Character Monologue: The First Female Santa

In my Second City Comedy Writing class, one of the things I found so interesting was how we did a lot of exercises that were similar to the way improvisation is done. If you've ever been to an improv show, you know that it generally starts by asking the audience for an object, place or activity which the improvisers will then use as a prompt for creating characters and scenes. The exercise we did in class on the second day was similar to this: Create a character and monologue based on the action verb you were given. I was given the verb “carry.” Below is the first draft of what I came up with.*


Carrie – late thirties meeting with a doctor

Hi, I’m Carrie. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, doc. I’m just going to start at the beginning because I think you’ll get a better understanding of my reasonings that way.

I work at the mall during Christmas as Santa’s Little Helper, technically I’m an Elf, but my name tag says, “Carrie: Santa’s Little Helper” so that’s what I have to say I am. This isn't just a gig, it's an important step towards reaching my overall career goal. You see, I’m trying to start at the bottom and work my way up, but eventually, I want to be the first female Santa Claus. I mean, sure, okay, maybe there’s been some other female Santas out there that I haven’t heard about, but I know for a fact that if I were to play Santa, I’d be the first female to do it in the state of Tennessee…well, at least the first in Crockett County. And besides, I want to do this for the sake of feminism, which I'm a big believer in, especially during the holidays. I mean, I’ve got a lot of obstacles trying to keep me from achieving my goal and being a woman is just one of them—for instance, I’m Jewish, but has that stopped me from celebrating Christmas every year and working as Santa’s Little Helper? No, sir-ee! Lots of people think I just want to be a man and that’s why I’m all hung up on this female Santa thing, but it’s not true. I like being a woman just fine, which is why I’m here to see you, doc.

I know I’m paying you for your services, and I know you probably don’t understand why I want to get pregnant right now. But I’m running out of time, and you’re my last hope. You see, if I get pregnant now, I figure I’ll be about eight months along by December—pregnant ladies are generally pretty fat by then, right doc? So, if I have a nice big, round belly by December, it’s really going to improve my chances of getting to play Santa this year. I’ve tried gaining weight, but I just so happen to be naturally thin, and there’s a history of diabetes in my family, so it’s probably not a good idea anyway. And that brings me to why I'm here - I’ve decided to take an alternative route in order to fulfill my dream of becoming Crockett County’s first female Santa. Of course, yes, there are other reasons for me to do IVF. I mean, I’m nearly 40, unmarried, no prospects in sight, and menopause is practically around the corner. But with all those reasons aside—reasons you get other women pregnant for all of the time, mind you—I have even more reasons, dream-fulfilling reasons!

You see, I’ve been to other doctors and they’ve all turned me down, but my friend told me about you and so I thought I’d try to make it happen one more time. I know about what they did for that Suleman woman and she has EIGHT babies now! If I had eight babies, it would be perfect, just think—eight reindeer or elves! Come on, doc. I know it’s March and all, but in the spirit of Christmas, do you think you could shoot me up with some of that baby-making juice and help my dreams come true? I’ll even sweeten the deal by offering you a free permanent spot on the “Nice” List...

So, what do you say, doc—we got a deal?

*I promise I'll eventually stop geeking-out about my Second City experience, but for now you're just going to have to deal with it. Oh, and when I preface something by saying it's a "first draft" feel free to comment, make suggestions, critique, or whatever.

1st Draft: "Rules of Leaving"

So I feel like I've been neglecting this blog since I've been in Chicago. Don't think that this means I haven't been writing, because I have, practically non-stop. But in an effort to feel less guilty, I've decided to share some of my "works in-progress" with you. Below is a snippet of a story that just sort of jumped onto the page when I sat down to write today. I have no idea where it's going, what it's doing, or why these characters won't get out of my head...but here it is. Again, try to keep in mind that this is a first draft, and therefore completely rough and in obvious need of work--uh, so, in other words, don't judge me too harshly.

Rules of Leaving

Betsy was always just visiting. Anyone who saw her knew she wasn’t there to stay. She seemed like a perched bird, temporary, on display, and just hanging out until a loud noise made her fly away. She had a heavy bag that draped over her shoulder, carrying most of what must be her life, and her shoes looked like they had been slept in, spit on and dragged through puddles of city slop, but the laces were new and neon green. Betsy spoke with whatever accent was in her ear, this made it so that no one knew her after meeting her, except for maybe Chuck.

