WHITE DIAMONDS
We’ve all experienced nostalgia. That split second when your mind leaves your body, transporting you to a past memory. Invoking the exact feeling you felt the moment you first lived that experience. Whether it be a place, taste, or phrase that zaps you back to what I hope is a good memory. A special smell that always returns me to my childhood is the perfume by Elizabeth Taylor, White Diamonds. One sniff of that sweet, sophisticated scent sends me to a simpler place, one when I knew dinner would be served five nights a week at 7pm sharp. It reminds me of an attractive woman who entered a room and everyone stopped and stared as if she was gliding on air, feet never reaching the floor. I saw my mother as angel on earth with the heavenly scent to match. Not having a father, my mother filled the roll of both Mom and Dad. To say I was a momma's boy would be an understatement. The aroma that emanated from my mom was so distinct, I could've picked her out of a lineup with my eyes closed. A refined fragrance that smells like new money, I refuse to let any woman I'm dating partake in — the last thing I want is to kiss a woman's neck and think of my mother.
White Diamonds is one of two fragrances that make me think of the woman who birthed me. The second Deja vu moment comes each time I smell the slightest whiff off burnt popcorn. It's a sad reminder knowing the woman (I named my only child after) is hooked on fentanyl. Most refer to it as smoking blues and the last time she visited my apartment; she left the bathroom smelling like a microwave exploded from 10 pounds of charred popcorn. I've lost a lot of that whimsical nostalgia for my mother over the years, making me wonder if she was ever what I thought she was. Yet the second I inhale one particulate of White Diamonds all the ill will and bad memories of my life get flushed away. What remains are pure thoughts of a beautiful woman who would regularly get told she looked like a movie star or even more commonly, Shania Twain the country singer.
MEMORIES
The cold winter air stinging my nose, the only flesh exposed to this harsh environment. I'm almost home. The bus always runs late when it snows in Portland. I should have been there an hour ago. Work felt unbearably long today, let alone the second I walk through the door I'll be bombarded with requests to "do something" not simply, let's go out to the movies or, maybe we could try a new restaurant. Nope. Only the dreaded, "Let's do something." My brain is drained, my energy zapped, Why can't plans be set when I arrive and I'm able to just, go along for the ride ... too simple Andrew.
I awake each morning at 4:30am and don't return home until 3:00pm each day. Mind you, today I've been out and about for almost 12 hours and only want to rest my feet. I'm so cold and tired, I don't even want to shower but I smell of yeast from the bread proofing behind me most of the afternoon. I call myself assistant manager but I’m just the opener. I have no official title though I am bestowed keys to the castle. When I was hired they informed me only management responsibility would be possessing a key to the establishment. I should be happy the owners trust me with that responsibility. But, trust doesn't pay my rent and having a newborn at home, I'm in need of a raise.
Each night before bed, I scour the internet searching for new employment. This felony on my record is holding me back, I swear that's why I get no respect at work. They know about my past and are holding it against me. My phone rings, "Hello?" It's a new job telling me they found a conviction during the background check and wanted to verify. "l appealed the case, it's been expunged," I stammered. Slight pause, "I'm sorry, since you said you've been convicted of a felony we can't hire you." Silence on the line. My honesty got in the way again. Hanging up, I vowed to never bring up this felony ever again.
The next application I chose to leave out the details of my past I try to forget daily. Worked like a charm, my management career began that moment. Looking back on how far I had come in life gave me motivation to lead by example. I truly enjoy being in charge for the simple fact I won't tell someone to do something I wouldn't do myself. A few of my favorite go-to quotes are "act accordingly, we're paid to be here. I just got paid to sit on my butt for a 15-minute break." Or "put a smile on, even if it's fake. Give it two hours, you'll forget it's fake."
After years of training I feel as though I've mastered the art of management. The sad thing is now I'll be back where I started, forced to mark down felon on my next application. This time is like last time. It takes years to rebuild financially, let alone mentally, physically, and emotionally after these traumatic events I've continually gone through in life.
GREAT FIRST DATE
It seems my life has been one trauma after the next. At age 20, I fell on particularly hard times when framed for a crime I didn't commit. I won’t dwell on the three years I spent fighting the case. Yet upon release I was homeless, jobless, and had to turn myself in to a federal halfway house until I could find employment and room to rent in Portland. I'd like to focus on the first day I began renting a room from a meth addict named M, l' d met while living at the halfway house.
For a few months I had been texting a young woman named T (who later became the mother of my daughter, A.) when I finally had the opportunity to invite her over for dinner. We decided to meet at a Fred Meyer, right along the Blue Line Max Rail that went from Beaverton to Gresham so she could help pick out the meal I'd be preparing that night. Boneless pork chops breaded and fried to perfection with mashed potatoes, homemade gravy, and a side of fresh green beans.
She sat at the kitchen table and we got to know each other as I cooked. Time flew by and she was amazed at how fast a somewhat gourmet meal came together. Before she knew it, the table was set and right as we began to eat the doorbell rang. I thought nothing of it, but when my roommate "Merle the meth head" looked through the peephole, he jumped in the linen closet begging me to tell them he's not home. I swung open the door to see that it wasn't his probation officer like he'd thought, it was mine. Caught off guard, I stood at the doorway, "Hi, Jeremy."
More than surprised, I was frozen in shock. "Aren't you gonna let me in?" He said as he walked in the apartment. "Who's this?" "JC, this is T. My date." I looked at her. "l swear I was going to tell you, I was just waiting until after dinner." I must have looked like a big fat liar, but I promise I had planned on telling her that night. I just wanted to break it to her in person. Being a felon is and always will be an embarrassment. JC got a good laugh and left in a hurry. M popped out of the closet and we finished a wonderful meal. What a "great first date." | AMM
I hope T stuck around and enjoyed that dinner. Great story!