‘I mean, I don’t have anything against my parents. I don’t. Nobody expects to get divorced, or have all the shit that happened to them happen. I’m not here to get back at them, or anything like that. And no, I don’t blame myself, either. I mean, would this family be as fucked up as it is now if I hadn’t, like, “joined” it? I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t matter. This isn’t about that. This is something I need to do for myself.’
Q.
‘I need to know the names of my birth parents.’
Q.
‘My name is Caitlin Shelley. I’m seventeen. I was adopted from Seoul, Korea, when I was four months old, by Bob and Christine Shelley. I have two older brothers, neither of whom was adopted.’
Q.
‘Yes, I understand that there’s a policy. I’ll be eighteen in October, and I have two reasons why I need to get around that right now. One is that neither of my parents is capable of giving parental consent. The other is that I don’t know 100% for sure whether I am seventeen, do I? I won’t know until I see the situation around my birth in Korea. So, until I see my records, I can’t be sure how old I am.’
Q.
‘I haven’t seen Christine in a few months now. Last I heard she had an apartment in Grand Rapids, but I never had an address for it. She hasn’t called. As far as I know, Brian and Anthony don’t know where she is either. This is all confidential, right?’
Q.
‘Bob is at home. He’s always home. He looks the exact same when I leave for school in the morning as when I get home, except drunker. He might leave while I’m at work, sometimes, because when I get home from that, his door’s always closed, and he has a porch off his bedroom, so he could leave if he wanted. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, though. There’s always food in the house, it’s a safe environment, et cetera. Listen, by confidential, you know I’m not telling you this to rat them out, right? You’re not going to do anything…okay. This has nothing to do with them. I’m telling you these details so you’ll understand why I need to bypass the parental-consent thing. My mom is M.I.A., and Bob is far too inebriated to sign anything and have it hold water. Plus, he is just not in a mental state to handle this.’
Q.
‘When he lost his job, he kind of lost it. Mentally, I mean. He’d been working for the city for like twenty years, he was in a really respectable position, when he got laid off. I guess it was pretty traumatizing. He did the city budget, so he was well aware of how money is allocated, what jobs are in danger, et cetera, and when the new mayor was elected four years ago, he handed him this new project, and it involved noticing that his job was being cut. It was horrible, for him. He had one kid in college and two kids at home, and a good job, and a normal marriage, at the time. Anthony was a freshman and all of a sudden we couldn’t pay tuition anymore. It was around then that Christine’s breakdowns got worse, too. She’d stopped coming home regularly even while my dad was still working, and he thought it was infidelity, so he was already on the edge, but then we found out she was…very unstable. She spent six months in a mental hospital. Yeah, in-patient. She checked herself in, and I went to see her, and my dad did too, but it was like she didn’t know me. That really hurt my dad too, I could see. Then she started accusing him of all this stuff that didn’t happen, and we got scared, both that she had all these false memories and that somebody might take them seriously, so he stopped going, and I didn’t have a way of getting there, so I did too. Stopped going, I mean. Honestly it was easier not to. I felt bad, and I would’ve gone, if she’d given any indication that she wanted me to, but she never called and asked. It was like we just didn’t exist to her. When she checked herself out, she didn’t tell us. That she was leaving or where she was going. Sometimes she calls Anthony. Somehow my dad managed to divorce her. It’s all very weird. Ten years ago I would never have thought this was possible.’
Q.
‘Anthony seems fine. I don’t really talk to him. He stopped coming home for holidays like his freshman year. It was like college became his family and he didn’t need us anymore. Brian, kind of the same thing, but he was always quieter. He was around for Dad’s…decline, but he was always quieter. He moved out a couple years ago and comes home occasionally, but he doesn’t really share. With me. I have not idea how he is.’
Q.
‘When I was little, things were normal, though. We took vacations, we ate dinner together. We have a pool and had friends over, I went to summer camp, I played soccer and took dance and violin lessons, all that stuff. I got braces and had surgery on my knee when I broke it, and they were always more than happy to pay for it. I got the same treatment as Brian and Anthony. They talked to me about being adopted, and about Korea, and told me they’d take me there someday, maybe for high school graduation. Which is now approaching, and no one’s mentioned it. I doubt Christine will make it there at all.’
Q.
‘I mean, that’s how it is, right? It’s fucked up. But that’s life.’
Q.
‘I applied to a couple places. The guidance counselor pretty much forced me to. I don’t really want to go to college. I’m definitely moving out this summer though. I work at Costco and I might be able to go fulltime after school’s out. I’m trying to save money so I can go to Korea. I might take some classes at GCC. I just don’t see the point of spending all that money, and taking out loans, when I don’t even know what I want to do.’
Q.
‘Well I know what I want, I want to find my birth parents. I want to live in Korea, at least for awhile. Maybe a year or so. And college doesn’t exactly fit into that plan.’
Q.
‘No, I haven’t told him. I don’t even know if he’d hear me over the TV. And it might just make things worse. He’s been taking Prozac for a year now but I don’t think it’s doing anything. I mean, I feel bad for him, but no wonder he can’t get a job, when he just drinks and mopes all the time. Anyway, no, I’m not going to tell him, until I know for sure that I’m going to Korea. He doesn’t need to know.’
Q.
‘I think he would have been hurt by it ten years ago, in a fatherly kind of understanding “I’ll support you whatever you do, honey” kind of way. Now, though, like I said, 180.’
Q.
‘I want to find my roots. I’ve been asking myself these questions nobody else can answer. Who am I, where do I come from. What diseases am I susceptible to. Does Alzheimer’s, or male pattern baldness, or even like low blood pressure, do those things run in my family? I need to know these things.’
Q.
‘Because what am I going to do until October? Fuck around and pretend college is right for me, or just sit and wait till I can look at my own file? Six more months of just waiting? I want to start planning my trip to Korea, do you see? And no, I’m not going to go off and so anything rash, I’m not booking my flight just yet. I’m being rather adult about this, given that no one else in my life is. I want to start learning the language, and get accustomed to the culture. But the first step is knowing my real name. Which I understand might not be in the file. But I have to know that.’
