Storybook

12-One Fine Summer

We're on another of our late-night walks. I got here from work at about midnight to find a whole bunch of punk kids I didn't know hanging out. We're gonna cruise across town, probably ending up at the beach for sunrise like we usually do. I'm totally up for that, even though I've just spent eight hours on my feet. I love our night walks, everyone seems more free and relaxed than when we're hanging out inside.

Some of the new kids are complaining that that is WAY too far to walk; true it's several miles, especially if they come all the way back here, but that's the fun of it! The boys chide and belittle them until they all agree to come. I just laugh in the background, adding to their shame.

So we head out, 20-odd or so kids walking down the middle of the residential streets in the dead of night. I've got beer in my pack that I'm sharing with Johnna and Janet, most of the others are smoking pot. We walk on 21st across town, from Cambie to Arbutus. After Granville we start down towards the water, moving diagonally. There's arguments when we reach Oak because some of the boys want to avoid Shaughnessy. It's a very snooty, rich neighbourhood (in fact a whole bunch of kids from our high school went there, which is -I think- what's causing the dissention) and the streets don't run regularly. It's all convoluted to prevent through-traffic. But to go around is a MAJOR detour, and if we bypass it on the lower street (16th) it's not as pretty of a walk after that. Finally the discussions are settled and we cut through the area, but by just skirting it.

It's not that we're worried we're not welcome (which we surely are not), it's just that Shaughnessy is like this weird bastion of wealth and excess that seems totally out of place with the regular working or middle class streets we just came though. It's true that there is an obvious increase in wealth as we move west across the city, but not nearly to the fantastic degree enjoyed here. We scoot through in a hurry, not really being quiet but not being nearly as rowdy as we are on the regular streets. After a few blocks we're at Granville and back in regular neighbourhoods again. It's super-late and we hardly encounter anyone; those few folks we do see getting out of their cars after their own late nights quickly scurry into their homes upon seeing a large mob of punk kids coming towards them.

Good times.

At one point Trevor (of course, the perpetual trouble-maker) thinks it's funny to smack all the cars. He sets off the alarms for three blocks straight before he tires of the game. I think that's kind of stupid, but whatever. This is a kid that revels in getting "escorted" out of the mall by security guards.

It's starting to get light out when we reach the beach; a few of the new kids are tired and they start to split off home. How can they do that? this is the best part! I want to have a seat on the sand. All the beer is gone and there's nothing to do but enjoy the dawn and awakening city. But apparently this is boring, and after much discussion it's decided we'll go for breakfast. By now it's just us core group. We find a little place and are met with raised eyebrows at our anti-fashion style.

I don't really have any money. I mean, I have lots of money but I'm not spending it to eat breakfast at this place. I can eat at home, or later today at work. (I just realized why I was so hungry all the time, and why I was so thin when I started college in September.. Silly girl) We're looking over the menu - I'm trying to decide what's worth spending my money on. Even the toast . ..  I mean for $2 I could buy a whole loaf of bread! I don't like that idea - when the waitress asks what we'd like to drink.

"I'll have a large coke with small ice."

"I'll have a small coke with no ice."

"Large coke with medium ice please."

The boys order makes me chuckle. The waitress just rolls her eyes and walks away, but Janet chastises them for their display. Apparently she thinks this is some kind of schtick that they have practiced before. I dunno, it was new to me and I thought it was funny, but try to stop laughing as Janet makes her point. Not sure why she's so irritated, she always picks the weirdest moments to start being difficult.

Everyone just orders small things so I feel justified in having a muffin. The waitress tries to complain that we're not ordering enough; we have to order a full breakfast.

Instant disagreement from the boys. I have to side with them this time; the restaurant is hardly full, in fact there's only one other table besides us! You can't tell people to order more when you don't have a line-up. I don't like causing a ruckus in eating establishments, but I also don't like being treated like a pariah just because we're kids with unusual style. There's no one else waiting for this table, so take our money and be happy about it.

Finally the manager backs down and our orders are given to the kitchen.

When I start falling asleep in my plate I realize it must be time to get to bed. Since we're so much closer, now, to my house than to Johnny Bridal's, I decide to walk up the hill home rather than back with the other kids. Janet hesitates; not sure whether to come with me or go with the others. But I'm just going for a quick nap then I have to be at work for a day-time shift so there's not much point in her coming with me.

We make plans to meet up later, after work, and go our separate ways. My parents are still asleep when I get home, and I happily crawl into my own bed (being sure to first set the alarm for 10:00!).

11-One Fine Summer

We're at the house, hanging out in the afternoon. I have a rare day off work, it's raining and they've closed the dock. I haven't had a time where I'm not either just coming from work, just leaving for work, or getting ready to go to work soon this whole summer. I hardly know what to do with myself.

It's just Kevin, John McCrea, Bill, Janet, Johnna and me. I guess Johnny Bridal is at his dad's. Too bad, I haven't seen him for a while. I like him best out of all the boys, I think. He's not so deliberately weird and flakey. I swear sometimes I think these guys practice being wacky, then they show off for the girls. Or something.

"My shoes are falling apart, I need to get some new ones for work," I say. "I think I want some Keds, they'd be good for walking on the dock and I wouldn't have to wear socks."

"Nooooo!" the boys cry in unison.

"You can't get those," Kevin says. "They're preppy!"

Woah. Ok, first of all, don't tell me what kind of shoes or clothes I can buy. I'm a thousand times more punk rock than you posers. I actually go to gigs, and I stand at the front of the circle around the slam dancers.

"They're not preppy, they're plain. They have no style. It depends on what you wear with them."

"They're part of the preppy uniform! You can't wear those. Go buy some high tops."

I look to Janet for help. I'm always a bit lost when the style police start talking, because I don't deliberately look for clothes that are punk, or shop at punk stores; that's just the style that I like. Plus I CAN'T STAND the super-preppines that's in right now, with the pink and the bobs. It makes me want to barf so I gravitate towards the complete opposite of that. But I don't do it because I want to conform to anything, I just do it because that's what I like.

As usual when she hasn't started the topic Janet hangs me out on a limb, completely staying out of the conversation. It might be a good idea to backpeddle, if I'm going to be stuck in a debate with the three boys by myself.

"I can't wear high tops to work, they're too casual. It's just for work really anyways, so it doesn't matter if people think it's preppy."

Now I've REALLY stepped in it.

"They can't tell you what to wear to work! You shouldn't be working at a job where you can't wear whatever you want."

Christ, we're going to get into a debate about who has a higher level of rebelliousness. That's not really what I intended.

"What do you mean? All jobs tell you what to wear. Even if it's a funky place in Gastown, they might not want you to wear preppy but everyone is still in the same style."

This is a pointless conversation, I'm not about to change jobs to satisfy some teenagers' demands for anti-authoritarianism. I stare at Janet, begging for her support, but she just smokes her cigarette following the conversation intently. Johnna, of course, can't be expected to speak at all.

"Yeah but for those jobs people dress in anti-fashion, so it's cool if they tell you what to wear."

The boys seems satisfied with themselves that they have me stumped.

"No, because you said I shouldn't have a job that tells me what to wear. But what you're really saying is not to have a job that doesn't let you wear black and ripped clothes and safety pins."

Kevin starts a rant, he never makes sense when he does that but he seems to feel he is the epitomy of logic.

"When they tell you to dress preppy then you're working for the man. But when they want you to dress cool then they're enlightened and not all about profits so that's what you should do."

"You know what? Those jobs in those funky places don't pay me enough. I know you guys want to be all outside of authority but I have to pay for school in September. I need a job that pays me enough to do that and if that means I can't dress the way I want all the time then that's the way it is. It's just a job, it's not my life."

I'm starting to get pissed, none of these guys even HAVE jobs, they have no idea what it's like out in the real world.

"Besides, they don't tell me to dress preppy. No one dresses preppy. But I have to be neat and my clothes reasonably presentable. The guys have to wear ties!"

This bring a chorus of shouts. The boys seem to think I've just proved their point.

"Well, I don't care if there's a dress code of sorts. Everything I wear to work is out of my closet, I didn't buy anything specifically for that job. And they never tell me what to do with my hair!"

This week Janet and I shaved steppes into the back of our heads; so there's like six lines climbing from my neck to my crown. My bangs are super-long and I like to back-comb the hell out of them so they're big and fluffy. Just like all the new wave bands.

The boys continue the debate. I speak up once in a while but mostly fade out of the conversation. It doesn't really matter what they say because they are just speaking theoretically while I am operating in reality.

. . .

What is it about boys, that they want to tell you how to be all the time?? They completely overlook who I really am, missing out on my personality entirely, while occasionally giving me intructions that I "should" be like this or like that. Like other girls, you know. As if every fibre of my being doesn't scream individuality!

When I was a kid in Ottawa we used to play street hockey in the autumn. Nothing fancy, it was hard enough to scrape up enough crappy sticks for everyone to play. We used rocks or jackets for goal posts and played with an old tennis ball. I was the only girl, but since there was hardly enough players the boys didn't object to my playing too strongly. After the first game, when it became obvious that I was good, no one raised an eyebrow at my participation.

So we used to get together as often as possible, whenever there was at least eight kids around. Usually it went quite well, with only the occasional arguments about whether that was a goal, or a foul. Then, of course, it had to get ruined.

One afternoon when we were playing some other boys came up with a bunch of good sticks in their hands. We were delighted, and started to re-arrange the teams to absorb the new players. Some of the kids went to put the crappiest sticks on the side of the road.

But no, it wasn't going to be that simple. These boys -lead by one particularly obnoxious bastard- were going to dictate how the game was to be played. Because they were providing the sticks, you see. We all kind of shuffled our feet, unsure of that idea, but not knowing how to tell them to go to hell.

What do you think was the first thing they wanted to change? That's right, I couldn't play anymore. No girls allowed.

