I love living out here in the “boondocks” of Calhan, Colorado. We’ve got pretty much everything one needs within walking distance: grocery, small restaurant, Post Office, Town Hall, hardware store, feed store, butcher’s, elementary & high school, park, walking trail, even an insurance company! (We used to have a bar and a bowling alley, but the smoking ban killed those. That’s another story for another day….) Anyway, here in Calhan, the one thing we don’t have is a library. Fortunately, our wonderful Pikes Peak Library District provides us with Bookmobile services twice a week.

Well, that is, they used to. Very soon, Pikes Peak Library District, in their wonderful wisdom, will no longer drive the Bookmobile out to Calhan anymore: From now on, they will be driving the Mobile Library Services um, vehicle? Van? RV? Truck?

Yup. They’re changing the name. It’s the same old vehicle it’s always been, wonderfully stuffed to the brim with books, DVDs, videos, cds, and the absolutely nicest, friendliest, people you’ve ever met. They will still remember most of our names, even when we forget theirs, they’ll still bring out, special-delivery-like, any books you put on hold through your internet account. They’ll still make spot-on recommendations, and they’ll still take the time to ask how life’s treating you. Just like they always have.

Nothing changes except the name.

Mobile Library Services. Wow… what a mouthful. I wonder how much the consultant who came up with that brilliant idea got paid!

When I first moved to Calhan nearly ten years ago, I was thrilled to learn we had a bookmobile. It brought back a flood of some of my most cherished childhood memories. In the small New Jersey town I grew up in, every Wednesday was bookmobile day. Not only did we get out of the classroom for an hour, not only did we get to go and pick out ANYTHING we wanted, they brought special books they picked out just for us!

My mom adored Wednesdays, because it was the one day of the week she didn’t have to fight me to wake up in time for school. She’d pop her head into my bedroom and quietly say, “Laura, wake up, it’s Bookmobile day!” I’d be out of that bed like a shotgun! Mom never “grounded” me like normal kids… if I got in trouble, she took my library card away. “No bookmobile for you this week, young lady!” It was devastating to me!

For me, seeing the Bookmobile driving down the road was like seeing the ice cream truck. “The Bookmobile is here! The Bookmobile is here!” And I know, first-hand, that many of the young people here in Calhan view the Bookmobile parked in front of our school every Tuesday exactly the same way I did in my youth: as a Special Day, the Bookmobile day.

Bookmobile. What a wonderful word. Regardless if you utilize their services or not, when you hear that word, you have an immediate image in your mind, and maybe even a few warm-and-fuzzy feelings, like I do. Bookmobile. You know exactly what the word means and exactly what it does: It brings books and other library materials to those that need them.

Now, try out the new name in your head: Mobile Library Services um, Mobile. Um, Vehicle. Um, Van… I don’t know about you, but Mobile Library Services simply leaves me hanging. I feel like there is not only a word missing, but a meaning. I can just see the teacher’s having fun with this at the school: “Hey Kids, don’t forget, tomorrow is Mobile Library Services Day!”

Can you imagine the new ice-cream-truck-like mantra? Kids yelling in excitement, “The Mobile Library Services thing is here! The Mobile Library Services thing is here!”

Yeah, right.

I don’t understand why Pikes Peak Library District made this silly decision. In the nearly ten years I’ve been using their services, I’ve never been able to complain about anything. There’s no other public service like it. It’s the one public service NO ONE dreads going to, unlike the Driver’s License or Vehicle Registration offices! For starters, the employees are always HAPPY!

And honestly, I’m not really complaining now about PPLD, I’m simply questioning: Why change a name that has such a long, gloriously wonderfully emotive history as the Bookmobile? It’s the PERFECT name: It’s a vehicle that brings you BOOKS! And more, more, more!

You see, Bookmobile day is an OCCASION, especially for those of us living in small, rural communities that simply do not have the financial resources to support a full-fledged library. Mobile Library Services Day… it just doesn’t have the same feeling.

I cannot understand why this rush to change something that simply didn’t need fixing. PPLD, I beg of you, fire the consultant who convinced you that somehow, for some stupid reason or another, the name Bookmobile was no longer trendy enough. Go back to calling it the Bookmobile.

Or if you really insist on changing a perfectly good name, at least come up with something at a bit more catchy? Oh wait, I forgot… there simply isn’t anything catchier than Bookmobile.

I can’t wait till Saturday. It’s Mobile Library Services Day.

Very likely later today, the Colorado senate will be voting on a proposal to raise the cost of a marriage license from $10 to $35. According to The Gazette, Sen. Dave Schultheis, R-Colorado Springs, is against the idea, arguing that the State should do “everything it can to promote marriage and should consider adding the fee to the cost of getting a divorce instead.” I say Schultheis is not only wrong, but that the Senate should consider raising the cost of a marriage license higher. Much, much higher.

Colorado, like many states, makes it extremely difficult and expensive to get divorced. Now, I’m not saying that’s necessarily a bad thing, but I do believe the emphasis is in the wrong place. I don’t think divorce needs to be made more difficult. I think we need to make it far more difficult to get married.

Why? Because it’s cheaper - and simpler - to get married than it is to license my dog. Seriously. If I wanted to get married - and I don’t - all I need to do is go pay $10 and sign a short piece of paper. Until not too long ago, you didn’t even need to show an ID.

Now, to license my dogs, which I have to do every year, first I have to bring the mutts to the vet, pay for an office visit ($80 for the three mutts), pay for their rabies shots ($54 for the three of them), put the dogs in the car, run back into the vet’s to get the rabies certificate I accidentally left on the counter, get the dogs home, go to Town Hall, pay the fees - $12 if dog is neutered/spayed, $25 if not, and an extra $5 if I let the license lapse more than 30 days. Then, I have to wrestle the dog’s collars off of them, find the dang wrench to force the loopy metal tag hanger open, take off the old tag, put on the new tag, chase each one of the dogs down and try to get them to stay still long enough to get their collars back on, then sit down on the couch and wish I still drank. Phew!

Trying to replace a lost driver’s license is far more complicated. Don’t get me started!

Okay, maybe it’s not exactly THAT bad, but licensing a dog is a lot more complicated than getting a marriage license. For starters, no shots are required. Blood tests are no longer required. If the police have been called to your house for too much barking, your license may be refused. You get the idea.

But to get married, all you need is $10. Maybe $1.00 in quarters for the parking meter. Then go in front of any judge, magistrate, notary public, public official, official of any church, or even just do it yourself, and you are married. Not including the time it takes to find a parking space in downtown Colorado Springs, you can get the whole thing done in 15 minutes.

No one questions your fitness for marriage. No one gives you a lecture on the proper care and feeding of your spouse, or requires any sort of preventive vaccinations against dangerous diseases. You never have to re-license each other, nor do you have to worry about being refused a license because of too many noise complaints after drunken bouts of glass throwing.

Marriage is a serious, life-altering decision that anyone over the age of 18 is not only legally and easily permitted to do, they are encouraged to do so by much of our cultural underpinnings. You are forever bound to every stupid mistake the other makes for the rest of your life, or until you decide to get divorced. Whichever comes first.

If Schultheis and the State of Colorado are so dang’ed concerned about promoting marriage, they really need to rethink their approach. Making divorce more expensive isn’t the answer. Promoting smart decision making about getting married in the first place IS.

If you want to get divorced, not only are you looking at more than $300 in various filing fees, you must attending parenting classes and wait 90 days before you can even think about scheduling a court date.

PARENTING CLASSES when you get DIVORCED? How ridiculous! How about requiring parenting classes BEFORE YOU GET MARRIED!! You know, BEFORE you have the children in the first place?

Oh, I forgot… something like half these people getting married already have children. Duh.

How about a waiting period before you get married? Maybe THAT would cut down the rate of divorce! Slow people down a bit before they make stupid marriage decisions, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll cut the divorce rate significantly.

Ultimately, that is the only answer to the divorce rate: Do what you can to promote marrying smart. You know, like criminal background checks. STD tests. Parenting classes. Classes on smart money management and dispute resolution. Give people the information they need for a successful relationship, and maybe, they will be far less likely to divorce later on down the road.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against marriage, even though I personally have never made that mistake. I think marriage is a great institution for those insane enough to believe some guy they met in a bar three months ago and screwed the same night is awesome husband material. I just think there is something wrong with a system that makes it incredibly difficult to open a checking account, get a driver’s license, license a dog, register a car, etc., but makes it ridiculously easy to join yourself with another person’s bad habits, supposedly for the rest of your life.

So go ahead, Colorado Senate, raise the fee to $35. Better yet, raise it to $300 and institute at least a 30-day waiting period. If the State truly wants to promote marriage, then they need to start taking marriage as seriously as they take licensing a dog. As long as the State views marriage so lightly that it only costs $10 and anyone can do it, how on Earth can they ever expect the People to take it seriously?

The flight is short between two worlds, less than two hours and I’m landing in an odd, strange world. I remain seated as those around me rush to grab their bags full of their ever-important-stuff from the overhead compartments, rushing to leave the plane even though no matter how much they rush, it always takes at least fifteen minutes to debark and at least an hour to get through Customs and Immigration.

Americans. Always in such a rush to get to the next red light.

I’m always the last person off an airplane. Sometimes stewardesses will ask me if everything is all right, as I sit and wait for the hurried I’m-Very-Important people moving around me. This time is a bit different: there is another person three rows ahead of me also waiting until there is no choice but to leave. Glancing over, our eyes meet and there is a silent moment of Hello Fellow Real World Avoider.

I hate the rush. I hate the end of a trip. I hate what I know is about to come: Culture Shock. Not the shock of a new land: the shock of the old. Returning home to my own country, to what some consider normal life. Yet I have no choice, I can’t stay on the plane forever.

Walking through the door and down the perfectly temperature-controlled accessway, I am struck hard by the sterile smell of the air. So clean, so filtered, so dead. Who knew air could smell dead without a carcass? I’m instantly brought back to the moment two months earlier when I walked through another airplane’s door just after landing in Haiti, onto a rusted stairway pushed by three men to the door of the plane. Leaving that plane, I walked into direct sunlight and thick, humid, sweet-smelling, abundantly alive air. I remember the captain of that plane warning each of us as we walked down those shaky metal steps to stay to the left: the right hand side of several steps was rusted through. The air was rich, thick, and sweet as I walked across the tarmac to the doorway of the terminal.

