Trouble

Betsy longed for a hamster. The chaos that often broke out like an aftershock of siblings came unexpectedly and with large booms. Betsy figured hamsters would soften the blow.  She had done research, pledges, polls, and even plucked shameless tunes of the tiny rodents on her baby Taylor guitar. In any normal household, Betsy’s extreme devotion to a pet she didn’t even own would grant her the permission needed to get the hamster, but with both parents having bad experiences ranging from psycho hamsters to seemingly brain dead ones.  It would take a lot more than a baby Taylor to win them over.

Betsy made collages, diagrams, and just plain asked so often that her parents began running out of ways of saying “No.” Eventually, they ran out completely. One day Betsy asked the usual question. “Can I get a hamster?” Betsy pleaded, holding a wilting bouquet of pale pink roses. Betsy braced herself for a loud NO, for she had heard far too many sincere, apologetic responses lately. Instead, she was surprised by her dad stepping up and beginning a story:

“Once upon a time there lived a normal hamster,” he began, “who went on suicide missions in the air duct, chewed through walls, and escaped to every nook and cranny whenever the chance came knocking.”

Betsy stood utterly confused by her dad’s proposal of hamsters being such trouble. Trouble. Could hamsters really cause such a thing?  Betsy chose to ignore the horrifying story and continue to plead and beg while her parents continued to threaten and poke at her dream. “Trouble” they continued to say, “Trouble.” Finally, after the 496^th “trouble,” Betsy gave up. She stopped pleading and begging, and her parents stopped threatening and poking at a dream that no longer lived.

Betsy suited herself for the longest time with duct tape hamsters living in their cage that she assembled herself using loose chicken wire from her dad’s old projects. They made great company until one birthday; Betsy realized that fake hamsters would not suit her any longer. She inspected her gifts thoroughly but none of them were moving or hamster shaped. Betsy sat in a frozen mix of emotions until it was time to open her presents. She received shirts and bedspreads and socks and everything was normal. Before long there was only one present left. It was large and hastily wrapped with a pink bow that was monopolized by the shocking fuchsia paper. Unwrapping the present, Betsy took slow, deep breathes to the beat of the ripping paper. It took Betsy a couple of seconds to realize that she had unwrapped a state of the art, fully assembled hamster cage that was waiting to be lived in. Betsy was a cherry Popsicle of happiness.  Her face, flustered and red, was rooted stiffly to her head in a giant smile. For a while she stayed frozen just staring at the thing. Is this for my duct tape hamster? She wondered. Are they pulling my leg? It took Betsy a while to notice how her parents’ smiles were just as big as hers. The cage was not for her duct tape hamster, but a real one.  There was no need to go into long complicated speeches. Betsy understood immediately that all she needed to do all those times was take a break from begging. 

The cage would not be lived in for a while though. Betsy needed the time to find the perfect hamster. Every afternoon, after school, Betsy rode her bike to the local pet store. The hamsters, as Betsy now knew, flew off the shelves like a best selling book, so there were new hamsters nearly every week. All new except one. One lonely, gray, scrawny hamster remained. Week after week it was excluded from the pack of shiny, new, mahogany colored hamsters. 

One special day, Betsy decided to bring her dad to the pet store for her final decision on which hamster would be hers. “That one.” She pointed to the scruffy homeless hamster. Her dad looked slightly confused. “He sure doesn’t look like a TON of trouble,” Her dad agreed. Trouble. Not that word again. “What are you going to name it?” Her dad whispered.   

“Trouble,” Betsy replied. “I’ll name him Trouble.”  

2012

Fire

    Christmas 2011

      Snap! Pop! Sparks fly through the air and land on the floor,slowly darkening the color of the wood. As my foot begins to get hot, I rotate like a pig on a spit. The orangey glow sticks to my face like a hot mask. Resting on my dog's velvety stomach, we lie together in front of the fire place.
     To anyone else this might just be a flame. But to me, especially around Christmas time when pine needles trickle down the base of the tree and sprinkle on my face below, it's home. In front of the metal screen keeping glowing embers from escaping, is the crisp smell of winter snow that can only be described as sweet, frozen water. When you stick your nose in further, there is a burning sensation whose smell resembles a dull cinnamon bun. Lounging in front of the fire is like taking a giant sleeping pill, for whoever dares to stay for too long, is sure to be whisked off to dreamland.