"Just stand on the side an watch," said the obnoxious kid with a dismissive wave of his hand that I have always found particularly offensive. It's something that males seem to reserve for females they find tiresome; meant to give the exact impression of just how irrelevant you are. Like a fly, or another bug.

"No, I've been playing since the beginning. You can't tell me I can't play!" I look to the other boys for support. A couple of them speak up meekly but most just look uncomfortable. I'm not surprised, at our age the code is that boys stick with boys always no matter what and girls stick with girls. I put up a good fight, and gave the new boy a run for his money, but steadily lost ground. He did concede, that if I REALLY wanted to play, then I could be goalie.

By now I was so irate at his attitude that I wouldn't accept that. No, I would PLAY, as I had played before, and he couldn't change that. I think at one point one of the other boys tried to tell me that maybe I should bow out gracefully, you know, for the good of all. I let him have it.

"We've been playing perfectly well all this time without this guy, now he comes along with some good sticks and you're willing to just change the way we do things for that??" I sneered. He receeded into the crowd and the other boys mumbled something about, yeah, maybe that wasn't right, but didn't confront the new kid.

So he looked at me, the new kid did, with a scorn greater than his years. What was wrong with me anyways, that I actually WANTED to play hockey? I mean, I'm a girl! I shouldn't even want to play. He actually said to me, at one point when we were in the heated argument, that I should "go play with my dolls". What an asshole!

"I don't wanna play with dolls. That's boring. I want to play hockey."

He turned to the other boys, I think he made some comment about that I'm 'not a girl', which was received with snickers.

So the game started, I got the crappiest stick that was being used, and I spent about 15 minutes running up and down. No one would pass to me, no one would let me close enough to get the ball; in fact they ran in a pack and deliberately avoided me. Even when I was wide open, and I was one of the highest goal scorers of the group. I realized that I was running up and down with a stick in my hand being completely useless, and that pissed me off even more.

Pissed me off so much that I was even more determined not to play goalie, even though I didn't mind taking my turn in the net. Just because that kid had said that and there was no way I was going to let him win.

So I threw my stick down, yelled some insults at them and walked away.

Which didn't help, because the game happened to be outside our house. So up in my bedroom, which faced the street, all I could hear was the shouts and noises of their game. Fuck, I was SO MAD, but there was nothing I could do. Plus I wanted to be outside. So fuck, what could I do? Just stew, I guess.

Their game wasn't going very well. Where, when I was playing, we mostly played and argued a little; now they hardly got a rush going before someone started fighting. I laughed. It got so bad that they couldn't even play 30 seconds without fighting. Haha, I thought to myself.

As the days passed and they kept trying to play, it got worse and worse. To the point that they weren't even playing at all, they were just arguing all the time. And really loud shouting arguments too, that devolved into ugly personal insults, not even about the game. I just laughed. I grabbed my jump rope and went to play on the pavement outside our front steps, a hundred meters down from where they were playing. This was too good to ignore, but I didn't want to just stand there and watch them lose it completely.

Finally one of the dad's from down the street came and told them that they were making too much noise and they couldn't play anymore. The new kid had worked himself into such a lather by fighting with everyone and trying to get everything his way that he turned and started yelling at the dad.

Well. You didn't do that in those days. This was the 70's, remember. It was expected that kids have a certain amount of respect and obedience to all adults. The dad just laid into the kid, and gave him a good scolding. The kid still tried to argue, while the other boys started gathering their sticks and jackets to leave. The dad asked what the hell was the kid's problem, and -if you can believe it- that kid pointed at ME! at me quietly jumping rope in front of my house a couple of hundred feet away. I almost laughed. So. It wasn't that he didn't want me to play, he wanted me to be a useless female and WATCH the big boys playing their game. If I had watched, they would be good and not argue. Because they had a girl to show off for.

That's what boys like that think girls are good for, not for doing, or participating, but for creating an atmosphere to make the guys think they are something special. Fuck that. You're not special. If anyone's special here it me! (I didn't think of it quite in that way at the time, but that was my basic attitude.)

The dad looked over at me in astonishment, he hadn't even seen me there.

"That good little girl?? she's way over there jumping rope, how can any of this be her fault?"

Now all the other boys really started to back away. I could see some of them looking over at me realizing their mistake of forsaking me so easily, and regretting it. I had seen all I needed to see and went inside.

The dad told them if they couldn't PLAY properly, they were not to play at all. Their arguing and yelling was disturbing the whole street. The new kid didn't answer, but when the dad was gone he tried to get the game started again. All the boys that I used to play with refused, and one by one they went home. Then the new kid tried to get his two friends that he had brough with him from the beginning to start playing. I think he said, "at least you two I can make do what I want". But it didn't really work, it takes more than three people to play hockey, and when he started pushing them around the arguments started again so they all went home in case that dad came out again.

And that was the end of it. There was no more hockey in the neighbourhood after that. A few days later the new kid came up to me and tried to get me to play, but he acted as if he was doing me a favour and I was still so pissed that I refused. One of the other boys, that I had actually liked before, came and invited me to play.

"We'll play how you want, you can be any position. Just come play so it's like it was before."

I let him have it.

"I don't want it to be the way I want, or the way anyone wants in particular. I want it to be the way it was before where we were all equal and everyone got to play according to how good they were."

He just looked at me, not sure what to say.

"You guys ruined it, I can't play with you anymore! We were all together, but as soon as that guy came along and started changing everything you agreed without an argument. You did everything he said just because he had some good sticks, and you rejected me just because I'm a girl. Now you realize that it was because I was there that the games were so much fun you want me back, but I can't come back. It can never be the way it was anymore."

He acknowledged that I was right. It was so obvious, the whole thing was ruined and they all knew it. They just didn't want to admit it. I refused to get into a pathetic attempt to try to ressurect something that would never be the same again. I knew, because I had been in that kind of situation before.

He went back to the group to explain what I had said, and the first boys all admitted that it was true what I said. Of course the obnoxious new kid was like, "What?! That's not true! get her over here and make her play!" So the kid laid into him and said everything I had said about how he had ruined our good thing.

Eventually they all dispersed, and that was the end of that. I was sad, but there was nothing I could do. When it's over it's over and you can't bring it back. If you try, it's even worse than being without.

10-One Fine Summer

I'm at work again, on the evening shift. Last night I got another chance to go home and get some good sleep. Didn't run into the mother this time, maybe she didn't know I was home. Another super-scrubber shower, loaded up with another three-days worth of clothes, and booted down to work.

We are so busy I think my head is going to explode! All the floor staff are running around like lunatics, the bartenders are flying and the kitchen is a madhouse. It's been like this for several hours; the only thing that keeps us from losing our minds is the huge wad of cash we know we'll be walking out of the door with tonight. I've made so many cappaccinos I have coffee grounds permanently embedded in the skin of my hands!

At 11:30 someone yells that I have a phone call and promplty drops the receiver, running out to her tables. That's weird, who would call me here?

It's Janet. She's kind of freaking out. I can hear my printer oozing out orders by the second; I don't have time for this.

"Calm down! What's the matter??"

She's been describing to me the scene before her, and I can't understand what the hell she's talking about.

"Chris has a wet towel wrapped around his head, Rangae barfed in the front yard and Kevin is cowering in a corner mumbling to himself."

"Janet I'll be off work in an hour and I'll come up there right away. I can't do anything about it now."

I have to hang up, there's a line of angry servers forming at my cappaccino station. The last thing I need on a night like this is to get gypped on tips because I took too long to make some coffees!

I'm still wading through a huge pile of orders - how much dessert can these people eat? Bridges is famous for it's chocolate decadence cake, and tonight is one of those that the customers want to top off a glorious evening of stuffing their faces with delicious food and drink with a rich, heavy piece of chocolate cake. It's so popular that some genius manager decided this year to move the dessert station out of the kitchen and saddle the cappaccino makers with it. Thanks a lot asshole, now I have chocolate all over me, and I smell like cheesecake - when I'm told there's another call for me. People are starting to glower.

I dash over to the phone, still holding my sturdy cake knife; "Hello!" I'm shouting now, I can barely hear myself think in here.

It's Janet again. It's been ten minutes since she called, what the hell is her problem? She's still babbling about stuff I don't understand, telling me what the kids are doing. Why do I care about this right now? There must be a reason why she's calling.

Finally I get it out of her; they decided to get high by taking Gravol. It's just too stupid to consider and I hold the phone, stunned, while she describes the scene. All the kids are either freaking out, or getting sick, or both.

Servers start shouting at me from the floor and if I'm not careful I'm going to catch it from one of the managers.

"Janet I can't do anything about that right now, I can't believe how busy we are here today. As soon as we close I'll come right up there. Just try to keep everyone calm."

Why is she calling ME anyways? Like I would know what to do if I was there.

The servers crowded around my station ask what's going on.

"Oh, a bunch of stupid kids did some Gravol, I guess they wanted to get high. Now they're all freaking out and getting sick."

I try to act nonchalant, even though I'm slightly worried. I don't have to be scared about talking about drug use around here, this place is like coke heaven. There's probably three other staff besides me that don't do it, out of 200. Last week I was having my lunch break in the pub (it was a Sunday, so it was closed) and the bar manager from upstairs was PASSED OUT on one of the love seats. I could hardly eat to see him; flat on his back with his casual sports jacket on, one cowboy-booted foot up on the arm of a chair, the other on the ground. He was literally sprawled out. Sometimes I come across things around there that I don't know what to think. I don't want to react too much or start asking questions in case people think I'm some dorky kid. When one of the waiters from downstairs came in and saw him he started laughing.

"Terry tied one on last night."

"Oh, was there a party?"

"It wasn't a party. He was doing inventory."

"Oh. He must have worked really hard to be that tired." Terry has developed a really phenomenal snore, people are starting to snicker.

The waiter looks at me scornfully, "That's not why. He did enough coke to kill an elephant."

I don't want to sound like an idiot but I can't stop myself from asking, "He did coke while he was doing inventory?"

