Tag Archives: memoir

The Odd Couple

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A year ago, I was getting used to life without Newcastle. I’d retrieved his ashes, I put his food and water dishes away, and built a shrine. The hardest part was getting rid of his litter box.

I had bought him some steps because he couldn’t jump anymore, and they’re still there, fifteen months later, and I still ache a little when I see them. I don’t move them because I don’t want to the ache to go away.

I wasn’t lonely. It was almost a relief when he died because I didn’t have to give him several medications a day or clean his food bowls. I still miss him so much. I had decided not to get another cat. The loss of Newcastle hurt more than I could bear, and the last thing I wanted to do was replace him.

Life rarely listens to what you have to say.

A year ago, I was receiving a voice call, which was weird. It was from Noel, so I panicked. She asked if I could stash a feral cat for a couple of weeks. She and her partner were trying to corner a skeletal kitten who was licking a Reese’s wrapper. I said of course.

I still had Newcastle’s food and water bowls, as well as some of his food, so I whipped up a feast for my new guest. He arrived, and he was a friendly little guy who was pretty hungry. He also liked attention, which meant he had to stop eating for the ten seconds he got pets, and that was filling him with a lot of conflict. It was a bit of a roller coaster.

Noel needed me to hang onto him while he got tested for bugs, germs, and parasites. He couldn’t come home with her because he might have leukemia, or something, which could kill Henry. Henry was the love of her life.

Newcastle was the love of my life, and this creature, who I called Potato, looked exactly like he did when he was a teenager—less like a cat and more like an otter. The big difference was the white patch. For Newcastle, it was on his belly, but for Potato, it was on the tip of his tail.

He stayed with me for the next several days, eating, exploring, eating, napping, and eating. Noel was paying for all of that food and the vet visit. Her partner and I went in together, got all of the appropriate samples taken (except for, ugh, stool), a quick check of his coat and vitals. I pointed out to her partner that they probably thought we were a couple.

Because of the starvation, it was tough to get an accurate estimate, but he was about twelve-to-thirteen months old. Other than that, he was in perfect shape. That meant he belonged to someone, but there were no missing posters in the neighborhood.

Noel asked if I wanted to keep him, I said I’d think about it, but I’d definitely let him hang out for two weeks or, like, whatever. At the end of the two weeks, I concluded I didn’t know how I felt, but I did like having a roommate again.

Did this mean betraying the memory of Newcastle? I was still in mourning. I still am. I wasn’t supposed to get another cat. All I have of Newcastle is a stuffed animal, and now there’s this creature demanding all my attention.

I welcomed him into my home. Newcastle’s automatic feeder, food bowls, and so on, were getting used again. I set an eating schedule and have failed to live up to it, by which I mean I keep feeding him earlier. Soon, I’ll be feeding him yesterday. The cat tree hammock Newcastle never seemed to enjoy was now helping a young cat lounge.

Noel came by to get my final decision. She was disappointed because Henry needs a friend. He was mourning Newcastle too, and still is. While she was here, we discussed names because she was violently opposed to Potato. She also, shot down my preferred nom de guerre of Shenanigan. She’s right, that would have been a terrible name. Meanwhile, I vetoed Reese before she could even finish saying it. That didn’t stop her from suggesting it several more times.

While the little guy divided his time evenly between us, she and I tried several names on. Nothing made sense. Nothing fit. He was too young and too feral to have a personality, but I wanted to give him the exact right name. All I knew about was that he was friendly. She took out her phone and scrolled through baby name websites.

I remember she read “Oscar,” and we had kept going, but it sunk in, several names later. He did look like an Oscar. I got him a collar and a cool lightning-bolt tag.

This is really hard to say, but I don’t love him. I’d do anything for him, but I don’t feel the same way I did with Newcastle a few months into our friendship. Maybe it’s a different kind of love. I don’t know.

I do know that I like having him around. This place was too quiet. Even after all this time, we’re still getting used to each other.

I have someone I can say inane things to and not be judged. I have someone to pet. I have someone to take care of. Those things mean a lot. It’s good to share this space with something alive.

My mother thinks that Newcastle, in cat heaven, sent Oscar to me so I wouldn’t be alone. That’s a really good thought, and I like thinking it.

Playgrounds New and Old

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When Kate and I first moved to the DMV area, we lived in Alexandria. I liked Alexandria because it was a quick Metro ride to DC proper, and it was a big enough city of its own. After we returned from Doha, she made the unilateral decision to move us even farther from the District, and I had no reason to go to Alexandria anymore.

If you’re pondering Alexandria, you might think of it as the home of the best sushi in the world. You might think about the other Washington Monument erected by the Masons. You might think of how the Revolutionary War was planned in a pub there (which explains a lot). That pub, still serving ale, is in Old Town.

The spring following my return to the area in, my friends, Steve and Mere, joined me as we ducked in and out of the quaint shops that line the walk from the Metro station to the Waterfront, about a mile and a half. We explored an interlinking series of cemeteries, as well as the Torpedo Factory (more on this later)

It took six years to return, this time by myself. Even though I’m working on a project this weekend, I wanted to enjoy the weather and crank out a few portraits in a spot where I’d see a lot of tourists. That place was ESP, which stands for Espresso, Snacks, and Pie. I had neither snacks, nor pie, but I did enjoy an Americano, along with a sticker. Every store and café in Old Town sold stickers.

