Posts by Jonah

I’m going to Virginia. My sister is heading out for Colorado. Ben is
leaving for Singapore. It will be a long time till our family is together
again.

Hmm.. mom is talking to dad on the phone about Ben’s flight to Singapore.
He’s going to have to find his way through LAX, the Los Angeles airport.
Reality check.

Ken Myers called me today. I was supposed to call him this week, but we
hadn’t decided exactly where I was going to stay on the way up to VA. He
told me that I’ll be staying with a family in Powatan, VA, about 20 miles
from Richmond and 60 from Charlottesville. His studio is evidently in his
house in Powatan and the office in Charlottesville. They’re going to move
the studio up to Charlotteville sometime at the end of the summer after I’m
gone, I think. I’ll be living with a couple who has grown children. I asked
about my mouse. He said that they have a cat, but said that since I’ll be
working with him, my rodent could stay at his house. “The kids will love
it,” he said, “We have dogs and cats and rabbits and whatever turtles wander
up. What’s your mouse’s name?”

I also asked if the couple I’d be staying with have a piano. He said he
didn’t know but his house had one. “And,” he added, “I want you to know that
I consider members of the staff to part of the family, so it’s not unusual
for them to stay for supper or watch movies afterward with us.”

I’ll be working with him and driving to Charlottesville once a week or so, he
said. “I might get you to do some audio editting.” He asked what kind of
comptuer I had. Macintoshes, I told him. They use Macs too. “There’s a
tutorial on ours, but I suppose you won’t need it.”

If this is all the case, I have no idea what sort of modem access I’ll have.
It may be only once a week, and I may not have time even then.

In the meantime, I need to get my glasses, which lost a piece, fixed, my car
tuned up and get my watch fixed if possible.
ugh.

For some reason I thought today was Thursday. I’m not really sure why. I
mean, I’m not in school anymore, so the days do tend to blur together. But I
woke up this morning convinced it was Thursday. Which brought up the
question in my mind of what happened to Wednesday (or Tuesday) because I
seemed to have missed a day. But Thursday it was, or so I thought, and
nothing could be done about my memory.

Actually, I woke up this morning at 6 am with a splitting headache. Well, to
say I woke up would imply that I had been asleep. And although consciousness
had not been a part of my existence up until that point, I had not been
sleeping well at all. I thought when I’d gone to bed with a headache that
all I really needed was some rest, but the pain evidently prohibited me from
getting anything like that. So at 6, I was in way more pain than would allow
slumber.

Finally, I got up and, repeating “I feel fine” to myself to keep the contents
of my stomach where they were, stumbled to the bathroom, where I fished out
the bottle of prescription painkillers from my dopkit and downed one with
some water from the sink. Then it was back to my bed and what seemed like an
hour of writhing in pain, waiting for the drug to take effect. Repeating my
matra once again and hoping very hard that whatever was in my stomach would
not end up on the floor, I went over to my dresser and pulled out a black
sock. Then returning to my bed and laying it over my eyes, I finally found
release in sleep.

When my alarm went off, I turned it off and continued to sleep. Perhaps this
is what made me lose track of what day it was.

In any case, I showed up at Lens Crafters for my appointment at 2 pm on
Thursday. Even though it was actually Wednesday. They didn’t seem to mind.
The doctor saw me fairly quickly. and told me to quit complaining about
things being blurry in my right eye at a large distance. She could give me a
stronger prescription, but that would make my eyes have to work harder up
close. “Oh, if you put it that way,” I answered. She even put up the 20/15
line of the chart up, and although it was blurry, I could still read it fine.
“See?” she said, “You see better than I do. Are you an engineer?” she
asked, “Engineers always come back complaining because they’re so precise.”

I suppose I should call them tomorrow and tell them, “Hey, listen. I was
supposed to come in today, but I came in yesterday instead.”

“You wanna go see Mo?” he asked me while talking on the phone. “What? Mo?
Sure!” I hadn’t seen Mo in forever, ever since he moved up to Detroit.
“You know Mo, right?” Dick asked when he got off the phone. Did I know him?
I would have become his 11th wife, had I agreed. “Well, don’t mention that.
He’s married now,” Dick laughed.

I’d coached Moteb (the Saudi Arabian otherwise known as H-T on the boards) on
history in return for breadsticks purchased from the snack shop until he left
to get married and transfer to another college. Before that I’d had several
midnight chat sessions with him on the Neutral Zone.

Driving down in Dick’s new car he got for $200, we peered through the foggy
windshield and belted out the lyrics to tunes playing on the radio. Every so
often, he’d hit the horn, which was in perfect tune with certain songs. We
walked into the Clarion Hotel and spotted them. Sting and his other were
seated at a table with Mo and his diminuative wife wrapped in a traditional
Arab head scarf. Mo has always been big, but he’s gotten bigger since I’ve
seen him last. His wife could understand English, and evidently speak it,
but instead she told jokes in Ababic and had Mo translate them.