I just don't see being on coke really helpful to concentrating, and adding and stuff.

"All those guys do coke basically all the time."

This is upstairs, in the fancy dining room, where it's all posh and formal. Where they won't even allow us bistro rats in the back to find out what's happened to all the teapots.

So I'm not shy about telling the staff my friends did Gravol. Some laugh, while others reassure me;

"They'll be all right. It passes pretty fast. At least you know they'll never do it again!"

That does help to make me feel better. When the restaurant closes I race up to the house regardless; I imagine Janet, the only sober one, minding everyone and trying to keep them from hurting themselves.

But when I get there I'm confronted with a different scene entirely. It's been probably an hour and a half since Janet first called. There's a couple of confused-looking girls that I don't know sitting on the front steps. They barely seem to register my arrival and I have to kind of climb over them.

Inside it's all dark and quiet. Someone is on the couch groaning, Chris passed me with a wet towel draped over his head, and I find Janet sitting in the kitchen consoling Rangae. That's it, no mayhem; nothing's broken, no one's running around naked, screaming.

Janet greets me with relief that I am finally here. I fail to see the emergency. Apparently it was a lot worse before, the crisis is now over.

"Well, I'm glad I killed myself to get up here," I grumble, opening a beer.

The next day they hold a 'Gravol Flushing Party'. They all gather around the toilet and throw in whatever pills they had left. I think they made a song out of it, I'm not sure. It was my turn to sleep on the couch; I had basically no sympathy for any of them. That's what they get for doing something so stupid!

9-One Fine Summer

Another very busy week . . . things should return to a normal pace soon. I hope. Non-stop series of disasters, not handled very well. Thinking of making an employment change in the New Year. I was again interviewed this week, this time with CBC Radio One in Saskatchewan. Here is the link for the live radio interview, it was at 6:10am so cut me some slack! audio file
They decided they wanted a piece for the evening TV news as well so sent a camera to my office. I don't have a link to that though; apparently my bit was picked up by CBC Newsworld, but at no specified time so I didn't get to see it.



Janet's friend Tracey is partying with us at the house today. They used to be friends, along with a couple of other girls, all through high school but had some kind of falling out at the end of grade 11. I have always liked Tracey; like me she is very athletic (she was a rising star on the shotput circuit, her potential taken very seriously, until a back injury ended that dream) and she has her own funky style. Kind of a mix of punk (Clash-style, not the showy kind) and ska. She's very boisterous and loud and fun to be around, but I could see how too much contact could start to grate on my nerves. Luckily she has her own active social life so only stops by here on the odd occasion. I think she finds some of the boys rather immature, actually.
She knows most of them from the smoking pit at school. She jokes around with Kevin, and with Kelly especially, but doesn't really have time for the other boys. I'm guessing it's because they are younger than us. We're hanging out in the dining room, smoking and drinking beer, while the guys are goofing off in the living room. Janet and Tracey are catching up on summer exploits and gossip while Johnna and I mostly listen quietly.
I am somewhat intimidated by Tracey, to be honest. Her sexuality is clearly fully developed, and she demonstrates a healthy libido. I don't know if I will ever be able to talk so frankly about my experiences, with strangers no less! She seems to enjoy when one of the boys wanders into the room and stops to listen. In grade 12 she hung out with the Vale twins, Jennifer and Joanne; they were in my sewing class in grade 10 and used to regale the entire room with stories of their boyfriends. One of them, I can't remember which, had lost her virginity to a 35 year old man and seemed to be able to speak of nothing else.

Tracey's boyfriend is in college, an acting student or something. It's all so grown-up in kind of frightens me. I went with Janet one time to pick her up from his place; first of all it was stupid because Janet was talking all like she had a major crush on him or something. It weirded me out, she kept going on about how "cute" and "great" he was (I thought he was neither of these things, a bit funny yeah, but otherwise just a normal guy) so I asked her . ..

"Do you have a crush on him or something?" I turned my head away to blow my cigarette smoke and sneer.

She responded all shocked!

"No! I just think he's cute. He's Tracey's boyfriend."

"I know he's Tracey's boyfriend, but the way you're gushing makes me wonder what YOU think."

Then Janet got mad at me.

Kevin's come into the dining room, while Tracey's telling a story about how her boyfriend needed to be somewhere really early in the morning. He was in the shower when his dad called (to make sure he was awake I guess) and Tracey's describing how she answered the phone .. .

"You know how when it's early in the morning and you haven't talked much yet and your voice is all growly? Well I answered the phone like that and it was his DAD! I told him he was in the shower and there was just silence on the other end."

"Oh it's all right." Janet mumbles

I keep quiet while I try to figure out what the problem is here, exactly. So your voice is growly in the morning . .. is she embarrassed because her boyfriend's dad knows she stayed overnight? That doesn't quite make sense, and it doesn't strike me that Tracey is easily embarrassed about anything.

"It's because you had just had sex," Kevin barks.

"No we didn't!" Tracey denies.

"Yeah you did, you just had sex and your voice was all husky because of that."

Tracey denies it vehemently and they get into an argument. Janet solidly sticks up for Tracey.

I'm just watching, mystified. Who cares? They're obviously having sex, what does it matter if they did that time or not? And what's with Kevin? Suddenly he's acting like Tracey's dad, all judgemental. What the hell does he care? There must be some history there that I don't know about.

Soon Tracey's had enough and makes up some excuse to leave. These boys sometimes have a remarkable ability to chase people away. Kevin and Trevor in particular, when the mood strikes them. We spend the rest of the night drinking beer and watching Repo Man. It's got a good soundtrack; sometimes I ignore the dialogue and just listen to the music. Except I don't like the part where they're making fun of the Circle Jerks. I mean the band is actually in a scene in the movie, so I guess they're in on the joke; it just bothers me that music is such an integral part of the movie then the Otto character sits there -at a show- saying, "I can't believe I used to like these guys."

Soon the sun comes up and it's off to work again. There hasn't been much rain this summer so I'm getting lots of shifts. The kids are settling in to sleep just as I'm leaving. I try not to think about that as I get on my bike.

8-One Fine Summer

It's after work and I'm making my way home. I'm so tired that I'm actually pushing my bike up the hilly parts - something that I would rather DIE than do normally, it's a matter of honour amongst cyclists, you see. Although I can't wait to fall into bed I just can't muster up the energy to ride up the hills. It ends up taking me a super-long time to get home. I don't care.

My parents are asleep, at least I don't have to deal with their bullshit. Every time I see her my mum launches into a big monologue about how I'm worrying them sick (yeah, right), how she wants me to come home at least once every day, what am I doing all night with those kids anyways? Doesn't she understand that her persistant nagging only serves to keep me away more?

By the time I have a shower and get into bed it's past 2:00 o'clock. I didn't get out of work until 12:30. I'm pissed off about that because I wanted to sleep more but can't do anything about it.

I'm still sleeping at 10:30 the next morning, and would sleep longer if my MOTHER hadn't decided to try to prompt me out of bed by vacuuming down the hall right up to my bedroom door, then banging the vacuum head loudly AGAINST MY DOOR an inordinant number of times. At first, in my hazy half-sleep, I couldn't figure out what she was doing. I can't even remember the last time she held a vacuum; all the mundane housework chores fall squarely on my shoulders. When I realized she was vacuuming I woke up a bit more . . . she's vacuuming the hallway that leads ONLY to my bedroom. Why is she doing that? I could live in absolute squalor for all they care, as long as their part of the house and whatever their friends might see is spotlessly clean. But when she starts banging into my door I realize that she wants me to get out of bed.

Oh my GOD! Does she not realize that I'm not a useless teenager that sleeps until 2:00 every afternoon (like my friends)?! Does she not realize that I WORK and that I'm damn tired? I force my irritation away, and roll over, managing to sleep for another hour.

When I finally do wake up I have to look at her judgemental face in the kitchen. What the hell is she doing home in the middle of the day anyways? Has she deliberately skipped work just so she can needle me?

Plainly this is so and I have to bear more disparagement of my lifestyle and the same questions about what we're doing at this boy's house. This boy that she does not know.

"We're not having sex, if that's what you think. At least I'm not." I mumble. I'm not exactly proud of my lack of experience in that subject.

Finally she leaves. I finish my laundry and take another long shower, then jump on my bike. I've got another evening shift to work, then I plan on planting myself at Johnny Bridal's house for a good many days. Before I leave I don't forget about my plan of last night to raid their liquor cabinet. I help myself to a half-full bottle of rum, and I pour off a bunch of gin into another jar. That should hold me for a couple of days!

As I ride downhill to Granville Island I am again preoccupied by thoughts of my brother, and the difference in our treatment by my family. I have this way about me of -instead of saying "fuck them" and dismissing their injustice as their own foible- I say "fuck them" but internalize the rejection as a fault within myself. It's very damaging to my self-esteem, and I know it (it comes out very strongly when I am really drunk, even kids at the house that don't know me are starting to notice it and look at me funny when I overflow with self-abuse) but I have no defense. No coping skills. I have no idea how to stop myself.

I can't blame myself really, it's so ingrained, it's been so long-term, but I do blame myself because I think I am extremely weak for not having been able to overcome it.

Like for example one time a long time ago (before my mum married Flab-o-mire) we went on a trip to stay at some lake with my aunt and my cousin. It was a great time but my brother was acting out terribly. Generally being abusive to everyones. So finally my aunt demanded to know what was wrong (as usual my mum had just been ignoring it).

He burst out with some explanation about how his life SUCKED, how there was always too many females around, how he never got to see his dad, etc. etc. I had to agree with him but I completely failed to sympathize; I just saw it as an excuse. It seemed to me that if he had had the most perfect life imaginable he would still be a dink, that was just the kind of person that he was.

I was dumbfounded to see my aunt almost wilting in sympathy, "Oh you poor boy!"

