taxi

The fish tank spanned nearly an entire wall of the waiting room. Fish the color of Easter candy swam lazily about the tank, sometimes pecking at the surface, making miniature bubbles. Mom flipped through a magazine, nervously thumbing the pages without focusing on them. The bottoms of my legs stuck to the leather couch and made squishy sounds as I tried to pry them free. I slipped my foot out of my flip-flop and ran my toes over the soft shag carpet. It was cream-colored and spotless. I wanted to lay on my belly and feel that softness against my face.
Two other patients waited with me. They were both adults, a man a lot older than my mom, and a woman a little younger. They checked their watches and sighed deeply, as if waiting for a late bus. Neither of them, I noticed, seemed to have anything wrong with their skin. At first, I took this to be a good omen. Dr. Blank had already cured them of their skin diseases, and these patients were simply here to give thanks. But they did not look grateful; they looked sour and gray. This made me wonder what secrets lay buried beneath their clothes. I pictured scabs and scales and boils erupting underneath their neat shirts and slacks. I began to have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

The office door slid open silently, and a shocking white uniform brightened the doorway.

"Mr. Casey?" the uniform called out, and the older man stood and toddled through the door.

Before shutting the door, the uniform looked over at me and smiled. I inhaled sharply as I noticed the scaly dark patch of skin marring her right cheek. Couldn't Dr. Blank help his own employee, I wondered? A second, more chilling thought shot through my brain. What if that scaly patch of skin was the result of Dr. Blank's treatment? Not waiting to find out, I pried myself free of the deep leather couch, slipped back into my flip-flops and headed towards the exit.

"Miss Heslin?" The scaly-faced uniform had crept back into the doorway, smiling and waving me in like a stewardess pointing out emergency exits. Mom stood and took firm hold of my elbow, leading me to what could very well be my death. I held my breath and looked down at the uniform's squeaky white shoes, afraid she could read the questioning gaze in my eyes.

Dr. Putz had been plucked out of the Blue Cross bible of practitioners. Dr. Blank, however, had come from much higher authority - a passenger in the backseat of my dad's cab. He had come home the week before and plopped down a torn piece of paper onto the kitchen table.

"I got you a new doctor. A good one, too."

"Okay."

"Yeah. You're goin' to the city. There's no good doctors in Jersey."

"Then, why didn't we go there in the first place?" I wondered aloud.

"Well, ya gotta be fair. Give Jersey doctors a shot. They gotta make a livin', too."

I didn't quite follow my dad's logic, but I was relieved to be making a fresh start with a new doctor. I wanted to stay positive, but my experience with Dr. Putz had left me bankrupt in the high hopes department.

"So, who recommended this doctor, Dad?"

"A friend."

"Which friend?" I persisted.

"You don't know the guy."

"Yeah? Do you know the guy?"

"Course I do."

"Where'd you meet him?"

"In the cab. I had him in the cab, all right?" Dad answered in exasperation.

"So, he was your customer, not your friend?"

"Yeah, yeah. Big deal. Ya wanna go to this doctor or not?"

"Yeah, okay."

Everyone was Dad's "friend", whether he knew their full names or simply referred to them as "pal". My head always cocked suspiciously when he threw that term around like a tennis ball, bouncing it on the walls of our apartment.

The back of Dad's cab had produced almost every referral my family ever needed. For medical advice, Dad would pick up a fare in front of a hospital, hoping to score someone in the know. That could mean a recently discharged patient, an orderly, or, (hopefully) a nurse. Then, the questions would begin:

"I got this rash on my elbow. You ever seen anything like that before?"

"My kid's got this turn in his left foot. You think he needs to see a specialist?"

"I got this bill from GHI. Says it won't cover my daughter's braces...."

Dad had two jobs. He worked at the Department of Health during the day, and drove a cab in the city on nights and weekends. Sometimes, he didn't come home for three days straight. It was easier for him to catch a few hours sleep at the garage than to come home between shifts.

When I was little, I would sit in the drafty window waiting for the long nose of his Impala to round our corner. I would count the cars and guess when his would appear. If the car did not materialize as predicted, I would begin to panic. I was afraid of the cab, and all of the horrible things that could happen to my father behind its wheel. Even though Dad always kept a billy club tucked under his seat, I imagined all of the people and things a billy club couldn't beat.

I had good reason to be afraid of the cab and the "friends" my dad drove around in it. Dad was careful not to talk about his job in front of us, but I overheard plenty. When I was nine, there had been some hushed conversations that made my stomach quiver.

"I maybe got myself into some trouble last night." Dad told Mom when he thought we were asleep.

"What kinda trouble?" Mom's voice shook and I pictured her sucking hard on her Salem Light.

"Picked up two working girls and their john...." I thought of two ladies wearing suits with feminine little silk ties around their necks, toting briefcases, Nike sneakers carrying them through traffic, accompanied by their friend John. But the tight strain in Mom's tone made my toes curl.

"What did you do, John?" She accused.

"Jesus, I didn't do nothin'. Wouldya let me finish?" I pictured his tired eyes fighting to stay open.

"Go ahead," she said, but I didn't think she wanted to hear the rest.

"Somethin' didn't seem right. They wanted me to take 'em to a real deserted block on the lower east side. I didn't like the way they were whisperin' and lookin' at me."

They were both quiet for a moment. I didn't realize it, but I was holding my breath.

"I knew somethin' was gonna happen once we got to that block. I saw a cop car on Broadway, and I pulled up next to it and stalled the cab out."

"And then?"

"Then nothin'. They didn't do nothin' but curse and stiff me for the ride."

"So what's the big deal?" Mom sounded annoyed at the fear that Dad had brought up into her stomach.

"The big deal is, a cabbie got killed at that same address I was supposed to take them to."

"Oh my God."

"Shot twice in the head. So I went down to the police and told them what I know."

"Whaddya know? You don't know anything." Her voice raised and I heard Dad slurp from his can of Bud.

"I know what I saw and what I felt. So I told the cops. They showed me some pictures. I fingered one of the women."

"Are you crazy?"

"That cabbie coulda been me. I can't say nothin'."

"But what if they find out it's you?"

"Don't worry about it. Nobody's gonna find out. Besides, they probably won't need me to say nothin'. They have prints all over the cab."

"John, I don't know."

"Yeah, well. Just thought you should know about it. Don't worry about it. It'll all work out."

My father was always doing this. He would drop a bomb into your lap and empty out all his worries into your brain. Then, he'd say casually, "Don't worry about it," walk away and snore his way through dreamless sleep.

I didn't really understand what my father had been involved in, but I did understand that what he did was dangerous, and there were people out there who might want to hurt him. That night, I lay awake and listened to him snoring heavily in bed, while my mother chain-smoked in the kitchen. Eventually, I drifted off into a fitful sleep, dreaming of working girls with guns hidden in their briefcases.

Sometimes, the cab was as much a source of awe as it was fear. Dad was always coming home with a story about some celebrity he drove, and Mom was always doubting him.

"Guess who I had in the cab today?"

"Who? Who?" I would bounce with excitement as my mother rolled her eyes.

"Jackie O," he said proudly, clearly impressed with himself.

"Oh," I muttered, with a vague image of a woman wearing a suit and a funny hat, holding a little boy's hand.

"Boloney!" Mom burst his bubble with her doubt.

"Whaddya mean, boloney? I said I had Jackie O in my cab."

"Today?"

"Yeah, today. Just this morning."

"That's impossible, John."

"Whaddya you know?"

"Cause I just saw her on the television, over there in Europe somewhere." Mom gloated.

"Oh. Yeah. Well. She had them big glasses on. Looked just like her anyway."

"I bet."

Most nights, when I couldn't sleep, I lay awake and wondered about Dad's life in the cab away from us. I had been in the back of his cab only twice. I used those brief experiences to help paint a picture of his long hours behind the wheel.

On a cool spring day, Mom packed Chris and I up and headed for the train. Chris was still in a stroller drinking out of a bottle, and I was four.