Q.
‘No, I’m not running away from anything. I’m very grateful to have been given this chance, to live here in Michigan, to grow up with brothers and loving parents and have the opportunity to go to college if I want to later in life and all that jazz. But I can’t settle here, I can’t accept all this shit that’s happened as the only life I have—when it’s like I have a whole other life, and family, in Korea, that didn’t happen, while this one, this degenerating, fallen apart, suddenly not-so-great-anymore one did, you know?’
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Strangers
I’ve kept count of the times one of the roommates has left their empty coffee cup out with the spoon still in it, rendering both mug and spoon unclean even after the sticky residue at the bottom has been washed off. Six.
The first time was on a Tuesday when I got home from work at eight o’clock. I am always very tired when I get home from work because it is very tedious and I concentrate very hard. That is the first reason I dislike having roommates. However on this particular day I got home at eight o’clock and I was pleased to find that no one was home.
What did irritate me however was that my key got stuck in the lock again so that by the time I did get inside it was 8:05 p.m. and so I missed the introductory remarks on my favorite program. Regardless I came inside and settled down on the couch. Myself was already on the couch and I started petting him. He was sitting up, not lying down.
Let me explain that I am very tired after work because all day I am sorting envelopes with addresses written on them in small fonts, and it takes the utmost concentration. So when I get home I often want to watch TV with Myself and drink some ginger ale and go to bed. Sometimes I do a puzzle.
I was thinking about doing a puzzle because I had already seen this particular episode when I saw the living room doorknob start to turn. And in walked Tomtom, the skinny man with the sagging face. I was not happy to see him.
He wandered in as though he were lost in his own living room and stood for a minute in the V-shaped light the TV made on the floor. He was holding a white mug in both hands.
I continued to pet Myself because Tomtom’s presence made me very nervous. At this point neither of us had acknowledged each other.
“A little dark in here, isn’t it?” he said finally.
“Yes,” I said.
“Mind if I turn on a light?”
I would mind very much but I am trying to be hospitable, so I said, “Okay.”
“I don’t mean to disturb you,” said Tomtom, as if he needed the light on to begin talking. “I do have a bit of a…wrinkle, though.”
“What is it?”
Myself strutted over to the other side of the couch and sat upright right in the middle of the cushion, as if saying to Tomtom, “This couch is full.”
Tomtom continued to stand and blow into his mug.
“Well, the project I was working all month…fell through, so I was hoping I might be able to give you your rent check a little bit late.”
I hadn’t taken my eyes from the television yet and didn’t intend to. I didn’t mean to be rude but I also wouldn’t know what to do with my face if we were looking at each other. I wished Myself were back so I could continue to pet him.
“How late?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. A few weeks, at the most. I’ll get it to you, though, I promise.”
“Why? Are you getting another project?”
“That’s…up in the air.”
Because it wasn’t a question I didn’t know how to answer it so I didn’t say anything at all.
“So, is that okay?”
“Yes.”
Then he looked around as though he were looking for something to do. He still seemed very lost.
“I’ll need it by the twentieth, though,” I said.
“Yeah. That’s perfect. Thanks.”
I nodded. I didn’t know if he had other things to say. After a minute he kind of nodded back and then left, closing the door behind him, which made me glad I had made allowances for him.
After that I was too tired to get up and set up a puzzle to do, so I finished watching the episode. When it was over I walked down the hallway to the kitchen, which has windows on two sides. Myself followed with her tail in an S in the air. It was almost bedtime and because I wouldn’t be able to go to bed without a full stomach I made toast. After I buttered it I put the knife in the sink and it was then that I noticed a mug in the sink with a spoon still in it, and around the bottom of the inside of the mug was a ring of brown stickiness. But it was not the color of Tomtom’s mug so I do not know whose it was.
The first time was on a Tuesday when I got home from work at eight o’clock. I am always very tired when I get home from work because it is very tedious and I concentrate very hard. That is the first reason I dislike having roommates. However on this particular day I got home at eight o’clock and I was pleased to find that no one was home.
What did irritate me however was that my key got stuck in the lock again so that by the time I did get inside it was 8:05 p.m. and so I missed the introductory remarks on my favorite program. Regardless I came inside and settled down on the couch. Myself was already on the couch and I started petting him. He was sitting up, not lying down.
Let me explain that I am very tired after work because all day I am sorting envelopes with addresses written on them in small fonts, and it takes the utmost concentration. So when I get home I often want to watch TV with Myself and drink some ginger ale and go to bed. Sometimes I do a puzzle.
I was thinking about doing a puzzle because I had already seen this particular episode when I saw the living room doorknob start to turn. And in walked Tomtom, the skinny man with the sagging face. I was not happy to see him.
He wandered in as though he were lost in his own living room and stood for a minute in the V-shaped light the TV made on the floor. He was holding a white mug in both hands.
I continued to pet Myself because Tomtom’s presence made me very nervous. At this point neither of us had acknowledged each other.
“A little dark in here, isn’t it?” he said finally.
“Yes,” I said.
“Mind if I turn on a light?”
I would mind very much but I am trying to be hospitable, so I said, “Okay.”
“I don’t mean to disturb you,” said Tomtom, as if he needed the light on to begin talking. “I do have a bit of a…wrinkle, though.”
“What is it?”
Myself strutted over to the other side of the couch and sat upright right in the middle of the cushion, as if saying to Tomtom, “This couch is full.”
Tomtom continued to stand and blow into his mug.
“Well, the project I was working all month…fell through, so I was hoping I might be able to give you your rent check a little bit late.”
I hadn’t taken my eyes from the television yet and didn’t intend to. I didn’t mean to be rude but I also wouldn’t know what to do with my face if we were looking at each other. I wished Myself were back so I could continue to pet him.
“How late?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. A few weeks, at the most. I’ll get it to you, though, I promise.”
