I Dream of Better Days

     The American Dream for me has somehow turned into a nightmare.  Each morning I hit the snooze button in hopes of avoiding the inevitable--that of going to my job.  Each morning as I climb out of bed I remind myself that there are bills to pay and for now, that is enough motivation to get myself into the shower, get myself dressed and then rush off to the warehouse where I trudge through eight hours of sheer misery.  The warehouse in which I work has two ways of controlling the elements; doors open or doors closed.  There are no heaters installed for the winter weather nor are there air conditioners to help me tolerate the summer heat.  Eighteen-wheelers are constantly backing to the docks, their exhaust fumes filling the air as my crew does the loading and unloading of cargo.  The cardboard dust from the boxes lingers in the air.  Those with allergies need not apply.

I Needed to Know Him

     As a child, I imagined having an older brother, someone who is exactly like the big brother shown on the television.  The commercial blared at me, capturing my attention; "Be a Big Brother," it advertised.  "Help mentor, tutor and guide our youth."  I envisioned having a big brother of my own, one who was so gorgeous that all my friends will stare and flirt with him while he changed the flat tire on my car.  I hoped my big brother would be masculine enough to beat up my loser boyfriends and protect me from the evils of the world.  I knew he existed.  I heard his name mentioned once.  I secretly asked my sister about him.  She wrote down my brother's full name, told me to look him up when I turned eighteen years of age, and in the meantime, never mention his name again.  The summer after my eighteenth birthday, I went searching for my big brother thinking that together he and I could live the life I so desperately wanted to live.  When I found him, my illusions shattered and my heart splintered.  I felt as if a thief broke into my soul, stole all my dreams, then stuffed them in a postage-paid envelope, and mailed my packaged future away without a return address.

Confessions of a Jackpot Junkie

     The only parts of my true identity that I bring with me as I step inside a casino are my driver's license and social security card and that is because both forms of identity are needed to claim a jackpot.  The only people who will know of my true identity are my gambling partners who accompany me along with the casino cashiers who issue me the winnings.  Everyone I meet along the way, whether they are my opponents at the high stakes card tables or the talkative people who sit next to me at slot machines will know me as Anna Jones.  (I will even go so far as to show them a fake ID).  Hiding my identity is only one of the many strategies I use in being a Jackpot Junkie.  In the past two years, I have learned that other gamblers are not my friends, I have learned how to play the gamblers psychological warfare on other Jackpot Junkies and, worst of all, I have learned how to "sandbag" on my own gambling partners.  (Sandbagging is hiding winning money from your partners so you can line your own pockets with the cash).  To up my odds of winning, I (along with one of my gambling partners) took a job at a casino to learn the operations of surveillance and security measures within the casino.  I have also learned that dangers lurk within every casino and gambling wreaks havoc in so many ways on a Jackpot Junkie's life.

Waiting for the Morning

     Tonight I am sitting inside a Minneapolis train station as a blizzard rages across the Minnesota sky and I am not dressed for it.  I inwardly curse myself for not having grabbed my parka or snow boots before leaving the house two months ago.  Mother's words and her actions slammed me so senseless that I did not stop to think about the weather.  I merely grabbed a few belongings before stepping out of the door.  Tonight I sit on this hardwood bench because the concrete flooring is too muddy, too wet and much too cold for me to stretch upon.  I am waiting for the morning because tomorrow is my birthday.  Tomorrow I will be 14 years old.  Tomorrow the blizzard will have passed and I believe that life is somehow better for a 14 year old.  However, tonight I am shivering cold, I am frightened and I am still 13 years old.

Comes the Rider of the Black Horse

     My attorney leaned across his mahogany desk and then firmly spoke, "Paula, this is your way out of a bad situation.  I suggest you take it."  I remained stoic as he continued speaking, "This path will not be easy.  There will be repercussions.  I will lead you through the court system but that is as far as I can go.  After that, you are on your own."  I must have sighed, blinked, or even moved the corner of my mouth to indicate in body language that I was not confident in the undertaking because his voice became louder, his words more pronounced as he stated, "Take the path out, Paula.  Any path will be better than the road you are on."  I stood, thanked him for his time and then turned to leave.  I reached for the doorknob but before I could turn it, I turned around to face my attorney.  "They will kill me."

