A New Life

A true story based on segments my grandma told about my great-grandpa learning the truth of his birth. I'm sure the situation was more complicated than I convey, but my grandma doesn't recall extensive details and there are no public records available.

A young man eager to make his way to America glanced back at the sunset, and looked forward to the new life ahead of him with the past in hand. Anthony Conforti, allured by the promise of prosperity in America, left everything behind in Italy. The only remnant: Italian citizenship papers. He missed his parents, but at the age of 17, he was ready for adventure. Anthony heard that Chicago was an up-and-coming city and hoped to get a job at the train yard. More so, he hoped to land an American sweetheart. Ulterior motive, perhaps, to acquire an English tutor as Anthony still struggled with the language.

The sun crept below the horizon and the sky lit up by moonlight. Anthony headed to his bunk to rest for the day ahead. Ellis Island was the first destination tomorrow morning, then he’d fetch a train to Chicago. Too excited to fall asleep, he recalled days gone by living in Italy with his parents. He hoped to make them proud. He’d write a letter once situated in Chicago.

… 

The ship’s horn blared into Anthony’s room and he eagerly jumped out of bed. He threw his clothes on, grabbed his suitcase, snagged the papers, and ran to deck. The ship docked and he walked off onto the bustling island. There was an undeniable energy that resonated through all the hopeful citizens. Anthony headed into the “Italia” queue and waited for his turn. 

After an exhausting wait, he approached the immigration officer and handed him the paperwork. As the officer scanned it, Anthony glanced around the room observing the people in line: A family from Germany with two children fooling around with binoculars, an older man from Ireland who looked as if he could strangle both kids with one arm, and a young lady from France wearing a crimson overcoat. He thought to go over and speak to her, but he noticed his officer beckoning for another person. They spoke under their breath. Anthony felt a bead of sweat form on his brow—concerned he brought the wrong documents. Also, hoping he wouldn’t miss his chance to talk to the crimson lady.

The first officer asked, “Anthony. That your name?” 

“Yes sir, Anthony Conforti.”

“Son, please come back here with me.” The officer led Anthony to a small, stuffy room. He wondered if they saw him checking out that crimson coat a few too many times that was considered decent in the states. His eyes darted around the room determining this wasn’t a cell for perverts.

“You say your name is Anthony Conforti, correct?”

“Ye-yes. Is there problem, sir?” His voice shook a bit.

“Well, we reviewed your paperwork, and yes, we have a problem,” the officer said. “We went through the shared records from Italy, and, I don’t know how to say this, but this name isn’t coming up quite right.”

“Oh! I…my apology, but here is paperwork…Italian citizenship, sir.”

“Yes, we saw that, but the problem is… What we have on file is Anthony Conforti deceased as of 17 years ago.”

Anthony didn’t know what to say. He looked around the room at the officers staring at him. The words escaped him and he started to panic—should he go back? He couldn’t go back—he’d come too far to turn back.

“Son, are you well?” 

“No, I am not. You say…I’m deceased! How can this be? I stand before you…alive!”

The officer snapped, “Calm down! We were hoping you could provide some answers, but if not, there’s some explanation for this, and we’re looking into that right now. Be patient. This sort of stuff doesn’t happen all too often, you hear?” And they left the room.

Anthony stared down at his hands and clutched his suit case. He nervously anticipated the news to come, and hoped that he wouldn’t be deported. How was this possible?

Hours flew by as he watched the clock hands do multiple revolutions with no news. What could he do? If they sent him back, the adventure would end before he got a chance to even step on the mainland.

The officers re-entered the room. “Okay, we discovered what the problem is, and I want you to listen carefully, son.” They placed a certificate in his hand. “What we have here is a death certificate for Anthony Conforti, and your name is Frank Coppini.”

Anthony was shocked. “How--how is this possible? I am not Frank Coppini!”

“Yes, that’s the name your parents gave you 17 years ago.” Anthony felt a lump in his throat and continued to listen. “Our records indicate that you were born to an Alberto and Francesca Coppini. Anthony Conforti was your parent’s son—seems the Confortis raised you as their own child. Not sure what happened in between, it all checks out though. We’ve got your correct paperwork and you can be on your way after…” 

Anthony stared at the officer, through his eyes, through the wall, into nothing—he was frozen. Why didn’t his parents say anything? 17 years and not one mention of all of it being a lie! He wanted adventure, to start anew, but the price to pay was knowing the life he knew wasn’t his own.

After settling all the paperwork, he received his American citizenship, and got on the train headed to Chicago. He left Anthony Conforti behind at Ellis Island.