I occupied myself with my weekend project because there was only one interesting person. There was also a deeply plunging neckline, but I only observed that through my strained periphery.

Later, with one eye on my sketchbook and one eye on foot traffic, I spied an older woman, her hair long and wild, looking as if she were going to tear that hair out. To my horror, she approached me, out of breath and panted, “I know you probably can’t help me because you’re a man, but I’m going to ask anyway.”

My mind struggled against this torrent of twitchy desperation like someone walking against a hurricane.

“Are you ready?” she demanded.

No. “Yes.”

“Do you know Call Your Momma?”

I sat there, and a number of thoughts rattled through my skull. Did she want me to call my mother? Was she talking about the bagel sandwich chain Call Your Mother? That would make the most sense. And yet. What was it about being a man that would handicap me from knowing a bagel shop’s location? It didn’t matter because I had no idea where it was. Just like a man.

It took about twelve seconds to put all of this together into one coherent thought, while she waited for my answer, quivering in impatience. “Sorry,” I replied, “I don’t live here.”

She stormed away, shouting over her shoulder, “Of course you wouldn’t know! You’re a man!”

Despite being the victim of misandry, my journey of nostalgia went on. I loved coming here when I was younger. But so much had changed. The only comic-book store in Alexandria is now a spa. The coffee-and-pastry place we liked to go to is an empty, gutted building.

One thing hadn’t changed: the Christian bookstore and the sex boutique are still there…

… separated by a tiny Thai restaurant.

That restaurant is a hero.

Eventually I arrived at the Waterfront. When I lived here, this was a parking lot. Now it’s families enjoying their freedom from the latest cold snap.

The reason I took the hour journey, which included two trains and a twenty-minute walk, was the Torpedo Factory. It was once a literal torpedo factory, and now it serves as studios and shopfronts for over a hundred artists.

I was able to make it through the whole building in a short amount of time because most of the studios were closed. A lot of the open ones sold jewelry, which I am not interested in. A lot of the remaining was just not my style. And yet, even though my interests were whittled down to such a small percentage, I saw a lot of great art Saturday.

I have an expensive philosophy when I go to art fairs: if you talk to me about your shit, I will buy something from you. All you have to do to start such a conversation is say hi. You’d be amazed at how many artists don’t get this.

I had four good conversations, and I bought something from three of them. (The fourth was out of my price range, but he gave me a post card.) My longest conversation, however, was not with an artist. It was the hippy at the art store was very chatty.

As soon as I walked in, she asked, “How’s your last day before martial law?”

I asked her why Easter, and she laid out a pretty good case. She also pointed out it was Hitler’s birthday, which was less convincing. We talked more about a lot of stuff while she flipped through my portrait sketchbook and observed that I must be straight. She thinks asexuality is hormones. She is also an atheist, a bit more militant than I.

Ordinarily, I don’t like to talk about politics. It makes me sick to my stomach, and it doesn’t fix the world. For some reason, Candace made it easy to vent. She then assured me that Trump’s days are numbered. She says that the Republican party will impeach him in a few months, July at the latest.

She’s never wrong about these things because she can see the future. She wasn’t talking about any of this “woo-woo shit.” She had a talent for pattern-recognition. Take her word for it.

I enjoyed chatting with her, but I wanted to find a table in the Waterfront and work on some more art. I saw two more interesting people, who I planning on drawing when I’m done with my project. Enriched, I journeyed home.

When people say you can’t go home again, it’s usually with regret and heartbreaking nostalgia. I certainly felt it today. However, nobody talks about the new, exciting stuff that replaces our old loves. Time moves on, nothing’s ever the same, and that’s how life stays fresh.

Psycho Killer, Que L’Enfer?

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A common trigger for manic episodes is a sleep disruption. Starting with tech week, I’d been going to sleep three-to-four hours after my bedtime. I’d wake up at my normal hour, which is ungodly, feed Oscar, and start my day. I was tired at work, but otherwise functioning. Then the manic episode kicked in.

My doctor prescribed a medication he described as a “sledgehammer,” which I was looking forward to, but no pharmacy had it. To be fair, there are hundreds of pharmacies in town, and I only called eleven, but I sensed a pattern. He even called his ace-in-the-hole drugstore, and they didn’t have it.

His solution was to prescribe another antipsychotic for my first night, this one like “a sledgehammer, but heavier,” which I couldn’t wait to try. That night, I went to the theater, regretted some things I said, and looked forward to one more evening of that. I took an Uber home, welcomed the sledgehammer, and curled up in bed.

I woke up at my usual time Friday morning to feed the cat, then I went back to bed for three hours. I was sluggish most of the day and took a lot of naps. Since I had to leave early the night before, due to being overwhelmed (which I described as “sick”), Monique texted me and told me not to come in that night, but rather for closing Saturday. I said, “Thank you,” and I took another nap. I fell asleep at six p.m. and woke up at my normal time.

