Indian Rock

You walk ahead of me. Your trousers hang so ghetto-low they might come down. I follow you like a dog. I think how my friend Shannon should be here, but dolls are more important, so I’m stuck with you. The Indian burial ground isn’t here, you know that, but you insist on looking. Your hands dig deep in the wet earth, but come up empty. “These Indian heads have to be here. Michael saw them,” you say. But, Michael is dead; an Indian curse from touching arrowheads.

You climb up the rock first, to the closest cave. Telling me we’ll go up its face. I have to help you down and you start to cry. I laugh at you. Pussy-boy, I call you. This makes you hate me and the hate colors your smell. Like metal mixed with trash. It seeps around me and I choke on the you-air. You tell me if there isn’t enough water we’ll die. But, we live close. Too close. This isn’t a real adventure; it’s a scam. Just like how we think we are rich because we live at the lake. But we are poor. Not exactly white-trash but close. That’s why I’m wearing my sister’s hand-me downs. My sister who is six inches taller than me. Red clown pants.

You say you won’t have sex until the girl seems better than the girl’s you’ve met. I know you don’t see me as a girl. I’m a friend. I don’t care, Pussy-boy. You are eleven. I’m twelve. 

You say it’s around here somewhere. The life-jacket; electric orange and covered in blood. I don’t believe you. I see nothing. I think you made it up because you are too afraid to go up the face of Indian Rock. Pussy. I’m hungry. You never are. I have a snack in my pocket. I eat it and shove the wrapper deep in my jeans. You pretend a story, the one about your alcoholic mother vomiting in your bed, but how many times you gotta say it, anyway? We’re all fucked coming to earth, out somebody else’s hole.

The sky’s blue is getting covered in clouds. “It’s gonna rain on us,” I say. I can hear the rapids from the dam overflow violent and magical. “Let’s get a piece of Styrofoam and ride the water, as long as we’re going to get soaked.” You agree and run towards towards the water. You tear the branch off the first tree climbing up and jumping on it with all your weight. You fall to the ground screaming pain. Then you laugh and jump up with the broken tree branch and run to the rapids over the foamy infected part and reach way out for some Styrofoam. 

I go first. Push it out into the middle and jump on and ride down the fast water laughing as hard as anything. I hold on for dear life too, but I just keep going and you run along the shore trying to catch me with the branch, I’m not scared, I’m having fun, but there it is the place where Michael died, I push my memory away. I grab on to the branch and you pull me to safety. You hug me and grab the Styrofoam and run up to the top of the stream for your turn. You hand me the branch and push it way out and jump on. The water is too fast and you lose your grip with your feet all the way under the water and just your arms and head sticking out. I run down the shore trying to help, but you are too far out. I shout and try to grab you with the branch, but you end up stuck on the other side near a rock. I tell you to get over to me, but you can’t. I am soaking wet and the clouds explode in a gush of rain. We are laughing uncontrollable like crazies. 

I get in the stream and walk on the bottom, forgetting how shallow it really is. “Stand up, pussy-boy!” I yell. And you do, like it’s nothing. We are both standing in the stream laughing and laughing that we are out of danger and you turn around to the bank on your side to crawl out. “Something died over here,” you say. And you crawl up on the bank. I still haven’t waded all the way to the middle when you drag down a backpack covered with mud. Its burgundy like the one I used to have. “Open it,” I yell over the rain and the stream.

“Zipper’s stuck,” like with glue. “Let’s get it across to the other side.” I say. You look pale and your face wears an expression not like you. “I’m scared,” you say. I don’t call you a name, I am scared too. “It’s okay, I’ll help you.” I make it to your side and we put the backpack on the Styrofoam. The smell of death is gruesome and I throw up in the water before I can help it. You wade on one side and I wade on the other side and we get it to the safe shore, our shore.

I say, “Let’s leave it,” what can we do anyway? “Nothing,” you say. I lug the heavy pack to a tree. You say, “I have to know,” and you take out your razor and you cut it open. You scream the scream of the damned. The thing you can’t take away from memory happened, the pouring rain, our freezing bodies and the fact of it; a dead girl’s head. She is decomposing I can’t tell how old she is. I have no match in my memory for what this means or where to put this in my mind. You are crying full bore. “We have to find a ranger or a policeman,” I say, but you aren’t listening. 

“We can’t leave her here,” you scream. “Okay,” I say. And we carry what is left of her out of the park him on one side me on the other gasping for the air around us that wasn’t covered in death.