"We're going to Aunt Mal's," Mom explained as we walked to the train that would take us to New York. I puzzled over this, because we had never before gone so far without Dad.

We boarded the first car of the PATH train, and Mom let me stand at the fron so I could stare into the dark tunnel that would swallow our train. I was secretly afraid of the train and the blackness that pushed down on us from all sides. Watching the light of the train cut through the darkness made me feel better.

The first stop was Christopher Street. I grabbed Chris' hand and shook it vigorously up and down, congratulating him for having a train station named after him. I was also a little jealous. Nothing was named Noreen. I couldn't even find a keychain with my name on it. And I had tried. It was the mission of every adult relative to find me a souvenir with my name written boldly across it.

We rode the train all the way to the end - 34th Street. Mom lugged us up onto the street and I breathed in the fresh air of car exhaust and hot dog stands. I clapped my hands over my ears against the overwhelming honks and shrieks of the city. So many legs and shoes and hips breezed past me, and I wanted to follow them all on their way.

Mom smirked down at me as Chris dozed in his stroller. I was anxious to see how we would get out of all of this chaos and make our way to Aunt Mal's.

Mom stuck her hip out and raised her hand up in the air. She was standing dangerously close to the curb. I tucked myself behind her as a cab came screeching to a stop right at her heels. Mom opened the back door and ordered me into the backseat. She picked Chris up and folded his stroller into a straight line.

"Where to, Miss?" A warm voice full of mischief asked from the other side of the plexiglass partition.

"How'd you do that?" I bounced on the backseat as Dad gave me his sheepish grin. Mom and Chris sat down beside me. Mom shrugged her shoulders as Chris lay groggy in her arms.

"Magic.' Dad snapped his fingers, and then went back to business.

"Where to, ladies?"

"Aunt Mal's house in Queens."

"Aunt Mal's house it is."

Dad snapped on the meter and drove us through the Manhattan maze all the way out to Queens. He dodged cars and pedestrians, zooming in and out of lanes like we were being chased. I fidgeted and flitted about the backseat, watching Dad snake through the dangerous traffic.
Much too soon, we pulled up in front of Aunt Mal's apartment. Mom leaned down and handed me a quarter.

"Give your father his tip," she whispered. Proudly, I plunked the quarter down into Dad's palm.

"Thanks, lady." Dad winked at me.

We got up out of the cab and I leaned into the window and pecked Dad on the cheek.

"I'll pick ya up tonight," he said, before he sped away.

The cab ride was all I talked about to Aunt Mal that day. I couldn't wait for Dad to come back and carry us off in the cab again. Much to my disappointment, he came back for us in the Impala. The car ride home was slow and boring. We sweated and sat in traffic. It felt a little bit like driving with Clark Kent after having flown with with Superman.

"You don't have a father!" Joey taunted.

"I do so!" I defended.

"Oh yeah, then why don't we ever see him?"

"Cause he works, that's why!"

"Yeah, well my dad works, and he still comes to my games'n stuff."

"Well, my dad works two jobs," I shouted, thinking this would be enough to quiet him.

"Yeah, right. I'll believe it when I see it."

Kids in my class always doubted my dad's existence. He never came to teacher's nights or basketball games because of work. I said I didn't mind, but I would have loved to see him encouraging me from the stands just once when I was standing at the foul line or on the pitcher's mound.

One snowy Saturday morning when I was 10, Joey, Michael and I were in my apartment, getting ready for our biddy basketball game. The gym was about fifteen blocks away, and the sidewalks were sleek with ice. Mom was about to call us a cab when the phone rang. The three of us held our breath, wondering if it was the call to cancel the game. I was relieved to hear my mom say,

"All right, John," and knew the game would go on as scheduled.

"All right you kids, go on outside and wait for your cab. It'll be here in a minute."

We rushed outside and waited on my stoop, making predictions about the upcoming game. A cab cut through the snow and ice and slowed in front of my house. It didn't look like one of our regular cabs, and I noticed it said NYC on the side. I slowly made my way down the stairs with the boys following, and almost slid down the steps when I saw my dad behind the wheel.

"Come on!" I shouted to the boys. "It's my dad!" Joey looked skeptically until we piled into the backseat and I kissed Dad through the partition.

"Dad, this is Joey and Michael."

"Hello, boys."

"Hi, Mr. Heslin," they said in unison, suddenly shy.

"Sit back and hold onto your hats."

Dad sped around the icy corner and headed down to River Road. It was a small, two-lane street that curved inches above the choppy Hudson River. Joey and Michael clung to the side of the cab as I glowed with pride. They plastered forced smiles onto their petrified faces, and I saw Dad's sly grin in the mirror. I could tell they thought my dad was cool, and they were maybe just a little bit scared of him. I felt like a real person, with a dad driving a cab and taking me to biddy basketball.

Dad pulled up in front of the gym and shook the boys' hands. I got out and waited for my dad to follow, but he stayed behind the wheel and kept the cab running.

"Aren't you coming in?"

"Nah. Gotta get back to work. I'll catch you another time."

"Okay," I shrugged, not wanting to show my disappointment.

"All right. See ya later." He sped off through the snow as I walked over to Joey and Michael.

"Your dad is so cool!" Joey said.

"Yeah! You see the way he takes those curves. Man, I think I'm gonna puke!"

"I know! Me too! Cool!"

"Yeah," I said coolly. "He's all right."

Joey and Michael had blabbed about our ride to the entire team, and everyone wanted to know when they could get a ride. I played harder and faster that day, knowing that now all the kids knew I had a dad. Even though Dad hadn't set foot in the gym, he had come to my game, sort of.

Life in the cab wasn't always death-defying or action-packed. Mostly, it was exhausting. Dad would come home blurry-eyed after having worked two or three days straight between his two jobs. He would stagger up the steps, grocery bags bulging out of his arms, and grunt hello to all of us. His patience was short and his sighs were deep and heavy. Dad immediately changed into his pajamas, which consisted of a thin pair of cotton pajama bottoms pulled practically up to his nipples, a white guinea-t, and black dress socks pulled up his shins. I could gauge his mood by his dress socks. If he left them on, I knew he was in no mood to talk or even acknowledge us. When tips had been good and he had gotten more than two hours of sleep, however, he would sneak his socks off, ball them up and throw them in my face.

"Gross!" I would shriek and fling them back at my father.

"Wassa matter? Ya don't like feet?" Dad would chuckle. In fact, I did not like feet. I thought they were the most disgusting part of the human body.

"Maaa! Dadddy's throwin' his dirty socks at me!"

"Jesus, John. Wouldya leave her alone? Geesh!"

I waited on those nights, quietly watching Dad's feet for a sign of his mood. Those socks, however, usually stayed glued to his feet.

Dad always came home around eight, and lounged on the couch with a few Budweisers watching television. Then, as we were all getting ready for bed, he'd fix himself something to eat. I never understood how he could eat steak and noodles or spaghetti and meatballs right before going to sleep and still stay so skinny.

I often begged to stay up and watch television with Dad. When the socks came off, I knew it was usually safe to whine my way into late-night television. After eating, Dad rarely stayed awake long enough to watch an entire program. He would, however, struggle against sleep to watch Taxi. Even if Dad wouldn't let me stay up to watch it, I loved drifting off to sleep with its theme music whistling in the living room. I imagined that all of those crazy cabbies on the show were my dad's real-life friends, and I dreamed up dialogue for them.

"Hey Tony, my son's got a bully pickin' on him at school. Think you could teach him a few moves?" or, "I'm a little short on cash this week, Alex. Can you spot me a twenty 'til pay day?"

I pictured Elaine helping Dad shop for my birthday gift, and Louie barking out insults if Dad were a few minutes late. It made me feel safe to dream my dad into a better life - one with friends and laughter and lightness, and yes, a theme song.

