Breadcrumb #142

BARB ROSINSKI BENINCASA

Life equals a big, big mess. Nobody plans it that way, but shit happens. It begins with those diapers. When you become a parent, nobody tells you that you will be changing not only the diaper, but the cute little outfit and the perfectly coordinated crib sheets, multiple times the day you come home from the hospital. So much for the illusion of the perfect life.

    When you get the middle of the night phone call that your parent is dead, you think that life cannot go on. Who is going to love you unconditionally? Who is going to slip you a few bucks to buy something that you don't really need? Who is going to call you "kid?" Yet, you look into the eyes of your child and realize that it is your turn to do those things for somebody else. Life does go on and it is a big, big mess.

    When you find out that the love of your life doesn't love you anymore, you panic. You say "I cannot be a single parent." You go to therapy and courtrooms, places you thought were for "other people." You come out of the ordeal wounded, just hoping your pain won't ruin the lives of those beautiful children. Life does go on and it is a big, big mess.

    When you watch your best friend in the world lose her child, it is so fucking unfair. You rail at the universe, wondering why it is so cruel. You attend a funeral you never expected. You never forget his name, his birthday, or to talk about him. Life does go on and it is a big, big mess.

“You rail at the universe, wondering why it is so cruel. You attend a funeral you never expected.”

    You step on Legos and action figures in the middle of the night, because you hope that leaving them out encourages your children to build worlds in which they are powerful. You buy paints and crayons and markers and get giant refrigerator boxes so that your kids can build structures to take them to the safe, happy places of their imaginations. Life does go on and it is a big, big mess.

    You get in trouble at work because you just cannot keep your mouth shut. You want others to see that children are important. You speak up for what it right, even though it does not win friends or influence people. You go to a job every day in which you know you make a difference, even if your superiors feel otherwise. Life does go on and it is a big, big mess.

    But life is more than the shit that happens. It is also the realization that lagniappe comes out of those messy experiences. It is watching your children grow into men who create more beauty than you ever thought possible. It is seeing the children you've helped over the years become people who like to communicate. It is watching that best friend devote her life to bringing joy to children, in her son's memory. Here's to a life filled with big, big messes.

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Breadcrumb #140

DIMITRIOS FRAGISKATOS

“When it comes to basketball, Jimmy is the best,” Joe would say, referring to my trash-talking. The reality is I couldn’t hope to compete with the likes of him or Vineet; they were the best players to hit the court on Chambers Street, but there were other ways to stand out. 

    I would “oink” when Vineet had the ball, since he was a ball hog. I described various sexual (and sometimes romantic) positions I’ve engaged in with Joe’s mother. I would also mime stamping Larry’s passport, since he took so many steps before letting go of the ball. It was these gestures and a seeming fearlessness from being punched in the face that kept me in the games. Sure, I was the last one picked, but I was picked unlike poor schlubs such as Michael.

    Every play of high school ball went the same: Someone passes you the rock, you dribble it on the gray asphalt, and then you decide to egotistically take a shot or pass the ball to someone who can make it. Oftentimes, bad players like me can grab a drink from the water fountains without affecting the game or chat it up with the person they’re guarding or who's guarding them. Besides that, we gelled excellently as a team. We beat local college students in half-court games to 21 on a regular basis. We knew our capabilities very well. Joe was great with the layups; Vineet made outside shots; Larry was good for getting rebounds; and I caught every opportunity to mock my opponent's physical appearances. Again, not a good player, but even pawns have their uses in chess. 

    Our school team name — the Peg Legs,  implying a handicap — was one of the most common elements of my insults.

    “If you fall on your face one more time, they might recruit you to the Peg Legs,“ I started, adding the politically incorrect "you fucking Chinese version of Corky from Life Goes On."

