It's Christmas--Time to Feel Shitty

Dear Christmas,
As a fan of you even though you don't really give us as much as you promised from all the advertisements and the sly looks from parents, teachers, friends and wherein we always end up penniless and scrambling to pay rent because we don't want to look stingy and we know we aren't stingy, but WE HAVE NO MONEY THIS YEAR OR ANY YEAR---but still don't get what we really want---we'd like to ask for a raincheck. Can we put off this year until some time in the unforeseeable future years from now when we will be out of school and out of debt with better jobs and a happy cat at our feet---and not barely scraping by? We don't want to be rude because we know you are all chocolate santa-y, furry costumes over fat bellies and we are not supposed to be weirded out that we eat santa, so we don't ever speak about it. We just bite off his head and then ignore the part where we eat his chocolatey insides. Tongues inside eyes rolled back. Are we really not supposed to be afraid if an intruder in our homes FAT and dressed like santa with red and white rascally patches up and down his arms and on his bloated from drinking too much Santa juice on his face (without the gift we have been praying to the lord Jesus for)? WE, as a nation are creeped out and hate those weird squeaking toys that get caught in a child's hair as much as you do. We are not ignorant! We just want to eat our toffee silently on our couches and check out for a while in a sugary coma all our own. We don't want to go to consumer heaven wherein we are applauded for our taste and lack of taste and whispered about as in we are too good to be true or in turns so stuck up that we are the only one on planet earth with such audacity to buy such a perfectly silverlake cool gift that means nothing and does nothing. We don't want to wear sparkly dresses or glittery makeup and pretend not to be sad. This year, Christmas, we'd like to give you the give of honesty. You suck and have always sucked except for that one year where there was an ACTUAL BIKE in our living room. That year where our disappointment was not palpable to our poor trying hard but too poor to do anything about it in the RIGHT way families. Had they just said they were poor, we would have understood--but they were trying to be rich in thought if not in action. So, Christmas, we'd like to break up with you. You don't do it for us in any of the ways we need it from you. You don't ask us out, you don't come over when we tell you to, you are a tease who promises sparkly happiness that never manifests. We are done. You were never as good as we imagined you to be and that makes everyone feel sad and shitty when they have nowhere and no one. What of the homeless---they don't get to go anywhere or the right present either. They are lonely--and Christmas makes them lonelier. So, Christmas, Goodbye and good-luck. As always, we will try to stay away from you because you are bad for us, but you will invade our every waking moment, just like you do every year. We are your whores with our skirts up and no fight in us left. You suck and we all think so. The end.
Signed,
Your Bitches

The Hidden

I am a plastic Mexican Jesus on a dashboard

a cold hard mold with seams where

doubts grow

I am imbued with the faith of a child

with a father who works for nothing

and sits on the couch with sex eyes

I am the daughter Carmen

with swollen lips and see-through dresses

who stays away after school

so she won’t have to play that game

I am the thin plastic frame that 

sits on your bathroom sill

watching what you do when no one is 

around

But I am not whatever you are

and that’s the main thing

Killing Dolls

At night, the man who lives next door makes fires. We can hear him making them and smell the bitter burning of the little green twigs he gets from the kid with the Afro and the comb in his hair. The comb is purple, which my older sister, Renee says makes the Afro kid gay as pink ink. Our neighbor rolls the little twigs in papers and lights the ends of them. He puts them to his lips and chokes them down. He hurts himself on the coughs and we don’t know why and we don’t care why. He laughs and laughs shoving Fire Flavored Cheetos into his mouth and spitting out orange, but no one is there, just he is, the Afro with the comb and the baggies already left so it’s just the dog, Gracie. Renee says she can read the Cheetos bag, but I can’t see far enough to know if she’s lying.