Mom and I waited in the frigid exam room. The furniture was modern and sleek, but there were no pretty pictures on the wall to act as distractions. Instead, I noted a sterile tray with sharp instruments, and glass containers filled with cotton swabs and gauze pads. My palms sweated profusely and left damp handprints on the paper covering the exam table. Mom rifled through her purse, avoiding the sharp instruments and my accusing gaze. I had already sworn off any doctor who dared to go digging into my skin again.

The door swung open and Dr. Blank burst into the room. I inhaled deeply and held my breath. Dr. Blank had his face buried in my chart. He wore a metallic light fixture around his forehead.

"Miss Heslin...." he started, his face still obscured by the chart.

Dr. Blank flicked a switch on the band around his forehead, and the light shot on. I blinked against its surprising brightness. Mom fidgeted and remained silent next to me as Dr. Blank moved my face from side to side, scanning my skin. I felt naked under his gaze. His features were a blur behind that shining light.

"Uh hmm.... Acne. Yes." His voice purred like a cat. My arms broke out in goose bumps and a shiver crept up my spine. I felt like a specimen on display under a microscope. My skin crawled under the scrutiny.

"Did no one ever tell you not to pop your pimples?" the voice behind the light accused.

"No," I said, confused by the question. I stammered and sweated out my stress. "I mean, yes, I've been told that, but no, I've never popped my pimples." This was true. Seventeen Magazine had warned me against this early on. They promised permanent scarring if this cardinal rule of skin care was broken. Despite never having popped a single pimple anywhere on my body, however, there were reddened pits littering my cheeks. It had been a year since I had seen Dr. Putz. The only change I had seen in my skin since then were the angry red holes that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in my face.

"Well, dear, someone's been popping your pimples. And they have permanently scarred you."

Dr. Blank's voice oozed like oil. Although I couldn't see any of the features on his face, I imagined him to have a slick pointy mustache that he twirled between his fingers. I didn't trust his voice, or the fact that he hid behind that flood light on his forehead, but I decided to tell him about Dr. Putz's weekly treatments.

When I finished the story, Dr. Blank vibrated with "hmm's and ahh's". The light bore a hole through my eyes, and I was beginning to get a headache.

"Mrs. Heslin," Dr. Blank turned his spotlight onto my mother. I saw her blink against the harsh light. I stared hard at Dr. Blank, but all I saw were halos of light.

"You have quite the lawsuit on your hands. That doctor of yours has marred your daughter's skin. And I'm afraid there's nothing that can be done about it."

Dr. Blank turned away from us and scribbled on a piece of paper. He had said nothing of how he would help me, or where we could do from here. I stared blindly at his back, willing the words that were stuck in my throat to come out - do something! I wasn't sure if I was talking to him or me. While I wanted him to help me, I equally wanted to rear my foot back and kick him in the seat of his pants.

He wrote furiously and then swiveled back in my direction. He held out two prescriptions and plopped them down into my palm. The halos of light were almost fading, and I was anxious to get my first look at Dr. Blank's face. I blinked my eyes feverishly, hoping to further diminish the blind spots.

"Stop at the desk on the way out. I'll see you in a month." And then, like a cyclone, he blew back out of the office.

Out on the street, my vision cleared and I was finally able to read the prescriptions I was still clutching in my hand. I read them both and laughed out loud.

"What's so funny?" Mom wanted to know. I balled the prescriptions in my fist.

"I've tried these both already. Dr. Putz gave them to me. They didn't work." I stuffed the prescriptions down into my pocket, but I knew I would let Mom fill them once we got home.
Maybe they would work this time.

I could see Mom biting her lip and looking at me out of the corner of her eye.

"What?" I asked, somewhat annoyed.

"Whaddya think about what he said?"

"What did he say?"

"About the lawyer."

"Yeah, I can see it now!" I snorted. "'Uh, your honor. I was ugly to begin with. But this doctor made me even uglier. Just look at me. Oh, the horror!' No thanks. I'll pass on that." Mom walked quietly beside me. I knew she felt bad, and I felt bad about her feeling bad.

"What did he look like, anyway?" I asked.

"You know, I have no idea! I barely got a look at his face."

During the three months that I was under Dr. Blank's care, I never got a look at his face. His nose was always buried in a chart or I was blinded by his light. It didn't matter anyway. He was missing the magic I was chasing.

Dad's step was a little quicker when he came home that night. He came right to my room with his keys still jiggling in his hand.

"Well? How 'bout that doctor my friend recommended? Somethin' else, huh?"

"Yeah, Dad. He was somethin' else."

"What'd I tell ya. Ya want a good doctor, go to the city."

"I know, Dad. All the best doctors are in the city."

"You'll see. Everything'll be better now. He'll fix ya up."

"I know. Thanks, Dad."

I heard his keys tinkle together as he put them on the kitchen table. I wondered if there were some way I could affix a light to my forehead. I could blind everyone who stared at me, and then my face would be nothing but a big blank spot.

Continue reading...

The dumb six year old christmas-a totally twisted tale-

WRITTEN BY MY 12-YEAR-OLD NIECE RIZALINA

(Picture this a six-year-old girl and her mother in a kitchen. The six-year-old told her mother there's a Santa. Now who would crush a six-year-old's dreams! Isn't she young enough to believe! Its not like she's 50! Anyway carry on reading my brilliant, terrific, totally horrifying, and a little bit disturbing Christmas Eve.)*****

"Carroll, what are you doing?," said mom.

"Making cookies for Santa!"

"Sweetie I told you there is no such thing as Santa."

(Do you not see how disturbed that is I mean come on I'm only six!)

"Yes there is mom! I mean not everyone rushes to the store. Some families don't have the money."

"Exactly... and those kids don't have Christmas."

"Yes they do!"

"Don't raise your voice lady. I'm trying to have a nice Christmas Eve, see even right now I'm not raising my voice."

"Fine."

"Thank you, now what is that stuff next to your cookies?"

"Carrots for the reindeer."

"If you insist on Santa then answer this one question: How will the reindeer eat those carrots if they're up on the roof?"

"Well Santa obviously has a little container to hold the carrots 'til he gets on the roof. But if you don't believe me just give me a..."

Watch this she is going to totally cut off my sentence just because she knows what I'm saying.

"No you're not getting a ladder. Now go upstairs and get ready for the Christmas party."

(Okay secretly I was jumping off the walls to pick out a Christmas outfit. My aunt had just gotten me a whole bunch of red, green, and gold clothes.)

"Alright."

"Thank you."

( So of course I run upstairs as slow as possible trying to act uninterested. You really know I was insane! Now I pick out the cutest clothes a six-year-old named Carroll can pick out. An average-hint hint totally cute-gold tank to go over a 3/4 cut red top with a green mini skirt and red leggings with gold shoes. Then-warning if you were there this would be mortifyingly horrible, especially if you're six-I hear this huge scream from my 15-year old-sis. You may carry on reading)

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

"What's wrong?!?," says my mom.

"There's, there's a, a f, fire!!!!!"

"Carroll come down right now and go straight out the door!"

"Wa"

"JUST DO IT!"

(See she just totally cut me off! Well maybe that time was urgent, but still!)

"Mommy my cookies!"

"You forgot to take them out! Forget it, Susanna take your sister outside right
now!"

(Just then Suza-what I called her when I was six- rushed me outside with tears)

"Is mommy g,gonna be okay?"

"It's okay Care Bear she'll be fine. Don't cry okay it's not your fault I let you bake the cookies I should have watched you you're only six."

"I killed mommy!"

"Oh, Care Bear!"

(Just then I heard a whoosh-like a fire extinguisher makes-then mommy came out with my shriveled cookies that had white stuff on them)

" Do we call the fire thingy?," I asked my mom.

"Well the fire's out and they should have a good Christmas. C'mon we're all dressed and look 1 cookie made it out unburnt."

"It's a heart!"

"See isn't that comforting Care Bear?"

"Yessssssssss, it is"

"So who's up for not telling anyone?"

"Us!," Me and my sister said together.

"Hahahahahahahaha!"

"Well let's get in the before Mrs. Jenkinson get suspicious. Deal?"

"Deal!"

"Deal Susanna?"

