California Part 1
I've been telling myself for almost a year that I will start writing about my adventure to California. I was initially concerned that I would hurt the feelings of those mentioned in the narrative, and hesitant maybe to put my feelings out into the world, but I feel a year is long enough and it's time for me to let it all out.
I don't know how many installments it's going to take me, but I'm willing to give it a shot either way.
So. The obligatory preface:
1st, I'm on a computer with no spell-check. I know, I know. I should be awesome by myself. Sometimes even the best need some assistance every now and again. I'll do my damned-est to keep the punctuation and spelling errors to a minimum, but if I slip up, give me a little bit of slack.
2nd, Much like my Vegas story, I intend to have dialogue in Playwright form if I can't remember exactly what was said. I remember the general context of most conversations, those that are worth noting at least, but not always the correct words, so bear with me.
3rd, I'm going to use real names and exactly the emotions that I felt about them. This is not going to be pretty for some people, so I would expect that if I've given you the right to see this that some discretion would be in order, at least for the time being.
4th, Which is more of an addendum to the 3rd, is that I plan to spare some detail concerning physical activities. I could go on a rant about the encounter that will inevitably happen, but that would be more destructive than constructive, so I'll say now: Yes I did have sex with my ex-wife, and while it was physically pleasing, it was emotionally draining. Glad we got that out there.
Lastly, this is going to need to come in installments. I've considered just hammering this all out in one shot, but feel I would not be giving the story due justice. So much happened in such a small amount of time. So many feelings and sights and sounds. I feel like I can flex my artistic muscle a little at a time, and hopefully grow a little bit in each one, so that when I'm finished I have a collective work that I'm proud of.
Without further ado;
California Part 1
3:00 am. Sunday, March 10, 2012.
I awoke with vigor. I usually awake a groggy mess determined to stab the first warm body that asks me a dumb question, but today was special. I awoke determined and nervous and anxious. It was like Christmas morning except I didn't have a gaggle of gifts waiting for me: I had the open road and a real adventure.
I had taken long roads trips before. A few years prior I had managed to get across the country to the Atlantic Ocean. I had planned out that trip to the smallest detail; every stop, every pee-break, every cup of coffee. It was my first time doing it and I wanted to be sure that I had everything accounted for and no mistakes were made, but this trip was different. I didn't have a family member or friend stationed every 6 hours along the way. There were no warm beds that would serve as rest stops for me. There would be large stretches of vast America that I would be crossing that meant I had to be determined. I needed to keep my wits about me, my chin forward, and eyes steady. I had to be ready for this or this trip would swallow me whole.
I had prepared as much as I could for the journey. I had dutifully checked Google maps every day (about 10 times a day) in a Howard hughes-esque fasion. I routed and re-routed and re-routed the path I would be taking, countering for every minute possibility. I needed to know traffic and weather and cattle. I wanted to know elevation points and populations. It had quickly become my obsession.
Over the past few weeks I was determined not to have hiccups. I knew that being by myself in the middle of nowhere would quickly turn into a serious situation and I was trying to prevent any possible negative outcomes.
My bag was packed the night before. The "Big Backpack of Doom" as I've grown to call it was my best friend and worst enemy. It was small enough to be carry-on for most airlines, but large enough for me to comfortably carry a month worth of clothing. It could handle three Xbox 360s (sad that I have to make that reference, but a true story none-the-less), and would often stick far enough off my back to equate giving a 10-year-old a piggyback ride. But I never travel without it. It had helped me through ten states, two continents, and countless plane rides already. I wasn't going anywhere without my Big Backpack of Doom.
I glance at it as I get out of bed. My brain needed reassurance that this was actually happening as I force my body out of a lying position. It sat in the corner of the already messy room. Sporadic clothes create tiny shadows on the carpet, cast by the slits of false lighting seeping through the wood blinds. "We live too close to the pool," I thought. I couldn't really see the backpack so much as I could make out the dark figure stoically waiting for me to put it to use. My brain cast odd illusions that maybe it was a zombie curled into the fetal position and waiting for my unsuspecting warmth to turn my back.
