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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v079) (the February 2010 Issue) This is also available from our printer as a a $7.47 paperback book (5.5" x 8.5") perfect-bound w/ b&w pages

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Who gives a damn what they think?

Emma Jackson

    Throughout my fifteen years of existence, I never wished to partake in a random car accident. But, today was different. It would truly be a blessing if anything could prevent the purple 1996 Geo Metro I’m imprisoned in from taking me to 6731 Maple St. It’s the second day of my first job. Fear began to consume my lower gut with the mere thought of repeating what I endured yesterday. Getting whacked by an airbag actually doesn’t seem so bad right now.
    While stopped at a red light, I did my best to tune out my dad who was belting out a very depressing country song. An unbridgeable chasm separates my father and me. When I attempt to communicate my innermost, plaguing troubles to him it’s as if I’m speaking in African click language. Sounds come out of my mouth, but I’m never sure if he truly understands the meaning behind those sounds.
    After my fist day of high school when I told my father that my acne-splotched-tomato-garden face scares people away, he let out a thunderous laugh deep from the cavern of his round gut, “Why do you give a damn what they think?” Then he gave me some embarrassing advice laced discreetly with malicious mockery, “Make sure you stay away from shrimp and chocolate...I’m just kidding, you’re the most beautiful woman I know.” He clearly doesn’t understand how lonely it is to not have a single friend. And to spite him, I think I might eat 500 pounds of chocolate covered shrimp.
    I couldn’t erase the feeling of being moments away from drowning helplessly in a Tsunami of doom. As an uncontrollable fear gnawed away at my lower intestines, I didn’t let a single peep slip out. Like trying to count every single sand particle at Miami beach, it would be futile to try to explain to my father why I wanted to escape the ensuing hell.
    Far from positioned like an ennobling Greek Renaissance sculpture, I sat crunched over, my arms tightly wrapped around my sides as my dad screeched, “Life is falling apart, bruised up broken heart, Wife gone, my dog dead, Life is so damnnnn hardd.”
    Whenever I wanted to take a momentary break from my often difficult-to-cope-with existence, I let my imagination create an alternative reality. Beyond the windshield, a shiny red Ford pick up accelerated on a wide empty suburban street. I shut my eyes, tilt my head back and let my mind paint a thrilling reality unlike the intolerable hell I would soon face at 6731 Maple St...
    My dad too fixated on hitting the right screeching pitch to “Life is so dammnn hard” starts to loosen his foot off the break. The car slowly rolls through the red light. The red pick up accelerates from 70 mph to 80 mph just 30 feet away, then crashes into the passenger door. A force travels though out my body, I jerk to the left as the car starts to spin. It takes a while for my dad to snap out of his melancholy country music trance to a heightened sense of panic.
    He desperately grabs onto the steering wheel trying to get a control of “Old Purple Cockroach” (My dad’s car was coined this name for its old rusty engine that emits phosphorous egg farts every five minutes and because of its cockroach like resemblance). The car stops spinning. The engine takes three lasts breaths then dies out forever. I look at my dad as smoke arises from the front. Police sirens break the silence. I clear my throat and plaster an insincere look of shock across my face, in a sarcastic tone “Wow, I really didn’t see that one coming.” My dad punches the steering wheel, the horn faintly toots, he yells, “Dammit, I had a good two months left on this car!”
    I jerked open my eyes, back to reality. As the red pick up zoomed by, my dad howled like an alley cat, “Been crying all damn day. The IRS won’t go away. Life is do damnn harddd.” Then, a lump of fear ballooned in my throat. Adorned in black itchy stockings, a red dress with white polka dots, white gloves, yellow styrofoam booties, I was now minutes away from morphing into Minnie Mouse at 6731 Maple St for another spoiled rich kid’s birthday party.
