u s e y o u r h a n d s

The stand off continued. Day 720.

“These people are fucking inexhaustible,” said the Chief, chomping on a Power Bar.

The Kid grunted in agreement as he unwrapped a burger. “I sorta admire that, though. Even though it’s costing me a badass St. Paddy’s Day party.”

Fucking Kid, thought the Chief. “What kind of mick are you, Kid? Don’t it get you all riled up, these fucking — what do they call themselves?”

“Advocates,” said the Kid, catching a pickle danging from the burger with his tongue.

The Chief pounded on the dashboard. It sounded like cracking open an Easter egg.

“Advocates! After seven hundred and twenty motherfucking days, who even gives a shit? There’s no more cameras, no more reporters.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Kid struggling to clear his throat to respond, but he cut him off at the knees. “And before you give me more of that ‘principle’ crap, let me remind you again of the party you’re missing.

The Kid finally swallowed. “It’s only a party,” he said into his burger wrapper.

The Chief got of the car in a huff, slamming the door behind him. It shook the whole car. The Kid scrambled out after him. The Chief kicked the dirt around him and the clouds made the Kid’s eyes water.

“Only a party, mick? Let me tell you what these pansy activists — ”

“Advocates.”

“Fucking advocates! Fucking pansy-ass advocates are going to take your St. Patrick’s Day celebration away from you? This is the one stinkin’ day a year that you get to celebrate your ancestors, Kid. And it’s gone. Just like it was last year. Maybe you won’t ever get to raise a pint to the starving Irish dogs who dragged their tired bodies here so you could grow up with a full belly. But if you’re okay with that, then go ahead. Keep on praising these fucking advocates.”

The Kid stared open-mouthed at the Chief. “Wow. I guess I just never thought of it that way, Chief.”

“Yeah, Kid. I know.” The Chief kicked a pebble and it skittered up to the door of the barricaded office building.

A shot fired inside. And then another. That first brutal noise erupted into a raging stream of violence.

“Boy howdy, Kid. You may make that party after all!” exclaimed the Chief, running to hide behind the car.

I burned my fingerprints off in the fourth grade during a science fair project. I was testing different types of fabrics to see which was the most naturally fire-retardant (wool, it turned out) and — oh, wait. That wasn’t how I burned my fingerprints off at all!

Someone had left a metal pot lid on top of a burner. And the burner was on. I was doing dishes and grabbed the pot lid, whichi fused instantly to the skin on my fingertips. I flung it off and the lid landed on the kitchen linoleum. Knowing that my father would rather have my hands burned than the linoleum, I picked it up again and threw it into the sink. And for a few years after that, my fingerprints were smudgy.

This is around the time that I developed a fascination with the Mafia. I loved anything about the Mob and had a vague idea that I could be a famous female hitman. Hitwoman. And I’m not sure if it is because of this weird childhood fancy or innate paranoia, but to to this day I have a hard time sitting with my back to a door.

And here’s where the title of this blog entry comes into play.

I sit about fifteen feet away from the back door to my office, which is in constant use because it is close to the bathrooms. Every time it is about to be opened from the outside, it makes two preemtive beeps. And I peek out from between my opaque office divider to see who it is. Although it is always one of my twoscore of coworkers. Sometimes they see me peek out. We make eye contact and then look away again. I am reassured.

This is one of the many reasons I enjoy working here. Another is free Diet Coke.

With the pebble trapped under her big toe, she wrote her name in the warm sand. And then erased it. She stood back to look at the smudges she’d made and regretted writing her name entirely. She regretted her name.

So she decided that the next thing she was called, she’d go by forever. And with that decision made, she went on with her day. The first stop was the grocery store. She got in her car.

Unfortunately, she was a very, very bad driver.

The CFO shut the door quietly, holding on to the handle and turning the latch slowly. He leaned his head against the door and studied the way the door met the floor. A sigh, and he returned to his desk and opened a drawer.

The CFO took out the plastic bag and set them on his blotter. A sigh, and he removed some of its contents. It had been a very long time since the last time he’d done it.

Slowly, the CFO stuck a slivered almond between each of his teeth. He felt his lips rest ever so hesitantly, like a fat woman on wicker, on the almond barbs. And one by one, they snapped. Like heaven.

The opening violin made her eyes cringe. She did not blink so her tears met the air and battled. Here came the guitar, which caused the ache in her left knee. It hurt so much it twitched. And then the piano that left her nose runny. Her tongue went like windshield wipers to her mucus.

Then the oboes. Then the bass. Then the flute. Twitching, running, cringing, hurting. The song that reminded her of nothing but him turned her into an unexpected symphony. And she played it over and over.

Watch out, or else this ideological sea change will snatch you in its nasty undertow.