piss.”
But
Wren likes Uncle Jimmy, smiles at him a lot because he acts like he was dropped
on his head one too many times as a baby. I caught myself studying him
earlier when Jimmy came into the house smelling of Dial soap and something
stronger. I watched him take a coin from his pocket and place the dirty piece
of metal behind Wren’s ear, and she laughed, a happy
little clam. How easy it looked.
When
we pull up to the Franklin Center, I cut the engine and take a look at the
other cars owned by the miserable lot inside - the jokers I'm supposed to open
my heart to. There’s an El Camino parked in front of us with a Jesus fish
that’s grown feet stickered to the bumper. I imagine its sloped little
head turning at me, saying, “Mitchie, you can’t do this.”
“You
can,” Elena says, doing that mind reading thing again. We've dressed up
in our “church clothes,” but this time Elena doesn’t say a word about my
missing jacket, and I'm glad because I have a feeling we’re already
overdressed.
Healing
Haven - the place where the group meets - is in the Franklin Center strip
mall. The “H” in “Haven” is going bad, blinking fresh light against
Elena’s worry lines, and I get out of the car just so I don’t have to stare at
them anymore.
Taking
her hand, our shoes travel over dead cigarettes and dried up gum. There’s
a restaurant a few window fronts down, an Italian restaurant, and people are
outside stinging the night with their chuckling. Assholes , I think
for no good reason as I pull open Healing Haven’s glass door. A bell
rings over our heads.
“New
member gets their wings!” a woman with rose colored clown cheeks calls at us
and lifts a styrofoam cup in the air. Elena and
I move in, guilt at our backs pushing us forward, and coming closer, I can see
a name tag, “Peg.” I can also see this woman’s face is not normal because
her lipstick, her eyeshadow is permanently tattooed onto her face. We saw
a special awhile back on 20/20 about make up tattooing and drunkenly mused over
the amount of clown whores this new fad is encouraging. It's odd meeting
one in the flesh. It's also odd thinking how I’ll never drunkenly do
anything again.
“Names,
names, names,” the woman says, blinking in rhythm with her words. For a
moment Elena blinks back, probably trying digest this
woman’s face.
“Elena
Reynolds, my husband, Mitch.” Elena extends her hand but Peg is busy with
a styrofoam cup and a ridiculously big chocolate chip
cookie so she curtsies and bobs her head. She smells like food.
“Sorry
about that. Blame it on Georgie and his delicious cookies,” Peg chirps,
the last line so intolerably high pitched, I'm sure even a deaf dog could hear
it. A man in a fishing hat with a full on Jerry Garcia beard tickles his
fingers at us. “Elena, Mitch, welcome to the circus!” Peg says.
“I
prefer ‘jungle,’” Georgie muses handing Elena and me our own cookie, these two
with the letter “N” marked on the tops in blue icing. “For ‘newbie,’”
Georgie says. “My theory is that anyone who takes a bite of my famous
homemade Death by Choco-chips will ditch the newbie status and come on back
next week.” I take a bite of it and try to smile even though I'm pretty
sure it’s store bought.
“Mmm,
so good,” Elena says, and I can tell she thinks it tastes like chalk.
We’re
ushered to the front row, “Reserved for newbies,” Peg’s tattooed mouth whispers
behind her cookie-crumbed hand, and the only other people sitting in this row
are a young guy and girl with rings in their noses and their lips attached to
each other.
“No
PDA,” Peg barks and the couple breaks apart which is fortunate, then spots us
at their periphery, which is not so fortunate.
“I’m
Rommy,” the male one says. He gives me his hand and it’s punctured
swollen with holes in the wrists. The fingernails are
But
Wren likes Uncle Jimmy, smiles at him a lot because he acts like he was dropped
on his head one too many times as a baby. I caught myself studying him
earlier when Jimmy came into the house smelling of Dial soap and something
stronger. I watched him take a coin from his pocket and place the dirty piece
of metal behind Wren’s ear, and she laughed, a happy
little clam. How easy it looked.
When
we pull up to the Franklin Center, I cut the engine and take a look at the
other cars owned by the miserable lot inside - the jokers I'm supposed to open
my heart to. There’s an El Camino parked in front of us with a Jesus fish
that’s grown feet stickered to the bumper. I imagine its sloped little
head turning at me, saying, “Mitchie, you can’t do this.”
“You
can,” Elena says, doing that mind reading thing again. We've dressed up
in our “church clothes,” but this time Elena doesn’t say a word about my
missing jacket, and I'm glad because I have a feeling we’re already
overdressed.
Healing
Haven - the place where the group meets - is in the Franklin Center strip
mall. The “H” in “Haven” is going bad, blinking fresh light against
Elena’s worry lines, and I get out of the car just so I don’t have to stare at
them anymore.
Taking
her hand, our shoes travel over dead cigarettes and dried up gum. There’s
a restaurant a few window fronts down, an Italian restaurant, and people are
outside stinging the night with their chuckling. Assholes , I think
for no good reason as I pull open Healing Haven’s glass door. A bell
rings over our heads.
“New
member gets their wings!” a woman with rose colored clown cheeks calls at us
and lifts a styrofoam cup in the air. Elena and
I move in, guilt at our backs pushing us forward, and coming closer, I can see
a name tag, “Peg.” I can also see this woman’s face is not normal because
her lipstick, her eyeshadow is permanently tattooed onto her face. We saw
a special awhile back on 20/20 about make up tattooing and drunkenly mused over
the amount of clown whores this new fad is encouraging. It's odd meeting
one in the flesh. It's also odd thinking how I’ll never drunkenly do
anything again.
“Names,
names, names,” the woman says, blinking in rhythm with her words. For a
moment Elena blinks back, probably trying digest this
woman’s face.
“Elena
Reynolds, my husband, Mitch.” Elena extends her hand but Peg is busy with
a styrofoam cup and a ridiculously big chocolate chip
cookie so she curtsies and bobs her head. She smells like food.
“Sorry
about that. Blame it on Georgie and his delicious cookies,” Peg chirps,
the last line so intolerably high pitched, I'm sure even a deaf dog could hear
it. A man in a fishing hat with a full on Jerry Garcia beard tickles his
fingers at us. “Elena, Mitch, welcome to the circus!” Peg says.
“I
prefer ‘jungle,’” Georgie muses handing Elena and me our own cookie, these two
with the letter “N” marked on the tops in blue icing. “For ‘newbie,’”
Georgie says. “My theory is that anyone who takes a bite of my famous
homemade Death by Choco-chips will ditch the newbie status and come on back
next week.” I take a bite of it and try to smile even though I'm pretty
sure it’s store bought.
“Mmm,
so good,” Elena says, and I can tell she thinks it tastes like chalk.
We’re
ushered to the front row, “Reserved for newbies,” Peg’s tattooed mouth whispers
behind her cookie-crumbed hand, and the only other people sitting in this row
are a young guy and girl with rings in their noses and their lips attached to
each other.
“No
PDA,” Peg barks and the couple breaks apart which is fortunate, then spots us
at their periphery, which is not so fortunate.
“I’m
Rommy,” the male one says. He gives me his hand and it’s punctured
swollen with holes in the wrists. The fingernails are
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