“Are you enjoying Bunko? Would you like to join our Book Club, too?”
Linda all but cried, “shotgun!” as she swiftly slid into the front passenger seat of Paula’s car. As the newest neighbor, I have learned that the front seat of the Bunko carpool is a rite of passage, and is not included in my HOA dues.
I only joined Bunko because I reasoned that it is essentially organized gaming in a stranger’s basement. It seemed a chance to ante up, and escape from reality under the cover of someone else’s wood paneling. As far as I’m concerned, I just joined Fight Club. Since I have consistently lost at Bunko, I was not inspired to sign up for more underground suffering. But, how could I delicately say that to the back of Linda’s head?
“To be honest, I just don’t read very much. So, no thank you.”
“To be honest, I just don’t read very much. So, no thank you.”
“Oh? You don’t enjoy reading?”
Either I just failed at politely declining Book Club, or Paula and Linda are having trouble understanding that no means no. Suddenly, I felt very vulnerable in the backseat.
“No, it’s just that I’m more of a writer. Does the neighborhood have a Writer’s Club?” I huffed with a nervous laugh.
“Writing? What do you write, exactly?”
It seemed a lot of interrogation for a five block drive.
“Well, currently, I’m working on my Memoir.”
“Oh! You have a story to tell!”
I assume everyone has a story to tell. Maybe that was a lot to assume of Paula. After all, she’s driving a Volvo.
She made eye contact with me in her rear view mirror.
“So, what is your intrigue?”
Five blocks isn’t enough time to forge close, personal bonds with your Bunko mates. I didn’t feel comfortable spilling my guts about my messed up childhood. I made an attempt at summarizing twelve years of horror into a short, single sentence.
“It’s a story about growing up with emotional abuse."
It’s five blocks. I’m driving my own car to Fight Club next month.
“And? What about it?”
Buy the book, Paula.
“Surviving it. Overcoming it. Living normally after abuse. Living. Normally.”
“And what was your salvation?”
“My ‘salvation’?”
I’m serious. If this turns spiritual I’m throwing myself into traffic.
“Yes, what brought you to ‘living normally’? What saved you?”
“Nothing saved me. I had to separate from my dad once I was old enough to choose to. I had to choose a healthy emotional life. So, I guess I am my salvation.”
I can’t believe I’m talking about this in the Bunko rideshare.
There was a tension in the car that hovered like a fragrance puck.
No one said anything as the Volvo pulled into my driveway. I thanked Paula for the ride, and Linda for inviting me. They answered with plastic smiles. I can't prove it, but I think Paula started backing out as my seatbelt dangled in the door.
So much for first impressions. I lost at Bunko, I am not joining Book Club and I’m writing about taking control of my own life.
There goes the neighborhood.
