Anyway...
My life is that line that goes up and down. I have had some of the most amazing high points. I have had some of the lowest lows. I think that if my adventures ever flat line, my body will as well.
That being said, after living in NYC and working as a beauty publicist in Soho, what seems like a high point in my life (though looking back, I don't even know if it was, maybe it was just a short-lived flat line), my life took a major plunge. This plunge was completely my doing. It was not an accident. It was not some unlucky, karmic crash, it was me. I did it to myself and there is no one to blame. I am extremely impulsive. Maybe I just can't stand living in one emotion for an extended period of time. Feel free to analyze.
Out of nowhere I quit my executive job, walked into a salon with hair half way down my back and walked out looking like Peter Pan, ate a lot of Klonopin, put a couple holes in me, took a bus to Vermont from NYC, had a nervous breakdown, jumped out of a car, checked into a hospital, checked out of a hospital, realized no matter what I do, life goes on so fuck it, and finally....bought a van.
This van, and it's Hootie and the Blowfish single "Hold my hand" that was rammed into the cassette player, are the theme song and backdrop to a summer of complete and utter lose of dignity. And, again, all this, was my doing. I cannot blame anyone for this.
It seemed like a good idea at the time (fuck it, I still think it was a great idea). I decided if I wasn't going to be who I planned to be then I was going to be the exact opposite of everything I had ever wanted to be, because, after a failed job, relationship and life plan, I knew that I would rather be living in a van than bored living a life that I had planned. You can plan a life, but you can't be certain you will like that life. I had planned a life for myself, that unbeknownst to me, I hated.
I bought the van off my dad who is a mechanic who, but even when it comes to family, needed to make a buck. He completely charged me double for the POS, but I was in love with the ugly sucker, so I paid it.
This van had a CB radio, busted cassette player, seats that turned into a queen size bed, a tire on the back that said "Let's Roll" and lots of cupboards for booze.
I took on two jobs bartending. One during the day at a restaurant, where my job was to make about 20 gallons of margartias every morning, just so I could sell them for two bucks and make no tips off them. At least the Cobb salads were half off.
The other bar gig was at a brewery. I spent most of my time there. So did the van.
I soon realized that the van was the catalyst for alcoholism. No more drinking and driving, I could just sleep in the van. And I did.
This lifestyle got out of control. Now you would think everyone thought I was a dirtbag. They did. But, being a dirtbag is sexy, so I pulled in a lot of ass. Strippers love rapist vans, so I spent a lot of my time at the local girly bar. I even dated men that had ivy league educations, were successful artists, jewelers, and professors. I was their pet fuck up. Their charity case. Their broken doll. The girl with the Master's degree that lived in the van. The van was a rebellion against society, and everyone wanted in on it.
An average day was waking up in the van in the parking lot of the night gig, driving to the day gig, napping between jobs, getting hammered, going to a strip club, and waking up in the van to start all over again.
Many people wanted to save me from this van. Boyfriends were always asking me to sleep at their place. I remember waking up one morning in the van to knocking on the window. It was my man-of-the-moment. I guess I had been so drunk that I drove to his house and slept in his driveway in the van. He said I had refused to sleep inside. Again, this was all some sick choice. An experiment mixed with punishment. By the way, don't drink and drive kids.
There are two epic van memories that I am going to share with you. I don't know which came first, the midget or the strippers, so I will start with the midget. Bros before hos.
I had just got done working a double shift between the two bars. It was drinking/heckling time at the bar. The man-of-the-moment was there, though probably completely ignored for my life partner Jack Daniels. Nothing special was happening in the beginning. Typical night. Then, everything changed with one man. A midget, or dwarf, a little person, whatever is more PC.
He walked in with one guy. Some guy who's face was completely unmemorable. He looked like every other redneck I had ever seen. I do remember a camo hat and complete inarticulation. Otherwise, he doesn't exist.
The little guy sat next to me. I guarantee I stared. Probably with the goofiest smile you have ever seen. Not in a mean way, but in a "Wanna be my side kick. I think I love you" way. We started talking. He told me he was in town because he was a body builder. I'm fucking serious. This little dude was jacked.
