Spring Break '06: Nose Karate

'Tis a love story...


Spring Break ‘06: Nose Karate


The Pier One / Pottery Barn wannabe coaster sailed downward through the basement stairwell in a trajectory one would expect from a saucer still rotating at max rpms when crossing the bottom stair; that the launch mechanism was more spastic-psycho girlfriend than discus-wielding olympian seemed to matter little. She had flung it by way of punctuation, gracing the end of her last sentence in the desire to provide a more tactile explanation mark for both of us. (Doesn’t screaming already imply explanation marks are to be assumed?) She didn’t know I was about to turn that blind corner below with my “I’m leaving” overnight bag already packed - who can think of such things when hurling invective from the top of a stairwell? - and I was entirely naive to the fact that punctuation had now acquired mass. It had already been a long night, for me, that vibrant spring morning.

Crack! My most prominent Jewish appendage snapped that flying woodchip in two. Another nanosecond and I might have done more than just witness the flight path; instead, I got broken skin and tickled cartilage, and took my moistening face outside as she was about to drive off for work. At the time it made sense to start finger-painting the windshield of our car with the crimson spouting from my nose, looking at her in the driver’s seat and asking the goofy, rhetorical questions that come up in these situations. I’ve no doubt those in our little neighborhood driving by on their way to work also got a charge out of it, one way or another.

I went inside, and she followed, and I giggled as she apologized. I said I was still leaving, for a day or two, and she said she didn’t mean it. (Hijole! Drawing blood was the least of my problems - if only she didn’t mean all that other stuff!). I suggested she go on to work; that if her behind stayed behind much longer I’d just nail her. From behind.

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Funny thing about the personnel at weekly motels: they never much react when you check in. In fact, you wouldn’t know that you look as disheveled as you do if forced to make an assessment by gauging their expressions while your debit card is authorized for the daily rate.

Not at all far from my beautiful Seattle home, I had nonetheless teleported to that twin universe where people get their rent together every seven days: a modest little boarding house with a Highway 99 off ramp underscoring the property line’s western boundary. If turned to liquid, it could have served as my personal moat against heathen onslaughts stemming from the other side of Aurora Avenue (the Ballardian Invasions).

I signed a slip and grabbed my key, and tossed a foam cup with the vile remnants of the coffee one procures in a lobby entered through sliding glass doors, thanking Mr. Toothy Handyman-Desk clerk as I left. Several tries at the door to my room proved futile, and I obtained a second key from Toothy, one that did not say “Room 104” but nonetheless unlocked that room’s door. I glanced about the windows and door jambs, check for carpet stains that appear to resemble chalklines, etc., as I set down my bag and guitar. It was actually very clean, and, silently, I was quite thankful.

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And then that little game commences, the folly of What Do I Want To Do? now that the worst is temporarily over and the little buy-in at the fancy crack house allows fleeting strands of independence, anonymity and selfishness to shine through. A sad take, really, on what one might consider adequate sustenance if mentally beaten down enough, though that analysis really has no place in this moment.

Years spent obsessing over the needs of others, whether in the kitchen, or in the car, or while determined to quit a job that’s killing you only to instead suck it up again for one more night; these are the things that propel you, perhaps with honor, or perhaps with heart disease. Who knows? Perhaps you just morph into some lummox-like creature who is barely smart enough to realize pressing forward yields more returns for your dependents than falling down. One thing, however, is abundantly clear: it matters not at the little motel by the highway that afternoon, only that you know you would have marched to your death upholding a commitment made if it wasn’t so often and flagrantly cast aside by others, and the early morning nonsense by your kooky girlfriend is just a little more icing on a cake repeatedly thrown through the woodchipper.

(Doesn’t Omelette Theory have a Woodchipper Corollary?)

And so you celebrate your self-emancipation by laying back on a bedspread that would normally gross you out, and you open the windows and turn on the TV and you don’t give a fuck if it’s the NewsHour with Jim Lehrer or the retarded hour with Judge Judy, because stress-free air is enveloping the room and you can’t recall the last time any of that entered your lungs while sober, and larger questions about what happened to a life once filled with so much promise are cast aside as you revel in the foolish joy of buying dinner for one for once. Peace through absurdity, you think while smirking.

After awhile, your girlfriend comes over and you share a few beers together, and she receives the spanking she rightly deserves before being sent back to the house. When morning comes, you gather your notebooks and reading material, guitar and toothbrush, and the few other accouterments deemed necessary for short-term, backpack survival, and you head home without ceremony.

You’re still an adult, lummox.


Copyright 2007 Jexican Publishing. All Rights Reserved.