding her sliced marinated eggplant – her chubby, wrinkly fingers dripping in olive oil. As she waits for my answer, she licks the olive oil off of the tip of her thumb.

I look up from my salad.

“Ahhhh,” I  pause, thinking of the appropriate hand gesture, “Okay. Where?” I ask as I furrow my brow and point around the room with my fork in my hand.

Dina points to the ceiling.

I’m not sure what that means.

“Okay, I come with you,” nodding and smiling in agreement.

“We go nine and thirty morning,” she says with an appetizing smile.

“Okay, grazie,” I take an oversized mouthful of lettuce.

I hit my alarm. 9:00 am. I grab an old gym bag and fill it with things I’ll be needing. Toothbrush. Ipod. Journal. Water bottle. An Apple.

I sit at the kitchen table with my bag, waiting for Dina. The bathroom door opens, and the pattering of tiny footsteps are heard coming my way. At the kitchen door, Dina appears, completely naked. I try to focus on her face with a neutral expression indicating how normal I think this situation is. Dina is a short strong woman, with red-framed glasses and a gray pixie cut. Her breasts are eye-level to me, however, to avoid staring, I tilt my head slightly upwards. But through my peripherals, I can see that they look incredibly smooth and perky which has my curiosity changing from why she’s standing in front of me naked, to how she maintains such luminosity and lift at her age. I’m also experiencing quick spurts of jealousy. In comparison, my breasts were developed through genetic laziness. It seems that my genetic evolution became tiring and my body said, screw it, and slapped on two pepperoni slices on my chest, calling it a day. My neck is straining as I wait for Dina to say something. She finishes staring at the ceiling, pondering in silence, she turns around and walks away.

Ten minutes later, Dina has three large bags by the door. We make our way downstairs, and she opens the trunk of her car. I cannot describe this romantically – she’s a mess. Shoes, sweaters, a spare tire, cookie crumbs – thrown and squeezed into every nook and cranny of her Fiat Pinto.

I get into the passenger seat, Dina starts the car and makes the slowest U-turn I have ever sat through. Half way out of Turin, she realizes she forgot her cell phone charger. She makes a u-turn back to the apartment. She runs upstairs and grabs it, gets back in the car and turns on the radio, playing Manu Chau. She makes an effort to sing along, only blurting out the words she can identify – marijuana and zion.

An hour into the drive, we’re on a winding, Italian mountain road. She slows the car down, speculating a questionable dirt road, hidden by some trees – we go up it. The houses become sparse and we’re left with only countryside surrounding us. We pull up to a large gate. She rolls down her window and rings the buzzer. A dog barks, the gate opens. A small and slender old woman pops her head out and waves us in. We park the car inside an old barn, and I get out to introduce myself. The old woman is Lenna. She’s 83-years old, partially deaf and has three tumors in her brain. She’s wearing a pink long-sleeve shirt that has the phrase “just try and judge me” written on the chest, with a bright blue vest over top.

“Go,” waving her hands in the air,  “be free,” Dina says to me as she grabs some bags and heads into the house.

I’m left standing in the barn alone. I grab a lawn chair and go to the backyard which overlooks a winery. I take off my shirt, and lather on some sunscreen in an attempt to remove my tan lines that are visible from last summer’s tan. Laying down, the sun slowly whispers sweet nothings into my ear and I doze off. I awake with a stream of drool seeping through the corner of my mouth and Lenna, standing over top of me applying lotion to my breasts.

I wipe the drool from my mouth, and quickly grab my breasts while anxiously stuttering, “I have crema — no problemo, grazie..”.

Lenna can’t hear me. I repeat my sentence loud and slowly while I casually lather the glob of lotion she smothered onto my chest. I continue to repeat my sentence slowly, now miming the word “sunscreen”. As I mime the sun, behind Lenna, I see the large bird poke it’s head over the fence. I screamed and grabbed my breasts even harder, worried that this giant bird may mistake them for mushy peas or corn. Lenna turns around, looks at the bird, looks back at me and jolts towards me, cawing.

I mumble to myself in confusion and fear, “th-that’s not a crow, Lenna, that’s an ostrich”.

Lenna’s neighbour has a free-range ostrich that is twice the size of the wooden makeshift fence that’s dividing us. Lenna walks away and I remain lying on the lawn chair, staring at the ostrich, suspicious of its every move, however, at the same time, fighting the temptation to retreat inside.

