American Sign Language from Alive!Utah August Column

Checkout my August Column in Alive! Utah at: http://aliveutah.com/american-sign-language/

Why is it that I have a tendency to laugh when things go wrong? I’m surprised it hasn’t gotten me into more trouble. I pulled out of a parking lot onto the street–cautiously I might add–and apparently pulled in front of someone who did not want me there. I’ll argue I had plenty of time to reach the appropriate speed before she came roaring up behind me and that she was going much faster than she should have and immediately laid on the horn. She jerked to the left (which was completely unnecessary and overdramatic) and then continued to weave around a car in the left lane and pull back in front of me. Apparently, a great multi-tasker, she was still able to do this while still and honking. It appears that she also has some familiarity with sign language, as she was able to convey to me her dissatisfaction with my actions through one single hand gesture.

This is my favorite part about road ragers. They are driving like maniacs and then for all of their urgency, they will end up at the same light; and conveniently next to you. This made me smile as I tend to calm down in stressful situations. She still wanted to sign to me and when she did, I looked over at her with a smile. When I saw a frumpy, middle-aged woman with bleach blonde hair who looked like she was late for an appointment with the drive-thru I couldn’t help it. I really tried hard not to giggle, but I just could not stop it.

About 22 years ago, I had the a similar incident happen with my sister Vicki. We were on our way to see our sister, Dona, in Ogden where she had just given birth to the first grandchild. I don’t know why we were driving so late, but I believe it was after midnight. There weren’t many cars on the road and we were punch-drunk tired. The two of us have a tendency to over-giggle when we get together anyway. We still do.

This particular night, Vicki was driving and due to the low amount of traffic and, and, and…okay, who am I kidding?  It had nothing to do with the low traffic, I just decided to play a joke on her. We approached an intersection and she stopped as the light was red. She wasn’t paying attention and after a few seconds, I said, “Go. It’s green.” (Of course there were no cars coming. Yes, I was a mindless teenager, but had at least taken that into consideration.) She punched the gas and went through the light. Halfway through as I was laughing she realized what I had done and started laughing too. In the car next to us were some wicked, hardcore Ogden girls with four inch bangs and bad perms. I guess our lawlessness upset them and they decided to pull up next to us, roll down their window and yell.

We looked at each and started laughing. They got madder. We laughed more. But, they wouldn’t leave our side. I convinced Vicki to perform another illegal maneuver and she raced around a car positioning them behind us and blocked from passing. Then the laughter machine started up again. They managed to make their way to our side again. I told Vicki I think they want to fight us, which brought peals of more laughter. I said seriously, we better stop laughing. But the thought of two little small-town girls on their way to a hospital to see their first niece getting hounded by Ogden gang girls just seemed so hilarious.

After contemplating our demise, I said why don’t we just pull over. She said what if they do something. I said they’re doing something right now. I’m a competent negotiator and figured we could all talk and go have a cupcake together. Ironically, the confrontation ended when we pulled into a small parking lot and they kept going. I think we were somewhat relieved, but couldn’t help trash talking them as they drove away. It was something like, who’s tough now? That’s right, we’re not scared. We straightened our leg warmers and drove to the hospital.

I realize people like road ragers have their own issues if they choose to get that angry and belligerent. When I first looked at the lady “signing” me, I wondered if she had ever been to Ogden. I kind of did want to follow her and say look I’m a really nice person. I’m sorry if you thought I pulled out in front of you, but I believe you were driving above the speed limit. Then I realized people have their own demons and probably have more troubling lives than I do. She was going to have to learn to be happy by herself and without my kind instructions on how to do it. Besides, I didn’t have my sister with me to back me up this time. Have a nice day, angry lady. I hope your life gets better.

The Bus Stops Here: I Only Have 6 Friends on Facebook and Only Know 2 of Them

Since I’m riding the bus these days, I figure I might as well share some of the interesting people I meet along the way. I try not to judge—just observe through my little lens into the random, unfolding lives of strangers. Plus, let’s be honest—I have to write about something, so why not launch a new series: The Bus Stops Here?