…

Frank penned a letter to the Conforti family, and dropped it at the post office the next day when he arrived in Chicago. Surely this wouldn’t be the first letter they expected.

…

Several weeks later, a letter awaited Frank at the post office after he clocked out of his new job at the train yard. It read:

Dear Son,

We hope you are well. We feared you would learn about your past in America, but we are no longer afraid of the truth. 17 years ago, our son Anthony Conforti died, not making it through his first night on Earth with us. We mourned all day into the night, angry and confused as to why God would take our dear child so soon. We prayed for answers. Ridden with grief, we couldn’t sleep. Rain fell from the sky with the same turmoil we felt in our hearts. 

We heard something from our front steps. Opening the door, a baby boy placed in a basket no more than a day old. God heard our prayers and sent our son back to us—too young to become an angel, we believed. We raised you as Anthony Conforti. 

Years later, the mailman delivered a letter from a Francesca Coppini. She spoke of a love affair she and another man had at the university, and the baby on the doorstep was the result of this sin: Frank Coppini. They read through the obituaries and saw the listing for our son. They put you in a basket and left you on our doorstep, sure that we could give you a better chance at life. We learned the truth behind the baby on the doorstep, but how could we tell you? Life was perfect. You were happy and healthy. Isn’t that what mattered?

When you decided to travel to America, we struggled with the decision to tell you about your past. We decided it would be better to send you off happily, instead of under harrowing circumstances. We hope your new life in Chicago is the adventure you hoped for, and we hope you won’t forget us. We love you, Frank.

Sincerely,

Mamma e Papà

Frank slowly put the letter down. He couldn’t say he felt different knowing the truth. At first he was angry, then sad, but nothing besides his name changed. His mom and dad were good to him and they did everything to support him. He started not only a new life in the states, but started as a completely new person--the person he was meant to be. They didn’t give up on him, and he wouldn’t give up on the life that was his own.

3-Step Kit

Linda is a young girl harboring some insecurities. College graduation approaches and she’s nervous about speaking on stage.

Linda: (To the audience) I’m the top student in my major, and they’re inviting me to speak on stage at graduation. Normally, this would be an amazing opportunity, but I’m nervous--and sweaty. I get drenched just sitting on the couch! I’ve never been happy with anything I've done because my looks always get me down. My hair grows slower than fuzz on a naked mole rat, if I jump from a high enough distance my ears can catch air, and someone once told me I resemble a naked mole rat. Needless to say, I’m trying to tunnel out of a dark pit of emotions.

(Commercial becomes audible)

Hershey: Oh hey! Hershey Whalie here. If you want to be gorgeous and confident, I can help. Buy my Hershey Whalie 3-Step Kit, and you’ll be on track for sexy success. When calling in, ask to supersize your order, and for just 99 cents you’ll feed a hungry…person.

Linda: Hmmm…maybe that will help me. Hey, if Hershey Whalie endorses it, it’s gotta be good! (Picks up phone) Hi. I'd like to order the 3-step kit…no, I don’t want to donate 99 cents…I don’t care if she’s hungry…OK. Thanks! (Doorbell rings) Oh! The future delivery guy's here. (Opens door) Hi there.

Delivery Dude: Well, well, well... If it isn’t Linda.

Linda: Yes, hello.

Delivery Dude: (Stares at Linda intensely)

Linda: (Looks around trying to avoid intense gaze)

Delivery Dude: Don’t you wonder how I knew your name?

Linda: I presume from the shipping form.

Delivery Dude: Ugh! Sleuthed again! Your box is over there. (Gestures over there)

Linda: …could you get it?

Delivery Dude: It’s kinda big.

Linda: Are you kinda a delivery man or a delivery man?

Delivery Dude: Well, little lady…that's my secret.

Linda: What?!

Delivery Dude: LOOK! IT’S OBAMA!

Linda: Huh? Where?! Heyyy, the delivery dude’s gone.

Delivery Dude: (In the distance) Thanks Obama!

Linda: Alright. Let's see what's in this box. (Tears box open excitedly)

Coco: I've been in that box for eight weeks with a crave case. I advise burning it immediately.

Linda: Oooh, I get a person. I’ve always wanted one.

Coco: Oh hey girrrrrllll. My name is Coco and I’m here to guide you through Hershey Whalie’s 3-Step Kit. First, we need to go through some paper work. Name?

Linda: Linda.

Coco: (Writing) M’kay, Lurda. Bust size?

Linda: Pretty big!

Coco: Ohhh hun. You're a training bra if I’ve even seen one.

Linda: What can you train them to do?

Coco: Not much unless we get started. This lady here works at the Delibarn, but she gives a delectable make-over.

Deli Mama: Ni hao, yis I am the Deli Mama. Would you like to sample some sausage?

