“I literally have a crush on everyone!”
“Meatpie. That’s a meatpie alright.”
“I could be swayed on that one but I’m not wearing a ring from anyone until we both get the big snip.”
“Copper IUDs don’t mess with your hormones.” “Birth control fucks with my hormones.”
“When it comes to sex, you should do whatever the fuck you want.” “yeah everyone has opinions.”
“I used to like one-piece bathing suits. And then I turned into a woman.”
“Yeah I guess I don’t have that issue.”
“It’s not an issue you want to have.”
“I just tried this new thing where I didn’t have sex with him!”
“Ketchikan, if anyone has my green sweater. Please let me know. I left it at that guys house and I’m really sad about that. If it shows up on Sale Cycle, please let me know.”
“It’s like the perfect alleyway to make out.”
“I saw him follow you into the boat barn!”
Our unsophisticated, untelevised Sex and the City.
Somehow, all of these characters got nicknames, too many characters to remember, but the list includes: Winky Beanie (he wears a beanie and winks..), Blue Heron, Troller, Bartender, Fisherman Number One, Fisherman Number Two, Snorkel Mike, Ren and Spence the Zipline Guides and Civil Wargasms (that last one is just a phrase I can’t shake because of it’s brilliance), Lumberjack, and the list continues.
The kitchen floor of Ohashi: where we girls spontaneously set-up camp and swap secrets in sleeping bag huddles under the warmth of our kombucha scobie (gross) and the plastic dinosaurs who are in frozen catwalk across the kitchen window sill.
The kitchen in Ohashi is where we cook, clean, watch TV (which has happened all of 4 times this season), pad to the bathroom in a morning haze, stare at the coffee pot, dust off our waterproof boots, collect ourselves, unravel and start again. The kitchen in Ohashi is the threshing floor for pounding out these posts. It’s the only place I can manage to get it done.
Ohashi has had several inhabitants (and I don’t mean overnight guests). The only true original is Claire, who has been there from start to finish. I moved in a month after the season started. Jazmin moved out onto the sailboat but you better bet your tuccus she is as much a member as Claire or me. Ria moved downstairs from the upper floor when the company smooshed us together to consolidate cost. Along with Ria came JT. It’s not been as hectic I imagined. That’s mostly because Ria and JT are pretty chill. Ria makes muffins that loom large on one of our orphan kitchen plates. They go fast and the plate is alone again. But it’s still a bustling house, forming an ensemble in the kitchen. Always the kitchen. More secrets have been shared across that damn butcher block rickety table than I can recount.
It’s our place.
These are my girls. Once, a lady burst into Ohashi, laid on the floor and preceded to share her story of the night before. She was engaged in the act of body sports when, without her choosing, she peed on the guy. Just went right and peed on him. Not only that, she went to work drunk afterwards. She didn’t know she was drunk until she there and realized “Oh hell! I’m still drunk.”
She laid on the floor, looked up at the ceiling and uttered her tale with a flavor of “what the hell?” and “wait, what?!” and an air of “Who am I?” transported through a giant bubble of laughter.
Even though I don’t readily stock wild stories of body sport, I was in awe and bewilderment and stitches and shock right along with her. And why did she pee?? We tried to figure it out.
We’re still mourning the green sweater, may she rest in peace after that escapade.
Then there was the night she ended up with the bartender. I saw him the next time, trying to arrange an upcoming event. I giggled internally, said nothing out loud. BUT I WAS THINKIN IT. I KNOW WHAT YOU WERE DOING LAST NIGHT. I will miss these tales of nighttime folly, even if it took me 30 years to embrace their full hilarity and remove the “sin” filter, this summer has a flavor of sex farce. Everyone knows everyone, everyone loves everyone, touches everyone, moves along to the next. That’s an exaggeration but it’s not terribly far from the truth. We are on an island.
Maybe there is a way to be safe, and unharmed and explore the full extent of your body with another person. You shouldn’t ask me, I am simply postulating based on the tour my friends’ have animatedly guided me through of this farcical summer. I’ve got this body and I can’t speak for anyone else’s or vice versa.
But this body has been propelled into fits of giggles, gasps, shock, laughter, celebratory Shakira hip shakes and wide-eyed, edge-of-my-seat bewonderment at the flaura and fauna of the follies. Some of the tales had painful denouements. At roughly 17 million acres in size, what else can you come to expect to attract as you frolic through the Tongass National Rainforest but some snags and scares, even scars.
And, though it’s not as wild as some tales, I have had my own share of giggle-worthy, gasp-inducing, get-out-of-town, I’m-going-to-jump-out-this-window, sit-down-right-now-and-tell-me-all-about-it recountings. The retelling is a different kind of fun as the real thing, you know.
Follow your heart, kids. Sin isn’t an artery, perhaps it’s a territory most folks block off because there are steep cliffs there. Try not to hurt yourself or anyone else, and bring a flashlight. And pee when you need to pee.
