Fake Barking

"Can you believe we've known each other for more than a decade?"

Caitlin looks up from her book, muffles, "Yeah, weird," brushing off Liv, and goes back to A Moveable Feast.

"I mean, like, it's crazy that I remember that far back. Like, sometimes I can't even remember something that happened last week, but then at the same time I can remember when we used to have swim practice at Lake Bluff pool and your mom would pick me up, and I'd always forget my towel, and—"

"Yeah, it's nuts, Liv."

Liv gets up from the kitchen bar stool she'd been sitting on. "Anyway, I just thought it was weird," she says defensively.

She closes the IKEA catalog she'd absently been flipping through, then she adjusts her sweatshirt, which had gotten bunchy from sitting.

Caitlin's eyes follow her. Liv's doing that thing where she wants to talk, and Caitlin's doing that thing where she doesn't want to talk. It has nothing to do with the other, just on different wavelengths this morning. It's Saturday.

"Sorry, Liv," Caitlin says. "I'm—"

But before she's done, Liv cuts in, "It's fine. I'm just being dumb."

"You're not. I'm just tired." She thinks to herself, it's 10am, and says, "Well, that's not an excuse—"

"Except that it is."

"Right."

"Right," says Liv.

"I don't want to fight with you, Liv."

Caitlin gets up from the couch. It's a New England red, the kind that mens J. Crew shorts are colored to look like, almost like they're covered in dust.

"Do you remember that guy in the car yesterday?" Caitlin asks.

Stopping in the space between her bedroom and the hallway, "When we were walking?" Liv asks.

"Yeah."

"I remember." She was neither smiling nor frowning, but her face was mute because she didn't know where this was going.

"And he was yelling so much, so loudly and we could hear it all."

"Yeah."

There was a guy who was driving a silver Lexus SUV down Windsor. There was a passenger in the seat next to him. The girls couldn't tell if the passenger was a man or a woman, and frankly it didn't matter. Not because the person looked like either, the SUV driver was going too fast, and it was an odd angle, even when he had to stop at the red light. The driver was yelling so loudly. He was yelling about how much he loved the person sitting in the passenger seat. He was yelling, and he was exasperated, and it was hard to understand because Caitlin and Liv hadn't ever felt that kind of 'frustrating, over the top, I can't deal with you because I love you too much kind of love.' The couple was fighting because they couldn't spend as much time together as they wanted to, the very best kind of terrible fight, because it means they care, and they want to continue to care, and it's hard. It's the hardest kind of fight.

"No one should fight like that," Caitlin says. "That was the kind of fight, if you're going to have it, that you shouldn't have while operating heavy machinery." She was laughing now.

"It was funny," Liv agreed. They thought it was funny because they couldn't identify with it, not really. Their reaction was inappropriate for the situation, like laughing at a funeral, or something less trite.

"God, that uninhibited rage," Caitlin giggled. "Maybe rage isn't even it."

"Yeah, maybe it's more like unwarranted frustration."

Mock holding an invisible badge, Caitlin uses her policeman voice, "I have a Warrant For My Frustration."

"Officer, please, come on, you know me," Liv plays along.

"Like that time my mom was so mad at us for both forgetting towels at swim practice, and we just were so soaking wet and sat in the backseat and we looked like wet puppies."

"And she was like, 'Girls, I just got this.'"

"And, we were like, just, like barking?!"

"Arf! Arf!"

"Arf!"

And the two spiraled into a bark session.

settled

Two nights ago I couldn't sleep. After returning late from an improv show at iO I was stuck thinking and rethinking about everything that had happened before, during, and after the show. Since I'm moving to Los Angeles in about a month all I've done lately is reflect on my years in Chicago. I had a few things to do on my checklist before I could leave here. I've done them all, and now I'm more than ready. But it's been all the things and people between those bullet points that have made Chicago everything. I landed here by default, but I chose to stay for as long as I have because I loved it.

All night Monday I was up going through drawers in my bedroom, clearing out what I assumed would be junk, but what I found instead was treasure. I found countless notes, cards and keepsakes from nights out. These were things I knew I would want to look at again before I boxed them in an old shoebox. I know myself well enough to know that these are the things I'll want to look back at when feeling low, maybe in LA, maybe wherever I go after that.