They had been living in the same place for nearly three months. For Betsy it was too long. She was ready to pick up and go at any moment, at the first mention of opportunity, but this hadn’t happened since they left the place they were for the place they are now. Chuck thought she was staying for him, trying to give him a break, but he also thought that maybe she was staying until she knew he wouldn’t leave with her.


“I feel like we just got here,” Chuck said, packing up an olive green suitcase that lay open on his cot.
“And so it be the time to depart, dearest Charles!” Betsy said. She was sitting on the balcony, which wasn’t a real balcony, according to Betsy, it was an “exaggerated windowsill,” smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.
“There’s just no sense in it. Why, in the middle of February, would we leave this beach, where it’s warm and sunny, for a place where it’s so cold your snot freezes?” Chuck asked.
“Who told you your snot would freeze? That’s sheer rubbish,” Betsy said. She was taking swigs out of the bottle of Jameson they had found in the nightstand where a Bible should’ve been and slurring between a Scottish and British accent.
“I don’t know, but I get runny noses, like, real easily, and I know it’s cold there—it’s all anyone talks about when you tell them you’re moving to Chicago,” Chuck said.
“Who did you tell?” Betsy suddenly changed her position, throwing her legs over the edge and inside as if she was going to run at Chuck.
“No, no one. I mean, I told Pete, but I had to because he’d get in trouble if the dishes weren’t done and I was gone,” Chuck said. He turned back to his packing, avoiding Betsy’s eyes which were searching him like two florescent lights, lifeless yet blindingly bright.
“You know the deal, Chuckster—don’t tell anyone where we are going or where we plan to go. I mean, what if I’d told that tattoo artist I was seeing in Atlanta that we were headed to Miami…? I’ll tell you what, he’d be beating us for the money we owe him by now,” she said.

They were staying in a hostel after Chuck made an arrangement with the management. The room wasn’t a room they gave to paying customers; it was a room off the kitchen, reserved for workers who couldn’t pay to stay.

“Shitfuck! What are we going to do about Pete? Maybe we shouldn’t go to Chicago now...maybe Nashville instead,” Betsy said, flicking her cigarette into the night.
“What’s Pete going to do? We don’t owe anyone here nothing, do we? Bets…do we?”
“You’re right. We owe nothing. Off we are as planned then!” Betsy was suddenly standing next to Chuck and staring into the tidy suitcase, which was mostly full of underwear tied-up with neon green shoelaces and hotel toiletries.
“Still haven’t learned to travel light, have you? You don’t need half of this crap,” she said.
“You’re the one that stole this shit, and almost had us put in jail for it, now you’re telling me to just leave it?” Chuck asked.


Chuck knew Betsy better than anyone. He knew how she liked her coffee, and that she really liked tea more; he knew the scar lining the crease of her nose was from a wire hanger and not a nose job; he knew her eyes were really grey and not blue; he knew her birthday was October 1st, not January 1st; he knew her hair always smelled like green apples before it always smelled like smoke; he knew that her real name was Dikranouhi before she had it legally changed to Betsy.

Chuck knew Betsy would leave without him next time. They'd been all over the East coast together, but Chuck felt like they spent most of their time leaving, and his baggage was getting heavier, harder to carry.

They sat on the floor of the studio apartment they were renting on a monthly basis in south Chicago, Chuck was leaning against the bed while Betsy sat on the floor with a map spread out between her legs. The place smelled like an ashtray and Mexican food; when the train passed the walls shook and the floor vibrated. That was Betsy’s favorite part, the shaking and vibrating.

“I love that this place never stops moving. It’s metaphorical, right Chuckster?” Betsy asked.
“Yeah, sure, I guess,” Chuck said.
“So. Where’d you get all them books from?” Betsy asked, pointing to a stack of books sitting next to Chuck’s bed. She was speaking with a hint of a New York accent this time and chewing on strands of red licorice.
“Library,” Chuck said.
“You have a library card?”
“Well, yeah, I had to get one to get the books,” Chuck said, trying to keep the defensive tone out of his voice.
“Damnit, Charles! Why not just go buy a condo on the lake while you’re at it,” Betsy said. Her hair was down, engulfing her face in black chaotic curls. Chuck always thought she looked prettiest with her hair down, but it only lasted a few seconds before she was sweeping it back again.
“It’s a library card. Pretty temporary,” Chuck said.
“We’ve been here for a month and you’re acting like we’re settled. It’s a library card now, but you know how it is...one attachment leads to another,” Betsy said, twisting her hair into a braid.