“You don’t intimidate me,” I mumble to the ostrich, my hands folded across my chest. It stares back in silence. “You think you’re something special cause you’re free-range? I just became vegan, I haven’t eaten meat in three weeks, I’m in the relapse phase – watch yourself”.

The stare down between me and the ostrich lasted well until the sun fell behind the barn walls. I slowly got up from the lawn chair and left my nemesis outside to go eat dinner.

Dina, Lenna and myself are seated at the dining room table. The walls are bright orange and covered in an excessive amount of bright blue Italian plates. A bowl of pasta sits in the middle of the table, with an even larger bowl of sliced bread beside it. Lenna grabs a handful of bread and places it beside her bowl. Dina starts speaking in Italian, my eyes glaze over and I revert into my bowl of pasta.

“PANE! PANE!” a voice screams out from the dinner table.

I jolt and look up expecting one out of the two to have died face first into their pasta bowl. I quickly find out that both are alive and well, Lenna has simply run out of bread. She continues yelling until I reach for the bread bowl and pass it to her. She takes a handful of bread, puts one in her mouth and breathes slowly. I put the bread bowl down slowly, looking around the table – everyone continues eating as normal.

I decide that this moment in order to prevent early signs of aging,  I’m going home in the morning.

“Dina,” I call out. I get no reply.

“Dina!” I say a little louder. Dina looks up from her plate.

“Si?” she asks.

“Tomorrow, I go home. I skype for job, ” I slowly explain to her in broken English. While waiting for her to process the sentence, I realize that though this excuse is true, it’s also a great one and I must save it for future terminations.

“Oh, okay, no problem,” Dina replies.

I’m waiting by the front door with my things packed. Dina comes wearing a baby blue velvet tracksuit and crocs, swinging the car keys around her finger. Lenna comes down the stairs, dressed in a cherry-red suit. She starts yelling, pointing at her hands, indicating that she needs the batteries of her hearing aids to be changed. I stare at the hearing aids in my hand, this is it.  I change the batteries on her hearing aids , the screeching from the hearing aids indicates that they’re working. Lenna can now hear.

We get into the car and drive to the train station. At the train station, all three of us are standing in front of the train schedule. Dina and Lenna are arguing over what time my train will arrive. I point to the screen, explaining to them that the train arrives in five minutes. They stare at the screen for a moment, reading out loud each line together. They conclude that I’m not an idiot as they both nod in agreement, hug me and leave.

After the train ride, I arrive home, put my things down on the floor and lay on my bed. I grab my computer, open google and type, “how to stop aging” and “why do hearing aids screech when you turn them on?”. I wait for the pages to load.

 

Crying at the discotheque

“I don’t get how I got this shit,” I say with my head laying on the kitchen, feeling as though my energy is being funneled out of my chest through a swizzle straw.

“I guess we all got the same virus,” my dad says as he’s drying a dish.

I raise my head up from the table in an investigatory nature. My hair is in a messy bun and my mouth tastes like the kale I threw up all night. I’m wearing a worn out t-shirt that has a hole in the breast area. My nipple’s poking out through it. I notice and though I don’t care, out of curiosity, I tuck it back in my shirt. It has no place in the outside world.

“You know, I probably got it from you. You were vomiting the day before, and then I went to poop,” I lift my head even higher from the table, “and the water probably shot back up and the bacteria went inside me and now, look.”

My dad looks at me in silence as he makes an unsettling look, “it’s not because of the toilet water.”

“Well, I have no other rational explanation for it,” I drop my head heavily back onto the table.

---

 

“Out of everyone, he ruined you the most, I think,” my friend says as we look out at the Danube River, sitting on a park bench.

“Yeah, I know,” I reply flatly.

“No one else invested that much time an–”

“I know, I know,” I say, cutting him off. “But, now, I feel so much better not seeing him, you know, it’s been a year since I’ve hung out with him.”

“Yeah, that’s the best for you.”

A few minutes pass. I look at the time, it’s 2 am.

“Okay, I’m off, I gotta go to sleep,” I announce as I yawn, getting up from the park bench.

“Alright, I’ll give you a shout in a couple days, we’ll chill,” my friend says as he puts out his hand.

