Texas, My Texas ...? And, "The Orphan" -- a Sicker, More Modern "The Good Son"?

Yesterday evening, I made my way to Crooklyn; I had to drop off some things to Margaret Sandwich, since my airline is charging 75 bones, just to take on extra luggage, per bag -- no matter how small (Mine are small.). I suppose they don't recognize quarter-life crises as reasons to store more of your junk on board. Sigh.

So, I went off to Crookville with my big, blue duffel bag (the only thing I took to Colombia) and miscellaneous other things to put under Ms. Sands' bed in Crookway Heights; we both decided it'd be a good thing, to ensure I don't just waste away in TX and the South for the rest of my ever-dwindling years. I said I'd definitely come back by end of July -- if only to gather the rest of my belongings.

Enter a little man we'll call Charley Fatz. He'd just been stumbling around, having entertained another School Friend for the evening, when he stopped by and interrupted our watching of TBS, quietly.

"You're going back to TEXAS?!" He's from San Antonio (Texas).

"Just for a bit! I'm going to tool around the South for a bit, work on my writing, you know ... explore!" I felt a flush come over my face.

"You're never coming back."

Despite the slurring of his words, it shocked the s.h.!.t. out of me.

"Shut up, of course I'm coming back. Margs always goes home! For months!" I tried to defend myself, and pointed at her as a ripe example.

"Yeah, but, she's always coming back. You're not coming back."

So upset.

This morning, he said, "You got upset by me, a drunk man!? Come onnnnnn."

Of course I did. Man, oh, man -- I took it so hard. He even threw in other examples of friends (Texans) he knew who'd called it quits and went home and got married; ha, one wishes. I made Ms. Sands laugh yesterday, telling her of a date I went on the night before where the friend said:

"I don't mean to be ... forward. But. You don't seem to be much into worrying about guys. What's wrong?"

"Ummm, what? I don't know. Wait, what?" I picked up my butter knife and started sawing the edge of my table ... slowly, slickly.

"I just mean, are you just not that into guys? All my girl friends ... that's all ... well, it's all they talk about."

Internal: Oh, Lord.

"Are you into girls?" he asked, with a furrowed, intense brow.

"No. Umm, I need to go."

So, back to Mr. Fatz, it's all thrown me for a clichéd loop. He views it as a weakness, my going home; obviously I have those thoughts and I rationalize them away by knowing (thinking) it'll all do me some good to be home with Brother and Mama G (and the Rat Child) for a bit ... and it'll be cheaper.

I just want to take an adventure. (Run away?)

Internal monologue, over. I'll leave with a preview I saw the other day that shocked some good sense into me, movie-wise.

Orphan trailer...it seems like a more awesome "The Good Son":

"There's something wrong with Esther."

Sloth, Who Cares?

I guess I had to come home, some time.

Since I've been back, it's been a characteristically strange experience; after day one, the roommates re-embraced me and my little self. I've third-wheeled to the point where I can no longer look at myself in the mirror; I've fifth-wheeled to the point where it's just an embarrassment. I'm now sharing short stories with a roommate's father, and I've taken to commisserating with other cripples so I can feel alright -- the whole nine.

No, it's been great being back, but I miss Colombia more than I'd care to admit. Mama G says I have a "Wandering Gene," I'd say I have a curious brain. She's probably right.

I miss Colombia, I miss My Friend, I miss Margaret Sands reading next to me as we decided what to do next; I miss it all, especially when I'm here in a city that has little to offer a lout like me. I'm trying to write my short story submissions, I've reveiwed the short films I'm supposed to judge, I walked the dog!

Now, what?

Well, it's Friday -- sooooo, I suppose it's time to ... watch some more movies, see some friends and not care about what I haven't accomplished.

But maybe manana I'll post the precises of the short stories I'm submitting -- even if to hate myself for doing so.

New Arrival, Food - Friends - Fun: Fatal Spider Bites

I shot up an arm in acknowledgment from my bed (the couch), as old Margs went scrambling around to go pick up the Third Man from the airport; I should've gone with her to hold up a sign for Mr. Fatz, but, what can I say? I'm a jerk.

