Shitty Luck

I am terrified of pigeons. They soar in close proximity to my head and force me to use my arms as armor. I run as I flap my long arms, fearing they will touch me with their spotted wings and leave a trace of the grime they’ve picked up underneath bridges and on rooftops. But unlike me, they don’t feel threatened or afraid. I am the one who has to walk around the flock when my size 6 shoes - giant in comparison to their tiny bodies - fail to produce a flinch or a change in their position. They remain gathered, bobbing their heads back and forth as they seek grains of uncooked rice or pick on gum stuck to concrete.

Not everyone feels the same way I do. There are many people dedicated to these creatures - discussing their importance, banning the practice of tossing uncooked rice outside wedding chapels and churches because it kills pigeons. It is even said that their shit brings good luck. Not the foul palette of off white and green they leave on car windshields and window ledges, but the shit that falls from their pigeon butts and lands on heads. It is this shit, the shit that fell on me a year and a month ago, that is said to be lucky…

“I got the graduate assistantship!” I exclaimed to my cousin while walking toward the Walter Rand Transportation Center in Camden.

“That’s great!” she responded.

“But I gotta go – have to catch a bus! We’ll talk more later.”

I closed my cell and drew in my surroundings. Little girls, moms, aunts, and sisters strutted their stuff, clothed in tiny tanks, halters, and tube tops. Curls and waves refused to rest on scalps as the summer wind engaged them in dance. Changletas flapped against the warm pavement and dirtied heels of feet. I stood out from the pack, from the groups crossing streets and gathering at corners. My hair was pinned back. My red blouse made of silk. My silvers shoes high and pointy. This is where I was going to be every day of the week for the next two years. No matter what the differences, I had to adjust.

I finally arrived at the bus stop and positioned myself on line. An older man lined up behind me and began to smoke a cigarette then the woman ahead of me lit herself a Newport. I was drowned by the stench and couldn’t escape. I began to fan myself, attempting to find some relief, when a splash of off white and green landed on my red blouse.

“Shit. Fucking pigeon!” I yelled.

The chimney ahead of me glanced over and chuckled. I ignored her as I grabbed a napkin from my purse and began to wipe myself clean. I moistened the napkin with saliva and scrubbed. It wasn’t coming off. It was tainted. My eyes welled up in frustration as I scrubbed harder; my skin hot. I finally decided to call my mother.

“Hola,” she said in her soothing tone.

“Cion mami,” I replied.

“Dios te bendiga,” she answered.

I explained it all. How the ride to Camden was smooth. How I was starting the assistantship the following day and how a pigeon had ruined my mood, shitted all over my day.

“Bueno, la gente dice que eso es buena suerte,” she said.

(Well, people say that’s good luck.)

“Buena suerte? Yo lo dudo.”

(Good luck? I doubt it.)

“Eso es lo que dicen,” she replied.*

(That’s what they say.)

The bus pulled up and I ended my conversation with mami. The line began to move. A white teen, sucking on a toothpick, stepped onto the bus first. A woman and her screaming child, nose filled with snot, were next. A scruffy white man staggered onto the line in a drunken state, asking for ten cents. The woman in front of me ignored him as she took her last puff before stepping onto the bus. I was next. I was finally facing the bus driver. She sat, seatbelt strapped, with her right arm resting atop the contraption that spits out yellow New Jersey Transit receipts and transfer tickets.

“I’m going to Philly”, I said.

She punched three buttons with her long dark fingers and then looked up at me.

“How much is it? I asked.

“$1.15” she replied.

She looked away as I fondled through my purse for change and came up empty handed.

“Do you have change for a twenty dollar bill?” I asked.

Her eyes narrowed and she shook her head left to right. She asked me to step off the bus, get change and wait for the next one. I did as I was told. The doors swung shut and the bus pulled off, flying down North Broadway and then making a right turn. I looked down at my shirt, the shit stain setting, and waited for my luck to change.