"Huh?"

"I'll take that as a yes and the boy across the street is two years younger
then you."

"Ewww!"

(See my sister was in love with the boy next door. She thought he was the cutest. Of course if your sis is totally in love with a boy you become really good friends with him just to call her over and make her get all squeamish. That's just what I didbecause he just thought I was the cute little toddler looking child next door.)

"And he has a girlfriend that is like 5 times prettier that you!"

"Whatever Sheryll."

"It's Carroll!"

"Same good ol' times," said my mom.

(So of course we drove to my dad's sister's place for Christmas-who is totally less interesting than my mother's sister-in-law, the one who got me the clothes-where her totally annoying 7-year- old never stops bugging me and my sister! She screamed at him so many times and I punched him in the arm so many times that in 5 minutes he went crying up to room when gram and Phillip-granpa-said hi. His mom tried to say he had the jitters for Santa but we all knew he was just a pain in the butt who wantedattention and the chance for me and my sister to get screamed at. Oh, sorry back to the story!)

" Hi! Minnie!,' said my mom, with the fakest smile on her face.

"Carrie!," said aunt Minnie obviously knowing my mothers name was Karen.

"Where's Paul?," said my mom asking for her husband.

"Oh, you mean Paula, I've been teasing him all night. He's in the dining room!" said my aunt trying to be cool.

"So you're kissing you sister's a** again," said my mom obviously mad about having to go to my aunt's.

"Listen she can hear and she's just trying to be nice I mean she didn't have to
invite us," said my dad pissed off at my mom's attitude.

" Listen we could have went to my mother's she invited us too and the kids think their others cousins aren't pains a in the a**," said my mother feeling insulted because my dad acted like we were so desperate to go to her house.

" Look it isn't fair that just because you don't like her me and the kids have to suffer.," said my dad standing up for his sister.
"Paul she treats you like s***!," said my mother.

( At that time it got kind of serious and we knew it wouldn't end so we pretty much left the room. Then we heard a crash and we knew it was time to go. Before that day we never heard our mom curse, something must have really bugged her. Anyway we were right and dad ended up having to go to my mom's mother's so here's the car argument.)

" You didn't have to curse like that."

" Well Paul you brought that upon yourself."

" How?"

" No one likes her or her son."

" Oh yeah that's probably because you make it like that. You're setting a bad influence for the kids. You know you said more curses in that room than Andrew Dice Clay has in his whole career!"

" Who is that?!?"

" A comedian!"

" Does anyone know him besides you?"

" Yes he's obviously famous!''

" Sure."

" Just pay attention to the road."

( So about then I realized it was time for my afternoon nap, but I 'm pretty sure my mom slipped a few curses while I was sleeping. So since I sleep forever let's just skip to my granmam's house.)

" Sweetie wake up," I heard my mom say softly.

" Yeah it's time to go in we're here."

" Maybe you should just carry her?"

" Yeah I guess you're right."

( I figured while was asleep making parents had a moment of silence then decided to talk it over. I'm guessing then they pulled over and started macking. Now here we are.)

" Hi mom"

" Hey sweetie. What's wrong you're not usually late? And where's Paul?"

" Oh you know traffic and Paul's outside trying to carry Carroll in."

" Oh that Paul, well your sister's on the balcony necking your brother-in-law if you know what I mean."

" Come on they got married 2 years before Susanna was born, the excitement
wears off."

" Oh no, she just got remarried a month ago. And she's pregnant!"

" No.. what happened to Lenardoni? He was the only boyfriend dad ever liked."

" Like you said the excitement wears off... and you know how active your sister is. Beside you're father only liked him because he thought you're sister should be more conservative."

" Well where's Jule's and his wife I haven't seen him in forever."

"Oh, there in the living room cheering to the football game. You know how much his wife loves football."

" That's funny because Jule's hates football, he was always the nerd."

" Well where's Susanna?"

" Oh, you know her she's probably off mingling somewhere. Where you better go get her. The boy that lives across the street is here."

" Oh no, I told her how he was younger."

" I found out that he's not younger he's just in a lower grade. He got held back three times and I found out he just broke up with his girlfriend."

" Why does she always go for the bad ones? And I bet he didn't really break up with his girlfriend. Some people just want a plate and a side."

" Now sweetie let's just chill okay.'

" No boy gets held back three times without having a reason. That's all I'm gonna say."

" That's all you should say."

" Well I really better go get her."

( Guess what, my dad ran into him trying to make a move! How gross! But it was still funny to see dad leave the party to bring her to a babysitter. Ha ha! Well nothing really interesting happened until dinner when this happened.)

" Why did you fling your carrots at me?!," I said to my 10 year old cousin Taylor.

" I did not!," he replied.

" Oh yeah just like I didn't just fling a piece of broccoli at you!"

" Gross my mouth was open!"

( So after that he flinged mashies at me and missed, then landed on aunt Temira's new husband and we all know how she gets about her men. So my mom and dad rushed me and home. Then..)

" What happened to this kitchen Karen?"

( To be continued.......)

*****( Carroll's words of what you would miss without her.)

Continue reading...

afterlife

Bells toll. Individuals walk out of a dense fog outside and approach the reception window of a lobby. At the window, they are directed to take a seat in the waiting room. The room fills with strangers. They sit and wait, making small talk and waiting anxiously until being called on by case workers. Taken into a small meeting room, the case worker tells each individual that he or she has died, and will soon be making the transition to the next life. Before each person can do so, however, the individual must choose one moment from their lives to take with them. The case workers have access to footage from each person's entire lives, which they can view in order to help with the decision. Once a choice has been made, the moment is recreated and captured on film. The person screens the one moment that will remain with them forever, and they then move on to the next realm.

This is the premise of the movie afterlife. I saw this movie years ago, and this question has haunted me ever since. What would my one moment be? I have only been able to narrow it down to four. What would yours be?

It is a warm spring day. I am ten. I am sitting in the crook of a tree. I have a pink flower that my father plucked from a tree tucked behind my ear. My brother Chris is climbing the tree towards me. My mother is holding a camera, waiting for us all to get into position. My father is holding Erin in his arms. He holds her up for me to grab, and she reaches for me. She clutches my arms, completely trusting of me. I position her in my lap and hold her around the waist. With my other hand, I grab the rough bark of the tree for balance. Chris crouches on the branch beside me. My father backs up just out of the shot, his arms raised towards us, ready to catch us if we fall.

Ram and I are in a rental car, driving down the highway in Arizona. I am 23. It is a hot morning in July, and we are heading out for an adventure. We are the only car on the highway. I am driving fast, weaving back and forth on the open road in time to the song on the radio - I Just Wanna Fly, by Sugar Ray. We sing and shout the words, together, looking from each other to the road in front of us. We are buffered on each side by clay colored mountains, red rock, and cactus of varying sizes. Bright blue sky stretches out endlessly above us. We are the only people left on the planet.

The warmth of the sun is beating down on my back. I am floating face down in the salty sea water. I have drifted away from the others who were on the boat with me. My arms are out at my sides, palms down, and my long-sleeved white shirt is spread out around me. The goggles are snug around my face, and I am biting the snorkel in my mouth. The even sounds of my breathing fill my ears. The ocean lulls me gently, tugging me back and forth. My eyes dart about, wanting to take in everything around me. Fish of all different shapes and colors swim lazily about me. Some are curious, and come so close that I reach my out my fingers and let them bump up against my palm. The ocean floor is about 30 feet below me. Coral and rocks form underwater cities, and I watch fish swim in and out of their corridors. I have a waterproof camera strapped to my wrist, and there is so much I want to remember that I keep clicking away. As my eye is focusing through the viewfinder, something moves slowly below me. My arms drift back to my sides and I follow the slow-moving creature swimming up from the floor of the ocean. It is a large sea turtle, swimming towards me. It moves like an underwater bird, taking slow, long swipes at the water with its fins. It turns on its side and I see its green belly. I don't want to take my eyes off of it, but I suddenly want to shout to everyone around me to come and see. I raise my head from the water and shout to the captain, who is overseeing us all from the small boat. "A sea turtle!" He blows his whistle and heads pop up all around the boat. He points in my direction and repeats, "A sea turtle!" Snorkels make their way in my direction and a flurry of fins disturb the water. I stick my head back under the surface, and am almost surprised that my turtle is still there. He swims away, and I follow his graceful movements. I dive below the surface and reach my hand out towards his patterned back. My fingertips strain to tickle his shell, but he dives down further. I stay under until I feel the need to breathe fresh air. Reluctantly, I kick back up to the surface and gulp the salty sea air. Heads are now all around me, searching for my turtle. I plant my face back in the water and look for him again, but he is gone. My heart swells with gratitude and I gaze around, anxious to see what will swim up to me next.

