Chloe Vinyl and Cherokee Mantra

Cute Jenny from down the hall said it was really no big deal about the VICTORIA SECRET catalogue when I knocked on her door and handed her the scrolled slice of silk photographic heaven. She then said that if I wanted to borrow anymore feel free to stop by anytime. She said she even thought that she had some old catalogues lounging around her apartment somewhere. She said that she understands that sort of thing.

*


".....?"


*

Uncle Mike roused me up early Saturday morning. Said we were going to say prayers.
"Mike it's 7:30," I said, my matress fraught with books, my eyelids and equilibrium still both endowed with flecks of nocturnal crust.

"Time to go." He said. Up and at 'em. Before I have time to shit, shower and shave I find myself looking at my soporific morning reflection through the bluish windshield of Uncle Mike's Lincoln Continnental as his cement foot plummets the gas pedal and we speed down the underbelly of the Interstate. It is early and both of us are somewhat pensive. If I don't get an earnest shot of something disel-thick and heavily caffeinated poured down my throat in the next fifteen minutes there's no telling what dire ramifications may ensue. Mike floats his foot off the gas and swerves the vehicle and the next thing I know we are on a two lane country road, following a sign that reads POW WOW.

"We going to the Pow Wow?" I say, somewhat befogged.

"We're going to say prayers." Mike says, flopping a program in my direction.

"Do they know that we're coming here to say prayers?" I inquire.

"They will," he says again. "Sometimes opportunities present themselves to you and all you have to do is wedge in your elbow to make something happen." Mike says, handing me a batch of UNITY prayers he had embellished on fine paper at Kinko's. "When you get up there make sure you pass these out."

"What..." I say. Mike always does this shit. Should've figured. I take my hair out of my morning pony-tail and crassly pretend I'm Hawkeye from Last of the Mohicans. As long as I go into the POW WOW I might as well pretend that I'm a warrior.

"People will listen to what you have to say here." Mike says. "People will listen."


*

Cute Jenny just stopped by and dropped off a stacked heap of old VICTORA SECRET catalogues. Do I offer her coffee. Yes. Do I think she's a freak. YES. Turns out she has a kid who's eleven. She saw me running around with a bunch of kids last week and thinks that I'd be perfect with her son. Do I run out of the room screaming? No. Do I offer her my phone digits? No. Do I make the mistake of saying it's been a pleasure and nod my head when she suggests we hang out again sometime in the near future. Unfortunately.

This happened last week. I got seriously cornered by Psycho-Michelle. I went on ONE date with Psycho-Michelle three years ago and I'm scared shitless every time I bump into her. She won't shut up and she still talks about how much we have in common. Common my ass--I can't even recall her last name. I got pissed off because when she was at my apartment three years ago she pee'd with the freakin' bathroom door open. AHHHHHH!!!!

Psycho-Michelle did an avant-garde art video of a sunrise and a silo which she thinks is quote "deep" and everyone else thinks is quote "crap". I'm good friends with Michelle's ex-husband who oddly enough gave me "permission" to date her.

"Dude, she's crazy but go for it."

"What?" I say. Looking at Tom, Psycho-Michelle's ex.

"No man, I'm like totally over her. She was a good time. Not that I woudln't do it again, but I'm totally over her." Tom used to smoke alotta weed.

"Alright." I say. Sure. Check it. Before this the last time I saw Michelle she parked her car on the curve and flagged me down. Told me all about her new job as an art educator. Told her how much her own kid loved me.

Michelle and Tom's son is named Chloe. Chloe's a girls name but for some reason that's what they wanted to name him, only it's pronounced as one rushed syllable--CLOW, like blow.

After our one date (when went 'swing' dancing and she threw-up in the backseat of my old chevette) Michelle started inviting me over because apparently Chloe wanted to see me. Chloe's cool. He's into Calvin and Hobbes and likes Narnia and Middle-earth. He used to collect Transformers and I gave him alotta of my 'old' Transformers from the mid-80's. I actually prefer Chloe to his mother. Michelle went through this phase where she would quote mantra's from Hindu sages about veganism.

"Live long and prosper!" Chloe and I would say, appropriately splitting our hands into a Mr. Spock shaped V as Michelle dished us Tofu.

