Dahlia

The Lights flickered on and she was blind.  Momentarily frozen in place; how obscenely phosphorescent, she thought of the room.  The Dahlia Lounge is known to dim its lights to a deep crimson red to give it an intimate ambiance for its guests, but it was customary to end the romance when it was closing time.  She knew it would take a minute for her eyes to adjust, so she gave herself leave to remember.  The interior walls were made of oak, but the ruby light beamed against it like fire giving birth to destruction.  Her flesh was wild with horripilation when she first entered the dim cave, like a quiet sea when kissed by a rainstorm.  Above, the chandeliers hung low and uninspired, but when they had a glint of blush across them, they shined like roses in the sky. 
“The color of passion and sex,” is what the group of strangers she met had collectively agreed about Dahlia’s wink of red.  She felt the heat rise against the inside of her cheeks, and was ever so grateful she blended in with the cherry lights so that he would not see.
When her eyes regained some sight she realized the ecstasy, which a moment ago sighed in the room like a lover’s breath, now stood bright and polished like an infirmary.  Her judgment from before was still accurate; obscenely phosphorescent. 
The murmurs in the room hushed simultaneously when the lights had come up, and the sea of people started to shuffle like worker bees in a honeycomb.  All of them were rubbing their eyes to adjust to the change.   She had found herself a seat near the exist – more like, her knee had found the seat – it had jolted her sober to feel pain throb like a greeting.  She was just glad it had only been one knee and not two. 
The room was alive with a buzz of old friends and new savoring their farewells with invites to more parties.  She, the lone sitter of the bench, wondered where she fit in, and thought why he had invited her to the Dahlia.  Remembering the night before, he had said, between kisses, “It’s a hoppin’ place.  I’d love if you would come.”  He had looked at her as though she was magic and grinned like a virtuous boy untouched by corruption.    She smiled at the thought of him using the word hoppin’ as if he were a man that spent his youth in the beat of the 70’s.  He was, in fact, only in his twenties, but that rarely meant much.  When she treasured his face in the glint of Dahlia’s cerise, he had looked older, wiser somehow, and his golden curls that shone like the pulse of the sun shimmered of volcanic flame in the muted room. 

She had met him, by some serendipitous force, at the cupcake shop near her house.  He had asked, ever so politely like a timid schoolboy, which was her favorite, as he was looking to try something new.  She could only see the green in his eyes.  They had made her feel as though she had just unearthed emerald gems from beneath a mountain.  He smiled and all speech was lost.  Months had gone by, and here she was, on a bench, feeling the warmth of this memory float back to her like a heat wave.  She found herself in flush again, but without the blood of Dahlia, she could not hide.  She had forgotten herself until the pain in her knee throbbed like a reminder. 
                “There you are.”  His voice came like an echo from her memory.  Looking up at him, she felt foolish – afraid he would see through into her thought and know what she was thinking.  Handing him a modest smile, she shifted in her seat to fumble with her blouse like it would distract them both from the skin of nostalgia.  He took the empty seat next to her, and sat so close their thighs locked like magnets. 
                “Are you okay?” he said. 
His deep drawl uncorked like a champagne bottle, and sent a tremor of unexpected pleasure down her spine. 
                “It’s a bit rough the first time they turn the lights on.  I don’t know why they do that, really. But that’s Dahlia’s way, I suppose.” 
His voice floated up to her like a slow stream kissing the nape of her neck.  She didn’t mean to, but she shivered, and he let out a giggle that made her feel suddenly shy.  She looked away, unprepared to be vulnerable.  It would be the death of her if he saw her emotionally naked.  When the silence fell it covered them like a protective sheath, but they both knew eyes were on them.  His calm demeanor became rigid, and his smile disappeared as he looked around the room. 
People shifted their stares to their phones as if they hadn’t been seen.  They all recognized who he was, and were eager to judge his seemingly new interaction.  His fame has afforded him popularity, but it had begun to take a toll on his personal life.  He never complained, but she could see the stress lines crease his forehead every time he was aware of being watched.  There was something on his mind he looked to be mulling over, but he chose to stay mum.  He leaned back and let his left arm slip in between them touching hers like it were a conversation.  Yet, whatever was being said was lost in translation, and the rest hung to dry, too stagnant to move forward. 
She wanted to break the silence, to tell him how she felt.  She had been contemplating what to make of their status, and if this was more than just a casual liaison, but she knew too many ears were overextending their reach.  The moment throbbed like her knee.  And the pain was bittersweet.  And the moment was almost gone.     