“Why? Are you getting another project?”
“That’s…up in the air.”
Because it wasn’t a question I didn’t know how to answer it so I didn’t say anything at all.
“So, is that okay?”
“Yes.”
Then he looked around as though he were looking for something to do. He still seemed very lost.
“I’ll need it by the twentieth, though,” I said.
“Yeah. That’s perfect. Thanks.”
I nodded. I didn’t know if he had other things to say. After a minute he kind of nodded back and then left, closing the door behind him, which made me glad I had made allowances for him.
After that I was too tired to get up and set up a puzzle to do, so I finished watching the episode. When it was over I walked down the hallway to the kitchen, which has windows on two sides. Myself followed with her tail in an S in the air. It was almost bedtime and because I wouldn’t be able to go to bed without a full stomach I made toast. After I buttered it I put the knife in the sink and it was then that I noticed a mug in the sink with a spoon still in it, and around the bottom of the inside of the mug was a ring of brown stickiness. But it was not the color of Tomtom’s mug so I do not know whose it was.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
“I just feel like I have so many ideas but no way to channel them, so they’re useless, even though they’re awesome. Like gunpowder without a gun.”
“George?”
“Oh, hi, Callie. Yes. It’s like, everyday I think of a new situation. Or, it just comes to me, I don’t actually think of it. And sometimes they’re tedious, but sometimes they’re really interesting, and I have no idea what to do with it.”
“…”
“You know?”
“Not really. Are you…are you talking to someone else?”
“No. You.”
“Oh. You caught me off guard.”
“I apologize. But anyway, back to the point, it’s like I don’t know what to do with them all. For instance, just today I thought of two interesting things: one is empty ice trays, and one is playing guitar with a papercutted fingers.”
“Ouch.”
“I know. Painful, right? Aren’t those great images? Subtle, everyday, yet they start to tell a story. They suggest a story. Meaning, little instances that are indicative of something greater. My problem is, I just can’t think of something greater.”
“Greater than ice cube trays?”
“Yes. Who’s doing it? An annoying roommate? A lazy bachelor? A faltering marriage? A couple with differing ideas of ice cube maintenance? Eh?”
“It’s nice to see you too, George. How’ve you been?”
“Other than the current predicament, fine.”
“You mean the gunpowder thing?”
“Yes. I knew you’d understand. Also a good image, yeah? But nowhere to put it in. No greater context in which to give it meaning.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Eh? How’s Peter?”
“Philip? He’s…you know. He’s fine.”
“Good living situation, Callie?”
“Actually, I go by Callista now…a little more professional…but yes, we have a place out in Willsboro. A duplex, I believe it’s called.”
“Ah. Glad to hear it. Are you here for a book?”
“Um—no, just…just browsing. I had a few minutes before class tonight.”
“Mm-hm, mm-hm. So, does Peter fill the ice cube trays? Tell me, would you have married him if he didn’t? Just kidding, you don’t have to answer that.”
“George, I…are you all right? Where are you living now?”
“Oh, you know. Not a duplex, whatever that is. More like an, ah, an apartment.”
“Oh—oops, I uh, I have to go...”.
“Mm-hm, mm-hm.”
“Um, well, it was good to run into you, George...”
“Yeah well, I come here occasionally, to find a place for my ideas, you know, so if
you ever want to do it again.”
“Okay. Well, good night, George. Take care.”
“Yeah, yeah. You too, Callie.”
“George?”
“Oh, hi, Callie. Yes. It’s like, everyday I think of a new situation. Or, it just comes to me, I don’t actually think of it. And sometimes they’re tedious, but sometimes they’re really interesting, and I have no idea what to do with it.”
“…”
“You know?”
“Not really. Are you…are you talking to someone else?”
“No. You.”
“Oh. You caught me off guard.”
“I apologize. But anyway, back to the point, it’s like I don’t know what to do with them all. For instance, just today I thought of two interesting things: one is empty ice trays, and one is playing guitar with a papercutted fingers.”
“Ouch.”
“I know. Painful, right? Aren’t those great images? Subtle, everyday, yet they start to tell a story. They suggest a story. Meaning, little instances that are indicative of something greater. My problem is, I just can’t think of something greater.”
“Greater than ice cube trays?”
“Yes. Who’s doing it? An annoying roommate? A lazy bachelor? A faltering marriage? A couple with differing ideas of ice cube maintenance? Eh?”
“It’s nice to see you too, George. How’ve you been?”
“Other than the current predicament, fine.”
“You mean the gunpowder thing?”
“Yes. I knew you’d understand. Also a good image, yeah? But nowhere to put it in. No greater context in which to give it meaning.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Eh? How’s Peter?”
“Philip? He’s…you know. He’s fine.”
“Good living situation, Callie?”
“Actually, I go by Callista now…a little more professional…but yes, we have a place out in Willsboro. A duplex, I believe it’s called.”
“Ah. Glad to hear it. Are you here for a book?”
“Um—no, just…just browsing. I had a few minutes before class tonight.”
“Mm-hm, mm-hm. So, does Peter fill the ice cube trays? Tell me, would you have married him if he didn’t? Just kidding, you don’t have to answer that.”
“George, I…are you all right? Where are you living now?”
“Oh, you know. Not a duplex, whatever that is. More like an, ah, an apartment.”
“Oh—oops, I uh, I have to go...”.
“Mm-hm, mm-hm.”
“Um, well, it was good to run into you, George...”
“Yeah well, I come here occasionally, to find a place for my ideas, you know, so if
you ever want to do it again.”
“Okay. Well, good night, George. Take care.”
“Yeah, yeah. You too, Callie.”
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
if that's what it takes
She knew it was over when he tried for a whole minute after she said stop to coax the spoon into her closed mouth, that morning.
Later, the former maid of honor raised her glass while someone strummed a banjo, and told Anny that she appreciated that she had “come to her own truth.” Anny had a little piece of black and red tulle sticking out of her hair; her dress was black, white, and red, and some of the more traditionally minded guests said it was a sign.