    Aside from my racism, the malice toward our school mascot could have been jealousy. I was convinced my friends and I were better than the school team but would never be recognized for it. The basketball court was right at the entranceway to our school, but none of the members of the team ever joined us in a game. We weren’t even sure who was on the team; we just knew it had to be from the same group of white kids who ran the student government and our school newspaper. They were probably the same players in our football team, too. It was the kids whose parents could afford to buy them uniforms. They can stand to be told what to do because that was what life was going to bring them. They got to put “basketball team” on their college applications for extracurricular activities, and even if we played every day, we didn’t. We were stray dogs enjoying an unrewarding freedom, and we didn’t identify with anyone who trained and played in that air-conditioned gymnasium. This is why it was surprising when I barked to some passersby one night. 

“They can stand to be told what to do because that was what life was going to bring them.”

    There was a cold winter darkness in New York, but we were warmed by our hours of playing. The street light illuminated the court, as some kids were grabbing their jackets to go home. I had my usual obnoxious grin, shouting “ In your face!” to Larry as I took a shot. Of course, it missed. I wanted to pick new teams among the people staying. A group of black kids came out of the school wearing varying combinations of pinks and grays, holding gym bags and a couple of basketballs. They weren’t familiar to me, as our school was mostly white and Asian, with the majority of the nonwhites being in our group itself, so I inferred they were a visiting team. 

    “Stuyvesant sucks!” yelled the shorter one in the group. His followers laughed. 

    “Why don’t you come in here and say that?” I shouted back, reminding my friends of my fearlessness.  

    We were immediately surrounded by them. Even those of our friends who were not planning on leaving initially had grabbed their stuff and headed in, leaving Joe, Larry, Michael, and me. I couldn’t tell what their immediate reactions were as I was busy staring up at some pretty tough faces while grinning stupidly, saying,“In a game of basketball, I mean. Why don’t you tell us by beating us in a game of basketball?” 

    And like a Daffy Duck cartoon, I managed to avoid yet another well-deserved beating, as our now-opponents started picking out their five players, jumping, raising their hands, as the short guy who made the remark initially confirmed who’d be sitting on their sidelines from their group of 12. Meanwhile, on our side, we were trying to figure out how to make our team of four work in a full-court game. Relief came when one of the rejected players from our opposing team put himself in our group. 

    “Y'all need a fifth? I’m Eric. I got the best layup.”

    Who were we to argue? The game started, and it was quite a spectacle. Michael and I played guards, while Larry and Joe were under the basket. Joe was a small guy, but he had a great jump, which is why he could play a position normally reserved for taller players. He was everyone’s first pick, and he was a funny guy, too.

    I stepped up to the short guy, their leader. He extended the ball out, dribbling it in front of me, daring me to try to take it. I didn’t know my opponent, but he shouldn’t know me either. Maybe I was skilled enough to take the ball from him. Besides, his team just lost to our school. People shouted in the sidelines about my “broken ankles” as the ball bounced between my open legs. They scored with cheers, and Joe passed it to our new teammate, who just as quickly got the layup in, taunting his friends with some inside jokes.  

    Coming back up from their side of the court, my nemesis smiled, pointing out how "I haven’t learned.” He hit the ball off my hand, and before I could retrieve it, had taken steps toward a layup. It didn’t matter that he missed the shot; he still embarrassed me by getting past my outreached arms. I still looked bad to onlookers. Joe retrieved the ball, passing it back down to Eric, who scored again. 

    “My turn! My turn!” Someone else wanting to get past me. He had his fun, too, as he spun around me, breaking through my already-worn-down defense. 

    “Oh, there he goes, there he goes. Oh!” The onlookers who clearly supported their friends were laughing while expressing empathy for the pain I must have been feeling. 

    But I wasn’t embarrassed. I had my mouth uncharacteristically shut, and I was determined to help my team get the advantage. Our opponents liked to switch it up, going after all our players. Eric though, like our opponents, showed no interest in playing defense, choosing to expend his efforts taking shots and driving the ball into the hoop instead. Vineet played like that. I wondered how the game would have turned out if he were with us. 

