Go Fish...

I owned a Tarot deck at one time. I was in my 20s, fresh out of college and finally on my own. I didn't have a serious interest in the occult; I wasn't "into" that scene. But I picked them up with a purpose. I wanted answers.

At that time, all of my angst, worry, and confusion were centered on men. Or my lack of success with men. I just wanted to know when I'd fall in love. So, I unwrapped the deck, gave them a shuffle and asked. I can't remember what cards came up, but I remember they were grim and angering. I never used the deck, again.

I've started going to Bible study in an attempt to reconnect with my faith, with God. This past week, a gentleman in my group shared his experiences "opening himself to the Lord." He truly believed that God spoke to him, guided him in these times. Another man, to lighten the mood, mentioned a friend he has who regularly opens the Bible to a random page, points a finger at a random passage and believes God is answering her prayers and questions with the particular verse. We all laughed a bit at this story and continued our discussion.

I confess, lately I've been full of angst, worry, and confusion. I think it has a lot to do with my approaching birthday. So, the morning after Bible study thought, "What the hell..." I cracked open my bible, blindly pointed to a verse and read. I had opened to Psalms and hit on a passage about "the wicked." I was not amused and decided to give up that particular way of finding answers.

This morning, though, I passed by my Bible and was hit with the urge to give it another try. At first, I paged too far back and hit the concordance. Second shot landed me in 1st Corinthians. The verse was eerily (EERILY) apropos, but also grim and angering. I shut the book with a slam.

As I drove to work, I mentally fumed. God really sucks. Really, though, He often "says" things we don't like. But, He's the Big Cheese. We should listen. Right?

I then started wondering why I asked Him in the first place if I already knew what He'd say. It was all because I was looking for answers. The same reason I asked the Tarot all those years back. This triggered a small epiphany.

I have been doing a lot of self analysis, trying to understand myself better. Once again, I think it has a lot to do with my approaching birthday. One thing that I've discovered is my near-inability to make big decisions. I have, until this point, let life happen to me. No take-charge decisiveness on my part, because it would be too risky. Risky, because I have very little faith in myself. I just don't believe I can make big decisions. I don't believe I can make right decisions.

So, I've let life make the decisions for me. And if life didn't step up, I asked the Tarot. And now, God. This morning, I did exactly what I'm trying to break myself of. I was looking for answers outside of myself. Putting my faith, not in myself, but in something or someone else.

I need to trust myself to answer the big questions. I need to trust myself to decide on the right paths to take. No one knows what's right for me except me. I've got to open my mind and point to the right decision. It's in there and nowhere else.

Still, I may try to unearth my old Tarot cards. I wonder if it can double as an Old Maid deck...

Stuff

Good stuff gets talked about in bars. Loose stuff. Juicy stuff. The stuff that doesn’t feel at home being discussed in a chain restaurant booth over iced tea and fish ‘n’ chips. The good stuff needs a sweating glass of Chardonnay and too rich appetizers. The good stuff needs a safe counter behind which to hide so that one only has to show an anonymous back to the rest of the world.

I was looking for the good stuff. I was looking for a seat at the bar.

I sat two chairs down doing my best to look inconspicuous while casting sneaky, sidelong glances at my bar mates. There were four of them, two sets of two, together, but separate. The first pair, both in their fifties, had an easy, familiar way of moving with and around each other. The man had deconstructed the morning’s full suit; his red print tie loose, his starched shirt showing the day’s relaxation, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his jacket, most likely, abandoned in the office. He was clean shaven, with a good razor as there was no sign of creeping stubble and his graying, curly hair, receding but full, was trimmed carefully around his ears and collar. He sipped slowly from a glass of white.

The woman was slightly sloppy; baggy clothing chosen for comfort not style, hair rumpled, neglected and frayed, lined face free of any makeup. She ate and drank with the freedom of one who just doesn’t care what her companions think. And contributed to the conversation only with a few sharp laughs.

The other pair was just that. A pair. Both trying to look younger than they were. Hair, overly long and overly styled. Makeup, carefully applied but far over the line of obvious. Clothes purchased in the Junior’s department that looked only slightly more comfortable than the too high shoes they wore. They spoke with the verbiage and inflection of teenagers and so similarly, their voices mixed into one girly side of conversation.

I struggled to listen in, speaking low to the bartender when placing my order, trying to tune out her incessant questions of “How is everything?” and “Can I get you anything else?”, trying to chew my salad softly so that the vegetables didn’t fill my head and ears with deafening crunching.

