hot coffee girl

I have been going back over some of my "stuff" hoping to find clues about what brought me here as Friday approaches. There were certainly darker time in my life, to be sure. I left a marriage and, essentially, a life, in hopes that I could try to become who I really am supposed to be. What follows is an older piece that I wrote before I moved here to Tremont in July.

........

I spent the better part of my morning taking a knife to the wall.

An odd thing to do, I know, but allow me to explain.

I was skulking around my office, which happens to be connected to my apartment, looking for something to do that didn't involve the project that I was supposed to be finishing for an all-too-looming deadline.

I wandered into my photography studio, and was immediately convinced that I just HAD to take all of the pictures down off the wall to dust them. As any good procrastinator knows, cleaning is always an excellent way to put off what you are really supposed to be doing. Unless, of course, you are supposed to be cleaning…that would make the procrastination less effective, I suppose.

Nevertheless, there I was in the studio, frantically ripping frames off of the wall to dust them. In my haste, I caught one of the nails in the frame it was hanging on, and tore away a small chip of paint on the wall. This wasn’t of terrible distress to me as the wall was already in a manner of disarray. I live in a very old apartment, I must tell you. And while there is a certain charm to the steam radiator and piping that runs the length of all 2000+ square feet of the place I now call home and work…it doesn’t come without it’s own set of challenges aesthetically. There is paint peeling everywhere, uneven walls and seams, and a tiny, ill-conceived bathroom that I won’t even attempt to describe at this point in my story. To sum it up, the place has a LOT of character.

So the paint chip wasn’t an issue. Until I caught a glimpse of what was underneath. I think I had assumed that the crappy brown latex paint was put directly over the drywall when some brilliant realtor decided to break up the space into more defined areas. Yet, that was not the case.

Instead, the show of a muted pink that caught my eye told me that there was more below. I picked at it a bit with my fingernail to reveal that there were, indeed, more layers between the paint and the wall. I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a small pairing knife (at this point I hadn’t intended to do anything that couldn’t be covered back up by the frame), and returned to the mark. I carefully slid the knife under the paint and peeled a small portion of it away, revealing a mauve and cream design that looked like it could be a flower of some sort.

This is the point where I went too far. I forgot about the frame that I had to hang back up, and slid my knife further. I tore away a chunk of the paint that was more substantial than the one inch chip I had started with. Underneath the paint was wallpaper that was probably lovely at one time. It was a Victorian kind of design: an oval with a tree inside flanked by ornate scrolls and flowers. Although the age of the wall, the manner in which the decorator covered over it, and my crude method of tearing through the layers rendered the paper useless in terms of saving for a more pleasing alternative to the brown paint, I kept going. I lost myself for nearly an hour in my new quest. As I slid the knife between the paint and the paper, I would sometimes pull away pieces as larges as three or four inches, sometimes only little chips as before.

Because that kind of work is somewhat mindless, I started to think about what brought me to this apartment in the first place. About four months earlier, I had discovered that I didn’t like where my life was going. I was married to a man who didn’t really know me, I lived in a non-descript, uninteresting apartment in a city I hated, and I had the vague notion that I was becoming complacent and despondent in my every day life. I hated the feeling that my life was becoming pabulum…and I found the will to pick up and leave. I wanted something more for myself-for my life-than watching TV every night after work and eating at chain restaurants every weekend.

So I came here. To this space, in the town I grew up. To start over, maybe. Or to start again. Or to nurture that niggling little spark that told me to be something bigger and better than what I was allowing myself to become. And to tear at the parts of me that I had tucked away for too long to find out why and how I got to this point. I was tearing at the wall with the knife on the outside, sand tearing at my own walls on the inside.

And then something unexpected happened.

The wall changed.

As I cut away the pieces, there was less of that wallpaper I originally found and more of just the wall itself. Now, if I were more versed in carpentry or interior design, I might be able to identify what exactly happened to that point…maybe the painter decided to use a different method halfway through the project that fused the paper to the paint better. Maybe age and sunlight from the 13 foot long window had hit that spot just right to cause it to meld together somehow. Maybe the painter had ripped away the original paper on the majority of the wall, but got tired or lazy towards the end, and just painted over the small strip of paper that flushed against the door frame for me to uncover mostly by accident some years later. Whatever it was, I knew it had changed, and somehow my story would too. I stood there for what seemed like a very long time and just looked at the layers that were exposed now.

I wondered who had put up the wallpaper to begin with. I know precious little about the tenants that preceded me in this space. I do suspect that it was used as an office for a time, judging by the hideous drop ceiling panels that scream ‘70’s corporate. I know the building itself was constructed in 1889 because there is a section of the original wall exposed in the living room that has the carpenter’s writing on it. I also know that this small town has seen a number of changes over the years, and that somehow it has stayed remarkably in tact as a cute, charming little place to raise children and visit with your neighbors. But I wondered who put that pink Victorian wallpaper up on those walls to begin with….what they thought when it was done. If they sat in that room and looked out the window at people passing by while they drank brandy after dinner. Maybe they talked and fought and loved and cried in that room, surrounded by muted pinks and cream flowers.

