by Jane Etarie
—Arms of Vishnu function transmutates the carriage into multi-use Pilates equipment for group workouts in the greenspace. Wheels of Shiva allows the buggy to be towed behind your favorite two-wheeled cruiser when you're riding around the city.
—Two cup holders— One for mother's chai or cappucino, and the other for energy or protein drink. No bottle holder for Little Bhodi. We at Prana advocate and recommend mother's milk for her mindful, physical, and spirtitual nourishment.
—Banyan Weather Guard— Keep Little Bhodi protected no matter what the conditions.
—Transcend the Trend with our Passionately Detatched Carry Sling Technology— Carry little Bodhi front or back with confidence, no matter what the trend, with our easily removable organic hemp harness. Or add Little Bhodi as resistance weight to your yoga and Pilates, to your bicep curls, squat thrusts, lunges, and trail running. Wellness/Babylates Cd and link included with purchase.
—Space-challenged? No need for clutter with our patented Eightfold Path E-Z Stow Technology. Although we think you will agree— our prams are sleek and modern and add elegant decor to any living space.
I did some background checking on chat sites, on Wikipedia, and Consumer Reports.
Consumer Reports didn't like their products, and gave it like one or one and half circles mostly. Going on about safety, recalls, flammability tests, shit like that. But I mean, even the most reliable and trusted brands have recalls. They used terms like Avoid, Poor Quality, and Not Recommended. They didn't care that it came in Bliss Red, Burnt Orange, and Guacamole. Their highest rated one, the Prana White Tara- Theresa Calcutta SR, got two and a half circles. But that's like the basic model.
I didn't care, they just had a hate-on for Prana. Like guilt by association because they used to be Samsara. You don't want to recommend the stroller that kills babies right? Whatever. I just saw some security footage of a geezer plowing his Cadillac into a 7-11 and knocking a Prana through a display of baked beans and into the Slurpee machine. I don't know about the baby, but the buggy looked fine.
Wikipedia explained that Prana used to be named Samsara, which had the Hinayana, Mahayana, and Vajrayana models, or respectively, the Narrow, Great, and Diamond Vehicles. Anyways, boring story short, they had to like file for Bankruptcy or Chapter 11 or some shit because some babies died. Some woman was like extreme baby running over a lava flow, like filming some dumb shit for her ghetto fitness blog, and the harness broke. The baby like fell into a hot crack or lava and died. And apparently there were a few kids that got maimed and nearly decapitated when the folding frames collapsed.
There's like some popular and funny YouTube clips. They show these things closing like leghold traps, like cutting watermelons in half. Or chopping dolls that are filled with like fake blood and jello. Some people have just got too much time.
That didn't matter to me. I clicked on Chillzone— the Prana sharing site. I read poetry, saw some tasteful black and white yoga nudes, watched music videos, and checked out some workout routines and organic babyfood recipes. All by Prana users. They were pretty good.
Embrace the fierceness within... Extreme your Serene.
Like they know exactly who I am. Like they wrote it all about me. Wrote it for me. A new mantra.
Serious perv
Robert didn't even last a week.
I got home from work and saw him drinking beer on the couch and watching some sports talk show. I don't know what's more boring— watching sports, or watching guys talk about sports. I mean, I've tried watching that shit with Robert, but I just don't get it.
He gets real emotional though. I've seen him throw remotes, beer bottles, and phones against the wall. But if his team wins, he'll be in a great mood for hours. It's like, if the right nigger gets the ball, he'll go Yesss and pump his fists by his head, or go Ya! and pump his fists by his side. Sometimes he'll even jump up and laugh and take a big pull on his beer and smile.
If the wrong nigger gets the ball, or the ref makes a shitty call, he'll be all like, Awww for fuck's sake, or Je—sus Fuck—ing Christ, or are you kidding me?... you've got to be fucking kidding me... fuck! Sometimes he'll look stunned, and throw his hands up and shrug like he's amazed. Or sometimes he'll just smile in disbelief and shake his head in disgust and get up all angry for another beer. Other times he'll bark fuck! and smash or punch something and leave.
I didn't need that kind of drama when I sat on a couch. I could care less what a bunch of fucking millionaires did with a ball.