    I closed my eyes, the crisp haunting memories of yesterday’s American Girl Doll themed birthday party reluctantly resurfaced into my consciousness. All the girls were blown up cloned copies of their doll. It was bordering on cult. When the birthday girl received a black Versace dress and Rolex along with a miniature black Versace dress and miniature Rolex for her doll Sandra she screamed out in horror as if she got stabbed. To this day I will never forget that piercing scream. All I could here was, “What about the Tiffany’s charm bracelet for Sandra and me?” She shook her doll with fury letting the doll’s hair flap in wildly different directions. “What about our matching bracelets? Sandra and I are not happy!” She ran all over the room while holding onto a lock of her doll’s hair, stomping her feet.
     Then she fell to the floor pretending to faint, sat up and started rubbing her hands like Lady Macbeth, wiping off imaginary blood, “The outfit is not complete! The outfit is not complete!!!” I sat there confused in the corner. I was grateful when my dad treated me to a $50 Olive Garden dinner. I assumed the mother would have scolded her for her psychotic outbreak, but instead she knelt to her side and comforted her, patting her head lightly, “I forgot. Hunny, I will pick up the Tiffany’s bracelets later today.” She smiled, but I could tell from her shaky voice that perpetual frustration plagued her soul.
    My eyelids slowly peeled open. To distract myself from the immutable fact that I would have to repeat this same nightmare, I let my mind unfocus in a blank stupor. My eyes lazily scanned the red-brick, triangle roofed houses with the two-door garages. Every house looked exactly the same, except for the mailboxes-blue bass fishes, white passenger planes, and even a tropical parakeet. I guess it was a feeble attempt at showing off some individuality.
    Then we came to the end of the block, the car jerked to a stop. I craned my neck back, scanned the biggest house in the suburban community that rested proudly on a green hill.
    “Here we are,” my dad chirped like a happy finch.
    The inescapable horror hit me. My imagination couldn’t save me now. Finally, I had to accept the fact that I’m about to enter into a stranger’s house dressed up like Minnie Mouse. My dad reached in the back and grabbed the plastic 4-feet wide Minnie Mouse head with the flappy elephant-like furry ears. He put the gigantic head right under my nose waiting for me to put it on.
    “Well, here you go champ. Good luck! This should be boat loads of fun! I’ll be waiting out here for you.”
    I looked straight at the menacing red brick house with the two prominent white doric columns and three car garage. I didn’t even notice the gigantic Minnie head under my nose. My father’s arm was still extended with the Minnie head, he then huffed and plopped it down on my lap.
    The weight of the Minnie head didn’t break my focus from the house, my eyelids shot wide open with fear. I let gravity naturally weigh down my jaw. Yes, this was the house. Yes, I was minutes away from dancing like a moron in a ridiculous Minnie Mouse costume in front of people I don’t even know. My heart fluttered faster than a butterfly against my chest cavity. I gasped for air in a steady tempo. With the little breath I had left, I managed to muster out just four words, trying to stifle the panic in my voice, “I’m not going inside.”
    My dad cruelly laughed at my misery. Then he stopped suddenly. He stared at my gaping mouth and bugged-out eyes, “What’s wrong?”
    He must of repeated that five times before it could register. I slowly turned around and looked into his dark oblivious eyes and wide foolish grin. I knew that if I tried to explain how embarrassing it is to enter into a stranger’s house dressed like Minnie he just wouldn’t understand. My dad has never given a single thought to what constitutes normal behavior.
    Whenever I go to the mall with him, he tries to bargain with the sales people to try to get a better deal as if we were in a Thai marketplace. He goes outside in his thin, holed underwear to get the paper. He even once got into a heated argument with a McDonald’s drive-through employee for forgetting to pack bbq sauce.
    I sighed and stated without a trace of pretense, “You really wouldn’t understand.” Then hot liquid fear injected into me veins raising the goosebumps on my arms. I involuntarily blurted out my deepest worry, “You don’t know how absolutely ridiculous I look!”
    “You will go inside that house!” he said in a steady, ominous tone.
    After my dad’s divorce with my mother, my dad became prone to very irritable mood swings. I sat there frozen. He took off his seatbelt, rotated his rotund body towards me. He pointed his index finger at me with a sharp jab of his arm.