In her strange mix of British and Czech accent that I usually found charming but in this instant grated on my nerves terribly. I watched, mystified, as my brother was surrounded by my mum, my cousin and my aunt and cajoled, petted, and generally told he was loved very much.

The cold, dark bottom of the lake looked like a welcoming place at that very moment.

I was still staring down into it when my cousin came up to me and told me that I "had to" help my brother. I just growled at her. She knew well enough to step away.

My mother knew well enough to keep away when I had that look in my eye, but my aunt made the mistake of stepping up to me and demanding to know why I did not "help" my brother. (First of all, coddling him is not going to help him, that's the last thing in the world HE needs).

"He's had a very hard life, don't you care?" She hissed at me.

Now, I'd been taught not to talk back to my elders but this was more than I could bear.

"I've had the exact same life he's had!" I snapped back. Not only have I had to deal with the exact same hardships but I've ALSO had to deal with his very dysfunction! So it's been even worse for me. I didn't say that part, but it must have been written all over my face. My mother beat a quick retreat so as not to get caught in the crossfire.

"Oh. Well. But it's harder for a boy." My aunt invents a quick, and pathetic, excuse; which I instantly snear at as my cousin looks in on amazement at my lack of getting sucked-into this estrogen schmooze fest.

I watched in disbelief as they again surrounded my brother and again heaped affection and compliments upon him. He basked in it as much as an undeserving, spoiled child can. I could see myself receeding from them, before I actually walked away down the dock. It was like I was watching them through a tunnel that was growing progressively longer; mentally (and emotionally) they were getting further and further away from me.

I hate it when these thoughts occupy my consciousness, it makes me sour. It was bad enough living through it the first time without having to remember over it on occasion.

After work I ride up to the house as quick as I can, rested and primed for a good drunk-fest. I missed last night so there's sure to be lots of stories to fill me in.

The boys have rented Repo Man again. It's to become our anthem for the summer. It plays in the background while we drink. I tried to hide my bonanza of liquor but was quickly found out. The rum I must share but Janet helps me hide the gin at least, in it's non-descript mason jar. We'll drink that together another day.

I'm feeling boisterous and rowdy from my over-running of emotions of the past two days so provide distraction and entertainment for all. There's a few arguments, sure, but we're all punks so what's a few 'fuck yous' between friends. Right?

Janet's still on her pathetic attempts to charm John McRae. He impresses the other boys by remaining cooly distant, but also by maddeningly drawing her back in just when she's decided she doesn't like him anymore. It's painful to watch.

There's that part in Repo Man when the Emilio Estevez character gets invited to fly in the car that the girl was hunting, and that she actually showed him about. When he starts to get into the car and she's all like, "Hey! What about me? I'm supposed to be in that car!" and the Emilio character is all like, "What?" and she goes, "What about our relationship?"

And Emilio sneers and goes, "Fuck that." I hate that part of the movie, it's so male. Only in a male movie would female who has worked and discovered, then found something, be carelessly usurped by a male character without even an explanation. No consideration given, not even an afterthought. In the movie it's presented as if there is no question that of course a man will take that place. That always pisses me off and I'm thinking about the importance of this representation, and a whole bunch of related things when John McRae starts babbling.

"That's me! That's what I would do. 'Fuck that!' That's what I would say, 'Fuck that!'"

I don't notice but he's looking right at Janet. We're all sitting on the floor, super hosed, and I only start to notice when I can sense Janet getting majorly pissed off.

He does it a few more times, getting louder and gesturing powerully towards the TV set until the other boys tell him to shut up.

I hate it when he acts like that too, he can be such a brat sometimes, and start getting set to ignore him when Janet drags me into the kitchen for a 'talk' (that means she goes on and on and ON about something she's already told me a million times before and I listen).

"How can he say that? I'm sitting RIGHT THERE."

I've already told Janet so many times not to take John seriously, that he only flirts with her here, that he has other girlfriends. But she never listens to me.

I spend the rest of the night letting Janet vent, nodding and mumbling encouraging words at the appropriate moments but my mind is elsewhere.

Sometimes I wish that these kinds of concerns were the most pressing thing on my mind. Sometimes I wish I could just be like her or the other kids at the house; just be a KID and not have so many so important things wieghing on my all the time.<

Janet starts to run out of steam. I sit in the kitchen, gazing out the window in my drunken state, imagining how things could have been -how I could have been- if I had ever gotten to just be a kid.

7-One Fine Summer

(Excuse the lack of updates of late, we had quite a series of disasters at my work and I just spent two weeks doing heavy damage control. Things haven't been all bad, I've been doing some interviews in the Canadian press . . .Globe & Mail     Canadian Press     French! there's one with the Vancouver Sun too but I guess they only keep stuff for seven days. Oh well! Also I finally got my G5 Mac at home, so I just need to update my software -Photoshop & stuff- and I'll be able to post a lot more images.)

I've been having a GREAT summer so far, working and just hanging out; but I REALLY MUST get some real sleep now. I'm ready to pass out all the time and it's really becoming noticable at work. I guess I've just been having too much fun, or I don't want to miss out on any of the action/partying with my friends, but this is getting ridiculous. It's been almost two weeks since I slept an entire night in my bed.

None of the kids at the house are working, you see. At least not steadily. They'll work here and there, usually under the table, at one-day or really short term projects, but usually not at all. I go to work every single day. It's rare that I have an entire day off. It's going to be hard enough to pay for school come September as it is so I basically HAVE to work as much as possible.

I tried not to be jealous when I left the house for my shift this afternoon; they were starting to gear up for an evening of partying and when I told them I wouldn't be back until tomorrow daytime nobody seemed to care. As my bicycle finds its way through False Creek almost of its own volition I ponder over the easy lives of the other kids compared to mine. They come from basic, average middle (or lower middle) class families while my parents are both professionals and earn a very decent living. Why am I always the one with no money, wearing used clothes, no car and having to pay for my own school?

Part of it is the real estate dealings my parents are permenantly involved in. Every time they sell a property it doesn't mean we now have money; they turn around and buy something MORE expensive right away. The plan is to eventually generate revenue, or to eventually be able to buy a property without a massive mortgage. But the way they explain it to me, they won't see any actual cash from what they're doing for many years. The other part of it, of course, is the HUGE expense of sending my brother to the most expensive boarding school in BC.

My brother. Have I talked about him yet? In current times I mean, not stories of our childhood. No? Probably that's because I do my best to forget he exists. That sounds harsh I know, but he has a history of being very not nice to me (read: bullying, domineering, selfish and downright mean). Even with my mum's ranting nonsensical husband, my life is so much better when my asshole brother is not around.

One time when we were really little, I was six I think so he would have been seven and a half, we went to a zoo. It might have been with school, I don't remember, but it was a petting zoo and we got to pet the goats. Later when we were home we were outside, alone of course as usual, and he was pretending to be a goat. He bent at the waist and kept butting me with his head "I'm a goat I'm butting you I'm butting you" in the stomach. He was doing it hard, pushing me backwards in the process. It kind of hurt but tickled too so I was laughing, holding him off with my arms. But off course he was stronger than me and kept getting around them and butting me in the torso. I was getting weaker and couldn't hold him off much longer so warned him several times, "I can't hold you, I'm going to let go! I'm going to let go." We were on the grass between the sidewalk and the road and he had managed to push me quite a ways down the block. It was actually weird to me, the single-mindedness with which he was butting me. I couldn't even tell if he actually HEARD me warning him, so I kept repeating it through my laughter. Finally, when I felt the strength going out of my arms and I knew that if he got me one more time in the body I would probably fall over . . . actually, that must have been what he was trying to do I just realized! wow, I can't believe I didn't think of that before . . . Anyways so I said one last time "I'm letting go now" and I swung my arms to one side while sidestepping my body to the other.

Well.

Wouldn't you know it but directly behind me at that very moment was a fire hydrant and *CRACK* my brother smacked into really hard with the top of his head. Ouch. When he finally picked himself up off the ground clutching his head I couldn't believe that be blamed me for 'pushing' him. I didn't PUSH him, I just got out of the way of him pushing into me! If he wasn't so hurt he would have punched me in the head a few times for that, that's for sure.

Even though it totally wasn't my fault I felt really REALLY bad and followed quite a distance from him on his way home trying to understand exactly how that could have happened. When I got back to the apartment he had generated huge amounts of sympathy from my mother and her boyfriend-of-the-moment. He was sitting up on the bathroom counter being cooed over by my mum in a way that made me instantly jealous; and her boyfriend approached me sternly calling me a "very bad girl". I came to realize that my brother was milking the whole thing for all it was worth by claiming that I pushed him, meanwhile being sure to keep himself out of blame's way entirely. Because it was all his own stupid fault. Quite ingenious actually.

My mother was barking at me harshly from the bathroom. I was speechless at first; SHE of all people should know that I couldn't have possibly pushed him. All of the injuries instilled in our family ran in one direction only: from him to me. Besides, I could never even hurt a fly! Her boyfriend came to me again reprimanding me and demanding to know how I could do such a thing. Close to tears I finally managed to get my breath and said,

"I didn't push him!"

This was received as a childish attempt to escape blame. Of course I must be lying!

"I didn't push him. He was pushing into me and I warned him that I couldn't hold him anymore but he kept doing it so I jumped out of the way neither of us knew there was a fire hydrant right there."

If I wasn't actually crying there were tears on my face for sure, I felt just terrible that my brother was hurt. Not because I was to blame, just that he was hurt.

My mum's boyfriend looked at me closely and could see I wasn't lying and went into the bathroom to reprimand my brother and explain to my mum what had really happened. I got in trouble with her anyways; she didn't care if it was really my brother's own fault, her precious son was hurt and that's all that mattered. The rest of the day he got pampered with cake and loving while I got to sit off a distance watching, resentment growing in me. Resentment that rather quickly replaced my concern. His head wasn't even bleeding after all! Although he did show me, and you could see a Y-shaped crack on the top of his skull.