He had been thumbing his beer bottle since the silence took over, but she chose to peer at the shifting eyes in room, uncertain if she was ready to meet the gaze of the emerald stones beside her.  From her peripheral she could see his lips part as if to speak.  He appeared to be waiting for sound to meet lips, though none came.  She felt the sweet taste of anticipation, and she thought he would ask her to leave Dahlia behind them for a more clandestine locale, but the optimism filling her lungs depleted like a balloon that carried the weight of too much hope. 
The eyes that watched them, made it difficult to just be.  He had warned her, before she came to this crimson hole, that the carefree spirit she had come to know him by in their private quarters would give way to public courtesies.  Yet, the warning did not prepare her for the ache she was feeling at the pit of her stomach.  The butterflies one gets when romance comes knocking were taking flight in such frenzy that it was making her angry.  Gossip, she understood, was a draft from an open window that gave her a chill in the warm California weather, and she could not close it – the eyes controlled their movements.  But she fantasized nonetheless, of what his prodigious hands would feel in her tiny ones, and of not causing a stir in a superficial town like this, but she let the urge, to defy the warning he had given her, die beneath the flap of wings she now recognized as love. 
                “Hey man.” 
A stranger’s voice slapped the thick air growing between them, and both she and him unlocked from their seats, creating a border that need not to exist, but now did.  “I dig your music.  Mind if I get a picture?”  The stranger was a muscular man with sleeved tattoos, but his voice was squeaky like a toy duck.  It made her uncomfortable, but it made him neither nonplussed nor grievous. 
                “Not at all,” he said as he struggled to his feet.  She saw, in his face, a gentle wave of duty, but nothing more.  He must have been fighting with the weights of gravity, but the tattooed stranger took no notice as he fiddled with his camera. 
Her presence, in this moment, felt foreign, and she did what she could not to glare at the brawny stranger with a stridulous voice.  Instead, she let the moment before linger on her lips like dark chocolate – bittersweet.  Scanning across the room, her eyes met that of her friend’s, and they both signaled to one another with a head nod.  She made to get up and leave to meet her friend, but the tattooed stranger, a juiced up Jean-Claude Van Damme, shoved the camera, rudely, at her.
                “Can you take a photo of us?”  The high pitched voice was nails to a chalk board, but she smiled to hide the irritation that was creeping up on her face. 
                “Sure.”
There was a polite exchange of conversation, one that felt obligated, but not once was he rude.  On the screen of the camera, he stood almost a foot taller than the stranger, stoic and unsmiling.  He lay his hand on the man’s burly shoulders like they had been old friends, and she snapped the photo.  He had never complained about this part of his job, but she sensed the reception was an exasperated routine he had lived for far too long. 
The tattooed man bid farewell without thanking her, and she thought, he was not one of those shifty eyes that cared who she was, and she was glad for it.    

She and he sat down on the bench once more. 
                “I’m sorry about that,” his voice whispered, sounding hurt. 
                 “Don’t be.  I’m okay,” She gave him an earnest smile.
His misty green clouds met her chestnut forest, and it was as if their eyes spoke enough to repair the lost wink of time.  People were still swishing back and forth in Dahlia’s lounge, their eyes still watching.  She dare not say where she found a slice of courage, but it was floating like a feather up stream, and she defied the urge to kill it this time. 
                “I like you.”  The words sailed from her lips to his ears with fearless voyage in a storm, and she let conviction slide her closer to him – the eyes be damned.  He did not flinch nor move back to avoid being seen. Rather, he accepted her into his stretch of space, and allowed himself to forget his previous courtesies.  He laid his head on her shoulders with ease, and both erased the room from their minds.
That protective sheath from before now covered them again.  The burning glares that scrutinized their behavior could not set a blaze.
                “I like you, too,” he told her.  The words came like a vow at a chapel, and the butterflies that fought inside her belly, now stirred with quiet rumination.  Without thinking, her hands met his boyish face and caressed it. The feeling was a sweet surrender to untouched desires, but a slight hesitation grabbed her by the wrist and she quickly lowered her hand, remembering the eyes.  She folded her hand with the other and set them on her lap, too taciturn to move.   But like an illicit meeting between two lovers, he abandoned all honor and returned her hand to his rosy red cheek.  He interlocked his fingers with hers to ensure their permanence was absolute. 
She, the thought occurred to him, had come to feel like home.  It was lawless pleasure having her be intimate with him in the most innocent of ways.  It was the motility of something they never knew they craved; safety.  They were safe from the eyes; they were safe from the world, so long as they felt safe in each other.  And neither, for the length they sat on that bench in Dahlia’s washed out lounge, needed any more words to say.        