“Sounds good,” as I shake his hand.

I’m walking home, heading up to pass through the city park. The entrance of the park is laced with thick prickly hedges, as I place one foot into the park, my phone rings.

“Where are you?” Tijana says.

“I’m just walking through the park, going home, where are you?”

“I’m at the park, just wait, I’m coming to get you.”

“Who are you with?” I ask as I see Tijana walking around the corner towards me.

“You’ll see, just come, it’s a fun time,” she says into the phone as she waves to me.

I keep talking to her on the phone and end up standing in front of her with my phone still stuck to my cheek. 

Tijana’s wearing a black and white psychedelic dress. The dress covers her chest, however, her tits somehow manage to look even bigger than usual. We walk back towards the group she’s hanging with, as I approach, my eyes set on one of the guys there – the hair on my arms immediately stands up.

“Cao, Natasha,” the guy says as he kisses me on the cheek, holding a half-empty bottle of Rakija in one hand.

I haven’t seen him in months. He looks thinner and sadder then I remember. His cheeks look concaved, yet there’s still a dim light in his eyes. We stand for a moment, facing each other in silence.

“Guys, let’s gooooo!” Tijana says enthusiastically.

I quickly turn my head, “I’m gonna go hom–”

“No, no, you’re coming with us, just for a little bit,” as she takes my hand and pulls me towards her car.

I’m sitting in the back seat of her car with a breakdancer to my left who is listening to some annoying song on his portable speaker, a drunk skater boy seated in the front passenger seat, Tijana in the driver’s seat, and the guy to my right. Because of his height, the guy’s legs are pressed up next to mine, making the side of my thigh slippery with sweat.

“Cao Natasha,” the guy says to me.

“How are you?” I ask, shifting my thigh.

“Great,” he lethargically says while looking at his bottle.

“What have you been up to?”

“What have you been up too,” he says mockingly, “you’re so boring.”

In the background, everyone is laughing loudly, competing with the shitty music that’s playing even louder. I’m sitting in the middle of the back seat in silence. The guy’s arm moves my hand around his neck as he lowers his head onto my chest. I hug him with my other arm. Tijana and the other’s continue their laughter as I stare straight ahead through the window, cradling him. He lifts his head up and kisses me on the cheek, I stroke his head as he places it back onto my chest. He lifts his head up again and kisses me on the cheek. He’s head falls back onto my chest as he falls asleep. My eyes are watery and I continue to stroke his head until we arrive at the club.

“Maybe we should leave him in the car to sleep,” I say.

“No, no, he’ll be fine, I’ll wake him up,” the breakdancer says.

The guy wakes up and stumbles out of the car, holding the bottle of rakija. He opens the bottle, takes a chug and tries to put the cap on. I take the bottle from him and tell him that I’ll hold onto it for him. I leave it in the car.

I push the bamboo door open and walk into the club. It’s an outdoor club that’s filled with blue strobe light and cigarette smoke. People are dancing on empty oil drums and wooden tables, while in the corner there’s a dance off between some guy with a tear drop tattoo on his cheek and another guy with a man bun. Our group splits up. Tijana and I begin dancing on a bench beside a white girl with cornrows, she doesn’t know any of the words to the song “California”. As I’m dancing on the bench, a small Nigerian man is standing below me, with large white eyes, trying to mimic my dance moves.

“You dance nice, girl.” he yells at me with a thick accent.

“Thank you,” I yell back.

“Come and dance with me, baby girl,” he says as he jerks his hips.

I smile back and shake my head.

I overlook the small Nigerian man and see the guy, falling asleep in the corner. I jump down from the bench and head to him.

“You have to wake up,” I say, shaking him.

There’s no reply. I pick up his wallet and house keys that are laying on the ground, next to his feet. I tuck them back into his jean pocket and try to wake him up.

“Why don’t you come over here–,” I say, with a hand on his shoulder.

“Fuck you,” he jerks himself away from me, resting his head on the club wall, continuing to sleep.

 

People are grinding next to me, dropping their beers on the concrete floor, making out with their saliva flying, splattering on each other’s cheeks and lips, all while the music is giving a steady rhythm. I stand in front of him and stare in silence.

I turn away and walk towards the exit.

“Where are you going?” Tijana says, just catching me before I leave.