Anyways, I thought he was supposed to be at work at the Petromax. Tyler just got him a job there. It was kitty corner across from the Jiffy Gas— that's how he and Tyler new each other. But he says that he got fired. At least he didn't seem too upset. He wasn't crying.
He tells me that his boss, Tony, called him into his office. Needed to talk to him, says it's important. Robert's not sure why. Tony says it's some real serious shit. So Robert's trying to think of how he screwed up. He didn't smash the bay window— he wasn't even working that day. Pete found a bed pan in a customer's car and told Tyler to think fast. Tyler ducked just in time. The official story was neither of them saw what happened— they were both busy somewhere else, but they heard the smash. Maybe it was a drive by? All they could do was sweep up the evidence.
The only thing Robert could think of was a couple of idiots on motorbikes.
The one guy rode a red seventies Honda enduro and looked like a cartoon chipmunk with glasses. Real nice guy, real friendly. And he was one of those guys who always wore shorts. Like cutoff jean shorts, right up until the winter, when he'd vanish. He rode into the Petromax almost everyday and would empty his tight pocket of change and get maybe a buck of gas. The first time Robert got him at full serve, Tyler ran off to the shop laughing.
So Robert walks up to him and the chipmunk's like smiling and digs into his pocket and pulls out eighty-five cents. The change was warm. And he goes to Robert, Hey, didn't you work across the street before? I never go there— they cut their gas with water...
And he looks at the embroidered name tag on Robert's grimy jacket and he's all like, Let me introduce myself, Stephan, I'm... and Robert can't remember his name, but the guy sticks his hand out for a handshake. So Robert grabs it and the chipmunk's handshake is limp and pathetic and gross. He just holds his hand out like a prince. And Robert just wants to quit.
And Boo's kind of waiting for him to get off his bike the whole time. Only he doesn't. He sits there and smiles and waits for Robert to unscrew the gas cap and pump the eighty-five cents of gas between his bare legs. Robert sees a piece of ball squeezing out of a rip in the chipmunk's cutoffs, and he like turns his head and undoes the gas cap. The shit people endure for minimum wage. Then he puts the nozzle in the tank and pumps the gas like he's feeding a crocodile or a shark or some other dangerous shit.
But poor Boo was like so flustered that he overpumped, and he like yanks the nozzle out and spills gas all over the chipmunk's pasty leg. Only the chipmunk just laughs and starts his bike and takes off, like that just made his day. So Robert doesn't think he would have complained to Tony.
The other guy was a real douche. Some biker. They're the worst, Robert tells me. They pull up, get off their bikes and stand there with their arms crossed. They don't even talk to you. Maybe they'll just say five bucks, or fill it. And then they'll watch you. Like all intense. Like the serious perv on gyno row— the scary one that's not even smiling. The one that the strippers avoid. They'll watch that you don't spill a drop on their serious custom paint jobs.
Robert spilled a couple drops. But it wasn't like even his fault, he said. It was like the nozzle's connector, like where it swivels on the hose. It had a small leak and it dripped. It landed right on the howling wolf's head, but missed the skull moon. Robert says it was like slow motion, like he knew what was coming next.
The biker shit his pants, started whining like a baby. So Robert gets a squeegee, like he's going to wipe the tank off. And the biker is all like, What?... A
re you fucking retarded? You're going to scratch the paint with that! Fuck! Just fuck off... go inside— go inside and get the manager... I want to talk to the manager.
And it was all just too much for poor Boo, and he snapped. He yells at the biker. He yells at him and tells him to fuck off. I'm the manager! he says, and raises the squeegee like all threatening— like he's going to smash it over the biker's head. And then he swings it at him, like so the birdshit-bugwater sprays onto the biker and his bike.
And I guess the biker isn't so tough when he's getting a squeegee waved in his face, and takes off on his loud bike without paying. And Robert kind of chases him, like yelling and shaking his squeegee, Get the fuck off my lot, you asshole! Get the fuck out of here and don't come back, you bitch!
So Robert's sitting in Tony's office, thinking that he's going to get fired over some scuzzy biker, and Tony tells him there was a problem with the float his last couple shifts. It's been short a couple hundred bucks. Does Robert have anything he wants to say? Anything he might know about that?