And then, tired of standing, I sat down at the base of the wall and rested for a moment.

And I found something else.

In the chips and pieces that were lying there on the carpet next to me, I found something that didn’t fit with what I had been pulling away. Hidden between the paint and the paper was another layer of paper that was entirely different. It was a more modern, swirly kind of pattern that had been put up over the first covering. I turned the piece over in my hands, overwhelmed at the find. Although insignificant at first blush, I realized how much work I had to do of my own. I know that there are so many layers I need to tear away to get to the bare walls of my own psyche. Sometimes I will tear so hard that I will expose myself all the way down to the studs, other times I will be more ginger in my efforts, taking care to separate each layer to see how they went together. In any case, I sat there on my floor, tears streaming down my face, realizing that the wall, my morning, my life had changed somehow.

I remembered the project that needed to be finished. I looked at the dirt that had gotten wedged under my nails, and wiped the tears from my face with my dirty hands. I got up and started to clean up the mess I had made. I put the pieces in a box that was to go out with the trash. I swept the floor of the smaller flakes that I could get up more easily with the vacuum cleaner. I was putting things back in order.

But I took care to save a few of the pieces that showed the sections of what were underneath and on top. I will put those chips in a frame – the only frame – that I will hang back up on that wall. To remember.

And about the wall itself? I am going to leave it as it is right now for a time. Chipped, exposed, messy, and incomplete. I realize that before I move out of here, I should probably tear all of the layers off and put something more traditionally appealing up there for the next person that lives here.

I now suspect that when that happens, I will have torn apart my own layers and be ready to wear my own new covering and face the world in a different light. I am not sure what paint I will choose, but I am sure it will be beautiful.

Although in the meantime, I think the layers are quite something to look at, too.

It's not just happenstance that I am posting this morning...I was shamed into it. Yeah, you know who you are. You are more prolific, funnier, and I laughed my ass off on more than one occasion. (Don't worry-there's plenty still left to sit on.)

But you have youth on your side.

I am turning 34 on Friday-did I tell you that? No, I'm sure that I didn't. So, I am doing that thing...that thing where you step back and take stock of your life and wonder if you made any progress since you blew out the candles last year. That thing that is at once both somehow melancholy, and sweet, and completely self-absorbed. Where you are certain that no one else ever turned 34 and was unsure about their place in the world. Where you imagine that everyone else in your "check your age range" box is perfectly settled in their station in life and in the direction things are heading like a train that knows all the stops and is always on schedule.

I am not that train.

If my journey so far had been on one, I would have more aptly been the one screaming down to the switch man to change the tracks when I saw the course was wrong...sometimes miles after said point had been crossed. Some times I feel like I was run over by the train.

So, fair warning, dear ones...there will be loads of navel gazing going on before I blow out the candles in a few days.

Okay, so I am a transplanted Tremonter. Like a good number of people in the neighborhood, I came for the food, and stayed for the block clubs. Wait-is it that I came for the art, and stayed for the martinis? Hmm…either way, I escaped from where I was, and now I am here. And I have to say, like so many of the people that live, work, and play here in this little locale, I have become fiercely protective and proud of it in a short time. It is funky, fun, and abounding both in interesting history and current culture. I want the area to continue to grow, and thrive, and become a model for other neighborhoods in Cleveland to improve.

Slide up to Sage’s bar, and Jennifer will mix a conversation as good as her drinks. Hang with Kevin at Lava Lounge, and trust that the flat iron steak is almost as good as the macaroni and cheese they so unceremoniously ripped from the menu. (Not all relationships are perfect.) Grab a cup of coffee and good dialogue at Civilization. Browse the countless galleries and boutiques, and funky little shops…walk out your door here, and something is always happening.

I am in love, can you tell?

So, you can imagine my disappointment that someone that shares the very same neighborhood could not only not feel the same, but feel an absolute contempt for the ‘hood. And, horror of all horrors, I am not talking about some jealous bitch like Parma. I am talking about a business owner whose very (tenable at best) livelihood rests right here. The Flying Pig, on the corner of Jefferson and Professor is a strange little BBQ joint right across the street from Fahrenheit. I found myself in there a few months back feeling a bit like I had stepped into a bad episode of the Twilight Zone. If you’ve never been there, let me explain:

There are a lot of stuffed animals in this place. And not like stuffed deer head and the like (thank god), but kid’s toys. Everywhere. On shelves, on benches…the Chucky doll is particularly creepy. It feels like décor might have been an afterthought. (“Oh, shit-we open in two days, and this place is empty-let’s raid the kid’s room!”) The service was terrible-we actually ended up grabbing a menu off the counter and CALLING the restaurant to get someone to come out and serve us. At this point, any normal human might have packed it in for more reliable ground-Lolita’s, La Tortilla Feliz…anything that might have been a more sure bet. But, I am an adventurous girl, and I figured that anyone with enough guts to decorate with that level of bravado might just be weird enough to make a decent meal. And to their credit, they did. The salad I had was outstanding, due largely in part to a tasty, if a bit over cooked, wood-fired chicken. The $1.50 I paid for a can of Food Club root beer (yes, they actually set a can on the table) was a little off-putting…but, like I said, I am into funky. I wanted to like this place. Really, I did.