Chuck was never comfortable anywhere they went. Not because it wasn’t home, home wasn’t anywhere, but because he was always trying to keep to Betsy’s plans and rules. Buying a library card was against the rules; anything permanent, anything traceable, anything lasting was against the rules. When they first met, Chuck understood Betsy’s rules to be anything that went against other real rules—rules for living abnormally, he thought. He liked how Betsy, a woman no one would expect to have rules, actually had a list she kept and followed.

1. Don’t stand still
2. Borrowing is not stealing
3. Don’t tell anyone where you're going when you go
4. Don’t buy things that are permanent, traceable or lasting
5. Use what’s wasted
6. Move with other things that move
7. Any open place is a place to rest
8. No phone numbers
9. No extras (people, baggage, obligations, etc.)
10. No missing (people or places)

It was number six that worried Chuck. Since they’d come to Chicago, one or both of them had broken a rule on this list. Chuck was the greatest offender, everyday left him more still. Betsy recognized this in him, but she feared rule number ten more than any other which is why she hadn't really left, yet. But there were times when Chuck would wait all night for Betsy to come back to their shaking, vibrating studio just so that he could see her close her eyes and feel safe again. After the first month in Chicago, she started coming back to him less; several days would pass and Chuck would think she was gone for good, but then she would appear in her neon green shoelaces with a bag of someone's forgotten (stolen) leftovers. She never explained her absences, but she would talk about things Chuck didn't know about in a new accent, like a dog that developed a new bark after coming home from running away.

Once, Chuck asked Betsy if they could make amendments to the rules. It seemed like a reasonable request, all rules should be amendable so that they are continually applicable to the present, he thought. But Betsy told him he could make his own rules if he wanted to change hers. This is when Chuck knew that Betsy's rules were nothing more than rules for leaving, and this is when Betsy left Chuck and didn't come back, for good.

I'm Always Missing Out

When I was little, I never wanted to go to bed because I was afraid that I would miss out on something really exciting or important. This was especially the case when my parents would have parties or entertain guests. Knowing that other people were awake in my house while I was supposed to be asleep made me certain that something awesome was going to happen because I knew the most awesome stuff happened after the kids went to bed (R rated movies, card games, dancing, singing). Most of the time I would lie awake, imagining conversations and all the fun things that must be going on as I obeyed a bedtime, and it usually went something like this:

Adult 1: Which kid do you like the most?
Adult 2: Well, which one would you sell to the gypsies if you had to?
Adult 3: We should go hang out at the secret princess castle.
Adult 4: I heard the princess castle has a water slide.
Adult 1: I heard it has a giant bowl of candy that you can swim in!
Adult 2: Well, what are we waiting for? The kids are in bed!
Adult 3: Yeah! Let’s sell all of the kids to the gypsies go to the secret princess castle!

As a teenager, my curfew was a constant topic of debate. Eventually, I started to hear the phrase, “nothing good happens at that hour,” which infuriated me, because of course good things happened at that hour! My parents just didn't understand that my popularity was totally contingent on the things happening at that hour which I was missing out on because of a ridiculously early curfew, ugh!

In college, I watched the roles switch a little when my friend’s parents would come visit for a weekend. On more than one occasion, I helped a friend coax their drunk parent out of a bar and back to their hotel room, where the parent would then say something along the lines of “I don’t wanna go to bed—let’s go to the next party!” My friend and I would have to pretend that we were calling it a night so that the parent wouldn’t feel like they were missing out.

Now that I don’t have a bedtime, a curfew, or a parent reliving the glory days to babysit, I lie awake thinking about all the things I need to do in order to not miss out on anything, which usually goes like this:

Me: Maybe I should just get up and make a list or something.
Voices In My Head: No, you’ll be worthless tomorrow if you don’t get any sleep.
Me: It’s not like I have a lot going on tomorrow anyway.
Voices: Just try to close your eyes and see if you fall asleep.
Me: But my eyes won’t close.
Voices: Try harder.
Me: I think I am going to get up and write.
Voices: Nothing you write at this hour will be any good.
Me: Fine, then I am going to read.
Voices: But then you’ll just be reading about all of the stuff you’re missing out on because you're sleeping.
Me: Well, what am I supposed to do?
Voices: Keep searching for the cool side of your pillow...

