HAPTER O NE
Perhaps I’m Weird....
I guess I’m weird. But then normal isn’t exactly my style. I mean, what’s normal about being a hooker and stripper who has premonition dreams? Despite my exotic side, I’m one of those people who enjoys going to the market. You know, aimlessly strolling up and down the aisles, no list. Just fake it as I go.
Like to eat healthy. Zoom through the canned food aisle like a commuter hitting a break in traffic. Boxed food items don’t hold my attention. But the meat section, complete with choice cuts, that’s one place I’ll linger.
I’m a carnivore and damn proud of it. There’s nothing as satisfying as sinking your teeth into a good porterhouse steak seared to perfection. How when your knife cuts into it, the juices gush from its perfectly pink center. The taste so heavenly, it melts in your mouth.
And the produce section, piled high with arranged stacks of fruits and vegetables kept fresh by automatic misters—oops, there they go again. Tiny beads of water seductively dripping off the contours of the produce. Some droplets get caught in the dimples and leafy bits, while others caress every curve. The fruits and vegetables look as appealing as a swimsuit model’s six-pack.
Tucked within these colorful displays of produce are the bins of nuts and dried fruits. The sight of them makes me laugh. Not heartily, but a reserved, embarrassed sound that rises from somewhere buried deep within. The nuts and dried fruits remind me of when I got arrested for shoplifting them as a teen. Remembering is good. Used to hide from it. Caused all sorts of problems. Now I embrace my memories, even the hard ones.
As I pass the display of onions, their flaky skins catch my eye. Can’t stop thinking about them. Smelly vegetables whose centers— their heart and soul—are well concealed by layers. Man, now I’m craving onion rings.
I’ve learned that we have two choices. We can bumble our way through life with blinders on, unaware of what and how various events affect us, or we can embrace that knowledge and learn from it. For the majority of my life, I did the former. Not out of choice, but out of necessity.
Didn’t come from a Norman Rockwell childhood—quite the opposite. Mine was full of abuse and drugs. Spent my life hating my Self. What had happened to me. What I had allowed others to do to me. How I’d willingly set myself up to be used and then tossed aside like an old rag.
A year and a half ago, I began absorbing what life presented me and allowed these new feelings to flow through me, awakening my Self and self-awareness. At first, this proved challenging, for I’d become a pro at concealing my feelings. I’d also mastered the art of masking the unpleasant events that affected me. Taking those first few steps to waltz through my emotions, whatever they were, revealed that I had two left feet.
I stumbled my way through. At times, flailing so much against my Self that I wondered if I might be going mad. I wasn’t. I was experiencing my own feelings for the first time. This proved exhausting and frustrating—at first. But then I saw a small crack in the shell. The tiniest glimmer of hope. I began to see my own transformation through the eyes of those around me and became fascinated in others’ reactions to my positive change and growth. From it, I drew strength and gained a bottomless appetite for more self-improvement.
And so, I began to peel back my own layers, the protective shell in which I’d encased myself to block the daily hurt, abuse and hatred that had been directed toward me. I dug into that flaky skin with a new enthusiasm for life. Some layers peeled away with ease. Like yanking off a band-aid. If I did it fast and furious, it only stung for a short while. Others revealed the screaming demons that dwelled just below the surface. Those I bucked against the most. The ones that made me want to curl up into a tight ball and pretend that I’d never taken the lid off my Pandora’s box.
Truth be told, I did run from some buried memories. The ones that proved all-consuming. I peeked at them from around protective corners, taking in minute doses until I’d built up enough immunity to not be destroyed by them. Each time I discarded another layer, I gained strength.
Can’t believe how much I’ve grown. How much I’ve changed. My looks. The way I talk. How I think. Everything is different— better. I look back at the mess my life was a year and a half ago and can’t believe that was me. I’m not that person anymore. I’ve learned how to deal with life’s difficulties. How to set goals. How to reach out to others for help and to assist them.
I’m still working on it—my Self. Don’t know if I’ll ever get to my core. Every time I strip back another layer, I grow and evolve and gain more awareness to my Self. Guess it’s like remodeling a house. My ma cautions to never finish that job, for when you do, you’ll find yourself with a “For Sale” sign on the front lawn. This may be the same. Perhaps the day I find my core will be my last, for where else will I need to journey?
“Excuse me. Excuse me, ma’am.”
Ma’am? They can’t be referring to me. Looking around, I’m discouraged to discover that, indeed, I’m the one being addressed. When did I become a ma’am? Never mind.
A frazzled-looking mother around my age—early thirties—pushes a shopping cart, occupied by an adorable little fair-skinned toddler doing his damndest to change his ethnicity by finger-painting the smeared chocolate part of an Oreo across his entire face.
“I’m sorry?”
“The onions—a red one. Could you?”
“Oh, sure.” I select a medium-sized one and hand it to her. She never glances at it but tosses it into the belly of the cart along with her other “survival” needs: chips, boxed main courses, cookies and frozen microwavable meals. Shoppers like her come to the store hungry, only to discover later that they have purchased none of what they need, but plenty of useless stuff. Poor woman, she’ll be back.
I grab an onion for myself and a few staple fruits—bananas, pears and some grapes—before heading over to the meat department. Once there, I gaze, almost in a trance, at the delicious cuts of raw meat beckoning me. Mmmm…meat. Wasn’t I just ragging on that woman for shopping while hungry? Hypocrite.
I select a couple of New York strip and T-bone steaks. Add them to my hand-held basket. Geez, it’s heavy. Gotta think about working out my arms. I walk to the only register and stand at the back of the line. God, I hate that! Why do they bother building ten check stands when they rarely use more than three? Maddening.
I reach for a trash magazine. You know. The ones where the details of celebrities’ lives are splashed across the front pages for the world to dissect. As if they have no skeletons in their own closets. But then, celebrities do choose to put themselves in the public eye. If they didn’t want attention, guess they should’ve stayed in the private sector instead of pursuing a life in front of the camera. I know. Been there, front and center. Well, okay, maybe it’s a bit of a stretch to compare a stripper to a celebrity, but hey, we both put ourselves out there.
A second before my hand lands on the magazine, I freeze. My attention is captured by the man standing several customers ahead of me. Even from behind, he’s sexy. I’m drawn to the musculature of his back as it pulls against his T-shirt. I swear. Some people could literally wear a burlap bag and make it look good. I hate them!
This man is one of those—good eye candy. I lean a little to the side to get a better view. Just as I suspected, he’s got a tight ass framed by his jeans. Nice! My eyes travel down his legs. Mmmm… long and muscular. Continuing my scan, I take in the traces of salt and pepper in his hair, and his bronzed skin, not burnt and tough like a day worker’s but a natural Mediterranean color.
The man finishes his transaction and, gathering his bags, proceeds to the exit. Damn! The woman in front of me is blocking my view. Move your fat head, bitch! I need to see his profile. Too late, he’s already out the door. Thanks! There goes what would have been tonight’s fantasy….
As I move forward in line, I’m bitter toward the woman in front of me. Don’t