And Robert knows what's going on. It's Tony's nephew, Adam. He works there and rips off the place so he can buy junk. Everybody knows it. Everybody except Tony. Sells batteries out the back, steals cigarettes, shit like that. He probably just figured it was an easy three-four hundred bucks dipping into the till with the new guy on shift.
So Robert keeps his mouth shut, doesn't want to start trouble. He says he doesn't know what happened. It wasn't him— check the video— he made all his drops. And Tony tells him that it's too bad, he wishes he would have come clean, but he's got to let him go. Says that shit didn't start going missing until he started working there. Doesn't want thieves and liars working for him.
So Robert doesn't like being called a thief or a liar, and tells Tony to go fuck himself. And that maybe he should ask his junkie nephew where the money is. He says that everybody knows Adam is a junkie, that he gives blowjobs out back for twenty bucks. And he grabs a twenty from his dirty work jacket and throws it at Tony's face, and is all like, Here, why don't you give that to your nephew. And then he stuffed the rest of the money into his own pockets and left.
So I'm like, Well, maybe gas stations aren't for you, Boo. And I tell him that I think he can do a lot better. Way better. Like with his writing. That I think that he and Tyler should like really maybe try to write a movie. Like a screenplay. With those swords and elfs and whatnot. And I tell him that, even though I don't really understand any of that shit, I do know that we're all like stars, and that none of us should be digging ditches or pumping gas or shoveling pigshit. Especially with a talent like that.
Milk
I brought Dean some Halloween candy and left Robert there for a visit. Dean seemed upbeat, like he might be in the hospital for a while. He was talking about his back injuries and shit. Like giving letters and numbers to the fractured bones. I don't know. I didn't really understand or give a shit. He was convinced that once he got out, he'd get some decent disability checks, that he wouldn't be like too retarded or gimpy or crippled.
I actually felt good for him, like for real. And I was happy that even though it was like totally an accident, that I kind of helped sign his lottery ticket. This is what Dean had always wished for, and I guess it's what I'd always wished for too. The Secret had worked— our dreams had been manifested. Everyone was happy. And I'm not even lying— I was even starting to not mind Dean. It was like the drugs did a good job of slowing him down. Like he was less shifty, less of a rat. Like they made him a normal person. I honestly hoped that the doctors would always prescribe these drugs to him.
But whatever, I took off and checked out the maternity ward.
I said hi to Ken on the way in, and he's like, Hi Ms. Bradshaw. I've been there a few times since my first visit, and Ken's been there every time. Ken is like Hawaiian or Samoan or some shit. A big dude. His name is actually Kahana, but he says Ken's easier to read on a name tag. He's a really nice guy. Like middle aged, with little grandkids of his own. The staff and patients and even the babies like him. He's always happy, always friendly. And why wouldn't he be? working in the maternity ward.
So I've asked him all sorts of questions on my visits. Like, You're security? You protect my baby? Even when you're on lunch? No one can get in? You're sure? And one time I tell him about this hospital in Jamaica. I ask him if he's ever been there, but he hasn't. And I tell him about this crazy bitch who went in and breastfed a baby. She wasn't even like a mother. She just snatched a baby and breastfed it. Breastfed it her AIDS milk. Like for real it happened. I don't know if the baby caught her AIDS or not.
And he points to the cameras, and how nobody can get through the door to the babies unless they have a security card. And that mothers and family and friends can only get buzzed in if they sign in with Bree and Heather at the desk. And he asks me if I see those bracelets and anklets on the babies. They have to match the mother's bracelet— or baby and mother go nowhere. There's all sorts of protocol. Very strictly followed. Carrie, he tells me, Your baby will be in safe hands. You and your baby have nothing to worry about.
I didn't have any questions for Ken today, I just looked at the babies. He was right— the babies were safe. And when it was time to pick up Robert I just smiled and waved goodbye. Bree smiled and waved goodbye too.
Bree, you tan bitch.
Edward and Bella
I kind of shrieked. Like tears just started pouring out of my eyes. I mean, I was even surprised by my reaction. I think there's something wrong with me. Like for real. I wasn't even faking it.