I've come to terms with the fact that I'll never stop feeling like I’m missing out on something, which might mean that I’m never content with the immediate, and also that I don't get enough sleep. But really, what's so great about contentment and good sleeping habits anyway? I’d rather be plagued with exhaustion and the notion that I’m missing out, because maybe one day it will lead me to that secret princess castle with the water slide and bowl of candy you can swim in.

If Bear Could Talk...

Morning

Bear: So, I've pretty much had to pee for ten hours now.

Me: ‘Ello, puppy! How’s my good little boy?

Bear: Fine. Let me outside before I piss on you.

Me: Want to go outside?

Bear: Yes, I’ve been trying to tell you this by whining incessantly and making as much noise as possible.

Me: Okay, come on, let’s go…

Bear: Finally.

Day

Me: Hi little guy! What are you doing?

Bear: I’m pretending not to hear you.

Me: Come here, Bear…

Bear: No.

Me: Bear. Come.

Bear: Still. No.

Me: Want a treat?

Bear: No! Wait...yes? Depends on the treat...get the treat and then we'll see.

Me: Come here, come get a treat!

Bear: Fine. But I’m getting up because I smell chicken, and not because you wanted me to...just so we are clear.


Evening

Bear: Are we going to go on a walk or what?

Me: Want to go on a walk?

Bear: Yes, but you’re taking forever to get ready.

Me: Okay, hold on while I put on my shoes.

Bear: So…now? How about now? Now can we go? Can we go now?

Me: Just a minute…

Bear: Okay, well I’m going to run around the dining room table over and over again as fast as I can until you’re ready…

Me: No, Bear! Stop!

Bear: Fine. I'm dizzy anyway. But now I’m going to tear apart this paper towel I pulled out of the trash when you weren't looking and leave the shreds all over the kitchen.

Me: What did you do? Bad boy!

Bear: You know, all you had to do was hurry up and take me on the damn walk and this wouldn’t have happened…this is really your fault.

Me: Ugh! Come on, we are going for a walk now before you can make another mess.

Bear: I win!


The Walk

Me: Bear, wait, stop, no, Bear—wait, slow down.

Bear: Wow, look at all these sticks! I need to find the biggest one I can and then try to carry it and refuse to let go of it.

Me: Bear! Sit! Stop! Drop it…drop—give me that!

Bear: Oh well, there will be more sticks…

Me: Good boy, good drop it. Okay, slow down, buddy…hey, Bear!

Bear: You know, a sit up or two might make walking me easier. To prove it, I’m just going to run around you until you’re all twisted up and look like an idiot.

Me: Damnit, Bear!

Bear: Ha!—Hey, what’s that?

Me: Leave it alone, Bear…

Bear: But what is this smell…I’ve never smelled anything like it, I need to know…

Me: Come on, Bear…

Bear: Another dog – hey! Hi! I’m Bear, what’s your name? Can I smell you? You smell weird…what’s that, an ear? Tastes like jerky, mind if I chew it?

Other Dog: I will cut you.

Bear: Whoa, man. Let’s be friends. I’m just curious, that’s all…

Me (to other dog owner): Sorry, he’s just a puppy, so he’s really curious…

Bear: Yeah, see? Curious. Now lift up your leg so I can smell under there…

Me: Come along, Bear. No...come on…BEAR! NO!

Bear: You're a real fun-killer, you know that?


Bedtime

Bear: I’m not tired; I’ve been sleeping for the last four hours.

Me: Time for bed!

Bear: But, but, but…I think I have to go outside…yes, I need to go outside now.

Me: Come on, let’s go potty once more.

Bear: Tricked you! Now I’m just going to run around out here while you stand by the door calling for me and waking up all the neighbors.

Me: Beeeeeaaaaaarrrrr! Come on, come inside…want a treat? Beeeeaaaaarrrrrrr!

Bear: Hahahaha! What a dumbass…

Me: (squeaky toy, squeaky toy)

Bear: Hey! That’s my toy! I want to squeak that toy! Give it to me!