On The Road

Two days before my birthday, my friend Anna took me out on a drive.  Early in the morning, we set our course for Big Sur.  It was entirely impromptu, and only vaguely planned, which is how we both like our adventures.  Neither of us are the type to stringently create a concrete itinerary to follow.  Rather, we give ourselves over to the arbitrary Gods of wanderlust, and aim for aimless.  The destination is a mere point on a map, as the drive becomes our unexpected journey, of sorts.  Meaning, whatever happens, happens.              

A year before, Anna had decided to unceremoniously but no less formal, christen her misty grey Prius as Toothless.  This was right after we had just seen How to Train your Dragon 2, so the feels, as us fangirls like to say, were running deep.              

“It gives her character,” Anna said fervidly.  “It totally does,” I nodded in agreement… “I love it.”               

   And I did love it.  The car is sleek as a dragon, but purrs like a baby kitten.  This is to say, that Toothless can soar on the highway like she has strong, capacious wings, and yet, remain soft and dutiful as she needs to be.  Anna and I knew the drive we were embarking on that day, the 28th, was to give us that warm, fuzzy feeling.              

We drove through this narrow dirt path that google maps suggested as a shortcut.  It reminded Anna of the cramped roads of the English countryside she drove on in the summer of 2013 – a distant memory that has always remained fresh for her. The smile she wore curled warmly, as if the recollection somehow thawed the frozen memories at her will.  I have never been on any English countryside roads, but I tried to channel her melting thoughts like Dombledore looking into a pensieve.  I replaced the sunshine with a slight overcast, and gave the shroud of trees a cockney accent.  The breeze snored through like a giggle at a funeral, and I imagined my view from the left side of Toothless.  Somehow, I feel this is not exactly Anna’s experience, but still, I gave it a try.                  

I did, momentarily, think that the constricted patch of road, which lay before us like a veil of green giants, would look less idyllic at night.  I imagined it like an eerie backwoods of some D-list horror film where your car would breakdown because you forgot to fill up the tank like an idiot, and now had to search for nearby help on foot.  There you’d be, alone at night, walking up the road somehow feeling the open expanse of the outside close in on you.  You’d have no cell reception, of course, and couldn’t magically call anyone you knew – because 21st century be damned – and that lovely breeze from earlier would be creaking with noise.  Is that a footstep or just a cricket?  Neither of which sound at all similar, but who cares.  This is a horror film. We defy logic here. Nothing has to make any sense to be scary.  But, as luck would have it, I was not in a D-list horror film, and my phone was working just fine.  My nerves were calm, and the sun was shining.             

Anna and I had been on the road for some time when we decided to stop at a place called River Inn.  Its name reminded me of a small city in Game of Thrones – but let us give thanks to the Gods this isn’t Game of Thrones, and we won’t be running into any white walkers or wildlings or anyone who would tell us, “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”  River Inn was by the side of the highway; it looked like one of those picturesque scenes from road trip movies where you might potentially have a serendipitous meeting with some a handsome traveler.  But I simply liked it because it lay in the pocket of the road like a small little nook in the state. Mundane and simple, yet, unbothered by the comings and goings of rushing vehicles; the sun beamed a warm grin like it knew a secret about the place, and I wondered if it did?  I snapped a couple photos, like any tourist would, to memorialize the thicket of Big Sur’s redwoods.  In the midst of modern technology we forget how hauntingly spiritual nature is, and how inadequate human life is without it.             

We stayed long enough to explore the River Inn’s gift shop, which, quite frankly, I thought belonged to a vampire and their familiar.  Inside were top hats and trinkets befitting a Victorian Dracula.  Crystals and amulets with skulls and dragons, and I think I saw a couple of pentagrams.  It was quite a shift from the angelic view of the subdued nature outside.   Out there the redwoods whispered a sweet lullaby that would sooth any child’s worries, but perched inside this tiny mausoleum – home of a morally conflicted nosferatu – clung the pulse of a historic millennium, the heartbeat of a venerable spirit.  Or so I imagined when I weaved through the shop.              

The bathrooms were less genteel.  Rigid and pasty with gaudy white paint, they crowded you to a corner in an unsanitary way.  Public bathrooms are always uncomfortable when they leave little room to maneuver in them.  But the graffiti on the walls were savory to read – I kid you not, the stall I was in had three declarations of love from one Caroline Do to Harry Styles.  I realize most of my readers wouldn’t care who Harry Styles is, but if you’re 1D as fuck like me, it’s a hilarious coincidence, to say the least.               