I wake up with a start, unsure of where I am. It is cold and dark, but I am snug under a blanket. It does not belong to me. I look across the aisle of the bus, and I see the same blanket spread across the two Filipina grandmas I met when I boarded the bus at the Port Authority six hours ago. I boarded the bus and sat right behind the bus driver, as my father had instructed me to do. I am 18, and it is my first trip alone. I am going to visit my boyfriend away at school in Montreal. I chatted with the grandmas at the start of the trip. They were going to visit their elderly sister in Canada. They were sweet and kind, sharing their food and keeping an eye on me. I am grateful for the warmth of their blanket. Everyone on the bus is asleep. I hear snoring and slow deep breathing all around me. The driver is listening to a small transistor radio. I hear its hum but can't make out any songs. On either side of the bus, tall thin trees stretch up to the lightening sky. It is just before dawn. Royal blue bleeds into magenta bleeds into maroon bleeds into pink. The trees look black against the changing sky. The sun comes up in earnest, and I blink back as light dances between the trees and reaches the right side of the bus. Mist rises from the road stretched out ahead. A nervous flutter takes flight in my chest. I am excited to see my boyfriend, but that is not what is making me wiggle in my seat. I look at the road, and see my life stretched out before me. I can do anything. I can go anywhere. I can be anyone.

Continue reading...

red light

I heard the shouting before I saw its source.

“What the fuck are you doing? Come on! Let's go!”

I assumed it was the testosterone-driven hysteria produced by a football game. I looked for the open window through which these shouts were escaping.

As I approached the corner, I was surprised to see a man shouting in my direction. He looked to be in his mid-30's, wearing khaki pants and a button-down blue shirt. His blonde hair had a boyish part, and he blew his bangs out of his eyes.

“Cross the fucking street already!”

It was then that I saw the target of his tirade. A small, bird-like woman stood on the corner, clutching a baby stroller. Her skinny little legs were brittle matchsticks. Bony shoulders scrunched up around her earlobes. Long, tapered fingers wrapped around the stroller, exposing white knuckles. Her eyes darted from the baby in the stroller up to the light. It was red.
The baby's plump body shook with sobs. Wisps of blonde hair lay stranded across her damp forehead. A pink hat was perched atop her head, and a pink pompom trembled at its tip. Scarlet cheeks were stained with streaks of tears.

“Shhh. Everything's okay. We're fine. It's fine.” The mother cooed, almost to herself.

She rocked the stroller quickly side to side. It was not the slow, soothing motion that would calm a child.

“Cross the fucking street. Now!”

The light was still red, but no cars were coming. The mother refused to move. I stood next to her, staring straight ahead. I wanted to lay my hand on her, but I couldn't bring myself to raise my arm. Instead, I stood silently by her side.

The light turned green. The stroller entered the intersection, and the mother's feet left the curb. I followed. We crossed the street, together.

Continue reading...

one-man circus

I threw the ball at my cousin Dennis as hard as I could, wanting to impress him. The ball landed smack in the center of his glove.

"Whew! Damn, you got some arm on ya, kid!" He whistled long and low through his teeth. I tried to hide the proud smile that slid across my lips as he lobbed the ball back to me. My arm was good, strong enough to pitch little league. All of the coaches said so. They loved the natural leftie curve of my fast ball. But my dad wouldn't let me.

"Baseball's no place for a girl. Besides, I paid $2,000 for those braces in your mouth. You're not gonna get them knocked out for nothin."

I settled for softball, throwing slow, arching, underhand pitches. Playing on my own time, I threw overhand, hard and fast.

It had been a few years since I had last seen Dennis, and I wanted to show him my stuff. Besides, this was a special occasion. Dennis, my cousin Robert, Aunt Mal and Uncle Leo all lived in Queens. They thought Jersey was a contagious plague, and rarely visited us. They were all visiting for the day, and I wanted to soak up every second with Dennis.

As we were throwing the ball back and forth, I noticed that Dennis' right arm was a little shorter than the left. A bulbous bone jutted out from his right elbow. I had never noticed this before.

"Hey, Dennis?"

"Yep."

"What happened to your elbow?"

The ball thwacked in Dennis' glove and he paused. A shadow passed over his face. He narrowed his eyes at me, and I felt a nervous quiver in my stomach. Dennis tossed the ball up and down, looking from me to the ball. I waited and watched, not knowing what he would do next.

I had always loved to visit Dennis and his family. They lived in a high rise apartment building across the street from an elevated train. Its rumblings shook the martini glasses in Aunt Mal's china cabinet. I spent hours gazing into that cabinet. Aunt Mal and Uncle Leo were the only relatives that had ever vacationed outside of Long Island. This cabinet contained the evidence of their travels. There were conch shells from Bermuda, beaded bags from the Bahamas and tambourines from Puerto Rico. I pressed my nose up against the glass of the cabinet until a fog appeared. Aunt Mal gently tugged me away, windexing the smudge out of the pristine glass.
Aunt Mal was chic and exotic. She wore long, flowing floral dresses, and musical charm bracelets decorated her arms. Her long neck was offset by the sleek pageboy haircut she always wore. She slurped martini after martini out of elegant glasses, biting green olives off of a tiny plastic sword she swiveled in her drinks. She was the only relative who didn't drink her drinks out of a can. Aunt Mal taught me to make Shirley Temples and let me plunge my own miniature sword into a bottle of maraschino cherries. I swirled my cherry sword in my drink just as she did, leaning my head back and laughing wildly for no reason.

Dennis was 15 years older than me. He was like a living jungle gym. He let us swing from his bulging biceps and sit on his strong shoulders. Dennis had a tremendous boa constrictor he kept in a fish tank spanning the length of one bedroom wall. He fed it live white mice that squiggled as they disappeared into the dark cavern of the boa's mouth. We watched in awe and disgust as the bulge of the mouse traveled down the snake's scaly belly.

Aunt Mal had hated how Dennis fed the mice to the snake, tossing them into the tank like socks into a hamper. She assumed the feeding duties, preparing a last supper of sorts for each and every sacrificial mouse. The refrigerator was stocked full of expensive cheeses in blocks and wheels and colorful wrappers. She selected a specific platter for each mouse, arranging the carefully cubed pieces artfully on her good china.

"There you go, pretty. Doesn't that look just delicious?" she piped in an overly chipper chirp.

Once the mouse was bloated to bursting with cheese, Aunt Mal caressed the half-dozing creature to sleep. It was at that moment that she carried it into the boa's tank, crooning "I love you, little mouse. You're the prettiest little thing. Sleep soundly, little one." She gently laid the sleeping mouse in a corner of the tank and walked away without looking back, shutting the light off and clicking the door closed behind her.

The streets surrounding Aunt Mal's building were cluttered with kids. Even from high up in the apartment, you could hear their giggles and games. Dennis devised a game of his own for the kids. He draped the boa dramatically around his shoulders and put a jacket on over it.

"Dennis, god damn you. Leave those kids alone!" Aunt Mal scolded every time.

"Whaddya talkin about, Ma? They love me down there. I'm like Elvis." Dennis snickered.
For extra effect, he folded his upper eyelids back, exposing bulging white eyeballs and the fleshy red undersides of his eyelids. I smacked my hands over my own eyes, fearing Dennis' eyeballs would pop out of his head without the protection of his upper lids. He loved to torture us with this maneuver, and could comfortably keep his eyelids flipped up for whole minutes.

