The Arts & Crafts Story

For the better part of three months now, I've been telling the dedicated three or four-dozen of you that read this blog stories from my childhood, teenage years, and adulthood. Thanks to feedback I receive on a weekly basis (keep it coming, by the way), I know what sort of stories will be successes before I even post them. I don't want to say this has made me want to go out and seek things that are post-worthy, but I've definitely had an ear to the ground as far as my more-recent shenanigans go. That being said, I'd like to mention before I weave this tale that this is something that has happened very recently (I'm going to be intentionally vague and say in the last two months), and is probably the closest post to near-live-blogging that I'll ever do.

I am, by nature, an observer. I can't help it. I don't want to say I'm quick to judge, because that would be misleading, but unfortunately, that is a sort of residual side-effect of my personality type. Since I've obsessively been doing this for most of my life, I've become quite good at reading people, something that has (overall) likely hindered me more than helped.

But sometimes, my judgments are wrong. Such was the case a few weeks ago when my friend Lydia and I attended a sort of mini-arts & crafts party thrown by her artist fauxncle, Wayne.

Aside #1: "Fauxncle" is a word I just made up to describe Lydia and Wayne's relationship. Though not related, Lydia referred to Wayne as her uncle. So he is her "faux uncle," or "fauxncle" (pronounced "funkle"). I know that isn't linguistically sound (HA!), but it sure is fun to say.

Held in a seedy-looking building in an even seedier-looking area of downtown Dallas, it was hard to know exactly what I was getting myself into. Despite being derelict, and feeling the type of place you would go if you wanted to purchase some of the more serious drugs, there were at least five freshly-printed and posted signs in the vicinity of the front door warning visitors to not feed the wild cats that roamed the area, because the owners of the buildings did so already. This amount of effort and care put forth more than mixed my expectations of what we may find inside.

But my opinion on the building and its inhabitants changed as soon as the door opened, and we were greeted by a welcoming, hairy-legged girl that looked like the physical manifestation of the term "modern hippie." Stepping inside, she directed Lydia and I to a large room filled with a dozen other people, surrounded by various crafts projects in different stages of completion.

After walking around the building for a few minutes, admiring the decades-old architecture, Lydia and I each took a beer from a cooler at the end of a wall lined with communal snack food, and sat down at one of the tables in the crafts room.

Since the entire following exchange felt like it belonged in a movie, I am going to present it to you, the reader, entirely in screenplay format (slightly abridged).

CAST OF CHARACTERS:

TY: Our protagonist. Neurotic. Doesn't do well in social situations, usually seeming reserved and quiet in interactions with strangers. Is not working on an art project during exchange, because he is uncomfortable with doing so in front of other people.

LYDIA: Friend of protagonist and guest to party. Faux-related to WAYNE. Smiles a lot. Can be seen pushing art supplies in TY's general direction when not speaking to group. Is working on a colored pencil drawing during exchange. Fun fact: Shares exact birth date with protagonist.

WAYNE: Host of party. Fauxncle of LYDIA. Has known LYDIA's mother for many years. Is a professional artist, but obviously humble. Can be seen bustling about in the background of scene, worrying about whether or not the inoffensive Indian music playing in the background is offending anyone.

LINDA: Guest to party. Old friend of LYDIA's mother and WAYNE. Larger woman with glasses and a ponytail. Talks in odd voices a lot. Very, very good-natured. Is working on a cut-and-paste construction paper scene during exchange.

OLIVIA: Guest to party. Friend of WAYNE. Young woman with hippie qualities and a beaded bracelet that makes a lot of noise when she shakes her wrist "like this." Is also working on a colored pencil drawing during exchange.

SAMANTHA: Guest to party. Friend of WAYNE. Despite being in her mid to late-forties, has the lined face of a woman that has been through a lot in her life. Is also working on a cut-and-paste construction paper scene during exchange.

CLAIRE: Guest to party. Young daughter of SAMANTHA (aged around 9). Seems intelligent for her age. Is working on coloring a page torn from a coloring book during exchange.

SCENE 2 - INT. SEEDY BUILDING, DOWNTOWN - DUSK

A table at an arts & crafts party. Everyone is sitting around, listening to music and working on various art projects (save for TY). We join a conversation already in progress.

LINDA

(to LYDIA)

Yeah, I've known your mom for years, but I don't think I've ever met you besides when you were a little kid! How old are you now?

LYDIA

(to LINDA, while taking a sip of beer)

I'm twenty. I'll be twenty-one in a few months.

LINDA

(to TY)

What about you?

TY

(to LINDA, motioning to LYDIA)

It's funny, she and I actually have the same birthday. Same year, everything.