Linda: Actually, I’d like to sample the make-over.

Deli Mama: Yis, my little wiener. What are you going for?

Linda: Just tell me you can work with this. (Frames face)

Deli Mama: Yis yis, we can work off that. (Aside) Get me the big trimmer—the fuzz stopped being peachy long ago. 

(Time lapses)

Linda: Wow! I look incredible.

Deli Mama: We used grapeseed oil to moisturize.

Linda: My face smells like an Olive Garden salad.

Deli Mama: Yis, you look delicious, and your chest tapas…now exist.

Linda: Coco, how do I look?

Coco: Wha--? Who are you?

Linda: I guess I really did change. It’s me, Linda!

Coco: Oh Bimba, you look great!

Linda: Really?

Coco: I am obligated to continue laying it on thick--YEA GIRL!

Deli Mama: Awww yis, yis!

Coco: (Leading Linda away from Deli Mama) All right, Leeba! Are you ready for the next part of your transformation? You look like a walking celery stick, so we need new clothes. This here is Sebastian Pistachio.

Sebastian: Haaaii. Romper, huh? Ya look like a mature cabbage patch kid. We can rediddle this.

Linda: (Proudly) I color coordinate my closet.

Sebastian: …Imma ‘bout to color that thunder-butt red if you don’t try this on right nah, ya diddly-doo. (Shoves clothes in Linda’s direction)

Linda: (Putting clothes on behind a curtain) Where is this first outfit from?

Sebastian: Ahh yes, this is from the SpongeBob Collection. It’s sure to round out those square cheeks o’ yours.

Linda: Hey, why do you keep bringing up my butt? (Comes out with dress half-on)

Sebastian: Nothin’ but zero gravity in space is bringing that butt up. What do ya think? (As he zips her dress up)

Linda: I feel uncomfortable…OW!

Coco: How’s it going? (Linda bumps into the door)

Sebastian: (Aside to Coco) It’s a work in progress. She keeps runnin’ into door frames with her foam boobs, and I pinched her side meats in that zipper. (Linda struggles with foam chest armor) Ya look fab, ya dodo. Now for shoes: your entire foot is a blister, so let’s throw a tarp over that.

Linda: Oh man.

Coco: You look like a beautiful suburban unicorn ready to gallop into the final step.

Linda: And what’s that?

Coco: It's a jam session that will give you the attitude you need to pull off that new look.

Linda: All right, who’s singing with me?

Coco: Holographic Hall & Oates.

Linda: Whoa--really?

Coco: No, they couldn’t go for that. I’m going to sing a line from a famous song and you follow my verse. Alright, Lumba?

Linda: Let’s do this.

Coco: I’ve got some chicken in my closet…

Linda: and I don't know if no one gnaws it…

Coco: Good! So before the grease turns to mold…

Linda: I’m gonna expose it…

Coco: I’m gonna take back all 73…

Linda: 73 chicken legs to the local KFC!

Coco: H’awww! Excellent. Now try it yourself, Limpa.

Linda: Oh. Ok…I’m sorry Ms. Whalie (oooh) / You don’t need a meal / Never meant to make your stomach growl / I apologize and buy you fries…

Coco: Excuse me?

Linda: I…I thought it was funny.

Coco: You think my hunger pangs are a joke?

Linda: Wait…YOU’RE hungry? I-I’m sorry! That's all I could think of…

Coco: Yes, it seems that even with your hot make-over, fresh gear, and attitude adjustment, you’re as dense as ever.

Linda: (To audience) I felt my eyes well up. I was trying so hard to change. I ran into the Delibarn's bathroom…

Random guy: Sup lil’ boo-berry?

Linda: I then ran for the women's bathroom. I felt awful, but let’s ponder this: I’m prettier, my clothes are no longer vintage K-Mart, I have a tough attitude, but I’m still the same Linda. I can't pull off this charade any longer, and the scent of warm turkey water is choking me. (Walks back out) Coco, I tried to improve something that didn't need improvement. All these superficial qualities don't change the kind of person I am deep down. Thanks for all you’ve done, but I love myself, and I love rompers. I will never stop romping.

Coco: Oh, Lando. I wish I was an “A” like you.

Linda: Well, getting good grades takes a lot of…

Coco: No, not your grades. An “A”…like your bra size.

Linda: Oh haha. Yep. Now that I admitted my flaws, I think you should come to terms with something you've been hiding…

Coco: No, girrrlll…

Linda: Come on, Coco! You can do it.

Coco: (Whisper) No, girrrrlll.

Linda: Coco, say it!

Coco: (Takes off hat) OK! I’m actually Hershey Whalie and I’d like that 99 cents now.

