anti:freeze

This week has been intense, but I am still here. Thanks for all the sweet emails.

I have been re-reading The Secret History by Donna Tartt, working on some nascent essays, reading testimony from criminal trials, and firing off letters to my student loan servicers, who seem entirely incapable of processing my loan consolidation checks. Sigh. Sometimes the website finishes last.

But I am heading out to write today and will post here later when I return.

I. The track at my elementary school was painted on the grass.

Every spring, Mr. _____ emerged from the gymnasium pushing a man-powered lawn sprayer, chomping a hard wad of gum (as always), and smirking (as always). He was enormous - at least seven feet tall - with bulging biceps, a permanently twisted mouth, and a blonde bowl haircut that skimmed the top of his ears. A cross between Pete Rose, a German military officer, and a cartoon superhero. The scene would have been funny - his massive, action-hero body stooped over a toy-sized machine - if we didn't know what was coming. The painting of the track meant only one thing: gym class was about to get brutal.

We all remembered the time Mr. ______ pushed a third-grader into a brick wall, calling him names, threatening to fail him - all because the kid collapsed after a race. (Never mind he was diabetic, and his blood sugar had plummeted dangerously low.)

Or the time he forced me to run extra laps because I dared present a doctor's note excusing me from activity for the day. (I was recovering from a lung infection.)

I used to love the idea of track lanes washing away in the rain. Or blades of grass trimmed shorter and shorter, until only the tips were still white: dyed hair with the roots showing. Later, I thought Mr. ________ must have loved the power of impermanent paint, measuring lengths and dividing lanes to his own mean specifications. Changing them season after season. (Now, I understand the power inherent in strict standards of measurement, precision the body can never match. I bet that track was exactly the same every year.)

I grew up to become a serious runner. Every time I ran past the elementary school playground, I was tempted to dart across the grass and look for the faded paint. But I resisted. I was running outside the lines, and I loved it.

Dear Readers,

I have been remiss.

Believe me, I have been writing without rest all this past week. Just not the kind of writing you expect on anti:freeze. Angry letters, Better Business Bureau complaints, a formal Attorney General complaint, ITS letters. All quite interesting to write, but I doubt anyone wants to read them. (Or am I wrong?)

In the past week, I have incinerated four inaccurate tradelines on my credit reports, cancelled a contract due to gross misrepresentations by the other party, discovered that someone has forged my signature onto a bank draft authorization (and contacted a lawyer about said forgery), and written a complaint to file with my bank, to stop the fraudulent bank drafts from processing. Hell of a week.

On top of all this, my father remains very sick in a hospital in Iowa. He was released from Intensive Care and moved to the Cardiac unit, although his original check-in was for exploratory surgery of the abdomen. Long story.

See ya before the holiday. I promise.

The sixth-grade restrooms at Hiawatha Elementary were designed on an open plan. No main door, no locks, only a shoulder-high brick wall for minimal privacy. Anyone could watch as kids scrubbed their hands, picked at their braces, or tossed wads of tissue into the trash - a sure sign some poor girl had started her period. Even the bathroom stalls were strangely open, with doors so short you could peek over the top without even trying (and so high you could count scrapes and bruises on exposed knees, simply by glancing up as you waited).

Worst of all: the community sink. It was round, with a foot pedal to turn on the spray. The idea was to encourage community, but in reality, it tempted the darker, nastier corners of the little-girl soul. _______ has AIDS, so don't touch the sink! Quick, lock arms so ________ can't wash her hands. Psst, splash _________ on the count of three. One, two, three!

Did I mention there were no trash receptacles inside the stalls? If you were unlucky enough to have your first period before the end of 6th grade, everybody knew. No matter how long you waited for the bathroom to empty out. No matter how well you concealed the tampon or pad as you carried it out to the trash. No matter how well you kept secrets. Everybody knew. By lunch or recess, you were famous.