Excerpt for The Making: A Revealing Memoir by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

This page may contain adult content. If you are under age 18, or you arrived by accident, please do not read further.




© 2017, Aric C. Ray – Youth Wide


To Andre, mi Tica

Chapter 1 - The Blonde

Chapter 2 - The Redhead

Chapter 3 - The Brunette

Chapter 4 - The Latina

Chapter 5 - A Letter to God

Chapter 6 - The Big Ain’t Easy, but Momma Loves You

Chapter 7 - Remnants of a Plane Crash

Chapter 8 - Phone Sales into Rock

Chapter 9 - Growing Lonely

Chapter 10 - Message from the Stars

Chapter 11 - Fucking The Brunette to Get Screwed

Chapter 12 - Why She Cries

Chapter 13 - Enough for the Sun

Chapter 14 - Cold Cell

Chapter 15 - Epilog

About the Author

To Andre, mi Tica

The following is based on true events.

Chapter 1
The Blonde

She is from the type I call my own and she too has learned her defenses via the social labyrinth of her peers. Liberated youth offered a world she loved, yet once placed in an asylum she embraced madness while enduring the dramas, pleasures, and terrors. Now, in a glorious burst of beauty and light, she mingles in serenity, falls and does not remain but instead rises higher than the last as a warrantied blooming nectar bud, growing and changing, forever I believe. She learns languages, cooks vegetables, dances, prances, smiles a lot, and was the first to discover the infamous candy rope. Within days, elongated plastic, purple candy packs appeared empty, scattered around the house. Her time is precious, savored, and blissful. A young gentleman has monopolized most of her waking moments. He adds to her in a way I have not yet discovered how to describe. A wonderful, mutual, intrinsic sensation is in the air when I am around them and the brunette has even commented that she imagines they will marry one day.

“How have you been?” he inquires, with warm eyes while reclining into the cushioned thrown I have, on other nights, called a bed.

“Fine, I guess,” I mutter. My broken heart is still mending. He understands this and speaks with much less than an aggressive voice.

“When are we going to go surfing?”

“I want to get finals done with. This is my last year. I have to pass this exam. I only need to impersonate a student for a little while longer.”

“Well, I'm glad you're here,” his voice is relaxing. Different and intrusive, it creeps upon my conscious and makes me question myself. He could say nothing or ask something trivial of the weather, and I would wonder if I had slipped somewhere. I would wonder with tension in my nerves at the possibility he knew something I didn't.

“How do you feel about her?” I look at him sitting there, so comfortable and sure. Jealousy arises for one moment, the same moment I asked him. As soon as the words uttered the sentiment reformed to concern and genuine interest. A want to hear of how happy they were together was in me, and I grinned.

“Well, I love her of course. Are you all right?” He is surprised by what I had asked.

“I'm good,” the tone in my voice testifies that I'm still unsure. I'm unsure about many things, but mostly about myself. My friend's eyes locked on me with empathy. Not knowing what to do, he offers me a drink. I accept, and he goes to the kitchen, likely to pour a glass of white, German wine. She is in the bathroom combing her gold hair. Her singing moves with him from the couch and back. Their connection is inexplicable. She reaches a mysterious and potent chord and the air in the room lightens. He smiles and hands me the drink: Red, not white, wine. There are the things I don't know. I don't know how they are when they are alone or how she endures in entirety, nor am I privileged to her soul. Never have I asked her such a question. Not once have I inquired into her self-assumed fate. I wonder what she would make of the situation. What would she think of me sizing up her future and critiquing the pros and cons as I saw them? She'd smack me in the head, I know it. I can't help it though. I've been closer to her than the others, love her and am eased when she is happy. He makes her happy. The shower stops and she dries herself; he stands and walks to the bathroom; she wraps the towel around herself; he puts his glass down on the way; she steps from the steam into his arms and they kiss. The question, “Who's your Valentine?” has been on the television screen as the backdrop to a low-budget commercial for at least a minute now and I can't find the remote. It's getting on my nerves. I remember good on one shoulder and evil on the other. I realize selfishness is a vice and I'm sorry. She goes to her room to dress. He sits in front of me and picks up his wine. He rolls it around once and takes a sip. We both sit back. He takes a drink with his eyes closed, grinning. It was a warm and inviting grin. A grin your mother may have shown you the last time you scrapped your knee playing dodge-ball. Slim, the grin one finds on the lips of a Victorian Madonna or during a high-stakes card game. I drink wine in gulps and I like it cold. Whether it's a bottle of '87 Opus I or a bottle of grape Mad Dog, chilled is my serving preference. He drinks his wine room temperature and after it has set to breathe for an adequate period. I doubt he knows what MD 20/20 is. Wine and women are a lot alike, both being savored, indulged, feared, and respected to a grand extent. Each different grape crop has its own unique flavor, texture, and aroma. Each moves along the glass in a unique fashion, delicate and precise. Having the ability to, all at once douse, mimic, and exaggerate any emotion, she may be a lethal seductress. Yet, the US Surgeon General has stated that red wine thins the blood and helps to regulate important circulatory functions of the body. Each tilt of the glass he makes is slow and gentle, but with precision of force and pressure. Sometimes I'll drink wine all night and never sit or drink one glass, then fall asleep. I have hit the glass with my front teeth and pulled away too soon, staining my clothes. I drink wine in gulps.