“It must have been Taylor Swift,” I joke with Anna.  I read an article where she and her best friend had taken a road trip to Big Sur the month before so obviously, as a Swiftie and a Directioner, I make the connection.               

“I bet that’s her pseudonym when she signs into hotels,” Anna quips back.  We laugh about it, but we know it’s unlikely, and yet, neither of us really cares.  We just like making up silly scenarios because that’s what all best friends do.   I imagine, had Taylor actually schlepped herself up into this exact stall, her eyes would roll out of her sockets, and she’d scoff, in maternal fashion, at Caroline Do.              

“He’s a terrible driver, Caroline,” she would say, tersely, under her breath as if the whispered warning carried weight enough to change the girl’s mind.  Shaking her head at her own memories, she’d say, maybe a little too loud, “He never did keep his wild eyes on the road.”  I hope Taylor uses her own lyrics when she’s talking to herself because that would never go out of style.              

Whoever you are, Caroline Do, I saw your scribbled note, inked in cursive – a heart doodled over the I in your name like a lovesick teen from a rural county – You and I stood in quiet solidarity, in that moment, 1D as fuck – despite my girl, Tay Tay’s warning – for one eccentric man/boy millionaire Harry Styles.              

Yes, Caroline, I too love Harry Styles.  Well, mostly his style, if you get my drift.  I would raid that boy’s closet and steal all his Saint Laurent shirts, and a few sweaters.  I’ll even take a few of his Chelsea boots as well because why not?  Though, I suspect, I wouldn’t have to steal from eccentric man/boy millionaire Harry Styles because, if his reputation precedes him, he would politely offer to give me some of his style for free.  But I digress from the actual story.  Let’s get back to that, shall we?

We got back on the road again, and left River Inn behind us in the rearview mirror – ciao Caroline Do.  Ciao Harry Styles.  I don’t know how long it took, but we reached Bixby Bridge.  Bixby; the name sounds like a socialite’s surname in an Ian Mcewan novel or a crushingly handsome Great Gatsby character.   Nevertheless, I took in the sights.  I found myself admiring the sky, which was as turquoise as the sea.  On my left, I noticed a congestion of people and cars gathering on the dirt road – a tourist destination? I wasn’t sure, but Anna and I did pause to be tourist folk all the same.   I wish I could say I noticed something particular about the people around me, but I discovered no such inspiration.  It was families and lovers, and friends on a road trip.  Every last one of them, including Anna and I were typical visitors.  With cell phones, ipads and digital cameras in hand, we all captured our one moment on this grooved corner.                                

Back in Toothless, revving up her engine, we curled our way out into the graveled road.  We were surrounded, on this thin path, by mountain of lush greens. A flashback to scenes of Middle-Earth cruised alongside my reality, and I felt like I was taking a Prius down to Mordor.  Toothless’ bottom exterior clanged with the surface of the road, on the incline of our path, causing concern to flood both our faces.  The dark, granite dragon that took flight on the highway, was now jerking with trepidation at each squeeze of the pedal.  Anna drove gingerly to avoid harm against her car, but the heartfelt attempt was no use.  Toothless’ bottom, once again, scrapped the dirt floor of the mountain, and it screeched like a wounded animal.  I was certain her bottom would rip wide open beneath us, revealing the molten fire of Mordor, and our inevitable doom.               

Anna, a bit apprehensive, jokingly said, “I like going on drives with you because you’re the only person that never questions my choices while driving.”  I couldn’t tell if she was worried of judgment or wrecking Toothless, or perhaps both?  But nonetheless, we both laughed and I said, “Whatever happens happens.  This is an adventure we’re on.”  I was neither frightened nor truly concerned, but I suspect I may have had a false sense of security because it was full fletched into afternoon light, and there were loads of bystanders.  Still, my faith in Anna was absolute.                Just then, as we established our synchronized madness, we passed two women in an unmemorable jeep.  They were parked to the side, facing the opposite of our incline.  With a more suited car than ours, their faces locked on our grey Prius with a puzzling stare.  I could tell, even from behind their sunglasses, they were questioning our decision.  Was it the model of our car or was it our moxie to decent into Mordor they were internally battling?  I’ll never know, but my guess is both.  Anna allowed herself to push Toothless just a bit further before she decided to turn around.  Mind you, there was no space for an old fashioned u-turn so Anna had to carefully adjust Toothless around like she was parallel parking.  It was a real possibility of driving over the edge, but after several shifts of her gear, the dragon purred once more up the jagged road like a champ. 