I felt like a zombie all day Saturday, and all I wanted to do was lie in bed. I’d sit at my desk, look at a partial sketch, strategize, then lie back down. To shake some of the rust off, I explored my parking garage, and the next day, I went looking for Fort Totten Park, which is on the map, but is hard to get to. Turns out, there is no park there, only a conservatory. I did find a park, but it was more of a memorial next to an endless expansive of community gardens.

Feeling slow, I braced myself to go to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, where Maddie was already there to do all the work. I was needed to help with strike, and to make an appearance at the cast party.

From the opening trumpet of act one, I had an excruciating headache—not a migraine, but a cousin at the least. Maddie found me two Tylenol, and I stuck it out. Somehow, after the final bow, I found myself wrapping up running lights and removing their gaffer tape, while also getting electrocuted. This did not give me superpowers.

I did another awkward thing, where my brain was shouting, “Abort!” but my mouth kept going. It’s surreal. I used shrooms on Shane’s birthday, and I hated it. But it’s nothing compared to what I’ve been going through. But, yes, I told Elizabeth she was “Really cool,” and I didn’t exit so as to avoid creepiness. She was gracious, but I can only assume she was uncomfortable.

By the time I finished with the gaffer tape, most of the work was done, and they didn’t need my help with anything. I still had the headache, so I sat in the changing room and physically held my head back from exploding. I was about to leave when I noticed a gift bag with my name on it. Even though they’d understand, I would feel rude if I left without it. Also, I wanted to know what was in the bags.

The mushroom is baffling, but greatly appreciated. Monique said she’d be in touch, and I’ve been talking to some of the producers about donating some art to future shows. The problem is, if this sleep situation led to my psychotic break, like I suspect, I won’t be able to go out and play like I want to.

After all the gifts were given out, I hired an Uber, which smelled of stale weed. So I did what I’ve been doing since I had my first meltdown: just grabbed onto the “Oh Shit handle” and just let it happen.

Manic Panic

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As you know, I’m bipolar, specifically, bipolar 2. That means I’m depressed more often than I’m anything else, leading to misdiagnoses of clinical depression. I have been on all the depression drugs, from Abilify to Zoloft, which has led to discussions that go like great scene in Silver Linings Playbook where Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence discuss the medications they’ve tried the same way Comic book fans talk about their stashes. What I’m trying to say is that I have lived my entire adult being miserable, except for brief breaks where I’m actually myself, or I’m hypomanic. 

Being hypomanic can be a lot of fun. It’s like having a couple of drinks, and you’re funnier, better looking, and more charming. I’m pretty sure every woman who’s fallen in love with me has done so when I’m hypomanic.

Also, I’m irritable and downright angry. I can’t stop talking, and I’m grandiose. I regret so much of what I do when I’m manic. There is a member of my pantheon of fictional characters who is based on my mania. His name is Max. (Same first two letters—see what I did there?)  Max is an asshole. When I’m hypomanic, I become an asshole.

I spent the least amount of time being normal, and it was tough to tell if anyone actually liked the real me. I wondered how I could be an asshole a third of my adult life without actually being an asshole. Or if I spent six months miserable, did that mean I was just miserable?

Fifteen years ago, my brilliant doctor and I figured it out. It wasn’t some sudden eureka moment. (DOCTOR: “It’s a great day to come to the zoo and see a polar bear … wait. Polar! That’s it!”) He isn’t House. He’s actually like this guy I met in North Jersey who used to hang out with my Uncle Larry. But I digress. It took months of experimentation and patience for us to reach an accurate diagnose because psychiatry isn’t a science, it’s art.

We found a cocktail that worked. I know it worked because I went to bed depressed one night, and I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed, but not manic. I was myself, and I’ve been myself since 2017. The downside is that, when you’re on enough lithium, your emotions are muffled. I’m like a cruise ship: when the waves slam into me, I may tip for a second (I have a bad temper), but I return to normal pretty quickly. This may be one of the reasons Kate divorced me.

There have been a number speed bumps along the way.

Sometimes, when you have a mental illness, and you are relying on drugs to function, they stop working. You have to start from scratch. It happened to me in 2015, and took over a year to right myself. I brush my teeth, get ready for work, work, come home and pet my cat, write and draw, make dinner, and go to bed, all the time being aware this will happen again.

Sometimes, I’ll get hypo-depressed, where I can’t sleep, but it’s all I want to do. It doesn’t make me feel sad and worthless, but I experience a lot of the physical symptoms, like aching joints.

Sometimes, I’ll get hypo-hypomanic, which is the good parts plus some crankiness.

I don’t tell my doctor about either of these because I don’t want to mess with my medication. We have been polishing this cocktail for years, and I’m afraid to live without it. Also, if I’m being perfectly honest, it’s kind of nice to be hypo-hypomanic.

Otherwise, the real me is a hermit, and I haven’t made any long-term friends for a very long time. When I’m hypomanic, the relationships may last minutes, but they’re life-changing.

