Java Dogs

It’s a beautiful Tuesday morning in early Fall. I wake up around 8 am, get dressed, and head out to my favorite coffee shop, “Java Dogs” before my first class. It’s located downtown across from the beautiful Cape Fear River. As I walk along the boardwalk the salty smell from the river and the fresh fallen leaves blowing in cool wind fills the air. It’s a comforting and familiar smell. The coffee shop is located in an old-fashioned historical building called The Cotton Exchange, along with other small businesses. This little coffee shop has been here for years and is well-known by locals in the area and adored by many. All their coffee is good if you ask me and they are very accommodating for those with allergies. I make my way up a small hill and enter the building then walk into the coffee shop. The shop is painted an olive green that clashes with the original brick wall that’s slightly exposed to the right when you walk in. The shop is filled with little kickbacks from tiny figurines from popular movies, from hand-carved sculptures of different kinds of boats. It also has photos of our small town, taken by local artists, that are climbing along the walls. It's busy, per normal. I get in line patiently waiting for my turn. All the baristas are kind and inviting, greeting me with a warm smile. I place my usual order, a small hot apple cider with one shot of brown cinnamon sugar. Next, I find a quiet corner on the long green beach to draw in, by the big window that acts as a whole wall facing the street out front. I pull out my old beaten-up sketchbook and a few different kinds of pencils, spreading them out on the small table. The atmosphere here is always upbeat, calm, and reassuring. I typically come here in between classes to do homework or just draw with nothing in particular in mind. I just sit back and let the inspiration flow.

I look around taking everything in. A good station on the radio is playing pop music softly in the background, the baristas are taking orders, grinding fresh coffee beans, and pressing them. All the coffee here is freshly made, with its own little coffee bar where you can hike and make your own little bag to take home. The smell of fresh hot coffee and baked goods fills the room. The woman sitting to my left is well dressed in a nice colorful blouse and nice jeans, she’s with her little white dog. She’s very cherry and nice, I’d say she’s in her early 60s. Her little dog walks across the bench and right up to me. The little dog’s big brown eyes are staring up at me and I know that it wants to be a pet. So I ask the woman if it’s okay to pet her dog and she says yes. The little dog's affection makes me smile, reminding me that my own dog is waiting for me at home. There’s an old man sitting by himself on the upstairs balcony reading the local paper while drinking his coffee. A mom and her two young sons walk in and wait in line. The boys are both happy and energetic, excited to get a sweet delicious treat from the bakery display. Once it’s their turn their mother orders a coffee and then asks what they would like. They look closely, giggling as they press their little faces against the glass. One boy asks for a chocolate chip muffin and the other asks for a glazed cinnamon bun. The boys do a little happy dance when they get their sweets and their mom finds a place for them to sit down. I then turn and look out the window as I sip on my drink. I like watching as people make their way across the street and walk in and out of shops. As I watch

everyone go by, I lose track of time. My hands guided my pencil along the page acting with a mind of their own drawing everything I see. I glance down at my stench book and over the last 30 minutes, my page is now full. Full of stenches of all the different people I’ve seen through this short time. On the single page, there are small caricatures each unique in their own way. The caricatures are showing their personalities through hair, clothing, and facial expressions. There are all kinds of different people, some small, some tall, round, or thin. Some are dressed in bright lively outfits, others in more dual casual clothing. I see people walking alone and in a group. Some are happy, others are sad, but most of the people I see are happy. It’s said that inspiration comes from the things around you, that speak to your very soul in a sense. I’d like to believe that it’s true.

The Child Is Grown

The old and dusty television connected to my boyfriend’s Xbox is blasting music as it always is. His playlist full of songs he associates with a time in his life when things were better, when he was on top, a time before he became the shell of a man that he has become. I am realizing I am becoming just like him, angry, hateful, and broken. I push those thoughts deep down as I approach the plate positioned on the TV stand. I stare down at the light brown powder some of it sticking together resembling tiny brown rocks. I pick up the ID and lighter and go to work carefully, covering the powder with the ID and using the butt of the lighter to push down harder crushing the powder into a fine dust. I then start separating it into small thin lines. I let out a breath as I pick up a trimmed down short straw bend down towards the plate connect straw to powder and snort it deep into my nose feeling it drip down my throat. I know that soon all my worries will disappear, and I will feel nothing at all. As I sit back down next to him the song “Comfortably Numb” by Pink Floyd starts to play. I closed my eyes drifting in and out listening to the intro and this song has never made more sense to me. I remember listening to this song as a teen and loving it but not understanding it. I was a good girl when I was a kid to most of my adulthood. I was too afraid to break rules. People knew me as kind, caring, honest and always trying to do the right thing. That girl is gone, and I don’t even know who she is now. Suddenly, I feel pain, an ache burning deep inside, an anguish too intense for me to handle as I mourn for the girl that I once was. “Apparently I haven’t done enough,” I think to myself. The drug calls to me “I can hear you’re feeling down/well I can ease your pain/and get you on your feet again.” Wait, is that the heroin or the song? I conclude it’s both as I am almost involuntarily drawn back to the plate. It feels like I am being drawn down to hell. I bend over the plate again. “This better take this feeling away this time.”