"I'm warnin you, Dennis!" With that, a burst of air disturbed the curtains as Dennis slammed the door shut behind him. We waited several tense moments for Dennis to make his way down to the sidewalk below. One minute, children were skipping rope and playing manhunt, all laughter and shouts. In an instant, shrill shrieks ripped through the air as Dennis presumably unveiled his surprise. Sneakers pounded pavement and baseballs were abandoned as children scurried for the safety of home. Uncle Leo sat by the window and looked down on the scene, quietly chuckling to himself.

"Don't you encourage him, Leo!" Aunt Mal warned. Uncle Leo shrugged his shoulders and continued gazing out the window. The left side of his face twitched uncontrollably. It looked as though he wore a permanent half-smile, and his left eye winked devilishly. He was quiet and kind, always producing a handful of quarters or gumdrops from his pockets. Although he was taller than Aunt Mal, he seemed dwarfed by her personality.

Dennis burst back through the apartment door, eyelids still flipped up and snake still coiled around his neck.

"Gimme him, ya bastard!" Aunt Mal swatted his arm and Dennis deposited the snake around his mother's neck. He cackled maniacally as he headed to his bedroom.

"Christ almighty, this thing is heavy. Robert, put him in his tank."

"Meow," my cousin Robert responded from a corner of the living room.

Robert was just a few years younger than Dennis. There were three things of note about him: one, he made random cat noises for no apparent reason. In the middle of a seemingly normal conversation, he would let out a high-pitched meow, smirk, and continue with the conversation. Two, he had a tick similar to that of Uncle Leo's. Robert would blink both eyes in rapid succession, his mouth twisted into a forced grin with each blink. Three, he smelled everything. As he took the boa off of Aunt Mal's shoulders, he sniffed it. As he walked past a light pole, he sniffed it. Before laying a napkin across his lap, he sniffed it! No one ever questioned him or commented on it, so I looked the other way, afraid my glare would betray the curiosity bouncing around my brain.

Robert carried the boa out of the room and back to its tank. He returned quickly, shaking his head and blinking wildly.

"Whassa matter with you?" Aunt Mal slurred, martini in hand, olive sword in mouth.

"Dennis. Ya gotta see for yourself." Robert chuckled.

"Dennis! Whatta ya doin now?"

Dennis strolled out of his room with a wicked smile and puffed up cheeks. He shrugged his shoulders innocently.

"What's that in your mouth?" Aunt Mal whispered, afraid of the answer.

Dennis opened his mouth wide to reveal a tiny white mouse sitting on his serpentine tongue. The apartment erupted in screeches.

"That's my son!" Uncle Leo shook with belly laughs.

"Dennis, ya jack ass! Ya gonna get some kinda tongue disease. Spit it out!" Aunt Mal sloshed her martini from side to side.

Robert meowed and blinked repeatedly. I covered my eyes and peeked out between the cracks of my fingers. Mice made my stomach do somersaults, but I couldn't keep my eyes off of the action.
Dennis strode over to me and peeled my fingers away from my face. He bent down with his fist closed in front of his mouth and swallowed hard. I watched the bob of his Adam's apple and wondered where the white mouse would end up.

"Ahhh!" Dennis sighed with his mouth wide open. I peeked back to his tonsils, looking to see if the mouse was marooned there.

"Wait a minute," Dennis paused. "What's that?" Dennis asked, staring at the side of my head.

"What's what?" I asked, every inch of me tense with anticipation.

"I don't know, kid. Ya got somethin stickin out your ear. Hold still now."

Dennis reached for my left ear with both of his hands. I felt the cold poke of his finger on my earlobe, followed by a soft, warm fuzz. The fuzz wriggled near my ear. I squealed and pulled away.

"Now, how'd he get in there?" Dennis held the mouse by its tail in front of my face. Aunt Mal smacked him on the back of the neck and took me by the hand.

"Ya sonofabitch. Go do somethin useful! Come on, sweetheart. Let's get us some more drinks." I let Aunt Mal lead me into the kitchen and looked over my shoulder at Dennis. He popped the mouse back into his mouth like popcorn. The tiny white tail wagged back and forth, smacking against his lips.

Visiting Dennis was like having my own one-man circus. I never knew what he was going to do next.

Dennis continued to toss the ball up and down. His jaw was set and the veins in his neck bulged.

"Dennis?" My voice shook with uncertainty.

Dennis buried the ball in his glove and stared straight at me. A wide smile swept over his face, but I still felt a sense of unease.

"Hey, Noreen?"

"Yeah?"

"What happened to your face?"

"Huh?

"Ya look like the moon. Crater face."

Dennis' eyes were ice. The breath left my chest and my eyes brimmed with burning tears. I looked away as my vision blurred. All around me were green misty trees and bright sun. It was like looking up from under the surface of the ocean. The edges of everything were fuzzy and uncertain.

An intense pain ripped into the right side of my mouth. Something had hit me, but I didn't know what.

"Shit!" Dennis shouted and ran towards me. I tongued the inside of my mouth and felt my braces biting into my upper lip. The salty taste of blood coated my mouth and my stomach lurched. I spit blood into the grass, barely missing the baseball that lay at my feet.

"Jeez, kid. I'm really sorry. You okay?" Dennis bent down and peered at my already swelling lip. The sweat ran down his forehead and dripped off his nose.

"I thought you were lookin. Honest. I never woulda hit ya...."

I cried silently, afraid to move my mouth and disturb the hornet's nest of pain that had settled there.

"Come on. Let's get ya home. Boy, your old man's gonna kick my ass. I really am sorry, kid. No hard feelings, right cousin?" He rested his hand on my shoulder and guided me home. His fingers drummed nervously as my mouth pulsated with pain.

"Noreen! Oh my God. What happened to you?" My mother rushed to my side, followed closely by Aunt Mal. I tried to speak, but the barbs of the braces digging into my lip made my mouth clumsy.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Maureen. My fault. I threw it when she wasn't lookin. This is one tough kid. Didn't even scream or nothin."

"What the hell's wrong with you, Dennis? She's just a little girl." Aunt Mal scolded.

"Yeah, but she d0esn't throw like a little girl. Do ya, champ?" He ruffled my hair. At that moment, I felt strangely proud.

"What happened here?" My father walked into the room, carrying an unopened can of Bud.

"Noreen got hit with the ball," my mother explained.

"See? That's exactly why I don't want her playin ball. What good're the braces if she's just gonna get her teeth knocked out playin ball."

"No, Uncle John. She's great. It was me. I wasn't payin attention."

"Yeah? Well, if she needs to see the dentist I'm sendin you the bill."

"Okay. I got it covered. Sorry, Uncle John."

"You all right? Here, put this on your mouth." Dad looked down at me and handed me his cold can of beer. I held it against my fat lip, welcoming the numbing comfort of the can.

"Dennis. Go get her an aspirin. And get me another beer."

"No problem, Uncle John. You okay, kid?" he asked, winking down at me. I nodded and felt the beginnings of a headache behind my eyes.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's lay you down on the couch. That bastard son of mine. Lucky he didn't take your eye out."

Aunt Mal and Mom guided me to the couch and made me comfortable with pillows and blankets. Dennis spent the rest of the day waiting on me, bringing me ice cream and ice packs. The pain subsided, but the ache in my chest remained.

As Dennis and his family were leaving that night, he kneeled over me on the couch to say good-bye.

"We okay, pal?" I shrugged my shoulders and nodded my head.

"Sorry about your face, I mean, your mouth. You're one tough kid." He patted my head and backed out of the room, looking relieved to be away from me.

Mom came to check on me in bed that night. My mouth was feeling better, and I could speak without searing pain.

"Mom?"

"Huh?"

"What happened to Dennis' arm?"

"You mean his elbow?"

"Yeah."