Weeks ago, when I started getting involved with the community theater and having great conversations, and meeting protestors and hanging out, I wrote ten long blog entries over two weeks. I was clearly hypomanic. I hesitated to call my doctor because I was enjoying myself. It’s so easy to go from manic to depressed, and I didn’t want to rush that.

I melted down at work on a Thursday, and again the following Wednesday. I missed a train and screamed “Fuck!” in a crowded platform. I feel like a cat on stilts. If the internet cuts out, even for a minute, I’m going to throw my laptop out the window.

I called my doctor, and he prescribed me an emergency supply of an antipsychotic to keep me calm and he helped me sleep. He told me to take the next week off work and to stay home and sleep as much as I can. I’m need to lay off my ADHD medication because it’s all stimulants, as well as the devil weed, which is a mild hallucinogen, and it would stimulate me. I am to stay in my apartment with two exceptions:

One exception is my commitment to the St. Mark’s Players. After a long Day One under house arrest, I had to pull myself together and be around other people when I keep losing control over myself.

For example, I was pleasantly surprised to see my favorite eccentric, platinum blonde theater volunteer, Elizabeth. She remembered me and was genuinely excited when she caught my attention. I said, “You look great! Really great!” She assured me it was just work clothes, but I reiterated how great she looked. And she did, but still.

I did not want to do that. She is half my age. Even though my motives are pure, and I genuinely wanted to compliment her, there are rules, and I was stepping over them. My body wanted to keep talking, but I tried to reel me in, resulting in words that sounded backwards. It happened again when I was trying to give directions to my favorite bar in New York, which is probably not there anymore.

I had two more conversations like this at the theater. On top of that, I had to call eleven pharmacists earlier to find the antipsychotic he prescribed, but I still couldn’t find it. I was an asshole to every one of them. I didn’t want to be, but I was. I was telling my mouth what to say, and my mouth was being a real dick about it.

That’s just words. I want to assault people for moving too slowly. I want to beat my desk to death with my ergonomic chair. I am holding myself together with all the energy I have. As I told my boss after my second meltdown, that was me holding myself together.

I don’t have control over my own body. This has been my constant thought since my first meltdown. What happens when I have low blood sugar, and I can’t keep it contained? What happens when I stub my toe, and the bad me gets loose? And there’s nothing to stop my mouth from saying something it shouldn’t. I can’t even regulate my thoughts.

I can see treating this creepy asshole as a separate person, like the Hulk. But it’s not. It’s my voice. It’s my body. It’s my mind. Unlike a cranky Bruce Banner, I don’t get to black out when I’m being destructive. I have to watch myself do it and live with the consequences.

I have to go out to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church again tonight, with all those people, and Elizabeth (who, at least, didn’t act creeped out the rest of the night), and maybe something that’s going to set me off.

I don’t know what I’m going to do or when I’m going to do it, but I’m awaiting this next fuckup, as I have been for over a week. I’m scared. I’m in an ongoing state of vigilance, and I’m so, so tired.

Eggsistential Crisis

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I love my apartment, and I love my roommate, but I have to say I miss the old place. The idea of separate rooms at all is one I once enjoyed, and we had a backyard for Newcastle to poke around in. We also had a great neighborhood. In the spring, all of the bushes became soft and colorful.

It’s a mile walk to the 7th Street Hill Café, which I’d long ago adopted. On Saturday mornings, I liked to sit in an easy chair, sip a latte, and watch them assemble the Eastern Market, a cross between a crafts fair and a Farmer’s Market.

I came to the 7th Street Hill Café, located on North Carolina Avenue, on Saturday to do just that. Riding high on bipolar disorder, I needed to get out of my apartment and experience the world. I settled into the chair, pulled my markers out of my bag and eat my breakfast sandwich, resisting the urge to devour the whole thing in two bites.

After I returned it to the end table, the old man in the opposite chair said, “You have egg on your shirt.”

“Gross.” I plucked the solid yolk and dropped it onto the plate, keeping it far from the last bites of my sandwich. I said, “Speaking of eggs, I saw a Cybertruck downtown. I’m gonna crunch some numbers, and I’m gonna get a second job, and I’m gonna go to the bank, and I’m gonna get a loan, and I am going to egg that piece of garbage.” (It’s one of the funniest jokes I ever made. I’m going to use it until I run out of people to say it to.)

“Or,” the old man, whose name was Glen, said, “You could fill up two—no, three—no, two coffin coolers with eggs and sell them at the farmer’s market. That’s what Dan did, you know Dan?”

It was 8:13am, and I accepted that I was going to be in this conversation until the Post Office opened at nine. “No.”

“Dan used to sell eggs here at the Eastern Market. I used to truck them in from his farm. So many eggs. Dan died of a stroke. Not kidding, he just keeled over and died. That’s why nobody’s selling eggs at the farmer’s market anymore. Do know that you can tell what a chicken ate by looking at the color of its yolk?”

I gasped. “No!”

The old man chuckled and looked a bit smug. “Oh, yes. If the yolk is this deep amber, orange color, it ate a lot of marigolds.”

He smirked at me through his beard and waited for my reaction. I had to formulate one, and the only way I could prove I was paying attention was to ask a question. “You feed them marigolds?”

