Unwelcome Attention by Pamela Papas

Unwelcome Attention

The fan in the living room
Oscillates loudly
As I sit
Left knee swollen up on a pillow
On the sofa
Trying to read, get comfortable
Hard to bounce up
And walk, or drive or run to the telephone

The first of three knee surgeries
Each one with many stitches
Many weeks on crutches
Those hated ugly walking sticks
Useful only as partial help
Useful only in attracting stupid questions
How did you do that? What happened?
Tired of repeating the same silly story
Of my own clumsiness
In a sociable tone of voice

I’d rather pour a pot
Of hot chocolate on
Someone’s head
Let it trickle slowly
Onto their hair
Then onto their shirt (or blouse)
Hands, pants, shoes

I silently limp away
Crutches making their
Squish noise
On the tile floor.

Pamela Papas
Oct. 2011

Bottom Dwelling by Pamela Papas

Bottom Dwelling events of my life

Parents arguing
Me in back seat of the car
Alone
Stop bickering please
Even at this age it’s bad
Am dropped off at the airport terminal
Their voices acrimonious still in my head.
I am 49 years old now, old enough to…..what?
Not let it bother me?
Be able to maintain serenity in the midst of constant family quarrels and chaos?

I walk to Southwest airlines
Oh, I should mention I had flown to see my parents shortly after 9-11
Shortly after a massive layoff
Shortly after a bizarre school reunion

No matter
I walk to Southwest airlines gate to fly back to San Francisco

I get in line, wait
A male flight attendant tells me “you’re in the wrong line, you’ll have to get in that one”
He points to my right, a line that snakes forever.

Something snaps
I dive under the rope, and tell him to his face “Fuck you”
And tromp down to board the plane
Almost get inside
When men, five, six of them,
Yell at me to step back
They’ll call the police
Where’s my ID
Tall big men surrounding me
Yelling

I am not allowed on the plane
My luggage leaves without me
I’m to catch the next plane as punishment.

I go to another gate. Sit down. Begin to cry

“Are you alright?” a lovely Indian woman next to me asks.

Words are insufficient. All my life I’ve swallowed my rage, anger
And now when I do assert myself
It’s at an airport
In front of strangers
Shortly after 9-11
Brilliant
What was I thinking?

Other bottom dwelling events in my life…

Took a statewide licensing exam – numerous times – to fail by a hair
I didn’t want to work in that profession anyway
But beat that dead horse was all I was capable of
At the time
Family pressure does that

Just moved to a new place – the San Francisco Bay Area
To start a new life with a new job
Four months into the job there is an accident at work
Someone’s dog clips me
My kneecap breaks, I fall down.

You know, writing about hitting bottom, I think I don’t want to do this
Why?
“Smile” says our American culture
“The past is ashes” say the self-help gurus on the Huffington Post
“Who gives a rat’s ass?” say the late night comedians.

So why do I listen to them? Fear, I think.
Deep down, inside out fear. Black, it’s just black down there
Maybe drop down and pretend I’m Alice in Wonderland a big black hole, the Mad Hatter, the Unbirthday party, the Cheshire cat.

Couped in a hotel room with my mother in Chicago
for a cousin’s wedding
After three days I fly back to San Francisco, climb down from the plane and cry nonstop for one day? Two? I can’t remember.
The worst kind of jail, that, sharing a hotel room with my mother.

Pamela Papas, September 2011