“I can’t — I can’t do this, I’m going home,” I say, with watery eyes, “I’m not doing this again.”

“Okay okay, we’ll go, just let me say goodbye to some people,” she says, grabbing her purse.

I walk up my the stairs to my apartment, open the door, take off my shoes, pause for a moment and then run to the bathroom. I quickly move my hair out of my face, holding onto it with one hand, while holding myself up with my other hand, vomiting into the toilet. I finish, sit beside the toilet, grab a piece of toilet paper and begin to wipe the dried dirt and beer from my legs. I go my bed and stare at the ceiling until morning.

---

“Which towel is yours?” My mom yells from the bathroom.

“The green one,” I reply, as I lift my head from the table and wipe the drool creeping from the corner of my mouth.

“But that’s Alex’s towel,”she replies.

“No it’s min— why does he use my towel,” I yell back. “You know what, that’s probably why I got sick. His bacteria was on the towel and then I used it, wiped my face into it and now, look.”

Death over cocktails

“Here’s your mojito,” the bartender says as he hands me my glass. He has one of those mustaches that curls up on the ends and is wearing a Hawaiian themed t-shirt.

I look around the bar and realize that all the staff are wearing Hawaiian themed t-shirts. I look around again and notice there is not a single piece of Hawaiian decoration on the walls, I turn my focus back to my Mojito.

My friend is sitting across from me. He’s from New Zealand and has one of those accents which clearly identify him as someone who’s from New Zealand. I met him over Facebook after I posted an adoption picture of me and my cat on some group. He replied to my post saying that I had a nice cat. I asked if he wanted it, he said no. We’ve been friends ever since.

“If you didn’t call me, I wouldn’t have left my house,” I say as I jab my straw between the crushed ice in my glass.

“Why not?” he asks, sipping his gin and tonic.

“I just don’t want to see anyone, I feel – not that I don’t care, but I feel numb.”

“Have you been thinking abo—”

“Are you asking me suicide prevention questions?”

“No,” he pauses, “if I was going to ask you safety questions since you know, I am a doctor, I would ask you, have you thought about hurting yourself?”

“Yes,” I genuinely answer as I take a sip of my mojito, “I think everyone’s thought about hurting themselves. You know when you’re driving and you just want to –” I gesture a tilting steering wheel, “you know, just see what would happen if you went straight into the pole.”

He nods, “why don’t you just hit the breaks really fast in a parking lot?”

“That’s not the same.”

“It’s a good way to see how it feels.”

“Yeah, but you don’t really get to see how it feels to hit the pole.”

There’s a pause as he grabs his drink, “have you made any plans for this?”

“Of course not, I’m too selfish and too much of a pussy to do that.”

He nods with satisfaction and stirs his drink with the miniature wooden stir stick in his glass.

“But the past couple months, it’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

“What, dying in general? Or your death?”

“My death,” I take a sip, “not even the after-life part, I’m concerned about the exact moment I will die – the realization of my own death. That’s all I think about when I’m alone.”

“Are you sure this isn’t because your just grandpa died,” he asks.

“No, no, no, I don’t think so, I mean, this has been going on in my mind for a while now,” I pause for a moment. “Yesterday, I thought about it so much, I  had a moment of insanity at the take-out joint I went to.”

He finishes his drink and waves at the bartender for another round.

---

I’m at the take-out place that lets you pick out the food you want by weight, they have literally every possible meat dish available – I don’t eat meat. The place is as big as my bathroom and overheated from the oven that’s currently roasting a couple chickens. A few husky businessmen are eating at one of the tables in the corner, fully emerged in lunch time conversation. However, I’m focused at the lady working behind the counter. She has the oven open and is currently poking a roasting chicken. Her hair’s in a sloppy ponytail and she’s wearing a visor. I stare at her visor for a couple moments, thinking of how useless they are. They don’t actually protect you from the sun. You will get melanoma if you wear a visor. Anyways, as I’m staring at her visor, my eyes scan down to her face. Her face was one that you wouldn’t mind punching. Not because she’s wearing a visor, which I think is enough of a reason, but because she has that type of jaw that is overly relaxed, where her mouth is almost half-way opened, as if she’s saying “duh”.

“What do you want,” she asks unenthused.