There are lots of ways to reduce culture shock when traveling; hell, half the fun of traveling IS the “shock” of different ways of life, different foods, mannerisms, languages, and styles. No one warns you about the shock of coming “home,” no one prepares you for how much harder it is to return to the normal from what has become normal.

No matter how many times I’ve traveled, returning home just gets harder, readjusting to America becomes ever increasingly difficult.

Leaving the accessway, I join the loud throng of people rushing from one Customs and Immigration line to another, hoping to get on a “fast” one. After the sterile dead air of the plane and accessway, my eyes begin to water from the coarse smell of heavy artificial perfumes, deodorants and floor cleaner. I hang towards the back and just watch and wait for my turn to leave sacred international ground and walk onto official American soil.

It is so loud. The crowd isn’t large, likely less than 200 people, but my ears hurt already from the brassy, harsh American accents around me. I can’t help but think do I sound like that? Seven televisions are strategically placed around the room to occupy us while we wait for our turn through customs and immigration. Occupy us…or begin our American enculturation. Just in case the TVs aren’t loud enough to be heard, closed-captioned words scroll across the bottom, some in Spanish, so no one will miss a single word of the ever-important trash on the television.

During the two months I was in Haiti, I only watched TV for one hour. The family I stayed with in Port Au Prince was blessed with electricity for only a few minutes a day. One day, towards the end of my stay, the grapevine informed us we would have power for two whole hours. When the single electric light in the house flickered on, signaling the return of power, the entire family excitedly rushed out the door and down the street to the rich television-owning neighbor, already in the process of running an extension cord to his precious television placed on the crumbling sidewalk in front of his pieced-together scrap metal home. Everyone from at least a three block radius gathered around to watch this old 1960s-era black-and-white television. Food and drinks quickly passed around, all laughing and sharing the latest gossip, few actually watching the only station the battered metal hanger of an antenna received. The return of the television was simply an excuse to gather, share, and enjoy each other’s company: socialize and party. No one but me noticed the news about the Army overthrowing the government - very likely the reason we were blessed with this much electricity today. Growing up on television like most Americans, I didn’t need to understand the language of the reporter to know the news was not good. I tore myself away from the screen, amazed how in less than 15 minutes I was sucked right back into Television Zombie Mode, and rejoined the party.

Electricity. In America, we not only take power for granted, we assume everyone around the world has it. This assumption of power was the reason I was in Haiti: I was sent down here by a Baptist ministry to set up six brand-new, expensive computers at their Peytonville mission and train the missionaries in their usage. Train American Baptists how to use computers in a country with virtually no electricity, as if Baptists in a country of Voodoo was not ironic enough. The project took one day…they only wanted me to describe what the specs meant and give them a brief rundown on setup. These particular American Baptists had been in Haiti long enough to know that the best usage of these computers would be to sell or trade them to some corrupt official or another for pencils, papers, books, a new water filter, bicycle tire tubes and food. Which is exactly what they did.

I reluctantly pick a line and wait my turn facing the stern immigration official. I feel naked without the close throng of curious children that followed me everywhere I went in Haiti, some shyly three inches away from me but never touching, some boldly holding my hand, my arm, touching my rare-to-them white skin, always one brash kid or another touching my hair to see if I was real, startled when I spoke aloud to prove I wasn’t a living zombie. I now stand alone surrounded by strangers, feeling somehow unsafe and crowded, despite the minimum 18-inch personal-space barrier we Americans unconsciously insist upon. Children were everywhere on the streets of Haiti, always playing, shouting, arguing, talking, conspiring to play one prank or another on each other. Some had families and ramshackle homes to return to; some lived every hour on the street. Regardless of their family status, they expressed a joy in their lives with their every movement and the freedom to run the streets without fear, despite the many real dangers.

The only children I see in this secured, enclosed official room are grimly hanging onto their parents, whose eyes dart around constantly watching for some stranger or another to snatch their precious children from their arms and somehow sneak them out past immigration, customs and security officials. A room that doesn’t even have bathrooms for a pedophile to hide in - just in case you might want to dump the drugs you were illicitly carrying into the country. I can’t help myself but smile back at one young girl who smiled at me…her paranoid mother sneered a “how dare you!” look at me and moved three lines over. It saddened me, then I reminded myself I must look pretty rough and skanky after eight weeks of Port Au Prince street-family life. That family had a house, three walls were made of wood and concrete one of scrap metal, but no “proper” shower: just a cast-iron baby-sized vat to wash in. A house that was a warm, loving laughter-filled home, despite its lack of electricity and plumbing. I miss my “family” already.

How quickly I forgot that in America, Appearance Is Everything. A smile on the face of a well-dressed, stylishly-coiffed, manicured-nailed woman hauling tons of expensive luggage towards a child is far less threatening than one from a woman in torn, dirty jeans and a smelly ragged sweatshirt carrying only a small backpack that has traveled more miles than Greyhound. I understand, but wish it wasn’t so.

Appearance Is Everything. Have you ever noticed that serial killers are always attractive, well-dressed white men? Their neighbors always say they seemed so “nice”… are always so shocked that such a “nice” young man could do such horrible things.

Of course, by “nice” they mean attractive and well-dressed.

My turn. I hand my passport over, the official struggles to find a blank space big enough for the stamp saying I’m now back in America. He asks me about the uprising and troubles in Haiti, says it must have been scary for me being in the middle of a military coup. Laughing, I reply that the soldiers sit around on the corner smoking and drinking, waiting for the news reporters to show up. Despite what was likely being reported on American television, there really wasn’t thousands of soldiers running all over the streets shooting innocent civilians. He waves me across the blue line and I officially enter America.

“Welcome Home,” he says.

Yes, welcome home.

* * *

©1992, Laura DiFiore

In 1991, I spent two months traveling around Haiti after a brief stint as a volunteer for a Baptist mission. I’m not Baptist - in fact, I’m not any religion - but the volunteer position was a great opportunity to visit this very misunderstood country. In September, 1991, two weeks before I returned to America, there was a military coup that put General Raoul Cedras in power. The above is a Musing I wrote shortly after I returned to America.

It’s the time of the year when we spend hours wrestling with crowds in the mall, when finding a parking space within a ten minute walk of the store is the high point of the day, when we send cards to people we didn’t talk to all year, and warm our homes with the smells of baking and cooking. Turkey, ham, potatoes, fruitcake, yams, bread, and of course, holiday cookies: especially chocolate chip cookies. After all, what are the holidays without lots of diet-busting, tooth-decaying cookies to eat? Ahhh… you just have to love chocolate chip cookies… the feel of the dough as you mix it, the eating of a few raw chips before you add them to the mixing bowl, and the heart-warming smell of them baking.

Chocolate chip cookies are so simple: flour, butter, salt, baking soda, vanilla, eggs, sugar, brown sugar, and, of course, chocolate chips. One could say that the ingredients in a chocolate chip cookie are the ingredients of life: mix the flour, butter, salt, baking soda, vanilla, eggs, and sugars together, and you get a basic “bread,” i.e., the day-to-day staple of life, the routine and mundane. Not bad tasting but nothing special; still, it contains all the necessary ingredients to stay physically alive. Physically alive, sure…but what are you living for? Ahhh… add the chocolate chips and bingo! You now have what you are living for: those small, sweet, decadent moments of luxury and extravagance, of joyful celebration… those moments that make life worth living. After all, a chocolate chip cookie without the chocolate chips is not a chocolate chip cookie. And life without those small, momentary moments of joy and even extravagance is not life. However, you must be careful, of course, not to add too many chocolate chip cookies - it will just make the cookie too sweet and you will end up sick to your stomach. Just like a chocolate chip cookie, life has to have the right balance of boring, routine, mundane “bread” and joyful, extravagant, even decadent “chocolate” moments. Too much of the boring, and you wonder why bother living; too much of the sweet and you just get sick.

Marx wouldn’t care less if the cookie had chocolate chips in it or not: his only concern would be how the cookie was manufactured. Was it made in a small, preferably family-owned business, where each person is known to one another and takes pride in their final product? Or was it mass-produced in a huge anonymous factory, where the workers mean nothing to the employers except for how many cookies they made that day? Does this cookie represent the pride and uplifting of the creator’s spirit, or does it represent the beating-down of the spirit of many hundreds of anonymous humans spending their day in meaningless, mind-numbing work for the profit of a corporation they have no say in? By eating that chocolate chip cookie, are you adding to the goodness of the human spirit, or adding to the misery of a nameless worker?

Hobbes would be most concerned with how many cookies you have. He would see the cookie as something to be acquired and accumulated, for the more cookies you own, the more power you have. Of course, it would be best to acquire more cookies with chocolate chips instead of those without chocolate chips, since those with the chocolate chips are a more valuable commodity, therefore increasing your power. It would be important to be generous in sharing your cookies, since the more generous you are with your “riches” - your cookies - the more power you would gain. Since man spends life in a “perpetual and restless desire of power after power,” desiring the cookie would not be a sin, it would just be an expression of human’s natural desire for power.

He would also wonder if the chocolate chips and the “bread” of the cookie could live in peace together, and if they could avoid conflict. He would probably postulate that the “bread” of the cookie is ultimately selfish, and would want more and more chocolate chips in it. The only way for the cookie to secure itself a civil society would be for the cookie to give itself over to an absolute authority: a recipe written in stone that could never be questioned or modified.

Hume would look at the cookie and see it as a representation of the combat between passion and reason, that the “bread” of the cookie is the “idea” and the chocolate chips the “impression.” Since “actions, on many occasions, may give rise to false conclusions in others,” he would question if eating the cookie might be misunderstood by others. Perhaps others might see you eating the cookie as a sinful act. Of course, just because others might misunderstand your actions in eating the cookie, it doesn’t mean that eating the cookie shows a defect in your moral character. Ultimately, though, the question of whether or not the chocolate chips in the cookie is a good or an evil can only be determined by the senses.