One of my favorite little things I found was a piece of white computer paper that I had written some thoughts on one night while at my parents house. There were existential questions like, "Why are we here?" and hopefully non-predictive statements such as, "Eventually, I will be broke," accompanied by an arrow pointing to the name: Peter Francis Geracy, Illinois' premier bankruptcy attorney. I can't decide if I meant PFG will say this or if he's whom I should call about going broke in the future. Both seem like viable options. But, what I liked most about this note I'd unintentionally written to myself was this poem:

They never loved you
I never loved you
I loved you, but I didn't
I did as much as I could

-and I was timid.
I was nervous. and I acted like we were new. and then it was old.
we were old. and we weren't supposed to be together
-and now I'm scared that I'll be alone and you were it.
and now I'm alone, but I never settled
Is that better?

-I wasted your time.
-I wasted your time.

It was followed with this:

If I were me right now I'd run. I'd be fine, until right before. My heart would race like crazy and I'd convince myself it wasn't nerves -- until I'd realize that would mean I'd have a heart condition. I have it all prepared. I have it played out in my mind. Why does my body convince itself it's not ready. Not prepared. No one else up here is really all that special. Every day I think -- I could do that. But here I am failing at the one thing I want. It'd be sort of funny to want to be a banker. And every time you count money you can't count because money made you so nervous. Living in general would be difficult. Money is such a big part of life. It really is.

There's this constant push to be moving forward, and I love that push. I love that drive, that fire, to pursue life fully despite nerves, despite fear, despite obstacles. It's a funny thing to never feel settled, and perhaps it's less in the destination, but more in the people where you're settled. Once you find your people, that's where the comfort is. So for me, I'm settled in Chicago. I'm settled in Iowa. I'm settled in the U.P. I'm settled in Lake Forest. I'm settled in San Francisco. I'm settled in Los Angeles. I'm settled all over because everyone I love is out there pursuing their lives, as I am.

So no, I did not waste anyone's time and no one wasted mine.

glassy eyed.

The other day I found my childhood diary. Yes, the one I had faithfully written in for five years from ages 7 to 12. As a kid I remember spending a lot of time alone hiding in the playroom's small walk-in closet, living like a hermit listening to the sounds of my siblings playing together while I retreated into my separate imagination. I created a whole world in there. A whole world by myself that Larry, Colleen, Sean, Timmy and Kevin couldn't disrupt. Thinking about it now, there's something about loneliness that has always plagued me. And however cliche it certainly is, I remember how much I wanted to be paid attention to as a child. I remember how accurate the term crush was every day of junior high. I remember thinking the neighborhood girls were snobby and that at heart, we had nothing in common anyway; I could never bring myself to fake it. Now 15 years later not so much has changed. I'd rather actually be alone than feel alone with people who happen to be next to me. Maybe everyone's like this. Maybe not.

There's something about loneliness that has buried itself in my heart. I don't share my feelings regularly. Sometimes I feel like an emotionally vacant person, like a dad in the 50s, like Don Draper. But the thing is about dads and Don Draper is they do have feelings, a lot of feelings and they're wandering lost just like the rest of us. There's this constant struggle of not wanting to show our cards because if you do then you are open to the elements. And somehow, when the moment strikes and you actually find yourself in that moment of vulnerability, you get stung. Every time you vow to keep it locked up tighter next time, don't share, don't care, don't don't don't, somehow someone comes along, and magically they get that guard to come down, and right when you think you're safe -- you just...aren't. Perhaps we're meant to be breakable, but to what end?

Growing up my family mockingly teased me by calling me glassy-eyes, referring to the way my big brown eyes watered uncontrollably whenever I would actually express how I felt. I would try so hard to keep my emotions at bay to no avail. A slight shiny, wet film would overcome my eyes just waiting until those heavy tears couldn't help but spill over. Now, I attempt to close off entirely, if not by neglecting a good cry, at least doing it at the AMC River East some random Thursday morning during a showing of whatever I want to see by myself that day when no one can see how much I care. Perhaps a stranger will see me in the dark responding disproportionately to the sad parts in Woody Allen's Blue Jasmine, but that's ok.

