History Wrestling

So this is what it's like: the third of July.  One day till the big bang.  One day till it all goes up in smoke.  At this part of the thumb, I’m guessing in a not so Cheech and Chong kinda way. This town is a slice of Americana.

 

Here I am, my first big stay off the coast of the great Lake Huron--my grand entrance in the Pirate Queen’s homestead. It's all foreign to me; I might as well be Canadian.  Oh wait, that’s just outside my porta-potty booth and across the water.

 

Right now I'm potty peering through the air vent over the toilet. I can’t see much through the meshed aluminum, but I can see the Pirate Queen and an ex beau.  At least I think that's an ex beau. He’s a guy she knew. He's now her past who is currently running to represent the lollipop guild of the future.

 

“But we’ve got to verify it legally.”

 

I’m just the guy who’d like to plant my outhouse on his head. The ruby studded Rolex on his wrist protruding through the pile of—uhm…the bottom of the house.

 

So far the pirate queen is hearing out his plank. She hasn't asked him to walk, yet. He had a foot in the door once.  What about now? Where does he stand?

 

I'm pushing my nose to the grill; mesh pocks mottle my face like mini mosquito landing zones, my knees straddling the abyss of blue fluid and john flotsam.  She's listening intently as he talks up the benefits of wind power. He’s going green.

 

Me too.

 

This dude is a stud. He's got the wrap around shades and sweats smarm to anoint the heathen masses. Is he glowing? I think so. I don't know.  I've got a beer.  Is that enough?

 

It's not just him; it's everything. I'm black and white Dorothy from California. What's that worth? I've heard everything about the rich Technicolor land of my pirate’s history, about everything she's leaving behind. She's even comparing family tree branches with a coworker of her brothers. He's here. He knows the lay of the land. I'm uprooting a local girl.

 

I want to make her at home, but I'm not of this place. They don’t take kindly of that in these here parts—and yet her family has accepted me with open arms. 

 

So, is the crapper between my legs half empty or half full? Am I just over exaggerating things?  Of course I am!  You’ve read my posts! You know I’m the outhouse on poo corner blogger.

 

“Tut, tut, looks like rain.”

 

So what is my problem this time? Is it melancholy? Is it the moonshine her brother gave me? Is it the fumes coming up from this stink hole beneath me? I don’t know. I do know I can’t stall here much longer. I feel ridiculous.

 

From my vantage point, I can see many things. What I can’t see is where I fit into this picture. Strangely enough, by itself, that doesn’t bother me. Like I said, this is her past.  That’s not me.

 

Am I her future?  I can’t see that. Maybe that’s part of it.  I see how happy she is here. I’d like to be something that happy in her life. I wanna be ice cream cone and fireworks on the fourth of July. For now, I’m the kiss and hug in her present and that needs to be enough.

 

She took a picture of some other guy she was talking to. He seemed fun. I don’t know what platform he was standing on, but he wasn’t running for office.  I wonder if he’s looking for something else.

 

Later, when she flips through her camera’s repository, she doesn’t even remember who he was. He didn’t make a big impression on her past, present or future. I think I can climb down from my high whiney horse. She took a picture of me earlier and I watched her smile.

 

“I’m melting!”

 

The reality--and I recognize that, even as I look for a way back to the floor—is that I don’t know what’s beyond the now.  I have a history too. I have my happy place, but I also have my history of failed relationships.  They’re no better or worse than anybody else’s, except mine have left me a little insecure.

 

In my history, I’ve seen people get close and leave.  I won’t forget it, and yet why do I still feel so damned to repeat it? I’m still a little panicky. I’m not worried, per se, this is not my first house crashing. Still, Dorothy woke up with a new resolve from her Emerald city stay; what will I gain from my Tidy Bowl blues?

 

The real question I keep avoiding is, “Am I having fun?” Well not inside this toilet, no, but I do enjoy the Pirate’s company, and I do like this place she’s called home. So why can’t I stop overanalyzing everything and just have fun?

 

I resolve to do just that. I step down from my throne, and go out to greet my queen.

 

“Where were you?” She asks when I return, “I was worried—what happened to your face and why is your leg wet and blue?”

 

“I was mauled by venomous Smurfs.” I lie.  I’d rather leave the real story as part of my past.