“We’ll take four pieces of fried zucchini,” I say, pointing to the plate.

She takes a pair of tongs, and moves the regular sized zucchini slices out of the way, selecting four miniature-sized pieces, stuffing one-by-one into the plastic container. I look at her slightly perplexed, then I glance at my dad, giving him the “what is she doing” look. He’s too busy examining the potato salad to notice my cry for help. I continue watching her seal up the plastic container and set it on the counter.

This bitch did that on purpose, I think to myself with slight rage. And she’s probably hasn’r even thought about her death.  That fucking visor.

“Are you serious?” I ask her as I feel my face becoming warm.

She looks up at me emotionless, “what.”

“Who’s eating that,” I say pointing to the container, “do you see the size of those pieces you picked? Who’s eating that? Are you gonna them?” I pause and look up at the ceiling for a quick moment and place one hand over my mouth. “Do I look like a fucking midget to you?” I point to my dad, “do we look like small people, what the hell am I supposed to do with the shit end of a zucchini.”

My dad starts to order another dish, “ha, ohhhkay and we’ll take, the, uh,” he looks intensely through the glass, ” yeah, let’s do 200 grams of the potato salad.”

She moves her attention to my dad as she scoops out some potato salad.

“Did you want more?” she asks him.

“Yeah, one more scoop, please.”

“We don’t have anymore,” she says as her gaze hits my eyes. She turns around to weigh the container.

I turn to my dad hastily, “Did you just see what she did?” I whispered. “What th — you know what this is, she thinks she controls the fucking food supply. That’s what this is, a fucking power tactic – this bitch, I swear, Dad, fucking Darwin.”

My dad nods in agreement and politely pays for the food.

“Bye-bye now,” my dad says cheerfully as he walks out the store.

I grab the food from the counter and wave my middle finger in the air behind him.

---

 

“You actually did that?” Alex asks me as the waiter comes by with a tray of shots.

“Well, yeah, I was having a mental breakdown and also, you should have seen the size of those things. It was fucking ridiculous,” I reply as I grab a shot glass.

There’s a moment of silence.

“Well, I bought you something, but I’m not sure now —,” he pulls out a plastic bag and hestitantly puts it on the table.

“What is it?”

“A book about death.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I didn’t know…you were..uh..it’s a comedy…”

I stare at him in silence.

He looks at me and takes a shot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beer breath and denim: A Serbian Wedding

“Just be yourself,” a man says to me drunkenly.

“What?” I yell over top of the jazz clarinet playing in the background.

“I like you,” he slurs while holding a beer, “just be yourself. You’re dressed like a – you know.”

“What, what do I look like?” I ask him.

He fumbles trying to say his next sentence.

“I’m at a wedding, you’re wearing fucking jeans and a polo,” I loudly say in his ear.

“Just be yourself,” he insists as he stumbles backward.

I stare at the sky in silence trying to control my rage. I then watch him regain his balance as he continues to wobble beside me on the dance floor. I turn around and walk back to the table, grab my orange juice and sit down.

---

“Just look at me!” I tell my parents, as I look up at the ceiling to avoid watery eyes.

“You look sweet, it’s a nice change on you,” my mother says sincerely.

I look like a goat milker. I’m unaware of how goat milkers actually look, but I have a sense that I would be suitable for the position at this very moment. In an attempt to look more feminine and gentle, I am now sporting a mushroom hairdo. My mother had told me that I needed to look clean, so, she suggested that I should step back from the overly curly mop look and go for something more subtle. I’m not naturally subtle but, I started thinking, maybe a change would be good. So, now I’m here and late for the wedding.

“I’m late,” I say monotonously, “Bye mom.” I grab my bag and head out to Tijana’s house.

I knock on Tijana’s  front door, she opens and stares at me with big eyes. I say nothing as I walk past her and head straight into her room. She follows.

“I look like a goat milker,” I say as I put down my bag.

“No,” she laughs non-convincingly, “you look sweet”.

“This wedding is going to be full of doctors,” I look up at the ceiling with a quivering lip, “and, look at me” my arms fall to my side, “nobody’s going to want this.”

“You don’t have to find someone at this wedding.”

“I want free therapy!” my eyes start to water, “you know how expensive acupuncture is.”

“Stick your head in the shower,” she says as she straps on her high heels.