The song keeps playing. I listen but only some of it registers. I know the words already because I am living them. I no longer want to feel anything anymore. I don’t even want to exist. A year ago, I was a mom, a wife, a daughter, a coworker, and a friend and today I am a junkie, an addict, a loser, a liar, a thief, and a battered woman. How did this happen? I tune back into the song for some kind of answer but all it is telling me to do is keep going. “There is no pain you are receding/a distant ship, smoke on the horizon/you’re only coming through in waves.” It sounds great but they don’t tell you what happens when you come back to reality. How when the money and the drugs run out its just you with your thoughts and your guilt. How now you need it physically to function not just mentally to cope. They don’t tell you that when you run out you will be in pain from your head to your toes and that even your hair will hurt. They don’t tell you that you will run to the bathroom vomiting up your insides until there’s nothing left to get out. The emotional numbness ends and is replaced with self-hatred. The faces of everyone you are actively hurting while you have been chasing these drugs live in your mind and haunt you every second of every hour of every day until you get that next “high.” However, by now it’s not a “high” anymore you just try to get enough to be able to function again.

I snap out of those thoughts and walk back up to the plate again. I am resolved to drown out this voice in my head. I take in the last of it, sit back down and then “Finally!” The song continues: “Can you stand up/I do believe it’s working good/that will keep you going through the show/come on it’s time to go.” I realize I feel better now. Things might be okay. It’s not that bad. I need to stay in this state where I don’t care anymore. I can’t let that end. I feel no pain right now and no worries about tomorrow. I love this drug right now we are on good terms. I want to spend forever with this drug. How could I have ever doubted it? Why was I complaining? Yes, we have our problems, but things are good right now and that’s what matters.

Every part of me is buzzing and the song continues. “You’re only coming through in waves/your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying.” I know my boyfriend is yelling something at me, but I really don’t care. I don’t hear him. He is drowned out by the buzzing in my head. I am floating now. I move to the bed so I can hang on and I don’t float away. Then everything changes and I feel my arms getting heavy. I can’t keep my eyes open anymore and there are no more thoughts left to think. I don’t care that I used up the last of my drugs and tomorrow is going to be a miserable day. I also don’t care that my boyfriend is going to hurt me when he finds out. I am not worried about my perfect daughter who wants nothing more than to hear from me and for me to be the mom that I was before. A mom who read stories, played games, and comforted her when she was sick. A mom who hosted movie nights with just the two of us on special occasions with mountains of snacks and sugary drinks. A mom that loved her more than I did myself. It doesn’t matter that I have nothing anymore. I am fine, I am happy now. I may be hated by my family and friends, have no money or future, but I do have this good feeling now. And as I drift off to oblivion the song continues with its last words. “The child is grown/the dream is gone/I have become comfortably numb."

The Punisher

When I was in the fifth grade, I suffered the greatest injustice of my entire young life. In our elementary school, there were two fifth-grade classes. One was taught by Mrs. Watson, and the other, was taught by Mrs. Love. Lucky for me, I was placed in Mrs. Watson’s class, because Mrs. Love was not the epitome of her name. She was old, and harsh, and mean. Anytime she was around, I ran in the other direction because I was terrified of her, and her scary reputation.

Being placed in the other class with Mrs. Watson made it so much easier to avoid the old crotchety Mrs. Love. Luckily, I made it through most of the school year, rarely ever seeing her. Until the dreadful day arrived when our beloved Mrs. Watson was out sick. The school tried without success to wrangle up a substitute teacher for our class and when one was not found, the principal decided to combine the two fifth-grade classes. He sent all the students of Mrs. Watson’s class into Mrs. Love’s classroom. That included my terrified self.

With trembling knees, I entered Mrs. Love’s classroom, now filled with twenty-five extra desks. It was so crowded, there was barely room to walk. I made my way in and scanned the space looking for a seat in the back, far, far, away from Mrs. Love’s desk in the front of the classroom. Just before I was about to rush and grab one of the few leftover rear seats, I saw him.