The old man chuckled. “No, no, no, they’re free-range. They can eat whatever the fuck they want. And if I ever want to eat a chicken dinner, all I need to do is grab a rooster who’s getting too big for his britches and hold him upside down and slash, motherfucker! Decapitated! Heh-heh!”

I didn’t know what was going on, but I buckled the fuck up to see where it was headed. It was difficult to follow along, but not because it was a bumper car of thought. No, Glen stubbornly clung to one subject until he veered off into a completely different direction, like he was jumping from train of thought to train of thought at a crowded depot.

Glen once punched a “shepherd bitch” (a dog) in the head, and she was nice to him after that. He recounted why you should never piss him off through the parable of a tense standoff with the owner of the Eastern Market. He already had his Halloween costume ready to go. (Hooded cloak, Goblin nail extensions. A paper machê Satyr mask a friend in Venice made for him.) He couldn’t remember why he didn’t exchange a word with his half-brother for two years while they shared a house. He kept me up to date on the lifespans of his siblings, including his “bitch sister” (a person), who is still alive. For a coup de grace, he unloaded on me how people are always on their “fucking phones” all the time. He could tell you how to get from point a to point B. “You know how? Not through your fucking phone, that’s for sure. Not on a map.” He tapped his temple.

Suddenly, he was gone.

I finished my drawing in peace.

I packed up and wandered off, my first destination being the Post Office to mail a package I’ve been meaning to mail for six months (sorry, Donna). I made it halfway up the block before the generous application of the color orange, my favorite, caught my eye. I’d walked past it on impulse, but I yanked my emergency brake and skidded over to the side to see more paintings.

They were collages coated in a thick layer of shellac, and a figure, bald, faceless, and strangely sexy, appeared on many of them. She said, “I love watching people come in for a second look.” We talked about color, I told her everything I liked about her art, and I bought a piece. She told me her name was Quest, and she gave me a big hug. The visible part of Quest’s hair was made of gray feathers, and she wore a robe, not a dress. I don’t think she was human. In a good way.

I was in and out of the Post Office at the speed of someone who’s done it a lot.

Even though I have Ember’s number, I decided to walk the ten blocks to the House of the Devil to see if she was standing up for us. On my way, I acquired a lava lamp, and I attempted to take a picture of a street called Justice Ct. until a Latinx man accosted me. He knew English nouns, and that was it. He shouted at me an incomprehensible string of them that told the story of an immigrant succeeding in this country, and something about that was making him angry.

A middle-aged couple across the street, surrounded by Chihuahuas yelled, “Sir, can you help us with our dogs? Sir?” I realized who they were talking to me, and I separated from the loud man to join them.

The woman yelled, “Thank you for helping us with our dogs!” The angry man continued ranting, impossible to understand. I never got the names of the couples, but I thanked them profusely.

Ember was not at the Pit of Despair. She later told me she was taking the weekend off. She’s earned it for sure. I look forward to resisting next week.

Exhausted and overstimulated, I headed straight home. But first, there is a big sign at the stop before mine labeled “Arts Walk.” I’ve been meaning to go there for at least two months. I hopped off the train to check it out because I was still jittery. It was okay. It was no Eastern Market. I bought a belt made of an old bicycle tire.

Also this weekend, a relationship that lasted well over a decade came to an end. I’m not going into details because I like to keep it classy in this joint. Also because it was enormously frustrating.

Culture doesn’t put as much value on a friend breakup as it does a romantic one, but they still hurt. You’re closing the door on all that history and intimacy, even if it ended badly. You have every right to mourn.

The truth is, we’d broken years ago, and I just wasn’t ready to let go. I already mourned.

Sunday, I dedicated my day to my project, the fruits of which you’ve seen yesterday. I’ve received no feedback on them from any of the St. Mark’s Players, and now I’m frightened to go to the show on Thursday.

My next project is finding a light bulb for my lava lamp.

General Grievance

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I tried to work through the manic episode, but it was an unusually social day at work. I was trying to do my job because my morning hours are precious vis-à-vis my productivity. Past editors-in-chief of Blood and were getting their pictures taken with the Research Council, and they loved to laugh in front of the elevators, which I sit near.

I hid in a vacant office and finally got some work done. Unfortunately, our laptop batteries last only about an hour, and nobody on my floor could locate a cord. I tried taking a walk, and it didn’t work. If I didn’t start my day two hours before everyone else, I wouldn’t have finished anything.

When agitated, some will sputter something that sounds like English but seemed to be a forgotten dialect. That was me telling my boss I had to go home. It must have scared the crap out of her.

The walk to the Metro was calming, and I breathed through my commute in a half-empty subway car. I got home, didn’t play with Oscar, laid down, breathed for twenty more minutes, and finished my work for the day, except for one thing.

I had to bring myself down before the show, but I also wanted to hang out with Ember and whoever she had collected since I saw her last. That person was Steve, a chatty, retired man carrying a sign that said, “Nazi HQ.” Steve’s girlfriend works in the Capitol and may be a legislator.