Me: Ha—Gotcha! Time for bed now…

Bear: Fine, lady. You might have won this one, but tomorrow is another day!

Me: That’s my good boy…are you good boy?

Bear: Yeah, I’m a good boy. See my tail wagging? Now scratch behind my ears until I fall asleep.

No, it’s MY pleasure!

The other day I went to Chick-fil-A. Even though the line for the drive-thru was as long as the Nile, I decided to join the group and wait because actually going inside to order my food would destroy my rationalization for eating Chick-fil-A in the first place. You see, going inside to order would suggest that I had the time, patience and will-power to go against convenience and therefore should be opting for a healthier meal. Also, I don’t want to be seen inside a fast-food restaurant that tries to pretend it’s not really fast food. I mean, if you have “value meals” you’re a fast-food restaurant—let’s not dance around this fact by serving only chicken with “gourmet” sauce (which they forget to give you half of the time anyway) in order to justify ridiculously high prices. It’s as if they are saying, “this ain’t no McDonalds, but, um, it kind of is because if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t eat here - now, let us bring in cows holding grammatically incorrect signs to distract you.”

I digress. Basically, I just wanted some nuggets. Chick-fil-A was sort of on my way home (I rationalized this too, by taking the long way), and thus the most convenient solution to my stomach eating itself. So, when I finally got to the speaker box with the menu to order my food I was ready, I knew what I wanted, I didn't have any questions, and so I was expecting a quick and easy transaction.

“Good evening! Welcome to Chick-fil-A! Would you like to try something from our healthy, low-fat menu today?” said an unnaturally chipper female voice from the speaker box.

Really? My rationalization got me this far, and now you’re going to use the ‘h’ word?

“No thank you,” I said.

“We have delicious fruit parfaits and fresh fruit smoothies now—”

“No, no, thanks. Can I just get…ummm…” I said, letting the ‘um’ drag on just a little too long as a punishment. “Yeah, uhhhh….I’d like some chicken nuggets, please.”

“Great! Would you like to make that a meal?”

“Ummmmmmm, yes, thanks,” I said.

“My pleasure! Would you like fries, salad, soup, coleslaw or a fruit cup with that?”

Her pleasure. Wow. Seriously? I wanted to reach through the speaker and grab this woman by the neck and tell her that this life is full of pleasures that don’t involve chicken and a drive-thru so stop acting so excited!

“Fries, well uhhhhhhhh…yeah, no, fries are good,” I said, wondering which of us was being more irritating at this point.

“And for your drink?”

“Diet Coke, please,” I said, because a fat-filled meal is not complete without a diet soda to wash it down.

“My pleasure! Okay, I have a chicken nugget meal with fries and a Diet Coke, will that be all for you today?”

I rolled my eyes at the second “my pleasure” and then recoiled, nervous that she was watching me on camera and plotting to poison my food.

“Yes, thank you—oh, wait, no, can I get some of that orange-ish, pink sauce…what’s it called? It’s like sweet and sour or something…” I said, now fully trying to antagonize her and break that annoyingly chipper disposition.

“Absolutely! A chicken nugget meal with fries and a Diet Coke and Polynesian Sauce!” she said.

“Yes, that’s it—Polynesian sauce. Thanks,” I said.

“My pleasure! That will be a billion dollars, please pull around to first window!” She didn’t really say it was a billion dollars, although that’s what I hear when the bill for one meal amounts to anything over five dollars at a fast-food restaurant.

When I get to the window a young, puberty-stricken boy handed me my order. As he ran my card, I looked for the cheerful woman taking drive-thru orders. I was hoping to find out that she was really a robot, or one of those automated voices that you get when you call your bank or try to pay your cable bill on the phone and they keep telling you to say things like ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘pay bill’ but they can’t understand you because they are machines. It turned out she was a real, live person and exactly as I expected her to be: young, pink cheeks, braces and curly blonde hair that revolved around her headpiece microphone like a halo.

“Miss? Miss, your card,” Petey Puberty was holding out my card and trying to get my attention.

“Oh, right sorry, thanks,” I said.

“My pleasure!” he said.

What a ridiculous thing to force your employees to say, I thought—“my pleasure.” Maybe I was just feeling grumpy, as I tend to get when I’m hungry, and so hearing this phrase four times in a row was too much for my bad attitude to handle.