    The player shouting the score from the opposing team stopped when he started practicing his jump shot on me. I was a little angry, but I couldn’t deny how much fun everyone was having. My friends played a fierce game too, with even Mike getting a three-point shot in. Shorty stepped up to me again with his usual smile, then suddenly stopped and turned to a girl in the sidelines.

    “Yo, is that them? Yooooo!”

    I couldn’t see who they were referring to, but I knew. Everyone, including Eric, immediately evacuated the court, with the girls and some of the guys picking up their stuff and walking toward them. I asked that same girl as she collected someone else’s jacket what just happened.

    “That was the basketball team. They went to go fuck them up.”

    Joe came up to me asking the same thing, as a smile sneaked onto my face. I realized I had more school pride than I thought — just enough to defend her honor to some strangers, but not enough to care for other schoolmates. I also dragged my friends in what could have been a hostile situation, and they didn’t run. In turn, I tried my best to play defense, even as I became the butt of other people’s jokes. All those points gave me a reason to smile to Joe and say, “I don’t think they're coming back to finish the game, and we’re winning 16 to 14.” 

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Breadcrumb #138

KASIA MERRILL

We are not in love.

    We are standing, two feet apart, and I keep saying the same thing over and over.

    I am in love with you.

    She keeps shaking her head, her hot pink hair swaying with each turn. No, you aren't, she is whispering. We are both crying and neither of us love the other and I wonder what exactly it is that we are mourning. 

    We have been in fake love for 2 years. Our fake love was at least not real hatred. Our fake love was comfortable. Our fake love was more than I expected from a relationship.

    We are standing in the hall of our apartment building. Her torn backpack is on her shoulders, her  black hoodie is hanging out from the unzipped opening. She has not zipped it, she never zips it, and this bothers me again as we stand here, and I deeply wish to fix it, but I wonder Who am I to fix someone I am not in love with?

    I don't say this. Instead, I say Maybe we can fix this and she is shaking her head again. 
I imagine the two of us together. I imagine us kissing, laughing, holding hands. We have said I love you one thousand times and not meant it once. We have picked furniture and watched one another sit on it like props. We have existed in one another's space and imagined what love might feel like.

    This is not what I expected, I say.

    She looks down at the ground. She has a gold nose piercing in the shape of a ribbon and she is wearing too much eyeliner. Her nails are expertly painted silver, but her jeans are ragged and ripped. I suddenly remember that when she is happy, she has a sleepy half-smile. I remember liking this about her when I first met her. I had witnessed that smile and I immediately imagined what it would be like to wake up beside her, to see that smile against the blue of my pillowcase. I imagined us listening to Sufjan Stevens and smoking weed. This was how I had fallen in love with her, this fake memory I had constructed.

“I suddenly remember that when she is happy, she has a sleepy half-smile. I remember liking this about her when I first met her. I had witnessed that smile and I immediately imagined what it would be like to wake up beside her, to see that smile against the blue of my pillowcase.”

    I later realized she loathed Sufjan Stevens and got paranoid when she smoked weed. She didn't like drugs. I did not fall in love with this version of her. I didn't fall out of love with my fantasy, either, and perhaps this was what went wrong. Perhaps my heart was already taken when I met her by somebody she never was.

    In the apartment hallway, people are passing, neighbors we never spoke to. I clear my throat.

    I want to love you, I say to her. I really do.

    She exhales loudly, runs a hand over her forehead. Her hair sticks up and I remember placing it back when we were first dating, before she told me that she hated when I did that. She looks at me, but it is hard to take her seriously with her hair propped up from her head.

    The problem is you want everything, she says. And none of it works.

  I am unsure what she means by this. Before I can ask, she says she has to go and walks past me, her shoulder brushing against mine. I stare after her and watch her steal the life I had created, the life we were meant to live. I watch her steal our cute date at Ikea, our MDMA roll at Electric Zoo festival. I watch her steal our Pitbull mix, our shared closet. I watch her rob me of the girl I had fallen in love with and never had.

    We are not in love. 

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