That sounds like a type of fish, doesn't it? I assure you, it's not. Wait- lest I prematurely reassure- let me look that up real quick- I'm right. It's not. I'll tell you what it is though.
Yesterday was Ali Thibodeau's birthday. Because she is a beautiful and creative spirit, she decided she would like to spend part of that day with friends at the river painting. I am included.
I am included because Ali and I are friends. We have been friends for many years. We got to know each other playing two sets of sisters- one set who wore petticoats and ate Mallomars by a fireplace and pretended not to hear Tom whispering in monster voices through a hole in the wall, and one set who frisked around the Jamestown settlement in buckskin mini-dresses and were secretly suspicious of each other.
Once upon a time one of those big theaters downtown did a production of "Pocahontas." I was assistant stage managing the show because I like sneaking around in the dark wearing all black and having the power to give people orders. I was familiar with everyone in the cast with the exception of this tall brown haired girl who could sing like an angel. I accost Chase halfway up the house left aisle during rehearsal one night and demand more information. He fills me in, I discover Ali is a very friendly girl, and so we become acquaintances. Our relationship- as she will tell you- consisted of her passing by en route to make entrances and saying hello to me as I sat in the floor in my black clothes and glasses reading a book and ignoring everyone.
One day, the leading lady of our production is stricken with a nasty back injury. Back injuries are awful. My mother suffered a back injury when I was about six years old and I distinctly remember feeling terrified that nothing would ever again be OK. This is not to say my mother did not handle this like a champ. This is to say that back injuries will knock you out and I was a six year old with a touch of dramatic flair who would've wailed and rent my garments had she come down with a hangnail.
That said, due to this back injury, our leading lady had to take a weekend off from Poking her Hontas.
The theater definitely didn't want to cancel any shows, but what to do?
Well, after I'd finished whatever book I'd been reading, I'd resorted to watching the show during performances and was fairly confident I could do it. I trot over to find Chase at the offices and tell him my idea. He is dubious. The next show is in three hours.
I love adrenaline.
It goes off well. High points were getting to wear the softest dress I've ever worn and pretending to pass gracefully away of a terrible fever under the loving and concerned gaze of Richard Koch.*
All this to say- no one was more surprised than Ali Thibodeau when she walked out onstage to do her Act I number and saw me standing boldly atop a fake boulder in full Disney Princess regalia ready for the first scene.
Friends ever since. And I'm so glad.
So the river is high right now. Yesterday especially. We're all sensibly clad for the river- rubber shoes, bathing suits- my giant Kentucky Derby wide-brimmed sun bonnet the one exception. We paint and eat cherries and talk about having siblings. Lucy nibbles on gigantic sheets of seaweed. I get up to rinse my paintbrush in the water and fall right in. I am not surprised. I am by no means Princess Grace of the rapids.** My hat, I am happy to report, had been left smartly back on my pizza backpack, but as I emerge dripping and giggling, I discover all my limbs and my skirt covered in mud. My knee is covered in blood and mud, but the injury regrettably isn't impressive enough to photograph. My charming little sailor-themed bathing suit seems to have escaped the mud, I am thinking, and sit down merrily to continue with my portraiture. An hour passes. I reach over to get a new brush notice my upper right chest feels very stiff. I look down. Entirely covered in bright brown mud is my bathing suit over my right boob. Caked on. Like a mud mask. Stiff and crusty. So, I again place my hat safely on my pizza backpack and return carefully to the water. I sit on a rock and dip my front into the river over and over again. A boy and a girl who have been sunning themselves near us for the past half hour watch unabashedly the entire time. I guess I can't blame them- the physical motion I was repeating is one I don't think I've ever seen performed, but still. They weren't even pretending not to stare. I felt like a display otter.
After the river I take a nap, and then put on some sequins to go continue the birthday festivities at Max's downtown. Matt Shofner is there- we have a passionate conversation about She-Ra and make very special faces at Ali's complimentary cup of birthday pudding before I decide to leave.
I am alerted via text that Mr. Paul is currently chilling with the Rogers-Framer's and that I should come by. I do. I love their house. And they're pretty great as well. I know they're hanging out on the back patio because of Tim Framer's unfailingly vigilant selfie postage. So I go round back. Georgia and Tim have a big white fence which is much taller than I between their driveway and the alley. Knowing they know I'm coming, I poke as much of my face as I can through the shadowy gap in the fence. I can see Mr. Paul and Georgia on the porch. I say, "I have come over."
Georgia's face falls into a look of horror. I grin. She's funny. But as seconds pass, I notice neither she or Mr. Paul is moving from their chairs to let me in. Both just staring. This must be a fence I can open myself. I scrabble with the latch and push on the gate. It scrapes along the pavement but doesn't unhook. I peer back through the fence. They are unmoving. Looks of horror firmly in place. I grin. "I can see your faces," I say.
Still no one moves. This is getting weird.....suddenly Georgia starts from her chair and begins to call for Tim. Mr. Paul leaps up and starts down the porch stairs toward the fence. "It's Audra!" he says, chuckling. Georgia gasps and sinks back into her chair. "Audra!" she shouts across the yard, "I thought you were a crack whore!!!" ***
I am given a tour of the basement- which is gonna be sick for parties, and we eat pizza and stromboli.
Great friends. Bloody knee.
Good day.
*Loving and concerned: Trying not to laugh and wishing his character could've passed away instead so he could have had the opportunity to write secret messages on his eyelids for his scene partner to read as he/she is supposed to be standing in reverent silence over the body of the recently deceased.
**One time, my friend Sam and I actually thought we might die in these rapids. Which is notable mostly because at the time, we were standing in maybe six inches of water.
***Upon viewing the gate from the vantage point of the porch (it's bathed in shadow and even my whole nose through the crack would not have been enough physical info for a solid ID), and knowing now that Georgia was not in fact informed I was coming over, I can see why this makes sense. And a crack whore pressing her face against your fence late at night and saying things like, "I have come over" and "I can see your faces" is probably not soothing.
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