Reservation Pet Parade

I wrote a different version of this nearly 8 years ago when I worked as a rural market freelance journalist. On one assignment, I covered a story about a fourth grade dance troupe out in Worley, ID on the Coeur d' Alene reservation. I don’t remember anything about the dance troupe, but the day I was at the school was total chaos. The school principal had snuck off in the middle of the night and left the community. It was the second principal who’d broken a contract in less than three years. Driving home from the assignment, I passed by a personal residence that had buffalo, bobcats locked in a kennel, miniature horses, and pitbulls  caged in a kennel next to the bobcat.

All the kids my age on the reservation squabbled about which teacher lasted the longest. Some said it was Mr. Bicks, I thought is was Mrs. Nistle who I had in the first and third grade, but all of us agreed on the one thing: Miss Hansley was the one we ran off the quickest.

          Mrs. Hansley was sweet and naive and her smile screamed “White Christian.”  By the time I was 10 years old, two of my friends had been taken away by white Christian ladies so they could live with other nice, white Christian ladies. Nobody I knew really thought too highly of white Christian ladies--nice or not. Mrs. Hansley was nice and pretty and young, so we all knew she wouldn’t last long.

When I came home after my third day of fourth grade and told my mom how my teacher told us we could all bring pets to school she twisted around on the couch and said, “Good luck getting Crow on a leash.” Whenever our dog, Crow, was in heat my mom wouldn’t let her in the house on account of her bleeding.

            Getting Crow on a leash wasn’t too hard, and the next day she was the best behaved animal in class--her and Fawn’s iguana. Mrs Hansley said we could have a pet parade through the halls of the school to show off our pets, but she came from Chicago where people have cats and gerbils and maybe a dog. She brought a fish in a fishbowl to show off. When we all lined up at the front door, she twisted the thin golden strand with the cross on it she always wore around her neck as our cavalcade of beasts stood before her: Jack, Hanna, and Lee all brought pitbulls who just sat and stared and stunk--Jack’s was smeared in crusty brown crumbs; Lina brought in what everyone thought was a kitten until she said it was a newly born linx; Lolo brought in a full grown doe led around by a leash made out of bail wire attached to a harness, she said her dad trained it to not  run off to lure bucks--he kills the buck and if it all works out she said he’d eat the fawn as veal (at this Mrs. Hansley covered her mouth); a few kids brought cats, one kid did bring a dead gerbil, and Charlie--who’s the richest kids in school 'cause his dad owns the fireworks stand--thought it’d be funny to just put a leash on a mortar shell, drag it around all day and keep telling people, “She’s a nice pup, but don’t get too close 'cause she barks real loud!”
           The parade never happened. When Jack and Hanna’s dogs started fighting Miss Hansley went to grab Jack’s dog and recoiled as the dried dogshit crumbs flaked off on her hand. Then, Lee’s pitbull mounted Crow and all of us started to cheer as he waddled up behind Crow and began to pump away. Miss Hansley screamed from the sink, scrubbing her hands, “Don’t look” and at the dogs, “Stop it. Ssstop it.” Her es sounded like a person trying to imitate a snake and suddenly she didn’t seem so young, standing at the sink, yelling at the dogs in vain.
          One of the tribal elders was acting as principal that day and when he heard the commotion he sent us all home. Through the window, I saw Miss Hansely start to cry and lean up against the elder as he patted the shoulder of her white blouse.
          On the way back to my house, Lee and I talked about what we were going to name Crow’s pups and how many each of us would get. The next day Miss Hansley was gone. We scared her off in four days which is a record that stands to this day.

June Beiber Smith-Carter

Whip yo hair. In the future.

This came from an idea I had for a satirical website called “Future Wikipedia,” which would be fake posting from the future. The below entry is meant to be a fictional Wikipedia entry made in the year 2069. Ultimately I came to this idea after wondering what sort of glass ceilings will exist in the not-to-distant future. By then a woman will have become president and maybe even (gasp!) a Mexican or a white gay male. So I thought the next obvious breakthrough would be for a an African American woman raised by celebrity lesbians.

Also I suppose I came up with this idea because my cousin kept re-posting a bunch of corny and somehow inspirational Will Smith tweets. And who doesn’t love name-dropping like a maniac?

