An Impaired Observation

She was crying, when she cries I go to her. We were little together; there was a nine year difference that left me with the crappy end - I changed her diapers. My niece, my darling, my Amber… and 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 in the parking lot and mumma sent us in together; hand-in-hand. I was eleven - the prime age to be embarrassed by any joke - especially a ‘poop’ joke; she was two - the prime age to have one thing on her mind - poop. Three steps out of the slush, into the warmth of the store, next to the counter with the old man with gray hair tending to the line of customers in goulashes, Amber belts out, “Turdies!!!” The only time in her life I wanted to run away from her. I wanted to run and run far all because of ‘turdies’ (which turned out to be nothing more then a giant stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toy). Ever since that day, I find myself wanting to run to her and oddly enough for the same reasons I once wanted to run from her, ‘turdies” (just of a different kind).

I told her when she turned twenty-one that I wanted to take her out to her first bar for her first legal drink. She was away at college in Waterville and I did not get to take her. I did not change her first diaper, walk her to the bus on her first day of school, be the first to hug her as she graduated from high school and moved onto college, drink her first drink with her, smoke her first joint with her or even help her move into her first apartment; I made it for none of those firsts…but did that stop me from changing her stinky butt, walking with her, hugging her, toasting the New Year with her or smoking a sweet treat with her at her first apartment…no. Because when Amber cries, I go.

It wasn’t Queen on the walls - not 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 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. 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’.

The loveseat was a soft mocha color, like those yummy iced coffees from DD, this is where we sat - Amber and I and her friend, not the ‘turdy’ who had made her cry…a female friend of a different kind - the straight (yet awkwardly bi-curious) kind. As they started to chatter about Dixie (the long term piece of shit who was upsetting my baby girl) the smoke in the room started growing a lot thicker and tastier.

The chair adjacent to us was a soft, strikingly beautiful color of… oh hell, I don’t know because all I know 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 into a frazzled little angry leprechaun - someone was after his pot of gold. “I told ya baby, I’m with friends. No hun, we are just chillin. Ya ya baby, you can swing by.”

Two other men adorned the room; one - the 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?”

And the three of us, the only females in the spacious two bedroom apartment, sat motionless on that mocha cigarette burned loveseat. Amber and her friend continued their chatter back and forth to one another and we passed around the lil bubbling glass of pleasure along with the Bic lighter; their voices were rapid and exact wording was quite un-comprehendible but I got the gist of it all as I helped to cloud the room, “Blah, blah some guy… Yada Yada Dixie… Blah blah manaja twa… Yada Yada Yaaaaaa.”

The room spun and settled as I floated about it. I sat heavy like the couch and lingered like the smoke; there was no rhyme or reason to the night - the night just was… Kenny was killed yet again, Lady GaGa danced with Alejandro, we sang, laughed and coughed into the night until our ears rang with delight. Our inner alarm clocks lifted our shaking legs off the shag rug and transported us out the door. Two stairwells down, three more up, and a couple of clouds later, I found myself awaking, in the early morning hours, to the hungry eyes of a stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Amber, resting peacefully without a tear, so I washed the cotton from my mouth, gathered my stuff and slipped quietly out, it was time for me to go.