Where I'm From

I'm from my short mysterious scar I got when I was little.

from the smell of my stinky dog in every piece of clothing.

I'm from the hot cheese fondue blanketing baguettes,

That tastes like a salty ocean with a kick of pepper.

I'm from my dog lying in the overgrown grass like a black lion.

I'm from pink flank steaks sizzling on the hot stove.

From my white stuffed duck giving me magical comfort that no one else can summon.

I'm from the howling of coyotes showing off their feasts.

from Yarberow cribbage hands.

I'm from my dog brushing against the green couch where I lay asleep.

I'm from flipping around the house instead of walking.

From the comfort of the cozy red couch in the dark blue office.

I'm from trips to Cape Cod to make bluefish pate.

From KCA comedy.

I'm from all these moments

 and many, many more

   2011

Quail Country

       2012

         You arrive at Quail Country, your heart beating with anticipation as loud as the guns you are itching to fire. When you walk in you are greeted by the friendliest people you could imagine, pulling a chair out from the dinner table for you and asking what you would prefer from their large selection of drinks: iced tea or sweet tea. Others gather around the table. When everything is set up, the conversation begins. If you were to record what we were saying and put it on national television, there would be to many bleeps to follow the topic. 

         When the evening is finished, you are scooted up to your room, which is so close in looks to the next one over that you are often accused of trespassing in someone else's bedroom until you convince them that you are in the right room.

          Georgia, I find, is the one place in the world that one can hear gunshots and not have to worry. BANG BANGBANGBANGBANG BANG- the shots slowly fade away as you drift off to sleep. You wake up to the swishing of brush pants echoing throughout the lodge. The breakfast grits are scarfed down and everyone gathers outside, orange head to toe, gun in hand, to watch the parade of Jeeps barreling down the gravel path. You have to be quick on your feet to get your favorite guide or favorite dog. And when you yourself are barreling down the gravel path in the dog-filled Jeep, you know the fun is about to begin.

          The shooting actually starts off pretty slow as you take practice shots at pine cones and obliterate tiny pine trees at point blank. Then comes the real thing. When dogs go on point, there's no moving them until you send a flusher dog in to scare the birds up high enough to shoot.  Sometimes you are so sucked into shooting the quail that you don't notice the land mine of fire ants that your foot is resting on.  Much like a land mine, if you step on one it will ruin your whole day. Fire ants to me are tiny warriors of darkness, stopping at nothing to suck the happiness out of a day- with one exception: You can shoot it on purpose and watch as the tiny red warriors angrily emerge from their disturbed pile of dirt to seek revenge. 

            There are not many things better than wading through waist high prickers trying to make it to the cramping dogs in time for the wind of the wings to brush against your face before you pull the trigger and hear a satisfying thud of dead bird meat. The dogs aren't the only ones cramping up. Towards the end of the hunt, all four limbs begin to feel like gummy worms but you don't have the guts to give up the last covey.  Much like a long day on the water, the rocking of the Jeeps returns in your bed, and thoughts like "Is my safety on?" and "I've got one in the chamber and one in the magazine" ring through your mind. 

             You wake up the next morning so achy it's hard to move, but the pain dissolves with every thump of dead bird. Before you know it the hunt is over, and soon the trip is over too, and you'll find that it is very hard to part with Quail Country.    

   

I Am...

I am a phoenix, spreading my wings to the fullest extent and sharing my colors with the world.

I am the unique snowflake that gracefully dances to the ground in the dead of winter.

I am a pen plotting my way, and my way only, in an explosion of vibrant colors.

I am an "I'll do it tomorrow" project, often forgotten and left in a dusty corner.

I am a shoe, always firmly planted on the affirmative.

I am a horn, sometimes awkwardly blown at the wrong times

I am a pretzel, bending my mind into the oddest of forms.

I am...

Me, Alex Myers
2011