Did I mention...???

2 o’clock in the morning Pilsen smells like tortillas chips. At least on Cullerton street it does. I live across the street from Milagro, a popular Pilsen neighborhood restaurant, and I think at night, by the way the neighborhood smells, they make their tortillas.

The bus tonight drove like it had a gimp leg—it lagged in between stop signs and rested at every stop light even after the light had changed green. Green means go, Mister Bus driver. My normal 15 minute commute home took 15 extra minutes tonight. Vomit! I nearly died waiting to snuggle up next to my laptop. Thank you Jehovah I’m home.

December has been a really busy month. I haven’t had a lot of “think” time this month. All of my creativity was put on hold when they announced at work that Deborah Thornton died, my manager who’s been on sick leave since the summer, when she was diagnosed with cancer. They were saying that Deborah had been fighting to get back to work. They were saying that her treatment was going well and she was going to return soon after the thanksgiving holiday. But she died instead.

At her funeral I sat next to Damon, the cute boy at work, until he left early. The only thing I wanted to bypass was having to see Deborah in her coffin. Vocalist One stepped up to the podium and sang, Vocalist Two did the same. Someone stood up and read a poem—something hard-rhymed and forgettable. There wasn’t much crying. I saw John Rummell (Deborah’s Boss) and his wife a few rows ahead of me when the pastor then approached the microphone. He attempted a few words of encouragement for the family though there were several moments in his speech did I believe had Deborah been alive to hear she would’ve laughed he, he.

I entered the chapel and her coffin was closed. I felt relieved until the end of the ceremony when it was opened and we were ushered row by row to the front to view the body. No one ever looks like themselves sitting in a coffin. Deborah looked smaller than her normal broad-shouldered-woman-self. She was never petite but she wasn’t husky and she was never soft. Deborah had stiff elbows and knees and knobs and if she ever decided to wear flannel for Halloween she’d be a soldier of a lesbian or lumberjack. She had a healthy baritone of a laugh and she laughed he, he instead of ha, ha always showing the off-white of her teeth. I enjoyed Deborah… but in the coffin she looked to be sinking, smile melting down her face, just sinking.

I saw Jerome yesterday. I persuaded him into watching the latest Batman Flick The Dark Knight, though I didn’t have the movie, he agreed to see me. Instead of The Dark Knight I brought over a few of my favorite films, a few of which I know he’s seen, a couple of the movies we’ve watched together and then there was one of my favorite movies William Wyler’s The Heiress which Jerome has never seen. (I quote from this movie all the time) So we watched it.

Jerome stays on the 16^th floor now in that tall luxurious building he and Therronjella became roommates in. The extra spacious 2 bedroom villa on the 31^st floor with southeast views of the lake and city that Jerome shared with Therronjella has now been downgraded to a squat studio dwelling on a remedial floor with remedial views of rooftops and beach edges minus the no-rent-paying-roommate Therronjella. We sat on a sofa which smelled like smoke. Jerome hasn’t quit it seems. But I realized while holding his hand, pretending to watch Olivia play Katharine, and crying, that I could love him forever…because I could hold his hand forever…because I could watch him forever.

I have this recurring image of walking along the sunrise, pushing Jerome in a wheelchair and we’re both old as shit. The sky is fire and orange and popsicle pink and yellow and there’s water under the sky and its silver but murky and we’re toddling along this wooden trail over what maybe sand or gravel and we seem infinite. I’ve resulted, while watching him, that Jerome will smile the same in his old age. No one will love that smile like me—half whiz kid, half bewildered. I’ve resulted that Jerome will probably have those same sorry yet complete eyes.

In the future I’ve seen for myself without Jerome there’s stardust and fame and glamour and glitz and unpredictability. I would make art and be art and live a career without brackets to my potential. The life I would have with Jerome would be subtle, everyday a blue sky however very white picket fenced. We would buy a house in the suburbs or at best own a snazzy condo in downtown Chicago. We’ll get a dog, adopt some children. I’ll be a teacher, Jerome will thrive in corporate America. I won’t necessarily make art and I won’t be art but I’ll be consistently happy. And though a life of unpredictable glamour is enticing…I would rather hold WomiE’s hand.

Did I mention he was crying too?