Manuscripts & Anger

"I hate to say it, Kaylis, but it looks like you jacked off a smurf."

Sunday morning, and I stood in a plastic apron over my camisole and cut-offs as I rinsed out my latest tie-dyed creation; a mandala of indigo, pink and white. It was made to look like a lotus blossom in full bloom, and it will be the main focus of a quilt I'm creating for Willow's upcoming birthday. My hands were splotched with colors since I worked without gloves this time.

"I've some ReDuRan somewhere. That will take the stains off, if smurf spunk upsets you too much. But you'll have to wait until I'm finished, and this is in the wash." Blue and pink swirled down the drain of my massive stainless steel farm-style sink. "Dmitri, will you please hand me those little snips over there?" I looked to my left, at the long workbench containing a large spool of sinew and my organizer of all things sharp, pokey and scissory. He wandered over and lifted out an object.

"These?"

"No, those are pinking shears. My snips are next to the sinew.... no, that's a rotary cutter... the skizzers, Dmitri. Right there... to your right... thank you!"

"You should have stated they were tiny and looked like something one would use for a manicure." He fitted the tiny steel scissors onto my fingertips.

"Thank you, nurse. As you discovered, they are tiny and were intended to give manicures. Happy now with your new-found knowledge?"

"Very. Need any more help, doctor?"

I turned my head to look at him and flashed a wink. "Yes. You can refill my prescription later, utilizing that worktable over there." I wagged my eyebrows suggestively and grinned.

"Perhaps." The way he drawled that word made me think something was up, that there was something lurking in that mind of his that did not bode well.

With efficient snips, I removed the bits of sinew that bound the fabric. The dye flowed more freely down the drain and I grew more and more excited. The thing I love about tie-dye is that in some aspects, it's predictable. Fold it a certain way, you'll get a certain end product. With color theory, one can combine three colors and get a rainbow. But it doesn't always end up as one anticipates, and therein lies the appeal. How will this differ from my preconceived notion? Did all the lines hold because it was tied with enough pressure? Or was it tied too tight and now has too much white...? With hurried glee, I washed away the exhausted dye to see just what I had done to the velvet fabric. The yardage I unbound began to bloom like a flower as the water worked its way throughout the fabric. The material opened and revealed itself in all its glory.

"That is cool." Dmitri's voice broke through my thoughts. The cardinal directions each had an elongated point that went from dark indigo to magenta, then to a lighter blush pink. Petals of the lotus echoed the lighter pink and a periwinkle hue mingled into lavender. A halo of white surrounded the blossom and then to the edges, solid indigo, broken by shibori ivy vines that undulated along. It was very cool. I was holding it up to carry to the washer full of hot water and synthopol when Dmitri dropped a bombshell upon me.

"I know that this could be a deal breaker for you. But I wanted to tell you before Jet did. I know you're going to be beyond pissed at me and I am sorry." His voice was quiet and deliberate. Dmitri clasped his hands behind his back while he spoke.

My heart rose to my throat, and I gulped. The sodden heap of fabric ceased to exist as the potential meaning of those words he uttered sank into my mind. As coolly as I could, I asked, "What's up?" Deal breaker? Oh God... He cheated on me. He cheated on me and gave me an STD that I would discover with my next pap smear. He cheated on me, caught an STD which he gave to me and Jet caught him red-handed with his floozy. My tunnel vision didn't prepare me for the truth.

He looked up at the acoustic tile ceiling above him. I knew it was bad when he couldn't even meet my gaze. "I gave a copy one of your manuscripts to Jet to read."

"WHAT?" He jumped at my shriek. "You went behind my back and printed a copy of a manuscript for her to rip apart? Are you insane? How could you betray me and the trust I put in you? How could you do this to me?"

"You're acting as though I cheated on you." He was cool and logical, baffled by my statements of trust and betray in regards to words on paper.

"This is worse than cheating, Dmitri. At least when one cheats, they don't actually involve participation with their significant other, but when you take something so intensely private without my knowledge and consent and let HER read it... You must have had a lapse in judgment. A very serious lapse, my dear."

"Why are so against her reading your work? I've read it, it's good." Dmitri got bonus points for loyalty, but almost nullified them by going behind my back to take my work without permission.

"Because she can't be content just reading it. Jet will break out the red sharpie and scribble things about context, syntax, grammar and historical facts in all available white space. She's a Grammar Nazi, but you never saw her goose-stepping because you don't check out her legs."

Perhaps Grammar Nazi is too gentle a way to phrase her encouragements.