June Beiber Smith-Carter (born April 7th, 2033) is the 53rd  and current President of the United States. Apart from her political career, she is also a best-selling author. She is the daughter of musician and performer Willow Smith and real estate mogul Blue Ivy Carter NYC.  

Born in New York City, NY her birth was highly controversial at the time due to the procedure of DNA merging used to harvest XY and XX chromosomes from two same sex partners which was still very experimental. As the granddaughter of two well known celebrities--Jay-Z and Will Smith--much of her life was lived in the public eye.

Smith-Carter’s birthday was overshadowed in the press by the assassination of the 48th President of the United States, Justin Beiber, who’d was killed on the same day by political rival Zac Ephron with the use of a poisoned blow dart. In honor of President Beiber’s death, Smith-Carter’s middle named was changed from Yellow to Beiber.  

As an undergrad at Yale University, Smith-Carter excelled in Business Ethical Law, eventually acting as chairman of the student investment squad. She went on to complete NYU's MBA program and garnered national attention as the youngest mayor in the history of New York City. During her first term as mayor Smith-Carter led an effort to reduce child labor laws in NYC’s vast systems of underground sweat shops and open up job opportunities for children under the age of 15.

After one term as mayor, Smith-Carter stepped down during a successful bid for the governorship of New York State in 2062 against the leader of the New Jersey Rebellion, Snowy Polizzi, daughter of former reality star and Italian ambassador, Snooki Polizzi.  

During the 2063 Republican National Convention, Smith-Carter’s keynote address brought her political career to national attention. In her freshman term as Governor she fought to lower the age at which children could buy assault rifles to thirteen, bringing her a widespread following in the Midwest and South. In her book, Freeing the Children she outlined the theory behind bringing opportunities to children by lifting laws thought to protect them, strengthening her support in the Midwest and South.

In the 2068 Republican primaries, she defeated the oldest living American, Rand Paul, for the Republican nomination. In the 2068 presidential campaign she unseated President William Rodham Clinton II in the largest presidential landslide in American history. At 35, she became the second youngest president after John F. Kennedy.

As president, Smith-Carter signed the American Child Freedom act, allowing children to emancipate themselves at age 13 from their parents. In foreign policy, she closed Guantanamo and was a key figure in ending the 11 year Russo-Chinese Sewage War.

Alpha Overdose

After seeing pheromones advertised in the back of Popular Science for years, I finally looked into them and realized they are primarily bought by total douche bags. This is a story in a review I wrote and posted on Amazon for a pheromone called Alpha-7. I call it a "fiction bomb." The Amazon review was left intentionally unedited so for a smoother read see below. My reviewer name is Single Dude. 

BTW, my Alpha-7 is in the mail.

Spend 60 bucks for ball sweat? Sure.

I'm a 27 year old guy and I've used pheromones for about four years now and am pretty used to them. I'd heard to be careful when using pheromones with Androstenone and I've got to say - they aren't kidding! These are the most powerful sexually charged human male pheromone known to man.

Most pheromones I've used in the past aren't for "alpha male" types, but after getting a promotion at my job, I thought maybe I was ready to step it up a notch. This was BY FAR the most intense experience I've ever had with a pheromone.

When my Alpha 7 came in the mail I was stoked because I had a date the next night and I wanted to try it. Before meeting my date I put two three inch strips on each forearm just like with Scent of Eros and Aqua Vitae - two pheromones I use on a regular basis.

Right before I left my apartment, my roommate saw me and flipped out. This is someone I've known since I was like 12 years old - he's one of my best friends and he just started raging as soon as he saw me. At first I though he was yelling into his Call of Duty headset until he stood up and pushed me. He kept asking me, "What the F are you looking at?" When he didn't let up I left and heard him yell, "get outta here you pervert!"

This is one of my BEST friends and got SUPER aggressive with me the moment he saw - or smelled - me.

At the restaurant it got really weird. I was early so I got a drink at the bar. I'm 27 and I look young for my age. I've NEVER dated older women. I'm not into them and they are not into me, but as I sat down, drinking a beer and texting,  an old lady - like almost 40 year old - came up to me and ran her fingers along my neck. I didn't even look up before she whispered, "hey handsome," in my ear. Her HUSBAND came and whisked her away. Literally! Her HUSBAND.

