Are you ready - An Impaired Observation (freewill rewrite)

She was crying, when she cries I go to her. We were little together; a nine year difference that left me with the crappy end - I changed her diapers. My niece, my darling, my Amber… when she cries - I go.

When we walked into LaVerdiere’s Drug store, she was just over two, the snow had warmed up to slush and mumma sent us in together; hand-in-hand. I was eleven - the perfect age to be easily embarrassed; she was two - the perfect age to easily mortify me. Three steps out of the slush, into the warmth of the store, we stood next to the counter with the gray haired man who busied himself tending to the line of customers. Without warning, Amber belts out, “Turdie!!!” All eyes found us, my eyes found their feet; paired in twos were goulashes of all colors. Moving quickly three steps back out the door, I was ready to run. It turned out her excitement was over nothing more than a stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toy. Oddly enough, ever since that day, I’ve found myself wanting to run to her …and for the same reasons I once wanted to run from her - “Turdies!”

Did I develop an obsession with Ninja Turtles? No. Mike and Dixie are the “turdies” of today. Mike is mine (but he is another story) and Dixie is hers. I told Amber when she turned twenty-one that I wanted to take her out to the bar for her first legal drink but she was away at college and Dixie took her. I did not change her first diaper, see her first steps, was not the first to hug her as she graduated from high school and moved onto college, didn’t smoke her first joint with her or even help her move into her first apartment; I made it for none of those…but did that stop me from changing her stinky butt, walking with her, hugging her, chasing a shot or entertaining Miss Mary Jane with her…no. Because when Amber cries, I go.

It was around seven and the sun had not quite set when Amber called me quite hysterical; Dixie was up to her usual bullshit but had taken things to a new all time low. I jumped into the car and closed the 200 mile gap between us within moments (or so it seemed). Hugs, tears and a two second tour of her pad, had us baking clams like true Mainers in her little Toyota Corolla - scanning the radio for something to set the mood. Tears turned to laughter and tunes turned to texts; pals bid us to venture over their way. We floated across the yard on a cloud to arrive at their door, we entered into another cloud as we crossed their threshold; cigs and beers in hand, they were true friends - ready to listen, they knew she was there to talk about the latest brawl with her long term ‘turdy’.

It was a blast from my past, Queen wasn’t on the walls - nor was Meatloaf, Aerosmith or Guns-N-Roses but those black velvet posters that glowed were there…those were the same. As was the big comfy ‘curb-side’ furniture, tower of beer cans (the cheap stuff-no Bud here) and the scent of incense and Menthols (ok maybe some bud after all) clouding the room. Strands of beads hung in doorways and a variety of high school ceramic artwork embellished the ash covered coffee tables; oddly enough I believe they were meant to be ashtrays; the place was tripping.

Amber and I found the loveseat, it was a soft mocha color, like those yummy iced coffees from DD, this is where we sat - her and I and her friend, that I’ll call, “Kat” (as in Kat Von D - because she’s cool), this 'Kat' was a female friend of a different kind - the straight (yet awkwardly bi-curious) kind. As they started to chatter about Dixie, the smoke in the room started growing a lot thicker and tastier. The three of us sat, becoming immobile on that mocha cigarette burned loveseat. Amber and Kat continued their chatter back and forth to one another as we passed around the lil bubbling glass of toxic pleasure - Bic lighter in tow; Kat had the silver tongue and spoke a mile a minute - while Amber kinda fell into numbness,
“Dixie is shit -forget about her!”
“Yaaaaaaaa”
“No, seriously, crap - complete crap.”
“Yaaaaaaa”
“What the fuck? Really. Lets just do it. You and I bitch. No joke.”
“Ummmmmmm”

The chair adjacent to us was a soft, strikingly beautiful color of… oh heck, honestly, I don’t know, half-baked and bored, all I knew is that there was an adorable red-headed hunky Irish man lounging in it. Snow white skin with tiny little pepperspots; those green eyes carried the freckles with pride. A cell phone glued to his ear and a scowl on his face were the only unhealthy things about him; the conversation was twisting him from the cutie he was into a frazzled little angry leprechaun, “I told ya baby, I’m with friends. Jesus….really? No hun, we are just chillin. Ya ya baby, you can swing by. Fuck.”

Two other men adorned the room; one - a tall thin tattooed one - sat shirtless in torn jeans with a silver chain around his neck - he played the role of a young Charles Manson (B.C. - Before Carnage) He spoke in a dramatic way, as though he were running for President and addressing his country, “Today we are facing difficulties; the cultural differences I see on a daily basis mixed with the advanced technology is creating the unnecessary dramas in the world of which we live” .

His friend who sat beside him was a little man; short brown hair - shaved in a military fashion. He was the regular guy who would blend into a crowd (most likely the one to end up on top of a tower shooting the people below). He spoke slow and steady in a dreary tone, “Yes, your point is clear. You speak from knowledge. Pass me another. I see your point. Do you have a light? You are recognizing what I’ve been seeing. Dude, is this South park that’s on?”

All the voices blended together like a Barber Shop Quartet; I was getting the high notes from the silver tongue, the baritone from my angry little leprechaun and a little in between embellishment from the rest of them. I smiled as the room spun; a nice beautiful, shit-eating grin spread across my face, it was a picturesque moment, a night to remember, this experience - my niece and I. The room spun and settled as we floated about it. Her and I sat heavy like the couch and lingered like the smoke; there was no rhyme or reason to the evening - it just was what it was… Kenny was killed yet again, Lady GaGa danced with Alejandro, we sang, laughed and coughed into the darkness until our ears rang with delight. Eventually, our inner alarm clocks lifted mine and Amber’s shaking legs and we traveled like lava across the shag rug and out the door. Two stairwells down, three more up, and a couple of clouds later, I found myself back at her place, awaking, in the early morning hours, to the hungry eyes of a... stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. It was time to go.