"That's Vegan, not Vulcan." Michelle would say with a scowl. I got banned from Michelle's house after I took Chloe to White Castle. They don't call em sliders for nothing and Chloe and I bought like forty of 'em one afternoon and made up a flatulant slider song which Michelle later classified as being quote 'scatalogical'.

Oh well, nothing beats corrupting the son to piss off the mother. To Psycho-Michelle's credit, she knows alot about contemporary art. My favorite coceptual piece at the Art Institute of Chicago is really just a large pool of candy. It's by this Latino artist who died of AIDS. The candy heap is exactly 88 pounds--the weight of the artist's lover before he died. Patrons are encouraged to take a piece of candy and the heap is sporadically refurbished so that at the begining of every week it weighs exactly 88 pounds and then dwindles. One afternoon, three autumns ago, I couldn't stop staring at the candy waterfall. It was like I had some connection to it. Watching the patrons bend over and unwrap the penny candy and bite into it, it felt for a moment that everything would be alright. Even after death, everything is somehow refilled and appreciated.

Psycho-Michelle knew this piece well. She almost knew too much about it. When I told her the piece in passing she pronounced the artist's full name, rolling her r's and then gave me a book report. It was kinda weird.


*

Mike parks his Lincoln in front of the Pioneer trail. I tell him that he can't park here. I tell him that his car will be towed. He's a psychic, he's suppose to be able to adumbrate certain events.

"The car will be fine," He says. "Go over to the meal tent and find some coffee then come over to the bonfire."

I stumble out of the car. The pow wow is almost like a renaissance festival. People are dressed up in different garments. There are Native American's dressed up in beautiful brown leather; their ceremonial headress a fireball shock of multi-feathered plumes. There are people dressed like Geroge Washington and Johnny Tremain. A boy and a girl even walk around looking like they just went to see Pirates of the Carribean after eating at Long John Silvers. Everyone seems totally comfortable being someone else.


"I feel like I should have worn my cowboy hat and learned how to spit." I tell Mike later in the day, referring to the multi-culturalism of the event.

"Shame on you." He says. Every time I say something with a twist of mordant humor added in for flavor. Mike is always shaming me with a smirk on his face. He always says the same thing after he shames me.

"Things are gonna happen to you." He always says with a slight smile creviced beneath his lips.


I shuffle the Unity prayer cards. I drown a shot of cheap coffee that tastes like filtery grains . I find Mike and we walk up to the tent together. An old Native American is burning sage-brush that smells like something you'd pass around at a homecoming bonfire and say, 'ear' after inhaling deeply.

The pastor is female, Native American. She has long braided hair and wears scholarly glasses. Mike is wobbling back and forth, holding one of his arms crooked.

"Why Hello." He says to the pastor. The pastor greets him very amicably. She is holding an acoustic guitar like a rifle.

"We were wondering if we could say a Baha'i Unity prayer during the service." Mike says. "This is David. He's a Bradley student. He's also a very good reader."

The pastor face hushes and then she smiles. She says that she herself would be honored. I of course, don't want to pray in front of a bunch of trick-or-treaters. Mike always does this. Always hands me the reins of the stage-coach just before the horses halt in front of the abyss.

The pastor begins to sing songs that my mother sings on Sunday morning. Contemporary folk Christian songs. We are seated in a Unity circle. The pastor strikes the same three acoustic chords over and over and the circle sings about God being an awesome God. She then stops and sounds very reminsicent of Chief Seattle as she says that we know that, whatever denomination we stem from, there is only one God and that he is awesome. She closes her eyes and contorts her hands up in prayer.

"I'd now like to invite David, a member of the Baha'i community to say a welcoming prayer." She says.

*

Cute Jenny just left. Two hours after she handed me the wad of VICTORIA SECRET catalogues, she stopped by with a cherry pie. Said she just felt like doing some baking. It was no big deal. Thought I looked like I could use some pie.

"Thank you." I say, holding the pie in front of me like a two month old.

"You can set the pie down." She says.

"Oh," I say. The heap of Victoria secret sluts are visible in the kitchen trash can. If she comes in she'll see it and feel that I didn't honor her first gift.

