Baked In Seattle Read online

  Baked In Seattle

  ♥ a novel ♥

  by

  Shaw Sander

  Copyright © 2016 by Shaw Sander

  All right reserved.

  Published in the United States by Amazon.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1537332765

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover art by Leslie LePere

  For my children, always

  “Flapping your arms can be flying.”

  ---Robert K. Hall

  1966

  “‘There are going to be times,’ says Kesey, ‘when we can’t wait for somebody. Now, you’re either on the bus or you’re off the bus. If you’re on the bus, and you get left behind, then you’ll find it again. If you’re off the bus in the first place---then it won’t make a damn.’”

  ---Ken Kesey

  “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test”

  Tom Wolfe

  “I do my thing and you do your thing. I am not in this world to live up to your expectations. And you are not in this world to live up to mine. You are you, and I am I, and if by chance we find each other, it’s beautiful. If not, it can’t be helped.”

  ---Fritz Perls

  1969

  Chapter One

  “Jesus, Liza and Cher, he’s cuter than a basket of babies!” Drake trilled, waving at a blond hunk on the Pride Foundation float.

  We picnicked on the curb in front of the Broadway Funeral Home watching dancing truckloads of queens gyrate to blaring disco. Drake shook his head.

  “This parade is always such a hayride. I remember San Francisco…”

  He wistfully trailed off, his palm against his unshaven cheek, having this well-worn conversation with himself. I watched him do the entire loop, get it out of his system.

  He blinked a few times and waved his hand back and forth, brushing it off.

  “Well, there’s just no comparison. Why do I stay in Seattle? Please tell me one more time, darling.”

  “Because I’m here, for one,” I replied, beginning our shared shorthand against recurring restlessness. “Because Top Pot Donuts is within walking distance of your Queen Anne one-bedroom and because this is the year you will find true love right under your nose. Shall I go on?”

  “No. I think he saw me. Look, is he waving at me?”

  Malcolm had once told me men believe strippers were looking at them and Drake seemed to think so in this case. The blond guy might be a sex-worker for all the clothing he didn’t have on, grinding and thrusting in front of us.

  “Of course, he is, Drake. Hey, there’s Shelly!” I cried, calling my NA friend over to join us.

  Drake sounded like a perfect husband, my straight friend Birgitta insisted, “except for the gay thing,” which seemed to her a minor detail worth the sacrifice. I kept telling her he was a snappy dresser, a great conversationalist and understood my neuroses. I could tell him about being afraid of ending up living under a bridge, fatalistic like my elderly mother who worried volcanic Mount Rainier would tsunami Zenith Marina and swallow my house. Drake knew I kept an open bag of cat food on the floor, accessible in case I never made it home so the cats didn’t starve to death before anyone realized I was missing. But I didn’t want to marry him.

  Actually, both Drake and I longed for Saturdays at Home Depot with our own tall tower of testosterone. We, Drake and I, would imagine dawdling over new appliances while our heroes found repair effluvia for handyman projects. Our job would be to hold the flashlight, keep the butch company, obligated to hang around “in case.” Implicit was the other job: keep the kids away. The alpha’s role was to know the right repair gizmo’s name and application; the beta’s was to hover nearby, offering beer and a big sandwich. Afterward, utter gratitude was expressed. I was tired of being superwoman, struggling to make my 1920’s cottage and previous-decade Subaru chug along. I wanted to be the “girl,” as my friend Malcolm said, and phrased differently, so did Drake.

  Drake wasn’t the yin to my yang but he was hella fun to hang around with until Mr. Right came along.

  “S’up, chiquita,” Shelly hollered, suddenly all over me, pumped for Pride Day with five strands of multi-colored beads around her neck. She kissed a surprised Drake on the cheek. They had never met but what the hell, it was a big gay holiday.

  “You’re the office guy Al talks about from the Ban Roll-On Building, right?” Shell boomed, a big voice in a tiny little body.

  Drake nodded, his eyes stuck on Shelly’s abundant cleavage even after she’d plunged back into the crowd.

