My manager comes downstairs.  I explain a situation to him and he reacts irrationally and intentionally blames the unexistent problem on me.  It's because I post room and tax instead of posting cash.  It's because I don't collect five nights of cash payment, I only collect one.  It's because the whole world turns, and it's a bad thing, and it's my fault.  He said, "How long have you worked here?"  A coined phrase of his that has always made me want to slap him across the face with my keyboard.  "I know how long I've worked here.  I've also been here going on twelve hours and there is no end in sight."  He gave me a look and smiled like, "Oh, how dare you actually answer that question with an attitude."  I stuck up for myself and I rather liked the way it felt.  I might do it again and again and again until he fires me. 

     I can see my future employer saying, "Ms. Smith, why were you terminated from your previous place of employment?"  And I would say, "I stuck up for myself.  Repeatedly." 

     Oh, wow.  I just came upon the most sad experience.  The driver smiled at me and then her face fell.  She began to walk past me and with a forced, open mouth smile, she said, "Good bye sweet pea."  And walked out.  Her voice was empty, almost a whisper... will she be okay?  I've never felt something like that before.

     I have to do more reading.  I have to.  My inability to focus is pushing me, pushing me, nudging me to the cliff overlooking the ocean of SOB.  I want to burst into tears and cleanse my emotions.  But I can't.  Why can't I focus and do my work? Aren't I a good student?  Who am I really?

 Who AM I?  I am so much but to get there is too difficult.  I want to go away in my little red car and ... I just read my last message from a friend who said, "Can we talk on the way home? Do you talk on your phone while you drive?"  And it seemed like a question that almost pleaded to know the answer. 

I.

Want.

Home. 

And.

I.

Want.

Sleep.  Sleep, yeah, an interesting subject.  Like all the dreams I've had lately.  But when I see him... I feel so relieved.  A heroin-induced feeling.  And I type that, my left arm aches with over use.  In my dreams, when I see him?  He's always there making my emotions warm and watery...

I almost always make the worst decisions.

Divinely yours,

BETH

...in the shadow of tomorrow.

Tomorrow I start class.  I will wake up at 7:45 in the morning, crawl to the bathroom, throw some water on my hair and drive fifteen miles to school.  Tomorrow I begin some strange journey that I am only moderately interested in. 

Today I have been lying and saying that I am thrilled to start school!  Today I am dishonest. 

 Right now, I sit on the back of a chair--a Salem in my hand and a book called The Anatomy of Love beside me. 

 Ten minutes ago, I quoted a rate that was too high and the old man left disgruntled. 

Two hours ago I was at home, eating my lunch with my family.  Meatloaf and mashed potatoes.  I looked at Jen and realized that I really do have a SISTER.  It's strange to me to see a SIBLING.  How cracked is my porcelin idea of family, that I am shocked to really think of the concept of 'sister'?

Five hours ago I woke up thinking about tomorrow.  Tomorrow will come like the mornings have come year after year after year before and years to come and pass.  Mornings are invisible in their solidity. 

Just like me.  I am invisible, indivisible, indented, indecisive.  I am morning.

"Good morning!" They say.  I don't feel good.  I feel bad.  Like I've sinned in my sleep and the peircing white light punishes me.  Oh, I have sinned.  "Good morning!" And I know I should be the night.  They should say, "Good night," while looking seductive out of the corner of their painted eyes.  Only women should say "good night" while wooing the fumbling, suited male.  Only we should say this in the dimly lit shops with tables and lacey clothes cover stains in the grain and tacky lamps reveal the streams of smoke and dust. 

----------

The lobby is quiet tonight.  An elderly couple sit on the couch and look at "Around and About Harrisonburg" while the railroader sits at the computer and listens to my conversations with customers.

The elderly men ask me about how business is tonight and I say, "It'll be good if I'm a good saleslady."  They laugh and go sit beside their frail wives.

-----------

Divinely yours,

BETH

  The wind is picking up; I sense change.  Life is so up in the air that I'm unsure if my feet will ever touch ground. 

  I'm just ready to start school and get going.  I already know that once I start school and continue working I'm going to have absolutely no time. 

  At the moment, sitting on the couch in front of the fan, making fun of our local newscaster.  I think that life is tolerable.

  Divinely yours,

BETH

Didn't I tell you about this?  Well, as the story goes, in the end of times we'll perish. 

-"Bob" has already offered my whiskey and rum.  I said no and he winked, "Any time you want some whiskey... come on up to my room."  Nope.

- "Don" stopped by to talk to me, asked me what I wanted to eat tonight.  "Nothing."  He gave me that slick look, "Let me take you out to dinner."  I'm not hungry, okay?  He left to go to the bank and said, "I'll bring you back some money."  I just laughed and walked away.

- "Ike" stopped by while my manager was chewing me out for miscounting the drawer last night.  He teased me about it, "Yeah, Beth.  Counting is fun!  One-little-two-little-three-little-miscounting idiots..."  I can stand him.  He told me he learned quickly not to call a woman by the wrong name.  I wish Bob would learn that.