Nietzshe would see the chips as the aristocracy and the “bread” as the slaves, whose sole purpose in life is to serve and set-off the chips perfectly, providing the chips with a place to shine. The chips, after all, are born aristocratic, and the bread is born as a slave. The bread can never become aristocratic, however, the chips can cease to act aristocratic… perhaps by allowing themselves to sit around in the sun and melt, creating a big mess. Nietzshe would probably be taken aback at the thought that the cookie was, in essence, the perfect blending of aristocrat and slave.

Schopenhauer would say that eating the cookie will not make you happy - it will just make you want more cookies, and that perhaps by eating the cookie you are denying the will of the cookie to exist. He would question if one is taking the well-being of the cookie fully into consideration. He would also say that by sacrificing your desire to eat the cookie, you may indeed be bringing about your own true salvation. After all, true salvation requires complete denial of the will. On the other hand, the ultimate goal of the good life is in extinction, so by eating the cookie - bringing about its demise - you may be creating true salvation for the cookie.

Kierkegaard would question whether the cookie represents living life aesthetically or ethically, and whether someone who chooses to eat the cookie is making an aesthetical - sinful - choice or an ethical choice. He would view the chocolate chips as representing lust, obscure passions and perdition and would eat just the “bread,” since the chips represent the aesthetical, the evil. Ultimately, whether or not you eat the cookie is an individual choice.

Sartre would question whether or not the cookie exists. Does it become a cookie while it is still a recipe, while it is being mixed in the bowl, while it is baking in the oven, or only after it leaves the oven? Is the cookie aware of itself? Does the cookie know it exists? Does the cookie know it is a cookie? Does the cookie wonder if being eaten is good for it or not? Is it good for all cookies to be eaten? Does the cookie still exist after you eat it? By eating the cookie, do you exist?

Ultimately, the best answer to all these thoughts and questions is simple: just eat the damn thing already.

©2003, Laura DiFiore

* * *

Note: This was written in December, 2003, for my Ethics class at Pikes Peak Community College. The work cited from is Oliver A. Johnson’s Ethics: Selections from Classical and Contemporary Writers, 1999.

Wandall, or Hopefulness

Translated from the Yiddish of Toomuch Drincks, a good man

of a good town, with additions found in the stalls of the Tipple Inn’s men’s room.

With apologies to Voltaire.

CHAPTER I

How Wandall Came to the Good Town and met the Mayor and went to Church

There came to the town of Dekadent, in the land of Coolyuras, a world weary wandering woman known as Wandall, who had traveled far and wide in search of a good town filled with good people. Wandall, having heard from far away of this good town, arrived believing her search had ended. A town of golden streets, where good people helped their neighbors and all the high school cheerleaders were blond. A good town, with so little crime it needed but one cop, who worked only part-time.

Upon her arrival, walking down a well-graded road of golden sand, it was her good fortune to meet up with Tim Leider, the good mayor of this good town, who was pleased to welcome Wandall and show her that she had indeed found a good town filled with good people. Tim was one of the most respected people of this good town, for he had much money from his first wife, an older woman of healthy proportions who died dreadfully by choking on fried chicken cooked in peanut oil, of which she was regrettably allergic. It was such a sadness for Tim, to lose his beloved wife after a mere two weeks of marriage, but such foresight and intelligence he had shown by insisting they have their wills drawn up the day after they were married.

- We have a fine hotel here; it would be my pleasure to drop you off there. But first, Tim said, let me show you the good people of this good town at our good church. I am headed over there now, come join me.

- But of course, Wandall said, knowing that church is where the best of people are found.

Walking into the church, a large metal building with three small plastic windows, unpainted unfinished walls and many rows of mismatched folding metal chairs, Wandall was pleased to see so many people. Indeed, she felt, this must be a good town, for every one of the good citizens were there!

The preacher stands up, the people sing along, then sit as they listen to him preach the good word to the good people. Wandall asks Tim about the preacher.

- He is a good man, our fine preacher. He has had a tragic life, as have many good people, but he goes on as we all must.

- Tragic? In what way tragic? asked Wandall.

- Ahh, the poor man. He is cursed by an evil woman, his former wife, who had the courts garnish all his money from his meager paycheck for the children. It is not his fault that she left him, he should not have to pay for children he can see but two days a week. She should be able to take care of them herself; after all, she is the one who left the marriage, shame on her. Why for does she need his money? After all, she now has a job of her own in another town. She should understand that he has a new wife and children to take care of.

- Why did she leave him?

- Oh, it was such a silly reason, no reason at all. The woman was just a cruel, evil woman. She must have been just awful, for her husband to have to maintain two other women in a good life. If she were a good woman, her husband would never have needed other women!

The preacher, having preached for 15 minutes about the evils of adultery, now asked the good people of the congregation to stand and say a prayer for the Broncos, that they vanquish the Raiders that day. All stood and prayed fervently and loudly for their success.

- I don’t blame our fine preacher at all. Obviously, she was not a good woman at all, for her husband to go to others. She must have been the worst kind of witch and just an awful wife. Come, let us go, our preacher is done, you must meet this fine man.

- Done already? It has been but 20 minutes!

- The game starts in 10 minutes, Tim stated, our preacher never misses a game. He is such a fine, good man to support his team so much.

Tim led Wandall through the line of more than 500 people all waiting to shake hands with the preacher, standing at the door of the church with his basket held out for the generous $20 minimum offerings of the congregation. As they reached the front of the line, Tim introduced Wandall to the Preacher.

- Ah, so very wonderful to meet you, I am so pleased you have joined us on this fine day in our good town! Come here, we greet all our friends, new and old, with a hug.

Wandall stepped forward and allowed the blessed man to hug her, complete with both his hands on her buttocks and a quick blow from him in her ear.

- You must join us to watch the Broncos today, dear, it is a glorious thing to see. We all watch it together at the Tipple Inn.

- I think it would be my pleasure, said the weary Wandall.

CHAPTER 2

Where Wandall Talks with the Preacher and Learns His Story

The line of people slowly filed out, each getting into their respective Yugos and tractors. Wandall, knowing it was prudent to be polite, accepted the hallowed preacher’s offer of a ride. As they sat in his Lexus, Wandall asked him how he came to this town.

- Please, call me Pieter, my dear Wandall. Ah, this is a wonderful town I have found, such good people, the preacher said while emphasizing his words with his hand on Wandall’s thigh. I spent many years in the sin-filled city of Saint Frisco, an awful place, before I came here.

- What did you do there? Wandall asked.

- I preached the good word to the people of course, but it was a tragedy, my attempts failed to help them find their way. So many evil, sinful people. A young woman, misled by the Devil himself, felt that I was too affectionate in my attempts to show her the Light of our Lord. The people, so quick to judge lest they be judged, misunderstood my methods. I felt it would be more effective for me to leave them to their sinful ways and go where my good works would be appreciated.

- So you came here?

- Not at first, I preached in two towns in Kissass and Missery first, where again Satan-loving ladies made false accusations against me, and wicked evil people listened to their false cries instead of my good word. Ahh, we are here at the Tipple Inn, such a good place, where the good people of our good town always tip at least two percent. Come in, you must come in!

CHAPTER 3

Wandall Meets the Town Child Care Provider, Nan

Standing outside the Tipple Inn while Pieter the good preacher rushed inside, Wandall looked upon the building and felt she had never seen so fine a building in all her wanderings. A large building, the front covered with many fine marble carvings of Dionysus, the windows trimmed with gold, awnings of silk, sidewalk of opal, ruby and emerald terrazzo, she saw a group of people standing outside the door drinking from etched crystal steins. To the side of the building was a large grass-covered playground, with many children playing loudly on the very best of swings and slides. Wandall stood in awe. What a good town this must be, for such a fine building to be here, and to provide the children with such a wonderful playground! Right in the heart of the town, next to the center of the town’s social life! How very thoughtful of them, she thought. Walking closer to the park but not watching where she was walking, Wandall bumped right into a woman dressed in white.

- Oh, pardon me, I am so sorry! said Wandall to the woman dressed in white, looking very much like a nurse.

- No problem *hic* I dunno you, are you new ss-here?

- Yes, I am new, my name is Wandall, I have wandered far and wide throughout our world in search of a good town filled with good people.

- You’ve come to the right *hic* pl-place. This here is one fine town, with the goodest of people! I’m Nan, ni-sh to meet you.

- Nice to meet you, too. Are you watching these children? Is this what you do?

- Yesh and no, I sits here and makes shure the kids don’t bother their parents whiles they at the Tipple, but it’s not my job. I can’t gets a job. The people here, sho good, *hic* they buys my refreshments for me and I w-wa-watch they kids whilst they be socializing.

- Um, that sure is good of them, but I don’t understand, why can’t you get a job?

- I’d lo-los-lose my *hic* my benefits, my eight kidsh and I would shtarve withoutsh my benefits. You know, my shections 8 and food shtamps and such. If I get a job, I loo-loo-lose my benefits. I’m only 24 but I gots 8 mouths to feed, such good *hic* kids they are, but so many mouths. Such good peoples of this town they is, *hic* to help me so!

A large man in a suit walks through the side door, carrying a Mai Tai to Nan.

- Here you go, Nan, thanks so much for your help! You are such a hard worker!

- No problem Mike, *burb* thanksh yous! replied Nan. HEY KIDS! Comes here and meet thish ni-sh woman! Heres they *hic* come now. Meet my boys, alls eights of them, all boys. Timmy, Petey, Mikey, Tommy, Eddie, Arty, Stevie, and Johnnie. Each name-ed after they’s *hic* fathers.

- Nice to meet you boys.

Each boy shook Wandall’s hand, then went back to play.

- Where are their fathers? Don’t they help you out, you know, child support and all? Wandall asked Nan, catching her elbow so she wouldn’t fall.

- Oh no, I couldn’t do that, you know, ask their *hic* fine fathers for moneys, that wouldn’t be *sniff* fair and all, they having families to supports and all. Besides *burb* the benefits, *hic* that’s what we pay taxes for, afters all. Oh, there’s the bell! It’s half-time! Time for the town me-me-meeting! Let’sh goes inside!