We'd mopped the floors, swept the balcony, aired out our laundry (that somehow manages to still smell like wet dog), picked up more wine, restocked the tomatoes, gotten him towels! All to remember that we three are the same louts we are back home.

Charley Fatz* arrived two days ago, and the effect has been widely felt; gone are the days of lazing about till 5pm, reading, thinking, dreaming, watching (movies) ... in two short days we've packed in four meals a day, introductions to Colombian friends, baseball games (amateur), hole-in-the-wall dining venues, swimming races (those never ceased, I suppose), and trips to the Texaco, the best gas station/bar/restaurant bonanza, the likes of which none of us have ever seen before.

And there are still two more days left with our cohort, during which we will have to trick him into thinking we're smarter and braver than we are.

After being bitten by a large, compact spider yesterday, our New Arrival simply drew a circle around the infected area of my arm, poked a dot in it, drew an "X" and said -- "Well, we'll just pour some whiskey on it."

And, so we did.

As they went out partying into the late hours, I kept thinking I was getting sick so I went home -- my arm is now nearly rubbed raw, I could've sworn it was swelling, and oof, I thought I had a fever. I might've even had brief moments of reflection; if I'm going down in the Colombian underbrush, at least I should reflect.

Smarter and braver than we think we are? Ooooonnnneee wishes.

Off to the Islands today.

(Note for Mama G: we looked up symptoms for Bad Spider Bites, and I think I'm fine. I don't feel bad, nothing that some sun and beers won't cure -- of course, I won't drink any beers, as it's Sunday, the day of the Lord, and I'd not do anything to offend. [Ahem.] You'll be happy to know we went to a Monastery yesterday ... though, I think Charley Fatz seemed a little radical when he suggested that old Margs and I were brujas who needed to be burned. But I'm FINE.)

"It's all a competition."

Every day is the same. Or, every day is similar. We wake up, we walk down to the pool; we share snarky lines down the stairs (we don't want to use the elevator, because whomever suggests it would be the lazy one) -- and then the competition begins.

"Pool first? Or, are you going to read?" one of us endeavors to ask, laying out the gauntlet -- you can't throw one here, it'd be too crude.

The response is crucial.

"I might do some laps."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking -- too hot."

Begrudgingly, we strip down to our swim gear and wade into the pool, which is unfortunately populated with little Latin American children at the moment because of Holy Week.

Old Margs is a much better swimmer than I am, but we learned early on that when it comes to swimming or speaking Spanish (two things for which we should hang our heads in shame) or finding a Colombian husband (Margs' mother asked her if there was a Colombian version of match.com -- oh, the expectations) it doesn't matter the level of expertise: all that matters is who sticks it out longer.

After swimming, we prepare to head into the Old City, or some small barrio where we want to eat ... when one emerges from their room wearing a dress or silly baubles, the other squints in suspicion and re-enters their own room, ready to one-up the traitorous "friend."

"You put on your face, I see what you did. You put on your face. Don't think I don't know what you did. Doesn't matter, your hair looks like slime when it's wet like that," one will say, with endearment.

We compete over everything; how many pages we read in one sitting, how many words we've written, how many pitches we've sent out, how many minutes we slept, how many loads of laundry we've done, how many ridiculous professions of love we hear while we observe the salsa dancers. It usually starts with how many laps, though.

One thing we never have to compete over, I thought, is the obscene or absurd things told to us in bars. Benjamin (Ben-ha-meen), our good friend, recently told old Margs that he wanted to shave off her hair (blond, una rubia) and stick it in his pocket. When he made the motions of shaving off someone's head and then shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants, I knew she'd won -- that night.

"It's all a competition, Morgs, all a competition."

It should be mentioned, however, that we've gotten into one actual fight -- a fight that nearly made one of us tumble over the Old City's walls. We were walking around and one of us was upset that the other had tipped too much at our most recent destination.

"It was, what, 50 cents?! YOU said you were going to have peso coins ready to go! What was I supposed to do?"

"Oh, what, you don't have lips that move? You can't speak up when we're over charged?!?! I don't have a JOB!"

"I don't have a job! I don't have any money, god, you putz, get it together."

"Ooohh, you want to climb up on this wall?"

"Yes."

Then I jumped up, sans cowardice, then jumped down so quickly that I was the biggest chicken from here to home.