Deciding to head to Darryl’s, we piled into Mo’s rental (this huge sedan he
somehow talked his way into renting for $26 a day). It was parked out in
front of the hotel. “See this red line?” asked Sting, “It means fire. Only
fire trucks can park here.” “It’s not my car. This is a rental,” responded
Mo. “Have you ever driven with a Saudi?” Sting tried to prepare us. I had,
once. He offered to take me over to my car parked in the far lot at UM.
There was a tape of voices howling in Arabic playing when he cranked up his
Amiga. This time, the radio was set to the alternative station. “Hey, we
were just listening to that,” Dick and I exclaimed as Mo turned it off.

He pulled east onto Airport, performed a Uie, and weaved in and out of the
lanes into the left hand turn lane on Airport, coming THIS CLOSE to a truck’s
bumper. “Crap!” came Sting’s voice from the back. “Hey, we had PLENTY of
room,” I observed from the front seat. “Yeah,” agreed Mo, “Jonah knows what
she’s talking about. You obviously know how to drive. Besides, it’s a
rental,” as we came THIS CLOSE to another car turning into the parking lot.
“Plenty of room,” I repeated.

Inside, a waitress said it would be a 20 minute wait for a non smoking table.
We opted for first available instead and went to sit down at the lounge.
The discussion turned to how Mo has this innate ability to get people to
give him stuff for free. A girl came over to take our drink orders while she
handed out cocktail napkins. “These are my friends from Bulgaria,” Mo said
to her, “Seriously!” “Okay,” she muttered. “And so you need to give them
something complementary since they’re visiting from overseas.” I don’t think
she caught that but just took our orders. Sting’s other ordered a virgin
strawberry daquiri, so I pointed to her and nodded that I’d have the same
when it came my turn.

As she returned to the bar, the buzzer they’d given to Mo went off. We
tromped back upstairs and followed the seater to a very cramped booth. They
agreed to push another couple of tables together while we waited. A waiter
came up to spread out cocktail napkins before we told him that we weren’t
REALLY sitting there, just waiting till they got us a better table. He
picked up the napkins and left. As we returned back downstairs, we wondered
if the lady with our drink orders would ever be able to find us.

For the third time, someone came up and asked what we wanted to drink. “Uh,
I think this girl was getting stuff for us,” Sting conjectured. The waiter
asked what she looked like. “Red shirt,” said Mo, “and glasses!” “Blonde
hair,” I added. He went off to search for her, then came back a bit later
with all the drinks except for the daquiris. “And who had coke?” he asked.
We all looked around. “I had a sprite,” said Mo, “but you can leave that
here. And could you bring us a pitcher of sprite? We’ll be drinking a lot.”
He reappeared with the sprite and the pitcher and then our daquiris. I
sucked on mine and mused to Dick, “I should have got a real one.” “Get one,”
he said, “I’ll drink that one.” When the waiter came back, I asked him for a
real strawberry daquiri. He asked for my ID.

At one point, the waiter asked Sting if he still went to University of
Mobile. “My name is Marty,” he said, “I just graduated.” Sting had
graduated, Mo had transferred, and Dick and I still went. Sting’s other is a
Spring Hiller. When he left, I asked Dick, “What do you think his major
was?” “Hmm? Business. Maybe nursing. But he looks like a business major.”
I asked Marty when he came back what his major was. “Business and finance.”
“Ha! You were right!” I exulted to Dick. Marty looked surprised but asked
us what we majored in. “Music,” answered Dick. “Political Science,” added
I.

Mo picked up on the conversation, asking Marty where he was from and his
major. Then he asked, “You married?” “No.” “You’re single then? This is
Jonah. (What’s your major?)” “Political Science,” I said. “Her major is
political science. She is single, and she’s gorgeous in this black dress…”
A few days before my 20th birthday, I went through a rebellious stage as a
result of the realization that there were only a few days left of being a
teenager. One of those days, I went to class in goth/stoner regailia,
wearing heavy eye makeup and “dressed” in a black t-shirt, black gloves,
black stockings and shoes. I walked into the computer lab after English
class to find Mo staring open mouthed. He mentions this “black dress” every
time I’ve seen him since.

A bit later, a pack of waiters laid seige to the table next to us singing
happy birthday and presenting the victim with pie ala mode. Mo caught
Marty’s attention and gestured toward Sting and his other. Marty disappeared
again to get some pie for the birthday girl. It is Sting’s other’s
birthday… but not for another couple of weeks. The pie accompanied by the
army of waiters arrived a few minutes later. Sting his other shoved the pie
into the box with their partially consumed cake as soon as Marty left, and we
all watched the al amode melt alone on the plate. I mixed some sprite from
the pitcher into the rest of Dick’s daquiri so Marty wouldn’t have brought
the extra beverage in vain.

Back in the car, Mo pulled out onto Airport with a semi truck blocking the
view of who was coming as Sting shouted “Oh crap!” from the backseat. It was
just down the road to the hotel. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” Mo
asked. “Sammy’s,” laughed Dick. “Sammy’s? is that a restaurant?” Mo passed
the hotel and turned toward the strip joint. “It is NOT a restaurant,”
insisted Sting, “Two words. Kenny Rogers. Roasters? Hooters?” Mo suddenly
accelerated past the intended target. He turned back onto Airport
announcing, “I’m pulling in front of a red Mustang.”