CHAPTER 4

Where Wandall Experiences First-Hand the Efficient Workings of the Town Government

Wandall followed Nan into the Tipple Inn, thinking she must be very tired from watching so many children, for she was having difficulty putting one foot in front of the other. Once again, she found herself standing in awe. Such a fine building on the outside, even finer on the inside! she thought. Brocade wall hangings, crystal steins, chandeliers, the glories nearly blinded her eyes. To her right, she saw a dozen or so well-dressed men in crisply starched jeans, brightly faded flannel shirts and their best crushed-felt cowboy hats. They were obviously enjoying an entertaining game where each took turns swinging their clubs at golf balls, through a door into the men’s room urinals. It looked to be most exciting as they exchanged dollar bills when one missed their intended target. To her left sat a large table of highly-coifed women, each with many fine jewels of glass and plastic on their fingers, having a heated discussion as to who would be next to dance on the fine, highly-polished oak bar. At the same time, some were arguing as to whom had the most bras hung on the platinum-plated moose antlers. This being a point of high honor, what with bras being so expensive after all.

Straight ahead, standing center-stage behind the bar, stood the honorable Mayor Tim, banging his crystal stein on the bar for attention, while moving a vase of red roses aside. Towards the far back, a group was throwing Baco-Bits at a small pot-bellied pig, which was running under a pool table upon which two people were laying atop one another, re-enacting their wedding night.

- Come on, people, quiet please, we still have many important matters to discuss before the game starts up again! Preacher, please, would you lead us in a quick prayer for the Bronco’s continued success this game?

All got quiet, the preacher led the good people in a quick prayer. One of the women was so enthralled with the preacher’s prayer she whipped off her shirt and yelled Go Broncos! as all said Amen! The mayor continued.

- First on our agenda is good news indeed. As you know, last year we paved the road outside this fine establishment, a worthy accomplishment for our fine town! The good news is that this year, we have the money to pave another road, leaving us with two, count ‘em, TWO, paved roads! The council has voted, and the decision has been made. The next road to be paved is Bias Street, where I and the rest of the council live, so that we may better serve you good people!

The entire town cheered and clinked glasses together, hugging one another. Such joyful news this was!

- Next, I have unfortunate news. We will have to find a new police officer, as we, your good Council, have finally let him go. We gave him many chances to live up to our expectations, which as you know he was unable to do. We could not waste the good money of you, our good town people, anymore on a man who would not follow our orders.

Wandall looked at Nan, who was leaning against her for support - so tired was she - and asked her why the policeman had been fired.

- Ah, he’sh a shtoopid man, that copper, he gave the mayor a ticket for sh-speeding! When Tim explaineshs that he was late for his *hic* bowling league *hic* the fo-foolish pig says he don’ts care! Good riddance.

- Bring back our old cop! shouted the bartender.

- Finally, our last point of business today, continued the good mayor. As you all know, one of our favorite sons, Pedro Phil, will be leaving our good town this Friday. We, your good town council, have decided the right thing to do, for all Phil has done for our town, is to throw him a big going-away bash tomorrow night. You are all invited to be there!

Through the many cheers of the crowd, the mayor ended the meeting as half time was over and approached Wandall.

- So how are you enjoying our wonderful Tipple Inn, Tim asked Wandall.

- I am very impressed, she responded while watching a group of people help a man get back on the leather-covered bar stool from which he had fallen. What happened to the old cop? she asked.

- Oh how we miss Krash Davies, the finest police officer a town could ever have. He had to move on, we still don’t know where. So stupid, what a ruckus the County Sheriffs made out of that little fender bender! I still think that woman must have had a heart attack; there is no way you can die from being broadsided at only 70 miles an hour!

The good mayor walked back to the bar to buy a round for the house, on the council’s tab of course. Such a generous man. Nan, with a fresh Mai Tai in hand, went back to her good works of watching the children, the Preacher joined the table of women to settle the argument of who has the honor of the most bras on the moose antlers, and the pot belly pig finally had enough Baco-bits to eat.

Our weary Wandall left to find her way to the hotel, a wonderful building of weathered, unpainted scrap wood and 16 channels of cable TV in every room! She was quite impressed with how well the management had patched what appeared to be bullet holes in the walls of her room, and felt the worn, faded-blood-stained sheets were a homey touch.

Wandall fell quickly asleep, with many thoughts of all the people she had met so far.

CHAPTER 5

What Happened to Wandall Among the Bowlers

Having learned the night before that there was a bowling alley in Dekadent, Wandall traveled the six blocks there with high hopes of meeting some good people. It is well known that bowling is a gentlemanly sport, enjoyed by many a good person. Standing in front of the cracked plastic sign showing the faded words “Bowl-a-Rama,” Wandall looked at the tractor-filled golden sand parking lot with hope. So many tractors, there must be many farmers and ranchers here, everyone knows that farmers and ranchers are good people, thought Wandall. To the side of the front door, she spotted a large group of blond cheerleaders, happily chatting as they shared a single, aromatic cigarette.

Wandall entered the building and could not help but smile as she looked around the room, so many people here! Walking on the worn, duct-tape-patched orange shag rug, through the smoke, under many broken ceiling lights; she smiled as she passed several staff members busy cleaning up the remains of a pinball machine created by a stray bowling ball. Inhaling deeply, she sighed with pleasure as she enjoyed the fragrant aroma of well-used leather bowling shoes. As she approached the cracked linoleum-covered tables lined up along the lanes, the good mayor saw her and came over to talk.

- Well hello again, Wandall! I see you have found our fine bowling establishment! Did you enjoy yourself last night?

- Yes I did, I am only sorry I was so tired I had to leave before the end of the game.

- You didn’t stay for the end of the game? said Tim, rather icily.

- My apologies, but I was very weary from all my wanderings. I have traveled many miles before I finally found this good town, Wandall replied courteously.

- Well, I guess that can be forgiven, you are new here and do not know all our ways yet. Come, let me introduce you to our league. As you know, I am sure, bowling is the sport of champions, next to football there cannot be a finer game found.

Tim led Wandall to a large group of well-fed men, all stood and tipped their hats to her as she was introduced. The captain of the team was busy putting his bowling bowl in a bag, bending over, showing his fine well-fed lower back and upper buttocks through his tight jeans and tight shirt. Seeing the newcomer, he came over to be introduced.

- Well howdy, Ma’am, mighty fine to meetcha, I’m Art, he said, tipping his well-worn straw hat. Do you bowl?

- Placing her hand in his large hand, oily from the lane grease, Wandall returned the hello and said, Nice to meet you also, no, I don’t bowl.

A sudden, complete, dark silence filled the lanes. Not a pin fell, not a ball was rolled, not a drink lifted, the silence was eerily complete.

- What do you mean, you don’t bowl?

- I’m sorry, said Wandall, I’ve never bowled, it always looked rather boring to me.

A low growling sound grew to a loud roar as our weary Wandall found herself suddenly lifted high above the shoulders of a dozen highly offended, beer-belly-busting-worn-jeans-clad men, carried through the dimly lit smoke filled hall to the front door, which was promptly kicked open by the mayor himself. Thrown out the door onto the golden sand, she found herself landing on her butt. Before Wandall could take a breath, she heard the door slam and a sound that distinctly resembled a deadbolt being turned behind her.

Well, thought Wandall, that was, um, interesting. There must be some mistake, for I’m sure they were good people, maybe this was just some fraternity-style prank of welcome. Oh well, she continued to think, as she stood up and brushed the golden sand off of her clothes, I guess I’ll go back to the hotel and get ready for the party for Pedro Phil tonight.

CHAPTER 6

Where Wandall Witnesses a Good Woman Losing Her Home

Wandall, having walked but two blocks from the Bowl-a-Rama so far, again suddenly found herself down on the ground, rolling and quickly bruising to the sound of a large explosion. Coming to a stop, she spent a few minutes checking for broken bones and brushing glass, plaster, and wood chips from herself. Wandall quickly saw that the house she was walking past had exploded. A woman, crying, screaming, covered with dust and bits of the now crumbled building, came rushing to Wandall’s aid, yelling at her but Wandall, whose ears were still ringing, couldn’t make out the words.

Within a few minutes, Wandall and the crying woman were no longer alone, many of the well-fed men from the bowling alley had arrived, along with the mayor and the preacher, Nan, and many others who Wandall had yet to meet. Her hearing returning to normal, Wandall heard the mayor calling everyone to order, as he put his arm around the crying woman.

- People! People! Some quiet, please! Everyone, listen to me! Our good sister and neighbor, Joy, has lost her home and business!

- Oh, this is such a tragedy, my house is gone, my house is gone! I told my stupid husband this would happen! Why would he not listen to me! I told him we needed a new stove!

- The mayor continued loudly over poor Joy’s cries, I need everyone to pitch in to help our good Joy, she will need furniture, clothes, food, and more for her family! Who will help her?

Crying over the loss of her possessions, bemoaning the loss of her home, berating her non-present husband for his stupidity, Wandall was impressed with how quickly all the good people of the good town offered up a place to stay, new furniture and clothes, toys for the kids, food and even money to help her out. Seeing Pieter, the preacher, standing next to her, Wandall asked what kind of business Joy had lost.

- Joy, the good woman, ran a Chemtrist boutique.

- Chemtrist?

- Yes, said the preacher looking at Wandall as if she was stupid, Chemtrist, you know, Chemical Art; Joy is our good town’s local chemical artist. We are so proud to have a Chemtrist here in Dekadent, most of them are only to be found in the big cities.

- I’m sure it is something to be quite proud of, Wandall responded, but what kind of art is Chemical Art?

- Well, there are many kinds of art produced by a Chemtrist, Joy’s specialty are the most beautiful chemical crystals you have ever laid your eyes upon. Works of art they are, at the top of the ranks, simply stunning to look at.

The preacher turned away from Wandall as the mayor announced - to much cheering - that the town would foot the bill for Joy and her family to stay in a room at the hotel. All began moving down the street, helping the misfortunate, crying Joy towards the hotel. Wandall, of course, followed behind.

CHAPTER 7

In Which Wandall Meets Joy and Learns of the Good Man Pedro Phil

In the hotel lobby, the tragedy of Joy’s misfortune was quickly becoming a spontaneous party and outpouring of generosity. After a few steins of beer charitably provided by the wonderful owner of the Tipple Inn, and much small talk and commiseration over her losses, Wandall came to ask Joy about herself and her family.