Such truly inspiring things like, I thought you were a writer. If so, why do I have the urge to shove this pen in my eyes so the ravens can feast on the jelly? This is typed diarrhea. Just joking, Kaylis. It's not diarrhea. It's more like burning jalapeno shits after using a belt sander as toilet paper. Just saying. You do know what grammar is, do you not? They're, there, their. Jesus H. Christ. It ain't hard.

And my personal favorite; Imagine, Kaylis, if you will, going to prison for a crime you didn't commit, and where a hairy-knuckled gorilla-man cellmate named Lil Petey makes you his butt-buddy wifey that he shares with all his other half-simian friends, for years upon years. Imagine that kind of pain and degradation, like you're a character in a Stephan King book-- yeah, it's that bad. It's not a good feeling, unless of course, one is into anal trains. Personally, I'm not. But I guess you must assume everyone is because I think I'd rather get cornholed with a chainsaw than reread this 'work' of yours. Serious, Kaylis.. How the fucking hell do you come up with this shit? You might want to do some research on brain chemistry during chemical addiction. It'd make you look like less of an ignoramus.

I thought she would enjoy the tale of a kids' television show hostess gone mad while faking happiness day after day during an agonizing personal life for the benefit of her young viewers and fans, eventually turning to booze, sex and hardcore drug abuse to fuel the self-destructive spiral. Figured Jet would appreciate it and the gritty realism of self-medication, based partially off my observations of Willow and her third husband.

Wrong-o.

When I got the manuscript back, I kid you not, every page had one of her red-inked pearls of "literary wisdom." After reading every single thing she wrote thrice, I had a measure of how Jet picked things apart. Because of that experience, I am okay with not letting her read my writing projects. I could do without her brand of encouragement.

Her brand of encouragement turned me off writing for nearly a year.

That was the year I spent editing my work.

Memories of three-hundred-seventy-three pages of Maybe you should find a new hobby, you know, one that you excel at, Kaylis.... flooded my mind. How could I ever forget such a written beat down? "I'm just saying, Dmitri, darling, hunny of mine, I could have gone the rest of my days without her reading anything I write. Got schooled on that years back, oh well. Guess it's time for a refresher course in taking defeat gracefully. You know, you just let her ream me with a damn red pen. My manuscript will weep bloody tears placed by her upon its pages. Thank you, sweetie." I sighed at the thought of Jet wearing a sequined devil-horns headband, giggling nonstop while using her scarlet-inked pitch fork to send me back to a nasty level of my very own personal Hell.

"You don't think you're blowing this out of proportion? Because from my point of view, you're bordering on Crazy-White-Girl kinda pissed off." His tone implied my emotions needed to get corralled quickly.

"How would you feel if I sneaked some blueprint or master plan for world domination you poured your life into and gave them to Bryant to look over, red pen uzi in hand? Wouldn't you absolutely love that? Think how helpful Bry would be to you and that pet project you nurtured from high school as he unleashed spray and pray upon your happy thought. Wouldn't that be just so totally awesome, Dmitri?" My mouth hung open in a state of incredulous wonder of how he violated my trust and surrendered my baby to a foul-talking, knife juggling, motorcycle-crashing, stogie-smoking nanny with a penchant for fact checking.

Dmitri grimaced. Bryant was the friend of his that knows all, no matter how trivial. Almost every sentence out Bryant's mouth began with "Actually..." followed by random yet relevant trivia. If only Jet were a one-man-woman, she and Bryant would get along just swell. In their off time, they both most likely read an encyclopedia for shits and giggles. Wikipedia is their internet porn of choice, I bet.

"Which of my works did you plunder and give to that Dewey Decimal humping she-pirate? Huh?"

He looked chastened with my sarcastic scolding. "The biblical vampire one."

Dammit. That's my favorite one. The most complete manuscript-- not finished, but damn close. Never edited. And now, foisted upon the novel-slayer.

I looked up to the ceiling, indigo and baby pink dye running down my arms to drip onto the floor from my elbows. Another deep cleansing breath and I stalked over to the washer and stuffed the fabric in with a ferocity one could mistake for someone shoving a body into a deep freeze. With a heave, I slammed the lid shut.

Turned on my heel and planted my fists on my hips. I cocked my head to the side and pulled the trigger on my mouth. "You let Jet read my very complex and ridiculous take on Christianity? You let Ms. Atheist read my book about devout vampires and their ethics. Did you have a stroke? Do I need to take you to the ER? Because I don't know what possessed you to surrender that which I consider my literary gold to my best friend. Was there a gun pointed at your head? No... you'd be able to disarm her. Why, Dmitri.... why?"

I can see it now; Jet's curlicued handwriting flooding the white space, meandering to the wide expanses of the blank page back, boldly telling me to chop off my fingers to prevent myself from penning any other tripe fit only for wiping asses. Dingleberried asses, no less.