One of my life-friends, a compatriot in not wanting to need others, recently returned from a long, long walk. A 32 day walk spanning 800 km along the Northern reaches of Spain. The Camino de Compostelle. She's been a person seeking adventure and finding it as long as I have known her, which is now over a decade. Reading her entries reflecting on her journey and after talking last weekend over french toast, she has come to a place of serenity and openness that I have never quite known. This particular post struck me. I was overcome with how much there is here. I didn't cry, but I wanted to:

There was no other choice. It was clear. 

There is strength in weakness. 

There is beauty in needing people and reaching out your hands for help. 

We weren´t made to walk alone.

It's so easy to become swept up in what it is to be lonely, to assume everyone else is a part of something, to feel as if you're on the outside. It's so easy to be the wallflower sitting in your apartment on New Years, or any Friday in September, listening to the sound of life in the next building over. But even if all those things are true, even if 5-year-old me was that way, that doesn't mean 27-year-old me has to be.

HANG UPS. (At the Jewel)

HANG UPS

BY BRIGID MARSHALL

DRAFT 2

CAST

AMY – mid-twenties, disillusioned

EMMA – mid-twenties, silly

KRIS – mid-twenties, sensible

Jewel-Osco. Three girls are in the fruit aisle.

AMY I mean, exclusive hook ups are a far cry from a real relationship.

EMMA Right?

AMY Yeah. I mean. I think so. Apples?

KRIS Well, it’s not really.

EMMA Yeah, apples — What do you mean, Kris?

KRIS It’s not really that far of a cry from a real relationship. Oh, Asian pears!

AMY (Picking up Asian pears) How so, sensei?

EMMA (Buddhist-y, picking up carrots and petting them) What is real anyway?

KRIS Well, it’s exclusive, darling grasshoppers.

AMY Yeah, and?

KRIS Well, isn’t that the biggest part of what “being in a relationship” is?

EMMA No.

AMY No, I don’t think so. See, you need to like, talk about it and stuff.

KRIS Fine, then what is?

AMY Love. Or something.

KRIS So you’re not in a relationship until you’re in love?

AMY No, that’s not what I’m saying.

KRIS Then what are you saying, Confucius?

EMMA More like confusing-cius.

[EMMA high fives herself.]

KRIS You win, Emma.

AMY I’m saying, stay with me here. But. Ok. So, if you’re exclusive with someone sexually that doesn’t mean you like them as like in a boyfriend kind of way. Necessarily. You might just like them for their hot toosh.

KRIS God.

EMMA (All existential, but jokey) God?

AMY Yeah. Well, that’s what I’m saying.

KRIS You’ve seen too many movies like that fuckin’ No Strings Attached and whatev.

AMY What of it?

KRIS It’s kind of gross, Amy.

AMY Banging for pleasure?

KRIS Jesus. Yes.

EMMA I mean, I don’t think it’s a big deal, or whatever. I’m not going to judge you.

KRIS I’m not judging. I have no room to. Ugh.

EMMA So wise. But yeah, I get your point, K. But, I guess I just…don’t necessarily…agree?

KRIS That wasn’t a question. Stop upturning your statements.

EMMA (Upturning on purpose) OK?

AMY Well that’s because of Jim.

KRIS Oh, la la! Jiiiim.

EMMA Shut up. (Completely changing subject) I wish I had those tiny Asian lady shoes.

KRIS The ones made of wood and stuff?

AMY Like the ones they wore on the Chipmunks? – Stop changing the subject.

AMY/KRIS Jiiiiim!

EMMA Shut up.

KRIS/AMY SH’UP!

AMY I don’t think so. Jiiiiim!

EMMA Seriously. We are not in a relationship, unless relationship means never sleeping over and getting texts at 12am and answering them like an idiot.

AMY Or maybe that just makes you someone who just understands the thing of it, and wants some booty, too?

KRIS But don’t you want more than just booty, Em?

EMMA Yeah.

KRIS Well, then, change the relationship.

EMMA Easier said than done.

AMY Yeah, what a greeeeat suggestion, Kris.

KRIS I’m only saying you can’t expect the relationship to change if you don’t change.

AMY WISE SENSEI!

KRIS (Does something dumb physically, like bowing too emphatically) The wisest!

AMY Fortune cookie, Sensei.

EMMA/KRIS/AMY (All bow to each other repeatedly repeating over and over) WISE SENSEI, SO WISE, kanichiwa, etc.