  “Excuse me for being so blunt, darling,” Drake managed as Shelly flounced away, “but her bosom looks like a double-pack of sourdough rounds. Now, does size matter in this case? Do those make her more popular with the girls?”

  Born Mishellina Maria Annarosa de la Cruz in Michoacan, Mexico, Shelly grokked my deeper secrets from the flip side. Like me, Shelly fell just as easily for men and women.

  Finding similars was a rare experience. As members of this secretive breed, our Chimera personalities were never fully comfortable in either world. We got shit from both sides. Dykes obsessed you’d leave them for a man and most men made the switch miserable by bragging about their own virility at satisfying a dyke.

  I met Shell in Narcotics Anonymous, me there to placate my decade-sober girlfriend Angel. Shell was lovers with Angel’s friend Brady. Both love relationships ended but Shelly and me, we stayed tight. She was my heart.

  She’d come up to me after my first meeting.

  “You said in your share that you need a place to store some stuff,” she’d said, shaking my hand. “I’m Shelly, got two years clean. I’ve got a small storage space in my apartment building that I don’t use. You’re welcome to it.”

  I said I’d take her up on that, being new in town and not knowing anyone but my girlfriend Angel.

  Tears suddenly glistened in Shelly’s eyes.

  “Really? Just like that? Holy cow,” she coughed, trying to cover her emotional response. “Gimme a sec.”

  I had no idea what she could be choked up about.

  “Want some water or something?” I asked.

  I felt uncomfortable, wondering if I’d made a mistake having anything to do with her.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” she said, touching my arm in a warm gesture that made me relax. Her oiled dark hair and the tears in her eyes were glittering in the buzzing sodium vapor streetlight.

  “It’s just….just that no one ever trusted me with their stuff before. I’m a junkie, recovering of course, but you know? To say you’d leave your stuff with me and trust that it would still be there next day, next month, I mean…wow. Keep coming back, it works, huh?”

  Her pretty brown face dissolved in laughter.

  “C’mon,” I said, taking her tiny, delicate elbow. “Let’s go get some coffee before they throw it out.”

  “Better, how about we go out.” It was a statement, not a question. She gently steered me away from the meeting and we began walking I could use a new friend and you’re just the right kind of chiquita.”

  Her eyes, no longer teary, were dancing with what she suspected about me.

  “Both ways, no? Kiki. I could tell. Let’s get some chocolate cake, too. I’ve been starving for sugar all day.”

  I’d always been a lipstick lesbian, too femme for the Chicago butches where I came out. There weren’t many of us in the early 80’s, Midwestern butch and femme morphed rigidly into short-haired separatist butch. Other kiki women were a rare find for friendships, especially outside of the Sunshine people I used to know.

  I wanted to shop for feminine shoes, eager to shed the clunky Nikes of lesbianism. I didn’t care that the running shoe craze began after a memorable Fire Island summer decades ago, I felt li
ke a clod hopper in them. I was drawn to flip flips with spangles, Keds, slingbacks with bows. I wanted alligator pumps and a partner who appreciated my great legs in them. Was that too much to ask?

  Soon after I met Shelly, my final yelling match with Angel left me angrily buying a spite house.

  “Fuck you,” I’d yelled, enraged with vindictive competitiveness. “I’ll get my own place!”

  12-step programs taught me not to make huge commitments in the heat of a flaming breakup but the moment I bought the little house in Zenith the property values climbed. Leaving Angel was the best thing that ever happened to me.

  Best besides my two kids, of course, my perfect storms of swirling DNA, Dupree and Penelope. My Dew and Peanut grew to become sleek, daring people, showing we had all survived the horror of separation when they were very small. It had been my only hope and it came true. We’d endured the chasm of distance and time and come scathed out the other side. Is there such a word without ‘un’ in front of it, like franchised without ‘dis’?

  We were scathed but alive, still love-strong.

