It’s not easy, letting someone into your home. Because then they see the holes in the walls, the off-kilter frames, the cobwebs in the corner.
It’s not easy, letting someone see you as you really are. Because then they see the worn look in your eyes, the clenched jaw, the slumped shoulders.
It’s not easy, letting someone in.
It’s not easy, letting someone see you as you really are. Because then they see the worn look in your eyes, the clenched jaw, the slumped shoulders.
It’s not easy, letting someone in.
It's New Year’s Eve of 2009.
I open the door in my old robe, with a bowl in my hand. In that bowl are tiny bits of stale tortilla chips, found at the bottom of the bag. On those chips of chips, are half-melted cheddar cheese and some questionably tangy salsa.
Clint stands before me, in a pressed black suit and a silky purple shirt, looking like he climbed out of a glossy menswear ad. At 29, he’s the oldest of the three brothers at the end of the block who serve as my family by proxy.
I let him in.
He peeks into my bowl.
“What is that?”
“A very sad snack.”
"Come on. Get dressed. We’re going to the Surfer’s Ball.”
Big, black tie event at the upscale hotel here. He doesn’t want to go “empty-handed.” He’s a shy guy and needs me as social reinforcement.
“No ball, Clint, I told you before. I just don’t have it in me. And its 100 bucks to get in. I can’t spend that right now.”
My budget is tight. It’s always tight. It wears me down. Of course, it wears me down.
“Well, I’m paying. Besides, I probably owe you anyway.”
Yes, he does. Even though he and his family have a big, beautiful home at the end of the street, the "boys" spend a good amount of time here. I feed them, give them clothes, booze and bad advice. They break my stuff, use my shit and push my buttons, I'm guessing like real brothers are supposed to do.
Kyle, Kurt and Clint
And me“No, Clint. I wanna watch Criminal Minds and eat stale chips. Leave me alone.”
“You’re going. You said you were going.”
“Mind changed.”
“Let me see your gown.”
“Clint, please leave her alone.” I sometimes refer to myself in 3rd person just to make people uncomfortable. I got it from Silence of the Lambs.
“Come on. Let me see it.”
I reluctantly walk into the bedroom and he follows. There it is, hanging from my closet door. A long black, silky gown. Very formal and pretty, mocking me. It's quite different than the “apathy robe" I'm wearing.
“Wow. It’s beautiful. Please, Beth. Come as my date.”
Clint and I aren’t romantically involved. I don’t date any of the brothers. That whole “don’t shit where you eat” philosophy, if I may be so crass. Having sex with them might cost me the only sense of family I have here. So I know what he means by a date. A make-believe date. A placebo date.
Looking at him standing there, tall, handsome and well-dressed, I realize a fake date with Clint may trump a show on serial killers. Maybe.
“Okay,” I mutter.
“Yes! Get ready now. It’s 10:30.”
Clint and I have this game when I undress in the bedroom. I don’t bother asking him to leave my room at this point. He’ll go on the computer or do something to avert his eyes. I enjoy it. Simply the act of undressing with a man in my room feels good between my legs.
I squeeze into this fairly tight gown and begin hating myself almost instantly. Why doesn’t it fit like before? Why is it betraying me so? I start taking it off, with a groan.
“Let me see it first.”
“No, Clint. It’s wrong. It’s…”
“Let me see it!”
I turn around and his pretty blue eyes light up. A tight gown means something totally different to him.
“Perfect. Now keep going.”
But I can’t. I’m stuck in mud, suddenly.
Clint takes over. He tells me what jewelry to put on, what coat to wear. He picks my shoes. He watches me apply makeup and tells me when to stop.
“Okay, that's enough. You’re pretty enough without it.” My face warms a little. The words feel good and hurt simultaneously.
I don’t feel pretty enough. Technically, I realize I’m an attractive person. But there’s this pervasive ugliness that lays its unwelcome hands all over me.
Living in this house doesn’t help. It’s an old family shore house that I moved into several years ago, so I could start my business. With both my parents gone, my brother has been the only person living here. He’s a hoarder. A Howard Hughes type. He doesn’t see the disrepair that everyone else does. Or he doesn’t choose to.
His shit was everywhere when I first moved in. It took me months to make it barely livable. I eventually hit a wall and could do no more. This house is beyond me. It needs a fucking wrecking ball not a “woman’s touch.”
Several weeks ago, I had a date over for dinner. He saw the ceiling tiles in the living room, falling in from a leak in the roof.
“Your ceiling really need repaired,” he says offhandedly.
“You free Wednesday?” I respond, with a spark of anger.
It’s easy for people with sturdy little houses and sturdy little families to make comments like that.