Scott Wilmoth was sitting in the front row, right in front of Mrs. Love’s large teacher’s desk. He was her regular student and the biggest love of my life. Light brown hair, sea-green eyes, and a smile that made my heart beat so fast, I could barely breathe. The trouble was that Scott Wilmoth did not feel the same way about me. Yet still, I found myself floating on spindly ten-year-old legs, and taking a seat up front, right next to Scott.

Scott’s father and my father were really good friends. They rode horses together most weekends and loved to hang out just to chat. Often, I would ride along in the truck with my father, to see Mr. Wilmoth. My motivation, obviously, was to see Scott. The thing was, Scott was mean as a snake. He ran from me. He tortured me. He absolutely hated me. And he showed it. But that didn’t deter my star-stuck heart. I was in love, and no one could convince me that hateful boy was anything other than perfect. So, when the desk next to him was wide open, I faced my fear of Mrs. Love and glided into it. Scott’s facial expression soured as soon as he saw me, but I was smiling ear to ear. I was as close to him as I had ever been before, and to me, and that was a win.

Both classrooms followed the same learning schedule and on Wednesdays, we studied history. That particular day was our big chapter test. I was an all-A student and history was my favorite subject, so when Mrs. Love put the test papers on our desk, I wasn’t concerned at all. The answers came easily, and I finished the test quickly.

Scott was also smart and finished his almost as quickly as I did. No one was allowed to move until after everyone in the whole classroom completed their tests, so once we finished answering the questions. there was nothing to do. So, I decided to do what I always loved to do, and that was staring at Scott. My body was practically levitating with joy, as I gazed at his face. Several minutes passed and then I watched as Scott raised his hand. Mrs. Love had been focused on something at her desk but looked up as soon as Scott’s hand lifted.

“Yes, Scott?” Mrs. Love said, as her voice crackled through the entire room.

Scott turned and looked at me, a smile snaking across his face, and for just a moment, my little heart soared.

He smiled at me!

Scott turned back to Mrs. Love, and with complete conviction in his voice said,

“She cheated off my paper.”

And he was pointing straight at me.

The smile had been one of malice, not mutual love.

In horror, I shook my head. No, no! It wasn’t true! I had answered every question on my own. But Mrs. Love believed her own student. Not the stranger student from Mrs. Watson’s class. My body shook, as she stood from her desk, the metal chair scraping across the floor with a shriek. The entire classroom pulsed with anticipation, as she walked over to the wall and removed The Punisher.

The Punisher was an extra-large spanking paddle, a relic of the old days when Mrs. Love was a younger version of herself. It was worn and cracked with age, a lifeform in and of itself. Everyone in our school knew about Mrs. Love and her infamous paddle and no one, I mean no one, wanted to be on the receiving end of one of Mrs. Love’s paddlings. I had never been paddled by any teacher, for any reason, in all my years at school, so the absolute terror of Mrs. Love headed in my direction was straight from the page of a nightmare.

She lifted me from my desk, fingernails digging into my soft skin, as I looked back at Scott. He was smiling. Smiling at my fate and his win. And for me, I was heartbroken. He had not only lied about me cheating, but he had betrayed my love.

I protested and defended my honor, but Mrs. Love wouldn’t hear a word of it. She dragged me out into the hallway, closing the classroom door with a thud. Her wrinkled face was uglier than usual, as she lifted the paddle to swing. I tried to run but didn’t make it far. She was pretty agile for an old lady. She paddled me, long and hard. Fifteen swipes to be exact. I screamed and I cried for my justice, as the swipes glanced my behind, bruising me, over and over. After the paddling was finished, I told her, barely able to breathe from my sobs, that I didn’t cheat off his paper. I told her to ask Mrs. Watson about my grades. I didn’t need Scott Wilmoth’s answers. She didn’t listen and she didn’t care.

I followed her back into the classroom and slid into my seat, as she hung the Punisher back on the wall. I looked over at Scott, my body still heaving with tears, and my bottom bruised. He wouldn’t look in my direction. I tried to tell myself that he felt guilty, but deep down inside, I knew he didn’t.

I never received vindication for my injustice. I told my parents. I even told my teacher, Mrs. Watson. As far as I could see, nothing had ever been done. I never received an apology for the wrong that had been done against me. And as for my love for Scott Wilmoth, who died that day in the hallway, as the Punisher made contact with my behind. I never looked in his direction ever again. And every other boy, from that day forward, had to earn my endearing gazes and undying love. So, you could say, that Scott Wilmoth and Mrs. Love, in the end, both gave me a gift. The gift of The Punisher helped me see what was really there, rather than what I wanted things to be.