Linda: I knew it was a scam!

(Scene changes to graduation ceremony. Linda giving her speech) 

Linda: …I overcame my insecurities and I believe in my own greatness. I’m looking at everyone in the crowd, and I admire your greatness as well. (Applause)

Deli Mama: (Tearing up) Yis, that was so very nice. Salami is flying everywhere!

Linda: Well, if you would just eat with your mouth shut. Hershey, I think we're done here.

Hershey: Hold on, Kafuna.

Linda: It’s Linda!

Hershey: Oh yes, you are Linda. What are you going to do now?

Linda: I'm going to star in a soap opera of course.

Hershey: Which one?

Linda: The Young…and the Breastless.

THE END

I'm the One Who Smashes

*This story in no way reflects the opinion of my employer*

To speak about games that greatly impacted my life would be Game of Thrones lengthy. A Song of Chalupas and Sweatpants, if you will. There are games that impacted me in such a way that they changed the trajectory of my career ambition from history teacher to something in video games. (Concrete direction, I know.) Ocarina of Time holds that crown. And there are games that impacted life-changing decisions that originated from friendly free-for-alls in a dorm room. Smash holds that crown.

The Super Smash Bros. series has been a gaming phenomenon since the Nintendo 64 era—also known as the era where I shaved my bangs. It was the worst of times, it was the weirdest of times, it was the introduction of Smash… Please join me as I recount a few of my favorite—and often strange—memories.

Super Smash Bros. 64

In 1999, I saw the infamous TV advertisement for Super Smash Bros. I WANTED. THAT. GAME. I saved my babysitting money, bought the game, and waited for my ride to pick up his pace. Although my dad had two full sock drawers, any trip to the store had him convinced he was down to his last pair. Or perhaps when he entered the sock aisle, he couldn’t help but feel uneasy… I had been smothering his nightly snoring with socks for many months. When he reached the sock aisle, maybe he felt a faint breeze across his face and a tightness around his throat. Like the socks he bought wouldn’t cover his feet, but instead suffocate his breathing in the dark of the night. Why are the socks trying to kill me? he likely wondered, lost among the aisles of cotton killers.

Strange child antics aside, back then I had few friends or an abundance of alone time depending on your “the glass is half…” philosophy. Thanks to all my free time, I was able to play every morsel of Smash 64. I chased down targets like they owed me coin. I raced like Adult Link was at the finish. I scaled platforms so successfully my thumbs were entered in a Strongman competition. Oh. I played the classic 1-player game mode as well. Because who better to spend time with than my dear friend—a level 7 Donkey Kong.

As I scanned the character roster, I saw many unfamiliar faces. I thought I played all the games Nintendo had to offer! I checked out Samus, Captain Falcon, and Ness; and at the time, I didn’t know who the space pirate or fabulous captain or this Charlie Brown kid were. After hours of research on AOL, I realized through Smash that many new game worlds existed for me to explore. Smash 64 wasn’t simply a fun game. It opened my mind to new adventures I needed to experience. I eventually picked up Super Metroid and Earthbound and was not disappointed. F-Zero didn’t interest me since Mario Kart sated whatever racing craving I had. Nipple buttons, however, I found my closet to be lacking.

As I mentioned earlier, I babysat in order to afford new games. I also chose kids to babysit that would play multiplayer games with me. Hello, young friends with no choice. There was one family in particular I enjoyed babysitting since the kids were old enough to play skillfully.

One evening as I churned cheese powder into a gourmet macaroni dinner, the oldest child, Neil, brought two of his friends over. They plugged into Smash 64 multiplayer mode and included the middle child, Nicole. I soon overheard them mocking her skills. I placed the wooden spoon on the counter, walking away from my caregiver responsibility to address a greater responsibility: to whoop three trash-talkin’ 11-year-olds in Smash. I approached the group announcing myself as their new challenger. Much to their surprise, I didn’t want to 1v1 them; I wanted all three to try to take me out. I fought my fair share of polygon teams, so surely a few pompous turds would be easily wiped clean from the stage. It was my greatest multiplayer battle yet, and I had my honor as well as Nicole’s to defend. I opted for my main: Pikachu. My heart raced as my fingers flicked and pressed toward a hopeful victory. After an intense battle that compromised the dryness of my underarms, I managed to win. I destroyed their avatars in the game, and I crushed their pre-pubescent egos in the family room. Unfortunately, Nicole lost interest in video games soon thereafter. Maybe my pit stains aren’t appealing to those on the fence about this hobby.