"He fell out of a tree and broke it when he was little. He had surgery, but it never healed right. The kids used to be so mean about it. You know how cruel kids can be."

"Uh huh."

"Night."

"Mom?"

"Yeah."

"I want to try another dermatologist."

It had been a year since I had seen Dr. Putz. Maybe another doctor would have the answer. If my own relatives thought I was ugly, it could only get worse from here.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Okay. I'll tell your father."

"Okay. Night."

"Night."

I snuggled under the covers, ice pack gently cradling my face, and dreamed of all the magical things the new dermatologist would do for me.

Continue reading...

dr. putz and the tool of torture

"It hurts, Dad."

"Stick your head out the window. Let the breeze hit ya."

I rolled down the window and the cold night air numb my inflamed face. From the moving car, I was nothing more than a blur. I closed my red-rimmed eyes, soothed by the knowledge that no one could see me. My face relaxed as I breathed in the scent of snow. I waited for the fat flakes to tumble out of the thick gray clouds hanging overhead. I wished they would stick to my face and bury me in a soft white carpet of cold.

"Ya know, it could be worse. There are other ten-year-olds with cancer, hair falling out and tumors sticking out of their chests."

"I know, Dad."

"Some kids, they been in fires. Got no skin at all. No eyelids either. Everything just burned off. You should be thankful."

"I am, Dad."

"Had a lady in the cab the other day. Thought she was carrying a football wrapped up in a blanket. Know what it was?"

"What was it, Dad?"

"Her baby. Ain't got no arms or legs. Just a body and a head. How would you like to be that baby?"

"So, I should be thankful I wasn't born a football?"

"Exactly!"

This was the lecture I heard every Monday night on the drive home from Dr. Putz's office. It could be worse, I had my health, I should be thankful. Think about babies with no eyes, boys with no feet, girls with no tongues. On nights like this, I wished I had been born with no ears.

In the beginning, Mom took me to my appointments. That was before Dr. Putz became a cutter. At first, he prescribed creams and pills. The creams burned my skin and turned my face crimson. Then, my skin flaked and fell off like the crust of a croissant. Hot pokers of pain shot through my stomach from the pills. Dr. Putz stopped the creams and pills. There had been no improvement anyway.

Next came the ultraviolet treatments. Every week, I baked under the orange lights as the rays soaked into my skin. Little black goggles protected my eyes from the brightness. I pretended I was a beach bunny roasting in the Caribbean surf, warm ocean water lapping at my toes. I liked this treatment, though it didn't help my skin one bit. It did, however, cause blinding white spots to blur my vision for several minutes afterward. This prevented me from seeing the stares of other patients as I exited the office. The pity in their eyes was like a punch in the gut. My father was wrong. Maybe it wouldn't have been so terrible to be born blind.

"You're not responding to the usually prescribed treatments. We're going to have to try drainage." Dr. Putz declared after three months with no improvement. I looked at Mom, who had started dabbing her forehead in fear. Too afraid to actually ask what drainage entailed, I laid down on the table and squeezed my eyes shut. The paper beneath me crinkled as I squirmed under the bright table lamp poised overhead.

Metal clinked against metal and Mom gasped. My eyes shot open and I jumped up, bumping my head against the low-hanging lamp.

"Settle down now,' Dr. Putz said as he tried to shield me from what he held in his hand. But it was too late. The metal rod pointed towards me like a witch's wand. It was shiny with a circle at the tip. The circle was a little bigger than a pinhead. Black spots danced in front of my eyes as I envisioned what would be done to me.

Dr. Putz's firm hand pushed on my chest as he guided me back down onto the table. My breathing was shallow and jagged. Tears pooled in the corners of my eyes and trailed down my cheeks. The damp coolness felt good against my hot face. I tried to squeeze my eyes shut but they kept shooting open as I sensed the metal rod creeping closer to my face. Wet, smacking sounds escaped from Mom's lips. I strained to hear the prayer she was saying for me.

Stars danced across the darkness of my closed eyes as a scorching pain seared through my face. Dr. Putz pressed the circular tip of the rod deep into the largest pimples on my face. He grunted with the effort of it. The metal tip dug into each pimple until there was a pop and blood and pus oozed onto my face. He repeated this six, seven, eight times. No pimple was safe. He attacked blemishes on my nose, chin and cheekbone. The ones on my nose were an exclamation point of pain. It felt as though the flesh would tear from my face.

When he finally finished, he sat me up and stared at my face.

"Much better!" I looked at Mom, whose mouth was covered with a tissue. She nodded a lie at me.

"I thought you were never supposed to pop pimples?" I accused, woozy with pain.

"You're not. I am." He smiled, wiggling the wand of torture at me. "See you next week."

I didn't see my face until we got home. Deep potholes of dried blood littered my skin. Angry welts were rising around the explosions. Shame burned my ears and anger tore at my throat.

"How could you let him do this, Mom?"

"You want to get better, don't you? He's the doctor. He knows best."

There was no fighting that logic. Before going to the doctor, I had already tried everything imaginable to help myself. First, I went on a diet. No chocolate, no fries, no pizza, no soda. Two months later and six pounds lighter, my skin had not improved. Fifth grade was not the fun I had hoped it to be. Although I was starting to fill out my training bra with something more than Kleenex, my skin still took center stage. The acne started a slow descent, marching across my neck, shoulders, back and chest. The medicine cabinet was bursting with anti-blemish products: there were creams and rinses, masks and mists. I consulted all of the authorities: Seventeen Magazine, the Avon lady, even a palm reader. I begrudgingly heeded unsolicited advice from strangers on the street.

"Ya know whatcha need, kid? Get yerself some toothpaste and slather it all over them zits. Bring 'em right to a head."

"Oh, sweetie. I know just how you feel. Hot compresses soaked in chamomile tea. Hot as you can stand. Lay them over your face. Draws out all the toxins."

"Orange peels. Vitamin C does it. Eat lots of oranges. Lay the peels on your face."

I tried it all. Almost. A sweat-soaked bus driver advised me to dip a rag in the first piss I took in the morning and lay it across my face. The morning after I heard this advice, I stared into the bowl, clutching a washcloth. My hand hovered inches above the yellow water. I chanted, do it do it do it! As the cloth almost skimmed the surface of the bowl, I flushed in disgust and stormed out of the bathroom. I may have been a zithead, but I would not allow myself to become a piss face.

Shortly after Dr. Putz started digging into my face, Mom stopped taking me to my appointments. Instead, she said, my father would come home early on Monday nights. Dad never came home early. This was momentous.

"Why?" I asked.

"I just can't bear to watch what he does to you."

I had my own theory. During one of my appointments, Dr. Putz turned his attention to my mother. He stared at her sitting in her usual seat, and approached her like an animal in the wild. Mom sunk deeper into the chair as he swiped her long bangs away from her face.

"Mom. Up on the table please. That needs to be removed." Dr. Putz guided me off of the table and took my mother by the elbow.

"What? No. Leave it. It's fine."

"It's not fine. It's disgusting. And it's coming off. Now."

"It" was a large pom-pom sized mole that hung in between Mom's eyebrows. She had kept her bangs long her entire life to cover it up. Sometimes, when her bangs got pushed aside, I saw it jiggling like a Christmas tree ornament. It was not my favorite part of my mother.

I leaned up against the wall as Mom looked at me pleadingly. I shrugged my shoulders and felt some amount of glee to be on the other side of this routine. Mom's damp hands left dark imprints on the paper that I clung to every week. There was a quick snip of a scissor, and the pom-pom was resting in Dr. Putz's palm.

"There. Done."

"Ohhh." My mother crooned, looking green about the gills. "Thank you!"

The next week, Mom came back to Dr. Putz with a new haircut and my brother Chris, who was seven. Chris had acquired the nickname of "Hindu Dot", thanks to a similar mole centered just above his eyebrows. Unlike my mother's, Chris' was flat. For some reason, Mom had not afforded Chris the same protection of long bangs and insisted on keeping his bangs short.