Bits of information started coming through. Man is a lawyer. General practice. He and his wife are regulars, but she’s absent, today. Rumpled woman works with him. Looks like his cousin. And the “girls” look like someone he knows, but can’t place. He asks about their marital status. One’s been single for 15 years. She asks how Man interprets that fact. Man compliments her personality. The other girl has two boyfriends, but that lifestyle is tiring. Still, there is never a dull moment. I get the impression that Man is glad he’s sans wife.

Then, finally, the chit chat, the verbal exploration and flirtation gives way to the good stuff.

Girl: Can you help me clear my record?

Man: When was it?

Girl: 2007.

Their conversation gets lost in the lunchtime voices and kitchen clatter of a busy restaurant. I strain to hear.

Man: You can’t expunge a DUI.

Girl: How about Insulting a Police Officer?

I pretend to watch the television to the right, over the bar, so that I can move my eyes closer to the group. Brett Favre is talking about his win. Girl is explaining why she got that offense tacked on to her DUI. She was handing the policeman paperwork which he said was thrown at him. I can see her hands moving, mimicking the motion, a half toss, half offering. I am picturing the scene less civil, though. I am picturing a drunken, belligerent Girl. I’m pretty sure I was picturing accurately.

Girl: They suspended my license and made me do a driving class. I’ve already finished it. I’m paying my fines, doing the soup kitchen thing and I have an Interlock device.

Man: Is this your second DUI?

Girl: No! I think my lawyer was useless. Everything is so cut and dry with the process. Why does anyone need them when the process is so cut and dry? I think attorneys are useless.

Man defends his profession. Man offers advice. Man offers to help.

Girl: Well, I’ll be all done in November. The device will be out of the car and my community service will be done. So…

Man strikes out.

Good stuff.

A scene from childhood...

I always wanted to be a normal kid. In my mind, normal kids had it made. When things got boring in the house, when the parents became unbearable, normal kids had an outlet, a refuge. Their friend’s house. They could pop next door, where the parents were obviously cooler than yours because they chose the two story floor plan when moving into the tract. Or scoot across the street to the powder blue house kitty-corner to yours with the oil stained driveway. Whichever house it was, it was close and held your best and closest friends.

If you were a normal kid.

In my neighborhood, the family next door, while obviously cooler because they chose the two story floor plan, had children old enough to have engendered me. They didn’t care to play with my vast stuffed animal collection or help brush my Barbies’ hair. Cretins.

The family in the house kitty-corner had children not much older than I, but when an adolescent, a handful of years seems like dozens in terms of maturity. Plus, they didn’t mingle much with the rest of the neighborhood. This did not improve in the succeeding years, especially after the father, late one night, crashed into our front yard after driving drunk. He was sober enough to flee the scene, rouse his son and send the young man to take the rap for the accident, clad only in his skivvies and a ratty blanket. You know, maybe it was good they didn’t mingle.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I had friends. At least a few that I wished I could have chased the tinkling ice cream truck down the street with. But they lived, not blocks, not even neighborhoods away from me. They lived in different cities. They required driving time. They were geographically undesirable.

Normal kids go to the neighborhood public school, which was so close, they could walk to and from, en masse, tired and disheveled in the morning and hyper and disheveled in the afternoon.

I went to private school, two cities away, and was trundled by my frantic mother to and from. There was no one to commiserate with; no one to bemoan the earliness of the hour in the morning, no one to bemoan the unfair burden of homework in the afternoon. Only my mother to bemoan my disheveled state, both ways.

I tried, once, to make friends with the kids directly across the street. That family had a two story house, but not because their parents were cool. It was chosen out of necessity. There were multiple generations living in that house; a hive of familial activity, members of every age flowing in and out of its doors at all times of day. A strange, strange place to someone who grew up in a family unit of four.

The kids, an overwhelming gang of them, were loud, rude, and nothing like me, the parochial school milquetoast. So, of course, I wanted to hang with them. That feeling, thankfully, was transient.

The one and only time we played together, I was convinced by one of the boys to play “King of the Street.” This involved us, running into the middle of the road, standing on the manhole cover and declaring, “I’m King of the Street!” The neighbor kids did this with boldness and cheeky irreverence. I did it with timidity and lightening fast speed. There were cars, for God’s sake!

After tiring ourselves out on that thrilling game, we retired to the garage-slash-rumpus room for conversation. Conversation is probably the wrong word to use, since it implies a two-sided communication. It was, in fact, their discussion of a wide range of naughty and un-Christian topics while I sat, confused, laughing nervously, and hoping my knowing head-nods were convincing.

When it got too much, I fled, retreating to my boring house and unbearable parents. We never tried to socialize again. They were just too much for me and I was, most likely, not enough for them. They would chase after the tinkling ice cream truck with me, sure. But probably just to knock it over.

Forget normal. I just wanted a bomb pop.