As I drove away I thought about all the reasons it was not their pleasure. It was not your pleasure because it’s my food, which I am ordering for my pleasure. It was not your pleasure because you have to wear a stupid-ass visor and a nametag that you craftily decorate with stickers (which still doesn’t make it your pleasure). It was not your pleasure because I am the one who gets to enjoy the food and you’re the one who has to prepare it. It was not your pleasure because there’s not enough pleasure to go around, so stop trying to steal my pleasure and make it your pleasure, damnit!

In an effort to reclaim ‘my pleasure’ as my own, I opened my bag of food and reached for a golden, delicious waffle fry, but then I realized that something was terribly wrong—there was something missing…

Of course. They forgot the Polynesian Sauce.

Quinnterruption's Next Top Ninja Unicorn

In an effort to incorporate more visuals in this blog (apparently, like books without pictures, blogs without pictures aren't very fun either), I've asked some of my creatively inclined friends to think of, work on, draw up a ninja unicorn mascot and/or logo for me. The first to respond to this request was a dear friend, who will be known as Jobelle Holcombe. Her devotion to daily interruptions resulted in this gem:



Pretty spectacular, wouldn't you say?

I told Jobelle that my favorite part was a.) the fact that this Ninja Unicorn is drawn on a meeting agenda, and b.) the way this specific Ninja Unicorn seems to be saying, "What? You want some of this? You want a piece of me?!"

"I like how his hair is flowing in the pre-judgment day wind," Jobelle said of her design.
"His horn kind of looks like a carrot/penis," I said.

"Yeah, the horn started out a little shorter, but then I thought an uncomfortably long horn would make more of a statement. I was going to incorporate balls somewhere but the meeting ended," Jobelle said.

"No, the unicorn's anatomy gets confusing past the waist," I said.

"Yeah, kind of like a mermaids," Jobelle said.


So congratulations, Jobelle! Your design is now in the running towards becoming Quinnterruption's Next Top Ninja Unicorn.


If you or someone you know is interested in becoming Quinnterruption's Next Top Ninja Unicorn, please send your design, along with an explanation to quinnkatherman@gmail.com.

Exert from "Safe Travels"

Below is an exert from "Safe Travels," a collection of non-fiction essays I started awhile ago and have just recently started working on again (needless to say it's all I can think about at the moment). So, I hope you'll enjoy...

I hate flying.

The smell of people trying to cover up their smells melding with the stale air we are all fighting to breathe, the sound of children crying and the useless cooing of apologetic mothers; the crumbs of other people, the trash left behind. The flight attendants and their types: Boob Job Betty with the too small uniform, just bursting for attention; Lisping Larry with his “theatbelt thafety” instructions and constant gesticulating hands; Pissed off Patty with the “fuck you” smile who hates Boob Job Betty and probably spits in your drink when no one’s looking. And then there is that monotone voice that chirps in at all the expected elevations, the voice behind the controls, the voice you’re trusting your life with, the voice you’re glad you didn’t have to see the face of until after you got off the plane.

I wore a pair of trendy over-sized sunglasses that covered most of my face, even though it was dark outside, and a scarf draping my shoulders in artistic sweeps, even though it was unreasonably warm inside the cabin. Maybe someone would think I was famous if I looked exhausted and unimpressed, I thought. I didn’t bother to look when someone sat down in seat next to me; I was busy trying to appear unapproachable.

I wanted to sleep but an unnatural lunging motion had startled me and the jerking caused my sunglasses to dislodge and reveal my less than famous face. I grasped the silver armrest separating me from the stranger directly to my right. I watched as the cylindrical inside walls tilted from side to side and I thought of a funhouse—the type that isn’t really fun at all.

“Don’t like to fly?” The body next to me could speak. The flight was half over and we had expertly avoided engaging in any forced conversation so far. Why did he have to ruin it? I responded with an acceptable nod, rejecting his attempt at banter.

“You get used to it. After a while, you stop worrying about the plane crashing and more about just getting to wherever you're going,” the man said. He had black, spiral ringlets that sang past his shoulders. He was petit. I thought that if I stood up it would be embarrassing. That hair made me sick. It reminded me of the wads of fake hair that came in tight plastic packages at the craft store.

“So, have you ever been to San Juan?” he asked.