  Almost everyone feels the same thing, ironically proving us all very similar but I was different as a kid, never fit in. I never thought kid stuff was funny---clowns, people in character costumes, games, books. My face never cracked a smile, puzzled by why this was considered amusing or appropriate for anyone at all and disappointed that other kids fell for it.

  I stayed a loner, writing in a spiral notebook, reading novels and women’s liberation critiques. My loosely-grouped family called me a writer though they never read a thing. I kept my words under lock and key.

  In my 20’s, hair stiff with Tenax, I danced at the Swan Club on Chicago’s Clark Street, wearing myself thin with lesbian heartbreak and dysfunction.

  The big fist fight with Cora’s butch crumbled my foundation, my energy flaming out after that. Losing Cora had almost killed me. I’d loved her with an ache for years, since Fawn Camp.

  Then I met Joe.

  I mistook Joe’s quiet for independent strength, his calm demeanor for rationality. I was hungry for babies, for love, for social strokes. Joe came with a huge Catholic rosy-cheeked huggie family with Sunday dinner and family pictures that wanted to include me.

  Me! How lucky was that!

  By the time our first child came along, the in-laws’ tentacled culture required dinner every Sunday, daily drop-in visits mandatory with lavish gifts a bartering wedge. A new washer-dryer set meant a month of being grateful. Cash pushed into my palm “on the QT” forced me to curtsey in proper wolf pack belly-show.

  They were a closed system, clannish as Gypsies or Mafioso. No apartment, job, car, appliance, furniture or real estate could possibly be exchanged without a relative involved in the transaction. Life plans, relocation, vacations, leisure time and employment were all discussed as an extended family. Considering the whole was more important than individual need.

  The promise of West Coast relocation after he finished school evaporated. Turned out he couldn’t move away from this family, the beast too big to buck. Joe graduated college and took a local job, deciding we would stay within visiting range of his parents, dashing my

  Left Coast hopes.

  I had not miraculously regained my figure after two pregnancies in three years. The exhaustion made me broody, the second child’s miserable discomfort complicating childcare so I stopped working.

  Joe stayed up nights doing the housework I hadn’t finished and took the children to his parents for days at a time overnight, staying there himself as well. He took Peanut for her first baby shoes without me and played video games for hours with Dew.

  Dew felt every nuance of his parents’ simmering discontent and being the good boy and eldest, he took on the weight of our issues, trying to cheer us both out of it, forcing us together. He’d pull both our hands and place them on top one another, hoping we’d touch in earnest. He learned to quiet his sister so Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t be mad, telling her “See, Peanut, the squash is good, yummy, eat it all up, then we’ll help Mommy with the dishes.” It broke my heart, poor three-year-old little man.

  I dressed Dew as a little Superman for Halloween, his red and blue pajamas emblazoned with the big S logo. We were going trick-or-treating in his first Halloween ever, the red wagon ready to pull him around our own block.

  Joe got furious.

  “No way is he going to ride around this neighborhood! There’s perverts in the inner city. What if someone gives him a razor blade? It’s too close to Irving Park Road. You’re packing him into the car and taking him to my parents’ house this minute.”

  Tears of rage filled my eyes, my hormones racing with huge natural enhancement. I alone knew I was three weeks pregnant with our second child. I hated Joe at that moment for ruining my first Mommy Halloween experience.

  Dew looked frightened as the emotional climate shifted. He really just wanted to get ready for bed. He was in his pajamas but we were going outside. It confused him, and now Daddy was mad and Mommy was crying.

  I’d seduced Joe, hoping for another baby. In the surprise ambush, my urgent animal desire to procreate shoved his dick inside me before he could think and I’d ridden hard and fast.

  “You need to find a good method of birth control,” he’d growled next day. “We can’t take any more chances. We can’t afford another baby right now.”

  A moot point, I thought to myself.

  Joe stayed angry at me until the pregnancy took a serious turn, suddenly high risk with dehydration, early labor, blood pressure worries. I spent months on bedrest. The six-month ultrasound I went to alone showed a girl and when I brought the long shiny paper sleeve of grainy utero pictures home, Joe tenderly made love to me.

