Tag Archives: friendship

Too Charming for Myself

Last time the a/c technician came to the office, he kind of asked me for my phone number and i kind of said No.
Today he is here again and i think i made him cry.
I told him no one told me he was coming.
It is unnerving for a guy to just show up and want to come in, and i think he got sad.
I just passed him down the hall and gave him my best fake smile i have to offer.
Charmed, no doubt.

This morning i went to do ministry work which is done this way in my congregation:
Whoever is a member of that congregation or an active member of another congregation can meet at a set time at our hall.
In our hall it is only in the mornings and since i work most mornings and oversleep the other mornings, (without mentioning the mornings on which i do both), i tend to only make my own arrangements and go out in the evenings.
But i try to show up Fridays and Saturdays to the group meetings when i can.
Today only one brother was going out in the ministry.
He is a Vietnam Vet and has a lot of stories.
(We don’t go to war but that was before he studied the Bible).
He is retired and married but his wife died twice and the paramedics brought her back to life.
(“Oh Well,” he says).
Now she is overweight and can’t really walk anymore, so he is always alone or with this single younger brother who is a little socially awkward, but i’ll leave his stories for another day.
So this brother is from Central America and he’s always contrasting his childhood on a coffee farm with the time he spent in trenches in Vietnam.
Later in life he had other jobs, the last of which was a lawyer.
Today we were speaking with a genuine hippie, the kind you only find in Ojai, Seattle or Oregon.
Mr. Hippie owns a big property (big by California standards) and feeds wild animals from scraps he finds in the neighbors’ trash bins.
He bathes in the creek or ocean with his clothes on.
(Thank God).
I’m pretty sure he was stoned the whole time we were talking to him.
You see, people round here are not that nice.
But he invited us to take a seat and the brother i was with was telling him his war stories while a woman who rents a room on the property overheard and was visibly disgusted.
That is the problem with people round here.
No one wants to hear the truth.
They just want to paint butterflies on their walls and build water fountains out of rocks they find in their neighbor’s driveway.
Still, despite his probably being stoned, we had a good conversation about making conscientious use of the earth’s natural resources.
He pretty much thinks everything humans do is damaging and we are bound to destroy ourselves.
I tried to read him a couple verses from the Bible about the future but if you are a woman, perhaps you can relate to the following:
There is a point when a woman is having a conversation with a man when you know he is dismissing your opinions as not having any serious weight to them because he is seeing you as a sex object.
Confirmation of this suspicion came when he proceeded to ask me my age.
What the hell, you go talk to people about God and stuff and guy just wants to know if you’re young enough to bear his offspring.
Of course i only put two and two together because he held his gaze for too long.
I was uncomfortable but the brother i was with didn’t seem to notice and kept sharing war anecdotes.
I don’t mind that the brother strays off topic because i wonder what his mind would be like if he didn’t have anyone to share his traumas with.
He could be one of those homeless guys who heckle my friend and me at the park.
Vets have been through a lot and though i am opposed to war, they do not get the social help they need- that is more than obvious.

I am still adjusting to the local small town artsy culture there is here.
I still haven’t decided if i have any friends yet.
One sister whom i spend a lot of time with and yeah, she’s pretty cool, kind of keeps hinting that she wants to see my twitter account but i don’t think our relationship is there yet.
At least i’m not.
(My account is public but i dunno. It’s a big step).
There is a sister who i was getting along great with but last time i saw her she kind of got on my case about not meeting in the mornings and i am the kind of person that usually doesn’t reply… but the more i think about it, the more i wish i had said, “Uhm some of us have to work.” and possibly even be more insulting because she lives off a trust her husband has and he is a little bit disabled, and she doesn’t work because she has asthma.
I have asthma too but i work.
So it is just irritating when people pressure you to do more and you already feel like you’re doing the best you can and instead of asking how they can support you, they focus on what you can’t do.
Don’t get me wrong, i love everybody, at least in theory.
But when things like that happen i don’t have anyone that i can talk to about it because i am supposed to be this model minister who gives discreet answers to stoned hippies and doesn’t tell off the homeless guys who heckle her at the park, she doesn’t tell people to mind their own business when they ask about her personal schedule and she doesn’t talk about her bouts of depression because she is supposed to be always happy and smiling and encouraging and God i hate everyone, i swear everything i do is all out of love to God and no one else.

