I hate to be a downer, but this is going to be one of those long complaining notes about a night turned very, very sour.
I.
I left Cynthia’s last night around 12:30 and while driving down Campus heading toward Jamboree, I noticed that my trunk was open as I was driving. I freaked out, and pulled right on Carlson, parking and putting on my emergency lights. I got out and sobbed aloud as I saw my laptop and camera strewn on the side of the road about 100 feet from me, near the corner of Campus and Carlson (I put my camera and laptop in my trunk so that they’d “be safe,” ironically enough. I ran down there, grabbed them and put my laptop in the trunk, while keeping my camera bag on my shoulder… why I kept my camera on me, is beyond my comprehension, but I did.
This man in a taxi pulled over and told me that I had a minute to call my mom/AAA but that he was in a rush. So, I sat in his car, put down my camera bag, called my mom in a panic and then before she even knew where I was, I had to hang up and get out. The taxi pulled away into the abyss.
Two guys smoking pot then pulled up to help (God bless the potheads) and let me call my mom. She called AAA, 40 minutes later they pulled up and I was back on my way to Tustin.
II.
I pulled up my apartment’s driveway 20 minutes later only to see two Hispanic men, one shirtless and one in a wife-beater on top of each other, in in the middle of the driveway near the steps up to my studio. They could have been fighting or making love, but I assumed it was the former and so I slowly reversed the car, parking out in the street. Flashes of No Country for Old Men popped into my head and sobbing I called Cynthia for advice. I ended up calling the cops, but they didn’t show up. I decided to suck it up and make a dash back to my apartment, seeing that they were gone. I felt completely crazy.
III.
I woke up this morning and went out to get my laptop, which was in the back of the car. My camera wasn’t there however, and I realized, in one horrific moment that I left it in the taxi cab the night before. A LOT of weeping followed.
IV.
I am now at the library and my laptop, of course, won’t turn on due to “an inability to read the adapter.”
Bumping into my stepmom, Dad and brothers at Disneyland tonight while standing in line waiting for the final tram, was probably the most awkward, heart-wrenching moment of my life thus far. I knew they were at the park the whole day; it was one of those weird coincidences: Cynthia and I planned this out about a week prior, and then my brother informed me the night before that they were also going the same day.
I initially thought and prepared to bump into them right away, but as the day went by and as I was keeping track of their location via text messages with David and his friend, Steven, it seemed like we were frequenting opposite ends of the park at the same times and all was safe. So at the end of the night, waiting in a hoard of people during a mass exodus from Disney, I wasn’t prepared to see my family walk up in the same line where the trams pick us up.
‘Awkward’ hardly describes it, though luckily I specialize in acting calm during those moments of extreme tension and terror. I saw my Dad and went in for a hug, said “hi” to Monica and hugged my brothers. After seven minutes of waiting for the tram along with EXTREMELY strained conversation between David, Christian (who now thinks I’m the devil) and Steven, I said goodbye, got on the tram and held back the flood until I got to the the parking lot. Cynthia said, “In my entire life, I have NEVER seen an adult act like your stepmom just did.” (Monica basically ignored both of us, turning her back and whispering with my Dad.
Everyone keeps asking me, “Why don’t you simply apologize to your stepmom so you can see your Dad and brother again?” and I explained to Cynthia that the situation is sort of like the War in Iraq: I can pull out the troops and apologize until I’m hoarse, but bottom line is that there is still a huge fucking mess to clean up which will take lots of time and emotional wear-and-tear. I have the cajones to apologize for nothing, but I don’t have the balls to deal with yet another season of passion aggression, criticisms and disapprovals. Plus, it’s not like my mother’s family, where emotional abuse is sort of like our “grace” before dinner. Once when I was in 3rd grade I came home to find my entire bedroom on the front lawn– signaling that my grandma was pissed at me. We were all fine by the next day. But this isn’t how the Palomares family operates. It’s built around a complex system of passive aggression, grudges, patriarical control, Conservatism, and subtlety. It’s all very classy and mind-fucking. And this is where most of the conflicts have stemmed from. I don’t think either side is particularly “correct,” (being raised by Nana caused its fair share of damage) but since I have adopted more of the bing-batta-boom Ordunio punch, I’m always getting in trouble at the Gavotte.
This whole stalemate between my Dad and me is taking its toll, though I’m realizing that the most painful situations often leave you numb rather than impassioned. It’s only during random moments– driving to Target or editing a headshot– that I start to break down in random bursts of tears and remember that my Dad won’t be calling me in a week for my birthday.
You will forget those ties
un-hemmed, even through torn photos
and shards of glass from the smash
against the wall. “Time heals all” but
there’s still a mess to mind and
who has time nowadays to cast a thread
to fix the damage that’s been done?
Stuck in this cemented state of wishfulness,
longing to wake up one day to find that you've grown
to be six foot four, your feet dangling off my bed,
pushing me in deep sleep with your trumpet arms.
It really sucks when all that stands between us,
is 14" and our complexes...
You never seemed so small.
Is it wrong that I hate you
and your rank morning-breath,
that taught me to seek solace by the window
on raw, morning drives to school?
With forehead pressed, breath
making a mist, I’d clench, knotting
teeth and grinding hands until stiff;
(since it was too early for Enya,
and passive-aggressiveness.)
Because I used to sit on Dad’s lap
and hold on tight in the blue Mustang (a ’65)
while winding down the first freeway
in California, feeling warm and high. And
I was his girl. No need to park in the street
or sit in the back seat while you complain
that he pays too much attention to me.
(I’m not the only one who needs self-esteem.)
And where will you sit, when it’s my turn?
On the side of my groom? No. I’ll make you shake
hands and smile for a change or
just don’t come and let my dad, alone.
What a spectacle you’ve made:
whisking away our brother from the hands of my
“deranged mother;” bringing up the will
and your better life in Brazil; and recall those
family trips, kissing our cheeks with tight lips
before the car pulled out and
we waved from a driveway.
So, I resolve to go and recall
good times through old photos.
Make a point. (Did I really just
delete my dad from Facebook?)
Life is full of consolidations; selling
Mustangs and making a choice between
calling on holidays or calling at all.
It’s been dampened and so I pound my fist
on drywall as you build a new home and buy
silly things to flair your gills and make
life seem superior. And I hope it’s
better for you, as it will be for me,
and someday I’ll bring over my child
and pretend to be okay that he isn’t
in a frame over your mantle.