Immediately after I introduced myself, an older man on a bike in the Cadillac of MAGA hats wheeled over on one of those rental bikes. Everybody was calm. Ember didn’t engage, she just waved her sign. Steve and the man traded talking points, which were deflected by the target’s stubbornness. Nobody got angry, but we thought he was stupid, and he thought we were stupid.

When I had arrived, she wasn’t sitting in the path of the douchebags because they had parked their Escalades in front of her. Off to the side, she waved one sign as high as she could (which wasn’t very high) and wore one around her neck.

I wondered if she was acting weird around me for some reason, but she’s really just weird in general. Thursday, she had painted Celtic knot-work on DMT onto her cheekbones. Her glasses were amber and the shape of sunflowers. Her baseball cap was covered in metal studs.

Speaking of DMT, we talked a lot about it. In fact, she had a recipe for extracting it from tree bark because “it comes from nature.” No thank you. The last time I tried a hallucinogen, I had a bad time, so never again. The last time Ember did, she saw a blue goddess who said she was ready.

I asked her how long she’d been doing this, and she told me two weeks. I asked her how long she lived in the DMV area, and she told me two weeks. Something called her, she didn’t know what. I tried to explain that I didn’t believe in the supernatural, but I was fascinated by it, but I lost control over my words and turned into a sputtering mess. We changed the subject.

She had been living in Vermont as a cook. Apparently, she has a bachelor’s in psychology but without a masters and doctorate, it’s a useless degree. She couldn’t find a “real” job, so she did some factory work while her soul died. She quit the kitchen when her calling found her, and she came straight here, where her cousin lives.

Ember is inspiring and brave, as well as being cocky and full of life. It’s impossible to believe that she came from the parents she later described to me.

The sidewalk, a block from Union Station, is prime hunting grounds for people-watchers, like myself. Except for the guy on the bike, most people, ignored us after I arrived. As the day went on, though, people thanked us, took pictures with Ember (She had the flashy signs), and chatted with us.

For example, while his family waved at us with enthusiasm, a dad told his eight-year-old daughter, “They’re protesting. If there’s something you don’t like, protest.” An older gentleman walked past us, spun around, middle fingers extended, and yelled, “Fuck the Heritage Foundation! I used to work for George W. Bush!”

I was there for an hour when we were approached by two people Ember already knew. They were federal workers, so they wore Covid masks to hide their identities. Though they did tell me their names, though: Brandy and Dani.

Brandy (plot twist: he’s a middle-aged man) paced the sidewalk, a tiger in a cage, with his own sign. He’s a veteran, who are another demographic the government is screwing.

Dani brought a slide whistle, playing it every time someone entered or left the building. She lives in Takoma Park, the same town as all the coffee shops I like.

Next, we met Carrie. Carrie was passing by on her way to Union Station, wearing a Banksy T-shirt and a red headscarf. She needed to plan tonight’s White House protest, but she stuck around for half an hour, discussing the resistance. While Dani played the slide whistle, Carrie booed.

We later found out this is illegal, as Ember explained to me slowly and carefully so as to avoid misunderstanding.

I left after about two hours, when it had gone from a single fiery woman to a small movement. As I pointed myself at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Dani spread her arms. I generally don’t do hugs, but I let her wrap her arms around me this time. It felt right.

If I needed any proof this was an episode, and a particularly bad one, it could be found in the way I kept up with Steve. And with Jane from the play, with her delighted, effervescent charm.

I suggested an idea for how to increase ticket sales for Thursday shows to the producer. I pitched my artistic services to the same producer. I teased some of the actors who’d never spoken to me before. I started so many conversations, and I invented the word “DOGEbag.”

The problem with hypomania is that it’s not as destructive as regular mania, so it feels like a lot of fun. However, as my morning in the office proved, it’s not great. I probably need to talk to my doctor.

I also got three phone numbers.

Portrait of an Artist

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I still think of my friend several times a day. He’s been gone since the first week of November, and it doesn’t feel like it’s been almost four months. I can’t bring myself to look at a photo of him. I wrote a chapter about him in my premature memoirs (which he read) three years ago, and I can’t bring myself to read it or edit to include the conclusion.

However, I’ve included him as a secondary character in the novel I’m writing, and I’ve done my best to capture what made his personality shine. It helps fill the void he left. It breaks my heart that I can’t share it with him, because there are parts I know he’d laugh his ass off to, and I miss his laugh.

I have wanted to draw and/or paint a picture of him since his death, but it hurts too much. I did this last weekend, and it’s not great. I really screwed up the arms and the color of his hair. Baby steps.

Ranger Things

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I received a text from Maddy on Saturday morning, reminding me to watch the door to the auditorium when I worked the play without her that night. The reminder came not because she didn’t trust in my ability to remember, but because a woman almost got clocked on opening night.

They tried to warn her, but she didn’t listen (or hear at all), and she got lucky. With the first half of Maddy’s text, she was telling me that I might have to dive in slow motion to take the hit.

The second half hinted that the Olympic-level quick change at the end of act one almost failed. She put scissors on the prop table in case it came to that. I had a lot to look forward to in the evening.