We don’t see anyone on the trail. You say, “Are you okay?” I’m not okay, but I lie to you and say I am. 

At the base of the trail out of the park you see a truck, you leave me with the she-head and run to it. You are waving and screaming over the rain. I am thinking of my parents and my sister and the boy at school I like. I am thinking of my dog and how I wish he were with us. I am thinking how death is so close to being alive. The man runs down to us he sees what we see and he shakes his head and starts to cry too. “We’ll drive her to the station, come on,” the man said. We follow him, you on one side, me on the other and we put it the dead-girl’s head in the back.

We sit in the front with the man. I have seen him before. He has hot chocolate in a thermos. You drink some and hand it to me. He is saying how he knows my parents and knows your parents. I am listening to the tires on the pavement and wondering when I can sleep. I wonder if this man is safe.

You tell the police where you found her. How she was on the other side, a place someone might never look. I tell the police I hope they find her parents and the person who did this.

We drive home with the man, who drops us off together in front of your house. After the man disappears around the corner, you walk me home. You hug me and say, “I’m sorry.” And I go upstairs to my parents and say what happened.

You call me the next day to tell me; her name was Mandy Williamson she went to our school. She went missing two weeks ago. She was twelve years old. Like me.

Two Days and One Night

There was a time when you pulled me out of bed, swinging me up in your arms. You tell me not to worry, mother is at work and then you make me breakfast. It is eggs with cheese scrambled together covered in salt and butter. It is forbidden by mother but you don’t care, I am daughter. You give me toast and let me taste your coffee and you tell me your secrets. It is this I remember most. You and me at the early morning breakfast table, the rest of the world fast asleep in their warm beds, the cold morning against my skin. You turn on the heater and sit with me across the grate with our knees making triangles.

On the morning when it happened, you did what you always do, so how would I know? You made breakfast and told me your secrets. This time they are about my clothing and what I will need. They say, don’t worry. They say you are the one who knows me better than anyone else. I am sure you mean it. I know I am your favorite.

We get in the car. I want to know where mother is, but am afraid to hurt your feelings by asking you. We drive through the streets of Los Angeles. We go to your brother’s house where you and he smoke something from pipes talking and laughing. I play with my doll. I make her talk and walk. I pretend I am at the top of the hill where I see the lilacs. I pretend you aren’t saying bad words. I pretend mother is with us her eyes looking at me. Her mouth saying I am beautiful.

Then we are off again. You tell me it’s okay, be a good girl, don’t cry, nothing bad is happening. We sing in the car, the song my Grandmother taught me.

Amazing Grace

How Sweet the Sound

That saved a Wretch Like Me

I once was lost

And now am found

Was blind but now I see

Mother was always dressed in white. That’s how I remember her. I didn’t know you wanted to leave forever. I am a good girl. I keep my mouth quiet. Keep the careful things I want to say hidden inside. We drive all night. We drive the next day and the next. I am good and try to hold my pee inside so you don’t have to stop. You tell me it’s okay. We will be okay. You reach over and hold my hand and I fall asleep with my hand in yours. I pee while I am sleeping.

You rage at me as if I were the devil. You say I ruined the car. I cry, but I couldn’t hold it. I am hungry, you tell me tough luck.

One day we get to a town. Where it is I can’t be sure. There are long fields of wheat and crows flying overhead. The sky becomes dark like a tornado. I am afraid and tell you so. You say, “Don’t worry, angel.” But still I do. “What about that show I saw about tornados?” You tell me it isn’t close enough to where we are to worry.  “But the little girl flew away and they found her later on the ground bloody and dirty.” You say, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”  I tell you I am hungry and you tell me to wait. I wait forever until the hunger turns into something else. Something I don’t know how to say. I have to pee again, but am too afraid to tell you. I think the pain might kill me. You pull over to get gas and I get out and go in the bushes. I don’t know how to find the man with the key. I am afraid you will leave me there. You start the car and don’t even look for me.

We go to a house. You talk to a man. He has long white hair and a beard like Santa Claus. I am introduced and he is kind. He invites me in and makes me hot chocolate. I don’t mention mother, I don’t want to make it real that she isn’t here. The man gives me a gift; it is a locket worth money you tell me. I would put a photo of mother inside, only I don’t have one.

My room is very cold. I don’t have enough blankets, but there aren’t more blankets you tell me. I walk around the yard and make the dog crazy by staying just out of his reach. His name is Brad Pit-Bull. You laugh when you hear his name. I don’t laugh I am afraid of his flashing teeth and drooling mouth.

