Cupcake

Cupcake

Hot tea carefully placed to the right of my computer, flashes of lightning coming from the window behind me casting shadows, the room looks like a movie set. It was the perfect weather for writing; or a murder. Or both. I do live in New Orleans. The room was comfortably warm but not hot. One heater on in the front room gave a glow like a fireplace. It was cozy.

I took a sip. I looked at the blank screen. I typed the date, then nothing.

I knew I was on the precipice of bolting. Again. I was a bolter. Someone who can’t stay put. I was not a sticker. Someone who stays. Most of my friends were stickers. Stayed in one place, got married, bought houses and saved for retirement. They raised kids or didn’t, in the same town we were all from. They were, responsible, steadfast, and stable.

I was bored, and restless, and despite knowing the stress my vagabond life brought to others, I knew I couldn't help myself.

Another crash of thunder echoed around the inside of my sparsely furnished shotgun apartment. I knew it would take a lifetime to fill the walls with sound absorbing art. I think I never really finish moving into a place because I knew once I’ve hung that last piece of art I was done. Out of there. That’s what happened last time. My fear of planting roots and decorating were synonymous. Twelve-foot ceilings were a big commitment for me and I knew it.

The newly acquired used area rug with a few spots missing, securely hidden by a coffee table, had managed to cover up the entire living room. It was about nine by twelve, and a dark blue Victorian print. Twenty-five bucks on marketplace was a steal, though I suspected I had just cleaned up a crime scene. Who sells a fifteen-hundred-dollar wool area rug for twenty-five bucks, unless they had rolled a body in it. But that was hardly my problem, and it did absorb some of the sound.

The first room was practically empty. Really just a place to park my bike. The second room, where I spent most of my time, had most of my art collection, a vintage couch, and two book cases. Both were stacked to overflow and the tops of the book cases had Mardi Gras memorabilia. I loved this room. I loved how I felt in it and leaned back to admire the gift of the large framed Jazz Fest poster from 2017, which happened to match my crime rug.

While I waited for inspiration or a sign from God, there was a loud pounding on the door.

I jumped. Anyone knocking at your door that you weren’t expecting in New Orleans is never good. I wondered once again why I had not just caved in and purchased one of those stupid ring things that you put on your door to let you know who the hell is outside.

My shutters were closed because of the pending storm and lacking a door with a peep hole, I had no way of seeing who might be on the porch rudely pounding. Especially during a storm.

My street was lined with two-hundred-year-old oak trees, that made a storybook canopy. It was so picturesque, the mention of the name and people would comment, oh I love that street! The trees provide much needed shade in the summer, during hurricane season, not so much.

I had read about a large branch that fell off a tree in the French Quarter that clocked some seventeen-year-old kid in the head. I was not taking any chances of a tree branch through a window, or anywhere else. Shutters were shut.

The pounding repeated.

“Who is it? “I shouted.

“Special delivery! “Was the response. I bet.

“From who?” I asked suspiciously.

“Whom.” Was the response.

Fucking grammar nazi.

“From whom.” I said dryly. I already hated whoever was at the door, but not likely someone with a gun.

“From an admirer! “Was the response. “Can you hurry, it’s starting to rain.”

I could hardly argue with that.

Flipping the deadbolt, I slowly opened the door with my foot blocking should someone try to shove in. There on my porch were two people dressed as clowns. One of them is in a birthday cake dress, complete with the square hat topper kept on by an elastic strap under his chin. His chin. The man. Of course. The woman was holding balloons and a cupcake in a plastic to go container. They start singing Happy Birthday. The rain is starting to pick up and the balloons are fighting to escape. A flash of lightning followed by a crash of thunder.

“I think you made a mistake! It’s not my birthday!”

I try to yell over the thunder. But they keep singing. This is just hilarious, and I feel bad that they will have to do it all over again at the correct house. They finally finished.

“Thanks. That was awesome, but it’s not my birthday.”

