CHAPTER 26
Captain’s log, Star Date, May 31. Seated on keester daydreaming, instead of doing therapy homework. Rendezvous with Pen scheduled the next day.
“Mr. Sulu.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Is everything ready to go?”
“Yes, Captain, except in the left rear quadrant.”
“The left rear quadrant? . . . Scotty?”
“Aye, Captain Kirk.”
“Where the hell is the left rear quadrant? And more importantly, why isn’t it ready?”
“We’re having’ some prrrrroblems with the alpha base wiring, Captain. But we’re worrrking on it night and day, sir. I expect it t’be rrrready on the morra.”
“Good. We have an important rendezvous with the Beta Centurions on Frrriday as you all know. Spock?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“That discussion we had in secret last week?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Keep it on the down low. If word leaks out, our negotiations with the Beta Centurions will be severely compromised.”
“Fascinating, Captain, and quite illogical, I assure you. As you are aware, I do not have any loose screws rattling around in my mouth. I quite fail to understand the need for a warning.”
“Ah, don’t get your panties in a wad, Spock. Just playin’ with your head.”
I giggle. Back to rrreal life, Liz. I start to draw. Ten minutes later, I’m exhausted, but pleased. Two pictures for this new book I just decided to write, “All I Ever Learned in Kindergarten was How to Draw and Take a Nap.”
I look at one picture and decide to color it with Crayola crayons.
Desert landscaping is so pretty put together with mountains, turquoise sky, cacti and caves. A few minutes later: time out! What did I just draw? And why did I even bother? Looks like a second grader drew it. Two words come to mind. I won't repeat them here.
So, maybe it's time to watch, "The Amateur Psychologist Hour," starring . . . me. I can just hear Pen now, "What do you think these pictures mean, Liz?" And I'll say something like, "The cacti are phallic symbols, OR, they're actually cacti and I'm a really bad artist. Of course, I vote the second option. Cacti are indigenous to the southwest area of the US. The mountains are the Franklins, part of the Rockies. The lowest part. The blue car is what my first foster father owned. That's me behind the tree. What I'm doing there, I have no clue. And finally, graveyards in deserts are also indigenous to the Southwest area of the US due to the lawless nature of the Wild West!"
Nothing to see here, let's move on to the second picture.
By now, though, I’m way too tired to color. And why would I anyway? Cityscape is boring. The blue pen I used to draw the picture brings it out enough. I stare at the butt ugly drawing with its monster highway, bordered by small, medium and large buildings. The highway is covered with busy, busy cars going about their busy busy business. Wait. What do we have here, ma cherie, Liz? I squint at my drawing of a girly stick figure in the bell tower of a mission-style church standing on one side of the highway. Then, in another mission-style church drawn on the opposite side of the highway, a girly head floats in its bell tower. What means this?
So, maybe it's time to watch, "The Amateur Psychologist Hour," starring . . . me. I can just hear Pen now, "What do you think these pictures mean, Liz?" And I'll say something like, "The cacti are phallic symbols, OR, they're actually cacti and I'm a really bad artist. Of course, I vote the second option. Cacti are indigenous to the southwest area of the US. The mountains are the Franklins, part of the Rockies. The lowest part. The blue car is what my first foster father owned. That's me behind the tree. What I'm doing there, I have no clue. And finally, graveyards in deserts are also indigenous to the Southwest area of the US due to the lawless nature of the Wild West!"
Nothing to see here, let's move on to the second picture.
By now, though, I’m way too tired to color. And why would I anyway? Cityscape is boring. The blue pen I used to draw the picture brings it out enough. I stare at the butt ugly drawing with its monster highway, bordered by small, medium and large buildings. The highway is covered with busy, busy cars going about their busy busy business. Wait. What do we have here, ma cherie, Liz? I squint at my drawing of a girly stick figure in the bell tower of a mission-style church standing on one side of the highway. Then, in another mission-style church drawn on the opposite side of the highway, a girly head floats in its bell tower. What means this?
Before I can even contemplate an answer, and without any kind of warning, I slide out of the chair, and hit the floor. I curl into a fetal position and start rocking. After a few minutes, an excruciatingly familiar voice whispers, “Don’t you tell nobody what you saw, girl. You hear me?”
Psycho Voice totally loses it. “F**k this drawing shit, Lizzie! It ain’t working for you. It’s called very bad therapy.”
I don’t react, because I’m too busy fighting the nausea and the inevitable descent into madness . . . until . . . a childhood memory clicks on this film projector inside my head. I'm a passenger in a car. We're approaching a Spanish-style mission building which looms around a sharp curve of a busy highway. As soon as I see its gilded ivory round tower, I hit the floor of the car. And begin to tremble.
You know what? I need to stop these crazyass drawings.
You know what? I need to stop these crazyass drawings.
And you also need to keep your mouth shut. ‘Cos if you don’t, it's gonna take a verrrry long vacation. Got it, Captain?”