I tell you it’s time to wash my hair. You say you will help me. I need to get into the bath. So, I do that. I get into the bath and I sit with the bubbles, but you never come. I have a duck in the water, I am relaxed, but I miss mother. She used to lean me back into the sink and my hair would go down the drain. She would scrub my scalp too hard and I would say, “You’re hurting me.” And she would laugh like she did. You never got to learn how to wash my hair. You were only there in the mornings.

I wait in the tub until the water runs cold. Every once in a while I yell out to you, “Father? Did you forget me?” You never answer though. The old man doesn’t answer. No one is there. I finally after what seems like too long to be safe. Get out of the tub and I look for you, but you are both gone. I am here in this house without you.  I get into my pajamas and walk around the house. The floors are wood and they smell of lemons. The curtains on the windows are white cotton see through like mother would have.

I am hungry and I look for food in the kitchen, but everything is locked. I find some bread on the top of the fridge and pull over a chair and climb up. I take out a piece of bread, careful not to leave crumbs. I am scared to make you angry. You have been angry since we left.

I decide to call her. “I miss you,” I say. Mother starts crying, begging me really. “Where are you my darling?” But I don’t know how to tell her where I am. I am somewhere, two days and one night away, with an old man, like Santa. Mother tells me to go outside and look at the house and find the number and come back and tell it her. So, I go onto the porch, but Brad Pitt-Bull is out there. I forgot about him. He is very loud and frightens me and I run back inside.

“I can’t make it past the dog,” I tell mother, but she begs me to go back. “It is a pit-bull, he isn’t tied up, I’m so sorry, I can’t.” I hear you and the man coming up the walk laughing out loud like this was the best time in the world and I quickly hang up. I try to hide my worry, but I am standing in the middle of the world. Right there for everyone to see and I begin to cry.

You tell me to get back in the tub, what am I doing. I say, “I miss mother, I want to go home.” You promise to take me in the morning. I believe you after crying out all my tears. The old man lights a cigarette and tells you he’ll wait. “I have to wash your hair,” you say and I nod and you draw another bath. It is warm. I get in and wait for you in the bubbles that you made.

You come in and you lean me back and you wash my hair, but you are too rough. I ask you to stop and I start to cry again. You say, “Shut up.” But I see something in your eyes that I don’t recognize. Your breath is sour. It makes me scared. You tell me to keep quiet. And I do. And then you lean me back and hold my head under water until I can’t get any more air. I wish for mother, but then, I am gone.

The Year of Brett and Fat Charlie Sheen

Kristy Swanson was fat. That’s what I’m here to tell you about. She was fat and Charlie Sheen was fat. That’s why The Chase was a disaster, because both of them boned and ate and ate and ate like two fresh piggies filling out their costumes like trashy rednecks. I was her stand in, although that’s not what I came here to do. I came here to be a location scout, drove all the fucking way from Los Angeles, left my sex addict boyfriend behind and showed up on your door, you told me to. Can you see me standing there with that look on my face? You were a creep, you just wanted to fuck me, you never imagined I’d drive that whole way just for work. No one is that crazy. But, I drove because you promised me work. Fucking producers.

So you tell me I can be Kristy Swanson’s body double. What the hell? I’m here to do locations. I stood there and you just said, “Sorry.” You’re gonna be sorry. I promise.

There I am. Can you see me?  I’m in the middle of the Freeway somewhere in Houston. I’m burned from head to toe from the sickening heat. I don’t care though, I just have to do the gig and go home. That’s what I keep telling myself.

This was before the rape. The rape happened too, in that hotel. The fucking Omni. It was the worst year in the worst month and there I was. You can’t tell me it didn’t happen, because I dreamt it and woke up and you were sticking your fingers deep inside me saying, do you like that? I was in the middle of a dream where I was riding a horse and a spur got stuck, you know how dreams are, and I reached back and there you finger deep inside of me. Sick bastard. I jumped up and got the hell out of there. It was 4:30 in the morning. You were on the night shift. Day for night they call it. You told me I could sleep in your room instead of that cigarette hell-hole I was staying in somewhere on the poor side of Houston. Or is it all poor? I never found out.

After that, I left. I was pretty then, the kind of pretty that got me in trouble. I drove back from Houston masturbating on the freeway for the truck drivers and then they watched out for me at night. And you were pock-faced. You were a fucking skank. Can boys be skanks? You were one---Brett.