When my date arrived she smiled from across the room. It was our second date after I got her number at a club. The first date went great - we made out and I though I could close the deal on the second date. She was crazy hot and the wait was worth it. As soon as she came up to give me a hug she instantly recoiled like she was afraid of me. Most of our dinner she spent with her chin in her chest and at one point when I waived the waiter over she ducked and let out a little whimper. She couldn't get away from me fast enough after I paid for the meal.

This stuff is the real deal. It's called Alpha for a reason. If you can't handle being the top dog, then stay away. Since my pheromone overdose, I've learned to mix it with others like Scent of Eros or Aqua Vitea

Tattoo Haggling

A little over a year ago I saw a guy at a bus stop wearing a full face "scary clown" mask holding a sign which read TATTOOS. I don't know if he was selling tattoos or what, but it was the best day of my life. I still think of it when I pass by that bus stop. Combine that experience with all the exposure I get to ICP (Insane Clown Posse) weirdness living in Spokane along with the fact that my wife really likes to use coupons and that is how I came up with this piece.

The staccato buzzing of the tattoo gun felt like a vibrator losing its charge in Sidney’s numb hand. It had been a long day at the end of a long week. She was on her last appointment -  her third cover-up in four days. Another clown. So many people had come to her asking to cover up the same silhouette of a clown holding a machete that she had three designs ready to throw on top of the usually poorly executed ink.

“Dammit,” the woman in the chair seethed with her eyes squeezed shut. The woman pressed her cheek into the high back of the padded, vinyl chair to fight against the pain.

“We’re almost done,” Sidney comforted her. Black, ink-stained blood smeared Sidney’s blue nitrile glove. With a few more buzzes of her tattoo gun Sidney evened out the small, perfect star which had emerged over the image of a clown running with a machete. “Okay. There we go.”

The woman stood, twisted the stiffness out of her shoulders and looked in the mirror. “Perfect,” she said. “You don’t know how long I’ve thought about covering that up.”

“I bet I can imagine,” Sidney said without looking up.

“My son is almost three and he keeps asking about it. I don’t know how to tell him that mommy was a groupie for an ICP cover band.”

“Yeah, that’d be tough,” Sidney said, throwing away her gloves and the thimble of used ink. It was getting harder and harder to pretend like she was shocked by the little anecdotes her customers laid out before her. Especially the cover-up customers. And especially the ones who come in to cover up clown tattoos. “Okay,” she walked to the cash register, “well you were my last appointment for the day.”

“Let me grab my purse,” the woman said right before finally breaking eye contact with her own reflection. Out of her purse, she pulled out a long rectangular piece of paper. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Sidney asked.

“A coupon.” The woman tapped the words on the paper. In big bold letters it read: BEEZLE TATS - THIRTY DOLLARS OFF FIRST TATTOO. In her other hand she held three twenty dollar bills.

“I’m sorry,” Sidney said, perturbed, “I realize it’s a coupon, but it’s expired and besides I have a minimum charge of 90 dollars anyway.”

“I don’t see any expiration date .”

“I’m sorry if you thought I’d take it, but I told you it’d be 90 dollars.” Sidney sounded tired, “I gave those out when I first opened five years ago. I don’t accept them anymore. You should have mentioned the coupon when you made the appointment.”

“What difference would that have made?”

“I could have told you it was expired.”

“But there isn’t an expiration date.”

“Yes,” Sidney brought her hand up to her face, the letters L-I-V-E in green ink on her knuckles danced around as she rubbed her eyes, “I know. It was a mistake. I should have put an expiration date on it.”

“But you didn’t,” the woman said curtly.

“I have a minimum charge of 90 dollars because I have to throw aw-”

“If you don’t honor this coupon,” the woman with the awful white trash tattoo interrupted, “I’ll report you.”

“What?”

“I’ll give you a bad review on Google and I’ll report you to the Better Business Bureau.”

Sidney sighed. The only reason she’d even agreed to do the cover-up on a Friday afternoon was to meet a new client. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” the woman said stiffly and walked out.

It wasn’t until the woman was out the door that Sidney noticed her Manolo shoes and Coach purse.

***

Later that night at at house party a young guy Sidney just met asked her about the words “LIVE ART” tattooed across her knuckles. It was a conversation she’d had many times before.

“I’m a tattoo artist,” she said, lighting a cigarette.

“Wow. What’s that like?”

“I dunno,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and blowing smoke out from the side of her mouth. “I get a a lot of clowns.”

