Dis·remember

transitive verb

1.  forget

May 20, 2006

The incest began.  Unfulfillable frustrations relocated to Jack’s circle of friends with sex, dating or a comingling of the two.  My inner minx emerged and I blamed the breeding on him.  The problems I faced were his fault, not mine or the inebriants I consumed in the technique of a blue whale’s.  These phantom provocations led me to the top: Jack’s business partner, B8.

During a stalking trip to their store, long overdue, Jack breezed past me. 

Every time I see him why does he smell like a mint julep

with a sprig of lavender resting on the rim of a highball glass?

“You look good, sweetheart.”  Black cargo shirt with three quarter sleeves, boyfriend jeans, (before they were called boyfriend jeans), baggy and boot cut with the hems rolled up a bit, and espadrille wedges with black ribbons going all sorts of ways around my ankle.  He kissed me on the cheek.  I wanted to wink but I was the worst winker in the history of modern eye movements.  I half-pecked back and told him I’d stopped drinking. 

“That’s great sweetheart, I’m happy for you.”

“So what’s going on around here?”  I searched my purse for my phone.

“Hey, you owe me three more boxes of the posters!”  He yelled behind me at a truck parked on the boardwalk between his store and the beach.

“Sorry sweetie, I need to talk to this guy.”  After walking a few feet to my right I dialed Childless Brad Pitt.

“I’m in Pismo right now.  Meet up?”  I stared at a wall of local bands’ music, but saw Jack’s face.

“You’re technically not in Pismo.”  I turned and faced the voice at the cash register: decent looking, mohawk, 30ish.

Ignoring him I flipped through fifties era vinyl.  I didn’t hear my brother’s response. 

May 22

         “I asked him for your phone number after you left that day.  At the store.”  B8 took a swig of his beer after he made his shot. 

“Really?”  Earlier, the imagined scenario of B8 and I running into Jack and Walmart made my chest thump as I put on my makeup.  On our first date, we hit up the Shack and played pool.  Afterward, through an alley I never knew existed, we arrived at an exotic/tropical meth biker bar where I became gut fucked on mai tais, elevated my ping pong game, (love they had ping pong), and threw up in the bathroom.  As I wrenched the revolting fabric towel apparatus and its long white stained sheet cranked out like dough from a pasta maker, a short, methed-out chick with dry, crackly cuticles shoved a silver business card sized camera into my hands,

“Here, figure this out.”  

My two week stint as a sober person?  Over. 

He and Jack opened their music store a few years prior.  B8 was a renowned surfer.  Our months, (weeks?), of dates took place exclusively at bars and after date two he leaped off of me and started getting dressed.

What are you doing?  Get back here.  The analyzing lasted five minutes; B8 didn’t consume me; I continued to pretend a shorter shell of a body lay next to mine.  Tall, mohawked and monotone I suspected he wanted to be a kind, reactive suitor, but Pismo’s surf mentality and possible mother issues cheered on his 90 percent jackass/10 percent robot performance.  Putting on his clothes in the dark, I studied his silence, then the ceiling.

“I had a good time, did you?”  I didn’t know whether to get up or not.

“What?  A good time, sure.  He tied his shoe.  “I’ll call you.”

B8 overlapped with B7, and B5 and B6 before them.  B5 and B6 weren’t historical not because of discretion or promiscuity shame, but because I couldn’t remember them: what remained were blurry etch-a-sketched faces available to me if I tried hard enough.

B7 became my first Pismo boyfriend. 

Childless Brad Pitt introduced me and the neo-hippie at the Shack, and in a vague, dusty high school flashback I remembered him as one of those curious male cheerleaders.  Short, tan, zero fat and zero charm.  The mini-Abercrombie model flirted and we discussed the best breaks and agreed on the best burritos in Pismo while standing in front of the glow of the jukebox, minimizing our facial flaws.

Jukebox knows all of my secrets. 

Chacho’s for burritos and I don’t remember what breaks because I didn’t give a shit.  He surfed, everyone in Pismo surfed.

“I need to stretch.”  Outside an Italian restaurant, a few blocks from the Shack, I lit a cigarette as he reached down to his toes. 

May 28

Our first date, a double with my brother and Accountant, I watched as B7's arms hung at his shins.  I breathed in the sycamore air.  The quiet, except for the whooshes and hums from the 101, made the stretching moment awkward.  I felt sorry for him.  He reminded me of someone who made me sad once. 