    “Look at me,” he punched out the words. I snapped my head towards him obediently. “You’re not going to quit the second day for such a foolish reason!”
    The hairs on the back of my neck shot straight up. I straightened my spine. Then, I mistakenly looked in the rear view mirror and caught a glance of my face-glowing criss-crosses of red streaks like a Jackson Pollock spattered painting.
    I nervously turned away from the mirror. My tear ducts were filled to capacity. I mustered all my energy to stay calm to prevent tears from flowing down like Niagara Falls. I tried one more time to escape the horrific situation. I repeated, “you have no idea how ridiculous I look!”
    My dad picked up the Minnie head from my lap and attempted to comfort me by stating the obvious. “Well with this thing on they won’t be able see you.”
    I gave it one last try, knowing subconsciously it was in vain, “I don’t even know these people! I am about to humiliate myself in front of people I don’t even know. Can you understand that? Do you understand how that can be embarrassing?”
    I was speaking in Icelandic, my dad did not understand a single word I said.
    “Who gives a damn what they think! This is you second day of your first job and you are not going to quit. Did you here me? Life is tough o.k. It’s not easy. When you’re faced with an obstacle, you overcome it. You don’t run away from it chicken shit!”
    “You get in there!” he grunted like an impatient foot-ball coach.
    “I don-don’t wan-wan to go in there-there. And you can’t make me!”
    I finally surrendered. My fervor to argue extinguished. I started to become light headed. I put on the Minnie head and started convulsively crying. My shoulders uncontrollably shooting up and down, as if I my body was continually being shocked to save my life from a lethal heart attack. I finally let the tears stream down my cheeks, but it was hidden behind a fixed plastered wide smile and round perky cheeks. My father finally realized I was crying when I put my hands inside the Minnie mask and came back with streaks of wet snot on my white gloves. My father gently rested his hand on my shoulders to try to stop my convulsions.
    “Listen, it’s not that bad. You need to relax. Hey, wait a second let me get my book.” He reached in the back seat and grabbed Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff by Richard Carlson from his black duffle bag. He held the book 5 inches from my nose.
    “This Richard Carlson guy, he’s like some omniscient being. I mean the stuff in here is truly brilliant. Ahhh here, let me read this, ‘The first step in becoming a more peaceful person is to have the humility to admit that in most cases you’re creating your own emergencies.’”
    “Don’t you see how your panicking is creating your own emergency? Put things into perspective. Come on you’re not entering a battlefield. Heck, I had to pick up dead bodies in Nam. You go in there, play with the some kids and then leave. The time will pass by so quick and then you pick up your check. It’s really not that bad. 60 dollars, hmmm that’s not so shabby for a 15 year-old.” He nudged my lifeless arm and nodded his head.
    Feeling as if I was submerged in water, I convulsively gulped for air, struggling not to butcher my words, “I don’t don’t ca-ca-ca-care about the ma-ma-ma money!”
    “It’s not that bad, just,-
    I was fed up with my dad’s preaching. I finally accepted my fate. My dad was incapable of understanding my hellish situation, it would be no use trying to argue any more. I managed to stop crying and compose myself, “O.k. alright, I’m going.” I swung open the car door and slammed it behind me. I looked up at the ominous house with the lavish black glass paned doors.
    “Do you want a ride up there? It’s pretty far-
    I began a slow grueling march, never letting my vision break from the doors.
    “I’d prefer to walk!” I shouted and didn’t turn back.
    As I walked up the steep hill, the memory of the girl screaming in desperate horror, “What about the Tiffany’s charm bracelet for Sandra and me?” rekindled. The tendons in my legs stiffened. I swallowed my fear and walked mechanically, one foot in front of the next. I finally made it to the black doors. As my shaky finger extended towards the door bell, the faint thought of sprinting back down the hill surfaced in my brain. Before my finger could press the door bell, the door abruptly swung open.
    A young workout barbie-lookalike with black stretch pants and a pink stretchy tank top with bleached hair opened the door. The glow from her perfect Crest Whitestrips smile burned my eyes. “Hi, it’s Janice,” she said demeaningly. She turned inside the house and yelled in steady crescendo, “Here she is! It’s Minnieeeeeeee!”