LINDA

(to LYDIA and TY, then to entire table)

Well isn't that neat! They have the same birthday!

OLIVIA and SAMANTHA

(in unison)

Ooooh!

SAMANTHA

(to TY)

Can I say something sort of weird? (TY nods) You look just like a guy that was in my art class in high school.

TY

(to SAMANTHA, awkwardly)

Oh...um. Thanks, I guess?

LYDIA

(to TY/table)

Damn, I can't find my phone.

LINDA

(to LYDIA)

I never lose mine. I have my little squirrel pocket.

LINDA reaches into her shirt through the neck and fishes out a small cell phone.

TY

(to LINDA)

I wish I had something like that. You should invent a bra that has a squirrel pocket built in, if there isn't such a thing already.

LINDA

(to TY, then to entire table)

That would be so neat! Guys, I should invent a bra that has a squirrel pocket built in!

OLIVIA

(to LINDA)

That would be so neat!

Shot cuts over to SAMANTHA, who is telling CLAIRE that yes, she may go over to a different part of the room. CLAIRE runs off, enjoying herself.

LYDIA

(to SAMANTHA)

How old is she?

SAMANTHA

(to LYDIA, gazing at CLAIRE lovingly)

She's nine. She's the light of my life. (voice becomes watery) I love her so much.

Aside #2: Based on her sentiments towards her daughter and the way she acted and looked, I formulated an entire fictional storyline in my head for this woman minutes after I met her. Either I am the least imaginative and most observant person in the world, or am the most imaginative and least observant person in the world.

TY

(to SAMANTHA)

What was her name again? I'm terrible with names.

SAMANTHA

(to TY, smiling)

Her name is Claire.

LINDA

(to TY)

I never have trouble remembering names. I learned a trick a while back, where I would make up a song to remember names. Like mine when I met you was (in singsong voice) "Nice to meet you, Ty! Nice to meet you, Ty! Nice to meet you, Ty!"

TY

(to LINDA, laughing)

I'll have to try that sometime.

WAYNE

(walking up to table, to TY and LYDIA, then to OLIVIA)

Do you guys want to come upstairs to my studio with me for a bit? You can come too.

TY and LYDIA

(to WAYNE, nodding)

Sure.

TY, LYDIA and OLIVIA stand up from their seats, bidding the rest of the table goodbye (for the time being).

END SCENE

After this session of banter, the four of us walked over to an old freight elevator located behind the room we'd been in, where Wayne asked the three of us if we'd like to take it, rather than the stairs, to the second floor. Never wanting to pass up a chance to ride a rickety elevator that is older than the oldest living member of my family, I gladly accepted, as did Lydia and Olivia, and we stepped onto it as Wayne ran upstairs to turn it on.

After thirty seconds that were filled with me pontificating to the two women about how old I thought a dolley we'd found on the elevator was, we stepped off of the elevator and followed Wayne down a hallway to his studio.

Aside #3: Yes, I talked about the markings and "tells" of old dolleys for a full thirty seconds, and I could have gone on for much longer. I watch a lot of antiques shows.

There are cliches about artists being messy for a reason, as it turns out. Scraps of wood, finished and half-finished artwork and a rogue glow-in-the-dark dinosaur toy were just some of the things that littered the shelves, floor and every other available surface around the room. It was very endearing.

Then Wayne did something that will make the little stoner in anybody squeal with joy: he pulled out an old aluminum lunchbox.

Aside #4: Totally just implied that all pot smokers store their stash in aluminum lunchboxes. Funny thing is, I'm okay with it, because the world would probably be a slightly better place if that were the truth. Also, if there is ever a drinking/smoking game meant to be played while reading my work someday, all I ask is that right now be a time you take a shot/hit.

While talking to we three guests about various things (cats, sandwiches, beer, etc.) Wayne began putting his pungently-odored weed into a small pipe, packing it down perfectly like a seasoned pro. Soon it was being passed around from person-to-person, as the four of us joked about how one in four people has herpes.

Twenty minutes later, we returned (via freight elevator) downstairs, all occupying our previous seats and positions within the room, as if nothing had happened. As I sat there, stoned and observing the interactions between the motley crew of complete strangers that surrounded me, I had an epiphany and thought to myself:

"Arts & Crafts are pretty cool."

The Checkered Blanket Story

Throughout my life, I've been what I would consider to be seriously depressed quite a bit. Whether it be from financial woes, romance woes, or any other sort of woe, I can't help but spiral into a sort of self-deprecating nosedive any time something in my life goes terribly wrong. It usually lasts a few days after whatever it is that has happened, generally being fixed by sex, drugs, or any other vice meant to make the user feel better.