That day, before our near fatal adventure in Middle-Earth, we drove to Salinas and found ourselves lost in its downtown.  “Old Town Salinas” said the sign I read; “Heart of the Valley.”   Salinas is the birthplace of author John Steinbeck, the namesake of the middle school I attended when I was a child.  I was deeply fascinated by where Steinbeck was born; Old town is, as the sign reads, old.  It is old in the vintage sort of way like walking into an antique store.  Very much like a cross between modern life, and an abandoned Disneyland’s Main Street, it drips with classic fervor of an era long passed.              

We didn’t wander on foot while there, but from my quick glances through the window I found buildings unique to Salinas.  Some resembled Gringotts from Harry Potter.  Others like a small plantation manor, and I found one made of brick called “Dick Bruhn a Man’s Store.  Anna and I, avid fans of Miranda Hart, could not hold ourselves back from saying it with the most exaggerated posh accent.  We let the name roll off our tongue like we were suckling on sweet honeycombs.  Each syllable flavored our taste buds as we repeated the name in between our girlish giggles.  Two adult females, lost in Old Town Salinas can’t be bothered with maturity when, as entertainment, we shout the names of different establishments.  Honestly, it’s probably the most fun you can have.  Say those names with an opulent accent like you’re at the country club for the English society elites, and you’ve got yourself a handsome time.                  

Our adventure concluded with Anna and I driving through the cotton candy sunset like two protagonists in an indie film.  Silence filled in between us like a warm blanket fresh out of the dryer while the music thundered an eclectic taste of artists.  The open road leading to anywhere that Toothless was willing to fly, which, that night lead to Whole Foods for a late night craving of grapes and cookies.  

"The Artist"

The Morning of April 26th was not meant to be so amusing, but it was. I was fully submerged in journal-ing when my father, who had been lost somewhere in the bathroom for the better part of the morning, came running towards me. It was more like galloping, actually - this, I was aware of from the corner of my eye - and I thought he was just happy to see me, but no. 

Like a five year old who had discovered the autonomy of taking scissors to mane for the first time, he bent his head over to show me his new art project. My father had Picasso-ed the bottom half of his head, and he was happy as a clam at low tide, as the saying goes. His smile was reminiscent of the little boy - a picture of him at three years old - wearing a mini tie and about to blow out his birthday candles. Purely innocent and naive.

His hair was some strange abstract cut with misshaped blotches - patches of hair that had been buzzed off to give it an awkward, uneven line. You could see the bare flesh, that once hid behind a feather collection of hair, peak out like an angry old man. To him, it was style. to me, it was a fruitless effort, but one I only encourage because how else does one learn to cut hair? But to my mom - oh boy - she was horrified, and wasted no time telling him so. "what have you done to your head? you've ruined your hair!"
She said this so adamantly that I think she felt the deepening regret before my father did, and instantly seemed to carry that burden for him. The displeasure in here voice did, however, give birth to doubt in my father, and he was suddenly dissatisfied at his creation.
Like a five year old, who had just gotten in trouble by his parent, my father's voice hesitantly said, "You think so?"

I could see it in his face, glee had been given away to disappointment in an instant. So he and I tried to fix his mistake by evening out the abstract craftsmanship, but after a good hour of trying to salvage what dignity there was left on his head - the more I buzzed the worse it got - we realized it all had to go.
My father's face grew solemn as he looked on through the mirror. His expression remained reserved, but I could tell he was uncertain. I sensed his thoughts; my father's youth has faded into a distant memory, and he is not immune to insecurity. With some worry, he watched me take the electric razor, and mow his head like he had been an overgrown stretch of grass. The tuft of hair dispatched in mournful fashion from his scalp, and the loud hiss of the razor rang like a siren, covering up the silence, but not the regret. I was trying to take care of his head of hair as best as I could, but I presume I took too long or perhaps my father itched to take control of his own mess, but whatever the case, my father grabbed the razor from my hand and worked through his salt and pepper mane, trying to avoid a complete shave.
His attempt was short lived. He resigned whatever hope he had, and told me to shave it all off. And so, that is what I did. By the end, both of us were covered with the the bristles of his fluffy hair - old remnants of his rueful art project. We took turns vacuuming the divorced strands that clung to our clothes, and silently said good-bye to the old fur. It was, strangely ceremonial, and perhaps, a little liberating for my father.

As it turns out, on a Sunday afternoon, my father did find a way to resemble a piece of art. He, unknowingly, came to look like Edvard Much's "The Scream."
Way to go dad. You are, in your own way, a canvas. An accidental virtuoso. A professional amateur, and an eternal optimist with too much time on your hands. And I love you, always.