- Oh we have had many hard times, my husband and I, but things have finally been looking better ever since I started work as a Chemtrist. I’m so proud of my husband, and him of me; he is the one who taught me everything I know about chemical artistry.

After waiting for her tears to slow down, Wandall asked about her art.

- It’s actually very simple chemistry, Joy replied, but tricky if not done correctly. There can be problems, as you saw today. Oh, my many customers are going to be so upset with me! How am I going to explain to them that they will have to wait! wailed Joy, with yet another fresh burst of tears.

- I’m sure that your customers will understand, Wandall said comfortingly. So, how do you make those beautiful crystals I’ve heard about?

- I told that stupid husband of mine that we needed a new stove! But noooo, he would not listen, he kept saying the propane stove was safe enough, even though I kept telling him electric stoves are much safer for extracting the pseudoephedrine. On a electric stove, if some of it spills, it just burns, but on a gas stove, it can explode.

- Pseudowhat? asked Wandall

- Pseudoephedrine. You have to extract it before you add the sulfuric acid and red phosphorous to create the crystals. I tell you, Wandall, I made the most beautiful crystals available. They weren’t just chemistry, they were near-priceless works of art! Oh, my customers, they are going to be so disappointed! That stupid husband of mine, I told him we needed a new stove!

- Where is your husband, by the way?

- Oh, he’s at the storage unit packing away more of his stuff. He’ll be home soon… oh he’s going to be so upset when he sees what is left of the house! I am just so grateful that most of his prized possessions were already safely away in the storage unit.

- Packing away his stuff?

- Yes, packing away his stuff. We felt it would be best for the kids, what with him going away for a while.

- Are you getting divorced?

- No, of course not! responded Joy with shock. Phil loves me!

- Oh! Is your husband Pedro Phil? The one the town is having the going away party for?

- Yes, that’s him, isn’t it wonderful the town throwing a party for him? Such a good town, so many good people, sending off my wonderful man with such a grand party… we will all miss him so much.

- Where is he going? Why are you not going with him? If you don’t mind my asking, I wouldn’t want to be nosy or anything…

- My poor Pedro Phil, my wonderful husband, he’s had such awful luck, it’s just not fair. People are just jealous of him, his being such a good man, the things they will say to hurt him.

- What happened? Where is he going?

- Oh, it is so stupid, and it’s not his fault at all. He has to go away for seven years, to a place called Leavenworth, I am sure it is an evil place filled with evil people. It’s all the fault of those brainless, jealous, resentful childish girls. Can you imagine the horror of it all? Five wicked young girls, not a one of them even 10 years old, claiming that my good man Phil touched them improperly! He would never have to go to another woman, what with having ME as his wife, much less a child! Oh, it’s just awful, I tell you, and even if he did touch them, it would have been their own fault for seducing him. Young girls aren’t the way we were when we were young, I tell you, flaunting themselves and throwing themselves at good married men like my Phil. But those girls won’t ever throw false accusations around again, what with each of their families being chased out of town by our good friends and neighbors. This is a good town, filled with good people. We don’t need the likes of them, those nosy families going to the county sheriffs, filling their ears with tall tales told by their slutty, whoring daughters. Oh my, look at the time! I must get going, I need to find a dress for the party! Please do come, I would love for you to meet Phil before he leaves.

CHAPTER 8

Conclusion

Wandall said farewell to Joy, promising she would be at the party, and returned to her own hotel room. Closing the door behind her, Wandall looked around, thinking that it was a good thing she hadn’t unpacked very much at all. Within ten minutes, she had her meager possessions in her backpack, walked out the door and headed towards the highway just outside of the good town of Dekadent, without a single goodbye to a single one of the good people she had met. Luck was with our Wandall, for a truck driver of generous proportions stopped and offered her a ride within five minutes of her sticking her thumb out.

For many hours and many miles, Wandall found herself enthralled by the tales of the trucker, a man who, like Wandall, had spent his life on the road looking for a good town filled with good people. Laughing and crying together, sharing their complementary yet different experiences, the miles and hours passed quickly.

Wandall found a man of the same hopes and dreams as her, in this trucker of generous proportions, a man who over time she learned had a heart bigger than his body. Together they spent the rest of their years looking but never finding their dream of a good town filled with good people. Yet they were happy years spent in the cabin of the semi and the occasional truck stop, hauling much-needed toilet paper and garbage bags all around the land.

©2004, Laura DiFiore

* * *

Some Notes…

• This was written as part of a project for my Masterpieces of Western Literature class at Pikes Peak Community College. The lack of quote marks around dialogue is purposeful. - The assigned project was to write “in the style of” one of the authors we studied, I chose to imitate Voltaire’s “Candide,” which uses dashes to indicate dialogue, not quote marks.
• Wendell is a German name for “wanderer, seeker.” Wandall is the feminized version of the name.
• Dekadent is, obviously, a play on decadent.
• It’s been very cold in my house this winter - my furnace is broke and the electric heater just doesn’t cut it. So, I’ve been “cooling my ass” a lot, hence Coolyuras
• The mayor is actually a composite character of a former mayor, and our local newspaper editor.
  • The former mayor actually did fire a town cop for giving him a speeding ticket. The cop was very popular, the town was so upset by the mayor’s actions that a recall election was held and the mayor was kicked out. The former mayor still lives in the town, but is never seen.
  • Our local newspaper editor is notorious for his view that everyone HE knows is GOOD PEOPLE, even his friends who are wife beaters, child abusers, alcoholics, pedophiles, and drug abusers. Of course, it’s hard to not like people when you spend about 60 hours a week at the local bar. He’s actually never been married (43 years old!), but jokes often that he is looking for a rich elderly fat woman of poor health to marry. He often buys rounds for the house, on the newspaper’s tab.
• Five years ago, we had one part-time cop. Now we have two full time and one part time.
• The local bar is not a glorious place to look at; it’s actually a dump and a dive, an eyesore by any standard. It does have a fenced-in grassy area to the side, which we call the Beer Garden, where quite a few of the regulars have their kids play while they sit inside and get drunk (despite the many broken beer bottles and the dumpster).
• The character of Nan is accurate to her inspiration, she is 24, does have 8 children by 8 different men, has never worked, drinks heavily, throws her kids in the beer garden to play, and does live on welfare. She’s never paid a cent in taxes. Her children (6 months to 10 years old) are all “home schooled” - primarily because she can’t wake up early enough to get them to school. She has not gone after any of the fathers because she doesn’t want any of them to take their child away: besides, she would lose welfare benefits. The kids are all illiterate, the 10 year old smokes and drinks. At least five of the fathers are married men, good upstanding members of this fine community (no joke!) Every now and then one of the fathers will spend the night at her house, after buying her drinks at the bar all night…rumor has it she may be pregnant again.
• The particular church - one of many in town - is actually pretty much as described, except the windows are clear glass, not plastic. The preacher does cut short sermons when the Broncos play, and is involved in a 7-year long dispute with a former wife over child support (he’s never paid). While he is a bit over-enthusiastic with his hugs of greetings, it is not known if he is a cheater. Rumor has it that he is paid cash by the church for his services so that she can’t garnish his earnings from them… but I don’t know if the rumor is true. He actually drives a Mercedes SUV.
• There are five paved roads now; it was a huge controversy six years ago when the second road to be paved was the road that the mayor of the time lived on!
• “Pedro Phil” is based on our local pedophile. Many people think it is “unfair” that he is now spending seven years in prison. He had spent five years in prison for sexual contact with a minor (a 10 year old) and was out on probation when he offered a 16-year-old girl $20 to let him have sex with her. Solicitation of a minor is a violation of his parole. The town felt it unfair that he got jail time, because if he slept with her for “free” it would not have been a violation, but because he offered her money, it was a crime and violation. “Pedro Phil,” despite his history, actually was VERY popular with the women in town, and did indeed teach the real character behind Joy how to produce Meth.
• While not all of our local bowlers are offended when someone says bowling is boring, quite a few of them are, and there actually was an incident when a young man got bodily thrown out the door about three years ago.

Not one, but FOUR houses have exploded in the area due to illicit meth labs over the last 18 months. The character of Joy is accurate to one of these lab operators - although she wasn’t married to “Pedro Phil,” she was one of his many sexual partners/girlfriends. (She is over 18).

This past Saturday night, a friend ruptured my eardrum.

You see, I went back to college five years ago, and to help support myself, I started a small karaoke business. Most Friday and Saturday nights I’m in one small-town bar or another, aiding and abetting the vandalism of many a great hit song. This past Saturday night, at one of my regular gigs, one of my regular singers decided it was too quiet and let out a shrill, high-pitched, extremely loud, excruciatingly painful whistle. You know the kind, with two fingers in the mouth, intended to be heard across football stadiums over 90,000 screaming fans. That kind of loud.

The first time she let out one of her obnoxious sirens, it literally knocked me breathless. I yelled into the microphone, half-jokingly, to quit it, she was making my ears bleed!

In truth, I discovered just a few short minutes later, she really did make one of my ears bleed. My left ear started to ooze a very small amount of blood, mixed with some sort of clear-ish fluid. Still ringing, and a bit numb, the bleeding and oozing stopped very quickly.

But the nightmare was just beginning… about an hour later, she let out another whopper of a whistle. This time, I actually dropped to the floor. My body doubled over, as my left ear screamed with the pain of a butcher’s knife repeatedly jamming into it. Unwelcome tears could not be stopped, I could NOT move, my entire body began to shake as the pain just increased.

I swear, I’ve never felt anything so painful in my life. Not even when I was raped with a broken bottle back in 1989. Not when I broke my arm in New Zealand. Not when I fell more than 80 feet off a cliff face, crushing my kneecap in the process. Not when I had to stitch up that same knee, myself, with no anesthesia and a tent canvas needle! Not when I rolled my SUV three times.

Nothing ever this painful, ever.

I could not move, I could not catch my breath, I could not say a word, for at least five minutes. All I could do was feel the pain, excruciatingly but slowly ebbing. One of my other regulars came over and asked me if I was okay.

Unable to even breath, I managed to eek out the words, “I don’t know.”

