So in the different layers of souls and energies that I keep in the fabric around me, the "dial my number when shit hits the fan" friends are like my base layers. They aren't always visible, but they are certainly essential. Over my base layers are naturally several other layers of light and dark that make up my little bit of daily radiation. Now, besides all the immediate and more permanently close weaves of lives and loves, I like to think that everyone I have ever encountered in my life makes up this wild stash of blankets that I can pull over onto myself from time to time. It's like I've learned a lot of really good and bad things from people who have come and gone in my life, and those things never get thrown out. I try to keep them folded away for later recall and extra warmth if need be.
So where the hell am I going with this damn stoner analogy? Oh yeah, my wine/phone date! I've lately been making a ton of reconnections with people I've not been in contact with for a long time. And one in particular has been an incredible comfort and inspiration. Let's see if this makes any sense. The blanket that this woman's soul weaved for me was really more like a tough animal hide. Back when I hung out with her, she was always someone I looked up to from a self-confidence point of view. Yo, basically, this bitch was, and still is in my opinion, quite the bad ass! From what I remembered of her, she was a strong, bold, take no bullshit, give no bullshit, kind of woman. And on top of that, she was just down right gorgeous. Anytime her name would come up over the years, I would always couple that with this memory of a beautiful hardcore woman that could probably kick your ass. So there is no way her blanket would have been wool or any sort of typical fibrous weave. Chick is definitely a leather throw!
Okay, so here is an interesting tidbit of information about my leather blanket woman. And I suppose my attempts at keeping her anonymous are probably fucked up because some people are sure to figure out who she is from this story, but I can't possibly leave this goody out of the blog. At one point, I actually worked for her. She was working at a temp agency, and I was living a rather unstable life at the time. Without going into too much detail, it's easy enough to say that most nights my head rested on more couch cushions and upholstered car seats than it did on pillows or mattresses. "Home" was hard to define as I spent time in various states to fulfill, um ... legal obligations ... enough about that. Anyway, I asked her to please not place me anywhere that business or business casual attire was necessary, because I just didn't have it, nor was I quite ready to part with all the damn metal in my face (yes, I went through a ridiculously pierced phase). So I was given assignments that were more manual labor intense, which I had no problem with. One day, she calls me up with an address and contact person to go see for work. I arrive at a Kinko's Copy Center and ask for the manager. Apparently, my job for that day was to clean out all the air ceiling vents in the store. Again, I had no problem doing this work, but I didn't exactly have the right supplies for the job. I guess he was expecting an individual armed with cleaning supplies. All he got was a thuggish sneaker clad young lady without even a bucket or a sponge. After making it clear that I would use whatever he had for me to clean with, he hands me a folding chair and a canister vacuum. Soooo, the ceilings in the Kinko's had to be, oh, at least a good 15 feet high. I am 5'4", and the folding chair he gave me was a standard couple of feet to the seat. You don't have to be Asian to do the math here. Luckily, I wasn't afraid of possible limb breakage of any sort, because used Kinko's giant formatting tables to put the damn chair on top of to reach the vents with enough angle to clean them appropriately. At the time, I could have cared less how stupid it was because I needed moolah.
The day went on, and as I approached my final vent, the manager came over to chat with me just as I was balancing the canister vacuum on the back of the folding chair. I don't know for sure if he just knew I really needed the money or if I was just the first person he asked, but he told me of another opportunity to make money for Kinko's. That coming weekend, there was a conference at the convention center being held by the local Chamber of Commerce. Kinko's needed a representative to advertise for them. Now, maybe I did look like a monkey climbing all over the shit in his store to clean some air ducts, but a gorilla? Yes, the Kinko's representative they were looking for was an individual who would don the Kinko's gorilla costume and wander the convention with a giant Kinko's sign. I have never been "above" any job in my lifetime as long as there was a paycheck attached to it. So I agreed.
The next day, I went back to the store to pick up the gorilla costume. The thing looked hot, and I'm NOT talking about, "Damn, that's hot!". I'm talking about "Shit, I'm gonna sweat balls in that thing!" I brought it back to my girlfriend's apartment to try it on. Much to my dismay, the thing fit ... well, not just fit ... but the damn thing FIT PERFECTLY. It fit so well, in fact, it was like my naked ass body was covered in fur. I stood there in front my roommates, furry as hell, ready for the comments from the peanut gallery. I'm sure my eat shit and die face didn't help the situation, but the laughter that filled that room was enough to drown out the grunts that escaped from under my breath. Dude, that damn suit was so form-fitting that if I had had any more than my gym shorts and a t-shirt on underneath, I would have never been able to zip it up. Never mind the fact that it was so tight that fucking Johnny Cochran could surely have gotten me out of a murder conviction. I was just damn lucky that there was a gorilla head to go with this costume.