My head is under the sink faucet. I’m hunched over, staring blankly at the bar of soap that’s eye level to me. Tijana’s dog is humping my leg ferociously at the same time. I don’t move.

I blow dry my hair and it returns back into its normal bush. We leave to the wedding.

We arrive at a cobblestoned street in the middle of the forest. I hobble down the cobblestones with Tijana grabbing onto my arm for support. I watch my heels balance for stability between the cracks of stone. With each step, I go deeper in thought.

Am I undressed for this? Oh god, I hope they have vegetarian options. And stick to water, you’re bloated. 

I turn the corner and stand at the entrance of the open-air restaurant, filled with floating lamps and wedding-like decorations. The first guest I see is a girl with bleached blonde hair, wearing camouflage pants and sneakers. The boy beside her is wearing denim jeans and a low V-neck t-shirt.

“This is the wedding, right?” I ask Tijana as I look at the guests and then stare at her outfit. She’s wearing a tight one shoulder black dress that accentuates every curve of her body, matched with a pair of large golden hoop earrings. Let’s just say that you could easily go to a club with that dress.

We walk into the venue and the room goes silent as they all stare at us.

“Has no one been to a fucking wedding before?” I mumble to Tijana.

During dinner, two men come up to us and ask for a seat. One’s a doctor and talking to Tijana, so, I am given no option but to wing woman. The man that sits down beside me is partially balding and wearing a plaid shirt fully buttoned, jeans, and new balance orthopedic sneakers, he says he’s a psychiatrist.

“I like flamingo dancing,” my guy says to me as he sits attentively in my direction.

Are you fucking kidding me? 

With forced enthusiasm I say, “really?” and turn my head to pick up my glass of juice which I am strongly regretting that I didn’t opt for something a little stronger – like vodka or a horse tranquilizer.

I return my attention back to the psychiatrist only to see that he’s decided to practice his flamingo dancing moves in front of me. He snaps his fingers from side to side, wiggles his hips in his seat and rhythmically taps his feet on the ground. I think he’s peacocking, I read that somewhere.

“Okay,” I say as I put my drink down, “well, I’m going to go to the dance floor, it was great talking with you.” I swiftly get up and speed walk to the crowd in hopes of losing him.

Twenty minutes later, Tijana finds me on the dance floor.

“Where’d you go?” She yells.

“To safety,” I yell back as I swing my hips, “did the doctor get your number?”

“Yeah, I’m going to go back and talk to him,” she yells as she walks away.

For a moment, I feel relief. Sure, I may not have met anyone, but I may be the plus one of  Tijana’s potentially new boyfriend’s yacht. While I’m dancing alone, I realize that if you just be yourself, things will work themselves out, you don’t need to try so hard.

My moment of deep realization quickly came to an end, as I feel a hot breath on my face.

“Just be yourself,” he drunkenly says.

I look up at the sky with rage.

 

 

 

 

 

Stiff crotches on a Saturday night

I’m sitting on a rusty metal chair on the roof of a theater. The film’s about to start and everyone is lighting their cigarettes, emotionally preparing for the film. The theater, once closed, was taken hostage and squatted in by a group of film students. Now, it plays daily films for $1, one of them being my friend’s new feature film.

I’m planning on out going after the film, so I’m dressed unusually fancy for an event that’s filled with people wearing leather on leather. My cherry red nail polish is sparkling through my peep toe heels and each step is creating overly dramatic clicking sound that no one is paying attention to. In the corner, I see the director, my friend, dressed in a leather jacket and black pants. The main actress, standing beside him is also wearing a black leather jacket and black pants. I wonder if they purposely planned that fashion faux pau. The theater roof is surrounded on three sides by deteriorating apartment buildings and every so often you can hear a part of the building falling off, hitting the pavement. The screen sits in front of the murky Belgrade sky, with cigarette smoke filling the air and my nostrils.

A friend of mine spots me sitting alone and takes a seat beside me, he’s wearing khakis and a navy blue polo shirt. His name’s Milutin. He has soulful eyes and works in the IT sector. On Tuesday nights he takes German classes and on Sundays, he plays the bass in a heavy metal band.

“Check out the turnout,” he says, adjusting himself in his seat.
“Yeah man, the theater’s packed,” I say, looking around.

I wiggle into my seat, trying to find a comfortable position.