"Watcha up to?" She inquires. I wish she would leave. I want to watch SPORTSCENTER. I want to finsih my blog. I wish cute Jenny was Swissy-Missy. I wish she was someone else. Uncle Mike will be home shortly.

"Just writing." I say.

"Is that what you do?" She asks.

"Yeah. I love it. I love every second of it. It doesn't pay the bills. Doesn't pay at all really. But you never know...."

"I like Anne Rice." She says. "Anne Rice is really deep. Do you like Anne Rice?"

"Uh-yeah," I slur. I hate Anne Rice. Tried reading Vampire Lestat once and couldn't get through it. I feel like saying something witty. Something that Uncle Mike would say "Shame on you," if I said it in public. Something like, 'Yeah, I like Anne Rice, just what is she doing screwing Uncle Ben?"

"Are you busy?" Cute Jenny asks, she is slithering in my apartment. I feel like screaming, "FREAK!!!!" I feel like running. I want to leave.

Instead I smile.

"My roomy's coming back soon." I say.

"The old guy?" She retorts.

"Yeah," I say. "His name is Uncle Mike. Although he's not really my Uncle he's just my friend."

"How do you know him?" She inquires. Her eyes bat. Her hair is cinnamon-colored and short. She has a full-breath smile that looks like her face could change color any second.

"He kinda took me in once," I say. "Once when I was all alone...."

She looks at me. I can tell she's feeling lonely as well.

"Thanks for the pie. That was sweet of you." I say. I set the pie on the carpet. I give her an embrace. I can feel her fingernails press into my back. The hug lasts three seconds longer than it should for people who socialize solely on a first name basis. My eyes are open and I can feel that hers are conciously closed.

"You wanna come over later for a beer?" Cute Jenny requests.

"I'm kinda busy. We're in the process of moving."

"Oh," She says. "You and the old guy."

"Yeah," I reply. "Me and the old guy."


*

I look up midway through the recital of the Unity prayer and can see that the circled worshippers are all praying. No one's looking at me funny. The colonial garbbed people are praying. The Native americans are praying. The two pirates are praying. Even the family that looks like they are on vacation and made it a point to attend worhip are praying. Everyone is praying. I hate praying in public. Hate sounding like I am an authority of the faith I really just discovered myself. Hate sounding like I am an outlet plugged into the divine glory when actually I myself have never stopped seeking. Never stopped questioning. Never stopped loving.

"Thank you." The female pastor says, with a smile. Mike gives me a stolid nod like I just caught a pop fly in far left-center. I return to my seat. I brush my hair back. I look into my shoes and pretend to be mystical and deep. The pastor is pensive. She clears her throat.

"That was beautiful." The pastor says. She then says something amazing,

"I was brought up in a family that was half-Baha'i and half-christian." The pastor says. Everytime I hear somebody say the word "Baha'i" who I have never seen before it just claws at me inside. It a very beautiful dual-syllable word. My best friend David, said the word once in a cafe and it was just....it sounded like plosive feather resonating from the lips of a crystal cherub.

"Even though I teach Christianity, I've learned form the Baha'is that there is only one creator and that all of us here, through worship honor him."

She thanks me again for reading it. She sounds kind of choked up. I feel guilty for not saying more. Maybe I feel guilty for not being more.

Before the pastor chimes into the next hymn there is an announcement over the PA. Someone has parked their car in an illegal zone, in front of the pioneer trail. It's a maroon colored Lincoln Continental, license plate.....

Mike fishes his keys out of his pocket. He hands them to me.

I move the car and apologize to the officer who asks me if I can read. I head back to the tent to get a cup of coffee. I'm still dazed. I want to sleep. I almost want to hug the pastor.

As I head back to the Unity Circle I see Uncle Mike wobbling in his akward keyhole shaped gait towards me.

"Where are you headed? I just moved the car."

"We have to go," He says, walking ahead of me.

"What?" I say. "It's rude. She said something very nice about us and now we're leaving."

"David," he says. "We have to get ready for the dinner this afternoon."

"I know but still," I add.

"We did what we were suppose to do. Think about how many people will be familiar with our concepts."

"I know, Mike but still...."

"We have to go," Mike says. I follow. Two steps behind. Smelling like sage. Wondering what crazy adventure we'll happen to slouch upon next.