  I was giving him a perfect little matched set of children.

  Maybe he’d really love me this time.

  The Pee Wee Herman show helped us get through the scalding August Penelope was born. Peanut’s uneasy demeanor reflected our own marriage as she screamed for hours, her body rigid against car seat straps, Snugglis, carriers. To get her in her bucket seat, I waited until her screaming paused for an intake of breath, then bent her rigid body at the hips. Little socks, then specially made mitts, went on her hands to keep her from clawing her own face. I’d nurse her on the couch while Dew sat in his fuzzy blue baby-sized Chairie, a buppie in each hand and one in his mouth.

  Sometimes Dew would yank Peanut’s buppie out of her little rosebud lips and plop it in his own mouth. I’d look imploringly at him as Peanut would begin to wail, but Dew would hiss “Mine!” through teeth clenched around the buppie.

  I couldn’t really blame him. The dynamic had shifted from solo ruler to shared kingdom. He was only a year and a half old.

  Peanut learned to talk watching “The Wizard of Oz,” which she insisted on doing at least once a day, her little mouth moving along with every bit of dialogue, her voice singing every song. Sitting on her knees, her legs would splay out impossibly double-jointed behind and beside her, each foot pointed outward, her ass on the floor. A buppie stayed ready, massaged between her thumb and forefinger, waiting for a dialogue lull so she could pop it back into her mouth.

  Joe insisted my spending habits---diapers by the carload, formula, baby clothes---were breaking us so I got a receptionist job, arranging daycare in a flurry and paying the babysitter three quarters of my salary. Dinner was thrown together with cranky, overtired children hanging on my nylon-ed legs, the silence deafening between Joe and me.

  I had to leave before I drowned, suffocating in the anaerobic environment. I got in my Subaru and started driving. As the family sucked my babies away, threatening legal action, I felt all the stuffing just taken right out of me.

  The Sun-Times Building disappearing in my rear view had made leaving Chicago real. Six travel days later I’d seen The Seattle Post-Intelligencer’s neon-eagle globe and it gave me new hope: E.B. White, my writing hero, had (badly) worked there.

  Searching the newspaper classi
fieds for employment, I howled in grief for my children and my sanity down on the waterfront, watching the huge neon P-I globe revolve, the setting sun turning the Olympic Mountains and Mount Rainer pink, then, peach then orange before dark.

  I took a job at Wildrose on Pike, cooking weekend nights for $3.50 an hour plus tips until I could find something more substantial.

  My new life had to begin regardless of how shattered I felt. I had to make a second home for the children and bravely carry on. We would live through this, dammit, and remain intact.

  Seattle and my dear friends saved my life.

  A good therapist put me on Prozac immediately and let me weep for my children, lost to a wave of Midwestern wagon-circling. A feminist pro bono lawyer got me shared custody with big chunks of time and liberal visitation. But it was my friends who knew that though less than optimal, Far-away Mommy was way better than Suicide Mommy. They kept me on the planet each in their own way, Angel, Drake, Shelly Birgitta and Malcolm. When I met Angel, she soon became alarmed at my plunging depression and stuck me in her NA meetings for free therapy. Shelly appeared, an apparition of laughter and skinny-junkie joy, thrilled to meet me, another “byke” like herself. That alone gave me reason to go on. Through work I found Drake, Birgitta appeared soon after at daycare and Malcolm’s restaurant was on my route.

  Despite his vocalized abhorrence of minors, Drake listened to me weep over my long-distance babes, comforted me often and said the right thing. Drake bought his particular refrigerator because magnets would not stick to it, thus politely escaping the display of friends’ baby and pet pictures. So as to travel on a moment’s notice, Drake wouldn’t be responsible for even a plant but he’d sent Dew a tee-shirt from the Oscar Wilde Memorial Bookstore in Manhattan. He’d given fashion advice to both children (“ascots never go out of style”), encouraged their wide reading lists, recommended Broadway shows and MoMA exhibits and acted as bon vivant uncle.