How did this happen?
Picture this. J.J., dressed in white, with his chopped black hair and matching blue eyes and vest, stood on the steps above the street; around him were like-dressed men, his groomsmen; the guests were flocking the streets (this was a huge wedding) and he stood above them looking out, actually holding hands with David Lee and Anthony, two groomsmen, and saying "I feel luckier right now than I've ever felt in my life."
Meanwhile down the street was Anny herself, blonde hair short and straight, face wide, eyes black rimmed and vaguely Oriental. She had on the veil, complete with the sprig of tulle, and the dress, white and billowy with too-tight black sleeves, the tightness being the second sign that it was over.
She was alone, standing on the crowds' fringes, and she could see J.J. and his white-
suited groomsmen in a messy triangle on the church steps. Out this far most of the crowd didn't know she was the bride and left her alone. Those who did said later that she looked "busy" and left her alone also.
Next scene is of her running - just booking it in the other direction, veil and bulbous skirt streaming behind her, black almond eyes wide and turning back to make sure she wasn't being followed, even as she thought the words "and she never looked back."
Really though she just tore away from there, down the street, while J.J. looked on, held hands, and had tears in his eyes.
Where did she go?
The reception was going to be at a bar on the other side of town; the band was booked and actually there now, hanging out on the couches and pretending to soundcheck. Anny's aunt was the owner; the bar was converted from an old house, so there were high ceilings and bay windows and lots of rooms. The actual bar part was in the center of the old living room, and Harriet stood in it now, plumply wiping glasses clean and hanging them from their stems above her head. Through a curtained doorway sat the guys of Coxswain!, a local band with sufficient noise and beats to keep the crowd dancing.
Anny, out of breath and sweating, and wondering if this was even slightly appropriate, spread the curtains and poked in her head.
“If you guys haven’t started yet,” she said, “is it okay to hang out here? Or should I go find the party somewhere else?”
They looked at each other, the two guys, the third one being MIA, and said, “No, here’s fine.”
“Anny,” Harriet disapproved through the doorway. “This is absurd. I’m not making you any drinks.”
Later the place filled up; Miranda, the MOH, in her black dress and red sash, other friends, some family, miscellaneous guests. At one point after the band played they were hanging out on the deck, a two-leveled, screened-in affair, on which Anny stood, or rather fell over, talking to Miranda and Eric, and singer.
“I mean,” she said, most of her weight on the railing, “I suppose—I’m just not sure
whether to live in Brooklyn, South Bend or Atlanta.”
“Those are all really different cities, Anna,” said Eric into his cigarette.
Miranda was tan and brunette, and pretty, and had a lazy eye, which kept lolling down to her martini. The other one rested firmly on Anny.
“Yeah but,” she said, “that would be great if you lived in Atlanta. We’d see each other all the time.”
Anny lurched sideways, and her lowball crashed to the ground. Earlier Harriet had rescinded her threat and made her something mint chocolate liqueur-flavored.
“If you’re going to drink at a time like this, you’ll at least do it under my watch,” she’d said.
“Should I still be wearing this?” Anny said now.
In the other room with the couches sat J.J. and D.L. and Anthony.
“It’s just that—I don’t know what this means,” he said.
When it got too buggy despite the screens the porch people came in and surrounded the bar, and that’s when the toasting started.
Miranda, who had the lazy eye and was a lounge singer, sang her toast of appreciate to Anny, “for having come to her own truth.” Anny was grateful for the support but didn’t understand the word “appreciate,” which implied that Miranda somehow benefited.
Eric gave her a toast too, which was inappropriate as it was mostly about how now she was single and still hot, and in the couch room J.J. put his face in his hands.
The third member of Coxswain!, who was tall and easily distracted, drifted into the couch room. He sat across from the triad of groomsmen and lit a cigarette.
"What's the deal, man," he said amiably.
"She's gone," said J.J. "I mean, she's here, but she skipped out on the wedding. But
we're still having the reception."
The third member nodded. The smoke produced during this motion came in zigzags.
Anny threw up under the railing, having forgotten about the screen, which was now a filter, of sorts. The reception was winding down.
She remembered the hours of indecision, and the split second it took to start running. She threw up again when she remembered running.
"J.J. is still here?" she blurted out, to no one, and stood up.
J.J. was gone, said Harriet, cheeks bobbing as she replaced another clean glass
overhead.
"What did I do?" said Anny.
What did she do?
Later, the former maid of honor raised her glass while someone strummed a banjo, and told Anny that she appreciated that she had “come to her own truth.” Anny had a little piece of black and red tulle sticking out of her hair; her dress was black, white, and red, and some of the more traditionally minded guests said it was a sign.
How did this happen?
Picture this. J.J., dressed in white, with his chopped black hair and matching blue eyes and vest, stood on the steps above the street; around him were like-dressed men, his groomsmen; the guests were flocking the streets (this was a huge wedding) and he stood above them looking out, actually holding hands with David Lee and Anthony, two groomsmen, and saying "I feel luckier right now than I've ever felt in my life."
Meanwhile down the street was Anny herself, blonde hair short and straight, face wide, eyes black rimmed and vaguely Oriental. She had on the veil, complete with the sprig of tulle, and the dress, white and billowy with too-tight black sleeves, the tightness being the second sign that it was over.
She was alone, standing on the crowds' fringes, and she could see J.J. and his white-
suited groomsmen in a messy triangle on the church steps. Out this far most of the crowd didn't know she was the bride and left her alone. Those who did said later that she looked "busy" and left her alone also.
Next scene is of her running - just booking it in the other direction, veil and bulbous skirt streaming behind her, black almond eyes wide and turning back to make sure she wasn't being followed, even as she thought the words "and she never looked back."
Really though she just tore away from there, down the street, while J.J. looked on, held hands, and had tears in his eyes.
Where did she go?
