Humor/Memoir
Date Published: March 16, 2018
Publisher: The Noise Beneath the Apple®
My Headdress Is On Fire...stories from a White Girl growing up on & off Indian Land...is a series of deliciously skewed essays, that travel the world from Indian Land to the Australian Outback; single parenting to the Empty Nest. Unearthing stories about an Indian Chief and Bozo the Clown or Kupa Piti and David the Camel, with heart and candor; Jacks' "full powers of smart wit are engaged".... (And, it's a perfect size for the plane or train.)
Excerpt:
Excerpt:
Life Lessons From Axl
Rose
I
blame W. Axl Rose—Guns & Roses— Welcome to the Jungle.
It
was the only song being played on any radio, anywhere, anytime, all the time.
It
was 1987.
“Do
you know where you are baby; you’re in the jungle.”
Heavy
panting.
“Oh
God, Oh God, that feels so good, baby…Oh My God…Oh baby, you’re so good.”
His
name was Ben. He was a line cook at the most opulent dining establishment
around;
Denny’s
Restaurant; located in a small Oregon town named after a tractor or some other
piece of heavy farm equipment.
The
Denny’s of the ‘80’s was a time when employees still wore brown polyester
skirts and short sleeved shirts that had the word Denny’s marching up and down
rainbow fabric, like a parade of ants.
It
was my first real paying job at $2.50 an hour. I had started as a dishwasher
and two short years later, due to my ability to scrape hardened eggs off plates
and bleach drains, I was elevated to the status of waitress. In the eighties,
we were still waitress’ who had not yet become servers.
I
don’t know if it was the tall paper hat perched on top of his head or the way
his moustache laced across his upper lip like a caterpillar; but, Ben was to be
my first; the man who would shake the proverbial cherry loose from the tree and
make me a woman.
I
didn’t become a woman in the traditional way; dark parking lot, backseat of a
Buick, full moon overhead, Barry White crooning in the background. I became a
woman on the graveyard shift, the voice of Axl Rose filling my ears.
I
was 18. Ben was 20-something.
Walking
down the private alleyway of the cook’s area; past the line, French fries
dropping into vats of lard, chicken fried steaks being tossed on the grill;
grease covered ghetto blaster piercing the air; "Welcome
to the jungle, we got fun and games; we got everything you want, and we got the
names…."
Like
an anointed priestess, I followed; to the Forbidden City; a place reserved only
for The Tall Hat Clan aka: the cooks walk in refrigerator.
“Are
you sure about this?” I asked.
The
truth is; I hadn’t been sure about this myself, until a few short days ago. I
had spent my teenage years in terror of sex and in this case, I really can
blame my mother. Some kids have parents who sit down and give them the birds
and bees chat. I wasn’t one of those kids.
I
was ten years old, when I discovered sex. It was in a horse trailer, with my
very worldly friend, Helen. Helen had come from California to the country and
so she knew many things.
She
knew about John Lennon and patchouli oil; she knew about Mother’s Little Helper
and
Major
Tom and she knew about sex. She described what it was and then suggested that
my own mother had done such a thing; which explained why I was here in the
first place. I did not receive the information well. I popped her in the nose.
Not one of those sissy punches. I
smacked
her like a boy.
Her
nose bled and she wailed like a girl.
I
explained the error of her ways, assuring her, she had asked for it. My mother
arrived,
surveyed
the chaos. Her cool green eyes landed squarely on my own. Her only comment; “How can you not know about sex? Haven’t
you seen the cows?”
That
image kept me away from boys and sex for years to come.
Ben
was different. In the wake of my misguidance, he had committed himself to
educating me.
He
had sent flowers, love notes, love songs, pages from Playboy and anatomical
drawings,
illustrating
the difference between cow sex and human sex.
Even
if I wasn’t entirely convinced; the drawings made it seem possible, the songs
made it seem plausible and the Playboy bunnies made it seem pleasurable. I was
at least curious enough to give it a go.
“Don’t
worry baby....it’s all right....”
“But,
what if we get caught? We’d get fired. My mother would kill me.”
“Don’t
worry baby, Ralph’s watchin’ the front door. We won’t get caught. No-one’s
gonna
come....”
Ralph
was Ben’s brother and the lead cook, although his hat wasn’t any taller.
“I
really need this job. I’m leaving in three months for college and I can’t
afford to lose this job now.”
“Baby,
shhh, don’t worry. No-one’s here. You’re not gonna lose this job. And I gotta
make love to you before you go…because you know I love you baby, don’t you? You
know that, right?”
It
was Sunday or so my pink cotton briefs announced to the world. Funny, I
thought. I don’t usually work on Sundays, but the proof was there on my Days of the Week Underpants. It had to be Sunday. I needed to
clean the salt and pepper shakers.
My
mother bought me thematically decorated underwear for every occasion; my
birthday,
Christmas,
Easter, Arbor Day, Thanksgiving; candles, Santa Clause, rabbits, trees, turkeys
and the most practical; Days of the Week underpants.