Just how jacked? Well, that is what I wanted to find out. Here begins the many trials of Little Hercules.
I had him haul me around the bar. No, he was not holding me like a bride, I was not getting a piggy back ride (though that would have been AWESOME. Seriously, just picture that). I was sitting on my bar stool. He was carrying me around the bar, on my bar stool. That is some serious power. Clearly, everyone was clapping, and whistling. This man was now the coolest man in the universe.
Once the bar closed, I decided to have an after hours party. At my house. At the van. It was the perfect after hours party, you just had to walk out the door and voila, shelter and cabinets of booze. We passed around bottles. There was most likely some Vermont homegrown in there too, though I have never been one for that. Bad lungs and one hell of a gnarly episode that I will blog about at some other time.
One of the members of said after party was a passerby. We were drinking at the van and I see a guy walking by with a grocery bag at 3 in the morning. I interrogate him. He says his mom wanted him to go get some milk. I say, drink whiskey, what the hell does someone need milk for at this hour? He comes to the van. He drinks some whiskey. He fades from my memory for a couple hours because he was boring.
There had to have been at least ten or more people partying at the van, inside and outside of it. I was in the backseat with a guy. I think I remember liking him. The little dude was in there too. We were talking, most likely I was just questioning him. "Why are you a body builder? Who are you up against? Are you real?" That sort of thing. Then he made a pass at me. Yup, this little fucker was balls to the wall. I was sitting right next to a guy I was seeing and he tried to kiss me. No matter how big your balls are, no matter what size your body is, you will get thrown from my van if you pull that sort of thing little perv. Party over.
Or, so I thought.
I am awoken by someone knocking on my van. I tell them to go the fuck away. The knocking doesn't stop. Low and behold, it's the milk kid. "What the hell are you doing here? I'm trying to sleep."
"My mom kicked me out of the hotel."
"What?"
"Yeah, I'm only 17 and when I came back smelling like booze she kicked me out. I have no where to go"
Fuck.
He was a kid. Figures.
He stood outside my van with a blanket and a pillow. I let him in. I told him if he touched me I would beat him worse than his mom ever could.
After that night, that kid was like a rash. He wouldn't go away. I had to park the van in different spots around town because he wanted to live in it with me. I was his role model. This was not how I planned it.
I never saw the midget man again. I wonder if he won. He did have a lot of training that night. I always hoped he would come back to the bar and tote me around, but it wasn't meant to be.
A couple weeks later, or a couple weeks before, van story number two happened.
I'm from a place in Vermont real close to the border of New Hampshire. Vermont is classy, New Hampshire is sleazy. I kept to the NH side quite often. It was where the dive bars were and the van was welcome.
One of my favorite places to hang out in this time of my life, who am I kidding, at ANY time in my life, is a good ol' strip club. It's the perfect place for me. I get in free, the guys are harassing the naked girls, not me, the drinks are cheaper 'cause there is usually always a ladies' special, and the music is pretty fun. Plus, this particular strip club was all girls I knew from high school. The bartender was my friend's husband. Right outside of the strip club is a bowling alley. You actually have to walk through the bowling alley to get to the strip club. Super fun. Perfect, right?
This one particular night I went to the club with this guy I was dating. Super smart, cute, educated, driven, about to be over me in a couple weeks. We get to the club, completely inebriated. I remember trying to be cool. Maybe I was for a second. Probably not.
I sit at the stage with him. I am the only girl at the stage. Scratch that, I'm the only girl that doesn't look like John Candy with a sex change at the stage, so all the men put money in front of me. The more money in front of me, the more likely the stripper is to make an example of me, take me on stage, spank me and show everyone my boobs.