I’m 43, and never once in my life have I ever said those words to the question, “Are you okay?” Like most, I always respond, yea, I’m okay, or at worse, no, but I will be. I honestly didn’t know if I was okay or not, all I knew was while the pain was ebbing, a high-pitched shrieking whining noise, mixed with the sound of rushing water, was now all I could hear out of my left ear.

A few minutes later, I managed to sit up, sort-of, hunched over my karaoke system, grab a mic, and call up the next singer. I think someone helped me outside, I’m honestly not sure. I do know that I felt like I wasn’t sure which foot was my left and which was my right as I struggled to keep my balance.

Outside, three blessed minutes of absolute quiet. Well, not exactly quiet… my abused left ear was still singing, ringing, and rushing with sounds that simply didn’t exist outside my own head. The pain was still there, but now it was more like a dull jackhammer, instead of Jack the Ripper with a meat cleaver in the Library.

Somehow, I managed to finish the night’s gig, fortunately, there was less than an hour left in the evening when this occurred. Not once did the offending whistler, someone I’ve known about three years, someone I considered a friend, come over to see how I was doing. Not once did she apologize, much less say a single word to me. In fact, she sat at the bar bragging about how NO ONE can whistle as loud as her, and how cool everyone thought her whistle was, and she simply couldn’t understand how anyone could be annoyed by it. Besides, she was just trying to liven things up…

I drove home, finding myself constantly checking my windows cause it sounded like one of them was open! At home, I took a few Tylenols, and despite the continuing pain, I managed to get to sleep about 6am. Later that day, still feeling some pain, albeit diminished, and still having difficulties with my hearing, I decided to go to the emergency room.

Why do accidents always happen when doctor’s offices are closed?

Anyway, the verdict was pretty quick and simple: My left eardrum is ruptured. Or should I say, the tympanic membrane was punctured, a result of extreme acoustic shock.

The doctor gave me a referral to a specialist, told me to avoid all loud noises for the next 2-4 weeks, that it will likely mostly heal on its own but if surgery was necessary, it was a relatively simple procedure to patch the eardrum, and that while it was likely my hearing would eventually fully return, it probably would never be quite the same.

Needless to say, I’m pissed. I’m not just pissed, I’m friggin’ sick and tired of OTHER PEOPLE’S IRRESPONSIBILITY causing me physical, financial, and emotional damage! She KNEW her whistle was irritating, to say the least - she was PROUD of how it pissed people off! I’d asked her both nicely and firmly over the prior hour to STOP THE FRIGGIN’ WHISTLES!! And this wasn’t the first time - I’ve been through this with her and others in the past! It’s a small bar, with solid blank walls that reflect every sound exponentially, especially high-frequency ones.

But she thinks it’s fun and funny, and was, in fact, rather put out by the fact that her whistling obviously caused me pain. Friggin’ drunks…

She doesn’t know yet that she may have permanently damaged my hearing, I’m still too hot to talk about it directly with her, or the others involved that evening (i.e, the ones encouraging and inviting her to whistle). I know if I call her now, I’ll just end up blowing up and attacking her with angry words. That won’t accomplish anything. And, to be honest, I’m concerned that the owners of the bar may just drop my regular gig if they think there may be some liability issues involved…out of “concern” for me…

I can’t afford this. I don’t have medical insurance. Thanks to Colorado’s smoking ban, my business has plummeted by more than half and there simply aren’t any other jobs in the area. My house is a month away from foreclosure, but at least the bank’s working with me. A local charity paid half my electric bill last month, and just filling the gas tank of my Ford Focus means I will be eating Ramen Noodles and scrambled eggs for the next three days. I’m just trying to make it to this summer, when I’ve already got weddings and private parties booked. How to pay not only for the emergency room, much less a specialist, is simply beyond overwhelming. But I’ll figure it out. I always do.

Two days since the incident, and although much of my hearing has returned, my ear still aches dully, I’m still experiencing a quiet high-pitched humming sound, and I’m extremely sensitive to loud and/or high pitched sounds. Like the tone the phone makes when a call is waiting - I forgot to put the phone to my right ear earlier while talking to a friend, when someone else called, the ‘beep’ was like a firecracker in my ear. Outside, the sound of a bird whistle nearly knocked me to my feet again, and I nearly muzzled one of my dogs for barking at the door bell - which also had a painful percussive effect.

My right ear is also noticeably more sensitive, especially to sudden noises, but nothing compared to the left ear.

At least my balance has returned to normal.

I know I need to tell her what she did to me. I know she’ll react defensively, somehow blame me for her stupidity … she’ll make some snide comment or another about being a kill-joy, interfering with HER fun. She might eek out a small gee, I’m sorry, but she won’t mean it. Regardless of what I say, she will never take responsibility for her actions, not even with a simple apology or a few words of sympathy. Making people feel guilty about their own stupid choices always backfires.

I’m scheduled to see the specialist on Friday. I do not know what the near future holds for my hearing,

I pray for a full recovery. Although I graduate with my Bachelor’s degree this May, I’ve had no luck lining up a “real” job so far. Karaoke and dj’ing gigs keep me alive right now. I’ve already got three weddings scheduled this summer. Those DO get loud - and I do wear earplugs at them! - but just those three gigs will pay my mortgage for the whole summer! If I can just make it to this summer, I’ll be okay.

But how am I supposed to run shows if I cannot tolerate any sort of loud sounds, much less hear what people are saying to me? I can’t lose my hearing, I can’t lose my living!

Frankly, I’m a little scared.

All from a harmless little whistle…

It’s Friday night, and I sit down after my very-off-key Karaoke rendition of “YMCA” at Makenna’s Saloon, one of my small-town’s few places to socialize. I look around at the crowd: all people I know, most drunk or well on the way. Maggie, the bartender, seeing I’m drinking Diet Coke as usual, catches my eye with the dim hope that I will offer to drive someone, anyone, home. But she doesn’t ask, she knows I won’t, and she knows why. She doesn’t blame me: she won’t either.

I live in a very small rural town, a ranching community, with just over 900 men, women and children. There are more cows than people. We watch out for each other here, most of us don’t lock our doors at night, and everyone knows everyone. The entire “downtown” fills two whole blocks. The options for “going out on the town” are limited: go to one of the three area bars, a basketball game at the school, the bowling alley, church, or catch up on gossip while in line at the grocers.

I look down the bar and see Tina and John,* as usual. For more than four years, every day, she has driven him to the bar. She sits next to him for hours, drinking Coke, waiting for him to go home. She used to just leave him there at the bar, but five DUIs and a $70,000 drunk driving accident have bankrupted her: now she always drives him. If she didn’t drive him, he’d drive drunk.

When I bartended at the Prairie Dog Saloon, we had a Rolodex next to the register filled with phone numbers of the wives, husbands, and significant others of our “regulars,” people like John, like Tina. Nightly, we would make numerous calls asking them to come get their associated too-drunk-to-drive lush. Nightly, they would come and get them, resentful that we would let them get “that drunk” yet at the same time, grateful they were not driving home. Like I said, it’s a very small community.

Why didn’t we just cut them off or refuse to serve them? Simple: Cut off one of the “regulars” and you lose your tips - and maybe your job. Assuming the drunk doesn’t punch you for cutting them off.

I see Tina yawning and throw a sympathetic smile her way. She’s tired and ready to go home, but John’s not done drinking. He won’t be done for several more hours, hours that she will sit there, waiting, yawning, chatting occasionally, doing whatever she can to pass the time except push the issue. She knows she should just leave him there. But she won’t: the thought of something that has not happened - the guilt - that one day he may kill someone overwhelms her.

It has become her responsibility to keep everyone else safe from her husband’s irresponsibility. Ethically, morally, socially, and legally. He may be legally responsible for his actions while drunk, but Tina will pay the price: Tina and anyone he harms. She knows she is part of the problem, but she doesn’t see a way out. I don’t see a way out for her, either.

I used to drive my friends home when they had too much to drink. I used to answer my door to drunk friends at 2 or 3 in the morning, put on my shoes, grab my keys, and give them a ride home - one of the “benefits” of living barely two blocks from the bar. I used to answer the phone and say “Sure thing, be right there” when one of the local bartenders called me, asking if I could help them out and drive so-and-so home. I used to beg, plead, argue, and cry to get the car keys from a drunken friend. I used to be one of those socially responsible people who did everything I could to stop my friends from driving drunk, but I was rarely successfully.

I’m not one of those people anymore.

Tina is my friend. I care a great deal about her. I listen without criticism when she needs to vent her frustrations with life… the money problems, John’s “little drinking problem,” how tired she is all the time working four jobs… it goes on and on, sometimes for hours. I listen, nod my head and make sympathetic noises in all the right places, and then silently thank God I am not her.

I sit there and listen; I am a good friend. Sometimes, though, I lose my sympathy and shout at her: “Stop protecting him from his own actions! Just let go and let what happens, happen! Let him deal with the consequences of his actions. Stop saving him! Stop saving everyone else! Start saving yourself!”

“For better or for worse,” she always says. “Besides, it would just make John angry.”

Angry drunks are scary, and for many drunks, nothing makes them angrier than questioning their ability to drive. Five years ago, my well-intended attempts to get an angry, drunk friend to let me drive them home cost me a black eye and a double-concussion. I ended up with paramedics while he drove home drunk. Fortunately, he made it home safely. Actually, I should say unfortunately he made it home safe. The more often a drunk arrives home safely, the greater his confidence that he (or she) is “safe” to drive when drunk.

I used to be like Tina, sitting there at the bar waiting for one or another of my past boyfriends to finish drinking. I used to be one of those names and numbers on a Rolodex card. I was the card for Mark, a boyfriend of less than a year, over six years ago. One night, I got “the call,” drove ten miles to the Prairie Dog, walked in, didn’t see him… the bartender pointed at the Men’s Room. As I walked down the hallway, I heard a crashing sound. Thinking Mark had fallen, I opened the door: he had fallen all right. Fallen to the floor naked, with my friend Patty on top of him, also naked. He immediately starts shouting at me “It’s not what you think, she doesn’t mean anything to me” and laughs at the same time - but it’s obvious he is still inside of her.

I walk out, shouting “Tear up my number and NEVER CALL ME AGAIN for him.”