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I had settled onto the bench with no idea when the next bus might show up. There's a universal look at every stop: a silent longing in the eyes of riders, gazing left down the road in hopeful anticipation. When someone first arrives, they instinctively glance right, just to be sure they didn’t miss it. Buses run on their own logic—sometimes early, sometimes late. You just learn to wait.

Thankfully, the weather had cooled off a bit—meaning it had dropped into the 100s. Odd as it sounds, after surviving July in Las Vegas, it actually felt nice.

He was standing when I sat down, staring down the road. Dark-skinned with long black hair pulled into a bun, his arms were covered in tribal tattoos. He looked Hawaiian. Turned out, he was—sort of. His father was Black, his mother brunette, and his grandmother a redhead. “That’s how I got the good hair,” he explained with a little pride.

His name was Ritchie. He’d moved to Vegas from Oklahoma to be near his mom, but a DUI had stripped him of his license almost three years ago. He was hopeful—he thought he’d be eligible to get it back soon. Until then, it was the bus.

That day, he’d just come from the library where he’d been researching trade schools in Texas. He wanted to learn pipe inspection. Welding excited him. Especially underwater welding.

But he couldn’t sit still. He kept pacing. He hadn’t made it to the smoke shop yet, and the folded five-dollar bill in his pocket was calling his name. He told me that as long as he bought the lowest strength Spice, he wouldn’t get addicted.

He said this while visibly twitching from craving. The irony didn’t seem to land for him.

On his leg was a scar I couldn’t ignore—deep and jagged, shaped like bite marks, with chunks of flesh missing. I had to ask.

He told me the story like it was yesterday. It was a Saturday morning. He was deep in a drug-induced sleep, recovering from a long week. A knock at the door yanked him out of it. The bus to work took two hours each way, so his 8-hour shift turned into 12-hour days. Weekends were sacred.

He jumped up, opened the door half-asleep, and was greeted by two people campaigning for Obama just before the election.

“Dude, I don’t have time for this!” he said, slamming the door. He stormed back upstairs, furious—his only day to sleep in, ruined.

By the time he got to his room, his anger had spiraled. He lashed out and kicked the window on instinct. The glass shattered—and a sharp edge sliced into his leg, deep. Blood began pulsing out in rhythm.

He was wearing nothing but boxers. Without thinking, he yanked them off to try to stop the bleeding and stumbled down the stairs, completely naked, screaming for help. A neighbor rushed to his aid. He made it to the hospital in time.

“I found out later I coulda sued them for malpractice,” Ritchie said, pointing to the scar. “But I missed the deadline. You only got a year. It happened last August 12th. Too late now. Coulda got a lotta money.”

Now he was here, trying to start over—but struggling. He said he hadn’t made many friends in Vegas. He didn’t know anyone. He had six Facebook friends, but he only recognized two of them.

The bus finally pulled up. I got on first. Ritchie followed—and sat right next to me.

And The Balloon Pops

[continued]

I've scrambled to come up with a new plan and attacked it furiously. I've minimized my expenses to $1,200 a month including $200 for food and $130 for bus passes. For that, I am proud of myself. I did have to eliminate my smartphone completely, but in reality no one calls and there's no one I can't reach online. In fact, that's how 99% of my communication is done anyway. I can Skype anyone else I need to call. I have an appointment to donate plasma tomorrow and I've got about $100 worth of stuff to sell on Ebay. I have to email my attorney and break the news to her. I owe her a lot of money, and she earned every penny of it.

I know everything will work out, because I have 42 years of experience watching it work out. It's just a lot harder when you have three children and are shackled to this wretched town. Every time, something always comes around that is better. It's the time from the disappointment to that new exciting thing that is dark and and keeps me blinded. But, I do know something great is on the horizon.

And if it wasn't for darn kids who have the sweetest of little hearts, it would be easy to just take care of myself and take the first bus out of town. Unfortunately, you can't hide as much financial stress from them as you'd like. They do notice when you don't have a car anymore. But they are very adventurous and think the bus is very cool. Porter said, "Mom, we're like the poor people now, aren't we? I mean not poor like the poor people that don't have a house; just poor like the people who don't have cars and have to ride the bus." Madison said, "Does this mean we don't get to order anything when we go to McDonald's now? You know like we did last year?" They are really adaptable and don't mean to drown me in guilt with my own feelings of failure.