This stripper was a little different though. Her looks unmemorable and forgotten, though I think she may have had dark hair. I am mostly blacked out at this point. She was one of those uppity girls that thought she was hotter than the rest, maybe had a boyfriend that was there that night, maybe had a kid at home, maybe was trying to be a model. She was ashamed. Sometimes a female stripper loves dancing for a girl. She doesn't feel like a piece of meat anymore, she can just pretend she is goofing off with her friends. Plus, she makes way more tips dancing for a girl. Other strippers are the opposite. They see a girl, and they feel judged. They are wondering what I'm thinking, if I think she is a whore, if I'm a lesbian, if I am going to laugh at her, if I think she is fat. That was this girl. I would be that girl.
She goes around the bar pulling her panties down for all the guys to put dollars in. Twenty guys with dollars in their mouths, lined up, thinking over their maneuver so they can get the dollar in, see some vagina, and not get beat up by the bouncer.
She gets to me and won't take my dollar. I am left with a dollar in my mouth, possible gum cancer from the scurvy thing and her ignoring me. The bar starts to boo her. She gets nervous, but doesn't know what to do. The noise and the booze and the man next to me that I want to impress trigger some retarded ideas. I got it in my head that she hated me and was judging me. I couldn't see at the time that she was embarrassed, all I could think was "YEAH FUCK YOU! HAVEN'T YOU HEARD OF EQUAL RIGHTS?!" Now I felt like a woman going to cast her ballot for election and being told I need to go back to the kitchen. I took this way too personally. So, I said something along the lines of "I bet she smells like herring" and kicked the stage. I kicked it really hard. I kicked it so hard I broke my foot right then and there. Now everyone is silent and looking at the drunk girl screaming and hopping on one foot. Time to go to the van. Time to sleep this one off.
All of the above was recanted to me later on. I had blacked that scene out. I blacked out my foot being broken. I have little to no recollection of this.
Man-of-the-moment comes back to the van with me. I'm telling you, I could do the stupidest shit ever, but that van was pure sex. No one could resist it. Commence makeout time.
Makeout time is stopped when he goes, "Jesus Mando, can you turn this stupid song off? If I hear this Hootie and the Blowfish song one more time..."
Music stopped. Commence makeout time again.
Makeout session stopped. "My foot hurts so bad. Do you think it is broken?"
"You are a puss."
"True"
Commence makeout time.
Makeout session stopped again. Knocking at the van. Blue lights. Fuck.
I open the van doors to some cops there. "Ma'am, get out of the van please."
I get out, I'm drunk. Man gets out. He is drunk. Questioning begins.
"Are you planning on driving tonight ma'am?
"No officer, I'm real drunk. I live in this van."
Silence.
"We are obligated to check all vehicles with suspicious behavior"
"What?"
"Your van was moving around."
"Oh. Ha!"
"Ma'am, is this man hurting you?"
I love that they ask that question last. Seriously. Don't you think I would have answered that one FIRST?
After the questioning, they check out the van. I tell them I hurt my foot. They like the van. They like me. Maybe. They say they will remember the van and won't bother me anymore. They say they will see me at the bar sometime soon.
Here is a note I posted on facebook the week of this incident.
Get Me the Fuck Out of Here
Monday, May 5, 2008
i broke my foot at a strip club. or so i am told.
the cops come to my van all the time to make sure i'm not being raped.
they always ask politely 'mame, are you being raped?'
'why thank you for asking officer, i almost forgot to tell you i was.
stop that man'
i wake up so hung over that i pee in a bucket in the van, then throw it out the window. my van smells like chemicals and puppies.
i spend all my hard earned waitressing money on strippers. i have an addiction and they don't even love me back.
i flicked my nose ring out in one swift bloody mess when jestering the correct way to snort atterall. looking like a victim of a hate crime, i proceeded to crawl on hand and knee looking for it, forgetting to clean up the blood. this was at my place of work. i wonder if i still have a job.
i need to get the fuck out of vermont. i'm festering in this scum hole life i have created.
help. help. help.
can i park the van in your driveway?
My foot is still not right. I hobbled around for a long time. When I moved to Korea, I broke the same foot, again, this time just walking. When the doctor showed me my XRay he pointed out my other break that had healed to a nice pyramid atop my foot. Yup, I remember that injury, doctor.