-"Phil" called, "Hello beautiful."  I didn't know who it was at first.  So I laughed nonchalantly until I realized who it was.  I choked on my own breath, which should have been exiting swiftly at that point, and said, "How are you today?"  Trying to be professional.  But how can I be professional with HIM?  He's absolutly DELIGHTFUL.  There is no "professional".

 -Two men rode motorcycles here from Ohio.  I told them we have a "no trouble maker" policy and that they had to leave.  They enjoyed small talk and gave me free coffee cards for Panera Bread.  Nice men.

Last night, three candles in my dark room.  Hannah and I delighted in talking about men and their bodies.  We soon discovered that we are witches and prudence does not apply to us.  Isn't that wonderful?

What type of cigarettes are you smoking, sir?

Doesn't that sound familiar?  The same story as the beginning.

I just don't know when I'll find him.

Divinely yours,

BETH

  Tonight is so strange. 

-A woman is sitting in the lobby talking like PeeWee Herman on her cell phone. 

-A man ran up to me just to read my name tag and then (honestly) ran away repeating my name again and again.

-Someone brought me food that was cold and smelled really bad.

-Children are milling around like lifeless dolls.

-A cop came in... acting very "un-cop" like.

What's life going to give me next?

I spent $574 on text books. I think I'll remember that for a very, very long time.

Divinely yours,

BETH

  The other night, Hannah and I sat around the kitchen table and talked.  We always talk, but it came to me.  Something so interesting: people do not believe in God because they can not see him--yet they can not see air, either and claim that it keeps them alive.  Our logic is strange, no?  And we believe air exists because we have been told it surrounds us, that it is made up of mostly oxygen and other less significant gases...  we've been told that again and again, every year in our science classes... and we believe it.  (I'm not saying air doesn't exist.  But we believe what they say about air even though we can not see it.  Yet someone tells us about God again and again and we can't possibly take it into consideration.) 

  I committed a mild faux-paux when I filed my income tax in February.  Evidently, I am a little more dyslexic than I ever knew.  Repeatedly, I've switched the first three digits in my social security number.  Because I got the number wrong, they wouldn't accept my filing and I have to go into Bob Evans tomorrow and pick up my W2.  Then I will try again.  Hopefully I'll get my refund SOMETIME.  I don't need it soon, but it'd be nice to get it before I turn thirty. 

 I was on speaker phone with the IRS and I was laughing at the recording.  My mom was sitting there and said, "BETH.  Don't laugh!  They can hear you.  They'll never give you their money if they don't think you're taking them seriously!"  I said, "What?  No.  They'll give my money... I mean, I'll take them to tax court.  We can do that right?"  My mom laughed under her breath, "Honey... you're dealin' with the man, now.  You'll never get your money." 

 Oh, the Mississippi has gulped bodies down.  We stand on the shore line, ankle deep in mud, mourning the children and the mothers, fathers and daughters... Oh, the Mississippi has swallowed their lives.

Divinely yours,

BETH

  At this moment, I am at work, lusting over the traveling men who walk in and walk out and forget this spot on earth ever existed.  It's only a hotel.   To some men, it's their home.  They walk in and know my name and flirt with me like a girlfriend or tease me like a daughter.  Or the ones who are bold enough to make inappropraite passes while I stand protected behind my counter.  Yet, even the most offensive men, standing bloated in suits and cuff links, drunk from their expensive wine, are recipients of my pity.  There is a reason they stumble to the front desk, drunk and searching for any type of contact. 

 I got paid yesterday.  The checks are meaningless anymore.  Last summer, while I worked at Bob Evans, I couldn't wait to get paid and spend ever bit of my money.  Now I just collect these checks and sleep. 

 Shelly says my bad plan won't work, that I'll be caught.  I can't be caught, I need this too much.  I can't be caught. 

Divinely yours,

BETH

      I am at work.  I took Dad's laptop with me and I don't feel as lonely. 

 A man, who is a friend of mine, came for change and I told him the story of selling my cd's for cash.  For cash.  I must be heartless!  I gave away my music for cold, hard green.  

 That's okay, I burned copies of them.

 Maybe I'll go to Michigan. 

Divinely yours,

BETH

, he says.  I would... I would pack some clothes and grab my journals and books and come pile my junk in his living room.  We'd soon find out that it's not as much fun as we imagined.  We'd amuse ourselves with spending as much time apart as we could.  I already know that stuff like this is only glorified by our young age, our first drop of freedom's cool water on our cracked tongue... we're romanticizing our "adulthood."

I can be strangely honest with him.  It's making it hard to make up my mind.

Work and sleep, work and sick, work and birthday, work and work, work and water, work and heat, work and work, work and computer... coffee.

Divinely yours,

BETH

I don't have much to say about life at all.  There is not much going on.  Mom and I fold laundry--we ate at Taco Bell tonight.

Work is work.  It is what it is.

There is no one to say, "I feel like I can really talk to you because you're my sister." 

Now I'm drinking a huge unsweetened ice tea.  It's lasted for ... hours.

I don't have much to say.

Divinely yours,

BETH