Robert was all like, It's fucking stupid. It's gay. It doesn't make any sense. Asking me all this bullshit, like why is she pregnant? How is she pregnant? Why do they glitter? And I don't know. I just don't know. I just wanted us to dress up as Edward and Bella for Halloween. And I mean really, it was no big deal, but for some reason, it was like the end of the world for me. Like we had to do it. And it's not like I'm one of those girls who wears a trenchcoat and has wet hair and walks around in the rain, but I love Twilight. I love it.
But he didn't want to do it. Dress up as a vampire. I think he finally agreed just to calm me down. And he made me promise I wouldn't bother him with any of this dumb shit again next Halloween. I agreed to his emotional blackmail, his Osama terrorism, but whatever. I didn't care. I was so happy. I swear to god I'm bibpolar.
And I assured him that he wouldn't have to worry about a thing. That I'd buy everything, that he'd just have to wear it. It was going to be perfect. Like it was meant to be. And before I even knew what the hell was coming out of my mouth, I lied, and I tell him that my middle name's Kristen. That we'd be like Kristen and Robert, like Bella and Edward. It's like I can't believe all the synchronicity.
And it's not like I look like her, and I don't even think she's that pretty anyways, but I've been told that I have the exact same profile as Kristen Stewart. And it's true. If you like took a picture of my head and stuck it on the poster, you couldn't tell the difference. I've checked in the mirror even.
So we wound up at this Halloween party. Like a house party, a costume party, after the bar. Tyler knows some girl who was invited, and she tells us all to come. I don't know her. She's dressed up like a slutty devil and is real drunk. It's ok if we don't have a costume, she says.
And for like how popular the movies and books are, I'm surprised at how many people ask us what we're dressed up as. It's weird. Like we're hidden in plain sight. No one knows who we are, and no one knows who we're supposed to be.
And it's like I didn't know what the hell was going on. I mean, I kept turning my head to people, like talking sideways to them, showing my profile. I added more glitter to Robert. Nothing. Nothing worked. So I tell Robert to keep his mouth open, so like his fangs will show, and he isn't even wearing them. What the hell?
It's too hard, he says, he drools too much or some shit. He can't drink with the fangs in his mouth. I just scowled at him. I scowled at him and his lame excuses. His stinking
thinking. And I took off to find a drink. I was so fucking mad I didn't even care if he caught me drinking straight out of a bottle.
By the time I finished my drink and got back, Robert was gone. I was like looking all over the place and I couldn't see him, but then I found Tyler across the room. So I ask him if he's seen Robert. And he says he's not sure, but he thinks he popped out for a smoke. Says he looked kind of choked, like he wanted to leave. Maybe he already took off? Said some shit about how he didn't want to wear his fangs anymore.
And then Tyler tells me that this girl, Alethea, who works at the Icarus, is shitfaced. I know who she is, but she probably doesn't know me. We're not friends. I worked with her idiot boyfriend for a little while a couple of years ago. And I saw her there, all drunk and gross, dressed up like a hooker pirate. Tyler says that she's like all falling over and laughing and saying stupid shit. Like she's flirting with everyone, acting real slutty, and she's probably going to get date raped or gang banged, she's so drunk.
Anyways, she was laughing and trying to figure out who Robert was dressed up as. She can barely stand and she's squinting and staring and trying to figure it out. And then she tells him that he looks familiar, like that actor, that actor with the teeth. Like she can't remember his name. He was in that movie— that one with the wood chipper. He's funny. He looks funny. And Tyler tells me that after a couple minutes, they figured it out.
And my mouth just dropped open. There is no way, there is no fucking way that Robert looks like Steve Buschemi. Alethea wishes she could fuck Robert— he's gorgeous. She's just jealous because her boyfriend Dennis is gross. He thinks he's like a bodybuilder, but really he's just fat and he's going bald and has tits and backne. He's always wearing tight golf shirts with sweat rings under his arms, and baggy pyjama pants that are way too tight on his ass. Like they run up his crack. Just too nasty. I once saw him pose for a picture at work. He was like doing a side shot, pointing at the ground with both hands, going, Is there gum on my shoe? Is there gum on my shoe? He was like flexing his tits and triceps and lifing his heel. Like doing some gross muscleman pose. It was unreal. And he drives around in his Hummer, up and down the same street like a half dozen times, with his R&B cranked so you can hear it a block away. Trying to impress the teenage girls or some shit.