We made it back to the hotel safely anyway. Parking in a real parking spot
this time, we got out next to a car phone lying on the ground. “You want a
phone?” asked Mo, “take it.” I picked it up to turn it into the front desk
(not the first time I’ve done that at that hotel) but handed it over to a
couple of elderly rent-a-cops sitting on the tailgate of a nearby truck.

Then exchanging goodbyes, we left and listened to the radio all the way home.

I washed my hair today. Which was good because it had been about a week
since the last time I did. It doesn’t get as icky after that amount of time
in the arid climate of Colorado, but by the time I returned to the South, it
was obviously past its time.

Because of this, my hair was down when I went to school to return a book to
the library. Instead of getting my grades, I got a little card in the mail
saying I had a problem with the library. I called them this afternoon when I
got up and found out that they couldn’t find a book I’d checked out for my
research paper. I’d checked out a bunch of books for that paper from UM and
the public library. A pile that reached past my knee when stacked up, as a
matter of fact. I’d returned them all after the paper got turned in. Well,
MOST of them. I found one under the seat of my car this morning after
talking to the library people on the phone and discovering that a book was
still missing.

I called Mark before I left, since I talked to him on the phone last night
saying I might come see him at school the next day. Leaving a message on his
voice mail, I drove off for school, wondering how the heck I’d find him.
He’s in a new trailer (the girls live in dorms, the guys in cottages and
trailers), and I had no idea which one. But as I prepared to get out of my
car in front of the library, he approached my vehicle. “Hi!” I said, opening
my door. Brad followed up behind him. “Jonah,” breathed Brad, “You look
like a chick.” I guess I did with my hair down and shorts and white Nikes
on. “Nice legs,” he added. “Nice legs,” Mark concurred. “Thank you.” “I
was expecting the jeans, flannel shirt,” commented Brad. “Yeah, well it’s
hot today,” I answered putting my purse with checkbook inside over my
shoulder. “You’ve even got a purse today,” Brad continued.

We went in to the library. “This is late,” I said sliding the book to the
lady across the counter. It was indeed almost two weeks late. She and the
workstudy looked in vain for its card. Then the lady who’s like second in
command over there came over to help. She found the card where she’d pulled
it waiting for me to call back. Satisfied, she crossed out my name on a bad
list and marked some other things. “Okay,” she said looking up at me.
“That’s it?” I asked. “Yes, we won’t make you pay a fine. We’re just glad
to have it back.” “Cool,” I smiled. “Now run before I change my mind,” she
ordered. I left the library quickly with Mark and Brad in tow.

We went over to Mark’s trailer. Girls aren’t allowed inside, but he lives so
far back now that no one notices. It’s pretty nice with a full kitchen.
Brad and I talked about relationships and meaning while Mark played
alternative music tunes on the classical guitar he checked out of the music
dept. Then he went to eat at the snack shop and I had to go home and cook
dinner.

In other news a quest I’ve held for a couple of years now finally came to
completion. I’d been searching for the perfect chocolate chess pie recipie
and found it tonight, quite inadvertantly. What I really wanted was a
chocolate chip pie recipe, so I flipped through cookbooks radomly trying to
find one. My mom has a whole cabinet dedicated to cook books, most of them
gifts she never uses. I finally cried out in triumph as I flipped to the
correct page. As I rolled out the pie crust, my mom asked what I was making.
I refused to say, as always. My brother, who is fairly perceptive, didn’t
ask but came over to the cookbook and started reading off the ones on the
page. “Chocolate chess?” he wondered allowed. “Chocolate chess?! Where!” I
demanded. There, right above the one for the chocolate chip pie, it was.
Since the pie crust recipie is for two crusts, I made one of each. We had
the chess tonight. And it was good. Real good. I’m happy with it, and
quite satisfied with myself.

I have nothing against flies per se. I mean, I’m sure they serve some useful
purpose in nature. Like climbing all over food that’s been left out while
regurgitating onto whatever they’re eating part of their last meal, which
many times consists of garbage or dung. But I harbor these swift insects no
ill will in general, provided they’re not harassing me with constant buzzing
or biting me or my animals. So long as they stay out of sight and sound,
they are safe from my vengeance. But woe be it to the tiny flying animal I
find within my vacinity.

The Bremers’ have a multiplicity of fly swatters. My house has one, which I
can never find when I need it and so am usually forced to resort to a rolled
up sheet of newspaper. But insects rarely find their way into my house,
well, flying insects, that is. We seem to have our fair share of roaches.
But

(A slight pause while I answer the ringing phone, have a short conversation
in which the caller and I acknowledge predicting each being on the other end
of the line, spotting a fat black fly, retrieving a fly swatter from its
roost on top of the fridge, and swatting the poor sucker into a window pane,
before handing the phone to someone else.)

But…
—
But after writing this much I went to a picnic (where I consumed a hamburger,
Sprite, and Cheetoes and played volley ball with cadets), the airport, made
rhubarb pies, watched a movie and shot off a bunch of fire works. So I
didn’t have much time to write about the day’s events.

We’re leaving for home tomorrow, probably around noon, and it’s after 2 now.