Anyways that wasn't the point, I just wanted to explain a tiny bit of the family dynamic when we were still really young. The point was to explain how my parents used me as bait to get my brother accepted to a very exclusive private school.

Ever since I was very young I wanted to go away to boarding school. Not in the least because I wanted to escape my dysfunctional family, but a large part of it was also because I had read so many books about kids away at school and the hijinks they used to get up to. My aunt used to send them to me all the time you see, from Britian; and the stories seemed like summer camp except for year-round. Some of the antics the girls used to get up to!

Even before we moved to Vancouver my brother's acting-out (at home and at school. if it was just at home my mum would have used her famous tactic of 'ignore the problem and it will go away' but when it became noticed outside the family she felt prompted to do something about it) and violence was becoming a major family problem. Her new husband, a HUGE source of trouble and friction, could not just let it slide the way my mother had. The truth was that it was escalating, and was no longer being directed solely at me.

Now, don't get me wrong. It wasn't as if I was walking around black & blue all the time, cowering at the very sound of his footsteps or anything like that. My brother and I spent an awful lot of time together playing games and on some very involving projects (like building a 'fort' in the rafters above the cieling of his bedroom). We're talking about things that basically any brothers reasonably close in age would subject each other to. Punches in the arm, indian burns, "purple nurples" (oy), tackling me during the commercials and twisting my arm behind my back, . .. whatever. usual rough-housing. It's not like I actually got HURT or anything. I just didn't take well to it because I'm a girl, and because it was always one-sided. I mean if, in any of this "play" -during my struggles- if an arm or a leg snapped up and hit him he would instantly become angry and punch me hard. In the gut, or the head. Or he would just get angry about something regardless and punch me, completely out of the blue. We always had to play his games that he wanted to play, and if there was a game I was good at and would consistantly beat him at like Scrabble we wouldn't play it anymore. It was just an unpleasant power dynamic that did nothing to strengthen my already extremely fragile self-image.

Then we moved to Vancouver and my brother's behaviour got even worse. I was actually thankful because he had lost interest in spending time with me at all (I was too much of a loser), and the eruptions between him and my mum's husband were easier for me to ignore because we were in a bigger, more sound-resistant home. I was barely aware of this at the time, but my brother 'ran away' (he rode his bike out to Surrey then phoned my parents to come pick him up). Vladimir said "I don't want to go get him, leave him there if he wants to go." This is supposed to be my secondary care-giver.

Finally the decision was made to send my brother off to school. Vladimir, in typical, completely reactionary fashion, wanted to send him off to military school. But my mother couldn't bear the thought of her precious little boy actually having to WORK and SWEAT so wanted to send him somewhere fancy where he would be comfortable but not in the way and where he could make some good contacts for later in life.

The problem was (and you'd THINK it was money, but they somehow managed to miraculously find money for this huge expense but I had to pay for my lifeguard course myself) that my brother's grades were so terrible there was NO WAY he'd be accepted to any private school, let alone a boarding one.

What to do what to do.

Well, we do have this daughter here who is very presentable and well spoken, in fact shines when the moment is right, and has reasonably good grades and many extra-curricular activities to her credit.

So they told me that I, too, would go to this school. This particular school had initially been boys-only, so it accepted boys from grades 8-12 but girls from grade 10 only. They were aiming for my brother to start there that September, and me the following year. But we would both go and apply at the same time. They could barely keep my brother's dysfunctional behaviour from surfacing during the interview. The examinor quickly lost interest in even talking to my brother and focussed on me.

Boy was I motivated. I pulled out all the stops; charm, intelligence, wit, a little bit of spunk. I saw my opportunity to get away from my stupid family and I intended to maximize on it.

There was a test, an intelligence/aptitude test that -together with grades- was taken as a measurement of acceptability. By the time they put us into our separate individual rooms I was on fire. When time was up I emerged triumphant to the anxious reception of my parents. I didn't even need to hear the result, I felt so good about it. When the examinor returned from grading us I could tell by his wide-open eyes staring at me that I had done very, very well.

I was so elated I already began planning my new life free of the burdens of my family. Where I got to be myself, where people liked me for me without always prefacing it with some dastardly comment about my asshole brother. I would finally get to discover who I really WAS, without having to be on the defensive all the time, without having to deal with the fighting/arguing/yelling that always served to push me deep inside my little shell.

I was so engrossed in these wonderful thoughts that I was barely aware of what happened next. I have played it over and over in my mind since then and the underhandedness of it, the deliberate sneakiness of it pisses me off to this day.

The examinor instantly accepted me to his school, with open arms, in fact he regretted that they were going to have to wait a year. With a huge smile I looked over at my parents expecting some congratulations but received none.

"What about the boy?" was all they wanted to know.

My feelings were hurt at being so rebuffed, but no matter. In one short year I would only have to deal with these people on holidays.

With a heavy sigh the examinor explained that my brother's test scores were less than acceptable, and coupled with his very weak grades unfortunately rendered him below the standards for the school.

This was just getting better and better! Away from the parents AND the brother! I was in bliss.

But there was a problem. Unfortunately my parents would not be comfortable sending me away unless my brother was there too. What was this? They had never demonstrated such interest in my well being before!

I started paying attention.

The examinor apologized profusely and began explaining how the virtues of his school would help to maximize on my potential. Under their tutelage he was sure I would go very far indeed.

I wanted to hug this stranger. I imagined myself asking, "Will you be my daddy?" so unknown was it to me that someone would actually state out loud that I was indeed very intelligent.

My parents rebuffed his efforts to butter them up on my account, and kept returning to talk of my brother.

It was all becoming very tiresome to me and I was getting rather annoyed that they refused to acknowledge my abilities when being pointedly, and repeatedly, confronted with them by a trained professional. Then things became alarming.

When the examinor flatly denied my brother and would only speak of taking me, my parents actually stood up

"If you won't take the boy then you can't have the girl. Come on kids, let's go."

I couldn't believe it! I almost burst into tears right then and there. It was just like my family to absolutely destroy my only chance at something that would be really good for me and that I really, really wanted.

"Now now let's not be hasty. Please sit down."

The examinor was looking at me, I'm sure my distress was clearly visible.

So my parents worked out some kind of deal that the school would take my brother just so I could go there. He had to get his grades up and some involvement in extra-curricular activity wouldn't hurt. I barely paid attention to the negotiations; so stunned was I that my parents were so brutally willing to sacrifice me -my future, this fabulous opportunity for an education- just for my stupid brother who neither cared nor bothered to put any effort into school.

As we were leaving the examinor took special care to pat me on the shoulder and say he would be impatiently waiting for the day I would become a student. I was barely able to muster a gracious smile.

So my brother went off to that school that September. You'd think home life would be easier for me with his departure but it really wasn't. With my brother gone all of Vladimir's hostility and emotional abuse was heaped on me. My mother did nothing at all to prevent it, sometimes she would tell him to stop but mostly she would evacuate to another room while he berated me.

They made up some lame excuse the next year and refused to send me to that school. I argued about it relentlessly; quite uncharacteristic of me, usually my tactic was to just bear it in the hopes that they would eventually come to their sense. But this, this I could not let go of. It was SO injudicious, SO ragingly unfair. They told me they had money just for one kid to go, I replied that I was the one the school wanted. I told them I always knew they favoured my brother, they denied it. Vladimir tried to explain that my brother NEEDED the school, that he was unruly and undisciplined. I replied that I had EARNED it, that I worked hard and was a good kid.

Finally, in typical Vladimir fashion he beat me down by yelling at me. As the child it was not my place to question my parents, that their decisions were based on considerations beyond my understanding. That I should accept their methods of upbringing unquestionably.

I knew that he was full of shit because he was yelling, if he really meant what he said he would have spoken normally. But I couldn't keep arguing; I have to admit that despite my brave front I was intimidated by him. However I had to let them know that I knew they had jerked me around, and as I glared at my mother I could see her register that knowledge in me.

I have never forgiven them for that. And I never will. It was an entirely self-serving measure; they didn't give a shit about my brother's education, they just wanted him out of the house. They DIDN'T want me out of the house, just yet, because I was a good little maid and cleaned the kitchen every day and vacuumed their living room.

But the fact that they ruthlessly dangled me as bait, that they got my hopes up deliberately so that I would try my damndest to do well on the interview and test when ALL THE WHILE they knew they would never send me there . .. well, that is truly despicable.

It makes me mad all over again just thinking about it.

I think I'll raid their liquor cabinet when I get home. After I sleep tonight I won't need to go there for several days so they won't be able to give me shit.

6-One Fine Summer

I'm at work and SO TIRED. Good thing my job isn't sitting at a desk, because I'm sure I would be asleep by now. I'm going to have to spend the night in my own bed very soon; I don't really sleep at the house -apart from taking short naps in an armchair- and it's beginning to take it's toll on my sanity.

Most of the time I like the people I work with; they're young and not entirely unhip. (well, not young like me, they're older than me obviously. But most are in their early 20's). Generally they think I'm a bit of a freak with my weird taste in music -it's an ongoing battle at the tape deck- and they don't understand the way I talk a lot of the time, but they rarely make fun of me so I'm cool with it. Everyone gets given a hard time at some point so when it's my turn I just bear it.

I always have to try to be more 'normal' (ie: conservative) at my jobs but my wackiness always shows itself eventually. Some people realize the coolness factor, where most just kind of roll their eyes and give me "that look". There are a couple of people here that dwell in the more underground side of things, but they try to hide it as much as I do. Ocassionally we spark up a conversation about music if there's a new record out or if there was just a show. The rest of the staff doesn't like it though, because they can't relate, so we usually keep things short.

The only truly unusual people here are wierd in a normal sort of way; by having sex with lots of people. There is a HUGE gay contingent on this staff, and sometimes it seems like almost everyone else 'swings both ways'. There's so much gossip that I basically can't keep up. It's hard for me, as someone who hasn't had sex yet, when the racy jokes start flying. I can usually hold my own; I just say something along the lines of what the conversation was, even if it barely makes sense to me. It seems to work, they laugh and keep talking while I breath a sigh of relief and return to my staff meal or cigarette.