The reception was going to be at a bar on the other side of town; the band was booked and actually there now, hanging out on the couches and pretending to soundcheck. Anny's aunt was the owner; the bar was converted from an old house, so there were high ceilings and bay windows and lots of rooms. The actual bar part was in the center of the old living room, and Harriet stood in it now, plumply wiping glasses clean and hanging them from their stems above her head. Through a curtained doorway sat the guys of Coxswain!, a local band with sufficient noise and beats to keep the crowd dancing.
Anny, out of breath and sweating, and wondering if this was even slightly appropriate, spread the curtains and poked in her head.
“If you guys haven’t started yet,” she said, “is it okay to hang out here? Or should I go find the party somewhere else?”
They looked at each other, the two guys, the third one being MIA, and said, “No, here’s fine.”
“Anny,” Harriet disapproved through the doorway. “This is absurd. I’m not making you any drinks.”
Later the place filled up; Miranda, the MOH, in her black dress and red sash, other friends, some family, miscellaneous guests. At one point after the band played they were hanging out on the deck, a two-leveled, screened-in affair, on which Anny stood, or rather fell over, talking to Miranda and Eric, and singer.
“I mean,” she said, most of her weight on the railing, “I suppose—I’m just not sure
whether to live in Brooklyn, South Bend or Atlanta.”
“Those are all really different cities, Anna,” said Eric into his cigarette.
Miranda was tan and brunette, and pretty, and had a lazy eye, which kept lolling down to her martini. The other one rested firmly on Anny.
“Yeah but,” she said, “that would be great if you lived in Atlanta. We’d see each other all the time.”
Anny lurched sideways, and her lowball crashed to the ground. Earlier Harriet had rescinded her threat and made her something mint chocolate liqueur-flavored.
“If you’re going to drink at a time like this, you’ll at least do it under my watch,” she’d said.
“Should I still be wearing this?” Anny said now.
In the other room with the couches sat J.J. and D.L. and Anthony.
“It’s just that—I don’t know what this means,” he said.
When it got too buggy despite the screens the porch people came in and surrounded the bar, and that’s when the toasting started.
Miranda, who had the lazy eye and was a lounge singer, sang her toast of appreciate to Anny, “for having come to her own truth.” Anny was grateful for the support but didn’t understand the word “appreciate,” which implied that Miranda somehow benefited.
Eric gave her a toast too, which was inappropriate as it was mostly about how now she was single and still hot, and in the couch room J.J. put his face in his hands.
The third member of Coxswain!, who was tall and easily distracted, drifted into the couch room. He sat across from the triad of groomsmen and lit a cigarette.
"What's the deal, man," he said amiably.
"She's gone," said J.J. "I mean, she's here, but she skipped out on the wedding. But
we're still having the reception."
The third member nodded. The smoke produced during this motion came in zigzags.
Anny threw up under the railing, having forgotten about the screen, which was now a filter, of sorts. The reception was winding down.
She remembered the hours of indecision, and the split second it took to start running. She threw up again when she remembered running.
"J.J. is still here?" she blurted out, to no one, and stood up.
J.J. was gone, said Harriet, cheeks bobbing as she replaced another clean glass
overhead.
"What did I do?" said Anny.
What did she do?
Man, woman, waitress
THE WAITRESS
It was empty, for a Thursday. Some regulars, taking advantage of our $8 Labatt pitchers and our one television; some kids, taking advantage of our bouncerless door. As long as the game was on, people were still ordering wings and nachos, but I imagined I'd spend most of my shift watching HGTV with Bill after they left.
In the second quarter, I came out of the kitchen and found the jukebox newly lit, for the first time in ages. I could hear the scratching sound it made over the music, as if pretending to be a vinyl player, like it could fool people that it was authentic, instead of broken. In the glow of its pink light a couple sat across from each other, in one of the far booths. The man was leaning back, hugging his chest, his face turned to the wall. The woman was leaning toward him, black hair covering her face, feet crossed under the table. I approached them, armed with menus.
As I neared them the woman's position changed; she recrossed her legs and withdrew, folding her arms over her chest. Her hair settled around her face, revealing knit eyebrows and pinched lips, an expression I couldn't place. His face turned slightly to reveal a tear sliding down his cheek.
"I can't find my way home; there is no place to hide..." (Scratch, scratch.) I turned away, suddenly uncomfortable. If they needed menus, they could find them at the bar.
THE WOMAN
I didn't know why we came here, to get out of the apartment, I guess, but now that we were sitting here, under a green lamp, too far away to even be seen by the bartender, let alone pretend we were watching the game, I missed the couch.
Harold was quiet. He had gone straight to the jukebox, and I had sat here because it's where I thought he was going. Initially he started talking about the guitar he still had in storage somewhere, which was odd; then he trailed off, which was normal, for him. I looked around for a waiter.
I hummed along with the song Harold had picked - "I don't ask for much...won't you just speak, please?" It was one he'd put on at home quite often, one I enjoyed but didn't know all the words to. Still looking around for some sign of life in this place, I was surprised when I turned back to him and he was all folded in over himself, hiding his face.
"Harold, what's the matter?" I leaned forward; his scratchy cheek, pale and stubbled with brown, greeted me, and as I watched, a tear blazed a pink trail down to his chin. "Honey, what is it?"
He shook his head, not wanting to let me in, again.
THE MAN
Something about the jukebox called to me as soon as we walked in. It was pink and blue, like cotton candy at a fair, like nurseries. It stood in the far corner of the bar; it was clear no one else had given it a second thought, but to me, it was a little neon beacon in the dismal brown bar.
In my coat pocket I found a dollar bill, somehow not too crumpled to fit into the slot. $1 for 3 picks, it said; I only had one in mind, it had begun in my head without my noticing, and now I had to hear it. Of course nobody wants to hear Dave in a bar, but – there, play.