Sitting in my bedroom after dinner, he looked around at the hodgepodge of random artwork I have up and the many layers of paint carelessly slapped on the wall. My room offended his sensibilities, I could tell. I kept thinking, hell dude - if you think my room's a wreck, wait till you get a load of what's between these ears of mine! After that night, I didn't hear from him again.
“Come on, Beth. Focus. It’s quarter of 11. Do your hair,” Clint says.
I brush my hair and pull it up on my head. Then take it down. Then put it back up. He doesn’t know I’m on the verge of tears. Or perhaps he does.
“How about a glass of wine?”
“Yes. Please”
Clint leaves my bedroom and makes his way through the maze of blankets we have hanging up throughout the house. We have no central heat here. The bedrooms and the kitchen are heated by space heaters. The hanging blankets, like those ceiling tiles, inflame the shame, infect my spirit.
But Clint has seen my hanging blankets and falling tiles. He’s done repairs here. Perhaps he’s doing repairs now.
When he comes back in the room, my tears have been neatly placed in the jewelry box.
“You look amazing.”
I try to smile.
"Is my room...weird?"
"What?" He looks around. "No. I always thought you room was kinda sexy, in a gypsy sorta way."
The house I grew up in was nothing like the Joneses. After my dad died, my mother worked full-time and came home exhausted and depressed. The house suffered. Holes in the rugs and furniture, fleas on the dogs, dishes in the sink. I couldn’t stand it.
When I had slumber parties, I’d clean that house all day yet feel so self-conscious and nervous when the other girls would arrive. You can’t clean away that awful feeling, no matter how hard you scrub. And something would always happen. One girl was allergic to fleas and got bitten repeatedly. She had to leave.
The next day, I sprayed bug killer everywhere, even on my bed and pillows. I’d be prepared for the next visit. As if there would be one. As if I could kill that feeling of shame with a can of Raid.
I read once that shame is one of the most corrosive and useless of emotions. Guilt can spur an apology when needed, for instance. But shame? It serves no purpose other than to make you feel like a first class piece of shit.
Clint plays music on the computer. I pull out a red lipstick from my makeup bag and take a sip of my latest find, a very good California Syrah. My favorite wines are almost always from California.
It’s funny. Even with all my broke-assness, my tastes have gotten nothing but finer. My mother used to laugh at my lofty inclinations as a child.
“I swear, you’d think you’re a Rockefeller or something. I don’t know where you get it. Just a head’s up, girl – we’re poor!”
She was the one who taught me to have good taste. Even broke, we’d occasionally go to fine restaurants, to expand our culinary horizons. She took me to the movies constantly, so I could "see the world." She taught me manners, core manners.
She had impeccable speech, an extensive vocabulary and read several books a week. She was genteel. She was also draining and narcisstic and extremely depressed. If I complained about the house, she'd bellow:
A house is supposed to look like it's lived in, damnit. You try raising 5 children on a secretary's salary! You try coming home and cooking dinner and cleaning. You see how it feels! No one appreciates the work I do. No one!"
The lipstick is a blazing red - a real power color. It does some of the work for me, thankfully. After applying it, I “unveil” myself to Clint, though he’s been watching me on and off the whole time.
“Good enough?”
“Very much so,” he says kindly.
"Thank you, Clint," I say, gratefully.
Oh, doesn’t he seem like the sweetest guy? Well, that's because this is a story.
Real life has fleas and worn spots in the rugs. In a few nights, Clint will “jokingly” tell me several times that I "owe" him since he bought the ticket for me. I will become irate, detailing the countless meals I’ve fed him, the times he’s stayed at my place, borrowed my car...
No one appreciates the work I do! No one!
I explain how his jokes slowly erode that special feeling I had New Year's Eve. She needs to hold on to that feeling right now. So back off. You hear me? Leave her alone!
It is New Year's Eve, 2009.
Clint puts my long, black coat with a faux fur collar on me and opens up the front door, which is starting to fall of its hinges. We take a step out on the icy front porch, caving in from age. The full moon and blast of arctic air instantly charge my spirits. The night becomes me suddenly.
I could probably fly there, if so desired. But I'd rather drive with Clint in his old red Ford pick-up truck and sing to the tunes on the radio. We links arms, so I don’t slip on the icy, sunken steps. His arms feel so big and blue collar.
For a moment, she feels safe and pretty.
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And that's one of Sir Paul's best solo songs, no doubt.
Thanks, all, for reading. I worked on this one for a while.
And Happy New Year to you, my OS family.
You ought to see my place sometime, but whatever you do, as you value your soul, don't go in the basement. I'm reminded of the "Roseanne" show, an episode where she had some upscale company to visit. As she was removing assorted clutter from the couch so they could sit, she said "Sorry about how the house looks, but we live here." I like the way this ends though:
"For a moment, she feels safe and pretty."
It's those moments which get us through the longer ones in between. If only life was like the movies.....