KRIS Wait. Stop. You’re just a booty call if you’re not in a relationship, even if it’s exclusive. OK?

EMMA/AMY WISE SENSEI, SO WISE, Kanichiwa, etc.

KRIS This turned real quick.

(Black out.)

Summer in the city

It's 4:00 a.m. and so incredibly hot. You know, that sticky kind of heat that not even the best fan can break up. She's been moving from her bedroom to the living to the bedroom and back again, a short respite in a cool shower, and then snap to a few hours later. It's time to start the day. So says the sun.

It's 6:37 a.m. and already she's tired of this day. There are dishes in the sink, collecting quickly, gnats finding a home where they previously didn't exist. An empty bottle of Palmolive sits on the edge of her grubby sink. A grim scene if any parent were to walk in unexpectedly.

"Oh, Kimberly May, this is just--" and her mother would cut herself off, because she knew her dismay said more than any more words could. Ah, tone of voice. The careful decision to use her daughter's first and middle names. Disappointment, a feeling Kim knows well.

About a month earlier, it was probably 11:54 p.m. on a week night, Kim had called it quits with a guy she barely could say she was seeing casually. Or, put another way, if someone had given her a plus one to a wedding she would think about inviting this guy, but wouldn't because in the end the relationship had no legs to stand on. She tried not to be so cynical at the start of it, but that's hard, so with each passing day her defeatism grew into an inevitability, well, a defeat.

So, now it's noon on a Saturday. The week ended as quickly as it began. Thankfully so. She woke up late, having been out til the wee hours working the night before. She woke up alone, sticky in the summer heat. There's no room for anyone in this home, void of an air-conditioner, anyway. Sweat. Solo. Summer.

"Summer in the city, I'm so lonely lonely lonely I've been hallucinating you, babe, at the backs of other women And I tap on their shoulder and they turn around smiling But there's no recognition in their eyes " -Regina Spektor, Summer in the City

dads. my dad. dads.

Sheila & LarBear. 2012.

This is, I guess, more pertinent, or timely, than most of my posts. Mostly, because it's non-fiction, and it's about my dad. Oh, Larry Marshall, a man that in every moment is a dedicated daddy-o, entrepreneur, non-shirt-wearer when in the yard, self-described short-ditty-songwriter, avid gardener and amateur real-estate aficionado. My dad has always been a driver in my life. It took a long time to realize that he drove so hard because he hoped that the six of his kids would drive ourselves in the same way. He did good.

I will always prefer striving to stagnant, type A to slacker.  In short, I'm an Annie Edison, as opposed to a Jeff Winger. I don't know how to be content, so to this, I say thank you. There's always more out there.

The pair of us would make lists as I grew up. I don't know if he did this with my siblings; I have an inkling this particular habit sank into my sister Colleen's life though. We are so similar when it comes to how we go about dreaming and working to achieve. Perhaps it was a "Father of Girls" move. How lucky were we to have such a caring, thought provoking man as a dad? And remains so.

Me & Dad. 2013.

These lists, ah, these lists, they'd be the lists comprised of all sorts of things: what I was interested in, books I wanted to read, books I'd read, places I'd like to visit, places I'd visited, my favorite facts, things I loved, goals I set, goals I accomplished, people I admired, and so on into all spheres of life. I have kept many of these lists throughout the years: a hoarder of the relics in my own life. And for my unsurprising love of memoirs, I've kept track of myself for years in hopes that eventually I'll be able to piece together where I've been, where I'm going and where I want to be by the time I'm old. To this my dad laughs, then reflects on how he has grown and changed over the years. He'd think about if it were his little life lists. "I look pretty good, right?" A common catchphrase, more than a question. Then, he'd twirl the hairs on the back of his head, smile a side smile, and continue, "...feel like I'm 17, but then I remember I'm not. Doesn't matter. I feel it. Ya know, Bridge, you're as old as you feel." When he said this to me for the first time, he was in the midst of growing his hair a little longer in the back — he called it his stylish baby curls, while everyone else called it a mullet.

 

Birthday. 2010.

He discovers things and shares them with me, and luckily for me, he has promised to keep doing so. The other day he texted (by the way, it was a very exciting day when he learned to text) me about wanting to go to the Elbo Room or the Hideout to check out "Who's who in music land." Someone had recommended he'd like Robbie Fulks. Always an adventure seeker, despite living in the suburbs.