I stood and humphed at myself as I stumbled to the shower. I hated our bathroom. Sure, it was large enough to be comfortable, with a double sink and brand new tiling against the large mirror, but the vanity lights and constant hassle of female products always made me a little more angry every time I walked in there. I quickly turned on the water and hopped in.
Now the shower is what I loved. For the obvious male reasons, yes, but also because the ancient shower head created water pressure equal to a fire hose. I'm positive that soap and shampoo weren't necessary. One could stand underneath the pressure of the water and have a layer of skin removed. It also built up a fair amount of steam quite quickly, effectively turning the entire bathroom into a sauna and draining my sinus.
Instead of my normal routine of standing with my face against the ceramic, I quickly ran through the motions and hopped out excited. I was drying off and realized that my [ex]wife wasn't present.
It was Sunday morning, and it was VERY early. She would be stumbling in any second.
You see, Saphron and I took turns going out on Saturdays. We would alternate weekends so that one would watch the kids and the other could spend time with friends, or go see a movie, or do whatever that took our mind off being an adult. It had proved to be an effective system that we enjoyed quite a bit. These small breaks away from each other helped us appreciate one another more and more.
Today was different.
I had concocted the idea that we could use our vacations to our advantage: I would take a solo vacation in Spring, we would take one as a family in Summer, and she would take a solo vacation in Fall. She had agreed, using our every-other-weekend model as an example as to how this could work out. We had heard some negative reactions to this plan. Her family and a few friends had expressed their general distaste for our current every-other-weekend arrangement, likening it to shared custody, and especially didn't appreciate our plan to go on separate vacations. This was what I think sold her on doing it. If anything, Saphron is naturally stubborn. She loves being told she can't do something. She'll never be smug to your face, but I'll be damned if she didn't love doing a little dance at home when she's right and you're wrong.
But today was different.
I had grown accustomed to Saphron staying out later than necessary. She had few freedoms she was afforded as a young mother. She had our son at 19, and was forced into a life that didn't give much attention to relaxing. When she did go out she'd always make a shallow promise at coming home at a reasonable hour and not being too inebriated. I knew how empty these promises were, but couldn't hold it against her; the now 24-year-old never got to be a rambunctious 21-year-old. When she got the opportunity to go out it was like she was living vicariously through her friends, and her excess in drinking was becoming a normalcy.
So there she was. I emerged from our bathroom clean and naked. Side note: I like being naked. There is something about being without constraint that I enjoy far too much, but I digress. I was towel drying my hair and caught sight of her Pumas first. I pulled the towel off my face a bid her a gentle good morning, as it was about 3:30 am. I moved the towel from my face to my torso and look at her full-on. She's in a loose fit pair of jeans and a bright red baby-doll fit t-shirt I bought her in Daytona Beach, Florida. Across the front are the words "Daytona Beach Lifeguard" with a large, white medical cross. She never like the design, but she loved the way it fit her.
She closed our bedroom door without breaking eye contact and pushed the knob in locking the door, and raised her eyebrows at the exact moment the door *clicked*. She gave me the best seductive face she could muster, which is rather cartoonish I might add, and began walking toward me in an exaggerated walk, ankle over ankle, not too far off from a runway model in heels.
Except she was in Pumas and this looked hilarious.
I cracked a grin and stifled a full smile just as she got within arm's reach. This was my mistake. I knew better.
Drunk Saphron is a ball of emotion. She never had a month-long stint of alcohol that serves as the Rite of Passage that most go through. She was still learning how to handle her emotions whilst inebriated. Any small thing could either set her into tears, fits of anger, violent rages, or laughter - there was no telling. I still joke that Drunk Saphron is her own episode of COPS (and I know I'm not too far from the truth).
With my stifled laugh I started an emotional fit. To my luck, it was one I could handle.
