Pop 89: I Wouldn’t Do That if I Were You
By Madonna Hamel
madonnahamel@hotmail.com
I’ve said it, and I’ve had it said to me: “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Take welding while stoned, for instance: not a good idea. Ok, I was actually torch-cutting. But earlier that day, I’d been going over the designs for a new series of outdoor sculptures I planned to install in a Vancouver back alley. The work involved cutting into large empty metal canisters, shaping giant lotus petals, fantastical beasts with long-fingered hands which would eventually hold giant votive candles. I needed advice from my studio mate, a welder by trade, and he offered me a wee toke while we talked and sketched. The effects were still working on me when I fired up the oxy-acetylene torch. Work was going smoothly until, looking away for a second, I torched my entire notebook and all my designs went up in smoke. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.
The next year I was in Memphis. I tried to convince my fellow art students not to do things like walk the shores of the Mississippi at night, especially under the Arkansas-Tennessee bridge, where people were smoking more than pot and were in bad shape. Hurt people hurt people, I said. People who use drugs will use other people, their drug is their primary relationship, I said. So if you must take risks, maybe take the ones that won’t get you beat up. But, for them, the adrenaline rush of joy just didn’t hold a candle to the adrenaline rush of danger. Then there’s the time I tried to convince the sweet Georgia peach of a first-year student not to hitch-hike home for the holidays. Oh, Geez, honey, don’t do that! I said, trying not to plead. That was my first mistake. Don’t tell a burgeoning female spirit what not to do. Use no commands. Had I forgotten how invincible, how special, how magically protected as the main character in the universe’s feature-length movie I was when I was her age? It is hard, as you grow older, to resist the urge to be the guiding hand. In fact, the way I reason it, that should be one of the payoffs of being older. Actually, that should be THE pay-off - lighting the path ahead for the young-uns. Or at least shining a flashlight in the dark places where creeps and lost causes, and liars lurk. But would they listen? Despite how wise our words, the young must make their own mistakes. A friend once asked me if I might have a chat with her daughters when they visit. What about? I asked. Oh, you know, about getting drunk in a bar with a bunch of cowboys who can be extremely charming and flattering and haven’t seen a young woman in months. I’m afraid there is nothing I can say that will keep their wits about them, I replied. We are talking about a mix of hormones and instincts and booze, and most intoxicating of all: the attentions of a handsome cowboy. We women have been raised believing that male attention is as essential to life as water, oxygen and mascara. Sorry. I’ve been there, so I know the only advice that gets heeded is advice that is asked for. Otherwise, it’s just nagging. The young hitchhiker looked at me and said: “Hey, you’re still alive, and you seem fine to me.” I wanted to say: “Sadly, despite the fact that it only takes one bad experience, one bad ride in a stranger’s car, or one night with a dude whose name you can’t recall, to scar you for life, I know you’ll do it anyway.” Sadder still is that it only takes one jerk to ruin a gal’s life. The world is full of kind men - my brother, for one, another is a rancher with three daughters and five granddaughters - who pick up hitch-hiking women not just to give them a lift but to get them home safely, will go miles out of their way to do so.
The young woman waved my comments away, “I don’t get into cars with guys if I get a bad vibe.” “Really? You can surmise his history with women, whether there’s a bottle under the seat or a lifetime of anger under his belt, his character, in three seconds? You can sum up where he’s been and what joy’s left in him? Whether he can even stand his life anymore? Whether he’s been beaten down by circumstance, marriage, or a job he hates? Whether he’s scared of his dad or mad at the world? You can spot all that in three seconds?” “Yeah,” she responds,” I’m good that way.”
To that remark, I wanted to say: Really? Because you can’t even spot my sarcasm.” But instead, I said: “Nobody’s that easy to read.” Then I tried a direct hit: “The delusion of your own grandeur could get you on the wrong side of the city. Or worse, the wrong side of the grass.” She shrugged. I know when I’m beat. I slid off the bar stool and decided to play pool with another wise old broad like me. Sara is my age. She’s the daughter of a football coach. She knows a move or two. She walks to her car with her keys splayed between her fingers in case she needs to land a punch on a mugger.
That night she held out a pool cue to me: “Office hours over?” She laughed. “What advice did you foist on that poor chile?”
“Oh, she won’t listen to me. She’s psychic. She can suss out a situation like that,” I say, snapping my fingers. “So I thought I’d come over there and pick on someone my own size.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“That’s what I said!”
“But you’re not me. And you’re not her. And through grace or luck, we made it this far, so just say an extra prayer for her when you go to bed. Meanwhile, rack ‘em up.”