“Am I gonna make it through this film?”

“Not in these gypsy seats,” he replies, moving his hips into position.

The outdoor lights turn off and the screen goes dark. The roof filled with people immerses into a deep silence. The film is about a girl who falls in love with her female best friend. It’s black and white. I prefer color.
On screen, the main character is writing a love note to her friend, with her breath being the only thing you can hear. With each breath she takes, a male voice interjects from behind me and Milutin.

“You motherfuckers!”

My friend and I turn around to see an old man with long shaggy hair in a baby blue t-shirt on his balcony yelling at the crowd below.

“Turn that shit off you fucking fucks!” he yells as he shakes his fist to the crowd.

The film continues to play without anyone noticing his requests.

“Shame on you! Shame on you assholes!” he continues to yell. “I’m coming down there to fuck you up!”

His door slams shut.

I choke on my laughter as a tear gently rolls down my face. The main character, Sarah, finishes writing the letter.

“He’s going to come down here and ax us,” my friend says with a whispering chuckle as he nervously playing with his fingers.

I turn around and see a couple behind us.

“It’s okay, the guy behind us and his girlfriend will be the first ones to go,” I say reassuringly.

“Okay, good. As long as we’re not the first ones,” he says as he crosses his arms and stretches his legs out under the seat in front of him.

Sarah hands her friend the letter and tells her not to open it until later that night.

“Where do you want to lick me?” a female voice behind me says.

I stare at the screen while trying to tune out the film so I can hear the conversation.

“Where would you lick me?” the male voice replies charmingly.

They start to giggle. I haven’t turned around yet, but the girl has an annoyingly loud voice and every time she speaks, people in front of me squirm in their seats. I turn around casually after a couple minutes, seeing the couple making out viciously. I can’t see the girls face, but she has black hair and a strong jawline. The guy has a mushroom cut matched with a red plaid shirt. I turn back to face the screen, feeling slight jealousy.

I sit for another ten minutes to find out where they’d lick each other, grab my bag and leave the theater.

In front of the theater, my friend is waiting in her car. I walk quickly to the car and get in.

“Oooh, I’m so excited for tonight,” she says as she drives away.

“It’s time to dance,” I say, turning the volume louder.

We’re driving to our favorite club, Lasta. It’s a floating club on the Danube river and though the crowd is usually full of silicon body parts, but the music is great.

The club’s empty. Three dutch looking guys are sitting and smoking in the corner while all the servers are standing at the bar, texting. We walk in and start dancing on the empty dance floor. Seeing as I’m one of the only women in the club, one of the dutch guys approach me. He’s wearing a purple dress shirt and blue jeans – his hair is combed back.

“Hi,” he says with red drunken eyes and a wobbly smile.

“Hi,” I replied with a smile.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No”

“I can understand why.”

“What?”

“I said, I can understand why you have a boyfriend”

“I do not have a boyfriend”

His eyes start to bulge in amazement.

Oh god.

“Okay, well it was nice to meet you,” I say as I start to dance-walk away.

Minutes later, we leave the club.

As I hobble out with sore feet, I see our friend passing the club on his bicycle.

“Vuk!” we both yell out as we throw our arms in the air.

“I thought you guys were going to be here, I was going to go into the club but it’s not my crowd,” he says as he rides around in a giant circle.

Vuk’s wearing a white baseball cap, a lime green polo, and biking shoes.

“Let’s go to your house Vuk,” my friend says.

We put his bike into the car and drive to his place.

The three of us are laying on his new bed as he’s showing us his new body pillow.

“Look, you can just,” he grabs the pillow and puts it between his legs “do this. It’s like hugging someone.”

We stare at him in silence. Seconds pass as he falls asleep hugging the body pillow.

We put our shoes on and sneak out of his apartment. As we leave the building, we hear a loud fart coming from his window.

I throw my head back in laughter, my friend falls to the ground, grabbing her crotch. As I watch her trying not to pee, I grab my crotch in a panic.

My friend turns on her car to drive me home. I get into the car, unsticking my pee-stained pants from my skin. We drive the rest of the way to my house in silence. We arrive at my front door. I sit there for a second before opening the car door and stiffly getting out of the car.
I close the car door and bend down, looking through the window at her pee stained crotch.