Her shoulders went limp and she slumped forward, placing her forehead on my bare chest. Her arms were dead weight and hanging from her stooped shoulders giving physical hyperbole to her obvious emotion. Her naturally curly hair was a mess and surrounded her face against my chest so I couldn't see her eyes. The hair always tickled. I could smell the stench of the bar on her: faint smoke, bad vodka, and sweat.
That smell of the bar is similar to the smell of sex in the sense that when you're in it, that smell intoxicates you. It drives to push further and live more in the moment, but from the outside, or after everything is said and done, you want nothing to do with it. As I'd just vacated the shower, having her this close to me was mildly disgusting.
Saphron: You always make fun of me.
Me: You always give me a reason.
Saphron: If you'll lay down on the bed I'll show you a reason (she says lifting her head, and with an overly-obvious wink).
Me: I need to get dressed. If you'd have come home earlier, like you said you would, I would be happy to oblige.
Saphron: Oh, shut up and lay down (she's full-on beaming now).
Being the testosterone driven person I am, I listen. A little piece of me dies every time I take advantage of a drunk person, willing or not, married or not. I've never been a huge fan of using my charm as a weapon for evil, and always felt like having sex while the other party was drunk/high/whatever was wrong.
But it has almost never stopped me.
After fifteen minutes of awkwardness, I'm pulling my pants on and she's already losing consciousness. She's good about passing out after drinking heavily, but I needed her to know I was leaving. I gently grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into a sitting position.
Her eyes lit up and scared the hell out of me. Something in her had reacted just the right way and she was sober. Very sober. And very aware of what was about to happen. She pushed herself up gently and wrapped her legs underneath herself, as was her habit. It always made me twitch to see that, because my inability to do it without my legs going to sleep made me jealous.
"Don't go," she said weakly. "I don't know how I'm going to handle the kids by myself."
"You have your mom and your sister. We've worked out the whole schedule. I'm paying Kelsey to come over three days this week and take the kids to school and daycare. Everything will be fine," I said apathetically. We've had this talk too many times for her to have this last second plea. It's already grown old in my head and I began checking out of the conversation already.
I glanced at her alarm clock. It was nearing 4 am, and I had mentally promised myself I would be on the road by 3:45. My nerves heightened, but I forced them back down and reminded myself this was a vacation. I'm allowed to come and go as I please.
"But what happens if you get into trouble? What if you get hurt, or you have a bad run-in with the cops?" She's raising her voice involuntarily. She doesn't realize that she's panicking a little.
I do.
Saphron had a knack for turning into a damsel in distress without realizing it. I now understand that this is a learned trait she developed to counter my need to be apathetic until someone NEEDS my help. I'm willing to bet that if I put real effort into it that I could place when and where this trait began working to her advantage, probably without her realizing it, but that's whole different story.
"I'll be fine." I pulled the shirt over my head, the final piece of clothing necessary for public engagement. "I've done this before, remember?"
I sat on the bed and kissed her forehead. I knew how dangerous that forehead kiss was and I use it to my advantage. Something about it always calms the receiving end of that kiss. It had never failed me before and it didn't fail me now.
She sat back against our headboard and smiled her weak little smile at me. "Please be careful," she said while pulling the comforter over her legs and slumping down into a laying position. She pulled the pillow against her face, as was her habit, and mashed a fist under the pillow so that her face was upturned to look at me. She's still fully clothed and slipping back into her inebriated state.
I grab the packpack and throw it over my shoulder. I could feel here eyes on me as she watches me take over-excited steps around the room. She patiently waits for me to repond. I open the bedroom door silently, as not to wake our kids in the next bedroom. I turned and smiled back at her that dangerous smile I know I'm capable of. The one out of the side of my mouth. The one that waits for just the right moment to make an appearance because I know it has an affect similar to the forehead kiss.
I weighed the amount of emotion I wanted to put on my favorite answer to this plea. I could feel the word roll around my tongue like room temperature whiskey. It sat and played with the back of my throat for a second, then escaped my lips like velvet: just the right volume, just the right sarcasm, and just the right amount of confidence:
"Never."