Cracker Jack Rules

When I was a child, it was a thrill to find prizes inside the boxes of Cracker Jack’s. Whether it was a playing card, a fake tattoo, or a toothpick - I couldn’t wait to rip open the box and get to my goodies. I would go straight to the box and tear it open. Toffee flavored popcorn would fly everywhere, my weak self-control leaving a disaster over the kitchen floor and counter. But I always found the prize - quick and easy. Most of the time it was a Bazooka Joe comic and I felt satisfied. But as I got older things changed. I cultivated a step by step process to get to the prizes. I would first sift through the sticky popcorn covered in butter, toffee, and syrup. My fingers - stuck together - lifted the popcorn, pushing to one side and then another as if moving piles of sand. And if all else failed I would take a bowl and dump the contents to find the hidden treasures. It always took a longer period of time to find what I desired, but I had been following a set a rules my entire adult life, including in matters of the heart. Fortunately, those Cracker Jack rules were broken after my experience with Michael...

I watched Teri Hatcher trip over herself in Desperate Housewives, wondered how Halle Berry, Michelle Rodriguez, and Jadakiss could have all been Punk’d by Ashton Kuther, and tracked potential hurricanes in the Gulf Coast via the Weather Channel. Tired of starring at patches of green and orange throughout the state of Florida, I turned off the television set and launched my yahoo messenger. The golden smiley face bounced up and down in excitement before settling down and lighting up next to Michael’s name. It had been five days since our first date. We had not been in contact, yet he was online and available. My fingers began tapping away on the keyboard:

“Hey how are you?”

I clicked on send and braced myself.

“I’m fine and you?”

I stopped for a second, scratched my head in bewilderment. I began to type again, this time to ask "the question."

“Why haven’t you call–“

My pinky reached over to the backspace button on the right side of the keyboard. The letters began to disappear off the screen one by one. A ringing noise then shot from my speakers.

“Listen I’m sorry about the other day.”

“What other day?”

I waited for a response. Hoped for a sincere apology and maybe a suitable explanation for his inconsistent behavior.

“You called and I never called you back”

I paused before answering. My heart was racing as I didn’t know what he would say next. Luckily he couldn’t sense my irritation through instant messenger.

“Oh don’t worry about it. It’s all good.”

“Honestly, I didn’t call you back because I didn’t want to lead you on. It’s not you; it’s just that I don’t believe in long distance relationships. Relationships are a lot of work as is, without having to deal with distance”

My mouth dropped. I couldn’t believe he didn’t look forward to passionate, memorable sex, telling phone conversations spanning from two to three hours, and the sweet freedoms of a long distance relationship unaccompanied by loneliness. But my fingers typed:

“It’s fine. I understand. We can friends”.

“Thanks for being so cool about everything. We’ll definitely keep in touch. Take care.”

I sent him a wink goodbye and signed out of yahoo messenger. The golden smile faded into a gray stern face before I turned off my computer. I turned on the weather channel again before walking towards the kitchen. They were still tracking a hurricanes path to Florida. Inside the kitchen cabinet I noticed a box of Cracker Jack’s. I reached for it and placed it on the counter, opened the box from the opposite end, ripped the box in half, and watched the popcorn fall. The prize flew onto the floor. It was good old Bazooka Joe.

More Than Sperm

At age 32 my friend Steve will give me his sperm. That is the pact we agreed upon almost two years ago during a two hour phone conversation. I remember it clearly, how I paced the beige and pink tiled floors while discussing the logistics of our flawless plan. And then I remember hanging up and feeling defeated, like I had been clobbered with twenty-something hammers for every year I had lived, single and childless. Not only could I not imagine creating a child atop a cold examination table where the only object being inserted would be a plastic catheter, but I also couldn’t imagine an amorous liaison with Steve as my feelings for him leaned toward the platonic, the brotherly, and the inconceivable. And the thought of relinquishing the search for Mr. Right to then wed in a quickie wedding and hope for the best a lá Jennifer Lopez was more than I could bear. So I decided to be bold, be a woman, and take matters into my own hands.