I love the weaving backdrop of both your home and your childhood.
"But there’s this pervasive ugliness that lays its unwelcome hands all over me." I know this one, how haunting this is for so many.
The closing, in the 3rd person, stunning. You rocked this.
ahhhhhhh, finally. Finally. Now I know how to describe this lifelong feeling.
You are so amazing. Thank you for letting all of us in. Thanks so damn much.
Thanks for the song, too.
This is the decade we were supposed to have bases on Jupiter....Dang!
And where the f*@#$%@#$ck is my flying car.
I guess this has nothing to do with your story, but I just had to complain......
Great narrative. Just rolls right along, no awkward phrases. You can tell you worked on it.
Although it is longish for OS, you manage each passage with economy. It doesn't "feel" long as a result.
Thanks for letting us in!
My house growing up was probably worse than yours. :) My dad's house that we lived in until I was 9 and the house I am sitting in now that we lived in after that--my grandmother's--were both causes of shame to me. When my dad was murdered in his house, the police complained to me of how it looked. They said it was hard to get forensic evidence with "dust this thick" (fingers held over an inch apart). I know they judged him by what they saw. I hated that he died there like that, in a mess, but he lived that way and it didn't seem to bother him. I gave up on inviting people over to either house very early in life. I am no longer in contact with anyone (other than family) who has seen the inside of either. I hate to say it, but Katrina helped my grandma's house. Yes, we had to throw away a bowl that travelled from Holland with an ancestor in the 1700s, but we also threw away years of boxes and junk that got flooded. Don't give up on a nicer house. If your writing is any indication, you have your own style and even now, it's probably visible there (as Clint said). It isn't what it one day will be, but you have nothing to be ashamed of. Those people of inflexible thought who think that everyone was gifted with a perfectly clean house and can live like Martha Stewart are really assholes. Maybe your house is a test, and the superficial people will always fail.
This is just wonderful. And not a note of shame in sight.
rated. (as always!)
Lovely story, beautifully crafted. You're an amazing writer.
Happy New Year.
Amazing photos.. And a wonderful post, I really enjoyed reading this. Thank you for sharing it.
Cool that you are the only female in the surf club,, just way cool. Surf Up!! Great post..
Oh, and Clint really owes you BIG time for this piece.
This was essentially a tribute to him.
well done
It’s not easy, letting someone see you as you really are. Because then they see the worn look in your eyes, the clenched jaw, the slumped shoulders. It’s not easy, letting someone in." Opening up your heart, and home, and letting someone in is really the hardest thing to do in life after being hurt. I love the words you have spoken here..
( without the young neighbors) and THEN your song takes me back to a time in my first marriage that I remember and life was good. Quite a emotional roller coaster ride. Has anyone said you write good...damn good!
Wonderful, as always.
Happy new year!
Oh, and? I'm teaching first grade right now and there's a little girl who I swear is you. I can't believe I'm going to tell you her name, but it's so important to who she is: Xey. You say it like sexy without the s. (She's not Asian--the X comes from some longer, shall I say classier, name like Alexandra or something). She's this little spitball of personality and verve--a tiny brunette with so much attitude. You should see the way she runs a meeting (I put them in charge of the "morning meeting" and she's the queen bee this week). She gives out demerits and says things like "Are all eyes on me?" You can't believe how much I have wanted to whip out the cell phone camera and film her doing the "phonics dance." The boys groan even as they obey her. And the boy who's famous in the class for eating deer (He must come from hunters--he's always talking about eating deer)--I swear to god this is true--shouted after her today as she raced for her bus: "I'll be your maid tomorrow Xey!" Swear to god.
Now I ask every OSer reading this comment. Is this little girl Beth Mann or is she not?
Great writing Beth, great writing.
Like the old saying, I feel much better now that I've given up hope. And shame. I don't even want to talk about shame. I don't have your courage as a writer. Or your talent.
"if you think my room's a wreck, wait till you get a load of what's between these ears of mine! and "Simply the act of undressing with a man in my room feels good between my legs."
Your insight about the ceiling repair ...
"It’s easy for people with sturdy little houses and sturdy little families to make comments like that."
You're so right Beth... Real life does have fleas and worn spots in the rugs." And big arms and blue collars are just fine by me.
Nice.
And I think that maybe the "real life", with all it's fleas and worn spots, is what makes nights like your New Year's so magical. Or maybe it was just the night.
Anyway, great writing.
I understand about the shame and the brokeassness and ensuing expensive tastes -- great made up word -- and also about the real life part. Give Clint hell for me when he acts up.
Rated, of course.
here's hoping you have a good new year
And -- you watch Criminal Minds, too? I thought I was the only obsessive around. Please don't tell....