Every night when we remember to, we watch that coughing guy through our window get undressed and try to guess where his old wife went. “She must be in the crazy bin,” Renee tells me. “Remember when she chased that girl with licorice?” But, I don’t remember—all I remember is —she was very very very old---so old that whatever used to be a woman was now a man----- and sometimes when people get old they get a smell that tells dogs they are dying and I bet she had that smell and now she lives in the deep earth with the rest of the bodies. We try not to think about her underwear or her naked sagging body, whenever we do we laugh and roll around on the floor because you can’t think of old people naked, it’s too much like thinking of god going to the bathroom.             I never tell my sister how the old wife died, because death is one of those things that has superstitions attached and to say it will make it happen. But, I tell Renee about the ghost and how the ghost tells me what our parents do in that bed of theirs. Renee makes me shut up by chucking dolls at me as hard as she can. I hide my face with my pillow, but I peek out and see my Cindy doll’s head go flying. Renee says it’s an accident, but there are no accidents. She kills my dolls on purpose. We are fake sisters. Real by birth. Fake by everything else.

My babysitter comes every week without fail and tells us weird stories about the drugs she’s taking. She talks about boys more than anything else, the ones that like her, the ones that used to like her, the ones that got stolen out from under her, the ones she keeps secret. Today she is wearing a tight shirt without a bra. Her makeup looks like it should be on a teacher, not a fifteen year old. She wears platform shoes and a tiny skirt. I know she is trying to look sexy, but she looks more like a cartoon.  Her name is Maureen McAdams. My mother always refers to people by their first and last names. Jim McAdams this and Maureen McAdams that. My mother tells mean stories about Maureen that we aren’t allowed to repeat. My mother tells us that Maureen got suspended for drinking and blowing on a boy. My mother tells us that Maureen is going to end up dead in a dumpster someday, like the girls we hear about on the 6 o’clock news. My mother tells us whenever someone tries to give us candy to run like hell or we are going to be cut up and die on the hillside like the girls on TV. Renee says, “Then you should buy us candy, mother, don’t put our lives in jeopardy.”

Maureen walks us to Vendome Liquor so we can gorge our faces on chocolate and other things our parents don’t allow. Maureen lights cigarettes and chokes them down with a pose like if she were in a movie you’d think she was about to get run over.  Renee goes inside to steal stuff.  She comes out with way more stuff than the money would buy. Chocolate balls, milky ways, Recees Peanut Butter Cups, Suckers and Blow-Pops. Green flavor is my favorite for the suckers and Renee never remembers and only brings the ones that stain your mouth red.  Cherry, Strawberry and Raspberry. She always makes up a lie that she used all the money when really she pockets it. She always gives me some so I don’t tell.

Maureen cries on a payphone telling it, it doesn’t matter if she’s not allowed, she’ll do what she wants. Renee and I are burning up in the hot sun so hard we take off our shoes. Renee takes off her top because she doesn’t care who sees. She walks around all puffed out like hookers do. I’m embarrassed and pretend I don’t know her, the street is right there, cars see, and god sees. If I stay close to the Vendome doors, I can feel the air conditioning every time they open and shut. So, I do that. It makes a loud sucking noise, I smooth my feet over the rubber mat with the little ridges. I’m wearing my reversible red-bandana on one side denim on the other side halter top. When I get bored of the door thing I go to the sidewalk in front of the parking lot and rub my feet over the little blackened gum circles on the sidewalk and I’m going to myself, I wish I had sunscreen now I’m going to be sunburned and my mom will get mad and yell at me and hate me again. She’ll see my sad and raise it.

Maureen takes forever on the phone, and we’re bored. Life seems to take forever when someone you want to talk to is on the phone. Renee jumps on top of the wall next to the parking lot and pretends she’s in the Olympics—“LOOK, I’m on the balance beam,” she screams. Then she does a cartwheel and Maureen almost has a heart attack. “Don’t do that again!” Maureen says to my sister and Renee just looks at her with hate eyes.

            The fright of it makes Maureen stop crying and get off the phone like a magic trick and Renee puts back on her shirt and we walk all the way to McDonalds to get orange drink and fish filet. She is going against my mothers orders to feed us apples and peanut butter from Quinn’s and I tell her we aren’t allowed but she says I’m a tattle tale and if I tell my life will be stupid and for nothing.

            Later, Maureen comes in my bedroom and takes me to the TV room. She tells me she has a date with a boy and she wants to try something on me. She asks me if I mind. I say, why me, why not Renee. She says Renee’s too old even though Renee is only a year and a half older than I am. She says it’s a special kind of kiss. A French one. She says she has to try it because she has another date and has to look like a professional. Then she puts her tongue in my mouth and moves it around. I am sicked out and think this is bad. I’m bad and she’s bad.