I had a couple of awkward exchanges on the internet before I headed out for the rest of the day. I missed my Metro train, and I had to wait seven minutes for the next one, so I was almost on time to see my ex-roomie. This was bad.

A habit I had picked up from my Nebraskan ex-wife was to show up early. As they say on Letterkenny, “If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late.” I was running late.

After I bought a coffee for the lone protestor at the Heritage Foundation, I became actually late. I became even later when I walked down the wrong street, several blocks past our meeting place. I had a missed call and a text from Nicole, who was worried something terrible had happened to me.

My ex-roomie was telling me that she hadn’t been to the Suffrage Museum, where she volunteered for years, in an age. She is worried, reasonably so, it will be shut down by the president’s boss. I suggested we go this weekend.

We were met by a ranger, a friend of ex-roomie, who took us through the building and showed us everything that had changed since ex-roomie had been there last. They even had her old name-tag.

They were catching up, so I was a third wheel and kind of bored through most of it. While we were hanging out in the gift shop. The ranger pointed at one of their displays and mentioned that no one ever bought the Suffragette Soap. I have a habit of purchasing interesting soaps, so I picked up a bar.

The other ranger, an unusual person with an unusual accent and unusual glasses, cashed me out. I told her that I was excited to smell like oranges, and oh, my god, she loves oranges! I picked up a mini equal rights pin and told her that I want to start a gift exchange with a crow and explained what that entailed. She asked if I like birds, and I told her that I liked owls, and oh, my god she loves owls. I told her that the only owls I’ve ever seen in real life were burrow owls, and oh, my god, she loves burrow owls. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was flirting with me. Her name was Jess

Upon the park rangers’ suggestions, ex-roomie and I went to the Folger Shakespeare Library across the street and looked over some amazing old manuscripts. They were always open to their illustrations. However, as with all medieval illustrations, I had no idea what was going on.

She and I tried to get lunch at the café, but it is apparently the most popular study place for college students. We found a seat, but she had to leave for an appointment before her food arrived, which meant I had to eat it.

Maddy had completely reset the props before she went home Friday, so there was nothing for me to do until it was time to relocate the weasel. I wasn’t needed until about a half-hour before curtain, so I sat in the Baxter Room with the cast, and I illustrated Jess.

Lisette and Lucille each breathlessly gave me their accounts of the costume-flip nail-biter. The issue wasn’t the corset, but rather the second dress. It had an extra layer, so Lisette and her petticoat kept getting caught in it. She hung up the dress in a way that she could step into it, and I asked her if she were going to practice. If she went down during the performance, it was all over.

What struck me about the exchange was that she was coming to me as an expert. I hadn’t done theater since early high school. I can barely dress myself. On the other hand, my façade of authority allowed me to talk her out of the hanger idea, which might kill her, and into something a little more reasonable, like safety pins.

That did the trick. At the end of the first act, after I rescued the weasel, Lucille and Lisette were a well-oiled machine. I got to hold the flashlight. Apparently, I did that well because Lucille gave me a double thumbs up as Lisette stepped onto the stage.

After the show, we had to break down the set and the seating so the Episcopalians could worship in their own damned church. Ernie from load-in directed us with military precision. Within forty-five minutes, the set was in the closet downstairs, the risers had been relocated, the prop table wrapped up, and the boulder put into a very large plastic bag. All the chairs and the piano had been restored to their original positions.

It was like we weren’t even there. It’s guerilla theater.

Also, it wasn’t until the fourth time I listened to this play that I heard Lisette say to Lucille, “All tits on deck!”

Despite All my Rage I’m Still Just a Weasel Onstage

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The end of Tech Week (https://jrmhmurphy.com/tag/theater/) started out with smarm. Specifically, I arrived at the church and stepped into the empty nave before a slick man in a suit appeared somehow without opening the door. He asked if he could help me. I said I was with the St. Mark’s Players and we were meeting at six. He said, and I quote, “It’s not six yet.” It was 5:57.

I quickly found them in the Baxter room, which was the kind of place you could hold a wedding reception. We’d been using it as a dressing room and a place for the cast to hang out.

I want to give mad props to Arianna, the costume tech. I have a lot of respect for people who sew theater costumes (I dated one) because they are some of the craftiest people you’ll ever meet. Looking closely, you can see that the costumes were purchased off the rack, but they have been seriously altered.

Arianna sewed snaps on the petticoat and dress for Lisette. This was useful because Lisette, as I’ve mentioned in the past, has a quick-change out of a corset and into the royal dress. Tuesday night, Jane and Maddy struggled with the removal part, so Arianna reduced the size of the string holding it together and turned a few fasteners into snaps and that made all the difference in the world. She had a minute and forty-five seconds to switch it over, and after a few rounds, Maddy, Jane, Lisette, and I managed to do it in a minute fifteen.

Another area of improvisation I was stunned with was how she handled Damis’s jacket. Because Arianna had sewn a cape onto it, it kept falling off, so she added backpack straps to the inside, and it stayed together.