I don't know how many installments it's going to take me, but I'm willing to give it a shot either way.
So. The obligatory preface:
1st, I'm on a computer with no spell-check. I know, I know. I should be awesome by myself. Sometimes even the best need some assistance every now and again. I'll do my damned-est to keep the punctuation and spelling errors to a minimum, but if I slip up, give me a little bit of slack.
2nd, Much like my Vegas story, I intend to have dialogue in Playwright form if I can't remember exactly what was said. I remember the general context of most conversations, those that are worth noting at least, but not always the correct words, so bear with me.
3rd, I'm going to use real names and exactly the emotions that I felt about them. This is not going to be pretty for some people, so I would expect that if I've given you the right to see this that some discretion would be in order, at least for the time being.
4th, Which is more of an addendum to the 3rd, is that I plan to spare some detail concerning physical activities. I could go on a rant about the encounter that will inevitably happen, but that would be more destructive than constructive, so I'll say now: Yes I did have sex with my ex-wife, and while it was physically pleasing, it was emotionally draining. Glad we got that out there.
Lastly, this is going to need to come in installments. I've considered just hammering this all out in one shot, but feel I would not be giving the story due justice. So much happened in such a small amount of time. So many feelings and sights and sounds. I feel like I can flex my artistic muscle a little at a time, and hopefully grow a little bit in each one, so that when I'm finished I have a collective work that I'm proud of.
Without further ado;
California Part 1
3:00 am. Sunday, March 10, 2012.
I awoke with vigor. I usually awake a groggy mess determined to stab the first warm body that asks me a dumb question, but today was special. I awoke determined and nervous and anxious. It was like Christmas morning except I didn't have a gaggle of gifts waiting for me: I had the open road and a real adventure.
I had taken long roads trips before. A few years prior I had managed to get across the country to the Atlantic Ocean. I had planned out that trip to the smallest detail; every stop, every pee-break, every cup of coffee. It was my first time doing it and I wanted to be sure that I had everything accounted for and no mistakes were made, but this trip was different. I didn't have a family member or friend stationed every 6 hours along the way. There were no warm beds that would serve as rest stops for me. There would be large stretches of vast America that I would be crossing that meant I had to be determined. I needed to keep my wits about me, my chin forward, and eyes steady. I had to be ready for this or this trip would swallow me whole.
I had prepared as much as I could for the journey. I had dutifully checked Google maps every day (about 10 times a day) in a Howard hughes-esque fasion. I routed and re-routed and re-routed the path I would be taking, countering for every minute possibility. I needed to know traffic and weather and cattle. I wanted to know elevation points and populations. It had quickly become my obsession.
Over the past few weeks I was determined not to have hiccups. I knew that being by myself in the middle of nowhere would quickly turn into a serious situation and I was trying to prevent any possible negative outcomes.
My bag was packed the night before. The "Big Backpack of Doom" as I've grown to call it was my best friend and worst enemy. It was small enough to be carry-on for most airlines, but large enough for me to comfortably carry a month worth of clothing. It could handle three Xbox 360s (sad that I have to make that reference, but a true story none-the-less), and would often stick far enough off my back to equate giving a 10-year-old a piggyback ride. But I never travel without it. It had helped me through ten states, two continents, and countless plane rides already. I wasn't going anywhere without my Big Backpack of Doom.
I glance at it as I get out of bed. My brain needed reassurance that this was actually happening as I force my body out of a lying position. It sat in the corner of the already messy room. Sporadic clothes create tiny shadows on the carpet, cast by the slits of false lighting seeping through the wood blinds. "We live too close to the pool," I thought. I couldn't really see the backpack so much as I could make out the dark figure stoically waiting for me to put it to use. My brain cast odd illusions that maybe it was a zombie curled into the fetal position and waiting for my unsuspecting warmth to turn my back.