            “Was it okay?”

            “It’s just gross, that’s all.”

            “But, do you think I’m doing it right?”

            I didn’t know but it seemed unfair that I had to be the one and it was full confirmation that god didn’t love me. I could see it was really important to tell her something nice so she could be happy like when my mother asked if she was pretty and I would say yes even when she looked tired.

            “Are you supposed to put your tongue in? That seems weird.”

            “That’s the frenching.”

            “Well, I guess it’s okay then.”

            I got back in bed with my sheets with stars and moons and galaxies on them. I couldn’t sleep after that so I tried to see the neighbor if he was up, but all I saw was Gracie outside shivering. 

Try Stuff

Meet Brian behind the pool-house. The one at the lake. Let him kiss you. Let him put his hands up under your t-shirt, but not down your shorts. Tell him not to tell. Tell him you’re too young for him. Tell him you aren’t an object. Tell him you don’t like boys with blue eyes. Tell him you aren’t going to be easy to know. Tell him to write you a note and to put in it the things he thinks you’d find interesting. Tell him he better make it good, because you know a lot about a lot. Tell him to talk about you. Tell him to describe you and make it romantic. Punch him. Grab his hands and put them behind his back. Watch him watch you. Let him chase you across the lawn. Slow down so he can tackle you. Kiss him again. Not know the consequences. Fall in love a little. Tell him, no one has captured your heart yet and you doubt he will be the one. Tell him he’s too tall for you. Tell him you like skinny but not too skinny. Tell him you like his hair. Tell him you like his plaid shirts. Put makeup on him. Lipstick and eyeliner. Hate him for liking you. Be scared. Not know what to do next. Leave. Let the phone ring when he calls. Don’t pick up. See him at school but act disinterested. Flirt with boys you don’t care about in front of him. Write his your name with his last name on the end. Think you’re dumb then cross it out. Tell nobody.

Go find Tami. Lay on her floor cutting up magazines for the wall. Wish you looked like the big nosed model with the giant lips that scream sex. Be mad you don’t look like your mother. Be mad your mother doesn’t care that you aren’t going to be a model and won’t pay for plastic surgery. Be mad that she won’t drive you to Los Angeles to be an actress. Be mad you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere without transportation. Be mad that she won’t come see you be a cheerleader. Be mad she thinks cheerleading is dumb. Be mad she hates high IQ’s because hers is low. Be mad that she is skinny and perfect and your boobs are so big they call you Torpedos behind your back. Be mad she doesn’t understand the pressures of your clothes not fitting  because she is a waif. Be mad you are eating all the time and can’t starve yourself like she can. Be mad tami is sexy sleeping with boys but you don’t even know what blow job means yet. Be mad she returned your khaki skirt with cum on it. Be mad at the world. Consider suicide.

Watch your father eat you with his eyes. Pretend it didn’t happen. Stop wearing shorts so nothing gets too weird. Stop talking to him after that. Be scared to be alone with him. Not know who to talk to about it. Try to be less pretty. Try to be less voluptuous. Buy bras two sizes too small to press you down. Cry in the closet because nothing will close over you. Not know who to tell. Start wearing giant sweatshirts. Be sad you’re fat. Be sad you can’t afford bigger clothes. Be mad your mother thinks you are a bottomless pit for asking. Try starving yourself again. Begin throwing up. Paige taught you how. Try on bikinis. Get on and off the scale a bunch of different times to see if the digital numbers change. Be happy when the numbers go below 120. Read the Best Little Girl in The World. Learn how to starve yourself through will-power. The flesh is dumb. Get your friends boyfriends to ask you in dark clubs if you’d consider making out with them, consider it, but say no, rejecting them feels good. Keep that a secret. Be lonely. Start shoplifting with friends. Get caught for grand-theft. Be scared your parents will find out.