Advice on Befriending a Married Person of the Opposite Sex

If you are a married person,  don’t invite your spouse’s ex-BFF to dinner telling your spouse last minute when said ex-BFF has only kept in touch with you but ignored your spouse for the last five years.

And if you are the ex-BFF, don’t keep in touch with your ex-BFF’s spouse for five years after you called your then BFF to tell her she is a whining, self-serving hypocrite while she was at school and you’ve  made her cry in public and then ignored her for five years.

Just saying.

Are you an initiator?

Are you typically the person who initiates conversations, texts, relationships, sex, etc?

Or do you like to be on the receiving end?

Some of us don’t have much of a choice.

If we don’t initiate, we could go years without human contact.

I am not naturally an initiator.

Being shy and with low self-esteem my whole life,  I can think of a dozen reasons off the top of my head why someone would rather not be contacted by me.

But there are some people I’m willing to initiate for, because if I don’t,  I’m afraid I’ll lose them.

There comes a point, though, where I become exasperated.

I wind up at the corner market pigging out on chips and taramisu for lunch.

image
This is something I'm happy to initiate.

One recent example of said exasperation is my supposed BFF.
She got divorced in April but has been disconnected from me because she has been talking to this new guy I don’t approve of.
She’s never been a clingy friend, but it’s like she only calls when she has guy problems.
I told her I was buying a house in May and didn’t hear back from her til yesterday.
She only texted me because she’s depressed that she’s cut off contact with the new guy.
I see the pattern clearly now, though I ignored it for over the last five years.

I was arguably rude, I think,  cause after a few texts back and forth,  she didn’t reply.

Eh. I’m used to it.

But that’s not why I’m pigging out right now.

That’s because I just saw through my coworker.

She keeps asking me to move patients to an earlier time and then sabotages the schedule so I have to call them again and move them back to their original time.

I decided to take a long lunch and let her deal with her own mess for a change.

I don’t have sisters and was never really close to my cousins growing up,  so maybe that’s why I have trouble getting along with most women.

Not sure why I can’t get along with men, though.

That’s a whole ‘nother mystery for a different food binge.

Jazz Club

You, with your
Experimental martini
In your hands
While I pretend
I can finish my sssentence.
I guess it’s safe to say
We’re still friends.
That one guy
In the unbuttoned
Button-up shirt
Is too old for you
Anyway
“But maybe he’ll call,”
While the jazz ensemble
Plays
70s pop instead.
A blue light from the bar
Bounces off red glass rims
As we talk
Lessons in history
And I learn
What you really think of
‘People like me…’
Not that it makes a difference
On weekdays.
Thus, you cover my tab
And the jazz ensemble plays
On.
image

Unbeknownst Self

Another hard day draws to an end.
The typical night fog clouds up the stars.
Murky sky.
What have we done to the night sky.

I ended that with a period because it’s rhetorical.
Or it ought to be
You, the reader, ought to be meditating on your carbon footprint.
I’m trying to imply concepts but we each have to do our part.

Not that I personally have much of a part.
If I do, then I’ve forgotten my lines.

The neighbor has turned off their porch light making the sky less bright but still murky.

I sit in the car and stare at people walking their little dogs between the mobile homes.

When we had to move here in February, I practically threw tantrums on the floor every night.

I have a 1 hour commute to work Mon-Friday.

I never have time or energy to cook or do laundry.

Then I thought… I hardly ever did that before anyway.

Once I settled into the new routine it became less hard.
I gave up on trying to get to work on time.
I am not a morning person.
Never have been, never will be.
Lucky for me, neither is my boss.

I stopped trying to change myself to fit so many conventional norms.

I stopped talking back to narrow-minded idiots.

What difference does it make.

(Note the period?)

My car is cold.
The day wasn’t hard because of the commute.
My assistant I recently wrote about made a rude remark and it makes me sad.
She said, “You can’t just please yourself all the time.”
Her tone and words imply pleasing myself is all I ever do.
I want her fired.
She’s known me for years so it really hurt.

We’re not close friends but then again I’m not close friends with anyone.

Speaking of close friends, a little while ago, my husband and I were speaking with our loan broker, who happens to be the beautiful wife of my ex-best-guy friend.
He was my best-guy-friend until he broke the golden rule of guy-girl friendship.

After being close friends with each other for half our lives, he made disrespectful comments to me late last year.
He tried to get me to do something for his employer by hitting on me.
I don’t know him anymore.