“Well,” I pat the car door, “another good night.”

Death and nipples

It was my classmate’s birthday a couple weeks ago. She invited the whole class. It was very cordial of her, as I probably wouldn’t have done that. I prefer not to mix social groups. When I was thirteen, I was the first one to have a birthday party during the first year of high school. Which means everyone was all pimply, entering puberty and no one knew each other. Everyone avoided eye-contact, we watched Scary movie 2 on DVD and ate ketchup potato chips. We played a game of hide-and-go-seek, and a sad attempt at spin-the-bottle. A year later everyone from my birthday joined band class, became best friends and I cut my hair short and wore t-shirts that said “high school drop-out” while never skipping a class. It was since that tragic event, I refrained from hosting parties and introducing people to each other ever since.

So, the night of my classmates 30th birthday, I wasn’t feeling very well.

That was a lie.

I was lazy and didn’t feel like leaving my bed. This always happens to me right before I have to be at a social engagement I committed myself to. This is why I’m a flake. Also, I see my classmates all day, every day, so the motivation to see them again was quite low because I would see them again in 8 hours.

After receiving a couple phone calls, I was on a 45-minute bus ride to the birthday dinner.

The birthday girl has a name. It’s Francesca. She’s a short Italian girl with bangs, grandmotherly hands, and extremely readable eyes. She also says that the secret to her ass is swimming. Every morning, she walks into class and greets me with a warm hug and kiss on the cheek. She’s also a hand-talker with many of her sentences end with the phrase, “it’s impossible”. For example, Francesca was supposed to come to a dinner with my class. She said that it was impossible for her to come because she already had plans. Two hours later, she shows up.

So, I arrived at the birthday dinner. Of course, my whole class was there because they’re good people and they also like food. I came an hour late, without a gift and wore an ill-fitted bra.

Sitting across from me was Yolande, from Cameroon, to my left was Margherita, from Italy and on my right was Julia, from Poland.

My girl, Yolande, doesn’t speak English well but every so often she’ll impress me with a couple strong sentences. Like when she told me I had a mental illness in front of our guest lecturer who was one of the most internationally well-known forensic psychologists. Or, when we were on the way to prison, she also told me that I should date a black man. She’s also always 45 minutes late to everything.

Margherita is one of my favorite Italians. She was a former bellydancer who decided to study psychology. Every time she laughs she says, “I’m dying”. She has yet to actually die from laughing. She also can never remember where she parks her car, so she invests, at least, ten minutes a day trying to find it.

Then we have Julia, the vegetarian Pole who loves Gianduja flavored ice cream. Julia likes to make fun of the fact that I’m constantly eating. Last time I went out with her, she got drunk at the club and started to do traditional polish dancing. She almost peed her pants once when I told our teacher to stop wearing sweater vests.

As the night progressed, the conversation got more personal. Margherita had told me that the following day she had a funeral to attend. I asked politely who had died, she said it was her best friend’s grandmother. I usually stop the conversation there, because I never know what to say about people I don’t know who died. But Margherita continued, so I listened.

“Yes, I am so sad because she was the grandmother of my best friend and when I was little I would go to her house for lunch and she would make me a plate of nipples”.

I nodded sincerely and said, “that’s so sad”.

“Oh god. Don’t fucking laugh, don’t you fucking laugh Natasha,” I aggressively thought to myself while maintaining a concerned face.

I cleared my throat. I thought that perhaps I misheard since there was some tragic Italian music playing in the background. Margherita’s face was far so sad to make a joke.

“What did she make you?”

“Nipples”

“You mean,” as I took an extended breath “meatballs?”

“Nipples, you know, they’re like –”

“I think you mean meatballs.”

“Nipples, like a plate of nipples”

I paused momentarily, while maintaining my concerned look and envisioned an old Italian woman with a scarf around her head, mumbling Italian to herself while carrying a plate of nipples to a table of hungry children.

“I really think you mean meatballs.”

“Ah, okay, then yes, meatballs.” She said, with her head tilted slightly down and her facial expression remaining genuinely sad.

It was too late. My eyes were flowing with water and I tried to put my fingers over my mouth to make it look like I was in deep thought about death.

I spent the next ten minutes laughing beside Margherita.

I then retold the story to half of the table, while laughing. Only the Julia, the Polak laughed with me.