The actors look confused. They look at the card with the address on it. They look up at the address above my door. The woman’s clown paint is smearing as she tries to push her hair out of her face.

“No, this is the address. Are you Kerry?”

“Yes”

Without a word, the woman dumps everything in my hands, sprints to a car which is still running on the street, and they drive off.

The balloons are whipping around, and I fight them into the house and let them go. They float up to the ceiling and seem happy there. I walk back to the couch and set down the cupcake and read the card.

Happy Birthday Kerry! You deserve it all! Love, your biggest fan.

I look at the cupcake. I am not really a cake girl, but I am suddenly starving. I look at my computer. I have written nothing. I cannot reward myself with a food break when I have not earned it. I quickly type out. This town is really fucking weird. I was just visited by two clowns. In the middle of a storm. On a Monday. Have I become Ebenezer Scrooge? Is a third clown to be expected at midnight?

I laugh for five seconds, then I decide its dumb. I delete everything except the first sentence.

Writing makes me hungry. I try to have snacks around so when I am stuck, or feel the need to get up, I can grab a nibble and get inspired.

It’s probably my ADHD that keeps me jumping up from the couch. Make a cup of tea. Start a load of laundry. Open my door and look outside, as if there was something on my porch that I need. There isn’t. Sitting still is often torture.

I walk to the back of the house and open the back door. Within minutes the big white stray cat that lives under my house appears. He blinks at the rain. He is getting huge. He looks at me like I am going to feed him. Fat chance buddy. The neighbor already feeds him and I have seen the size of the mice he catches. I notice a large square patch of fur missing from his back. I can see the pink of his skin and a little blood. Super gross. I feel bad for him for a minute. He looks like my area rug. Mangey. I wonder if he got into it with the giant possum that also lives somewhere close by.

New thought. I run to the computer.

I wonder if my house is haunted like the rest of New Orleans.. I wonder if I was alive during the Antebellum era, if I would be a slave owner, or a slave. Were there other options?

I delete all of it and walk to the kitchen and open the fridge. A true New Orleanian would have her hurricane snacks stocked up, but this was a tornado. Allegedly. So I bought nothing.

I stare at some broccoli, a few shreds of romaine I had chopped for quick salads and one vanilla yogurt with expired dates. Shameful. I open the cupboard. There is some cheese popcorn that was a huge disappointment days earlier. I push past three bags of pistachios I had lost a taste for six months ago. What a waste. Macadamia nuts for the win. I can hardly tout myself as a starving artist when I can afford macadamia nuts. But there it is.

By the time I get back to my computer, all motivation has left me. I call my mom. No answer. I call Bill, he’s at work. I try Erin. She texts back. Erin is suffering a shift in an empty bar in New York City. There is a snow storm in progress which paralyzes that city every time.

I really want to share my story of the clowns and the birthday cupcake. So, fucking weird, but this town is weird so any of my friends here would not be impressed.

I glance at the elf on a shelf that is rock climbing up my wall on bows that I stapled there during Christmas. I considered taking him down, but it seemed too much effort. He stays.

I start to watch a movie, but they all suck. More choices do not equate to good choices. I am not that tired but I decide to go to bed.

I am all tucked in when suddenly my phone starts to vibrate. Its Adam. I slide the bar to the right to answer. Hey.

“Hey,” he says. What are you doing?”

“Riding out a storm,” I say. “You? “

“I’m in LaVeta, its freezing. Why don’t you come warm me up.”

I laugh. “Where’s your Zonky? He looks pretty cuddly. He could warm you up.”

When I drove through Colorado last July to see Adam, we had gone exploring the town where he and his family owns property and we came across what I thought was a Zebra. He was gorgeous. He was frolicking with a colt in fenced field. Can we stop? I want to pet him! He can have my apple! Adam laughs, of course. So, we stopped to feed them and get a picture.