Super Smash Bros. Melee

I could hardly contain my excitement for the Nintendo GameCube launch back in 2001—and Super Smash Bros. Melee releasing shortly after launch. I couldn’t afford the GameCube on paltry babysitting wages, so I bought Melee alone and saved up for the console. I read through the manual daily as if I had missed something the day before. When I finally bought a GameCube, I played Melee solo since I didn’t have many gamer friends in high school. That changed when I left for college ready to start anew—although still familiar as my dorm was stocked with games. During the first dorm meeting, I introduced myself, stated my room number, and challenged anyone to come face me in Melee. How ironic that a game I spent so much time with alone, would introduce me to many friends. My fondest memories of college don’t include parties and drinking, but playing Melee with my friends.

I had a core group of Melee friends I met freshman year: Adam, Josh, and Jerry. We met in the dorm hallway when the magic words “Falcon Paaaunch” were uttered by one of us. As Sakurai’s spirit divined us to meet, we grew to be fast friends and played several times a week. We smashed purely for fun—often playing random characters and non-traditional games like King of the Rock in Hyrule Temple.

After the first summer break spent at home, I returned to school excited to play multiplayer Melee again. Adam, Josh, Jerry and I reunited on the battlefield, and somehow they were significantly better. They were playing twice as fast, hopping low to the stage, and selecting few characters: Fox, Falco, Marth... I was no match for their new skills! They watched videos of people wave-dashing, L-cancelling, and the sort to integrate into their gameplay. I eventually picked up a few of these new tactics, but never could quite get up to speed with short hopping. “Don’t use the stick to jump or you’ll never get this good,” they’d say. But I had been using the control stick to jump the past five years. To condition me, they insisted the option to jump with the stick should be muted so I would adapt. I tried for hours upon hours to adjust to this new control, but always found my left thumb twitching to jump. I soon buckled for familiarity and turned the option back on. I accepted that I wasn’t the best since the fun outweighed the glory. I joined them for tournaments and even won a few rounds occasionally despite my “handicap.”

To sum up my adoration for this game, behold this screenshot of my records. I'm sure this image would evoke much pride from my parents. That play time—2864 hours—is approximately 120 days. I reckon the other 2000 hours were Hyrule Temple on loop. My freshmen year roommate that transferred schools halfway through the year can likely confirm.

Super Smash Bros. Brawl

The buildup to Super Smash Bros. Brawl’s release was as hotly anticipated as Melee’s. I remember going to work and checking Smash Bros. DOJO!! as the first order of business. (Sorry, Boss.) I was filled with increasing despair the longer Sheik wasn’t announced. My main from Melee and my favorite character (at the time) couldn’t fall from the roster. When I finally saw the Sheik update, I was overjoyed. Thanks for not removing me from my comfort zone, Sakurai. But he would find other ways…

After Brawl’s launch, my friends and I played often but felt frustrated about certain gameplay decisions. I struggled with the tripping aspect more than anything. Let’s be clear: I’m not a game designer. I studied game development in school and I play a lot of games—those are my credentials. I could not find good reason that random tripping should be in Smash, let alone any game during player-controlled movement. The moment you take control from the player without justification is the moment you’ve frustrated them. I believe there were a few oversights in game mechanic adjustments and gameplay decisions that should have been more player-centric. Regardless, I still had fun with Brawl.

                                       

Super Smash Bros. for 3DS / Wii U

When I started working at Nintendo in June 2014, we soon got a chance to play the Super Smash Bros. for Wii U demo in the office. We were enjoying the limited build and decided to have a ladder tournament of sorts—Mike and myself being the final two contenders. I ended up beating him in an intense match—his hands shaking and my underarms predictably sweating. I was proclaimed Best Smash Player in Redwood City. He was proclaimed Another Good Smash Player.

Several months later, Smash launched for 3DS and then Wii U. For so long, Mike quietly harbored bitter feelings toward me as he was unable to wash the taste of salt from his mouth. Mike demanded redemption and a proper tournament.

Many co-workers signed up for the tournament, but everyone knew who the final two competitors would be. In a grueling match on the Battlefield stage, Mike (Yoshi) and I (Sheik) were neck and neck the entire time. My office cheerleader, Erika, was cheering like a crazed mom on the soccer field. This was no different than her usual cubicle manners while working spreadsheets and equally distracting. I tend to dabble in acrobatics with Sheik, which caused gasps from the crowd. I was putting on a show, but truthfully I felt like I was going to lose. Yoshi and Sheik danced across the screen with feet fluttering and hands slapping through the sky. As time wound down, my fundamental math skills calculated that I was down one stock and would concede my title. “3…2…1… Time!” the announcer clamored and I looked down in defeat.