Just a few weeks ago – and less than five years to the donation – I started my new life as a woman. I found myself hoping for more than sperm as I sat in the little coffee shop of the Virgin Mega store across from Michael. We sat in black plastic chairs around a little round table. There were no coffee cups to sip from, no CD’s to listen to or discuss, just the nervousness that overwhelms during a first date. I immediately realized he wasn’t my type. His hair, gelled and spiked at the front, was too perfect. His slim fitted slacks were too pressed. And his black rimmed eye glasses were too cool. Yet still I felt a tingle, like we were meant to be joined, like Bacardi rum and coke - I being the former.

After a few “getting to know you" minutes, we decided to leave the coffee shop and walk over to Patsy’s, a little Italian American restaurant in Union Square, to eat lunch. The walk over was telling. He didn’t walk ahead of me, which screams I-will-beat-you-with-a-club-and-drag-you-to my-cave, or walk behind me, which pleads walk-all-over-me-I-am-yours-to-lead! But then there was the opening of the door. He didn’t hold it in a traditional and chivalrous manner, where the man actually rushes ahead and holds it open at a perfect 90-degree angle. But then again who does.

Michael and I were seated. We were across from one another again, a square table now between us. As we ate lunch, a cheese pizza pie for me and a salad and white bean soup for him, my agreement with Steve crept back into my mind. How could a man fill himself up on soap and salad? I thought. How could anyone? I pushed the negative thoughts aside and held on to the potential because he was cute enough, educated, had a job, was childless and woman less, and didn’t live with his momma. Because there was a chance my egg count was plummeting as the minutes passed, as we sat within the confines of that restaurant. Because you can’t drink Bacardi without coca cola! And then he looked at me and said:

“I really enjoy talking to you.”

I was taken aback, feeling guilt ridden at how much I had nitpicked, tore his slender limbs apart. I finally managed to form words and said:

“It’s really nice talking to you too. It’s easy.”

And I was speaking truthfully. Even though he was smaller than I preferred. Even though he lived in New York City and I lived in South Jersey. Even though he spoke of his tough financial status and harped on about the injustices of the world and the United States school system. I liked him. And I would give this a try. Yes, I would give this a try and even consider a long distance relationship. I would open myself up to the possibility of Michael, if only to attempt love again, if only to lessen the odds of marrying a Marc Anthony.

Joining The Masses After A Few Cocotasos

Three of us walked ahead, leading the birthday girl and her party to another locale where drinks and music would be plentiful. But instead of discussing possible destinations, we discussed the world of blogs - past street signs, street lights, and cracked pavements. Instead of discussing possible drinking games, I was confronted with the blog movement and why I, a student of writing, wasn’t part of a world that is so autonomous it is almost liberating. But just as I skirted past fences and averted stepping on discarded gum, I avoided the conversation. I could hear my pulse and my breathing, no longer steady, because I was being persuaded by one of the two amigos to begin my blog journey. I could hear my voice, loud and high pitched, rising with every rebuttal as he spurted blog this and blog that. The third party, still focused on the destination ahead, continued to lead and ignored our bickering. We were two fiery, opinionated individuals who refused to raise the white flag; a leisurely walk towards the continuation of a drunken birthday celebration had become the war of the blogs. But in the mist of trying to prove each other wrong and the verbal crossfire of buts-, waits-, and eventually whatever’s, I mentally began to write this introduction. And because I am writing this introduction, the introduction to my very own blog, I am also admitting I was wrong. So I welcome you to In The Words of A Twenty Something…where relatable thoughts, stories, and observations will be shared weekly and an entirely new world will be explored by both you and I. I am officially a blogger, joining the masses after a few cocotasos.