The A Team, which was only
brought into play for very rare and special occasions, was your sexy, woman
panties; black lace, see through eyelets, red hearts with rhinestones. Thongs
and Tonga’s are the Quarterback and Wide Receiver of The A Team; in other words
your Joe
Montana/Jerry
Rice magic combination; the kind that only happens during the last few seconds
of a Super Bowl.
Team B is everyday wear;
tastefully feminine, yet simpler and more practical than the A Team; basic
white cotton briefs with pink flowers or pink cotton briefs with white flowers.
Finally,
the “Special Teams” ,
who are only called into play once a month. They are The Granny Panties of your
lineup.
Days of The Week underpants play for
Team B and as I thought about Sunday, I was confused.
Had
they gotten out of order? Was I missing a day? Was it really Sunday?
The
feel of Ben’s penis against my belly; hard, sharp, jabbing and Sunday was
temporarily
forgotten.
I wanted to see what a penis looked like. I imagined it shiny and smooth; glass
like in texture; a finely chiseled and sleek art form of museum quality. I
glanced down.
OH
MY GOD!! Eyes snapping shut, trying to erase the image. Quick, think of
something else.
“What
if I get pregnant?”
“Don’t
worry baby, it’s all right….”
“But,
what about....?”
“Ssshhh….Baby,
don’t worry....you can’t get pregnant in here...it’s too cold for the sperm.
They can’t live in this temperature, baby...they can’t swim when it’s this
cold. Sperm are really picky baby. Trust me.”
Years
later, that same logic would be repeated to me in a hot tub.
I
imagined that it was Axl’s breath beating on my neck; wiry, lean body, covered
in tattoos, long hair. It was Axl; minus the Denny’s hat; minus the brown
polyester pants, minus the caterpillar mustache and marching ant parade.
My eyes wandered over Ben’s shoulder, where
towers of gray pallets neatly lined the wall, each filled with dozens of
perfect, porcelain white eggs and boxes of Chicken Fried Steaks. It was a lot
of eggs.
“Oh
baby, Oh baby...Oh....oh....hmmm. Oh My God, you’re so good, oh you feel so
good, Oh
my
God…..”
Then
it was over. The inside of my legs sticky as Ben rested his head on my
shoulder, exerted, drained. He looked relaxed; even contented. My arms wrapped
around his neck. I thought
about
the Chicken Fried Steaks and what part of the chicken they would come from. I
thought about customers who were wondering where that damn waitress was to refill
their coffee. I
thought
about overflowing bus tubs. I thought of my Days of the Week
underpants, and hoped that Sunday was not ruined forever.
“Ok
Baby, I gotta get back,” smoothing out his checker board pants,
readjusting his hat.
“That
was fun, baby. We’ll have to do it again before you leave.”
He
opened the door, slid out, and the door closed behind him. I was left in a sea
of darkness and chicken fried steaks.
It
wasn’t as bad as the cows, but, I was pretty sure I didn’t look like one of
Heffner’s women either.
Had
he liked it?
Was
it good?
Maybe
I had done it wrong.
Maybe
this was as good as it gets.
As
I walked back to the front of the restaurant, I wondered if I looked different.
Was
I changed?
Was
I a woman now?
I
still have a soft spot for long haired rocker boys, in general; Axl Rose in
specific. At that precise moment, amidst visions of half eaten pancakes, wiping
down plastic coated menus and refilling ketchup bottles; my life changed.
I
went home, packed my Pinto and left that small Oregon tractor town.
And,
I have never eaten a Grand Slam since.
About the Author
I was raised on Indian Land in southeastern Oregon, until age fifteen, when I went to Australia as an ‘experimental exchange student’, for a year. When I returned, I attended college, and received my FCC license, followed by a Bachelor of Arts in Communication Studies & Journalism from CSU Sacramento and a Masters Degree in Rhetoric & Communication from UC Davis.
I have traveled extensively, worked in the music industry; radio, production, A&R, booking, concert production and glorified babysitter. All of this, as a single mother.
I worked as a music journalist for musicians, a major independent record label and several online publications. My last book, The Noise Beneath the Apple®; A Celebration of Busking in New York City, won several awards. My current book, My Headdress Is On Fire...stories from a White girl growing up on & off Indian land, is a series of essays that has been described as 'humor with heart' and a 'rock your mind, snapshot of life.'
I have been working with Starbucks Coffee Company opening stores, building teams and creating inspired moments, (on and off), for the past 20 years.
I was Sainted by The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence as Saint Gregarious Dionysus, and continue to work and serve with this group of Drag Nuns or Sacred Clowns or whatever they are to you; but, they are fabulous.
An avid TV Junkie, Disco Loving Wine Ninja, die-hard SF Giants fiend and unapologetic Twitter practitioner, I currently hang my hat in San Francisco.
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