My husband sought out his wife to see if we qualify for a house loan- which of course we shouldn’t- but being the creative persuasive woman that she is, she has helped us find a lender at a decent rate.

“Yes, yes,” you are thinking, “Blahblahblah but why are you in the car?”

Now you must know as well as I do that everything in this world has a catch.

The catch to this “let’s buy a house” project is that it’s really a duplex and I will have to live next to my in-laws forever, or the rest of my life, whichever ends first.

image

image

I’d be fooling myself if I told myself my husband wants to buy a house for us as a couple cause that is the normal way of couples who love each other.

Idk maybe I’m just cynical.
He wants to buy a house for his parents to retire.
I said “Ok but not your brother.”
His mom said, “Yes your brother.”
He said, “Oh well.”

Today is a hard day because he doesn’t hold my feelings or opinions in any regard.
I mean, he doesn’t even read anything I ever write.
I’m not writing this behind his back.
I’d be relieved if he read it.
But it hurts that he doesn’t really care.

Well he did bring me a quesadilla out to the car a few minutes ago but sometimes that’s just not enough.

My biggest problem is I can’t remember things.
Like I know he made me really sad the other day and I deleted his messages, but today I have no recollection of what happened.
I don’t understand- do I forget cause I love him?
Is that forgiving?
Am I really just pleasing myself all the time?

I miss my friend- the broker’s husband.
He’d let me rant on about this for hours.
His broker wife probably knows too many things about me.
She must know about my writing habits and my imaginary stalkers and how I was in love with someone else a while back.
It is awkward that she is helping us.
Or maybe…
Inadvertently, she’s not.

For just a few seconds, I caught a glimpse of the moon.

Cupid Fail and Other Stupid Things I’ve Done

Have you ever had a decent bachelor friend who is also the pickiest guy on earth?

Enter Brad.*

Brad and I used to work together at one of the car dealerships where I did stock photography.

He’s very upbeat and financially responsible, never married, not even engaged, lots of mostly short-term girlfriends, great sense of humor, and had recently quit smoking.

Brad was turning 50 and was thinking it might be time to settle down.

Guys were always picking on me at that job, where picking is synonymous with hitting on me.

Brad would come in like a pelican shoos away seagulls.

He practically obligated all the other guys to respect me on his watch.

So you’re thinking, Brad sounds like a fairly decent guy, right?

We exchanged guitar picks on one occasion; I gave him my business card and he started texting me.

I was naive enough back then to think he was just being his positive flirty self, but in time it became clear this man is very bed-driven.

And by bed-driven I don’t mean driven to sleep.

It was obvious our “friendship” made my husband uncomfortable.
‘All the more reason for me to continue it,’ I thought.

One day he broke off his lunch with me because this ‘woman from out of town was coming to visit’ and he’d rather spend the weekend with someone he had a chance with.

I got very offended.
It had been very hard for me to convince my husband to let us have lunch in the first place.
I was really putting my marriage on a ledge to be his friend and here he was being this insensitive asshole (well he was) indifferent to my efforts.

I didn’t care that Brad was having lunch with another woman, (which according to his public Facebook page, was actually a guy friend from out of town).
It was his choice of words that really hurt me.

Consequently, I also chose a series of words that would hurt him, and what he intended as a gag ended up being a sore point in our relationship- the Crossroad of Dissent.

Later on, at my current job, I had an annoying single female coworker (Gail*) whom I thought would make a great match for him.

I told them about each other and he asked for Gail’s picture.
I sent him a link to her Facebook profile.
“I don’t like blondes,” he said.

Days later- “What did he say about us having a blind date?” Gail asked me.

“You know, he’s really hard to get a hold of,” I replied.

Brad and I became friends again but not like before.
I was looking for a new job and seeing as how my other ex-coworkers have an undeniable linear pattern of sending my messages to spam, I needed him as a reference.
I decided to stay on his good side, sans the flirting.

Then my current coworker’s (Liz’s*) husband passed away.
A month later she started wondering what kind of guy she could date.
Yeah. You read right. A MONTH.
That’s how long it’s gonna take for your wife to start seeing other men if you kick the can.
So put a clause in your will.

Brad had told me he likes Latina brunettes with thin bodies, and here I knew one, who in turn likes well off white men who work out.

Logical match, right?

Liz texted me a nice picture of herself to forward to him.

image
My hot coworker Liz, new on the widow scene.

“I’m just not feeling it,” texted Brad to me.
“I want a woman like you.”