I'm in the bathroom getting ready for my shift and these girls -that I know from last year- are chatting it up big time about their experiences. I don't really want to hear that, to be honest with you. I mean, even when I do finally have sex I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be talking about the vivid details with anyone that will listen. I might talk about it with a close friend I guess, but this indescriminate sharing of explicitness strikes me as .. . . crass.

They're talking about oral sex and I'm just trying to mind my own business, fixing my hair in the mirror. These particular girls have a total mean streak that they think is funny. They'll just gang up and pick on you with no remorse at all. They can be funny and nice too, but you have to watch because when they're together they'll just suddenly turn around and be really vicious. There's no one else in the bathroom to keep them polite so I'm just trying to stay unnoticed and get the hell out of there.

Of course, that never works. For some reason it's my lot in life that when I try to be OUT of people's attention they invariably turn to me. I don't know why, but it's totally maddening and I can't make it stop.
So it happens again, one of the girls turns to me;

"How do you do it, Keta? When you're giving head."

They were talking about the gag reflex and the whole thing is kind of grossing me out. I don't understand why they do it if it's such a bother. I've totally been caught off guard, and it's such a pointed question that I can't just make up some bullshit to deflect it. Still I try to brush it off, mumbling;

"I just try to get it over with as fast as possible."

I see that they can tell I have no idea what I'm talking about. I put a brave face on nonetheless. They are completely not satisfied and continue to pry me with questions which I ignore.

"She's probably still a virgin!" one of them says loudly and they all laugh.

Normally I don't see how my face looks when I am crushed, but I just happen to be standing in front of a big mirror at this very moment and 'crestfallen' doesn't seem to be a strong enough description. They got me at a moment when I was completely unprepared, and already feeling vulnerable because I didn't understand their conversation.

It's obvious to them that they hurt my feelings, which is even worse, and the girl that said it apologizes. I try to think of something witty to say, like, "I'm only 17 years old, give me a break!" but don't want to sound childish. Besides, these girls were probably having sex before they were 17, so they'd just laugh at me even more.

I try to cultivate a reprimand look and get the hell out of the bathroom. I know that once I do have sex I won't find this stuff embarrasing at all; I just don't understand what the purpose is in SHAMING someone. It's not like I couldn't have done it tons of times if I wanted to; it's happened more than once, in darkened rooms at parties and stuff, where I've literally had to beat a guy off with a stick!

On the other hand, I do find all of the frank openness educational in many ways. I'm learning real life stuff without having to 'get my hands dirty' so to speak. So that when I do end up doing it I hope I'm not completely lost!

The kids at the house (the boys mostly) as just starting to embark on their sexual journeys but I can't glean any insight from them. Compared to the people at work it's obvious that the boys have no idea what they are doing, which attracts me to them even less than I was before. I think of them as my cousins or something.

5-One Fine Summer

I'm at the house, we're partying again. It's just us core dwellers. I'm drunk. Yay! I worked today -again- so I'm a bit pooped. Sometimes when I come here I just want to chill and hang out and listen to music and have some small talk but today the boys are being all INTELLIGENT and EMOTIONAL and talking about things that they know NOTHING ABOUT.

Ireland. They're on about Ireland; the IRA, Belfast, the Republicans, the Protestants . . . the whole mess. It's a complicated time there, I know that. But it's also a complicated time in Isreal, in Germany, in Eastern Europe, in Czech.

They're Irish you see, most of these kids. If you haven't noticed by the names. Janet too, with the red hair. I never though of it, she's got a whole Lucille Ball thing going on. I think Johhna is Polish or something, but the rest of them are definitely Anglo. With a decided Irish bent. The boys have been going around in a circle of argument for almost an hour now. I ignore them, as I always do when they get tiresome. It's difficult though, because they get all intense and sometimes they raise they voices which bring me out of my reveille I've been enjoying. When Janet speaks I try to listen slightly, and she makes a good point: that they are not there so they cannot say.

Kevin McBride is by far the most militant. He is 1000% pro IRA and thinks they should go as far as they think they need to free the Republic. The others are varying degrees of extremism, with Trevor -much to my surprise- having the most level head and championing the whole 'keeping an open dialogue' thing. Bill is in there like a dirty shirt, not because he believes powerfully as they others do but because he loves to get a strong debate going. I don't like it though because there is entirely too much advocating of violence going on. I like a good debate though and listen with one ear (mostly not listen though), but I think I perceive of Bill subtly switch positions to keep the debate going strong. At that point I lose interest entirely and am completely immersed in my own thoughts when I hear my name being repeated.

Janet, realizing she is losing ground, calls on me to back her up. The boys look over with barely conceiled sneers on their faces; they will patronize the female by pretending to allow her a voice. But really they are taking the moment to gather more of their individual arguments.

At this point I have had more than a few beers and am rather pissed that I have to deal with all this seriousness on my time off. I think most of them slept all day, but I fucken just busted my ass in the hot sun for eight hours. Plus I got yelled at by the super-mean Maitre d' for leaving a knife on a still-seated table I had cleared. That super pissed me off because I do an amazing job most of the time, but it was like he's been hovering over me for the past several shifts waiting for me to make a mistake and he POUNCED. I mean he was shouting at me in the service area to the point that a waiter stepped in and told him he was too hard on us, at which point he got a major earfull as well.

So I've got a major supply of venom and anger welling up around my vocal chords when these CHILDREN, these pampered, these comfortable, these safe and never threatened, these North Americans, give me a prime opportunity to vent.

But I've gotten in trouble before, and big time, for speaking the truth with no holds barred. I have been accused, more than once, of destroying a person. A person that came out of a position feeling completely safe only through innocence of ever having been harmed. A person that was playing a GAME, as these kids are now, that baited me, that taunted me, that challenged me to "do my thing". And when I could no longer bear it, when the sweet delicious thought of bringing the person down to reality could be held off no longer I took the floor and I spoke. As I spoke the truth and the stark reality I could see those around me suck in their breath, lose their breath, their eyeballs popping out of their heads as they have never SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT BEFORE most particularly never seen anything like it from a person that LOOKED LIKE ME.

I have removed myself from those times with a deep, abiding sense of satisfaction. That a liar was brought down. That a cheat was exposed. That a masquearader was unmasked. But always ALWAYS a short time later I would be approached -almost invaribly by a female- and told that I am mean. That I am too harsh. That I am unforgiving. There have been times when several weeks have passed and I have been told that the person "was never the same again". I have offered no apologies; if they want to play a game they cannot complain when they must pay the price. But apparently being female, and looking a certain way, precludes me from the task of pointing out a person's glaring foibles.

The burn of it is, as in this case with these kids, I was always off to the side barely paying attention, minding my own business. Until I was called in and asked to speak my opinion. Like I said, I was baited. The foolish thing is the participants ASSUMED that I would play the game. What else could be expected of a girl that looks like I do? Of course I could never have a mind of my own, of course I could have no reading, no logic, nothing practical nor reasonable to back me up. No hard life lesssons. Of course I could only have been as comfortable, as safe and as pampered as they themselves had been their whole lives.

But I did feel bad, those times, to be told that the person who was flirting with disaster that presented itself so capably in myself was "never the same again". Even though that probably meant they -I should say he because I can't think of a single instance that the perpetrator was female. not that females don't play games, far from it, but games of a different sort entirely- were merely not as playful and childish with the serious issues they toyed with, I was very uncomfortable with the idea that I had 'ruined' a human being.

So I hold my tongue better now than I used to. I won't pretend that there are not times that I blurt out the very point people are dancing around in their tiresome little game of chicken they play where they try to maneouver the other into the hot seat. I won't pretend that there are not times where i don't bring all the conversation in a room to a halt with the stark truth of what I say; a truth that everyone knows in their hearts but is trying desperately to avoid. And needs all others to avoid it as well, or else it doesn't work. But I have learned to prevent such jarring and life-altering pronouncements as those that could alter a human being forever.

So I take my time, I turn to Janet slowly and ask, "What?". Just to buy myself some time so I can gather my thoughts and speak in a way that isn't crushing.

Janet knows I have a strong opinion on the subject and won't let me off the hook that easily. The boys are exchanging glances that say, "We will let the little girlie speak for a minute then we will resume our all-important manly debate."

"What are you arguing about, exactly? Who should have ownership of the land? It should be whoever was there first, it doesn't matter who came later. It doesn't matter how long ago it was or how many centuries people have been living on that land. Whoever was there first has a rightful claim."

I take a big swig of my beer as the boys explode into an uproar .. .

"But what about the people that have lived there for the last 800 years!?!?"

"It's not about the land, its a religious issue. The Protestants have to leave!"

It's idiotic and I don't want to get involved but -as always- they don't let me hang back. Now I am challenged in my assertion. A big mistake.

Everyone is talking at once and I can't even discern individual sentances, so I pretend to be confused and hope that will get me off the hook. No such luck. The boys weren't expecting me to express an actual opinion so now refuse to end the discussion. Janet simply repeats what she always says (which is valid enough) thus is ignored.

"What the hell do you know?", of course it is Trevor, my intellectual nemisis, who dares to challenge me to my face.

"Yeah, what do you know about it, you're not even Irish!" The other boys start to turn to each other, ready to ignore me.

"What do I know? I know all about it." This is one of those moment where I have total clarity. There is nothing but my voice and what i have to say. I can't make it happen intentionally, but when it does it takes posession of me entirely and -no matter what the circumstance- my voice will be heard. I speak very softly but everyone hears me clearly. In fact there is no other noise except my voice; no music in the background, no TV playing with the sound off, no sounds of people passing the house outside. My quiet voice is all they hear, and -as always- they are transfixed. It is as if we are all held by an invisible hand, and no one is allowed to speak or move until I finish.