Temptation on Ice

     The ice and snow blasted across Oklahoma leaving me stranded inside this house for days.  I am usually a homebody, a person who enjoys staying home to catch up on reading and writing, but after three days of paging through books and trying to write a short story, boredom set deep within my soul.  For a few moments, thought seriously about taking my son's Mercedes out on the ice.  I found ways to justify this by telling myself, "After all, it is a junk Mercedes" or "The car has insurance" and even "I bought him an Acura for graduation".  I thought about spinning the tires out of the driveway and then skate the Mercedes onto the main road where no other driver dared to venture.  I thought of how I would mash on the gas pedal to allow the car to slide sideways but then I remembered that the braking system on this junk Mercedes needed replacing.  Yet, the more I thought about spinning 360's without brakes, the more I thought about how brakes are not needed or used on ice.  I reached for the car keys.  I had those keys in my hand but before I could step outside, my brain switched gears with my conscious asking me "How would you explain to Justin that you wrecked his Mercedes?"  I closed the front door, stepped to the kitchen and placed the car keys back inside the cabinet.  I decided to clean the house instead of wrecking the car.  Wrecking a Mercedes seemed more adventurous but, then, I knew I could not wreck the image of being a responsible adult because even though a Mercedes can be repaired, a parent cannot easily fix a shattered image.  I reached for a broom.
     As I began sweeping the floor, I thought about the house in which I live.  I know a house is a reflection of the person who resides within the walls and soon I found myself doing some much needed soul searching.  Yes, I built the house addition, I picked out the oatmeal colored carpet and even painted the walls white.  Is this a reflection of me? I asked as I as I plugged in the vacuum.  Maybe it is not so much the building of the house that reflects the true me but more the contents of the house in which I filled the rooms.  I turned off the vacuum and started searching for the item -- the ONE item that reflects my true self.
     My living area is filled with musical instruments.  A drum set in the corner, a piano along the wall, a guitar next to the piano, a banjo in the opposite corner and yet, these are not me, they are a reflection of a stage in my life in which music played a part.  Ditto for the record player, the albums, the CD player and the shelves of music Cd's and even music books.  As I dusted down the walls, I thought about the paintings but no, even though I am an art lover my walls are filled with the Vincent Van Gogh paintings in which my son purchased.  The Sistine Chapel is a painting I purchased for my son's 13th birthday at his request.
     I started a load of laundry while my mind flashed through all the appliances within my home.  No, I am not a washing machine or dishwasher as those items are meant to clean and I hate cleaning.  I also believe that a little bit of dirt in one's life is a good thing --much like an untold secret.  I am not a toaster or a blender or a coffee maker because those items are too easy to use and I am much too leery of people who enjoy putting something (as in thoughts, beliefs, or morals) into me only to take it all back out for their own enjoyment.  I am not the stove top, the oven or the microwave for even though I enjoy cooking, I sometimes burn the ingredients and I hate getting burnt by recipes of friendships gone sour.
     I stepped inside my office and glanced around taking notice of the massage table, the massage chair, the charts on the walls, the office desk with the books and computer.  No, nothing here that reflects me.  This office resembles work and though I am a workaholic, I enjoy playtime more.  The office did not need cleaning ans so I closed the door.
     Maybe I am a door?  A door is used, nope not me.  Maybe I am a light switch?  Turn me on and I light up your life, turn me off and I leave you in the dark.  Nah that seems too simple to be me.  I stepped to the next room which is the bathroom but that room reflects too much cleanliness along with items used for cleaning: toothbrushes, toothpaste, soaps, shampoos, toilet paper, washcloths and towels and though I could clean up some of the messes in my life, those items are not the real me.  I stepped in front of the mirror thinking that is a reflection of me only to discover the mirror reflects the physical me and I am soul-searching.  On to the next room I went.
     I opened the door to my bedroom.  My eyes first captured sight of all the books stacked upon rows of book shelves.  I do hold my emotions in, so I could be a book shelf.  I stepped closer to the books thinking maybe there is a book on this shelf that most resembles me but no, these are books written by strangers who are unaware of my existence so no, they did not write about me.  I turned around to the bed thinking perhaps I am a blanket for I do tend to cover my true thoughts and feelings from people but I am not a blanket either for a blanket covers and warms those within and I do have close friends in which I share the warmth of love and friendship and I do uncover tidbits about myself.
     As I turned to step out of the room, I discovered the the Kandinsky painting that is hanging a bit too low on the wall.  I meant to higher the painting but never had the time.  Well, today I have the time.  I reached under my bed for the toolbox, drag out the box, flipped open the lid to discover that I and that toolbox have a lot in common.  A toolbox is used to store tools in which to "fix" things and I happen to have that "fix-it" personality.  Things in my life that are broken do not need tossing out, those things just need fixing.  Yep, everything from that broken chair in the corner of the room to that toxic relationship that is going nowhere I should toss out of my life and yet, I keep these things and people in my life thinking that I can fix whatever needs fixing.
     As I drill another screw into the wall in which to hang that Kandinsky painting, I realize that not only do I use those tools in which to fix things around the house, but I resemble the tools used in fixing things.  Like that hammer used to drive that nail home, I have been that hammer and I have been that nail for I have hammered my beliefs into others and like that nail, I too, have been used to hold things together.  Like that screwdriver and screw, I have been screwed and (much to my dismay) I have to admit that I have screwed other screws in my life and will even go so far to admit I have screwed up my own life in some areas.  I have used the tape measure in measuring my friends and their loyalty.  I have used the leveler to level out the imbalances of those friendships.  Like that wrench I used to stop a water leak, I have turned leaky pipes within my family relations in hopes of stopping of flood of emotions form bursting through at family gatherings.  Then there are the pliers.  I have used pliers to wist wires together in hopes of binding two things together that may or may not need to be held together though at the time, I thought these two needed to be intertwined.  There are the wire cutters in which I have cut through the same wires when the wires of friendship needed to be cut.  The crowbar is the worst of my personality because I use it to pull the bent nails from my life and I hate the sound of screeching nails as they are ripped out from the boards, much like those toxic friends in which I have to pull away from my life.
     As I am digging through the toolbox of treasures I discover a tire gauge.  I do not know why this is in the box because it should be kept inside my truck.  I put on my coat and gloves and step outside to my truck.  There, inside my glove box, is my tire gauge and so I step back inside the house, to the kitchen cabinet to retrieve the keys to the Mercedes.  Back outside to the winter weather I go, snow crunching beneath my boots as I step to my son's car.  I unlock the door and then search the glove box for the tire gauge.  There is not a tire gauge inside his car and so I neatly place the one in my hand inside the glove box.  I sit on the driver's seat, put the keys inside the ignition and justify starting the Mercedes "to be sure the car will start in such cold weather".  The car does start.  I sit long enough for the heater to warm the air and defrost the windows and then I reach for the shifter in which to put the car in reverse. . .