I was back in Los Angeles, drinking Rolling Rock, sitting with my gay neighbor. Yes, she’s the one who looked like Jodie Foster. She’s the one whose house I broke into to steal pop-tarts after the earthquake. Her girlfriend was sitting with her on the curb and they had been fucking. The bricks tore apart and the fishtanks shattered from Mr. Fish the fish-store behind my building. I thought we had been bombed. I had been by myself in my bed alone, talking to Jesus. I had no one to help me find my bra or my glasses, I screamed for help, but the doorjamb broke so I was fucking going to die with the gas main pouring gas into my tiny studio apartment. Don’t look like that. I got saved, otherwise I wouldn’t be telling you all this.

Anyway, I craved something sweet and she used to eat poptarts, so at the time it just made sense. My hands were covered with blood from digging through glass to find my glasses so I could get down the stairs. Never mind the whole city was black. I needed my glasses. You know how you just know? Anyway, that’s how I got like that. Once I was free and had made it to the street, I got hungry, I went up the broken stairs and snuck into Tracy’s (Jodie Foster) apartment and took them and ate them by the dumpster, crying for mama, wondering how I wasn’t dead. I wasn’t wearing a bra either. They tasted like sugar mixed with blood.

Tracy took pity on me after the rape. Don’t say it isn’t rape--you weren’t there. You need some kind of sensationalism, it’s because your background was bland. You don’t understand nuance. As I told you Miles finger fucked me while I was asleep and he knew I didn’t like him, I just needed to sleep. He justified it because my body was reacting. But, I know people who’ve been to town with a little dog, high on crack, so you can say whatever you want, but rape is rape. Peeing on someone’s face while they’re asleep is rape too, it don’t mean it’s not just because you choke on the pee. Look it up, mister fucking-know-it-all. 

Anyway, I was done with men. Damaged, from all the shit that had already happened to me (rape & the bunny incident). And Tracy took me to all the gay bars. I would have fucked a cute girl, but it was always the ones that looked like beef jerky, in their little suits asking me for a dance. Hells to the no.

Anyway, back behind the dumpster, shoving Pop-Tarts into my face, crying out all the earthquake tears.  I made a vow to get a boyfriend. Brett was who I picked. Miles was already off my radar from the rape. And Brett was a complete jerk, so I knew he wouldn’t get all hung up on me.  So, I dialed him the next day.

Can you see me? If you look closely you can tell I’m wearing my purple lace bra. I’m right there on my couch. I’m in my Ralph’s uniform, I was ready to go bag groceries, and I get to the parking lot and find out that my Ralph’s caught on fire first, then flooded, so I was instantly without a job. I am crying on my couch, and when I’m all done. I drink a beer and I call Brett.

Hi.

Hi.

It’s Lisa.

I know.

Want to meet at Sloan’s later?

Why not.

Click.

So, we met at Sloan’s. Keifer Sutherland was sitting in the corner, recently dumped from Julia Roberts. I waited at the bar. Brett came, looking a lot like Iggy Pop, only less cute and way less rich. We drank and made fun of people for a few hours. Bitter at the world. Hating ourselves and bonding in our hate.

We drank and said not too much and pretended to like one another. I drove him home. He lived like two blocks from Sloan’s.

He asked me to dinner the following night, I said okay, but he never came.

I waited. A long ass time too, before I drove to his apartment. I got out of my car, I was in a rage I had never experienced. Brett was supposed to be my boyfriend. I had it all decided. And he didn’t answer his phone or his call box, so I crawled up the trellis and I got in to the complex. I went up to his door, I had seen it from the night before. I saw him passed out on the couch. I banged on that fucking door until he came to. I screamed, Where the fuck were you?

I fell asleep.

I didn’t know what to say, this was a mistake. I could just tell. He invited me in, I was crying like a lunatic. Brett shoved a beer in my hand and got undressed. He looked like shit. He was a cutter and had track marks all up and down his arms from needles. He cut his chest in crosses back and forth and was covered in scars. I didn’t even know that existed. But, there it was. Cutter.

Two weeks later he moved in. Please don’t ask me why. It seems so bad looking back. But, the earthquake and the rape made me want a legitimate boyfriend. Never mind that I didn’t want to fuck him. We tried everything. Tying each other up. Handcuffs. You name it. I told you I was pretty, but Brett wasn’t. I’ve never seen anyone look worse. Except for Mick Jagger in that one photo.

The night before we were moving in. Brett stole the U-Haul and crashed it. He was high on heroin. Or that’s what he said. The U-Haul was in very bad shape, I don’t know how we got out of it. We made it up, that it was already like that and they let us leave. Don’t ask me how.