Mary had chosen the booth right next to the jukebox, where we could sit in its warm light, beautifully alone with the music and each other. It is these times I feel she understands me the most - I want to be alone, which means, with her, but out of the apartment, and of course, bars are so public, but this one is uncrowded and -
The song came on. Immediately the chords brought me back, to where I don't know, but all at once, I was overcome with lyrics, with meaning.
"The air is growing thick/ A fear he cannot hide/ The dreaming tree has died..."
It was empty, for a Thursday. Some regulars, taking advantage of our $8 Labatt pitchers and our one television; some kids, taking advantage of our bouncerless door. As long as the game was on, people were still ordering wings and nachos, but I imagined I'd spend most of my shift watching HGTV with Bill after they left.
In the second quarter, I came out of the kitchen and found the jukebox newly lit, for the first time in ages. I could hear the scratching sound it made over the music, as if pretending to be a vinyl player, like it could fool people that it was authentic, instead of broken. In the glow of its pink light a couple sat across from each other, in one of the far booths. The man was leaning back, hugging his chest, his face turned to the wall. The woman was leaning toward him, black hair covering her face, feet crossed under the table. I approached them, armed with menus.
As I neared them the woman's position changed; she recrossed her legs and withdrew, folding her arms over her chest. Her hair settled around her face, revealing knit eyebrows and pinched lips, an expression I couldn't place. His face turned slightly to reveal a tear sliding down his cheek.
"I can't find my way home; there is no place to hide..." (Scratch, scratch.) I turned away, suddenly uncomfortable. If they needed menus, they could find them at the bar.
THE WOMAN
I didn't know why we came here, to get out of the apartment, I guess, but now that we were sitting here, under a green lamp, too far away to even be seen by the bartender, let alone pretend we were watching the game, I missed the couch.
Harold was quiet. He had gone straight to the jukebox, and I had sat here because it's where I thought he was going. Initially he started talking about the guitar he still had in storage somewhere, which was odd; then he trailed off, which was normal, for him. I looked around for a waiter.
I hummed along with the song Harold had picked - "I don't ask for much...won't you just speak, please?" It was one he'd put on at home quite often, one I enjoyed but didn't know all the words to. Still looking around for some sign of life in this place, I was surprised when I turned back to him and he was all folded in over himself, hiding his face.
"Harold, what's the matter?" I leaned forward; his scratchy cheek, pale and stubbled with brown, greeted me, and as I watched, a tear blazed a pink trail down to his chin. "Honey, what is it?"
He shook his head, not wanting to let me in, again.
THE MAN
Something about the jukebox called to me as soon as we walked in. It was pink and blue, like cotton candy at a fair, like nurseries. It stood in the far corner of the bar; it was clear no one else had given it a second thought, but to me, it was a little neon beacon in the dismal brown bar.
In my coat pocket I found a dollar bill, somehow not too crumpled to fit into the slot. $1 for 3 picks, it said; I only had one in mind, it had begun in my head without my noticing, and now I had to hear it. Of course nobody wants to hear Dave in a bar, but – there, play.
Mary had chosen the booth right next to the jukebox, where we could sit in its warm light, beautifully alone with the music and each other. It is these times I feel she understands me the most - I want to be alone, which means, with her, but out of the apartment, and of course, bars are so public, but this one is uncrowded and -
The song came on. Immediately the chords brought me back, to where I don't know, but all at once, I was overcome with lyrics, with meaning.
"The air is growing thick/ A fear he cannot hide/ The dreaming tree has died..."
The Experiment
Of course there’s no pressure, the doctor says, probing my hair with rubbery hands. His eyes squint over his mask. This is entirely voluntary. But should you decide to participate, all I ask is that you report back to me in the morning. Do you understand?
He fades into my eyelids. The room is dark, except for the blue glow of a blinking 12:00 and the horizontal shine of a streetlight through the blinds. The light makes circles in the water glass and the empty green bottle on my nightstand. Thunder makes it sound like the sky is breaking. I pull the blankets up around me.
He is back; I am lying in a dentist’s chair, the room blue, him towering over me still talking: And I trust you’re aware of the monetary incentive?
I turn my head away. Headlights pan left to right, casting lamp-shaped shadows onto the floor before leaving me in the dark again. The windows are ghostly rectangles of gray. I turn over and face the wall, close my eyes again; I feel my thoughts start to detach; the doctor is replaced by the woman I met at his office today, walking toward me, his assistant, maybe. Oh, hello, she says, thank you for being on time. It’s nice to meet you. Are you ready?
Her eyes are lined with black but otherwise empty. She is wearing a lab coat. She doesn’t wait for me to answer.
Thank you for answering the ad. We need as many volunteers as we can get. She opens the door and stands back, serenely watches a bird fly by. We’re in an airplane. White eyes look expectant. More birds fly.
Jump, she says.
A flash of lightning and angry thunder. I turn over again, blue light blinking. The bed seems to stretch halfway across the room, vast and empty like a minefield. It is taunting me: look how much space you have when you have no one to share it with.
The sheets are tangled and the blankets in a big heap around me. Across the room there is a crowd, a party, in my kitchen. There is music and people I don’t recognize. The far wall looks to be on fire. No one notices the smoke crawling across the ceiling.
I walk in. There is boxed wine and a vat of soup, people talking. They turn when they see me. You came!
Hello, you came! Thank you!
I greet them nervously; I’m supposed to know who they are; I have the vague suspicion that if they find me out, they’ll be angry. I smile and keep walking, hello, nice to see you too, thank you for coming.
The crowd parts as I walk through; I realize I’m the guest of honor. All these strangers gathered to greet me. Their smiles are maniacal like clowns and I don’t know if they are mocking me. If you’re here to see the doctor he’s not coming, someone says. Yes, I am, I say. Then you need to go to the cellar, he is waiting for you. It is down through the stove. The crowd ends and in front of me is a fire where the stove should be; everyone looks, waiting.
The fire rages, tall as the ceiling. My face burns.
There. Noah is waiting for me. His hair falls over his face, over his blue blue eyes. He is wearing his black t-shirt and the firelight dances across it. My heart jumps, I am safe here, something warm swells up inside me.