But wait! Somehow Mike didn’t claim one of the KO’s! Sudden Death ignited the screen, our audience, and my sweat glands. The crowd’s cheers died down as they observed us playing cautiously. Not one to wait patiently, I dashed over to him, faked, dashed in again, and shielded. Also not one to refuse food, I took a hot egg straight to the face. I then scampered away from him to regroup. Mike moved to the other side of the stage onto the left platform. Seeing an opening, I vanished from the right side of the screen to the left below him. I quickly executed an up-air that sent him to sparkle in the sky. (They say Mike has feared platforms ever since.) The crowd went wild and I left the room in disbelief. I don’t remember laying down in the hallway. My co-workers said they went to retrieve me for the awards, and my eyes were closed with my mouth settled into a huge smile. Remind me, who said I needed to jump with X or Y to be this good?

We took a few photos and this giant board was given to me as commemoration of my win. I humbly hung it on the outer wall of my cubicle.

Suck it, Mike.

I'll never forget that day. Over 15 years later, I continue to make new friends and unforgettable memories with Smash. This is a game that brings so many positive experiences to my life… Oh! I mentioned life-altering decisions early on, didn’t I? It also gave me two ex-boyfriends, and one of them stole many of my beloved video game systems. However, these are the good stories from Smash. Eventually, you start to forget the bad, and it’s only worth bringing back good memories from the past—especially for a game that’s made me so happy.

(Check out audio excerpts from The Super Sad Bros. at the bar down the street from my apartment.)

Rob me once, shame on you; rob me twice, shame on me

10 years ago, I made a mistake. I waited for my friend at the airport to pick me up when I felt a chill. I set down my bag and purse, pulled my coat out of my bag, and put it on. I zipped up my bag, picked it up, turned for my purse and it was gone. Looking back, perhaps the chill...it was a warning. I panicked--running around asking if anyone saw anything but nothing. Right after Christmas, my wallet with cards and money, my iPod that I used as an external hard drive, and much more that I can't remember--gone forever.

It was a burden to remedy that situation. I had to go to the DMV, set up fraud protection, and all my school projects were lost on that iPod. The police report never yielded any leads. I was mad at myself for being dumb enough to put my purse down, and I was mad that someone would do that to a stranger. A crime with no care about how it would affect the victim. I suppose that's a crime in itself: when it doesn't matter who's in the crossfire. Perhaps not thinking of the innocent faces is how they sleep soundly.

After about a month, I was able to move past the incident and upped my caution in all situations. I even wore a fanny pack to show my commitment. After 10 years, I lazed a bit on that vow.

Sunday was to be a good day. I was going to move to San Francisco and this was the final load of crap. After finishing my second to last load, I noticed two people standing near my car. I had my purse in the trunk. As I walked over I smiled and nodded at both of them. First, I suspected them of ill will, but I wanted to believe I was wrong and I overheard them saying they were going to the Pride Parade. My gut told me to be cautious but my heart told me to have faith in people. I don't know why in my head I decided to test my two reactions. I thought what's one more load up to the apartment--it'll be fine. I left my purse on the seat of my car and I finished my last load. I came back down a few minutes later and glass was everywhere and my purse was gone. I sealed my own fate with a careless chance.

My faith was partially restored with the kindness of the strangers that called 911 for me and walked me back to my apartment. I told the responder everything that was in the purse: $1300 I was going to deposit finally, my phone, my wallet with credit cards, ID, and dear pictures of family, my favorite lipstick, my favorite gum, assorted gift cards and frequent buyer cards, two sets of headphones because I always feared one would stop working, and my Majora's Mask 3DS and games. I'm mad about the valuables and money, of course, but I'm more mad that I let my family down and their generosity. My family's hard earned money deserved better than theft. I told the officer there were two suspicious people loitering around, but with no witnesses, what could be done.

I was advised to drive to the police station and with no phone I didn't know how to get there. I asked a couple people on the sidewalk for help and they guided me. With my bare hands I scraped the glass from my seat the best I could to sit down and not injure myself. With the parade going on around me, all I wanted to do was be a part of that happiness. With rainbows in the sky, I was exposed to the darkness of society. I suppose rainbows can't come without a little rain.

When I got to the station, I told the officer my story and she said it was common and that I should not have left my purse for even a second which I fully understand. We went down all the things I would have to do to rectify the situation and it was daunting. When my purse was stolen 10 years ago at the airport, luckily I had the support of my friend who picked me up. And then my family was nearby to aid as well. This time I was in a city that I don't know with no way of contacting anyone I do know. For the first time since I moved to this area, I was truly scared and truly sad. Uncertainty does that I suppose.