:0

“But Liz and I have tons in common!” I pleaded on her behalf, “She’s even sweeter than I am!”

“When have you ever been sweet?”

“Yeah you’re right. I was hoping you wouldn’t catch that.”

I tactfully texted Liz that Brad was seemingly already in love with another woman.

That was a few months ago.
I have since blocked Brad’s number.
Liz stopped talking to me because I technically took her job, though I would argue she conceded it to me.
Last week she apologized for “being a bitch,” -her words, not mine- and things are starting to go back to normal.
(With the exception that I’ll never trust another coworker again.)

Liz and I are both being sent away on a business trip for a few days to a city where Brad happens to have a lake house.
This morning, in a very perky voice, she asked me, “Hey! Doesn’t your friend live over there where we’re going?”

Me: “Oh you mean Brad? I blocked his number.”

Liz: “Too bad your husband’s going with you, otherwise you could meet up with him.”

Me: “That’s why I’m glad my husband is going. I was afraid I’d run into Brad and he’d start hitting on me. The guy just can’t take No for an answer.”

Liz: “I thought you said he was seeing someone.”

Me: “…He’s just an idiot. That’s why I blocked his number.”

(Facepalm.)

Yes, yes, dear, avid reader!
I’m also an idiot, for trying to set up anyone with anyone else.
I wish I knew a Shakespeare who could make a comedy out of my relationship mishaps.
This is the last time I ever try to play Cupid.
My next blog post will be, “Things That Are Better Left to Chance.”

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent. In this case, me.

how to meaningful conversation neighbor life on life support

How to Hold Meaningful Conversations with Neighbors on Life Support

Ms. Verla had a stroke on Monday.

Things didn’t look good for her.

She kept pulling at that tube that fed fiber up her nose and down into her stomach somewhere.

I asked her if she was comfortable.

She didn’t say nothing.

“Are you hungry?”

“Uh-huh.”

‘Got it,’ I thought to myself, ‘uh-huh means yes, awkward silence means no.’

“Have your sons come to see you?”

…Awkward silence.

“How long have you been here?”

…More awkward silence. Oh wait, that wasn’t a yes or no question.

Duh.

Well what was I supposed to ask a woman born 56 years before me, whom I had seen walking past my parents’ home my whole life pushing her grocery cart full of cans and glass, to make time pass more meaningfully for her?

I knew her name cause I gave her a ride to the recycling yard once.

Only took me about 27 years to get that close to her.

But Monday I was glad I hadn’t forgotten it.

How else could I have found her room at the hospital?

Strange… I thought at least one of her sons would have been there with her.

Later I asked my dad about it and he said the cops were chasing her sons down in the East-side.

Aside from age and socioeconomic differences, Ms. Verla is Black.

Gosh I hope the cops didn’t shoot her sons down, now that I think about it.

But that night at the hospital, when things didn’t look too good for her, the nurse came in and reprimanded her for pulling her tube five inches out.

Then some guys in the hallway radioed the technician responsible for putting tubes up noses for help.

As it turned out, her sons had requested she be taken off life support.

“Just leave her and see what happens,” said the radio call.

I stared out the door with my eyes wide open.

Ms. Verla couldn’t see me.

She ain’t seen nothing for about four months on account of her diabetes.

But her eyes looked pretty wide open also.

Hm.

The elderly are always more conscience than we think they are.

The food lady came rolling in a food tray for her.

“This is for him.”

“For her,” I said, consternated that her oddly-shaped, languid bulk of a body should be confused with that of the opposite sex.

“Hang in there,” I told her before leaving so the nurse could change out her linens.

…Next night, I expected the worst, but she looked much better.

The tubes had been doing her wrong.

“Hi Baby,” she said cheerfully when I told her it was me in the room.

That was what she always called me, long as I can remember.

“The doctors in the hall are really handsome, you’d like to see them,” I told her.

“Uh-huh!”

We both laughed.

“You’re not doing so bad anymore.”

I stood there for a while watching the clock.

Her sons weren’t there again.

Must be terribly boring lying in bed all day all by yourself unable to move or anything.

Or maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be in order to recover.

I dunno.

“You want me to read you the Bible?” I asked.

“Nn-mm.”

OK! no more awkward silences.

“You want to hear Amazing Grace?”

“Uh-huh.”

Took forever to load on the phone but once it started I could see the look of relief on her face.

Half way through it she held her hand out to me.

Did she want me to stop it?