Maybe it was the prior twenty-four hours of nerve-wracking fun added on to the knowledge of Jet stabbing her red sharpie in my project's direction that made me carry on like a fishwife. I know he wouldn't have done it if he didn't think it'd be of use to me, but still. Not cool. Take my diary, why don't you? And then post it on craigslist with a full-frontal picture of me. That's how exposed I felt.

"Just hear me out, Kaylis... Jet asked me for one. She hasn't read anything of yours since your art school days. I made a copy on a thumb drive and gave it to her last week. She knows how things work in that business, and you are good. You just don't have the balls to see where things will go if you don't start believing in your abilities. You wrote the story, why not take it to the next step? If this is me strapping a parachute to your back and pushing you out a plane, then so be it. You can't half-ass this, Kaylis. You want to go apeshit with being a writer? All those hours spent workshopping your stuff – even the hours spent just writing it, you want that to go to waste because you just let it sit there and collect dust? Man up, Kaylis. It's time for you to kick ass."

I was upset. Not just the taking of something that meant so much to me without my consent, but for him to imply I lacked the testicular fortitude to see my projects to completion – which meant submission and publication. Damage done. Jet undoubtedly sharpened her Hemingway-Verne-Machiavelli claws on my story by now. I felt exposed, guts ripped out and alive to feel every twitch of every nerve screaming in agony.

I felt violated.

That he would go behind my back, it was worse than cheating and bringing home a scorching case of the clap. However, it wasn't a deal breaker as he feared. But it taught me the importance of hiding files on my computer and using passwords at every chance.

"I forgive you, Dmitri. But next time you try to play my literary pimp, get my permission first. I mean, seriously. This is much worse than Willow taking my car to Mexico and leaving it there. I mean way worse." His eyes kept flitting to my hand and I frowned. "What do you keep looking at?"

"You aren't wearing your ring. I want to see if you're going to throw your engagement ring at my head. You haven't thrown anything yet – well, except your hissy fit. No projectiles makes me wary." The way he said it made me think he was trying to goad me just so he could see all semblance of dignity disappear. The man gets his jollies from deliberately pissing me off.

"I took it off when I started playing with my chemicals, but I still plan to put it back on. Seriously though, if it involves me, my art or anything I create, please ask beforehand, otherwise I might just start chucking heavy things. You're lucky I didn't chuck that mandala at you, otherwise it'd look like you were an important part to a smurf bukkake session." I crossed my arms across my still-heaving chest and ignored the dye stains that saturated my skin.

"You are fair. I won't do anything like that again behind your back, and you won't ever refer to me being a participant in any sort of bukkake session again. Seriously – that's just foul, Kaylis."

"Point made then." I was still upset but I'd get over it.

"Can I risk pissing you off again if I ask a question?"

I sighed. "Ask away. I'll try to not get irked."

His bright blue eyes shone with mischief. "Have you picked a date yet? The party on the Fourth is doubling as our engagement party. When announced, having a date would be a nice thing to have on hand. Plus I would like to have the date available to tell my folks so they can make arrangements."

No magical date resided in my mind. "I have no clue, Dmitri. How about you? When would you like to have it?" The fact he wanted to be with me for life was enough. Why must we pick a date right now? It's been less than a week after the proposal... can't I enjoy being engaged a while before taking on wedding planning?

"That's a female task. You pick everything out, and I just show up on time." He grinned. "I will abide by whatever you choose. Just pick soon." He gestured toward the worktable that took up a hefty chunk of floor space. "So... did you still want me to refill your prescription, Doctor?"

"No. Not at the moment. Hit me up later if you want, but I'm really not in the mood right now."

He didn't expect that, since I've never said no or failed to respond to his advances before. Dmitri's brow furrowed for a moment. "But you'll be in the mood later?"

"I dunno, I'm not a fortune teller. I'm positive I lack any sort of precognition ability, else I would have known Jet would go behind my back to get a hold of my manuscript. But I may mellow out later and be more receptive to your moves. I'm not making any promises, Dmitri."

He gave me a short, hard look. I saw his square jaw lock before he turned around and left without a word. The blue dutch door shut behind him with a soft click.

I went to my iPod stereo and blasted TV on the Radio's cover of "Bela Lugosi's Dead" and drifted over to my drafting table. From the shelf above it, I took down a sketchbook and an old coffee can filled with markers to try and sketch the border design for Willow's quilt. My mind was a blank until the stains on my skin caught my attention. Blue and pink melded into purple weals that ran in tributaries down my lower arms. I sought out the ReDuRan tube and squeezed a wet plop onto my damp palm. Purple turned opaque gray and washed away in a deluge of tepid water.

My heart felt like a wasteland.

Dammit.