Such was the case towards the end of winter during my nineteenth year. My girlfriend at the time (whom I was living with) had left me, leaving me feeling like a worthless piece of shit. Naturally, I began looking for girls to replace her with, going on random dates with four different females over the course of the next three months.

Amongst these girls was an absolutely gorgeous part-time model named Shannon, with legs like toothpicks and a mind just as sharp. She'd invited me to a party one night when she came into my work, offering to pick me up after my shift had ended. Flattered, thinking that this absolutely gorgeous girl was way to far out of my league to be interested in me, I accepted.

Two hours later, she pulled up outside of my workplace with a (female) friend in the passenger seat. Hopping into the back, the three of us began talking like we had known each other for ages, me trying to charm the hell out of the both of them.

It must have worked on Shannon, because after we pulled up to the house where the party was being held, she locked her arm with mine on our short trek to the front porch. Seeing that I was nervous about entering a house full of people I'd never met on the arm of someone I'd just met, she told me to be calm and assured me that everyone inside would love me.

She was right. Her words affected me, instilling a sort of confidence in myself that I very rarely show in large groups. Throughout the night, she stayed by my side as if we were a couple, and I definitely didn't object to her behavior. Soon, we were holding hands and talking to each other like there wasn't a bustling party going on around us. It was the first time I'd connected with someone so deeply since my girlfriend had left me, and it made me feel absolutely fantastic.

We started talking about our lives and our interests, and it was revealed to me that she was older than she looked. Five years older than me, in fact. Fearing that she would lose interest if my own age was revealed, I dodged the question in a cutesy way when she asked. But after a few minutes of flirtatious prodding, I finally told her. Luckily, she was not deterred by this in the slightest, and told me that she thought I was older than I actually was, a comment I took as a compliment.

Aside #1: I'm convinced I am cursed to go through life looking like I'm sixteen, so to hear that I looked older than nineteen is a huge deal. Hell, to even hear that I look my age is a huge deal.

As night turned into morning, people started leaving the party. Not wanting to end what I now considered a date, I asked Shannon if there was anywhere she'd like to go before I was to go home. Just as I'd hoped, she offered to take me back to her apartment to "hang out for a little while."

We had just gotten into her car when I first kissed her. Through forces unknown, we looked at each other and the moment sort of clicked. After the fact, she began blushing and trying to explain herself, telling me that she wasn't the "type of girl that kissed random guys," and that this was "really weird" for her. Lying to make her feel better, I said that it was strange behavior for me as well, something that seemed to make her feel more at-ease.

Aside #2: Before you think I'm a terrible person for lying about that, consider how it would have seemed if I said that I'd been in this exact position a few times before.

After this shared intimate moment, we began driving towards her apartment. Not five minutes passed before her right hand left the steering wheel to join my left. It was at that moment that I knew I could really grow to like this girl a great deal more than I already did, if given the chance.

My tune changed quickly after we had finished our trek and arrived at her apartment. Walking in, everything seemed completely normal. She had an incredibly sweet dog, an apparently nice roommate (who wasn't there), and didn't have any dead bodies of other men that she'd lured into her abode hanging from the ceiling. Nothing was out of place or raised questions.

That is, until we entered her bedroom. The first things I noticed were the half-dozen tall glass candles strewn about the room, each with the Virgin Mary on them. Alarmed, I continued to look around the room while we sat on her bed and talked about nothing in particular. I noticed an old Bible on her bedside table, along with a dog-eared copy of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. Having read the book before, I brought it up in our casual conversation, hoping to then segue into her apparent religious beliefs.

It worked. Shortly after our conversation on the finer points of Tolstoy's work ended, I brought up the Bible. Just as I'd feared, Shannon launched into a sort of robotic response that confirmed that she was a ridiculously devout Christian.

Aside #3: I'm an atheist that is over having issues with religious people, aside from the crazy ones (such as the type Shannon was turning out to be). It's them that usually have the problem with me.

Then she bluntly told me that she wasn't going to have sex with me, as if I'd asked her directly. She explained that she was one of the believers in the "virgin until marriage" rule, something that her parents had both practiced when they were younger. She even threw in an anecdote about how when she was conceived the first time her parents ever had sex. How she knew this, I hate to imagine.

Then she said something that, to this day, still sends shivers down my spine. Something that made me leap off of her bed in disgust. Something that I still can't believe passed through her lips. Motioning to the blanket we were currently sitting on, she said:

"Actually, this checkered blanket was the one I was made on."

I didn't speak to her much after that.