“Do you want me to stop it?”

“Nn-mm.”

She held her hand out again.

Oh. Right. Hold hands.

I told her I’d be back in a couple days to see how she kept up.

When I came to the hospital, the young man at the reception desk told me she had been discharged.

“Do you know where to? I mean, I know you can’t tell me, it’s confidential, but I’ve known her my whole life, and I have no idea where they took her.”

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, “I don’t even have access to that information, and if I did, I would not be able to tell you.”

So just like that, Ms. Verla’s gone.

I always imagined myself writing her biography, interviewing her about the way life was in the deep south before civil rights and all that.

I guess it’s common to have regrets left over when long relationships draw to a close.

I’m glad, though, that she was our neighbor all those years, I’m glad she was a part of my life, and I’m so glad I went with her as far down the road as I could.

 

 

 

 

 

 

flash fiction by Ave Valencia

When Izzy Met Lizzy

Izabella, or Izzy, as her mom called her, had a way about her that instantly attracted people to her, old and young.
If she was going to the store, she would knock on her elderly neighbor’s house to see if she needed anything.
If she was going to the library, she would ask the little kids in the ghetto apartment complex if they wanted to go with her.
They’d always say yes, and off they went across the street like a trail of ducklings.
Her mom was a project manager and was always getting reassigned to different cities, ever since her parents divorced when she was six.
Izzy also attracted the wrong kind of people.
Society’s dregs.
Sometimes older men would offer to walk her places, and of course, being the sweet darling that she was, she’d say yes.
Her mom wasn’t aware of this, working 60+ hours a week as she did.
Sometimes older men would offer to buy her drinks.
And of course, she’d say “no,” but if they insisted a little, if they got her hung up on some silly personal story, then she’d walk into a food joint with them, and before she knew it, she’d had three or four drinks.
Then someone would text her, she’d look at the time, she’d excuse herself gracefully, or as gracefully as one can excuse one’s self in slurred language, and the guy would call her a cab.
Then one night the guy got in the cab with her.
She can’t remember how many she’d had to drink that night, or the guy’s name.
She’d seen him a few times at the library.
He seemed respectable enough.
Maybe 23? 25? years old.
He told her he was in college, but she can’t remember which one.
Anyway, that night was Izzy’s 16th birthday.
Her mom had called her a few hours earlier to cancel dinner plans.
Her dad hadn’t returned her voice mails.
Izzy could have been with her friends, but she felt frustrated.
She knew that soon her mom would get re-assigned to another city and once she left, all her friends could care less about her.
So she stayed up late drinking with this sort of stranger.
When they got out of the cab they had been making out for 15 straight minutes.
Izzy looked out the window as the guy paid the driver.
“This looks like my old house I used to live in when I was 12,” she said excitedly.
The guy got out and opened the door for her.
Izzy laughed.
“I don’t live here.”
“It’s alright. You can stay with me tonight.”
Izzy looked at her cell phone as if still expecting her dad to call back any second.
She frowned as she gave up on that idea and bounced out of the cab.
The following two weeks, Izzy was busy packing and she never ran into that guy again.

At Pine Valley High, Izzy had trouble making friends.
It was the middle of the school year and her cheerfulness seemed to rub people the wrong way.
It was too late to try to join any teams.
She was the only one in her class who had a driver’s license, since the state she was coming from had a lower age requisite to start driving than the one she was now living in.
Then there was Lizzy.
Lizzy was the quiet studious type.
Nothing in common with Izzy.
She had a relatively small group of friends and would often run into Izzy while walking home.
Izzy would offer her a ride.
On one occasion, Izzy told Lizzy she hadn’t gotten her period.
Lizzy gasped in disbelief.
“Do you think you’re pregnant?”
Izzy looked down embarrassed.
“Have you told your mom?”
“She’ll kill me,” said Izzy. “She’s been saving for me to go to college since I was five. No way in hell will she let me keep it.”
Lizzy started giggling.
“What’s so funny?” asked Izzy, annoyed.
“Your mom thinks you’re gonna get into college.”
Izzy floored the accelerator and turned the music up.
She got on the first on-ramp of the interstate south.
“Where are we going???” asked Lizzy.
“To find the guy.”
“Izzy, you don’t even know where this guy lives, let alone his name!”
“I know where he likes to eat.”
Lizzy turned the volume down.
“You’re gonna get me in trouble. Take me home.”
Izzy pulled over on the side of the freeway, got out of the car, and started kicking it.
She didn’t notice Lizzy was crying inside.
The sun was setting and Izzy’s rage seemed to fill the sky a fiery red.
Finally Lizzy got out of the car and yelled, “It’s OK! You’ll be alright! I’ll take care of you!”
Izzy turned around with drops of sweat glistening on her forehead.
She couldn’t believe Lizzy was willing to stick her neck out for her.
They had only known each other for a couple months.
Then she turned around and threw up.