After excepting that fingerprinting wouldn't uncover any leads, I drove back to my old apartment and headed over to the landlord so I can use the phone. I started all the processes of canceling my cards and repairing my car. When I got online, my email had fraud alerts for almost $2000 worth of purchases at Bloomingdale's and Macy's. The cash, the phone, the 3DS wasn't enough, they wanted anything they could get away with.

Have I stolen before? Perhaps. I can't say I'm innocent of ever taking things that in my mind were small and inconsequential. Maybe that's the same logic they had. It's hard to try to reason with why bad things happen. You think: what did I do to deserve this?Was it the two people loitering around? Did they really look into my eyes acknowledge my smile and still say, "yes, we'll take advantage of her." Then you think this must be karma. This is an accumulation of all the bad that I've done and my penance.

10 years later--same crime, different city, different story. What can be learned from this? Don't leave your purse in your car. Don't test the morality of strangers. For that one person that committed the crime there were 10 times as many people that wanted to help me. I like to think there's a better world where people never hurt other people. However, it's written in our history for as long as we have existed. People kill, destroy, steal for their own selfish abandon. But people help, care, empathize with selfless will. There are two forces here. Maybe we can have rainbows without rain, but rain will fall no matter what.

10 years from now--I hope I'm not writing the next chapter of this robbery déjà vu. Instead I hope I'm enjoying my life and helping others enjoy it around me. Ultimately, with all the horrible crimes in our world, my family and friends are safe and healthy. I am thankful for that over all material possessions. What more could I want from this world than that peace?

As I Lay Here

As I lay here, the world cold and grey

You told me, wait one more day

I look to the sky, late at night

Wishes unfulfilled, lost the will to fight

Fate pursued blind

No stars in the sky to find

The train makes one last stop

I get on, no more battles to be fought

But I dreamed vivid dreams

You were there, standing beside me

Days became months became years

Love turned to hate turned to tears

Out the window, I stare

I wonder, will she still be there?

After all this time gone

Can I right this one last wrong?

My days, gone by

His words, were they a lie?

One last journey, I walk alone

My youth lost to time, I can’t atone

I walked that familiar path

Here I remember, where I made her laugh

So close, I need to see her smile

Then I will know, it was all worthwhile

I stare at the ceiling

Pain, too familiar a feeling

My life slipping away

A shadow appears above and says

Tell me. Can you hear me?

How I missed you dearly

The days crawled by, not flew

My love, I am here with you

My darling, I thought you were lost

I spoke to you every night, no matter the cost

I never forgot you, even if I tried

My love for you, I couldn’t hide

I will carry you now, rest peacefully my dear

We’ll walk together, always near

I’m glad I waited one more day

In your heart, forever, I’ll stay

No Kissing

You know I wouldn't be telling this story if this had a happy ending. So, I met Bob at a mutual friend's birthday party at the local watering hole. As I tend to do with fellow video game fans, we bonded over our discussion of a series. Not an uncommon occurrence, I don’t look too much into those conversations as sharing interest in a popular topic is normal. That said, he had a quirky sense of humor, and I decided I wouldn't mind hanging out with him again. 

Bob and I chatted on and off over email. About a week later, he invited me to board game night at his home on a Friday. He mentioned there was also a viewing of the movie The Room, and a group would gather for that. I accepted the invite and looked forward to board games and watching the infamous movie in a public setting.

I arrived at Bob's home at 7 p.m. and quickly noticed only him and his shirtless roommate were there. Bob grabbed me a drink, and we all chatted about video games until the shirtless roommate clothed himself and departed. An unfortunate turn of events, as I recently discovered I enjoyed the company of half-naked strangers in good shape. 

I asked Bob when other people would arrive, and, to my surprise, he said no one else was coming. Now, I'm no board game night expert, but I believe board games usually call for a small group of people. If there's any quintessential two-player game, it's Scrabble. He didn't have it (what a cumquat--20 points), so we opted to play Mario Kart with a beverage reward for the loser, which is fine since I fare well and wanted to keep my wits about me; especially since I noticed his eyes made contact with my lips (something in my teeth?) a few too many times.

Slow beats of water droplets sounded above our heads until the drops strung together into one constant note. A downpour. Noting the rain, he declared it was time for the house tour, and I followed his drunken guidance. In the basement, I noticed a bar decorated in the classic fraternity style. Don't you agree that nothing brings a room together like empty bottles of Skol, Jim Beam, and Smirnoff Fruit Loop Fusion? He snatched a bottle of vodka and pulled a huge swig from it. With a slap of his chest, Bob beckoned me to follow suit; I adamantly, but politely, refused. He chased his chug with an attempt to put his arm around me. I dodged, nearly being lodged into his sweaty pit. A quick strafe brought me to the couch, and the realization that the movie was starting soon. While I called the cab, he pulled his shirt up (this is clearly a nudity-encouraging home) and proceeded to (sensually) rub his belly as he talked. Altogether wide-eyed, amused, and disgusted by these strange come-hither attempts, I walked upstairs and stared out the window for some stranger in a cab to bring me to public salvation. You think I'd have the wit to just leave at this point. No, not that day.