Sneak out your window. Go to clubs. Dance and drink peppermint schnapps. Like dancing more than all the sex stuff. Ignore your friends who are experimenting with it. Be scared. Take pills. Be friends with younger boys hoping they won’t love you. Be mad when they do. Change friends. Sleep on the beach. Pass out in the shower. Curl your friend’s hair in the morning. Kill a giant potato bug with a flip flop. Scream when it screams. Wish someone would hug you. Wish someone would say you are beautiful. Wish someone would be nice.

The Day The Sun Died

I drove out to the house off of Van Nuys where Jeremy lived looking for heroin or oxycodone, but sometimes he had nothing and I never knew which way it was going to go. Jeremy always greeted me when he heard me drive up the gravel driveway.

            Instead his brother, Garrett, walked out front say hello, which was odd because Garrett didn’t live nearby or anything. In fact, he lived outside the city in a huge house that he bought from the accident he and Jeremy had been in 10 years ago.  I had spent time there, and couldn’t see why he’d want to hang in this shit-hole, when he could be kicking it in that place of his. He was wearing overalls and a plaid shirt opened underneath with a silver and diamond cross I had seen on Jeremy. Although his boots were alligator, they were covered in dirt from being out with the horse in the back where they had a stable.

            “Hey there, Jeremy’s not home.”

            “Okay, I’ll come back later.”

            “Come inside, you can wait. We’ll have a drink.”

            The lawn was dead and the pit-bull stood guard at the front door like usual. He always eyed me, but Jeremy had him smell my shoes and told him to like me, so I always thought I was safe. Garrett was the handsome one. Not covered in burns over 75 percent of his body like Jeremy. They were twins. The accident had something to do with a meth lab. Garrett got out. Jeremy didn’t. The fact that he lived was amazing to all the doctors.

            Garrett disappeared in the kitchen and left me in the main room with a girl and her daughter. They both looked at me and I smiled at them. The little girl was dancing and she grabbed both my hands and danced me in a circle. There was a little pink ghetto blaster on the floor and the music coming out was like some Disney fairy tale. She wore a bright pink dress and had flowers in her curly blonde hair.

            “My dad’s not coming back today,” she said.

            “Oh, that’s too bad, was he supposed to?” I asked.

            “Yes. He’s always supposed to. He never does it though. I’m used to it.”

            I caught the woman, who I assumed to be her mother, staring at me and gave her a smile. She froze me out and gave me a look like she’d kill me later when no one was watching. Cut up in a garbage bag with all my teeth pulled out. Garrett came out with beers and I stopped dancing with the little girl.

            “Garrett and I are going to have a talk,” I said.

            “You’re pretty,” the little girl said.

            “Thank you. So are you,” I said.

            Garrett led me away from them and out the back door and pulled out a chair covered in dirt and other stuff and told me to sit down. I looked for another option but there wasn’t one. His eyes never left my face the whole time watching me to see if I would care if I sat on dirt and who knows what else.  I sat.

            “The girl in the front had a father, but he’s not coming back,” Garrett said.

            “Why not?”

            “I killed him.”

            I wasn’t sure what to do. I took a drink of my beer and tried to look for an escape route in case things got weird.

            “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

            “I was taken aback is all.”

            “He molested that little girl in there and when her mother found out, he beat her up.”

            “I’m so sorry.”

            “Don’t be. They’ll be all right now. He was a criminal before they met, she just didn’t know it.”

            “I see.”

            The backyard had two cars covered in blue tarps and a stable for two horses. It was one of the hottest days California had had in a while; the valley was always 10 degrees hotter. I was wearing a dress and it was sticking to me. There were no umbrellas, empty bottles everywhere and ashtrays never emptied.

            “Do you need a hat or something?”

            “That would be great.”

            Garrett disappeared inside the house and came back with two overdone straw hats, the kind you’d wear for gardening. He put one on my head and sat down.

            “You’ll want to know about Jeremy.”

            “Yes. Where is he?”

            “He went to stay in my place. He’s not going to be doing what he’s been doing anymore. He’s getting clean.”

            “Oh.”

            I knew it was a lie the second he said it, though I had no proof. You know how you just can tell. Plus, he was wearing Jeremy’s favorite cross, the one he never took off his neck. I had the number of his mother; I thought maybe I could call her later after I got out of there. I would have to find someone else to get me drugs. That was my next thought.