Daily Prompt: Pick Me Up

I’m gonna try doing this from my phone…
It’s getting all foggy inside the comforter here.
Yesterday my friend texted me if I wanted to go to Starbucks with her cause they were having a 50% off sale.
That cheered me up though I couldn’t go since I was at work.
It also cheers me up when my husband says he’ll take me shopping, he’ll make me lunch, he’ll do the dishes, or he’ll stop by the grocery store.
When someone calls me “Mija” or “hija,” terms of endearment meaning “honey” or “daughter,” it warms my heart.
Not often someone will call me funny or an artist… I take both compliments quite seriously.
Just as long as they don’t call me a funny artist.
Also find it charming when someone asks how my cats are doing.
If I had to choose one it’d be when someone says, “I saw your pictures” or “read your poem.”
Some of these pick-me-ups sound a little self-centered.
Maybe next time I try to cheer someone up, I’ll just talk about me.
Response to wp daily prompt.

prompt du jour sticky chicky situation

Daily Prompt: Sticky Chicky Situation

I thought about this all yesterday and all yesternight and finally after much concentration was able to comb through the best of my memories to bring you this one n only true n sticky story:

A few years ago my husband and friends and I would take a lot of road trips in the Mexican state of Michoacán.
Now, if you don’t like to read the news, Michoacán is one of the worst Mexican crisis failed states due to drug trafficking.
The nucleus of the problem resides in the secluded hills surrounding Tierra Caliente, which translates as “Hot Land.”
Tierra Caliente is literally a vast desert region between the Sierra Madre forests and the Pacific Ocean.
The only way to get between the ranches in the secluded hills and civilization is by taking one of two roads- “La Libre,” non-toll road, or “la autopista,” a high-speed toll road.
We lived in Uruapan, (meaning ‘place full of green’ in Purepecha) which is a beautiful town with a National Park full of waterfalls right smack in the middle of it, two hours northeast of the desert.
We would all volunteer at least once a week to go visit deaf people in a city named Apatzingán, situated in the middle of this desert, often taking the “Libre” road to save money.
These roads have military checkpoints along the way because of the drug trafficking ordeal.

Ok, we are getting to the sticky part.
One of our friends had mentioned to an elderly woman in one of the towns that she was experiencing joint pains.
The elderly woman gave her a bottle full of marijuana leaves so she could use them as an ointment.
My friend in her (honest-to-God) innocence, (I don’t want to say naiveness), took the bottle in a gesture of politeness and didn’t think to ask what was inside it.
That week we had decided to stay at some friends’ house for a couple more days and while there our other friend got her period.
She had stuffed all her dirty laundry into her backpack.
Neither my husband nor I nor a third friend were aware of either of these situations.

We had been on the road for only a few minutes when we came upon a checkpoint.
We were accustomed to this and many of the soldiers were also accustomed to seeing us.
We all got off the car except my friend who had the bottle of weed.
My husband opened the trunk as they asked the typical questions:
Where are you from?
Why did you come here?
Where are you going? etc.
He pointed to the backpack and asked us to bring it out.
Our friend, the one on her period, grabbed her backpack full of dirty laundry and stood there hugging it.
The soldier gave her a suspicious look. “What you got in there?”
Friend: “Nothing.”
Soldier: “Let me see that.”
Friend: “No.”
Soldier: “Let me take a look.”
Friend: “No.”
Soldier: “I need to inspect it.”
Friend: “It doesn’t matter how many times you ask me, I’m not going to let you look inside my backpack.”
My husband and I stared in disbelief.
We didn’t know what was going on.
She was acting strange even by our standards.
Finally she managed to stare down the soldier, who I can only imagine must have had several sisters, and he retreated in his requests to invade her personal property.
Exasperated, they let us continue on on our trip.
When we boarded the car again, our other friend, lost in thought, said, “It’s a good thing they didn’t check my bag cause an old lady gave me one of those home-made-remedies.”

Response to WP Daily Prompt: Saved by the Bell