Anyway, we moved to Argyle, right next to the freeway. The apartment gave me rashes. At night we heard gun-shots. And Brett didn’t come home for days. I waited next to our couch. It was a black futon right on a wooden stand. You know the kind. Anyway, there I was sitting on the couch and waiting for Brett. He came back finally after three days. I saw him standing there, bloody and undone. 

They kidnapped me.

Who?

Gretchen and Amy.

Gretchen worked at Big and Tall Books on Beverly, back when that meant something. Brad Pitt hung out there and you could score just about anything you wanted to. I was naïve though. I had only done drugs a few times up until this point. But, I wanted to do more. It seemed like the prescription for revenge.

Brett told me they tied him up and kept him there. He was lying.

I want to see where it was.

What?

Where they kept you.

Forget it.

If you don’t show me I’ll go to Big and Tall and find Gretchen.

Fine.

So, we got in Brett’s little red dodge and drove over the hill to the valley. He took me through the streets to a little metal shack covered in spray paint. For reals---it was exactly like he said. It was at the end of the parking lot near the studios in Burbank. He pulled over and parked.

Want to go inside?

No, thank you.

I can show you where I was tied up.

Forget it.

Then we both smoked cigarettes and drank warm vodka from a pint he found under his seat.

We drove back to the apartment in silence.

I’ll make it up to you.

How?

Tomorrow, we’ll go out in Venice.

Okay.

So, we sat on the couch and watched some Jim Jarmusch film and fell asleep there in the hell where we lived.

Brett was always jealous. Always asking me, where were you? Did you fuck him? Who’s number is that? The whole time I was with him, I had a blank answering machine. I would call my friends and say, help, please call and Brett would come home and erase them. I thought I never got a call for the two years I was with him. Not even from my own mother.

So, that night, like promised, Brett and I went to Venice Bistro and drank beer. He was in the bathroom more than at my table. Doing drugs, I’d bet.

I was looking at the waiter with my, can you get me outta here stare when Brett returned to the table.

I saw that.

What?

You almost had his cock down your throat.

Jesus, Brett.

Practically, anyway.

He glowered at me staring like he was angry at something that happened a very long time ago. I laughed and tried to lighten things up, but if that guy had a knife, it would have been over for me, right there.

Fine. Let’s go.

He paid. Another miracle. And we went to my car. I backed up too quickly and hit a car filled with gang-bangers.

Shit!

Just drive.

There’s guys inside the car.

They’ll kill us. DRIVE!!

So, I did whatever he said. I was on edge, I swear from his anger and his shouting. I just drove away and they chased us through the streets of Venice.

First one truck, then two more joined. I drove my fastest, but I couldn’t get away.

Pull over, I saw a gun.

Why would I pull over then? I said it just as the truck pulled in front of me and blocked me in.

I’ll handle this. You stay here. Can you see me? I’m sitting there, not knowing if I’m going to live or die. I wanted to live for the first time in years.

I could hear Brett screaming feeble profanities at them. And I could hear bones cracking, someone was getting pounded and it wasn’t any of the gang members.

Brett got in with blood pouring out of his face. Laughing with his mouth full of blood and spat it all over the inside of my car.

You got what you wanted. Now, I’m ugly.

I drove as much as my car could drive away with one slashed tire. I pulled over and Brett kicked off the rear-view mirror and got out and changed the tire. I ran outside and grabbed the mirror and got back in, the whole time he was screaming at me.

Let me take you to the hospital.

Go to hell.

So, I drove home. When we got inside he started breaking stuff. First, my guitar got slung against the wall with the strange sound of splintering wood and discordant strings. I was screaming for help. Then, he broke my chair into a million pieces. I screamed then too. I screamed for help, I did. Can you see me? I’m in the bed now. The other futon on the floor of the bedroom crying and crying. I hear sirens and the cops come into my room.

Hello there.

Hey.

Get up, young lady, we’re taking you in.

I don’t understand.

The law in California is if someone is hurt the other one gets taken in.

But, he got into fight in Venice, can you check my car? He spit blood all over the inside.

Sorry, miss, he said you did this to him with the chair leg.

What?

They put me in cuffs and I looked back and Brett was laughing.

So, there I am, in the back of the cop car, crying my eyes out and they just took me, never once believing I was innocent.

Everybody’s innocent, one of them said.

Can you see me? I’m the one on the left. I’m next to the old Mexican lady (shoplifting) and the Big Black girl (gang-violence). I was in for domestic violence and my bail was fifty thousand dollars.