            “He left something for you, so you wouldn’t be caught out in the cold.”

            I nodded.

            I didn’t know what to say to Garrett because I never liked him. He was handsome true, but whenever I heard the accident story, something always made my stomach sink. Something like, he could have helped his brother. I know it was fire and all, but the way Jeremy told it, from his vantage point he saw his brother look at him and run. Not toward him to help him, but away from him. Jeremy said he thought about it day and night for two years and then asked god to release him from hating Garrett. He was always wondering if Garrett had come to help, if Jeremy would have been saved or if Garrett would have been disfigured the way he was. It hurt me every-time he told the story, which was often because we used drugs together and people like to tell the same story over and over even though we tried not to.

            Jeremy was also the one with the personality. Garrett always got the girls. It sucked to know that that was something we could never do anything about. I had kissed Jeremy once. I remembered it. We were out by the horses. It was my first time doing heroin. He put it in a cigarette and I took a hit. It wasn’t what I expected; it felt like happiness hit the cells of my body. A rush of the all at once feeling of total release. I hadn’t known I had any pain in my body until that moment when it all disappeared. The feeling of it leaving was overwhelming. Try imagining something you’ve always known, that has always been with you, forever and ever, suddenly disappearing. That was what it was like.  There was no choice in it. Jeremy watched and he told me he loved me. Then I threw up on his shoes. I had wanted to love him back. I really had, but I couldn’t and I felt the shame of not loving the thing you are supposed to love.

            Garrett and I made small talk about what I can’t remember. Then he went inside and got the package from Jeremy and handed it over. It struck me how all the time we talk to people we don’t even like, just to get by, always barely making contact with the ones we really are drawn to. I only talked to him to find out about Jeremy. I’m not sure if he could tell or not though.

            “Thanks for coming by,” Garrett said and he walked me back out front where I said goodbye to the little girl and hugged her.

            “Are you going?” she said with a sad voice.

            “I am. So nice to meet you.”

            “I love you,” she said and threw her arms around me again.

            “I love you too,” I said and slid out the door to freedom. I felt sick about that girl, leaving that little shiny thing with two people who were going to harm her in ways I can’t go into. She would be ruined and there was a great sense of loss in the knowing of it.

            I had been staying at my parent’s house in Encino. I had a stash that could get me by and I was sharing with this new kid named Pretzel. Pretzel was a mulatto ex-model who wore this red emo t-shirt for the first few week I knew him. I got so sick of it, finally, I got a shirt out of my father’s closet and made him wear it. He wore it for only an hour and then the emo shirt came back out. At first he was a bore like everyone, but one night he grabbed me hard by both arms and said, “I could kiss you for 24 hours straight.” I thought of him differently after that. Like I could love him or something. As long as he didn’t need to have any sex. I was pretty fucked up that way. My last boyfriend and I tried, but I always just ended up laughing. It felt funny. I went to a shrink and they gave me some bullshit about being molested, only I know I wasn’t.  They were just out of ideas. Plus, aren’t the molested ones sluts? My friend Terri was molested and she was a complete whore. They gave me some pills though and that’s always good.

            Pretzel set up a turntable in the living room and played all kinds of music. I called Terri and a few of my friends from when I lived in Venice and they all came to hang out. Terri had never done heroin and got pretty pissed when she found out that’s why I disappeared.

            “We do everything together,” she said.

            “Sorry,” I said, even though I wasn’t. She did coke and sucked cock long before she ever told me about it. We danced around and drank champagne from my father’s cellar. The party was on and there hadn’t been anything bad that happened to any of us for some time, so the drama level was low. Just pretty sparkly people getting blasted and doing stupid dances. That was it.

Then, one night my doorbell rang and I went to get it and it was Jeremy. He was dirty and skinny and had scratched up and down his arms on the good arm and the burn arm. It was the best thing I had ever seen---Jeremy standing there.

            “He tried to bury me alive,” Jeremy said.