Barfing Laurel

   I used to read a lot of what are called "pro-ana" websites. They are created typically by teenage girls who feel they have the right to be anorexic or bulimic and they share tips on how to not eat or how to purge. Combine all that with the fact I recently met this really funny Somalia pothead teenager with no legs and with only one arm. This piece probably stemmed from a combination of those two things.

Once Laurel’s mouth filled with bright red, stringy saliva, she knew everything was up. The toilet was a pretty big mess of tan goo with whole peas floating around. Flashing in the middle, brighter than a stoplight, was the red Jell-O. Laurel spat forcefully into the toilet, flushed, closed the lid, and hoisted herself up to sit on the toilet seat. She gargled water from the glass she’d brought in with her, brushed her teeth, and finally rinsed with a stinging orange antiseptic mouthwash. Before getting into her wheelchair, she sat on the bathroom counter and took one last look in the mirror, her hands ran over her shrinking stomach. This bulimia is great!

The routine started an hour earlier when her mother called Laurel and her father to the kitchen for dinner. It would be too hard to not pig out on her mom’s grilled turkey sandwiches so she planned to barf it all up later. As with any new hobby, it was a learning process - and Laurel learned about a month into making herself puke a good trick was to down a cup-sized portion of red Jell-O before a meal. When it came up she knew she’d be done. Wow! This bulimia is a cinch!
Ever since she’d been seven years old, ever since the bottom half of her legs were stolen by a speeding El Camino that didn’t even think about stopping after running over her, Laurel felt like she’d been nothing other than “that funny girl in the wheelchair,” or “that really hilarious girl with no feet.” But that was about to change. After eight years it finally made sense to invest in permanent prosthetic limbs. She wanted to become the “the sexy girl with a great personality who walks with a weird limp.” As she steadied her body down from the counter into the wheelchair, Laurel’s normally strong arms shook unsteadily. For the past week or so she’d started to inadvertently use one of her stumps to leverage herself into the chair. Phew! This bulimia sure does take the wind out of your sails.
Her parents made the offer. Before, it had always been a matter of cost. They couldn’t afford the money for new prosthetic feet every time she’d outgrow them, but now the doctors said her bones were more or less fully developed and any artificial limbs she bought would just need to be adjusted. They were going to be fit to her stumps next week, four months before her high school graduation. This bulimia will help me fit into that dress so I can show off my acne free back.  

Laurel pulled at the wheels of her chair to roll backwards and lifted up the toilet seat to take a peak at the slowing churning water in the bowl. A few green peas covered in clumpy brown slime still bobbed and swirled around in the now clear water. She flushed again and rolled out of the bathroom into her bedroom.  She had the master bedroom. Her parents were so good to her, but she was tired of being a burden. Her dad had begged and borrowed to get the materials for all the ramps and bars everywhere in their house, and her mom still offered to rub salve on her stumps even though she was damn near 18 years old. 

It wasn’t like she was a cripple. She’d become the funny girl with two stumps by her freshman year. “My fuckin’ legs work asshole,” she’d say to new students who stared too long. During a project for her American History class she had most of the boys in the room almost crying with tears when she glued mutton chops to her face and performed a monologue about the conditions of Civil War battlefield hospitals in the voice of a confederate soldier amputee. But Laurel was done being the funny, freakish girl and wanted to go out as the funny, sexy girl. Her lean, strong arms would look great in a sleeveless dress, but the bulge up front just wouldn’t do.  

How long am I gonna have to keep this bulimia up before my wheelchair gut goes away?

 
Tammy, Laurel's mom, looked up from the sink  with the dinner dishes in her hand as Laurel rolled up to her. “Honey,” Tammy said sweetly, “are you feeling okay?” Then in a whisper, “I heard the toilet flush a couple times. Do you have diarrhea?”  
"Jesus mom! No. I took a giant dump that wouldn’t go down.”

“Okay. Okay - no reason to be gross.” Tammy scratched off a piece of hardened gravy from one of the plates with her pink fingernail - a skill she’d perfected at the diner where she waited tables. “So would you like dessert? Your father just went out into the garage to get an apple pie from the fridge.”
“Umm,” Laurel paused, then remembered she had plenty of Jell-O cups left. ”Okay.”
“Ala mode?”
“Sure.”

       God! This bulimia wouldn't be so bad if they’d just quiet feeding me.