They did that thing where they frisk you and see if you have shoved something illicit up your privates. But, there was nothing there. They made fun of you and yelled at you saying.

Shut the fuck up, I ain’t your mommy.

The other thing is, they took my glasses, telling me they were fancy, but what they meant was they could be used as a weapon. So, not only was I in there, but I couldn’t see.

They kept moving us. And the bad thing, if there can be a worse thing than being in this predicament in the first place was that it was Memorial weekend, so no judge or DA or whomever hears that shit will be listening to our cause until Tuesday. Right now it’s Thursday night. Get it? I’m in there.

I know you’re going to ask yourself, did I call my mom. Yes, I did. I called her first. You’re not going to like it. It went like this.

Mom?

What happened?

I’m in jail.

For drinking?

No.

For domestic violence.

What the hell?

I didn’t do it, Mom.

(Silence)

Mom, it’s five thousand dollars to get me out.

I’m not bailing you out. You can sit there and think about your life.

Mom! Let me talk to Dad.

Your father doesn’t want to know you’re in jail.  (click)

Can you for a minute feel how that felt? My own mother abandoned me. You might be thinking that I had been in trouble before, but the only trouble I’d ever been in was for not paying a moving violation when I was seventeen. That’s it.  But, my mother hates alcohol and thought I was a bad seed for drinking. I was dragged to rehab the FIRST time she ever saw me drunk, when I was fourteen. I had been at a wedding. My parents drove me to Kaiser Sunset hitting me because they didn’t believe me that I wasn’t on drugs. They hit me in the face to keep me from dying, they said. I’ll never know why. But, by the time I was fifteen and grew tits, they thought I was going to be a slut because guys stared at my boobs. Truth was, I was a good girl, but they were terrified I’d be a slut and get a bad reputation. I never did, my parents made me scared of sex. Anyway, for reasons of genetics and reasons of primal fears and reasons I attribute to my sister, they never believe anything I say. I was no liar either. But, I have to insert this fact of it here. My sister hated me. Punched me out, gave me black eyes. Broke my arm, told me I was ugly every day from the time I was eight years old. It was her who turned them against me. She told them I was lying. And after many years of that, they finally believed her. I’ve never been able to change their minds. That’s the part that hurts the most.

Back to jail. That’s me, sitting on the top bunk. This is our third time changing cells. They don’t want you to rest in jail.

When the food comes, you wish you were dead. It smells like actual shit. I swear. My friends are always saying, like actual shit? YES! Nothing food-like has ever smelled like that. I found it weird that everyone was so happy to eat that stuff like it was second nature. The only thing I ate those five days was dry bread. Everyone in jail was fat too, so they were more than happy to take my extra meal each time I turned it away. One girl was thin, she smuggled heroin with her. She was beautiful and going away for seven years.

We got to take showers and then put back on our clothes.

Big Black saw me put my underwear back on, I didn’t know what else to do to be honest. I was afraid someone was going to touch me. How can you say they wouldn’t? anyway, she and her homies saw me and made fun of me.

Look at miss thing, putting on her dirties.

OOOOH. She nasty.

You wouldn’t catch me putting on my dirties.

I crawled up to my scratchy blanket and vowed not to fight. But, then everyone found out why I was there. I had the biggest bail of anyone in there for a violent crime, so that earned me some respect.

One day I needed more to eat, I wanted double bread and Big Black wouldn’t give it to me.

I turned to her and said quietly, You’ll give me your bread or you’ll end up dead. Choice is all yours.

Don’t ask me why she believed me. I was starving to death by that time. I was going to fight for bread, for reals.

I want you to take a good hard look. Big Black is standing there towering over me at twice my weight and I stone-walled her. I didn’t move. Everyone was gathering around and the old Mexican lady said, She’s crazy, better give up your bread, sister.

Big Black handed it over and I said, Gracias to the little lady who helped me.

I got up on my bunk and waited for my day of justice.

The problem was, I was reliant on Brett to come clean about his lie, otherwise he could keep me here. I was now going to have a record and maybe go away for a year for something I didn’t do. I shed a lot of tears those days. Plus, they don’t let you see the sun. Jail is hell.

The day came where I was either going to get called and let out or find out if I had to stay.  I sat next to heroin girl. I can’t remember her name. Julie? Christie? Don’t hold to it. Heroin girl told me I might get to leave and then they called my name.

I stepped out into the beautiful sunshine only to find out I was two blocks away from Argyle. There is a jail hidden in the middle of the city near Franklin, I was there. That’s why that’s a heavy crime area. Parolees have to live close to the jail.