“I'll get another glass,” I swig the last while standing. The blonde and the redhead live under the same roof. The redhead's dog follows me. It is a magnificent female, wolf looking animal with eyes of different colors. The right is a bright and vibrant blue. The left is brown, like the earth. For one or two seconds I fool myself into assuming the dog could read my mind and emotions. For a moment I entertained the notion that maybe man's best friend gleaned my insides and wanted to console me. Even you can't fool yourself for long and I hand her a treat, as I always do, and why she always follows me, no matter how I feel. Unsteady, I fill the wine glass and put the bottle back. I turn the corner from the kitchen to the living room, passing through the dining space of a small wooden table, a plant and two chairs. The blonde sits there reading, alone. He has left the room. Her forehead is tight with concentration. This time she reads a novel of romantic extremes, written in German (either her third or fourth language.) Sitting across from her I'm inclined to utter something stupid, “So, what's it like to read something in one of the love languages?”

“German is not considered a love language,” she snaps, and looks up from behind her glasses. Her eyes can hurt when she wants.

“Sorry, what's the book about,” I smile.

“Well, it's about this French girl in the seventeenth century who is a blacksmith's daughter and,” her voice drawing the pictures of the words she held. Excitement tooled her eyebrows to dance on her forehead as she told me the story. She told me of the girl's falling in love yet kept from being. A little girl humbled to be a boy. A girl kept from truth by those she had before relied on for life. At the moment her face, having once been dynamic with surprise and excitement, fell sorrowed and sad. Graceful, truthful, painful and sad were her eyes. All at once I could discern the pain of this little girl in France, hundreds of years ago, with a family ashamed and fearful of her gender. Born to a world produced with a distorted goal: Everything for what the stronger desires. Whether to live forever or to atrophy in one's own sin, mankind has constructed a world of the I. She well knows this and agrees that her own strengths go beyond the fickleness of objectified values. She always intended to fall in love the right way and I now know it takes a period spent in madness to comprehend love. I won't conjecture that if I handed her a pen she'd return an exact account of her mind or soul not because she is incapable of producing immaculate verse, but because such wonder could not translate to words. Such splendor is of the soul, accessible only by God and one's self. Madness is the clash of institutions and imaginations as seen by an angel viewing a small child, first witness to dying. For this, she shines. A paradox of the greatest proportions is the mark of a soul conceived in grace and light; then taken far beyond lunacy and brought back to a calm and forgiving place. Hers is such a soul.

“Do you believe the way the girl believes? Do you believe how you feel inside is you, or do you think your past forms you and that's it?” I ask her and hold my breath while waiting for her response.

“Well,” she pauses. It is a slow and reluctant pause. As though she is pondering something she has not wished to ponder, she moves in her chair, seethes with discomfort. In that moment she is a child. Yet the genesis of her expression from child to creature of experience is quick and debilitating. The ferment of the first reaction was stunted and replaced with a look of soft wisdom. “Well, we all have a past,” she explains with her eyes bright, “and our choices make up our future,” now she is certain, “and how you feel inside determines what you choose,” the grin on her face stretches wicked, “so your question makes little sense. It's all the same,” and she turns back into her book. I notice the hem of her pink blouse is darker than the rest of the garment's fabric. I smirk to myself and take another drink of chilled wine. She is still pretending to ignore me through her reading.

“So,” I am intending to interrupt her. She stops, closes the book and looks at me. I'm thinking she's such the little pioneer when I implore her to tell me of where she will visit the next time she leaves.

I dream. So must she.