    I took a long-drawn out breath, stepped in the door to a packed room of adults who presumably just jumped out of a Lands’ End catalogue. A row of white khaki pants, a sea of multi-colored polo shirts, warm fuzzy crocheted sweaters wrapped around the arms. Their faces were contorted in pretentious glee. They all hooted and hollered in a cacophonous clatter, “Wow it’s Minnie”, “Oh my god it’s Minnie!”, “No way, how did Minnie get here?!”
    I tried to maneuver through the sardine packed room. I felt hands touch my back and arm. I felt less than human, like a toy for adult sized-kids to grope. I just prayed that no one would grab one of my fuzzy ears. I didn’t want the Minnie head to roll off. I didn’t want anyone seeing my identity.
    I finally saw Emily, the seven-year old birthday girl, with her possy of friends sitting on a white Pottery Barn couch. They were all dressed in polka dot Minnie dresses with red bow ties on their heads. When I saw their skeptical, unamused faces look up at me, a sting of pain shot in my armpits. I began to sweat profusely. This would be a tough crowd to please. I would have to perform some very buffoonish dance moves.
    Emily stood up and approached me. For a split second, my fear subsided and I felt calm. Her perfect brown curls, the same shade as her bright brown eyes with her dimpled smile seemed so innocent. Maybe my dad was right, this wasn’t so bad. Then, she snapped her fingers and whistled as if I was a golden retriever. I was only some 6 feet away. I took two steps.
    “Come over here, get closer Minnie.”
    I reluctantly obeyed, I took two more steps and leaned over. She shouted out demands like a prison guard ordering a disobedient inmate, “This is my seventh birthday, a very important day. You will do everything I tell you to do. I don’t want you screwing anything up! You got that?”
    Peculiar, I thought. I never had a seven year-old dictate orders to me. A hot flow of anger painted my cheeks flush red when I saw Janice laughing hysterically.
    “My mom paid $300 to have you here, now let me see what $300 gets us!” Emily snapped.
    I started to flail my arms, then flap them like a chicken, shake around my hips. I looked out of my dark webbed peep hole and saw faces violently seized in maniacal laughter. I turned in a circle, and then a second time, by the third spin everything became an inchoate blob. I stopped. I tried to regain balance, everyone was blurry. I felt like a carnival spectacle. I was pure entertainment to be gawked at. One of the Minnie’s in the possy snarled her upper lip, another Minnie rolled her eyes then tisked, another Minnie murmured under her breath, “pathetic, utterly pathetic.”
    “Is this a joke? Mom, I can’t believe you wasted your money on this crap! I deserve better than this!!” Emily screamed.
    I looked at Janice. I waited for her to do the right thing. She should scold her daughter for her blatantly ungrateful attitude.
    “Well, I told you to pick the Hannah Montana performer!” Janice said in a nervous defense. “Look at what happens when you don’t listen to me!”
    Everyone in the room stopped and stared at us.
    “You’re right mother, I should have picked Hannah, instead of whatever that thing is,” Emily grunted. She lowered her eyes and shot an ominous glare at me.
    “Well, we didn’t know did we? I got you five different colored Ipods, red, silver, black green and blue! Hopefully these Ipods should make up for this. Let’s not ruin the celebration.”
    They both looked at me with disgust. Janice handed her five shiny Ipods. Emily raised the Ipods, letting the light illuminate the shiny metal, as if they were tokens of honor.
    “Ahh, mom I love you!” Emily gurgled out the words in glee.
    I stood there perplexed. An enlightening thought surfaced in my brain: Janice was incapable of love. She molded her child into a self-entitled snob. Instead of giving her daughter the scolding she deserved, she fed into her self-entitled mindset. Instead of telling her to be grateful and show a little respect, she yelled at her for not getting the more expensive performer. For some strange undefined reason I never felt closer to my father.
    “Time for photos!” Janice perkily blurted out.