I stood and humphed at myself as I stumbled to the shower. I hated our bathroom. Sure, it was large enough to be comfortable, with a double sink and brand new tiling against the large mirror, but the vanity lights and constant hassle of female products always made me a little more angry every time I walked in there. I quickly turned on the water and hopped in.
Now the shower is what I loved. For the obvious male reasons, yes, but also because the ancient shower head created water pressure equal to a fire hose. I'm positive that soap and shampoo weren't necessary. One could stand underneath the pressure of the water and have a layer of skin removed. It also built up a fair amount of steam quite quickly, effectively turning the entire bathroom into a sauna and draining my sinus.
Instead of my normal routine of standing with my face against the ceramic, I quickly ran through the motions and hopped out excited. I was drying off and realized that my [ex]wife wasn't present.
It was Sunday morning, and it was VERY early. She would be stumbling in any second.
You see, Saphron and I took turns going out on Saturdays. We would alternate weekends so that one would watch the kids and the other could spend time with friends, or go see a movie, or do whatever that took our mind off being an adult. It had proved to be an effective system that we enjoyed quite a bit. These small breaks away from each other helped us appreciate one another more and more.
Today was different.
I had concocted the idea that we could use our vacations to our advantage: I would take a solo vacation in Spring, we would take one as a family in Summer, and she would take a solo vacation in Fall. She had agreed, using our every-other-weekend model as an example as to how this could work out. We had heard some negative reactions to this plan. Her family and a few friends had expressed their general distaste for our current every-other-weekend arrangement, likening it to shared custody, and especially didn't appreciate our plan to go on separate vacations. This was what I think sold her on doing it. If anything, Saphron is naturally stubborn. She loves being told she can't do something. She'll never be smug to your face, but I'll be damned if she didn't love doing a little dance at home when she's right and you're wrong.
But today was different.
I had grown accustomed to Saphron staying out later than necessary. She had few freedoms she was afforded as a young mother. She had our son at 19, and was forced into a life that didn't give much attention to relaxing. When she did go out she'd always make a shallow promise at coming home at a reasonable hour and not being too inebriated. I knew how empty these promises were, but couldn't hold it against her; the now 24-year-old never got to be a rambunctious 21-year-old. When she got the opportunity to go out it was like she was living vicariously through her friends, and her excess in drinking was becoming a normalcy.
So there she was. I emerged from our bathroom clean and naked. Side note: I like being naked. There is something about being without constraint that I enjoy far too much, but I digress. I was towel drying my hair and caught sight of her Pumas first. I pulled the towel off my face a bid her a gentle good morning, as it was about 3:30 am. I moved the towel from my face to my torso and look at her full-on. She's in a loose fit pair of jeans and a bright red baby-doll fit t-shirt I bought her in Daytona Beach, Florida. Across the front are the words "Daytona Beach Lifeguard" with a large, white medical cross. She never like the design, but she loved the way it fit her.
She closed our bedroom door without breaking eye contact and pushed the knob in locking the door, and raised her eyebrows at the exact moment the door *clicked*. She gave me the best seductive face she could muster, which is rather cartoonish I might add, and began walking toward me in an exaggerated walk, ankle over ankle, not too far off from a runway model in heels.
Except she was in Pumas and this looked hilarious.
I cracked a grin and stifled a full smile just as she got within arm's reach. This was my mistake. I knew better.
Drunk Saphron is a ball of emotion. She never had a month-long stint of alcohol that serves as the Rite of Passage that most go through. She was still learning how to handle her emotions whilst inebriated. Any small thing could either set her into tears, fits of anger, violent rages, or laughter - there was no telling. I still joke that Drunk Saphron is her own episode of COPS (and I know I'm not too far from the truth).
With my stifled laugh I started an emotional fit. To my luck, it was one I could handle.
