Ambivalent Amphibian

After a vacation last spring, I returned to my New York apartment and found my towel, “Stripes,” missing. Fortunately, I had another and was able to dry myself after my regular morning shower. I searched high and low for Stripes. I was 30 minutes late to work because of my feverish search. I thought about Stripes all day. I returned home from work and began searching other rooms in my apartment. I found Stripes in my Hispanic, bi-sexual roommates' room, which he shared with a married man. Stripes was draped over a chair. “How did you get here, Stripes?” I asked myself.

I confronted Bi-Man. He denied taking Stripes. “This is my towel,” he said. I questioned him more. I asked for Stripe’s age, gender, height, and weight. Of course, Bi-Man failed my quiz and finally admitted to stealing my towel friend. I asked him to wash it and return it promptly. He refused. “I’ll just buy you a new one,” he said. Stripes must have grown on him as he did me. I hesitantly agreed. Weeks later, I was still Stripe stripped. So like the salamander he is, I entered his ambiguous room and stole my stolen towel. I hid Stripes in a safe place in my room. The next morning, I confronted Bi-Man as he opened the bathroom door after his morning shower. He stood in his underwear—dripping wet. It was the very same night that he bought me a new nameless towel.

Bi-Man also put a hole in my air mattress, “Betty.” She was a tall queen and so comfortable to sleep with. I noticed she was blowing air the moment I laid down to sleep. You see, Bi-Man stayed in my room while I was gone. I confronted him. He, of course, had no recollection of what happened. “It wasn’t losing air for me,” he said. After more questioning, he finally admitted to the problem. While I was away, Bi-Man stole my friend, Stripes, and burst Betty’s self-esteem! This time, however, he did not offer to remedy the problem.

I don’t have a problem with Bi-Man’s sexuality—it’s his morals that bother me.

All Aboard

Sitting on the train, I feel like a science project, a Petri dish prisoner—trapped inside a cell with protons, neutrons and electrons. It’s quiet except for technology and two women speaking at the end of the car, their conversation too faint to distinguish. But the train, the train speaks to me.

Grand Central, organized cell structures stuffed inside, a pregnant woman enters. Hundreds of eyes fix to her belly. The first sitting eyes to meet hers lose. An Asian man stands and the black woman sits next to me. A Hispanic woman nearby sneezes. A culture sandwich, I begin to culture. The conductor observes, takes notes, removes and adds more subatomic parts.

59th Street, his experiment slowly darkening. An Indian man and I bump toes. Our eyes meet to apologize and return downward quickly. The black marble-speckled floor causes me to wonder what times like this would be like if children were taught to talk to strangers. I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think, I think. Instead, most of the cell’s occupants find ways to fight the silence—pretend sleep, MP3 player, newspaper, book, portable video device, laptop, portable gaming device, so on.

A panther in the corner reads the Koran. Kittens next to him close their eyes. A tall, slender cougar stands near the door wearing four-inch heels and a short, tight skirt. Her golden hair waves in the air-conditioned wind. It’s 90 degrees outside but a bit nippy inside the cell. For a moment I’m no longer trapped. My vision blurs. I’m somewhere free—free inside of her … until my eyes focus again.

A child is holding something in a McDonald’s bag and I smell syrup. I long for the days when Mom made waffles for breakfast. A gold wrist watch flashes in the dim light. The man’s diamond studs overtake the watch, and I notice his attire. Here’s a guy that can’t let go of his Ecko, I think, 86th Street.

My skin tightens, my hair is on end, and I’m standing now, encircled by five, no six, wait, seven people that are actually touching me. Now I’m a culture donut, I think. I hear dialogue. It’s rap. I hear someone’s music. I hear religious banter. People talk to themselves, to no one, to everyone, but rarely to someone.

125th Street, I emerge from the snake’s underbelly and the carbon train is broken. I collide with hundreds of electrons on my walk home. Finally, I can rest in my personal nucleus. Soon, a family will complete my cell and the experiment will be complete. Well, until the conductor observes, takes notes, and removes and adds more subatomic parts.

Mickey Mouse Sins, Too III

News Flash: The flyer has been released to the general population. I've included the email. Again, I have altered names to protect reputations.

Dear Fundamentalists,
Attached is the flyer for the Halloween activity. Thanks to Mickey for making it for us! Please distribute it in your buildings, hang it on bulletin boards, print out small copies to pass out with the program in your wards on Sunday. Also, have it posted in your ward emails and announced verbally in the meetings. Remember - if you are the only rep in your ward and you don't get the word out, nobody does.
Thanks!!
Molly

Seems fine and dandy ... BUT the flyer was altered.

• Young Single Adults and Single Adults were exclusively invited.
  
• Baby Hitler was removed,
• This line was added, "Also, keep costumes free of blood and gore and NO CROSS-DRESSING!"