"I come from a country that is occupied," I continue. "We escaped from my country and came to Canada as political refugees. Tanks came in to take over that day, and since the Soviet army never left. They had no right to be there, it was none of their business, it was not their territory, they had no claim at all. But I cannot talk to my aunts, I cannot know my cousins. My mum can't speak to the family that she knew. We left with nothing; our property was taken away, all assets were seized. My family was rich, there, in Czech." I have to stop to drink a beer, if I do not gulp right now I will start crying.

Keta does not cry. Ever. The last time I cried was when I broke my hand, and after a gruelling two hours in the hospital where they wanted to release me and gave me a hard time when I insisted -four times- on an x-ray only to be told my hand was broken and would be in a cast for six weeks when my gymnastics finals competition was six weeks away plus my lifeguard course final exam was that week too and I would be expected to lift fully grown men out of the pool.

Apart from that I do not cry.

The room is still gripped in that powerful moment of clarity that seems to frighten everyone else but me.

"You guys are arguing semantics, you're not looking at the big picture. Besides, it's easy to debate such a thing here when you are safe, but to suggest that people risk their lives for something you know NOTHING about (here i look directly at Kevin) just shows how you know nothing about it. If you were there and watched people die, and knew people that had their kneecaps blown off, and were torn between sides and trying to be recruited, you wouldn't find it so easy to proclaim how 'things should be'."

That's it, I didn't want to get involved in the first place. And I always get uncomfortable directly following one of my 'tirades' because when the words stop coming there is a gap in time before the people fall out of their mesmorized stupor. I am left to look at them, frozen, looking at me with complete wonder in their eyes and incomprehension in their brains.

That moment always seems like an enternity and is too much truth for even me to handle.

The worst is that interval when I am still in real-time but they are all in super-slow motion. I am condemned to watch them come out of being transfixed with varying levels of being able to accept reality. One by one I have to watch them struggle with the truth they have just heard; my heart breaks repeatedly as one by one I see them reject it. Some rationalize, some pretend to not understand, other erase it from their memories entirely. Those are the most difficult to watch, because I know they are farthest from the truth in general. Life has taught me to note those in particular and to always remember they actively chose to reject the truth when it was plainly before them.

Slowly they come back to life. Janet tries to commandeer the conversation and turn everyone to her point of view. Unfortunately she says the same thing she always does so no one listens.

"See? You can't provoke violence. It's more complicated than that. The English don't belong there but they've been there a long time and that has to be considered."

This is not an answers and just angers everyone. I don't blame them, that kind of wishy-washyness would piss me off too, if it was my country.

The boys use Janet's ill-chosen timing to pretend my words were never spoken. Although they have trouble starting up, and have clearly been shaken, they manage to muddle through and within moments are back in their futile argument. I knew it would be so and share a bitter joke with myself about the predictability of human nature.

The only other person that seems to have noticed the gravity of the past few moments is Johnna. So easy to ignore, she sits across the room -as close to Janet as possible- watching me closely. She hasn't spoken in well over an hour; it is my mistake to underestimate her because she was obviously paying attention. Now she has seen what comes over me when the truth demands to get out, and I know she will share it with Janet at the first available opportunity.

But I'm pissed so I chose to ignore her once again. I hate it when I have to talk about my family, about my past, and about what happened on that bullshit day in August 1968. I hate it when I have to remember the wealth, the riches, the art, the crystal, the jewellery, the servants .. . everything my mum and her siblings enjoyed until Czech voted left and was insidiously encroached upon by the Soviet Union. Although I am forever grateful that i did not grow up in Czech I hate that it's not the same here. I hate that I can't go back. I hate that I don't have any of the comforts, that my life was so hard, that my mum remembers so clearly and finds everything and everyone here so lacking.

But I can't do anything about it. These children, these unitiated, these BABIES, they are back in their argument as if they have the slightest idea. It's just an esoteric discussion for them between trying to get laid and buying chocolate bars. They have no idea what it's like to go without.

I turn away from Johnna's peircing gaze and look out through the dark front window. Everything fades from me as I am once again lost in my thoughts. But this time, instead of minor surface thoughts about work or tomorrow, they are deep dark internal thoughts about things lost and a life never to be regained.

It's a good thing I have lots of beer in the fridge because I don't think I could stand to be in the same room with these people for much longer if I couldn't drown myself in mild drunkenness.

4-One Fine Summer

I've been home for about an hour in the last week and a half! Just to take a long soaker-shower, maybe eat something, and put another three days worth of clothes into my pack. I'm usually during the day time when my friends aren't doing anything in particular, so my parents are never home. I know they are still not pleased about my arrangement but I'm really not concerned about it. With no car there's nothing else I can do, and they're certainly not going to drive me!

Now I'm headed up to Bill Ritchie's house, he thinks he can arrange a ride back down to Johnny Bridal's. It's a nice sunny day and I'm feeling all jaunty. Probably it's from lack of sleep -they were making fun of me at work the other day for being a little slow on the uptake- but I've really been enjoying this independence.

The past year has been a TOTAL drag because my parents are on this home-rebuilding kick. They buy a property, we move in, then WHILE WE LIVE THERE they gut and upgrade it. Once it's all pretty and nice they sell it and we have to move again. In the four years that we've lived in Vancouver we've lived at four different addresses and I HATE it. I HATE moving. Last time I started to really wonder why I always get so upset at moving time and I came to the conclusion that it's because the first time that we moved (that I can remember) was when I was five years old after my parents got divorced. I think a lot of harsh, unresolved feelings get dredged up in the process of preparing to move.

It was a brutal time not only because they got divorced and my dad, infrequently present before that, became suddenly completely absent. He was shacked up with his long-time girlfriend (now wife and mother of his two other children, his "real family" as he considers it) another thorny issue. The move was completely harsh because my mum was in denial. We lived in a townhome type-thing (a kind of condo I guess) and I remember the day the landlord came by. He became rather displeased to find us not only not packed but totally without arrangements for a place to live. He gave my mum a stern talking-to then allowed her an extra month.

After he left she had a total meltdown, crying that she didn't even know how to go about finding a place to live. I was about two seconds away from a complete freak-out; "We're not going to have a place to live!?!?!?" when my brother responded in a rare moment of usefulness. He walked my mum through the steps logically;

"There must be a way people find apartments. What do they do?"

"I guess they look in the newspaper and pick a place." My mum was sobbing hard, I tried to grab onto her as I was still very close to panic. My brother pushed me away roughly, he could only handle one of us freaking out at a time. This is not a good position for a five year old and a six and a half year old to be in.

So she found a place, not far away (luckily; same friends, same school) and got us packed and moved in. She could only afford a two-bedroom so she would sleep in the living room. She promptly had a nervous breakdown and had to go to the hospital for a week or so. We stayed with our 'surrogate' grandparents, a very lovely German couple (Wolfgang & Brita) who we knew very well and took great care of us for that time.

I remember the day they took us to our new home; we were so excited because we hadn't seen our mum in over a week. It's pretty tough when you think about it, at that age, to lose your father, your home and not get to see your mum for such a long time. All while you know that when you do everything is going to be different, and it will never be the same again. I was excited but also anxious. Anxious. A state of mind that was going to become very, very familiar for the rest of my youth.

He brought us to the apartment but couldn't stay, he had to leave right away. At first I didn't see my mum, she was lying on her back in bed in the living room with her arm over her face. I shouted and ran towards her but was stopped. I think she may have gotten up to hug us but I don't remember. I do, however, remember Wolfgang leaving. A friend of my aunt's (who lives in England) that we knew a little bit -he was chef/owner of a Czech restaurant we had been to a few times- showed up. He was also pressed for time. By now my brother was starting to get unruly; he could see there was no real adult supervision, and with a whole new living place to explore he quickly got out of hand. I was standing, kind of frozen, in the kitchen where Wolfgang had left me trying desperately to compute this new living arrangement. And why was my mum lying prone in bed in the middle of the day? They told us she was sick.

The Czech cook fellow spoke rather abruptly with us. I was starting to intensely dislike the way we were being rushed through everything. He asked who was older and I pointed to my brother. He started to tell my brother what to do but couldn't get anywhere between the singing and jumping around. I stared at them both with about a million questions burning to get out of my soul. When he turned to me to explain things I started blubbering a little bit, with my brother still goofing around in the background.

He grabbed my arm, tugging at it firmly, "Listen. You have to TAKE CARE OF everything here."

That phrase stayed with me throughout my life; I learned then -and have yet to fully unlearn- how to take care of everyone else. Generally at the expense of myself.

"Here is the food and this is how you cook it." He had brought all kinds of dishes from his restaurant. He showed me how to turn an oven on, how to put the food in a pan, and how to slowly heat it. My brother popped in and out to watch, but he wasn't paying enough attention to absorb anything. I was completey engrossed in his instruction, being monumentally aware that the well-being of my family -at least in the short term- rested on my shoulders.

Five years old. Fuck.

The rest of the afternoon passed playing with my brother. The entire apartment was set up completely; our bedrooms were done, beds made, clothes put away . ..  everything. I couldn't really enjoy our game, the transition had been so jarring I couldn't quite get to feeling that I lived here now. Eventually my mum managed to get out of bed to check on us, she looked like shit I can tell you. I guess that's what happens when a person cries for two solid weeks.

I mean, how would you feel? She was barely 24 years old with two children, alone, in a country where she was still learning the language. We came to Canada as refugees after the Soviet invasion of Czech. On THE DAY the tanks came in my dad came driving up the country road to the cottage where we were, with the woman that was the girlfriend to eventually steal him away from my mum. I'm sure the sense of betrayal must have been too enormous to bear, even if the breakup was at least partly her fault. I didn't understand -or even know about- all of this then of course. All I knew was that my dad was gone, our lives had changed, and my mum was seriously fucked up.