“Yes. Once. But I’m just making a connecting flight—” I stopped. There was something about him. I looked around, an entourage of bald spots with long black hair and black leather occupied the seats next to us and behind us. They drank champagne. The man next to me was drinking Tropicana Orange Juice from the can.

I could tell. He was famous.

It didn’t matter who he was; right now, he was just another body taking up space, breathing my air. But he started it, obligating me to inquire.

“Do—um, I mean, you look really familiar, are you, uh—” I had no idea who he was. Probably a has-been that I was too young to know but old enough to recognize from the way the present decade seemed to hang from his bones like the loose skin around his neck.

“Yeah. I was in a band,” he looked me up and down, “you’re probably too young to remember, though.” The defeat in his voice made me self-conscious. “Ever hear of Black Sabbath?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, of course!” I said, thinking: I watched The Osbournes, I know about Black Sabbath. That’s the band Ozzy was in before he got the shakes and stutters; back when he bit the heads off animals to make a crowd go wild; the career he had before reality TV and loose skin, right?

“Well, I’m not in Black Sabbath now. I was, back in the 80s. This band is called Dio.” He pointed his index finger up in the air and twirled his arm like a cowboy without a lasso. “We’re doing a concert in San Juan. It’s part of our tour,” he said. I nodded and smiled, trying to figure out if reading the safety manual would be considered rude at this point.

“Do you want to go?” he asked.

“Go where?” Doesn’t he know we are trapped like sardines in this bucket of aluminum? There’s nowhere to go, no way out.

“To the show. Do you want a ticket?” Neat! Does that include a backstage pass to meet your hot sons and drink from an open bar? If so, I’ll let you sign my cleavage with a Sharpie!

“I wish I could go. But I sort of have plans. I’m on my way to Anguilla—my dad is getting remarried,” I said, trying to make it sound as uninteresting as it really was.

“Ah, wouldn’t want to miss that. You like her?”

“Who?”

I was distracted. The talk was antagonizing. I was trying to mentally prepare for a crash and he was causing static in my brain waves. I was holding my breath when I wasn’t talking, and the lack of oxygen was making me stupid. Or maybe it was the third Bloody Mary I was about to finish. As I drained the last drops from the plastic cup and rattled the ice to indicate the need for a refill, one of the flight attendants, Boob Job Betty, shook her head and pointed to the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign above. “No Drink Service Due To Turbulence” would make a better sign, I thought.

I looked out the window: a mess of clouds. But I knew there was a shark-filled ocean below that I couldn’t see. Panic trickled down my spine and I suddenly realized that I had no idea how to use my seat cushion as a floatation device.

“The lady your pops is marrying – you like her?”

“Oh, right, sure, she’s nice. This is lucky number three for him, though, so we’re all keeping our fingers crossed,” I said. I hoped my sarcasm would satisfy him to silence for the rest of the flight as I laughed in the way that makes people uncomfortable, finally reaching for the safety manual to cap it off.

“Marriage is tough. But Anguilla – whoowee, that’s a nice place,” he said.

I stared out the window again and watched the wings shake as we plunged from the clouded darkness into a parade of lights. We were about to land when my stranger and I finally exchanged names.

“Ronnie—Ronnie James Dio,” he said, shaking my hand before we parted ways.

He seemed disappointed that I didn’t write it down or ask for an autograph.

He said to look for them when they came to a nearby city.

I said I would and knew I wouldn’t.

Blogony - From The Real Quinn

For months I've been agonizing over this blog: What will it be? What should I call it? What is the theme? Purpose? Direction?

I still can't really answer these questions. But I am okay with that. 'Quinnterruption' doesn't need to have an end goal, all it needs in order to exist are interruptions.

There will be a series of characters who will post on this blog. Of course, these characters are essentially me. These are the people who roam around in my head and interrupt my thoughts and scream at me to put them down on paper. (I realize this makes me sound schizophrenic, but I'm not. I'm just a writer. I think the two are commonly confused.)

Here are my momentary goals for Quinnterruption:

1.) Expect nothing (don't conform).
2.) Learn to see it for what it is (i.e., a place to write, freely).
3.) Write everyday (no excuses).
4.) Don't be serious (because, seriously, everyone else is).
5.) Enjoy it, you interrupting cow--Mooooooo!

Okay so there are five, well really four since number five was just filler, noncommittal, uncompromising goals that I can live with, at least until tomorrow.