All of my dreams are on a deadline.
As I race to a construction site ?, I am accompanied by two women I know in real life — one is the wife of a pastor, the other is a churchgoing soccer mom who recently found love online. Both are the kindest women you would ever meet. But they are not kind to me at this moment.
They are inexplicably cruel, as the pastor’s wife scolds me for getting in the way of the contracting work of a major development our entire group’s involved in. My soccer friend goes ahead and orders herself a full BBQ meal without any consideration for anyone else, and says something equally nasty (I can’t remember it now).
I prepare the speech I will give to those left behind in my life about these two women and their bizarre treachery, as I plot my escape. I can hear my son go, “Another one, mom?!”
Before I can get farther into my story, I’m planted in front of a large-screen TV, the one plugged into the Internet. It’s late at night, at my mom’s old Kewalo Street apartment. I need to go to bed, or go to a late-night gig, just go somewhere soon. Deadlines, remember?
All of a sudden, this pops up on the screen: “1”
I click onto the number, and it’s him. He’s a trouble-maker, a cross between this old college professor and someone else I’m ashamed of. He keeps campaigning for me to give him another chance.
He sends one email after another, which pops up on-screen, the last involving a spiel about Dallas. “Let’s move to Texas. I’ve got a job and this school is open for all sorts of other positions you’d be good at. We can make a great life here.”
How many whores did you go through before this great realization, Tom?
Another email pops up, but this one’s from a musician friend. Bryon. I worry it has to do with his family, when I read the last name: Valery. I call my husband over, who’s been lurking around in the kitchen foraging for a snack, coming in and out, barely paying attention.
“Sounds like this email’s for you. Maybe a gig?”
I wonder where I put my SuperMario game.