History Wrestling 

So this is what it's like: the third of July. One day till the big bang.  One day till it all goes up in smoke.  At this part of the thumb, I’m guessingin a not so Cheech and Chong kinda way. This town is a slice of Americana.

Here I am, my first big stay off the coast of thegreat Lake Huron--my grand entrance in the Pirate Queen’s homestead. It's allforeign to me; I might as well be Canadian.  Oh wait, that’s just outside my porta-potty booth and acrossthe water.

Right now I'm potty peering through the air ventover the toilet. I can’t see much through the meshed aluminum, but I can see thePirate Queen and an ex beau.  At least I think that's an ex beau. He’s aguy she knew. He's now her past who is currently running to represent thelollipop guild of the future.

“But we’ve got to verify it legally.”

I’m just the guy who’d like to plant my outhouse onhis head. The ruby studded Rolex on his wrist protruding through the pile of—uhm…thebottom of the house.

So far the pirate queen is hearing out his plank.She hasn't asked him to walk, yet. He had a foot in the door once.  What about now? Where does he stand?

I'm pushing my nose to the grill; mesh pocks mottlemy face like mini mosquito landing zones, my knees straddling the abyss of bluefluid and john flotsam.  She's listening intently as he talks up thebenefits of wind power. He’s going green.

Me too.

This dude is a stud. He's got the wrap aroundshades and sweats smarm to anoint the heathen masses. Is he glowing? I thinkso. I don't know.  I've got a beer.  Is that enough?

It's not just him; it's everything. I'm black andwhite Dorothy from California. What's that worth? I've heard everything aboutthe rich Technicolor land of my pirate’s history, about everything she'sleaving behind. She's even comparing family tree branches with a coworker ofher brothers. He's here. He knows the lay of the land. I'm uprooting a localgirl.

I want to make her at home, but I'm not of thisplace. They don’t take kindly of that in these here parts—and yet her familyhas accepted me with open arms. 

So, is the crapper between my legs half empty orhalf full? Am I just over exaggerating things?  Of course I am! You’ve read my posts! You know I’m the outhouse on poo corner blogger.

“Tut, tut, looks like rain.”

So what is my problem this time? Is it melancholy?Is it the moonshine her brother gave me? Is it the fumes coming up from thisstink hole beneath me? I don’t know. I do know I can’t stall here much longer.I feel ridiculous.

From my vantage point, I can see many things. WhatI can’t see is where I fit into this picture. Strangely enough, by itself, thatdoesn’t bother me. Like I said, this is herpast.  That’s not me.

Am I her future?  I can’t see that. Maybe that’s part of it.  I see how happy she is here. I’d liketo be something that happy in her life. I wanna be ice cream cone and fireworkson the fourth of July. For now, I’m the kiss and hug in her present and thatneeds to be enough.

She took a picture of some other guy she wastalking to. He seemed fun. I don’t know what platform he was standing on, buthe wasn’t running for office.  Iwonder if he’s looking for something else.

Later, when she flips through her camera’srepository, she doesn’t even remember who he was. He didn’t make a big impressionon her past, present or future. I think I can climb down from my high whineyhorse. She took a picture of me earlier and I watched her smile.

“I’m melting!”

The reality--and I recognize that, even as I lookfor a way back to the floor—is that I don’t know what’s beyond the now.  I have a history too. I have my happyplace, but I also have my history of failed relationships.  They’re no better or worse than anybodyelse’s, except mine have left me a little insecure.

In my history, I’ve seen people get close andleave.  I won’t forget it, and yetwhy do I still feel so damned to repeat it? I’m still a little panicky. I’m notworried, per se, this is not my first house crashing. Still, Dorothy woke upwith a new resolve from her Emerald city stay; what will I gain from my TidyBowl blues?

The real question I keep avoiding is, “Am I havingfun?” Well not inside this toilet, no, but I do enjoy the Pirate’s company, andI do like this place she’s called home. So why can’t I stop overanalyzingeverything and just have fun?

I resolve to do just that. I step down from mythrone, and go out to greet my queen.

“Where were you?” She asks when I return, “I wasworried—what happened to your face and why is your leg wet and blue?”

“I was mauled by venomous Smurfs.” I lie.  I’d rather leave the real story as partof my past.