The crowd fades behind me. You came. Noah.
He is staring into the fire. He is still; the fire rages; his eyes glint, like ice.
He holds a glass of red wine. It’ll be okay, he says without looking at me, it only hurts for a minute. I need you to go.
My breath is squeezed out of my chest and I feel the fire burn. No, this isn’t right. Not again. My body fills with nausea, like his words are a virus and my cells are rejecting it. Please Noah, don’t do this.
He still doesn’t look. His eyes are in the shadow of a lock of his hair. He shakes his head and my heart compresses, my lungs fill with smoke, I am choking; my breaths come short and quickly, my stomach is a weight. Noah.
I’m afraid, I tell him, I’m afraid my eyes will melt in the fire, that no one will be down there, that there will be no way back.
He is unperturbed. Feet first, he says matter-of-factly. Besides, the doctor’s there, he’ll help you.
I am cocooned in sweat. Noah is behind me now. He puts his hand on my back, and my whole body relaxes; I feel his breath on my neck. I can breathe again. He wants me to jump. He says, If it hurts, just wait and you won’t remember it. My mouth, dry as fire, my hair, soaking wet. I want: his hand on my back, to do what he wants. The fire blazes. His hand doesn’t move. I jump.
I can breathe again when I stand up. The cellar is blue and the edges are in shadow. There is a table filled with papers and bottles, and the chair again, cushioned and adjustable; why does this chair keep coming back? In the doctor’s real office there was just a normal chair, not some reclining dentist chair, there was no procedure, only an interview and a pill—
You came, says the doctor, Thank you. He is behind the table, snapping his rubber gloves over his wrists, mask hiding any emotion. Thunder rumbles overhead.
I feel the sweat on my pillow, a sheen of cold slime that is the first thing my mind feels as it surfaces. My arm gropes to the edge of the bed and my heart drops when Noah isn’t there, like my blood is made of mercury, or ice. The sound of the party above me materializes, low and rumbling. Noah’s voice rises above it—he is there—where is he?
Snap. The doctor again. On the table, papers and bottles. His mask covers everything except his squinty eyes. He holds a clipboard and a pen over it.
So how is the experiment going for you? he asks.
I don’t know, I lie. I just fell asleep a minute ago.
Is it what you thought it was?
I didn’t think you’d be here. Is that part of it?
He laughs. Don’t be ridiculous.
I hear Noah’s laugh upstairs, his flirty laugh; my stomach tightens again.
What’s the matter? asks the doctor.
What do you mean? Nothing.
So how is the experiment going for you? he asks again.
Noah laughs again, this time accompanied by a nervous female one. I am falling, I cannot breathe, who is he with? What are they talking about?
I told you, I say, angry, it’s…it’s…
It’s not what you thought it was?
I want to get out.
What’s that? he asks calmly.
They laugh again in harmony. The laughing comes more quickly now.
This is…this is not what I thought it would be.
What did you think it would be?
Well—I mean—I thought it would be…I thought it would be exciting, like a—an escape—
An escape? Inside your own head?
I know—but I thought—please make it stop, I don’t want to be here—
The pill lasts about eight hours, so you’ll just have to wait till morning.
Again they laugh, but it gets quieter—are they leaving? Are they going upstairs? My eyes dart toward the fire-door and sweat pours down—
The doctor sees. Ah, he says.
What? I demand.
I’m sorry, he says sadly, I didn’t realize about him. That could make tonight difficult, I’m afraid.
What are you talking about?
He sighs. Dreams can be just as painful as reality. They themselves are an illusion, but the feelings are real. I’m sorry.
I think I’m going to vomit. What do you care? Don’t you just need data?
Well, yes. I’ll need you to come back when you wake up and answer a few questions.
The laughing is gone, which is worse than when it is there. Even my eyelids feel nauseous. I am shaking. There is nothing around me to hold onto.
Please let me out, I beg him.
I can’t, says the doctor. Nobody can help you here. Just relax. It will be morning soon.
I don’t want to be down here. I don’t want to be in your experiment, I just want to go to sleep. Please, just let me sleep.
You are asleep, he says, and he starts to get fuzzy; I see the table with the potions and papers and dream-remembering pills on it; I see the backs of my eyelids. I turn toward the wall. I can’t hear the laughing anymore. Did he take her upstairs? Where is he? Wherever he is, it isn’t him, he’s an illusion, this isn’t the real Noah, or the real doctor—
Are you sure? he’d asked me today, are you sure you want to do this. Yes I’m sure, I want to get away, see what my dreams are like, I want to see what I forget when I wake up.
Well, this is it, he says now. Thank you for participating in this experiment. Your experience is very valuable to us.
Please. Please, let me out.
There is nothing to do but wait, he says.
He fades into my eyelids. The room is dark, except for the blue glow of a blinking 12:00 and the horizontal shine of a streetlight through the blinds. The light makes circles in the water glass and the empty green bottle on my nightstand. Thunder makes it sound like the sky is breaking. I pull the blankets up around me.
He is back; I am lying in a dentist’s chair, the room blue, him towering over me still talking: And I trust you’re aware of the monetary incentive?
I turn my head away. Headlights pan left to right, casting lamp-shaped shadows onto the floor before leaving me in the dark again. The windows are ghostly rectangles of gray. I turn over and face the wall, close my eyes again; I feel my thoughts start to detach; the doctor is replaced by the woman I met at his office today, walking toward me, his assistant, maybe. Oh, hello, she says, thank you for being on time. It’s nice to meet you. Are you ready?
Her eyes are lined with black but otherwise empty. She is wearing a lab coat. She doesn’t wait for me to answer.
Thank you for answering the ad. We need as many volunteers as we can get. She opens the door and stands back, serenely watches a bird fly by. We’re in an airplane. White eyes look expectant. More birds fly.
Jump, she says.
A flash of lightning and angry thunder. I turn over again, blue light blinking. The bed seems to stretch halfway across the room, vast and empty like a minefield. It is taunting me: look how much space you have when you have no one to share it with.