May 30

 “I sleep naked,” B7 informed me, slipping under the sheets and propping his tan head up with a fist.

We did a DVD night at his apartment on our second date.  He lived with his grandmother – or above her rather, in a wood paneled studio a mile outside of Pismo.  Before the movie and ice cream, he asked me to stay.

 “Alright.  What the fuck was happening?  “We’re watching a movie, right?” 

“Yes,” He let out a January, I’m not Ted Bundy giggle.  “Do you care?”

“No.”  I just met this guy, was this going icky?  Going somewhere rapey?  My shoes mesmerized and my eyes danced: cryptic messages to myself, adding an internal drama and a pop quiz.  I missed Jack as I reached for a pillow.  Everything, everyone else, was…effort.  Yes, even more effort than Short Fat Fuck.

B7 was a patent all his own, but who else was I going to lean into, and eventually kiss, while watching Mr. and Mrs. Smith?  I took off my jeans and widdled into bed with hesitation.  Right side – my usual at Jack’s.  I didn’t anticipate sex during a pre-Brangelina film.  Original and challenging he was not under the sheets.  I hated myself when the stoned, relaxed surfer stare masked his face as he busted up boundaries, not caring either way.  Poured from a jar, his voice reminded me of the salted caramel sauce I made at Christmas time: in speed, sound and thickness.  But not in taste.

June 2006

An 805 number popped up on my phone’s screen as I climbed into bed after a Ziggy Marley show in Avila Beach, exhausted, sunburnt and sober.

“Hey, this is ___, B7’s friend.”

I sat up straight.  “Ok.  Who are you?”  Who was this??

“He told me he’s dating a girl from LA, so I guess we’re broken up now.  I wanted to talk you though.”

“How did you get my number?”  I was too tired to be agitated by this psycho.  What was she talking about, broken up?

“I found it on his phone, you kn…”

“Ok…so you still see each other?”  I rested my hands in my lap creating a light dent in the duvet.

“Yeah, we do.  So, you live here now?”

“I do.”

“Where?”

“San Luis.  Lie.  “Did you want something, is everything ok?”

The noises I heard in the background irritated further.  I wasn’t her main

focus even though she called me. 

“Just wanted to introduce myself, in case we ever run into each other, I’m sure we will.”

“OK, I … thank you?”

***

I realized no matter who the man, I was a jealous lover.  A week or so after she called me, Stalker showed up while we lay in bed watching TV.  I met her a few times since the phone call.  B7 sent her away after yelling at her for calling me.  Rolling my lips together, eyebrows moving into my hairline: signs of thought and comprehension.  If she was compelled enough to stop by, then something more was happening.  Did they talk?  Hang out?  She was kind of pretty, her hair perfectly straight and flowing as she reluctantly ran down the stairs. 

Tires, keying, eggs, acid, spit.  What would she do to my car?

June 15

        “He’s annoying, too environmental, and I think he’s cheating.”

“With who?”

“That Stalker chick; she’s so friggin’ weird, but there is definitely something there…It’s…just weird.  She calls, she shows up, I don’t get it.”

Jack.

Childless Brad Pitt and I reached for a rib tip; he shook his head and laughed.

“You know she’s his cousin, right?”

Margaritas at the Shack scumbled the past few months away on a Sunday night, my favorite day of the week at the Shack: low key, conversation and actual relationship opportunities and as much Bob Marley and Frank Sinatra I wanted.  I popped forward and salt stuck to the corners of my mouth. 

“What the fu…Who?”  I wiped froth from my chin.

Childless Brad Pitt drained his water.  His viewpoint was we could drink, but not together: we abided by the familial rule half the time. 

“B7 and Stalker, they’re cousins.”  He grinned as I started laughing.

“Come the fuck on.  Come… My head swiveled like a demon’s.  “You’re kidding right?  Please.”

He shook his head.  “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me this the night we saw him out?”

“I didn’t remember until you mentioned her just now and it didn’t cross my mind before.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“January, chill.”

An alligator took over and rolled me, then became me.  Thick skin shed unveiling a new integument scaling from my brow to my throat.  Hate this. 

Owner slid a twenty on the bar in my direction.  The only thing Owner asked was that I play The Cure once in a while.  I stood up with my drink,

“Holy fuck.”