I know you were all (both of you) anxiously anticipated the arrival of the metal codpiece. I am happy to announce that it arrived, and it was glorious. I asked if it was bulletproof, but Arianna didn’t know.

I forgot to tell you this, but act one ends with a pair of cast members bursting out of the nave, swinging the door with gusto. It’s my responsibility to wait in the lobby to keep people from getting smacked in the face with it. I’ll be honest, though, I kind of want to see someone get walloped, so if I saw someone approaching the door, I’m not sure I’d rescue them.

Maddie gave me a spreadsheet of my duties, and one of the items was “Fluff the Weasel.” Since that sounds like a full sentence, I had to ask exactly how to fluff said weasel. No, its name is Fluff. That meant I was singing, “Fluff the magic weasel, lives on the stage …”

Wednesday’s rehearsal went off without a hitch, including Lisette’s big change. Maddie let me do the work because I’m going to be by myself on Saturday, which means I will have to help them strike the set for church Sunday.

Meanwhile, I’ve been getting three or four hours of sleep, so I’m ready to collapse. I’ve been working, and with the help of my friend, Monsieur Adderall, I’ve been able to make it through, but I’ve hit a wall. I’ve had so much fun, I feel like a five-year-old after a day at the beach.

Metromaniacs opens Friday, 21 February, at St. Mark’s Church on Capitol Hill.

Taking the Bait

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When I was employed at the self-publisher in Indiana, a number of cool women worked the front desk. There was Leah, the Leah against whom all future Leahs have been judged. She was escorted from the building by security, and she cut off communication with anyone who ever worked with her, so that ended rather abruptly.

Then there was Isabella. Every photo of her I have in my mind, of her mocha skin and espresso hair, of the flowery sundresses she wore year-round, she is grinning. I don’t know what color her eyes are because I’ve never seen them. She loved meeting everybody, and she traumatized my introverted sister by tackling her in a hug and squealing in her ear, the very first interaction they’d had.

Everything was fun to this woman. She found something to love in everything she could see, hear, feel, smell, or taste, and in every person she met. Isabella was a genuinely sweet and happy person. She was a natural receptionist.

A side-effect of her exuberance was that she dominated conversations. I’m not much of a talker, but I do like to get a word in, so I didn’t hang out with her very much. Still, I loved her presence and her vibe.

That day, in the break room. Chris from HR was examining the crime scene, his assistant Stephanie at his side, poking at a PDA. The Phantom Puker had struck again, and Chris from HR was no closer to catching them.

The pukes had been happening all over both floors of this flat structure, and Chris from HR was going to crack this case. Too bad the Puker knew where all the security cameras were. I rose from my table and stepped out of earshot, catching the last bit of dialogue from that corner: “Find out who had ramen for lunch!”

Even in context, that was pretty messed up, but I was unprepared for what came next. In fact, my deathbed confession will be this sentence fragment, leading a long search for the person who doesn’t remember ever saying it.

Isabella hugged her can of Diet Pepsi and took a quick sip, creating a dramatic pause for her audience. I came in at the middle of the sentence, and she breathlessly said the words that oozed into my ear and soaked my brain.

Sheer momentum kept me going, and I couldn’t hear anything that might put that into context. I don’t remember how I made it back to my desk. Collapsing into my chair, the gears in my head were grinding together, as if you were driving a stick and jumping from first to third.

My Work Wife, Elizabeth, appeared, concerned. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Do you need to go home? I can tell Dave.”

“What does it mean?” I moaned. “Tell me what it means!”

“What what means?” she replied.

“I can’t tell you,” I groaned. “I have a nosebleed!”

“Oh my God!” she gasped, plucking a issue from the box at her desk. “What did this to you? You know you can tell me anything, Jeremiah. What’s the point of having a work wife if you can’t?”

I hoped not to pass the madness along, but I could live alone with this no longer. “She said.” I breathed. “She said, ‘and then she went back into the fish.’”

“Who was she?”

“I don’t know!”

“What was she doing before she went back into the fish?”

“I don’t know!”

“What was outside of the fish that made returning to it so appealing?”

“I don’t know!”

“What was she doing in the fish in the first place?”

My bloodshot eyes fixated on her as I grabbed her shoulder and shook her. “I! Don’t! Know!”

She brushed my hands off of her. “We’re going to get through this. Just remain calm. Maybe we can ask Isabella what she was talking about.”

“I don’t want her thinking of me as an eavesdropper.”

“Jeremiah,” she said carefully, “this may be the only way you can go on.”

I worked my way downstairs to the front desk, my head pounding, and I waved to get her attention, just in case she was on the phone.

“What’s up, Jeremiah?” she asked, as if Jeremiah gossip was the one thing she’d been waiting for all day.

“I kind of caught part of a story you were telling,” I tried to explain without being a creep. “And you said something that I can’t quite understand.”

Her eyes were wide and eager.

“You said, ‘and then she went back into the fish,’” he told her.

She frowned a huge stage frown. “I don’t remember talking about fish at all today. Sorry!”

I returned upstairs, to my desk, and rested my face on the keyboard. I would never know why someone would return to a fish. I could only speculate. The truth had died that day, and so did a part of me I will always miss.