The sheets are tangled and the blankets in a big heap around me. Across the room there is a crowd, a party, in my kitchen. There is music and people I don’t recognize. The far wall looks to be on fire. No one notices the smoke crawling across the ceiling.
I walk in. There is boxed wine and a vat of soup, people talking. They turn when they see me. You came!
Hello, you came! Thank you!
I greet them nervously; I’m supposed to know who they are; I have the vague suspicion that if they find me out, they’ll be angry. I smile and keep walking, hello, nice to see you too, thank you for coming.
The crowd parts as I walk through; I realize I’m the guest of honor. All these strangers gathered to greet me. Their smiles are maniacal like clowns and I don’t know if they are mocking me. If you’re here to see the doctor he’s not coming, someone says. Yes, I am, I say. Then you need to go to the cellar, he is waiting for you. It is down through the stove. The crowd ends and in front of me is a fire where the stove should be; everyone looks, waiting.
The fire rages, tall as the ceiling. My face burns.
There. Noah is waiting for me. His hair falls over his face, over his blue blue eyes. He is wearing his black t-shirt and the firelight dances across it. My heart jumps, I am safe here, something warm swells up inside me.
The crowd fades behind me. You came. Noah.
He is staring into the fire. He is still; the fire rages; his eyes glint, like ice.
He holds a glass of red wine. It’ll be okay, he says without looking at me, it only hurts for a minute. I need you to go.
My breath is squeezed out of my chest and I feel the fire burn. No, this isn’t right. Not again. My body fills with nausea, like his words are a virus and my cells are rejecting it. Please Noah, don’t do this.
He still doesn’t look. His eyes are in the shadow of a lock of his hair. He shakes his head and my heart compresses, my lungs fill with smoke, I am choking; my breaths come short and quickly, my stomach is a weight. Noah.
I’m afraid, I tell him, I’m afraid my eyes will melt in the fire, that no one will be down there, that there will be no way back.
He is unperturbed. Feet first, he says matter-of-factly. Besides, the doctor’s there, he’ll help you.
I am cocooned in sweat. Noah is behind me now. He puts his hand on my back, and my whole body relaxes; I feel his breath on my neck. I can breathe again. He wants me to jump. He says, If it hurts, just wait and you won’t remember it. My mouth, dry as fire, my hair, soaking wet. I want: his hand on my back, to do what he wants. The fire blazes. His hand doesn’t move. I jump.
I can breathe again when I stand up. The cellar is blue and the edges are in shadow. There is a table filled with papers and bottles, and the chair again, cushioned and adjustable; why does this chair keep coming back? In the doctor’s real office there was just a normal chair, not some reclining dentist chair, there was no procedure, only an interview and a pill—
You came, says the doctor, Thank you. He is behind the table, snapping his rubber gloves over his wrists, mask hiding any emotion. Thunder rumbles overhead.
I feel the sweat on my pillow, a sheen of cold slime that is the first thing my mind feels as it surfaces. My arm gropes to the edge of the bed and my heart drops when Noah isn’t there, like my blood is made of mercury, or ice. The sound of the party above me materializes, low and rumbling. Noah’s voice rises above it—he is there—where is he?
Snap. The doctor again. On the table, papers and bottles. His mask covers everything except his squinty eyes. He holds a clipboard and a pen over it.
So how is the experiment going for you? he asks.
I don’t know, I lie. I just fell asleep a minute ago.
Is it what you thought it was?
I didn’t think you’d be here. Is that part of it?
He laughs. Don’t be ridiculous.
I hear Noah’s laugh upstairs, his flirty laugh; my stomach tightens again.
What’s the matter? asks the doctor.
What do you mean? Nothing.
So how is the experiment going for you? he asks again.
Noah laughs again, this time accompanied by a nervous female one. I am falling, I cannot breathe, who is he with? What are they talking about?
I told you, I say, angry, it’s…it’s…
It’s not what you thought it was?
I want to get out.
What’s that? he asks calmly.
They laugh again in harmony. The laughing comes more quickly now.
This is…this is not what I thought it would be.
What did you think it would be?
Well—I mean—I thought it would be…I thought it would be exciting, like a—an escape—
An escape? Inside your own head?
I know—but I thought—please make it stop, I don’t want to be here—
The pill lasts about eight hours, so you’ll just have to wait till morning.
Again they laugh, but it gets quieter—are they leaving? Are they going upstairs? My eyes dart toward the fire-door and sweat pours down—
The doctor sees. Ah, he says.
What? I demand.
I’m sorry, he says sadly, I didn’t realize about him. That could make tonight difficult, I’m afraid.
What are you talking about?
He sighs. Dreams can be just as painful as reality. They themselves are an illusion, but the feelings are real. I’m sorry.
I think I’m going to vomit. What do you care? Don’t you just need data?
Well, yes. I’ll need you to come back when you wake up and answer a few questions.
The laughing is gone, which is worse than when it is there. Even my eyelids feel nauseous. I am shaking. There is nothing around me to hold onto.
Please let me out, I beg him.
I can’t, says the doctor. Nobody can help you here. Just relax. It will be morning soon.
I don’t want to be down here. I don’t want to be in your experiment, I just want to go to sleep. Please, just let me sleep.
You are asleep, he says, and he starts to get fuzzy; I see the table with the potions and papers and dream-remembering pills on it; I see the backs of my eyelids. I turn toward the wall. I can’t hear the laughing anymore. Did he take her upstairs? Where is he? Wherever he is, it isn’t him, he’s an illusion, this isn’t the real Noah, or the real doctor—
Are you sure? he’d asked me today, are you sure you want to do this. Yes I’m sure, I want to get away, see what my dreams are like, I want to see what I forget when I wake up.
Well, this is it, he says now. Thank you for participating in this experiment. Your experience is very valuable to us.
Please. Please, let me out.
There is nothing to do but wait, he says.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)