Porter sweetly asked, "Mom, if you could have anything right now what would it be?" I said, "Porter, things can't bring  you happiness. Whether you have 'things' or not you still have a choice to be happy." He replied, "Oh, I thought you would said you wanted a car since you don't have one anymore."

Lane asked if the bathroom could be his room since he doesn't have his own room. He slept in the bathtub the last two nights after filling it with blankets and pillows. Those things are probably fun to them, but torture me. They've asked why we don't have apple juice anymore. Another slice of the knife cuts into me. I already asked before everything happened if they could wait a couple weeks after school started before I bought them clothes. They were so gracious and said we already have clothes! I bought new shoes for Madison and Porter, but had to skip them for Lane. Unfortunately, Porter's came a half a size to small so Lane inherited them. But, Porter has assumed the role of "man of the house" an honor he takes much too seriously for his young age. He takes it in stride and asks if I want the money in his piggy bank to help. Pouring vinegar on the wound.

If nothing else, this gives me something to write about and as much as I am wallowing in my disappointment, it is just that. If I owned a mansion and an Escalade and died tomorrow, I'd still be buried in the ground. I was so frustrated over everything I spoke my mind and probably shouldn't. I told the kids I feel bad because I can't give them things they want. Porter said, "Mom, all we want is you and we have that." And all I want is them, and I have that.

The Balloon Soared High In The Sky

July of 2012 was when my divorce was officially finalized. It marked the end of a decade, but the beginning of my liberation. I spent a year trying to recover from financial ruin. I worked very hard. I worked two jobs. Last month, when I officially earned a paycheck for my writing, I felt like I had climbed to the top of the mountain. This wasn't something I had just desired for the past year, it was a dream I've wanted my entire life. I wanted it more than anything--to be a "real" writer; paid for my work. The last three weeks have been bliss even though there was a little slack in the pay, but it was going to catch up on this next paycheck. Then, things would not only be better financially, I would be writing for my job. It was hardly work as I anticipated each new article I would be assigned. This is what I had hoped for so that I could spend more time with my babies. I was like a balloon soaring high into the skies. It was a beautiful view from up in the sky.

My editor wrote me yesterday. Google changed their rankings. No more inundating the internet with organic articles. Too many would hurt the clients rankings instead of help. The simple bottom line was that there would not be anymore writers in the main stream pool. My job, my paid writing job, was gone. My balloon hit a wire. It popped. It plummeted. It deflated as it hit the ground.

I'm at the library now after taking two buses and 42 minutes to get here to return a book. The library closes an hour earlier than I thought it would and I forgot my book. I rode again and remember the faces of struggle I saw before, but they don't enlighten me like they did last summer. They don't motivate me. They make me sad. I left these people, and yes I do feel for them. Everyone has their struggles and I'm sure they have dreams too, but could any of them want to be a writer more than me? Did anyone take 42 years to doubt themselves until someone said they would pay them to write?  I can't discount their lives. I don't know what they are going through. This time, I don't want to ask. I'm sulking and making my disappointment the center of the universe.

I was so close to walking across the financial bridge. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel and it was a bright light. I was going towards the light. I had to use the last little bit of my meager $700 savings to pay a lawyer for my custody court on Tuesday. On Wednesday, when I left to run errands my car was gone. Apparently, I didn't get across that bridge in time. This paycheck was going to fix that. That was a rough day as I tried to figure out how I would transport the kids back and forth. I worked it out though. I put a smile on my face and was grateful for the direct bus route that led from my house to theirs all the way across town. It's unusual, in fact nearly impossible for something like that to happen in Vegas. That was something to be thankful for. I calculated how much money I would be saving in gas, insurance, car payments to be made up, and maintenance. Hey, I was going to save a ton of money! My family offered a vehicle. I had to options: one I could use for free; and one I could purchase with low payments. I went to sleep that night feeling exhausted, but grateful. I am always grateful.

The dream of being a writer was so sweet, so close. I can't go back to a regular job when I have tasted what has created an addiction. I have to figure out how to find my way back to the oasis.

[To be continued...]