There was a time I remember so clearly: I was a teenager, Armageddon had just come out, and the film's album couldn't get enough airplay. When Chantal  Kreviazuk covered John Denver's "Jet Plane," my dad was so in awe of the song that when he came home one evening, and I greeted him in the driveway, as I was prone to do, he told me to get in his parked car, so we could listen and then re-listen to it over and over again. My favorite moments are when he turns to me and says, "I'm a pretty cool guy, right?" And, he genuinely wants to know my opinion, all the while genuinely believing himself to be a "pretty cool guy." He genuinely is.

I forget how lucky I am to have the kind of parents Steve Martin tends to play in movies. See Father of the Bride or Cheaper by the Dozen, if you're not sure what I'm talking about. Few people know what I have, and I am so thankful.

Colleen. Brigid. Dad. Christmas. 2012.

Lunch Break

This week I've elected to temp at my father's business. Judy, who is normally the Office Manager, is out of town on vacation. I am taking over. Her desk is abnormally messy, and she keeps old plastic spoons, expired coupons and salt packets in her drawers and pen holders.

This afternoon after much debate, consisting of me driving one direction, then turning around in 3 point fashion, I decided to grab some grub at my grandparents' house. Harry and Celeste live in a condo. It's about a block from my dad's office in Glenview, a suburb of Chicago. They live on the Penthouse floor of the complex, and when I knocked on the door to be let inside, I could hear Harry shuffling, then yelling, "Just come on in!" But the door was locked, which I made known, shouting through the door, "It's locked!"

Then Gana answers the door. She's their new assistant person from Mongolia. Neither Harry nor Celeste would readily admit they need an extra hand, what with Celeste getting her knees replaced Thursday and Harry just returned from the hospital after a fall in the shower.

So, I'm making an egg salad sandwich, and Celeste asks me if I want some cake. Harry offers a selection of cookies and then they both see the pie, and ask if I want that, too. Too? I just had some pie. Rye bread for the sandwich? Yes, I say. But, anyway, I've sat down at the round table between the two of them, and I begin to enjoy the first bites, and then Don St. John calls. So, Celeste picks up the portable phone to answer, looks at the Caller ID. "This must be Don St. John." Chuckles all around. "Yeah, Harry? I know him. You wanna talk to him. Yeah, OK."

"Who is it?"

"It's Don St. John. What do ya mean, 'Who is it?' Gees."

He's using a letter opener from 10 years ago with my grandma's face on it to open their excess mail accumulated from too many days before.

"Oh, Don. Well, say 'Hi,' Brigid." So I do.

"Hi, Don. Yeah, I'm their granddaughter. You know? You wanted to say, "Hello," too? Well, alright. Hello." The conversation lulls, "I'll give you over to Harry." So I do.

"Hey Don. Yeah, I don't think I'm going to be able to go to [Insert miscellaneous Old Man get together]. No, it is too bad." The conversation continues for a bit, then his blue eyes light up. "Celeste," he says, putting the receiver on his lap. "Don's son-in-law got a knee replacement in the spring, and he's now out playing baseball on the team this summer." The team is comprised of one of my uncles, Don (who just turned 90 according to my grandma) and other sprightly men of all ages.

"Oh, really, Harold? Maybe I'll join the team now." She's so witty. Her little lips curling into a smirk. The one their accustomed to make after over 50 years married to Harold T. Stanton. " Go ahead, ask him if I can join."

He puts the phone back to his ear, making a silly kissy face to her. "No, she can't catch. The only thing she's caught was me!"

Laughter.

Then comes the Celeste punchline. "No, I got stuck with you." And the lips curl into a kissy face paired with a wink.

the arrival

My return to the Midwest after a long stint on the west coast was welcome. I enjoyed my time over there, learned a lot about publishing and experienced a different way to do life. Really, San Francisco has a lot to offer, especially when it comes to people. I find that it's people that almost always make my travel experience special. I'll forget the memorable sites and the delicious dinners eaten out; I'll forget the trips to the grocer and rides on the BART. But what I won't forget are the ones I did life with. And now I know if I ever find myself out there again I'll have friends, and I won't be the least bit frightened to do the same thing in another unknown city with unknown people and an unknown public transit system.