After some time went by, not ready to return to the creepy stuffed pit…I thought, “Hmm…take out” And placed a takeout order. Their hamburger was good enough that the following week, I did the same. (Yeah, I need to cook more.) This is where the truth came out. My dinner companion walked down to pick up the order, and the owner of the joint was walking down the street back towards the restaurant…apparently having dropped off a delivery at Edison’s. He was bitching about how slow business was-and blamed it on “such a terrible location”. He said that he “hates the neighborhood” and that they call it “Crapmont” back at the restaurant.

Huh?!

Terrible location? Bullshit. Michael Symon at Lolita’s a block away is on the Food Network every other freakin’ day. And Rocco at Fahrenheit doesn’t seem to be hurting a bit. Cleveland Live, the Plain Dealer, Cleveland Scene-ask any of them, and they will tell you that this little burg is hoppin’. Here’s an excerpt from a PD article that says of Tremont, “ many are finding out, thanks to Tremont Art Walks and other cultural happenings that draw thousands to this old, ethnic West Side neighborhood bounded by the Cuyahoga River and a network of freeways. Weekend pub traffic makes street parking scarce. With its galleries, its $10 martini bars and restaurants that serve $24 walleye, it is gaining the reputation of a Midwestern SoHo.”

What the hell is this guy thinking? I am sure that as I am not alone in my love affair with this place, neither am I alone in my disgust in the stupidity of business owners that think that their utter contempt is something they should broadcast. Why, when your restaurant is clearly failing because of your shitty décor, your half-assed service, and your less than inspired menu…would you add ultimate insult to injury by opening your stupid fucking mouth like that? Do you think that we don’t talk to each other here in Tremont, Pig? We do. We talk all the time. We talk over drinks, at the galleries, on the streets…on the ‘net. We tell each other things. We sing each other’s praises, and share each other’s troubles. We are a good people, Pig. We are a neighborhood of unlikely characters brought together by a common love that we call Home. And while I can’t speak for all of my fellow Tremonters, I can say that I, for one, will NEVER visit your sty again. And if anyone wants in on the pool we have going for the longevity of this shithole, drop me a line. It can’t be too much longer until the space opens up for a new neighbor who appreciates us.

Okay, anonymous reader. I know that you are out there. I have seen the traffic logs, and aside from the SE's and crawlers, there are around 50 of you a day. You come from all over. From What's in the Bag?...from Tremonter...from Google. You subscribe to my feeds, you return to the site, and you stay for more than one serving. You take time out from your busy day to invite me into your life for at least a few minutes...

And I have no idea who you are.

So, I'm asking. Who are you? Why are you here? Do you hate me? Do you love me? Harbor sheer indifference? I must know. Tell me YOUR secrets...

Validate me.

Oh, it was different back there...not in 'Nam. In 'Nam, all you had to worry about was Charlie.

This was worse...oh, so much worse.

It was...horror of all horrors...Parma.

Yes, I spent part of the evening last Saturday in (omg) Parma at Jimmy J's. I am here to tell you my story. Put the kids to bed. They are innocent. They don't need to hear this.

So, the evening set out innocently enough. A glass of ice wine at Cave du Vin in Conventry. Mongolian Barbeque next door. Pretty people in pretty clothes. All was right with the world. And then the evening took a different turn. South and West, to be specific. Destination:Parma.

I told you about my best friend, right? That she was having a birthday last Sunday? Well, I once told her that I would follow her into the depths of hell...I just didn't realize she would take me up on it. Apparently testing the limits of my love for her? Dante's 5th concentric circle-thy name is Parma.

The place was packed wall to wall with beer guzzling, wing eating, Nascar fans. I swear to you that roughly 70% of the men (I didn't stare too long to get a more accurate estimate) were wearing rugby shirts with either TOMMY or POLO splashed across the front, the arms, or both. We get it. You have so much money that you buy the (cough, cough) best clothes. Put your 3-inch dick back in your baggy jeans, because I couldn't get drunk enough to forget that you drive a Ford SUV and still live at home with your parents, Johnny Parma. Not even with a dollar off all well drinks 'til 9 p.m. But let me introduce you to this sweet girl sitting next to you, Suzy Parma. (You are not related to her, although judging by the suspect inset of your eyes, it wouldn't throw you if you were.) She is just your type. Love handles spilling over the sides of the jeans that are a size too small, un-manicured toes crammed into her $10 heels she just bought at the mall. The good news is, I think her scrunchie matches your rugby. What a nice pair you two will make swimming together through the shallow end of life's gene pool.  Toto, I don't think we're in Tremont anymore.

I told you it wasn't pretty.

This is the point where I have to say that she doesn't belong here either, and mean it with all of my heart. She doesn't belong here. She is brilliant, and funny, and beautiful...and so much better than this. She knows it in her heart, too. I feel partly to blame, though.

Friends don't let friends do Parma.