I find many voice-mail messages when I get home, begging forgiveness, begging understanding, saying it was just a mistake, you name it. I had known for six months that this relationship would never work: Sober, he was one of the best people I’d ever known in my life. Drunk, he was the worst. The phone rang many times that night: I never answered it.

At 4:40am, a knock on my front door. Shouting “Go to hell leave me alone …” as I swing open the door expecting Mark but finding Patty, with a county sheriff’s card in her hand. Patty informs me that Mark, while driving over 90 mph down Highway 24, blew through a stoplight and rammed into the side of a minivan. He’s OK, the person he hit is critical.

Silence.

Patty informs me that Mark told the police I “refused” to drive him home, and then, after she bitched me out for my heartlessness in leaving him free to drive drunk (along with various other foul comments on what a lousy girlfriend I was), she wanted me to know I needed to call the County Sheriff’s office in the next day or two. To give them a statement. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, Laura, but if I were you, I’d find a lawyer before you say anything to the sheriff.”

I forget about going to sleep.

I made the call immediately - after calling the hospital to find out how Mark was. Apparently not only Mark, but a few others, gleefully related the details of my earlier outburst upon finding Mark in the throes of passion on the bathroom floor. It turns out that if you knowingly “permit” someone who is intoxicated to drive, the possibility exists you might be considered legally liable for his or her actions.

“Are you telling me the next time some idiot gets drunk, drives, and kills some poor innocent family of five all they have to do is say ‘So-and-so wouldn’t drive me home, therefore it’s not my fault, it’s their fault!’ You have got to be kidding me!”

Yes, sometimes it is true.

How absurd! How ridiculous! How insane! Some idiot who doesn’t care to control their drinking, drives and hurts or kills someone, and I may end up arrested or sued? I may lose everything I have spent my life working for just because someone else screwed up? I’m not the one who got him drunk. Hey, I wasn’t even there when he got in his truck! Yet, somehow, five hours after I last saw him, I may end up held responsible for his actions. How ludicrous! Have we completely forgotten that he is an adult responsible for his own choices?

Apparently so.

Four months later, the van driver has fully recovered. My lawyer did his lawyer magic and I not only was never held responsible for his accident, I managed to avoid being involved in the investigation completely. But how absurd is that? I’m not liable for something I should never have been liable for in the first place. At a cost of more than $2,000 in legal expenses, hours of lost work, and much stress and aggravation, I’m not liable! Gee, thank you!

But, there is some guilt: I didn’t drive him home and someone got hurt. Mark got a public defender, $600 in fines and a one-year license suspension. Of course he drove - drunk - during that year.

Through the rumor mill, I have learned of several more “incidents” involving Mark over the last six years. I hear the news, and I find myself saying “Thank God I got out of his life and away from that drama.” Thank God… yet I still feel a twinge of guilt. Guilt that I am not there to be the responsible one, the one to “save” him. I guess you could say I got lucky. I am not Tina.

I wonder what has happened to our society sometimes. Time was, when you screwed up, you took responsibility, paid the price, and called it a “learning experience.” Now, when you screw up, you are far more likely to cry, “It’s because of my parents, my school, my neighborhood, I lost my job …” blah, blah, blah, you name it. It all comes down to the same mantra: “It’s not my fault, I am the victim!” We spill hot coffee and sue the company because we got burned. We break a window to rob a house, and sue the owner because we got cut. We drive on bald tires and sue the automobile manufacturer because we totaled our car. We drive drunk and sue someone who did not - could not - stop us from driving because we killed someone.

I have stopped being the designated driver. The bartenders no longer call me when someone is too drunk to drive. My friends no longer take advantage of my sobriety or my friendship. I do not allow myself to be an excuse for someone else’s refusal or inability to control their own drinking. I can not allow myself to be responsible for the actions of the irresponsible.

It’s 3:05 am, and there is a knock on my door.

I sit here on my couch, watching my dogs go crazy barking at the door. I sit here quietly, hoping they will give up and go away. The dogs stop barking and start whining lightly, tails wagging. Obviously, it is someone they know.

I sit, quietly waiting.

Sigh. I get up.

I answer the door.

After all, friends don’t let friends drive drunk.

* * *

©2005, Laura DiFiore

Epilogue, 2008:

While I wrote this Outrage in 2005, the incidents referenced took place in 1999-2001. All names have been changed to protect the not-innocent.

My small town’s changed a lot since then. In 2006, Colorado instituted a smoking ban. This ban cost our three local entertainment businesses upwards of 45% in lost revenue, resulting in all of their closures. The Prairie Dog has changed owners twice (I can’t keep track of what it’s called now!), Makenna’s Saloon is now closed, Curly’s Place closed after 22 years, and the bowling alley closed, leaving our local teens and young people no place to hang out. Instead of simply walking home from the bar, our local venerable drunks now drive at least 10 miles away, or drink at home. This has resulted in an unbelievable increase in drunk driving incidents, and a small increase in domestic violence in the area. Five DUIs last week alone… in an area where one a month was the norm. Sure, I guess it’s nice there is no bar in town anymore…

Needless to say, I never had anything to do with Mark again. While I tried to remain friends with him (it is a VERY small town, it’s often vital to make nice) Mark ended up heavy into meth, and in 2002, I reluctantly pursued and was granted a permanent restraining order. It worked, he actually moved out of the area, and I’ve not laid eyes on him since.

Meanwhile… thanks to the local business closings, Tina lost both her jobs and John drinks only at home now, suffering from liver cirrhosis and a few other alcohol-related ailments. Much as he would like her to, she can’t drive him anywhere, because she hasn’t the money to pay for gas, much less beer at a bar! There are some upsides to our current economic situation after all…

“What happened?”

“Kashley, don’t be rude!” her father says, scolding.

“It’s OK, Trey.” I look into her six-year-old eyes, this little blond beauty I have loved for four incredible years. She is not my daughter, but, like her father, she is my closest friend. The friendship between us confuses outsiders, but has a closer-than-family feeling to us.

I realize with surprise that neither she, nor her father, ever asked me about the scars on my face before. But Kashley is six now, with more than the usual amount of curiosity that comes with this age. I should have known that she, like many before her, would eventually ask.

“When I was four years old, I did something very stupid and hurt myself.”

“Four, that’s lower than me, right?”

Laughing, “Yes, Kashley, four is younger than you.”

“What did you do?”

“You know what an extension cord is, right?”

“Yes, of course!” she says, rolling her eyes at my questioning her having such basic knowledge.

“Well, I played with an extension cord. I tried to plug a cord in it, and couldn’t get it to fit, so I put it into my mouth and bit down on it.”

Eyes fly wide open as her mouth drops, “Wow, that was stupid!”

I can’t help but laugh, waving my hand at Trey, letting him know that everything is fine; he does not need to scold or correct her.

“Yes, Kashley, it was very stupid. I was electrocuted, which means I got burned. I had to go to the hospital, and the doctors had to fix me.”

“Did it hurt?”

Did it hurt…. Yes, but not in ways she would understand.

* * *

It’s my birthday. I’m six today. I have to spend my birthday in the hospital, but it is fun. It’s my third operation, Mom says this one will fix me better. The nurses are nice to me; one gave me a big book with colored pictures of my insides to look at! Mom and Daddy keep bringing me new toys and crossword puzzle books. The big ones, like Nanna does when Granpop is in his shop. I am so happy, my first real crossword puzzle book! All the nurses and doctors and Mom and Daddy put such big smiles on their faces and laugh and keep saying there is nothing to worry about. This will make you better Laura. This won’t hurt.

But I am a smart girl. I see lots of disgust and horror in their eyes. They look at me and see a monster. When they look at me. People don’t look at me. I bet that nurse doesn’t know I have brown eyes. They use big words thinking I won’t understand. I just listen and figure out how to spell the words in my head. Then I go find them in the book Aunt Viola gave me for my birthday. I like to do that trick, spelling in my head then finding out what it means. That way they can’t use words to hide stuff from me.

It’s a big book, called a “dictionary,” with a word I don’t know: “Unabridged.” I find it. Unabridged means not abridged. So I find abridged, which I figure out means shorter. So this dictionary is not shorter. Does that mean the dictionary has every word in it? I think so! It’s a big book, so heavy it makes my legs tingle! I am going to read every page and learn every word!

The nurse comes in when I am on the second page and tells me to put my book away. She says I need to sleep now because tomorrow is a big day. I ask her how to spell “keltoid.”

“Keltoid? Where did you hear that word?”

“Doctor B said it to Mom. Mom said is Laura ever going to be normal and he said he didn’t know, cause I am keltoid.”

“Oh, you mean keloid! Don’t worry, keloid is not bad. The doctor is very good and he is going to fix you up tomorrow. You will be able to drink out of a cup without a straw and smile again.”

I open the dictionary as the nurse makes shu-shu noises tucking the covers around my legs. She tells me again to put my book away just as I find the “C” part. “What are you doing?”

“I am finding keloid.”

Laughing softly, “Honey, keloid starts with a K not a C.”

“Oh, okay, I get those mixed up sometimes.”

I find keloid in the dictionary, which leads me to “fibrous,” which leads me to “sinews.” The nurse stands there, watching me. She can see I have brown eyes. “So I’m not normal.”

“What honey?”

“I am not normal. It says so right here. See? The stuff the doctors do, they can’t fix this. It can’t be fixed,” I say, touching my face.

The nurse sits down next to me on the bed and looks at the definition. “Keloid is scars, like when you hurt yourself falling off your bike. When it heals, it leaves scars. Keloid is just scars, they do not hurt.”

“Scars can’t be fixed.”

“That’s right, honey, scars can’t be fixed. But the doctor can make them smaller.”

“But they can’t be fixed. They don’t go away.”

“No.”

“So I’m not going to be normal.”

She brushes my hair away from my forehead, leans over and turns off the light. She stands up, reaches over me and tucks in the covers, placing the book under my arm. Turning, walking towards the door, she says, “You are normal, honey, and no one can change that.”

But she’s not looking at me.