Her shoulders went limp and she slumped forward, placing her forehead on my bare chest. Her arms were dead weight and hanging from her stooped shoulders giving physical hyperbole to her obvious emotion. Her naturally curly hair was a mess and surrounded her face against my chest so I couldn't see her eyes. The hair always tickled. I could smell the stench of the bar on her: faint smoke, bad vodka, and sweat.
That smell of the bar is similar to the smell of sex in the sense that when you're in it, that smell intoxicates you. It drives to push further and live more in the moment, but from the outside, or after everything is said and done, you want nothing to do with it. As I'd just vacated the shower, having her this close to me was mildly disgusting.
Saphron: You always make fun of me.
Me: You always give me a reason.
Saphron: If you'll lay down on the bed I'll show you a reason (she says lifting her head, and with an overly-obvious wink).
Me: I need to get dressed. If you'd have come home earlier, like you said you would, I would be happy to oblige.
Saphron: Oh, shut up and lay down (she's full-on beaming now).
Being the testosterone driven person I am, I listen. A little piece of me dies every time I take advantage of a drunk person, willing or not, married or not. I've never been a huge fan of using my charm as a weapon for evil, and always felt like having sex while the other party was drunk/high/whatever was wrong.
But it has almost never stopped me.
After fifteen minutes of awkwardness, I'm pulling my pants on and she's already losing consciousness. She's good about passing out after drinking heavily, but I needed her to know I was leaving. I gently grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into a sitting position.
Her eyes lit up and scared the hell out of me. Something in her had reacted just the right way and she was sober. Very sober. And very aware of what was about to happen. She pushed herself up gently and wrapped her legs underneath herself, as was her habit. It always made me twitch to see that, because my inability to do it without my legs going to sleep made me jealous.
"Don't go," she said weakly. "I don't know how I'm going to handle the kids by myself."
"You have your mom and your sister. We've worked out the whole schedule. I'm paying Kelsey to come over three days this week and take the kids to school and daycare. Everything will be fine," I said apathetically. We've had this talk too many times for her to have this last second plea. It's already grown old in my head and I began checking out of the conversation already.
I glanced at her alarm clock. It was nearing 4 am, and I had mentally promised myself I would be on the road by 3:45. My nerves heightened, but I forced them back down and reminded myself this was a vacation. I'm allowed to come and go as I please.
"But what happens if you get into trouble? What if you get hurt, or you have a bad run-in with the cops?" She's raising her voice involuntarily. She doesn't realize that she's panicking a little.
I do.
Saphron had a knack for turning into a damsel in distress without realizing it. I now understand that this is a learned trait she developed to counter my need to be apathetic until someone NEEDS my help. I'm willing to bet that if I put real effort into it that I could place when and where this trait began working to her advantage, probably without her realizing it, but that's whole different story.
"I'll be fine." I pulled the shirt over my head, the final piece of clothing necessary for public engagement. "I've done this before, remember?"
I sat on the bed and kissed her forehead. I knew how dangerous that forehead kiss was and I use it to my advantage. Something about it always calms the receiving end of that kiss. It had never failed me before and it didn't fail me now.
She sat back against our headboard and smiled her weak little smile at me. "Please be careful," she said while pulling the comforter over her legs and slumping down into a laying position. She pulled the pillow against her face, as was her habit, and mashed a fist under the pillow so that her face was upturned to look at me. She's still fully clothed and slipping back into her inebriated state.
I grab the packpack and throw it over my shoulder. I could feel here eyes on me as she watches me take over-excited steps around the room. She patiently waits for me to repond. I open the bedroom door silently, as not to wake our kids in the next bedroom. I turned and smiled back at her that dangerous smile I know I'm capable of. The one out of the side of my mouth. The one that waits for just the right moment to make an appearance because I know it has an affect similar to the forehead kiss.
I weighed the amount of emotion I wanted to put on my favorite answer to this plea. I could feel the word roll around my tongue like room temperature whiskey. It sat and played with the back of my throat for a second, then escaped my lips like velvet: just the right volume, just the right sarcasm, and just the right amount of confidence:
"Never."