Chapter 2
The Redhead

Have you ever inspected a foot? I recommend taking a moment and looking over a young lady's foot. Young ladies' feet are of a particular charm. A foot is a remarkable thing. On any day, a single foot will carry several pounds many miles. The redhead has small toes. Her foot is smaller than my left hand. Her skin is soft even where she walks. She loves horses... a cat, a dog, and four fish that don't belong to her. The last time I called for a ride from the county jail, she was the one to come my way. That's the gist of it. Neither one of us knows what the other one will do next nor do either of us scorn as we both know we can depend on and trust the other. Ours is a relationship unique and the most difficult to understand. We still know each other on equal ground and, for this, I am grateful. I've known her for years, but she had never sat next to me other than twice just recently, when she did so of her own accord. She is as much fire as is pure love. This much I have known from the beginning.

Saturday nights have different faces when you are in college. A Saturday in June is much more similar to the rest of the week than is a Saturday in November. Time not spent confined to an extreme schedule, with necessities cared for, and purpose imposed, describes the November Saturday, while a Saturday in July is like the fifth inning of a baseball game, not much different from the fourth. This Saturday night was an odd one. Saturdays that land on three day weekends after a Friday final involved absurd amounts of what many individuals would call lavish, even ridiculous behavior. Liquor flows and bodies churn at the local bar. Little girls, new to the college scene, adorn violet colors that grip the ass and outline their lips when they learn to take a shot at the billiards table. There is a distinction amongst the crowd. Townies on one end of the social spectrum and the frat crowd on the other. The first: extreme, betrayed, removed even while at home from one perspective, an irritated and emaciated host from another. The latter: succeeded children of an indignant age, having given up on the spirit existence from one perspective, children lost in the objectified confusion of an inauthentic world from another. She likes to go there and play pool.

“The other place doesn't have pooool tables,” she coos, and smiles a large, robust smile. Amongst the crowded sub-culture dialectics, the pre-fabricated haircuts, the branded buttocks touched at the top by the last few inches of well-conditioned and strawberry scented manes, she shines apart from the crowd. There is something in her smile: That large and carefree smile, surrounded by freckles when she has spent too much time in the sun. She knows of what others think of her, yet she doesn't care. The world is hers and she is too conscious of it. Her mother is friendly and attractive. Her step-father is tall, strong, and kind. His love for her is exaggerated through the love he shows for her mother. Her hair is not inked and is red, the morning sun, perfected flame. Excitement drizzles from her in waterfalls. The chaos swirls around her, she doesn't move. Lovers bump her arm while embraced in a mad and frenzied erotic attempt, she grins and floats a few feet back, the whole time watching that her pool cue pokes no one. A wiry man wearing thick glasses falls in and points at her with a piece of molded glass, she smiles and raises her dark, deep eyes. Stunted for one moment, he forgets his job and walks away with the mug. She doesn't worry. Instead, she taps the guy standing next to her on the shoulder, tells him what she wants, and is fluid within moments. Her infatuation with horses is fitting, and easy is it to imagine her form rocking, mixing with the burgundy of a stallion's mane. “Are you having a good time?” She shouts, pushing her voice above the motley assortment of irks and groans. My simple grin or nod of the head and she smiles, nods her head, takes a sip, turns away, becomes fire in the background, lights the room in wicker candle twilight.

“Are you?” I ask under my breath while she leans to take another shot. I'm well aware of the answer. Girls just want to have fun, right? We will be here for an hour before we walk to another local bar. The journey to a public restroom and back is perplexing when the bathroom is at the other end of a shoulder to shoulder packed crowd of college kids. It is boggling to describe the social Neapolitan swirl of fads and farce. Children becoming adult are nothing more than subjects establishing fabricated identities. With the inauguration of these identities is an encompassing conflict that cannot be ignored. A consistent struggle between several realities as interpreted from several viewpoints. How one sees oneself, how one is viewed by the world, and what the actual reality is; these are conceptions which differ. The mixture here is tense and the social flavors tend not to mix well. In other spots (without pool) the students have adapted well. Their clothing, hair, and make-up are unique and easy to tell apart. The regulars are the one's most likely seen; the ones who show up and sit to have a sandwich and a beer, belch and take a piss, rather than go to the school psychiatrist or call the peer counseling hotline to mend a broken heart, find a lost dream, revive a dying child, or just to wish out loud; fooled enough by the appearances, tired of the delusion, having kissed and touched and trained over and over again, the regulars are where the new kids look to learn. But a new kid can only wish it to be that easy. People, colors, flavors, scents and manes, unlike oil and water, mix well under the right conditions. The question is not if there exists a want to learn. The question is what is learned. Fall in love, have fun, run the underground, or study for an empty place in the future, if you make it that far.