My steel savior arrived, and we were swept into the rainy night. Conversation was normal in the car, that is, until Bob told the driver to stop four blocks short of the theater. Confused by his request, I questioned him, but he resolved that congestion near the theater would be heavy. Reasonable logic, so I complied and hopped out. 

A couple blocks from the theater, Bob stopped and said he needed to do something. I looked around and noticed the grocery store. "Oh… Is the theater BYOB? You need to grab something?"

"I do need to grab something,” his words, slurred.

"OK. Sure, if we have time--" I said.

"Actually, I have a question I need to ask you."

"Ooookay. Sure." The dread welled up within me.

"Can I kiss your mouth?"

A quick aside for you: If you feel you must ask permission to kiss someone, you're either incorrectly reading the person or you don't have enough confidence to pull the move off. In this case, it was the former and the latter. I had not reciprocated any of his flirtations. I'm not really sure how he interpreted my rejections as positive signs, but there we were, in the rain, outside of a grocery store.

Without pause, "No."

His eyes bulged. "Why not?"

"Because I don't want to kiss you."

"Why?"

"Um... As I said, I'm not interested in kissing you." I started to feel my body warm up. Not the tingly happy warmth when you’re excited, but when you’re so uncomfortable you just want to melt away.

He sighed with frustration. "Is it because I'm not good looking enough?" 

"You're fine looking. I'm just…not interested." Why was I coaching him through this?

"What did I do wrong? I mean, I thought we had something going here."

"Look--you read the scene…wrong. I like you, but…I don't feel any romantic inclinations toward you."

"Soooo, you think I'm ugly," he said like a child on the brink of a tantrum.

"No, no… This isn’t about looks. I'm just not interested… SO, back to my original response: No, thank you."

"OK. Weellllll, it's going to be awkward." Good. He’s not oblivious.

"Yes, yes, it is. Are we going to see this movie or...what?" Why I didn’t walk away at that moment, I’ll never know. Looking back, I would see this red flag and politely excuse myself...but I really wanted to see this movie. We continued onto the theater, talking as if nothing unordinary happened. The lingering burn of cringe followed me.

We took our seats separately from his friends; thanks to Bob’s failed pit-stop, we had to sit in the front row corner--primo seats. Soon there’d be sweet relief: The Room started! Despite the roars and screams from the audience, not more than a few words were exchanged between us during the movie. I think he may have whimpered a few times.

After the credits rolled, we exited the theater in silence. Dozens of folks waved down cabs, and with Bob still sulking, I wanted to get out of there quickly. Our lack of cooperation worked against us: 30 minutes went by and we still paced the sidewalks. We walked a few blocks away from the theater to get away from the heavy traffic. 10 minutes went by, still no cab. To expedite the end of this horrendous evening, I continued to beckon for occupied cabs to stop and whisk me away. I then turned toward Bob and noticed he was no longer hailing on his side of the road, but sitting on the curb…defeated.

He noticed my stark gaze and yelled, "We are NEVER getting a cab!"

"Great attitude!" I yelled back

"It's not worth it... We're stuck here."

"Speak for yourself. If you want to stay here--fine. I'm calling the cab company from earlier." 

Luckily, a driver would be at our location in a few minutes. When the cab arrived, he picked himself off the ground and we climbed into the back. Much to my chagrin, he stated his own address as the destination.

"Hey! I'm not going back to your place," I said.

"The cab can drop us off at my place, and then you can continue on to your place."

I was seething. "No-no-no-no-no-no-no-nooooo! If you want to use the cab that I called, we're going to my place first, and then YOU'RE paying the driver when you're dropped off at your place."

"But...I don't have enough money." He fumbled through his wallet showing its lack of contents.

"You have a credit card, yeah?” He nodded. “You'll have to credit it. I paid for our cab earlier and if it wasn't for me, you'd still be squatting on a street corner like a dipshit."

"Oh...all right." So defeated.

The remainder of our time together was in silence. Me, thinking why I didn't jump off the burning train earlier; him, likely feeling like nothing went as planned and he deserved better. I couldn’t agree more, Bob. 

When the cab drove up to my apartment, I waved and said my farewell to Bob.

See? I told you: the only happy ending is that it ended.