The Autobiography of Thuy Le / The Value of Iced Tea

Posted in Words

1987. Today is like every other day; the sun burns the sky, the smog chokes the neck of anyone that dares to breathe its air, and the hand staggers in a circular motion with the speed of a snail. I managed to peel my eyes from the clock and I concentrated on finishing my college application form. I reached the question where it was inscribed : Major; a long ominous black line laid next to it. I had two words dancing inside my head, but my ball point pen would ink only one. So it was embedded that I would take shelter in architecture.

Today is like the day that transpired a month ago. Through some administrative mishap, I had to fill out another college application form. Once again I faced the black line. But this time it was different. The same two words danced inside my head, but my pen played a trick and hypnotized me into scribing the word architecture into three letters. It wasn’t until later when I received my acceptance notice when I realized what I had done. Those three letters, the same letters that once waltzed with architecture, now stand erect, proud, and alone on this letter - art, my own damnation for the next four years.

It’s Tuesday night, and I’m in a restaurant with about a dozen other people I know. I shouldn’t be here; I feel like an outsider; I wouldn’t fit in; I stayed and drank iced tea.

June 1987. The Great Ceremony is here. The golden octopus is waving its tentacles with feverish abandonment, the white marshmallow is racing over its earth’s children like a dog in heat, and I’m sitting between two friends that I will never see again. We got up and performed the Ceremonial Ritual with everyone else.

Brass and breath met together within a dark and hollow tunnel; their collision explodes in forced harmony upon the accepting ears of fathers and mothers embracing their sons and daughters on the field of illusions. This Kodak moment made me want to urinate in my over-priced Hooker green rented gown. My family was with me so I refrained, and I conceded to be captured in the Kodak moment.

It’s happening again - the legs, the hair, the glow. I saw it before. It was two years ago. I must not make the same mistake again. I drank more iced tea. An hour later Joe joined us for dinner; he sat next to me. I repressed the devil that had plagued me for the last hour and started to converse with Joe. We happened to stumble upon the subject of John and Karen and their wedding. Andrea joined in the conversation. I said that the cost of a condom outweighed the price of an unwanted baby. That ended the conversation.

Fall 1987. My first quarter in college. I met Jim that quarter; he was in one of my classes. He looked strange, and I stereotyped him as the typical arty student. What is more strange is that I wanted to be just like him. So for the next two years I studied him. What I found was a friend.

Part of my life’s education is credited to Jim. Perhaps someday I will pay homage to the people that have affected my life in one way or another. No doubt, his image will not escape me.

My dinner companions are elated. I see the joy and laughter buzzing in the air. I see the wasted food. A little boy walks in. He is beautiful. A set of piercing black pearls hugged in a pool of white virgins stared into my eyes. He walked up to me. All I have is iced tea so I offered him my glass. The pale dried skin taped to the frame of its owner wrinkled under the weight of a smile; he turned around and ran into the light. The glass was untouched. I turned to Joe and said that art is frivolous and self-indulging. He bit the Apple and my new tape recorder started to roll. Half way through the conversation I poured Joe a glass of iced tea.

Spring 1988. The rumors were true. Satan’s brother himself was an art teacher at this institution. I wanted to dance with the devil in the pale moon light so I added his class. There were about twenty of us in all. We never had a chance.

We started off with the Tango, and he danced with every one of us. By early sunlight he had stepped on everybody’s foot. It was no accident; he did it on purpose, I heard his laughter. I was in pain and I wanted more so I signed up for more dance lessons. This time I wore my lead shoes. He eyed my shoes, chuckled, and kneed me in the balls.

Like busy ant workers attending to the queen’s wishes, our waiters and waitresses swarmed to our every desire. I didn’t have any desires. Instead I opened my book, stabbed the paper, and drank my iced tea. Joe asked me what I was doing. I told him that I was writing my autobiography. He said that I haven’t experienced life yet and that my pages would be blank. I heard his laughter. I gave him some more iced tea.

Winter 1989. It’s happening - the legs, the hair, the glow. And that glow! O’ that glow that intoxicates the eyes with its sultry warmth, its luscious juice of life.

I feel the whole universe is caged within my body; a supernova burns brightly at the center of its core. I wanted her to feel my warmth, my juice. I opened the door and invited her in. I was doomed from day one. This fabricated illusion that I had conveniently clothed her in turned on me with forceful vengeance. It stabbed and tore at my heart with my own hands. I let it poke at me a couple more times before I closed the door.

I’m starting to make “Me” art now.

The night progresses. The party’s conversation switched to a lighter subject: the lottery, an illusion of hope and happiness given to the mass population a reason not to die. Joe and I started to talk again. I remember him saying how television gives instant and continuing gratification; in essence, multiple orgasms. I had ten thousand orgasms that night. I drank more iced tea. Joe drank more iced tea.

Fall 1990. It’s been three years to the date. I’m tired. I have tasted all of their blood. In return, they each took turns in shoving their egos down my throat. I smiled, I swatted, I shitted it out and gave it to them on a platter of cement. I smiled again.

Our waitress asked us if we wanted any desert. I scanned the list of pie: apple, peach, cream, chocolate; they had everything. Rachel caught a glimpse of my eyes and asked me if I wanted a piece of pie. The aroma of a fresh baked seasoned peach pie with a scoop of cool vanilla ice cream on the side smelled like paradise. I politely said, “No thank you.”

I turned my attention to Joe. He was nudging me for some more iced tea. As I was pouring from the elixir, Joe spoke the Words: “You know, iced tea is made of ninety-five percent water.”

I filled his cup to the rim.

1991. My heart is a stone. The weight forces me to walk in a slouch. I am a creature of cynicism, I am a miscreant. I hurt the the people around me, I can’t stop, I am sorry.

I am lying in my sanctuary staring at the white marshmallow, listening to my tape recorder. I played all the tapes that I had collected in the last four years. What I heard disgust me. I stood up and stomped on the recorder with my lead shoes. It spat red goo on my favorite shirt. The stain is deep. It will take years of washing to clean it off. I kept the shirt like it is, as a reminder.

I’m starting to make “My” art now.

I’m in the painting room working on my painting. A sudden urge to urinate compels me to go the rest room. On my way there I see a sign that reads: Dinner, Marie Calendar, $7.00, Tuesday night, April 16th. I’ve got a pocket full of change so I decided it wouldn’t be feasible to go. Besides, I would feel like an outsider, I wouldn’t fit in.

The restaurant is closed, and people are leaving. I stayed and watched them go their separate ways. The room becomes a little dimmer, and the temperature becomes a little colder. The light and warmth are gone. I drank all of my iced tea and bid Joe good-bye. He stayed a little longer. His glass was still half full.