* * *

It was a dark, angry time in my life, my world was destroyed. It was an accident, but to me it was the darkness of hell that befell my daughter. The corner of her mouth and side of her face was destroyed by an electrical burn. I saw nothing but darkness through that period. Yet there was a small, constant light as she spoke to me, never putting blame to anything or anyone. She walked, her head held high, even though people stared at her, gawking, and cringing. Her eyes always smiling at us, her mother and I. Through this period of examinations, and painful operations, never did she founder or complain, always soothing me, reassuring me of her strength. Strength we parents never had. Slowly through her strength, we went together as one through this period of darkness toward the light.

I never knew my father saw my strength as something beautiful. I think about how often over the years I heard him brag about how strong I was. I hated my strength: it isolated me. Sometimes I wanted to scream at him that there is more to me then strength. I never felt strong: I just felt alone and afraid. I was too young to know it, but acting strong was a way to hide the fear and loneliness.

I know I was wrong to snoop through Dad’s private papers, but I will never apologize for it.

* * *

The Berlin Wall would come down later that day, but I didn’t know that yet. All I knew, as I rushed into the office late for work again, was that Bill wanted to see me in his office, probably to fire me. I enter Bill’s office, apologizing as I close the door behind me. He just waves me quiet, saying there is someone he wants me to meet. We leave the office; he hails a taxi even though it is a warm fall day, perfect for walking. We stop, just eight blocks later, in front of D.C. General, enter the building, up the elevator, down the hall.

I don’t need to read the signs to know this is the pediatrics wing, I recognize it immediately. I spent more time than anyone should in pediatric wards: they are all the same. There is one difference, though, from the wards of my youth: there is a playroom at the end of the hall, where I would expect a barren waiting room. I hear children playing, at least two of them arguing over a red crayon. I know who these children are without seeing them. They are me.

Cinderella, in the form of a five-year-old, runs up to Bill and hugs him enthusiastically. Eventually, her deep blue eyes meet my brown eyes.

“Do you want to color?” she asks me. I look at Bill.

“Laura, this is Nicole.”

“Nice to meet you, Nicole.”

“Nicole is my daughter.” Silently, I nod my understanding.

Looking down at this small beauty, I tell her yes and sit down on a small chair at a small table. Four hours later, we children of various ages have shared our names and in blunt bits and pieces, our stories. Each a bit different, yet all with one common element: extension cords. Seven-year-old Paul asks me how many stitches I had, which started a heated competition over who had the honor of the most. I let six-year-old William (”not Billy, that’s a goat”) win, with his 800 count. Telling them of my thousands of stitches over a dozen operations is unneeded.

This wasn’t the first time I told my story to children: for as long as I can remember I have told my story to curious children who boldly came up to me in various public places and asked what happened, that is those who didn’t run from me in horror or maliciously tease me. I’ve told my story to PTA groups, church groups, and other adults, hoping they would take precautions within their own homes for their children. However, this was the first time I told my story to children who are me. The first time telling my story without explanation, without words of pity, looks of horror, or worse: forced words of sympathy from those who simply cannot sympathize. Those who cannot understand that it is neither the injury nor the surgery that causes pain, but the difference between the injured and uninjured that causes the pain.

Twenty-five long years of life to find pure, clear, simple acceptance, acceptance in the form of children, from children, to the child I was and still am.

A nurse comes in to end the play; I gently awaken Nicole, who had fallen asleep on my lap. She sleepily stretches, then goes to her Dad, hugs and butterfly-kisses him with her eyelashes. She can’t form a kiss with her lips yet, but she can make the kiss sound with her tongue. She whispers in Bill’s ear, and I hear him say “Of course, Sweetie, go ahead!” She runs to me, hugs me, and touches my face, as deep blue eyes touch brown.

As her dad takes her back to her room, she says: “Daddy, will my doctor make me so pretty?”

It’s a silent taxi ride back to the office. I don’t remember if Bill or I spoke them, but the only words were “Thank You.” When I get home, I turn on the TV to ecstatic pictures on every channel of the Berlin Wall coming down. I sit up all night long, watching, crying, laughing, finding myself kindred to those European strangers, feeling walls within me falling as their wall fell.

* * *

There are no photos of me from age 4 until about 8. It’s like the deformed, hideous me never existed. I once asked Mom for a photo of me during those years - she was so offended you’d have thought I’d asked about her sex life. I want to be normal. I want to be like other people who have faded childhood photos in a dusty album they rarely look at on a high closet shelf. But none of those tokens of childhood exist for me. Mom’s told me many times she didn’t have photos taken because it was “for the best.” I will always wonder: best for whom?

* * *

I open the doors and walk into a miniature Beverly Hills, sleek chrome and leather chairs arranged like a yuppie coffee shop without a trace of that well-known doctor’s office scent. This is the only place in the world I can touch my past and find my unknown self. I present myself to a chic receptionist, who to my shock leads me right down the hall towards an examination room.

“The doctor is waiting for you.”

“I’m not here to see the doctor, just my records.”

“I know, Miss DiFiore.” I think this is the first time a medical worker has ever referred to me as anything other than my first name.

I was surprised at how easy it was to arrange seeing my now-ancient records; quite shocked they still existed! One simple phone call, a 45-minute drive and I’m here. So easy to learn the secrets Mom worked so hard to protect me from. So easy to open up the past denied me without my permission, so easy to see the unseen. She opens the door, and a man I considered my second father is standing up, leaning on a cane.

“DOCTOR B!! OH my GOD!!”

“Miracle! Look at you!” Lots of hugs and smiles… I can’t believe he is standing here, the man who did his best to give my parents a girl who wasn’t gruesome.

Miracle. That was his nickname for me. Miracle, because I never went into shock. Miracle, because I never cried. Miracle, because I lived when I should have died. The fuse never blew. The damage - the burns - indicated I was electrocuted for several long, long minutes, more than enough time to kill me. No one knows how I broke away from the live current. The theory was our dog thought I was playing tug-of-war and pulled the cord from me.

“My God, look at you!” Hugging me, I smell his warm pipe smell. I loved when he visited me in the hospital because he always smelled real. We talk for a while; I tell him about my five years of travels around the world; he tells me how his son and daughter run the practice now, about retirement and moving from cold New Jersey to warm California.

“I can’t believe you are here!” I say.

“I couldn’t pass up the chance to see my little Miracle again.” After more small talk, he raised the reason for my visit.

“Well, young Miracle, shall we open up the past?” as he lifted a folder from the counter and placed it in my hands.

“Not so young anymore, Doc, I just turned 30!” I say, hefting the weight of the folder he handed me. It’s thick. Four inches, maybe five. DIFIORE, L.A. in faded hand-written letters across the top. Scuffed, bent corners, some stray pencil marks, a few small tears on the cover, page edges yellowed. I run my hand across the cover.

“You know the grafting technique we used on you was experimental at the time.”

I look up at him.

“Of course, it’s been fine-tuned over the years, but at the time, well, you were one of my first successes. The technique is still used today.”

“I didn’t know that.”

He continues to talk about advances in reconstructive surgery techniques, but I don’t really hear him. I keep rubbing my hand across the folder. I look up, down, then up at him again. He winks at me.

I stop rubbing the folder. Ghosts of voices more than two decades old start echoing through my head… shouts of “Scarface! Scarface!” in childhood playgrounds I could not play in out of fear I might hurt the tender grafted skin … Mom arguing with my teenage self to “Put some makeup on!” hoping simple makeup would hide the evidence of my difference. Scarface… scarface… so many voices of so many faces that never saw me as anything but an injury.

I push the voices away and open the folder.

Taped to the inside of the cover are photos of me, the first thing seen upon opening the file, as if these faded photos are the most important thing in all the thickness of dusty pages. Of course, they are the most important things, for they are me. Me. I see me, a me I never saw except in the eyes of horror on the faces of others.

Me.

Now I know why Mom had no photos of me. Now I know why there were no mirrors in our house. I see me as many cruel, teasing kids saw me. I see me as many ignorant adults who wouldn’t let their kids play with me in case I was “catching” saw me. But I don’t see a hideous, deformed, and grotesque monster. I don’t see horror. I don’t feel horror. I don’t see why. I do see a kid. I see me. I’m just a kid. A badly injured kid: but just a kid.

I don’t see why they couldn’t see me. Why they could only see the injury.

I’m just a kid. I was just a kid.

Hours and years of time pass as I read the entire file, page after page of examinations and operations, almost snuggling with Dr. Briggs as he leads me through those mysterious primeval years, much as a prosecutor leads a jury through the history of a crime. Eventually, I say goodbye and thank you, with more hugs and smiles.

His last words to me: “You just keep on smiling, Miracle.”

I never ask for copies of anything. I don’t need them.

* * *

My last operation occurred just before I turned 14. Six months afterwards, my Mom and I went to Dr. B’s office for the follow-up appointment. I remember sitting there on the exam table; Dr. B shining a bright light across my face to highlight scars invisible to all but his professional eyes. I remember his index finger running lightly across my reconstructed lips, cheek, jaw; his eyes frowning slightly as his finger ran across the remaining, still-visible-to-all scars at the corner of my mouth.

“Smile.”

I force a big grimace out of my lips and laugh at his “stop goofing off” look.

“Come on, Miracle, you know what I mean. Just smile naturally.”

I smile naturally, and see warm approval in his eyes.

“Nice, very nice. There you go, Miracle. Just keep smiling and no one will ever notice.”

* * *

“Did it hurt?”

Did it hurt. Yes, but not in ways she would understand.

“Yes, sometimes it did hurt.” Never lie to a six-year-old: their egocentric view of the world has the amazing side-effect of always knowing when someone is lying to them.

“Did you get a lot of shots?”

“Yes, I had a lot of shots.”

“Yuck! I hate needles! Was your mommy mad at you?”

“No, my mommy wasn’t mad at me. She was scared. I was hurt very bad. She was worried the doctors would not be able to fix me. Mommies don’t like to see their kids hurt.” Yes, I understand Mom now.

“I never touch the cords. I only use the switch like Daddy says,” she proudly says.

“That’s very smart, Kashley!”

“Can I touch it?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

Small light fingers trace the now faded, lightly visible, nearly two-inch “C” shaped scar at the corner of my mouth, eyes wide with wonder. “It’s, it’s soft! It feels normal!” she says with surprise.

“Of course!” I say, laughing.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, Kashley, it doesn’t hurt. It’s just a scar. Scars don’t hurt.”