An old man mowing the lawn told us the animal was a Zonky. A cross between a Zebra and a donkey. At the time I wondered where the hell he got a hold of a Zebra, but I never asked.

“The Zonky already has a cuddle buddy,” Adam says to me. Zonky.

“Anything else going on?”

I can hear him smile.

“Well, yes as a matter of fact, I had some visitors.”

“Really,” says Adam, “who?”

“Did you send two clowns to my house??”

“What are you talking about? “say’s Adam. I can hear him smiling through the phone. He loves a good prank, or joke.

He will often call me and start a pretend conversation that we are in the middle of. As if we live together and are in a long-term relationship, which we are not. Or a pretend fight. He loves to do this. And he’s a pretty good at it, he can keep it up for a while, just ad lib a conversation before cracking up.

I will answer the phone,

“Hello?

And he will start with,

“Look I am sorry I forgot the butter at the store you can’t expect me to remember everything.”

I will retort with,

“Well, if you wrote it down like I told you to this wouldn’t keep happening. How many times have I told you to write out the grocery list?!”

This will go on for several minutes. He will eventually interrupt me with

“Hey, hey,”

“What?” I will answer. And in the softest of voices he will say,

“I love you.”

And I know he does. Even in his mock fighting routine. I know he loves me. From afar.

And I will stop. Pause and say,

“I love you too.”

And then we both break out laughing. That was a good one!

But this time I am just blown away.

“What are you doing? Where on earth did you find two clowns to deliver a singing telegram. In a storm?!”

He laughs. “Don’t worry about it. “

“It was amazing. I almost didn’t open the door. You know how dangerous this town is.”

“Yeah, he says, I kinda worried about that too. But it seemed worth it. I wish I could have seen your face,” he laughs.

“Why on earth did you do it? And you know it was not my birthday.”

I pause. “You missed my birthday this year. Remember?”

We’re both quiet for a moment. I was really hurt. He never misses my birthday. I had actually waited a couple days, to see if he would eventually remember. He didn’t. I knew alcohol was involved, but I never called him out. And I know he felt bad, even though he brushed it off at the time.

“Yea, I know I did. Sorry.”

He had been struggling since his mother died. Grief can fuck you up, but I had suspected the drinking had become an issue before that. We never talk about it. I have lost so many friends to alcoholism. I didn’t want to lose him.

He interrupts my thoughts, “So did you write about it yet? “

“What?” I ask.

“The clowns. Have you written about the clowns.?”

I start laughing. “Well, sort of. Is that why you sent them?”

“You told me you were stuck. I wanted to help. I gave up on you writing our story. For now, anyway. I thought you could use some new fodder.”

For years he has pushed me to write the story of our relationship, how we met at a casino table in Vegas, when I was on a spiritual walk about. We spent three days together but have barely seen each other since. Seven times to be exact. In twenty-seven years we never got together. Either he had a girlfriend, or I had a boyfriend, but our friendship never waned. In fact, it had only gotten stronger. There is a telepathy between us. I would not hear from him for months, and I would be going through something difficult, and he would call out of the blue and say,

“What’s wrong?” Somehow, we both knew when we needed each other.

“I will write about it tomorrow, and send it when I am done. “

“You don’t have to; I already know the story.” We both laugh.

“Yeah, I guess you do.”

"Hey," he says quietly. And I know it’s coming.

“What.” I answer. It’s a statement, not a question.

“I love you.”

There's a quiet pause, as I let it sink in. He really does love me. And its mutual.

“I love you too.

“Oh, and Happy Birthday.” I can feel the regret in his voice for forgetting my birthday.

“Thanks, Adam.” I hope he can't hear my disappointment. In so many things.

“You’re welcome.”

“Good night, love.”

“Good night, love.”

I press the red button, and he’s gone.

I wonder why I cant blow out that candle.

Lightning bolts flash outside, making my heart race. I count the Mississippi’s til I hear the thunder, and considered what I would take with me this time.

And I prayed I could forgive myself.