Watch me. That’s me walking down the street, past the big tree filled with birds. I made the vow that as soon as I got home, I was leaving. But, you know what? I went in for one more year of that shit? I knew you wouldn’t believe me. I can’t say why I did either. But, there it is.

That’s me, full of promise, sitting outside of my apartment. I look like I have a future, but really, how would you know?

the split

he was there. at the door. in a suit. asking the same question he always asked. i didn't know what to say. usually it started mundane and ended with the cops, depending on how compliant i felt that day. i varied the answers so he would believe me. only he never did. in retrospect, he was my father. but, in reality, he was just some guy i met on a movie set. anyway. i answered him, not in the way i'm telling you, this part is for you. please know the difference when you are reading this. like. i was at the grocery store  buying food for our fridge. i was at work so i could pay our rent. i was at the gym to keep myself from going insane. i was everywhere and nowhere. but, i had nothing to answer for, i was loyal once i made up my mind about a thing.


i gave my loyalty away in handfulls to whoever could take it. no one deserved it. they never gave it back and when they did the price was ugly and one i wouldn't accept. giving in is something i don't do unless i'm fucking. and this man and i weren't fucking. we had crossed into war only. war all the time and who could cut deeper and smarter and quicker and leave invisible marks our future lovers would feel and never understand. we were masters at this war. like we had been born for it.


so-----------i hadn't bought myself any clothes in years. except slips. that was all i ever wore. slips and high heels. i cleaned our apartment with a glass of wine sitting there. i drank it like water with my hair up and makeup like elizabeth taylor. it was a meth apartment. like where they cooked it. my skin was covered in a rash that no doctor could place or take away. i had been to 4 specialists at kaiser in six months, but they couldn't help me. i went to erewhon, the health food store on beverly and they gave me some pills that kill fungus, but nothing helped me. nothing ever could. not until i moved away. after i moved away the rash left and never came back. not ever.  but, back then i was sick. i scratched all my skin off. i never itched during the day, but when i walked into the apartment, it started. i was allergic to meth or the chemicals that make it. did you know that the chemicals that make meth can burn through nerve endings if you live in an apartment too long? i mean one where someone was making it. someone who didn't tell you that was what the smell was?


the man was not what he said he was. that is normal enough. the man you love becomes something else and you accept it or you reject it. it wasn't love either. i'm a liar to call it love. lying is safer than to choose a more accurate word, but it was nothing like love. it was more like a sore that stayed and didn't heal. it was nothing i can describe without you understanding the depth of the madness that took me there. that made me stay. that made me know this was what i got as some kind of universal payment for betraying myself the way i did when i was seven. and that too, is not something i care to go into, it's just a split happened. i saw it and made the choice to stay with the sick self and lock the healthy one away. she's there if you look. she's there all the time. she just doesn't know she's there. that's where the problem gets tricky. and it's not like i feed her. something else does. and i don't control it. okay? so, don't worry too much, but just know, this is when you learned of it. and this is when i told it to you. i don't want you pretending it didn't happen later, like people are prone to doing.


so, back to it.  it's really that once the charade falls off, then what is left is a non-person. only, you don't know what to do with a non-person. i never learned that. what isn't normal is that once i noticed this dead heart-ness or soul death about the man (i shudder to call him what he was to me, but i lived with him in the manner that people who supposedly love each other do), i hid it from myself, because i was lonely. my loneliness was stronger than my ability to integrate with reality. do you know what i mean? day after day it was there---the void where a person had been---and i pretended it wasn't. that takes a certain strength in character to do that kind of thing. to deny what is and call it something else. whistling in your head like it's a sunny day when all it does is snow. there were times that i thought of moving in with someone else. i had some offers. i went to visit a man on beachwood and i was wearing my betsey johnson dress, the one that was falling apart. because i thought a slip would be too forward. but that dress barely covered me. all my parts spilled out. 


that other man had a beard, otherwise i would have crawled into his bed and gone to sleep. i would have done whatever he wanted me to, except i couldn't because of the beard. i cried in his arms. i told him how i was living and he cried too. we were like that for at least ten minutes. i don't know that man's name and he was my bridge back to humanity and he reminded me of what it means to be dead and alive at the same time. i wish i could find him and tell him how much it meant to me. that he could see what i couldn't and was brave enough to tell me. back then, if you told me something i didn't like, i cut you out forever. it's not too different now, although i say it is. but. i fought with him and ran out without my shoes with him shouting after me. i couldn't run in them and i sure as fuck couldn't go back for them. he had seen what i was. a weakling. how can you face a man once he's seen you like that? he knew i was willing to give up my life just to have someone to sleep next to, no matter how bad that person was. 