    I sat down at the photo booth set up in the living room. The Minnie crew surrounded me. Flashes from the camera went off every 1/10 of a second, I closed my eyes and white, yellow strips streaked the darkness. I opened my eyes and felt nauseous.
    The photographer leaned over and showed Emily the images on the digital camera.
    Anger turned her ears beat red, “Look at this mom! Thanks to this stupid Minnie dress I look like a fat cow. I don’t look sexy at all!”
    “If you don’t like the dress then why don’t you change into something more form-fitting hunny?” Janice said calmly.
    Form fitting? Did I just here her say change into something form fitting?
    Emily rushed up stairs, minutes later she came down the stairs with a hot pink halter top and tight leather pants with rhinestones down the seams. Blue eye shadow and hot pink lip stick painted boldly on her face.
    “My daughter looks so beautiful!” She asked everyone at the entire party, “Isn’t my daughter just beautiful?”
    Silence.
    I was lucky the Minnie head covered my pale face of horror. The outfit, the makeup was the most inappropriate thing I’ve ever seen. Let alone for a child wear! How could Janice teach her daughter that clown makeup and tight leather pants are beauty? Emily jumped back in front of the camera. She stuck out her hip, blew a kiss into the cameraman. Then she backed up and walked towards the camera while shaking her outstretched shoulders like a mini burlesque dancer.
    “Oh, that outfit is so mucccch better!” Janice smiled.
    A flow of anger ran through my veins to my pulsating temples. I never met a worse mother in my life, and I felt sorry for Emily. I couldn’t believe I came in here worried about what Janice of all people would think of me. A surge of adrenaline ran throughout my body. Without thinking about what other people may think, I took off my Minnie head and threw it to the ground. It made a loud thump. Gasps of horror arose in the room. I looked straight into Janice’s eye and pointed my finger to Emily.
    “Let me ask you Janice, it’s a simple yes, no question. Do you love your child?
    She paused, a look of incredulity washed over her face, she stuttered, “Of course, I do, why are you asking such a-”
    “Is this the symbol of your love for your child? An Ipod? You’ve let these things.”
    I picked up two Ipods and shook it in front of Janice’s face.
    “These things take away the harder task of being a good parent. Buy her 100 ipods, hire the Hannah Montana Performer, she will just continue to demand more and more and you will continue to give her more and more in the false hope that you will one day feel good. But you know in the pit of your conscience that you have failed to be a good parent! FAILED! She’s completely ungrateful for this very expensive party. She never said thank you once this entire time. Your daughter doesn’t need make up to be beautiful, she needs good character and don’t you see how you’re destroying that?
    “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she spitted out venomously. She sunk her manicured nails into my arm and I shook her off.
    “Here’s the check. Now, get the hell out of here!” her husband with the matching Crest Whitestrips smile said. He shoved the check in my face.
    “Thank you, I will take that,” I snatched the check out of his hand and held it up high for everyone to see, “and I know I’ve earned every single penny!”
    “Bitch!!” Janice screamed out helplessly before I left.
    I snatched the Minnie head from the floor and turned around with my head held high feeling radiantly proud. I opened the door. A sun ray gently warmed my face, I looked up. The sun never looked brighter, I smiled. I felt a pulsating energy run through my veins like I was truly alive. I walked outside feeling immensely strong, I finally stood up for something in my life.
    I ran down the hill laughing the entire way down and got inside the car. My dad woke up from his nap, a little startled, cleared his throat, “how did it go champ?”
    “You were saying this wasn’t like a battlefield? Well whatever that was, I feel like fought and won. You were right, who gives a damn what they think.”
    I looked in the rear view mirror and for very first time in my life, I felt beautiful. My dad put his arm around me, and I realized who my best friend was all along. We drove away.
    I squeezed the check in my hand and then snapped at my father, “And, please turn off this damn music. It’s very depressing!”
    He turned off the depressing country music and we rode in silence. While stopped at a red light, my dad plopped his favorite book on my lap Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff. He insisted I didn’t need the advice though.
    I looked down and smiled. Just, a small, awkward way of showing his love for me.

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