The teenaged boys on our block chanted "Hindu Dot" whenever Chris passed. He kept his head hung low and bit his little lip to keep from crying. Mom caught them in the act one day.

"You little punks! Think you're so brave pickin on a little kid? How 'bout I get his older cousin to come and kick your asses?"

I giggled on two accounts. One - my mother had said "asses", though she did cross herself as soon as she uttered the profanity. Two - the cousin she was referring to was older and larger than these boys. However, he was a virtual shut-in at twenty. He rarely left his room, and never left the house. I pictured Mom pulling these bullies by their ears and leading them to my cousin's dark cave of a room and saying, "Kick their asses!"

Mom had decided that Dr. Putz could put a stop to the Hindu Dot. Chris sat on the table under the blaring light that I was so used to. I watched his little legs shaking and my heart crumbled. At that instant, I wished it was me up on the table. I would take all of the bullying if they would just leave my brother alone.

Chris squinted his eyes and clenched his jaw as Dr. Putz injected a needle around the mole. I then watched him slice a neat circle around it and blood pooled in the spot where the mole had been a second ago. He placed a band-aid over the hole and patted Chris on the head. Hindu Dot was dead.

Dr. Putz seemed to enjoy the scalpel and had plans to mine my mother's body for more moles. Shortly after the death of Hindu Dot, Mom begged off of her doctor duties and sent my father in her place.

This, however, did not sway Dr. Putz from his scalpel obsession.

"You have suspicious moles that need to be removed" he informed me.

"Suspicious?" Dad asked.

"Yes. Cancerous."

So began the excavation of suspicious moles. Every few weeks, Dr. Putz would numb me up and slice me open. I felt like a turkey being carved for Thanksgiving, except no one moaned "yum" as he sawed into my flesh. Most of the moles were on my back. The cold blood ran down my back after each incision, and I felt faint from the thought of my blood leaking out.

The moles were usually teeny tiny and didn't require stitches, just a band-aid. One stubborn mole, however, was deeper and larger than the rest. It was to the right of my belly button and Dr. Putz said it had to go. The hole left behind was cavernous and needed several stitches. The bandage bulged visibly through my shirt. The next day at basketball practice, Bobby Kimmel stared quizzically at my stomach.

"What happened to you?" he asked, face scrunched up.

"Got stabbed in a street fight." I responded with a steely gaze.

"Are you all right?" Bobby's dim eyes shimmered with wonder.

"I'll live. Other guy didn't." I strutted away, too tough for words. Bobby was left in a fog of wonder.

Months passed in a similar fashion. Dad drove me to my weekly torture sessions with Dr. Putz, and he squeezed the life out of my pimples. We drove home, and I suffered the lectures about my lucky life. Dad insisted on stopping off at the supermarket every week. I begged him to take me home first. The treatments with Dr. Putz left me bloody and puffy and exhausted. I couldn't bare the disgusted glares of other people. But Dad refused.

"Can't let anyone make you ashamed. Show your face. Be proud. You look fine. Besides, supermarket's on the way home."

I tried to keep my chin up like my father said. The fluorescent lights of the supermarket bit into my face. My skin was dry and cracked from the scabs already forming. Eyes strained to stare at me, then shot away when I caught their glances. Little by little, my head dropped lower until all I could see were my own shoelaces.

I found refuge in a book display for young adults. The books were a warped child's version of trashy adult romances. The titles read: "Too Young To Die", "I Want To Live", "Why So Young?" The covers depicted tragic young girls with sallow skin and sunken eyes. They were all dying of leukemia or heart failure or some romantic jungle-borne illness that was slowly eating their brains. They were each wasting away in the prime of their lives, and they looked beautiful doing it. Boyfriends who were football captains and class presidents were being left behind. I wanted so badly to be one of those girls! True, they were dying, but they were so pretty and popular and their boyfriend were so cute. Plus, no one made fun of a dying girl. If a boy could love a girl with brain rot, why couldn't he love one with a few blemishes?

I hid amid these stories until my father came searching for me.

"Dad," I would whine, "some woman called me gross."

"Yeah, well. You're not. And she's an idiot."

"D'ya think I could get a book?" I batted my tear-stained lashes.

"Yeah, yeah. Grab one and let's go."

It wasn't exactly a lie. Some woman had called me gross. Maybe just not that night. Those books were my best medicine. It made me feel better to read about other people's miseries. There might just be hope for me yet.

I became more feisty regarding the harvesting of my moles. One night, while waiting in the bleach-and-body-odor-scented waiting room, I spied a brochure about skin cancer. It detailed the appearance of suspicious moles - bigger than an eraser head, multi-colored, jagged edges. None of my moles had had any of those features.

That night, Dr. Putz zeroed in on a mole on my right cheek.

"Yep. This one's gotta go," he nodded.

"No way. You're not scraping anything off my face." I protectively covered my mole with my palm.

"But it could be...."

"It's not. None of them have been. You're not doing any more."

Dr. Putz sighed in exasperation, looking to my father for support. Before Dad could speak, I handed him the brochure I had swiped from the waiting room.

"Look, Dad. These are cancer. Mine doesn't look anything like that." He looked at the brochure and nodded. I held my breath, waiting to see whose side he was on.

"Let's leave that one alone for a while, Doc."

"But it could...."

"Yeah. Thanks anyway. She's good for now."

Dr. Putz stored away his scalpel for the next victim, disappointed that he wouldn't be able to practice his carving skills that night.

It happened a few weeks later. Dad and I walked into the exam room and were met by Dr. Putz's gleaming white teeth. I had never seen them before. They were unnaturally large and unnerving. I understood why he always kept them hidden beneath a scowl.

"Hello! Good to see you! Listen, Dad. How about you wait outside tonight? I'm going to try an extra long treatment with the UV lamp. Go on out. I think the game's on." My eyes attempted to keep Dad in the room, but he nodded reassuringly, heading towards the television.

My stomach shook and my chin quivered. I didn't trust Dr. Putz. As soon as Dad left the room, the sour scowl returned to his lips. The UV lamp clicked on and its hum filled the room.

"Up on the table, please."

I reluctantly slid under the lamp and folded my hands across my chest. Sweat pooled in my palms as Dr. Putz placed the goggles over my eyes. I kept peaking out from under them. The light from the UV lamp was blinding. Dr. Putz had his back to me, but I could see his busy hands preparing something. Glass canisters clicked open and objects were dropped onto a metal tray. I was about to sit up when I felt the pressure of his palm heavy on my chest.

"Stay still now. We're just going to remove that pesky mole."

"No!" I shouted, and kicked my legs up in the air. My foot knocked the UV lamp away from the table as I struggled against Dr. Putz's needle-baring hand.

"Don't tell me no." Dr. Putz was determined.

"Dad!" I screamed loudly as I dug my nails into Dr. Putz's hairy bear claw of a hand. He let out a yelp of pain and dropped the needle. He backed away from the table just as Dad swung the door open.

"What the hell's goin on in here?" His jaw was set and his fist was balled as he looked from me to Dr. Putz clutching his hand.

I didn't wait to explain it. Running past my father, I fled the building and out into the dark night. Leaning against the car waiting for Dad, I wondered if the pretty, dying girls in my books had doctors like this.

The car ride home was quiet. I wasn't interested in the version of events Dad had heard from Dr. Putz, and I wasn't in the mood for a "lucky" lecture. Dad didn't even put the radio on. My head throbbed from the effort of holding back my tears. We drove past the supermarket without stopping.

"Dad? The supermarket."

"Not tonight," he said.

We pulled up in front of the house and Dad turned off the ignition. He stared straight ahead, his hands on the steering wheel. I kept my feet on the dashboard, staring up at the two stars I could see through the windshield.

"You never have to go to him again."

"I won't."

"I know."

We sat quietly in the car for a while. I could feel the words my father wanted to say. His eyes darted back and forth. I was grateful for the silence, and the dark. Cars and people passed us by. I watched them and wondered about their lives. I could see them without being seen by them. I wanted to stay there forever.

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