Friday, March 6, 2009


NYC - Chelsea: Hotel Chelsea, originally uploaded by wallyg.

I had a terrible dream last night. I bit my friend's finger off in my dream. It was so real and it happened inside of a bar in Athens, Ohio. I was wearing a black velvet catsuit and my hair was curled with hot rollers.
Also in my dream was this old townie boy from Athens, Ohio I used to crush on.
I found myself in my old journals and writing books today.
I found something about him.
The papers were old and printed off on a Brother word processor.

We are talking Keith Richardedesque lanky rock star with tight black jeans and a concert tee. Tons of black thick hair in complete disregard and he's walking towards me now.
I count two scars on his face.
Slight, but still the type of scars that announce character and experience.
Red lips curl into a marriage of smirk and kiss.
He smiles.
A silver capped bottom tooth.
I am attracted.
I am repulsed.
I am changed.

So he works with me at the cafe. I am a waitress. He is a dishboy. I have seen "Frankie and Johnny" one too many times. It's my own fault, I did the research on him, which is the first step of potential stalking. He's in a band. I knew it. Local barfly. Typically artistic. I snoop through the application file in my boss's office and find his former employment and educational history. He hasn't finished high school. He's a local. I'm not interested in the phone number and address that are written in chicken scratch on the page, I am more in a search for indications of character. Like the way he signs his name and what he lists under the heading "special skills".

I know the Rolling Stones can make people jam out. I know this from personal experience, but it is almost too much to see him all over the dish room with his long limbs dancing and balancing bread plates and bowls. From my vantage point I can observe him without him seeing me. I am free to do what I want any old time. He has such a stride to his walk. It is like the way those men in Reservoir Dogs walk out of that diner and down the alley...determined to be the coolest matter of sexy energy.
I really feel the need to introduce myself. We are co-workers. I realize that he looks British. Fresh from the punk scene. I was Nancy Spungen for Halloween last year, my friend James and I won a costume contest. We were Sid and Nancy. I wore a ripped leather mini with my bleached hair teased and we both had fake hypodermic needles taped to our skin. I have that connection. I imagine him calling Merle, the prep cook, a wanker and bumming a fag.
I lean onto the wall, then push off and walk into the dish room.
The Stones are screaming, "hold me, love me" and the steam is thick and I am nervous.
He gives great eye contact.
He bends his tall frame to my eye level and sings out, "Hello Amy babeeeeeeee".
Gruff like Jagger's voice he whispers, " I know you from the bar."
I leave and smile down the long hallway of the wait station.
We share the same haunts and he has watched me from bar stools spinning I think.
to be continued?

do you remember this mandy?

5 comments:

Anonymous said...

I know Mandy does, cause I sure do, Amy Turn. I really enjoy reading you as a daily. Thanks for workin it the way you always seem to do.

Love you and your boys! XOXOX I swear with the spring in the air almost smells like beer today.

lauren brown

Piper said...

OH MY GOD

I'm begging for more, NOW.

Patois said...

What descriptive writing. I am there as you write.

Alexis said...

Love your writing. It makes me swoony...

Mandy said...

And who, exactly, is missing the finger?

I remember. I remember the rooftop encounter that inspired the essay and I remember much much more. Mostly, I remember that voice: urgent, quick, searching. Your voice, I mean.

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