Indianapolis, IN – “Spooning my way up the East Coast” –  The Patio – November 2, 2000

Jay (not his real name) is beside me when I wake up, humming softly as he tucks a rogue curl behind my ear. He is wonderful. We played “The Patio” last night in Indianapolis. I’ve been spooning my way up the East Coast in an effort to forget Sam. My nights have been a patchwork of borrowed arms, stitched together—one set handing me off to the next in a “Sally” (re)assembaly line. Somehow, I’ve managed to recruit a handful of willing participants to do nothing more than hold me—fully clothed—while I sleep. They are my heroes, offering their warmth despite the fact I have little, if anything, to give in return. They know my limits—no more than a snuggle, maybe the occasional kiss and that I’ll disappear by morning, my mind preoccupied, my heart outlined in chalk. Yet, they take me as I am—broken down, broken into.
Jay’s steady presence anchors me into the quiet morning. He kisses my ear and pulls another errant curl away from my face. I cling to these small, tender moments like lifebuoys in a storm.

At 1 PM, I’m sitting at Vinnie’s Italian Kitchen/Bar with the band. A bowl of soft, blond, mozzarella cheese covers a layer of french fries which are lumped atop five huge, steaming, buttery slabs of chicken composed on a wilting bed of iceberg lettuce. I guess this is the grilled chicken salad I ordered? Kyle, sitting beside me, tries to hold back his laughter as my meal is laid before me but it pokes through his lips with little lawnmower sputters and a few apologetic tears. The waitress glares at him with indignation, her manish sideburns peeking out from under a backward baseball cap. I’m on the hands-free cell phone with my mom and she wants to know what’s so funny. “Cheese Bowl,” I tell her without further explaination and Kyle lets out another sputter through tightly clenched fingers.

Above the bar, a country music station plays on a widescreen TV, featuring flawless stars in cowboy hats dancing on dusty roads next to haystacks and stables. The air inside Vinnie’s is thick with smoke. Everyone is puffing between bites making the carcinogenic haze seem like part of the decor. Outside, it’s humid. Inside, it’s cancerous. It’s hard to taste anything through all the country music let alone the smoke, but after the third bite, I begin to suspect, my cheese-lathered meat might not be chicken after all. I push my plate aside and spontaneously climb onto the booth bench. I start lip-syncing to the 80s tune that’s interrupted the country playlist. “I know what boys like, I know what guys want,” I mime, my gestures syrupy with exaggerated seduction. The guys laugh, their amusement loud and unrestrained. The other patrons, however, look at me like I’ve just landed from Mars. To them, I must be an alien in my blue aviator sunglasses, green felt hippie shoes, glitter in an undone downtown dinner in middle-of-nowhere Indiana.

But after my performance ended with a flourish — hip wagging, arms in the sky — Na na na na na-ing a few customers applauded and one old guy gave me a standing ovation.