The next morning was the convention day, and sliding into the furry body suit wasn't any less disconcerting. Therefore, in an attempt to ease my anxiety of facing the city in fuzzy nakedness, I decided to smoke up. Let's just say it loosened me up enough to get me comfortable and into character. So there I am, in the convention center, Kinko's sign in hand, prancing around lanyard-sporting tourists with a gorilla's gait. Naturally, it got very warm in this suit very quickly. Luckily, there was a spot where I could rest, have water, and remove the gorilla head without being seen by the masses. Here's where the "damnit, Jen, why did you have to go and get high before this job" question hits me. I had no choice but take numerous breaks throughout the day. It was scheduled as a 7 to 7 gig for Christ's sake! For anyone who has read any of my other posts, you already know that I am quite used to a daily dose of humiliation, and this day was no exception. It must have been sometime in the early afternoon right after a water break. I was recharged and ready to monkey-it-up for the crowd. So I grabbed my sign and headed out from around the curtain that made up my break room. Keep in mind that I was asked not to speak and simply ham it up for the convention-goers. I have no problem doing this, as I generally embrace being the center of attention. Anyway, there I am, all up in my naked fuzziness, channeling the posture of our ape-like ancestors, mouthing grunts, beating my chest, swinging my arms to and fro, scratching my fake gorilla head ... oh, wait ... that felt like my soft and silky straight black Asian hair ... FUCK MY LIFE! Just as I realized that I did NOT in fact remember to put on the head of the costume, I was already wrapped around some guy's leg, performing what I thought was my best monkey show ever. If you have never seen how animated I can be when I blush, wait until you can catch me blushing on top of being stoned in a fur suit while trying to peel myself off of an innocent man's leg. The sound was familiar, almost exactly the same as the sound I heard in my girlfriend's living room the day before ... only much, MUCH louder. The second I was upright, I looked around at my smiling audience, took a graceful bow, and ran like a bat out of hell back to my curtained retreat to fetch the only part of my costume that served to maintain any sort of anonymity. After collecting myself a bit "backstage", I trotted back out to finish my job only to be greeted by a flashbulb from the local newspaper's cameraman ... Thank fucking Jeebus I had the head back on! Suddenly, I didn't feel so naked anymore.
Okay okay, back to my leather blanket woman. So, as luck would have it, after about 10 years of not having spoken to her, I find myself on the phone with her last week. Being on the phone for almost 2 hours, one would think most of the time would have been spent reminiscing, but this wasn't so with her. It was mostly spent attempting to provide summaries of our lives and what they had been like over the last 10 years. Here is exactly why I was not wrong in my analogy of how I remembered her. I've been in touch with many of my old acquaintances over the years, and the majority of them have created a wonderful life and place in the world for themselves, all of which I am very happy for. I don't want to say anyone has lost their passion, because that's really not the case, but I will say that many of them have changed or focused their passion in a different direction. I think the Steve's would agree (wink wink -- points the reader in the direction of a previous blog entry). So here is this strong hardcore woman, telling me of the rows she has hoed over last decade or so, and I could not pinpoint a single redirection of passion or drive. Hell, if anything, she's going harder and stronger than I can even remember! So I sat to take in all that she decided to share with me, and I made a comment to her. It was something along the lines of, "Dude, you were always so self-confident and strong, and I always admired you for that." I wouldn't have been surprised if her next story was one about her single-handedly wrestling a bull to the ground. But I was wrong, our conversation took a turn about our own vulnerabilities and weaknesses, and we began to relate on a more real and open level. This tough leather blanket suddenly felt like one of the softest polartec fleeces I'd ever wrapped myself up with. It was so nice to have an open and interested ear on the phone, and it was even more comforting to catch up with a really cool old friend that has lived up to and even gone beyond the initial impression she made on me over a decade ago. What's more is that learning more about her than I ever knew before managed to morph my fabric layer analogy of her. Oh no, bitch is STILL leather for sure! But she is no blanket anymore. I'd like to think of her more like a motorcycle vest with a soft fuzzy lining. So thank you, my dear. You know who you are.
Oh, and yes, every single person I have ever met provides some layer of warmth to me. However, I'm not so sure I would think of anyone in the category of fuzzy body suit. Yo, that's just a little too close for my comfort ;-)
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