Beatrix. Bipolar. Barista

You can't begin to tell me why I should keep up this whole charade. The last time I came home, fed the cat, cleaned up the dirty dishes left in the sink, picked up all the empty beer bottles, turned off the television, and then got into bed and shagged you, I fantasized about getting on an old Yankee Clipper, and flying away to Hong Kong or whatever, and never having to see this place again. That's where I really am, metaphorically speaking. I'm the Dragon Lady, and Uncle Stevie will never catch me. I slither in my silk robes. I read tea leaves, and my fingers race over the abacus, as I sing a sad song. Metaphors are more important than you think.

Just look at Scout. He's growing like a tree. He'll be just as strong as you are. You shouldn't bring your weights into the house. He tries to pick them up, and he's going to have an accident. You should cook some real food for him to eat, not just the junk I bring back from Starbucks. All those hot breads are a thousand years old. They're probably made by slaves in the Ukraine, and are radioactive, so you're just supposed to give them to guests. As if we had any.

Work was crazy, tonight. A super long line, at the window, the whole time. This one lady came up, and she's really, really fat, with a hairdo that looked like a blond wig, and she asks for an iced orange latte. I told her that we couldn't make them, that we were out of the Toroni syrup for that, but she screamed at me, and said she wouldn't ever come back again. I finally had my break and I got all weepy, and Carol, that bitch, she almost sent me home. But I told her that I'm a secret agent, and that if she blew my cover, people might, like, get assassinated. That made her laugh. She doesn't have any sense at all. At the end of the day, I told the maintenance guy, that the coffee machine, it drips black blood. He opened it up, and showed me that there was a pool of dried coffee in there, and that he'd have to take everything apart to clean it. He should put a gasket in there, or something. With your experience fixing military vehicles, you could do a better job than him.

The whole trouble I'm having now, I can tell you exactly what it is. I don't have a story. I really need some kind of story of my life, of who I am, and where I'm going. Without that you might as well bag everything. My dreams make more sense than my job, or you, or this house ever will. Like last night, I dreamed Scout was playing with a bow and arrow, and he broke one of your favorite steins, and you tried to spank him. But he turned into a crocodile, and chased you away, and you fell into a hole, out in the meadow, and couldn't get out. Then we amused ourselves by pelting you with cocoa puffs, that we shot at you with a sling shot. I couldn't stop laughing, it was so funny. When you got out you joined the Army again, and went to Iraq, and wrote me lots of letters. Your letters are so sweet.

We should be doing something real, like go to Paris, and join an art colony. There are so many worthwhile things to do in this world, besides working. I would like to spend my time making really good sandwiches and salad. I know how to make a Greek salad. It has spinach, and black olives, and feta cheese. Lots of tomatoes, and red onions. Shallots are the best kind. They don't burn so much. We need to drink wine sometimes. It's too expensive, though, the good kind.

You're snoring now, so it's just me. I guess I've known that for at least a month, that everything I say, all the things I think about, are just noise to you. Sometime I feel that I'm completely alone. You're lost in TV land. Every thing that you do is just something the television said you can do. I may be bipolar, but the world I live in, I made it myself. You think that I say dumb things, and don't know what people know, but the Lord made me out of clay.

She lay on the bed, still feeling stressed out, and listened to the comical noises of the snoring man. It's always that way-- you wait, it seems, for hours, but then you wake up, and can't remember going to sleep. Its like anesthesia. You never can remember falling down the bunny hole.

She dreams: She is standing near the edge of a cliff, looking over the ocean. She stands tall, her golden hair in long thick braids, which hang below her waist. She sings, and her voice seems to penetrate everything. Huge rocks are jutting from the mists over the ocean, and nature seems still, listening. She can smell, and almost taste the lichen on the rocks, the peaty moss under her feet, the tidal pools below.

The sea teems with dragons. She flies over the waters, at war with them. She looks at her body, and she is a dragon too. She sees a ship foundering in a storm, but it's too late to rescue the drowning sailors. The ocean is huge, and too powerful for a mere dragon to oppose.

She is standing on a beach, with Scout. Scout is trying to fly his new kite, a dragon. It's a heavy kite, but they manage to get it aloft, after several tries. It has a life of its own, diving and swooping erratically. There is no understanding it, but that makes it all the more enjoyable. Scout is doing so well. She is so enthusiastic about him. He's going to be very spoiled, she is afraid. Suddenly, she feels happy.

The sun shines warmly through the window. She rubs her eyes, and looks at birds feeding next to the garage. Seven of them, this time. Arnie is going through his duffle bags. He doesn't have that much more time. He whistles softly. He knows who he is, actually. She hopes he'll make it back, both mind and body, next time.