it makes me sad to remember it. and it makes me understand the cowardly hearts i have come into contact with. maybe to feel nothing is better than to feel something amazing and watch it die. that could break you into parts that you can no longer find. so that even if you want to speak to someone and tell  them what you want or feel, you simply can't. you are gone.

my barbies fucked each other

when i was a kid my barbies fucked. girl barbies fucked other girl barbies and the ken dolls fucked each other. sometimes i would put ken with barbie, but i didn't think he was that hot, so usually she just got with another chick. something about being that good looking always tells me that someone can't fuck, unless you are a plastic girly doll. then you can. does that make sense? i'm sexist, in my way. i determine who can fuck by how you talk and what you wear. i'm exactly like a dude. in a way, but only in that way.

one night at the red lion

i met my friend jeremiah at the red lion. he was talking to a girl. she was cool. i was out of money. at that time i was so messed up in the head that even if i had money, i would say, i'm broke. i couldn't make sense of things. the only thing i could make sense of was music and getting a beer.

new year's---looking back--the good, the bad and the ugly

happy almost new year people. this year has been hard and glorious. i graduated magna cum laude at ucla after putting off my education for a long time because of not having the money and because i was a musician and thought i would make a go of it.

The Circular Thought

In the morning, I feel sick, it's every day now. I don't expect you to help me.

Then this won't work.

I didn't want it to. You don't have what I want.

A Pink Mansion, A Fake-Girlfriend, and A Lost Cause

The day I left for Santa Barbara, Brett had thrown himself across my car while I was driving. He fell off and grabbed his leg screaming acting like it was really hurt. I watched out the rear-view window until I hit the freeway, and eventually he gave up the act and walked in his suit to our apartment.

Christmas In Los Angeles--The Education

Sante Sangre was on the TV. There was a futon in the middle of the room and a smell I couldn't place. The images on the screen had a young man carving a tattoo into his chest of a giant eagle. He screamed openly. The backdrop was a movable circus, somewhere in a foreign land. By the title of the movie, I imagined it to be Bogota, Columbia, but I can't say why. It might have been Brett told me that was where it took place. I looked at Brett, who was next to me, but he didn't see me, not in the way I wanted him to.

Christmas at the Bar

I was at Tom Bergin's drinking. It was Christmas. Three years away from you. No more pain there. No more fun, either. I was with someone else, but he was in Chicago. I was sitting next to a man who said:

I married her when I was drunk and it's been thirty years. Or something.

I said, I'm with someone new, but it doesn't matter, my soul is still attached to the other one. Nothing I can do about that.

The man ordered us one more round and we split it. It was bass ale. I said the problem is he misses me too, but we went to jail and stuff. He raised his glass and we toasted. He said, to love, my dear. We hugged. A full goddamn bear hug, right there.

He said, I didn't talk to someone who loved me for twenty years. She hurt me. I was getting her back.

I pulled out a little blue pill from my pocket and washed it back looking him in the eyes.

What's that?

Valium, want one?

He shook his head, saying: Sometimes no matter how nice you are, they will hate you for something you never get to know about.

Did you ever tell her?

She died. So, no.

Rainy Night In Soho---For you.

My Childhood Bedroom

Had four walls. Two built in beds with comforters left over from the previous owners. They were turquoise and pink. Actually, they were two sheets sewn together which provided me with no warmth.

Los Angeles, You Dirty Whore

The mornings are the worst. I walk outside my apartment on Argyle. Down past the giant bird tree and I hear the freeway. There is nothing to love on this street. Not my apartment.

On Being Nineteen and My Own Cowardice

I met a guy tonight. I know he is going to read this and I hope he doesn't get pissed for me writing it, because I just can't help it. And that, my friends, is the answer to why I fight with so many of you. You ask for silence and I refuse.

What Can I Say?

If there is a time to say the words to you, It will come by moonlight while I am under another man. Grunting and breathing, but saying no names.

Elliott Smith

i went to an impromptu concert once at spaceland in silverlake where elliott smith sat on a chair and had a giant red balloon floating behind him.

Carmen

i've named her carmen, because she still exists on planet earth and i don't want her finding me. but, carmen, the heroin addict was my best friend.

Neutral Milk Hotel - The King of Carrot Flowers Pt. I

maybe i love you

that's why you haunt me. i sat at the corner on la brea, at the bus bench, freezing my fingers off, looking for you.