I don't think she ever dwells on such concerns. For her, every moment is the last. She is still fighting to fall. In her eyes is a magnificent shine backed by a sweet wickedness. Perfected sensations are of pure pleasure. Close to perfection. Yet instead of perfect, she is human. Human, so she may touch and taste and feel. Human, so she may be touched and tasted and felt. The morning sun is perfected flame after a night lived in sweet wickedness. It is now a quarter after eleven. I won't call on her until noon. I call her more for remedy than anything else. The industry of phone brokerage, whether you hold a license or not, whether stocks or timeshare, is a bitch. Every conversation starts with a fabricated relationship. We say hello or answer with a scripted greeting. We ask how they have been and those who make the most money in this industry, those who say hello the best, are the ones who don't care. It hurts to care. So we drink, and smoke, and pour our souls away. The more fabricated the world becomes, the more control you, I, and the next person have over her own reality. Sales-sayings are a product of a thousand broken hearts, lost dreams, and false promises. Pitch it long enough, and it will become true. It will, only because people fall obligated to accept what they cannot understand. Whether God, love, the setting sun, or a guaranteed program (see terms and conditions) for a yearly (or biannual) fantasy vacation (accommodations only) taken anywhere in the world (based on availability and proceeding a fourteen month “hold period”) any time of the year (excludes “blackout” dates and “event” weeks which may change without notice) in brand new luxury (most accommodations are under renovation/construction and have existed as standard hotels).

I call her at ten past. The wait for her to answer gives me enough time to question sitting on the phone. I could leave, but then people wouldn't get called and money wouldn't be made. So, I wait and am content with her voice. Her voice calms me. Her presence, even from a distance, is warmth. Coldness changes and turns to a boil as she breathes. I always grin when my mind sketches her, but I sometimes fear I may have become addicted to her smile.

“Hellooo,” she always draws out her O's, making the air pliable to her tongue.

“What's up, baby doll?”

“Just chillin', what's up with you?”

“I'm at work. Did you have fun diving yesterday?”

“Yeah, I got pictures of both my mom and me,” her voice changes the same as molten, wild sapphire. My skin tingles as she continues to tell me of her mother and her, together in the water, playing with a world hidden from so many. It was her first open water free-dive, and she performed with excellence, as expected. The fire in her voice is contagious and my legs awake after having both been asleep. “So after we went diving, my step-father wanted subs. Sooo,” I close my eyes, cross my arms behind my head, lean back in the chair, and in the same precise demeanor with which the stars scatter the sky, she paints my mind with laughter. The fingers are no longer frigid. I have stopped shivering. Her excitement is intoxicating. The brightest colors of her masterpiece move and mix to make majestic sculptures in my mind. My heart beats soft percussion as she speaks. The world in chaos falls further and further away, only to get lost in her light. Warmth has entered my eyes from behind. The sensations of life again are startling.

“What are you going to do today?” calmer now.

“Well, I thought I would go hang out with,” she is telling me of her friend, the brunette. She is outlining their plans, allowing my mind to leave work for a moment. I know the places they are going and can imagine them there. I can imagine being with her. I am allowed that much while lost in imagination, with the insides warm and full of life, I cannot keep from smiling. To crack the serenity, a voice from above calls for me to pickup line two and after excusing myself I do. It is my father.

“Oh son, I'm so happy for you. You can make it on your own. Doesn't it feel good to have gone through that struggle and now you can be proud and happy with yourself?”

“Well, not really Dad, thanks.”

“But son, I know that when I became self-sufficient, living without my father's help, I was so happy, complete, and settled.”

What of the times you don't think I can remember as if it was yesterday? What of the times I watched you punch a hole in the wall? Or the times you whispered, deciding my future. I know when conflict is between you and her; I know when there is love. Even among conflict, there is love. You met her at the beginning of your 'self-sufficiency,' and together you have created each the others' fantasy, to the best of your ability. Your contentment comes from love Dad, not self-sufficiency.

“I love you son.”

Yes Dad, and you love my sister, but you found love with my mother. You found love while the rest of us are dying. My mind racing, implodes within itself, and an eerie silence is interrupted by the clicking of the phone line.

“Listen Dad, I have to get back to work.”

“You'll find love one day son, you will.”

“Thanks Dad, bye.” The air is bleak, but my inner-eye is cast in her fire and racing with images. In the struggle between wonder and despair, I speculate if this is what falling in love feels like. A deep breath, water, and I dial her number again.

“Hey,” her voice gentle.

“What's up?” I mutter quick and cold. She can read my mood and knows.

“Nothing, what's up with you?”

Purchase this book or download sample versions for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-10 show above.)