*I* think having a ramshackle house by the beach is a damn sight better than any house I've ever lived in (course, that ain't sayin' much).
How did you get that song on here, anyway?
You are amazingly talented, but you are also a hard working craftsperson. I am a huge fan of your writing, and I am a huge fan of your dedication to the craft.
The fact that you are very very funny a lot of the time is icing.
As for the rest of the night:
It was lovely. I really liked the drive there, for some strange reason. Clint and I took some time - even though we didn't have much to spare - and played music and sang.
Well, I sang. Clint listened. He likes when I sing and I love to sing. It always makes me feel so good. I'm a decent singer - not great - but I just like it, you know? Frees my soul.
The Ball itself was crowded. It was for surfers so it had a very particular vibe - one that doesn't always jive with me, frankly. But we walked arm and arm on a red carpet into the event, which was fancy. And we looked great! So we were both high on our appearance a bit...
It was late when we got there, so we both had a drink and started dancing. Clint doesn't feel very confident in his dancing skills so we worked on some moves together. But Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers we were not!
Midnight felt a little strange. You know, you're supposed to kiss the person you're with and Clint and I aren't in that place. But we had no one else we knew directly around us. So we hugged and danced some more.
Its a tough relationship we navigate. Two straight people who are friends. I'm sure most of us have had some similar dynamics.
I really liked having only a few drinks that night. Everyone seemed so damned drunk that it was nice to be (fairly) sober and interact and laugh and take in the night, not forget it.
In the bathroom, I was shocked how drunk some of the women were - and these weren't all young women. My goodness. I hung out there just because it was so...over the top! It was pure chaos.
But overall, it was a sweet evening. Probably one of the best New Year's eves I've had in a while. The holidays are not easy for me. Both parents passed away around them.
But the holidays also just feel so loaded and weird. This time, it felt like I imagined a New Year's eve should feel.
I hope that details the rest of the evening well enough.
And again, thanks for your fantastic feedback.
Whatever gets you to stop watching those damn crime shows is probably a good thing. It's my new year's resolution to renounce them.
Rated for truth and beauty.
Brava, she said.
And no, the great "they" will never know how much you do for them. Fuggedaboutit.
I completely understand the shame references. Oh, ach, do I ever.
Thank you for sharing.
wonderful. I appreciate the work that you do....
:-)
Pacing: very good. tight.
Dialogue: spot on.
The structure of this, and other recent, has been, in a word, excellent. Nice work.
HUMANS- check out Beth and her Bros, if you want to stand tall and keep your six-pack when you're old ... LEARN TO RIDE.
Aloha Kakou
Gently Beautiful and Real. I love the contrast between the "shameful" home and the glitzy "perfect" party - between staying in comfortable skins/mode and the rewards of pushing past that.
I too grew up in a home that was always dirty, cluttered, shameful. So true that the sense of shame, the sense of not quiet pulling it off, endures. I love to entertain, I hate to entertain. I cringe when people "stop by" as if caught nude - wait - I would rather be caught nude - there are reasons for that.
Letting in...how brave and beautiful your essay is.
Thanks
I completely identify with those feelings of shame.
You write so beautifully and you have the courage of a lioness.
Clint is a lucky man- and I think he knows it.
May 2010 bring you all the joy you so richly deserve.
For the record though, people on the East Coast are very snobby about a little shabbiness and clutter. It's necessary to prove one's bonafides. A glossy, clean house only indicates someone too unimportant to be busy and too recently a member of the middle class to have inherited old things. Move to my end of the country, and you can judge everyone who DOESN'T have enough character to have fleas.
It's powerfully true that the way you look sets up a feedback loop with the way you feel. When I started working at home, I swore to get dressed and put on a smidgen of make-up before walking down the hall to work. When I went on disability, I renewed that vow, because nothing makes me feel sicker than spending the day in pajamas. On the other hand, I don't bother to feel fat most of the time. Isn't great that guys like a tight top? I've started paying attention to what guys really like rather than what the media says they like. I'm much happier.
You must have looked stunning. Is there a photo?
So, as I'm reading about the blankets hung up I was (perhaps wrongly) happy inside because I have all these childhood memories of our family in a room surrounded in blankets warmed by a space heater. This winter, our furnace wasn't working and even though it wasn't that cold (it would stop working at night, wake up to 50 deg, try to get it started again) and I knew that (fortunately) it was an easy fix, I felt as though I would cry every day. I instantly returned to that fear and shame of childhood, of being poor, of fearing what people would think.
You wrote about these things so honestly but to tell you the truth, a proud shining voice came through. Made me smile.
Still, tossing in those photos added a sweet touch. You looked just as I imagined - stunning.
And Clint seemed almost worthy of being at your side.
BTW what sort of gesture is Clint making with his hand? Is it 'phone me'?