            “Jesus, are you okay?” I said opening the door. At that moment all the beautiful kids I had in my house looked at Jeremy like he was an alien.  I felt bad too, because it was one of those moments when I realized I was ashamed of him. I was ashamed to be ashamed. He wasn’t beautiful, but all of us were. It sickened me to be this way, but it was beyond my control. It washed over me like the feeling of adrenaline or any other kind of feeling that you can name but might not want to in order to hide it from yourself so you can go on living in that manner. Emotionally dead-land, that’s what my friend, Terri called it. Dead-land. I felt nervous as hell, but also real guilty that I hadn’t ever called his mom. I was a bad friend and to be honest it wasn’t on purpose, I forgot.

            I got out a cigarette filled with heroin and gave him a drag, then I put him in the shower, more to get him away from the others than anything else. We were going to turn off all the lights later and he would be safe from their scrutiny with their fucked up plastic noses and perfect faces.  I sat on the toilet while he showered. The bathroom was tiled with glazed Moroccan blue and white tiles and I had t-light candles going all through the house. They flickered off the tiles and made shadows on the walls. I stared at the shadows and marveled at the wonder that so much in life is in the shadows, and only some of us were willing to go into the darkness to find what was missing from the light. That’s the part you don’t read about. Drugs do that. They take you to the other less obvious sections of your psyche and they make you see things you didn’t know existed and never even wanted to know, but then you fell in love with those things too and had a hard time coming back from it. One of my friends always said he liked cocaine psychosis better than the cocaine. Only, I had it once and pulled out all of the hair at the crown of my head and that’s why I’m now a charge of the state. There’s some worse stuff I did to my shoulder, and something I can’t tell you because it’s too scary.

            Jeremy told me the story. Garrett had drugged him and buried him in a shallow grave in the back of his parents’ house. Jeremy woke up and didn’t know where he was, just that dirt was on top of him and he dug and dug for two days to get out. It would have taken him less time, but he was tied up, so there was that.

            “I knew he had done something to you. As soon as I saw the necklace.”

            “He’s mental,” Jeremy said. “I’m going to kill him.”

            I didn’t say anything. He got dressed in some of my father’s clothes and then we went out to the living room and got high. The heroin he had left me was good stuff and it didn’t take a lot to be on your way. We fell asleep on the couch in the center of the room.

            When I woke. It wasn’t morning. Or if it was I couldn’t be sure, not unless I was willing to get up and look. I was on the plush carpet surrounded by bodies sleeping. Other than the people I invited, mostly I didn’t know where they came from; just that they found out my house was open and then appeared. First one. Then two. Boys. Girls and so on. The red couch cast a glow onto the carpet like a halo. Golden light shone from the velvet in a way that defied what one knows of the physical world. It wasn’t a hallucination. I’ll get to that. This was warm. Part of the reason I was on the floor in the first place. The hit of heroin I took was too strong, but that was hours ago. I couldn’t understand why all the lights were off and then the lights themselves, carved glass sconces on the walls, shone tiny rainbows on the wall surrounding them. They made me know once and for all that the smallest things are the things worth remembering. Tiny rainbows.

            Pretzel was still sleeping and I studied his face, totally hoping that if I ever had sex and was able to bring forth a baby, that it could be as beautiful as he was. I was almost positive he was gay too, but that didn’t stop us from pretending to be a couple. I couldn’t have sex and he was gay, so it kind of worked out.

            Terri had gone off with someone, and we didn’t see her again. At some point in the night, something happened to Jeremy. We had to call the paramedics and then everyone scattered to different houses so that we wouldn’t be caught with our pants down. Jeremy had slipped into a coma right there on the floor while we were all out cold too. We hadn’t noticed because we were all pretty fucked up. I imagined his brother at his bedside fakely trying to be nice and it made my skin turn.

            I called Garrett on the phone the next day to tell him where his brother was. He drove into the parking lot and parked his car. He got out and was walking towards the entrance. I came up behind him.

            “Hi Garrett.”

            “Hi Sunshine.”

            I shot him like my dad showed me that day at the gun range, saying, if he comes at you just do it, you won’t have time to think. And he was right, the human head makes a sound he didn’t tell me about, I won’t burden you with that, but believe me, it’s memorable. I got outta there, what else you wanna know?            

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.