Kudzu Queen

By Tamara Ducote

Chaos Theory says something like a butterfly flapping its wings over the Pacific Ocean can set in motion a chain of events which leads to Atlantic Coast hurricanes, famine in Bangladesh, or Britney Spears shaving her head and beating a photographer’s car with her umbrella.

It is a Chaos Theory truism that our small, seemingly insignificant actions can have unintended, far-reaching consequences. Chaos Theory was nothing more than an interesting abstraction to me, until my life became a textbook example of it. This is my story. Oh, and my butterfly’s name is Rob Holbert.

Last week I was skulking dejectedly down the street, kicking a can, when I ran into my old friend Redbug.

“What are you doing, Tam?” Redbug asked.

“Moving,” I answered, and continued on down the road, kicking all of my earthly possessions (the can and its contents) down the street.

“I’m a ragged, unkempt, homeless person now, Redbug,” I explained.

“How’d this happen, girl?” Redbug asked. “Just last week you had a job, a home, a wonderful boyfriend, a fine iguana, and two cars in the driveway. What in the name of God happened to you?”

“Rob Holbert, my editor, flapped his wings,” I answered sadly. “But do not hate him, Redbug. Forgive Rob Holbert, for he knows not what he has done.”

“You look terrible, Girl,” said Redbug.

“My neighbors fire-bombed my house because of something Rob Holbert published in Lagniappe. My neighbors are nice people, though. They gave me two minutes to gather up any important personal possessions before they launched the rockets. And my across-the-alley neighbor gave me this empty fruit cocktail can to put my stuff in.”

“What about your cars?” asked Redbug.

“Right after the last Lagniappe came out, a giant fissure opened in the earth and swallowed up both cars. Then a great, booming Charleton Heston voice said from the heavens, ‘God is much displeased by what Rob Holbert published in Lagniappe.’”

“What happened to Bob, your wonderful boyfriend?” asked Redbug. “I thought you two were really in love. Surely Bob wouldn’t let you sink to these depths.”

“We were in love,” I said. “We even had a Five Year Plan for our lives, just like the Soviets. But alas and alack, Rob Holbert published that ugly-ass photo of me in my column again -“

“He didn’t!” Redbug interrupted. “No, no, no! Tell me it isn’t true!”

All I could do was hang my head, and nod sadly. Which, while much easier than patting your head and rubbing your tummy, or chewing gum while walking, is still no mean feat.

“Rob Holbert thought that I was asking him to change my column photo because of simple vanity, I guess,” I told Redbug. “Rob didn’t realize that Bob’s commitment to me hinged upon that terrible ugly photo of me not ever being published again. Drinking, drugging, writing bad checks, robbing banks and wanton infidelity were all things that Bob and I could have worked through. But that ugly photo appearing again was just too much. It was too embarrassing for Bob. He quit his job and left town. Last I heard, Bob was contemplating committing a crime so he could qualify for the Witness Protection Program.”

“Well,” said Redbug, “You really can’t blame your boyfriend. That IS one seriously ugly photo.”

“I know,” I said, sniffling. “I don’t blame him at all. Anyhow, tomorrow is another day. I’ll get another boyfriend.”

“Better look for one at the Home For The Blind,” suggested Redbug. “Nobody who has seen that photo is going to want you.”

“As a matter of fact,” Redbug said, edging away, “I really don’t want to be your friend anymore. And I’d appreciate it if you never, ever told anyone you even knew me, OK?”

“I understand, Red. That’s what everybody’s been saying, since the last issue of Lagniappe came out,” I said. “Go in peace.”

As I continued skulking and kicking, I remembered my magnificent pet iguana, Goo. I hoped he was resting in peace. Goo’s death throes had been a terrible thing to behold. But I didn’t blame Rob Holbert at all. Rob Holbert had no way of knowing that Goo suffered from a rare exotic disease which proved fatal after that ugly-ass photo of me ran in the paper for the fifth time. The veterinarian had warned me, after the photo ran for the fourth time.

“Your iguana’s health is precarious,” the vet warned me gravely. “I can’t stress this enough: One more public viewing of that ugly photo of you, and your iguana will die.”

To compound the tragedy, my Chihuahua happened to have the same disease. But Rob Holbert had no way of knowing this.

As I passed the school where I used to be employed, I paused, and a lone tear rolled down my unkempt, stinking, homeless cheek. I remember being fired just like it was yesterday.

“Ms. Ducote,” my principal began, “It is true that you are a dedicated teacher, and that you are tenured. It is also true that Mobile is suffering from a dire teacher shortage. I hate to let you go. But we just can’t have someone working for us who has a photo THAT ugly being published repeatedly. The students can’t take that kind of trauma.”

“I understand, Boss,” I said. “It’s been nice working for you. Let me just go back into my classroom one last time, and gather up my personal items.”

“Do you need a bag?”

“No, thanks. I’ve still got some room in this can.”

Somehow news of the terrible, ugly photo even reached Ohio, where my daughter was going to college.

“How could you do this to me, Mom?” Veronica sobbed on the cell phone. “How could you let that terrible ugly picture of you appear in Lagniappe AGAIN? My college has revoked my scholarship. Didn’t you tell Rob Holbert that your life and your entire family’s lives would be ruined if he printed that ugly picture again?”

“Sweetheart, I’ve asked Rob Holbert many times to not use that ugly photo,” I explained. “But he’s a busy man. He doesn’t have time to worry about stuff like this. Changing to a better picture would have taken three whole minutes of the man’s time. But don’t worry, Sweetie, we can find some remote Arctic ice floe to move to. We can rebuild our lives.”

“You SUCK!” My daughter shrieked. “And Grandma says to tell you that she hates you, too.”

I hugged my fruit cocktail can bravely to my chest and marched onward, determined to find some hope and meaning amongst the shards of my broken life. I just hope to God I don’t run into any more butterflies. The damn things have caused me enough trouble already.

Contact Tamara Ducote at TDDucote6@aol.com.

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