Chelsea On The Bus

Every time the bus approaches a stop, the brakes have come in too late, and Chelsea must grip the front of her seat on either side of her narrow hips, to avoid sliding up the pocket of her seat like a half pipe, and into the large woman with child on her lap, who is sitting next to her.

She smiles every time this almost happens, thinking both that she is on some sort of roller coaster, and that if she were to fall off, the bosom of the mother next to her would catch her, and she and the little boy on the lap would be safe there.

The little boy turns his head, and Chelsea sees a spot of drool on his mother’s shoulder, and she knows the kid has seen this, or at least feels it on his chin. Mama doesn’t acknowledge the saliva, but when the man next to her stands she plops her baby on his seat, directs his legs to dangle, and places his Bob The Builder backpack behind him in the seat.

Then, her magnificent arm sweeps both boy and backpack into the fat of her hips, his hair getting mussed in her armpit. Chelsea finds herself wanting both to shrink to the little boy’s height, and to plump up to Mama size, to have a belly for baby to bounce on, to have a bosom worthy of being called a bosom.


* Published with Bay Area Generations


Chelsea On Her Day Off

Chelsea doesn’t do yoga.  But she calls it that to avoid having to explain what it is she does.

First thing after she wakes up, she gets out of bed without turning the light on, and leaves the room.  She decides whether she’s going to have orange juice or go pee.

Either way, she does one and then the other, goes back to bed, and rests without sleeping for about a half hour.  She then dozes off at the last minute, and nods herself awake.  At this point, she gets out of bed and makes a hearty omelette and potatoes.

Once it is finished, she lays on her back on the rug.  She imagines that she shares this feeling with a bullfrog, stretched out on his back in a grassy field, sun shining off his soft belly.   She pretends to access a psychic connection with this bullfrog, and enjoys blinking in the rays of light, and feeling the warmth in her stomach.

She has no routine for the stretches that follow.  She believes in her stomach, and what it wants.  She stretches wherever it feels good.

*Published with Bay Area Generations

Chelsea Drunk, Reaching Over The Side Of The Bed To Her Cat

Cat! Cat Winslet! Come on, come over here!  You’re so pretty!

Chelsea has stretched too far; she slides off the bed.  Cat Winslet walks over, licks Chelsea’s finger, and then walks up onto her stomach, and around in a couple circles.  Chelsea puts her hand on top of Cat’s fur, and it’s so fucking soft.

See, I take good care of you!  I gave you a good home, right?  ‘Cause you just let me know if you need anything, and I’ll be there….in a hurry, ya don’t have to worry

I’m serious, though.  You’re stuck with me.   I’m gonna bury you one day.

Holy shit, you’re gonna be with me for your ever!  I’m gonna bury you.  I’ll do it. I don’t even care about symbolism, but it’ll be the last thing I know for sure I’ll do for you.  I don’t know if you want me to or not, but it’s a promise now.

*Published with Bay Area Generations

Chelsea Walking on the Beach

It’s a shame what dating profiles have done to the phrase: “long walks on the beach,” because someone’s love of long walks on the beach may be real.  And Chelsea walks for no man who finds these walks sweet, for no strong woman, and no effeminate man who dresses better than she, and no lumberjack-wearing city boy, and no Midwest transplant falling in love with every skirt in the produce store, and no down-to-earth guy just looking for a good time, and no half-buzzed head of hair trying to blow your mind, and no mother figure, and no penis, and no vagina.

Chelsea walks because each step is different in the sand. Or she walks because sand. Or she walks because it’s none of your fucking business.

*Published with Bay Area Generations