She came into my brother's room where we were playing, completely drained. No energy at all. She looked at us without the slightest love or enthusiasm and said it was probably time for her to make dinner. She looked like she was going to start crying again at the thought of the monumental task. Wanting to be helpful, and perhaps ease her from a little bit of her pain so she would love me and maybe hug me I jumped up, "I know how to make dinner!"

"You do??"

"Yes, the man showed me." I went into the kitchen and started carefully taking pots out of the cupboard and getting the food in. She was amazed, but satisfied that I was doing it properly. Then everything changed, though I didn't know it yet. She saw in me someone so hungry for approval, so desiring a 'happy family', so wanting things to be settled and normal that she knew she would be able to exploit me for housework. Which is exactly what she ended up doing.

"Set the table," she told my brother, still eyeing me and assesing my abilities. I was happy to do it, it was more like a game where a little girls plays with a toy stove except it was real. I didn't know that it was going to lead me to a life of doing all the family laundry and basically all of the housework by the time I was ten years old.

My brother rudely refused to set the table, or to do anything useful at all. My mum didn't have the strength to argue with him which set the tone for the next 15 years of HIS life, where he did basically nothing in the house except eat and take up space.

I don't know why I just told you all that, it has nothing to do with anything except to maybe explain why I hate moving and always find myself very upset all through the process. This house we're in right now is finished and looks very nice, it's already on the market and they tell me we'll have to move again before I start university. I actually laid it on the line with them, telling them that I just can't do this. I can't live in a house that's being remodelled then move year after year after year. My mum's stupid husband looked at me with that barely concealed dislike in his eyes and said something like what I think doesn't matter. I glared back at him and said -as calmly as I could- that the next time we move I'm moving out. I've been planning to move out since grade ten anyways. It's just this side of hell living with those two; they packed my brother off to boarding school a couple of years ago. That's another horror story I'll tell you about later.

It was very disruptive and difficult for me in my last year of high school, with the advent of the 50% government exams for the first time that year and all the class time we wasted doing 'mock' exams so they could work out a system of standardized testing. Then we had a teacher's strike in December. All the while the entire house except my bedroom was completely gutted, all the furniture was under a tarp in the living room where my parents slept and a second floor was being added to the house. It's a miracle I passed at all, not to mention with the grades that I did.

I can't think about that right now, the house isn't sold yet and they tell me that when it does we have at least a month to pack and move. I can't pay for an apartment myself, but I can't live like this anymore. I don't understand how my parents can do it so willingly in fact, sometimes they seem to me to be entirely lacking in feeling.

Anyways, I don't have to worry about it this summer because I'm barely going to see them. But thinking about all of this has pissed me off so much I take a bottle of rum from their liquor cupboard. My mum doesn't mind, she buys me booze from the liqour store. Being European they dont' agree with the government telling you when your kids are old enough to drink. Besides, as she says, this way she knows how much I'm drinking. Little does she know that aside from what she buys me I get double that myself at the liqour store!

Bill will be pleased, we'll have a couple of drinks before our ride shows up. He gets the whole basement to himself and his parents basically never go down there so we can do whatever we want.

3-One Fine Summer

Sorry no update last week, super-crazy-busy.

I've been working like a hungry little puppy. They book everyone's schedule for full-time, but a lot of the kids want to take days off for fun stuff and rather than switching shifts they usually just ask me to cover theirs. So it's normal for me to work seven days a week, maybe even with a double-shift in there if they really beg hard. I take basically every shift I can get because I am not capable of turning down work, and because -since the job is outside- if it rains for a few days all our shifts get called off.

Things at the house are going really well. I'm surprised; given that it's basically a random bunch of kids thrown together with absolutely no adult supervision. Janet's little 'romance' with John McRae is floundering in a weird state of limbo, but she just can't seem to stop talking about him regardless. I find it tiresome because I can see he's just playing her, but she seems to think that SHE is the player and won't give up. Oh well, something for her to do I guess. None of these other kids have jobs so maybe they need something to occupy their minds. I don't know. I'm reaffirmed in my lack of romantic involvement with any of them; just as I found the boys in my classes at school childish and uninspired, I don't find any of these boys attractive. I'm glad about that though because when it comes time to sleep I dont' have to put up with someone's clumsy fumblings in the dark.

I'm still completely enamoured of this boy at work yet he continues to elude me. I'm not forward at all so it's hard for me to indicate that I'm interested romantically. It's not that I'm particularly shy, I have no problem seeking him out for a chat and some mild flirtation; I'm just not one of those girls that can just come out and say they like someone, or that ask the guy out. I think I'd die of embarrassement if I tried that! So I just keep going on in my semi-subtle way, and hope there's a time when I meet him in a non-work environment so I can make my feelings more plain. Probably when I'm older I'll get better at this.

I worked the day shift today so I'm meeting Janet at her house. She plans to raid her parents' fridge, from what I hear those guys have been living on peanut butter sandwiches. Luckily I get a staff meal for every shift; usually I try to order something big like a burger and fries or some seafood pasta. I'm in good with the kitchen staff so they load up my plate too. Last year we used to be able to order as much dessert as we wanted. A nice sugar fix after a hard day of running around in the hot sun. But there ended up being countless plates of half-eaten cheesecake with raspberry sauce or the famous chocolate decadence cake in the cash-out area every day so management nixed that. We do get a staff beer though. Well, those over 19 do. Sometimes someone sneaks me one, or a glass of wine, but not often because we could get busted for that.

We have to hang out at Janet's house for a while until she can eat and to wait for Johnna. I'd kill for a beer, but I guess I can wait a few hours. Janet fills me in on the latest gossip and goings-on at the house.

"We're trying to figure out how to get Chris to understand we don't want him there." She's putting on her makeup so we're standing in the bathroom. I'm drinking a juice and have to force myself to stop thinking about getting some vodka in it.

"Why? He's funny man. I had this total wacky conversation with him the other day. He was talking some crazy shit about aliens . . . as if they were real. I couldn't understand almost a word of what he was trying to say, but it was hilarious. I was so drunk." I suck on my orange juice as thoughts of rum waft through my head.

Janet is not amused. "Well, he's pissing everyone off because he goes on these tirades right when we're all starting to relax."

"That's why I like him, it's entertaining!" Sometimes Janet has no sense of humour.

"And yesterday he was bugging us all day. Like he was a spoiled child and we were his parents or something," she scowls while applying her mascara.

"What do you mean, what was he doing?" Sometimes these kids are too demanding, they don't accept people for who they are.

"It's like he needs attention all the time. We were talking with Rangae in the kitchen about something personal and the guys were just hanging out on the couch. Chris kept wandering back and forth like a lost puppy and wouldn't let anyone talk. We told him to go away but he just got louder and more obnoxious."

I still don't see the problem, all of us have our obnoxious moments. I pissed off Trevor the other day because I was hassling him about the way he treats his younger brother.

"Then later in the night we were all talking in the kitchen and he had this kind of fit! It was like he was faking an epileptic seizure or something."

"You guys want to kick him out just for that??" It's not funny but it's hardly a punishable offense.

"His face was in the dog food bowl."

"Yuck! Still though . . ."

"You don't understand Keta." Janet tends to get a bit short-tempered with me sometimes. I guess my special brand of cluelessness gets frustrating for her. I try to catch on more quickly.

"He was basically demanding attention. I mean, we have to be able to talk together about stuff without having someone acting like a five year old."

"That's true. What happened when you told him to stop?" I'm really uncomfortable with the idea of turfing someone from the house for anything less than outright stealing or something equally important. We're supposed to be sticking together. I know Chris wasn't part of the original crowd but he is a friend of Johnny Bridal's. It just sounds to me like they want to get rid of him because he's not cool enough, or popular enough or something and I don't like that one bit.

"He was laughing, it was obvious that there was nothing wrong with him. We started ignoring him, and he just lay there with his face beside the dog dish for a while then he got up and was normal again." Janet's really pouting so I can tell she's very displeased.

Sometimes I can't tell if she's speaking her own mind or if she's just going along with the crowd. I'm getting the feeling that it's the guys that lost patience with Chris and Janet's just going along because she wants to score points so that when she wants something to change at the house they will go along with her. Those are exactly the kinds of tactics that I suck at; I either don't give a shit so ignore the manoeuvering or I have my total own trip that I'm on and no one can change my mind no matter what they say. I never like create alliances or trade favours. Which is exactly why I end up being the last to know when decisions are being made. Then, sometimes, I bring up the only salient point to an issue which -of course- no one else has thought of because they're all madly working out ways to one-up each other. Sometimes it's too late, other times it launches the whole discussion all over again.

"I don't think that's so bad, all of us get goofy sometimes! Look at Kelly." We both laugh.

Kelly lives down in False Creek, he doesn't stay up at the house with us often because his own dad is away alot so he can bascially do whatever he wants. He's started some job that he needs to wake up at 6:00am for, so he asked us to stop by on our nighttime travels. About 13 of us ended up there at 5:30am or so, all drunken and rowdy having wandered the streets and hung out at the beach all night. But he wouldn't wake up! I mean he woke up to let us in then slid right back into bed again. We were all wired and crazy, playing music loud on his stereo, bouncing off the walls, shouting and carrying on. And there he is just sleeping away. I started to think something was wrong with him when his alarm went off. He SHOT up, standing on his bed and started ranting away about 'good morning' or some such thing. It was weird to me; like he was putting on a show or something. He didn't have a shirt on, just his shorts, and Kevin kept yelling from across the room, "Kelly! I can see your short and curlies" and bursting into laughter. That, to me, was way more freaky than how Janet was describing Chris. But because it was Kelly and he's cool and everyone loves him it was OK.

"Well, it's not the same and the others think so too so we're going to talk about it later." I roll my eyes. Yeah ok you guys, you just want to tell everyone how to be.

Janet is finally ready, Johnna already called that she's on her way. I'll be drinking beer in less than an hour, not a moment too soon!