2
When I awoke the next morning Jasper was gone, taking with him a box of my cigarettes. I walked into the bathroom to wash my face, and saw a smear of black across my cheek. Startled, I looked around for the cause of such a mark, wondering if I had left a pen open in my bed or mascara somehow attacked me in the night, until I looked down at my arm, where Kyle’s quote and number were simply a smear down my forearm. I had been sleeping on it, and the ink had transferred to my face. I cursed myself, profusely, for not having written down the number before it was lost. I did remember the quote though, a line from a Jack London poem.
I would rather be ashes than dust. I would rather that my spark be burned out in a brilliant flame than be stifled by dry rot. I would rather be a meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.
Still cursing I washed the ink off my face and arm, thinking all the while about the quote. Obviously Kyle was an interesting guy, quoting Jack London while giving out his phone number. And why that specific quote? Is he trying to tell me that he lives life to the fullest? Or am I making him seem too profound? I laughed at myself and my girly thoughts, and proceeded to get ready for work.
I opened at eight, and it was already seven fifteen. I skipped the shower; instead I straightened my already-straight hair, styled it into my funky layered look, and painted on six pounds of eyeshadow. By the time my eyes were popping and I pulled on my black slacks and button-up shirt, I had five minutes to get to work. Luckily it wasn’t that far from my house, so I jumped onto a bus and called to let them know I was possibly going to be late.
“Dayne, it’s cool. Sharon isn’t even here yet,” says Tom, my co-worker. Sharon was the head-honcho that destroyed the souls of lesser employees, and Barnes and Noble had quite the turnout rate. Tom was a new hire, and thus feared her for his life. I, however, had survived the initial six-month trial period, and Sharon was no longer a concern to me. She simply left me alone to get on with my job, and had promoted me to assistant manager after a year. But Tom…
“Tom, just write it down somewhere, just in case she finds out you didn’t give her a message. She’ll flip out on you, you know that.”
“I have pen in hand,” he replies, and I think maybe there is hope for him yet.
“Why are you already there?” I asked, marvelling at the fact that he should be so early to work.
“Sharon called me to cover for a while. I guess she wanted to make sure it was ME who woke up extra early on my day off.”
“Day off?”
“Vince called in sick, and I’m the other guy with keys.”
“Well, feel honoured that she allowed you to have keys at such an early date,” I chided.
“Yes ma’am,” he laughed, and hung up.
I arrive three minutes late, and barrel into the store like a bull. I have about a hundred things to do, and I can’t personally delegate a single thing without talking to Sharon, so off I go like a race horse out of the gate. I fly into the employee room, stuff my bag into a locker and clip on my nametag. Underneath my name there is another pin, a small chalkboard with “recommends” written above it. The idea is to write in the name of a book you like, so that people don’t have to ask you that question. People do anyway, so in the space I have simply written ‘chewing gum.’ You have no idea how many people come ask questions with bad breath.
As I run out of the room, stamping my time-card on the way, I run square into Tom with a book-laiden cart. Tom, who apparently recommends ‘Surfing for Dummies’ to our customers, put his hands up like a convict.
“Take it easy, Dayne. What’s the rush?”
“Do you see these books?” I say, indicating the sixty or so books in the cart. “I have to label them all and alphabetize them properly before the store opens in…”I look at my watch, “seventeen minutes. Then I have to vacuum, unlock all the doors, make sure the windows are clean, the cash is in the registers, the bathrooms are clean, the café is properly stocked-“
“Dayne!” Tom shouts, and I realize he had been saying my name for a while now.
“What?”
“You’re crazy. It’s Thursday, remember, so the maintenance guys came last night and we don’t have to vacuum or wash the windows.” Tom smiled proudly, like a kid that finally learned how to use the toilet. I’m a big kid now, I hummed, insanely, to myself. “Plus, I already checked the café, and Renee is working today, so everything is already set up. Josh is supposed to be here, but he called in sick too, so Valerie came and is cleaning the bathrooms right now.”
I stood, mouth agape. “So, all I have to do…”
“Is the cash registers, because I can handle the books. I just got finished dealing with the Josh/Valerie situation, so I’ve got nothing to do before the store opens.” He laughed. “Honestly, you think you run this place all by yourself?”
I could have kissed him as I shoved the book cart into his very-capable-seeming hands. He had been here three months, so Sharon was still on his case, but I was rooting for him to last. He was a keeper. I ran upstairs, keys in hand, and opened the drawer with the cash boxes. I had just finished the last one, signing it off to a cheeky new red-head cashier named Libba, when Tom tapped me and told me it was time to unlock the doors.
“Thanks Tom. Oh, and tell Renee I’m glad she’s here today.”
“Okay, Boss.”
I laughed at that.
The day went by smoothly after that, despite Sharon walking in at ten to shake Tom up a bit, not to mention harass half the new cashiers and call Josh personally to make sure he was sick.
“He’s fired!” Sharon shouted from the office, and we all winced. Josh had been here two months, and had made very few mistakes.
“Fired?” I asked casually, focusing her anger on me instead of Tom, who happened to be geographically closer at that moment. Bad news.
Sharon looked at me with eyes bulging, then drew in a deep breath. “Yes, Dayne, fired. He wasn’t sick at all, I could hear a party going on in the background, and that’s all I needed to hear.”
I eyed Tom, a friend of Josh, and he shook his head, telling me there was no way Josh was having a party.
“Sharon?” I guardedly began.
“Yes?”
“Did he sound sick?”
Sharon glared at me, “He didn’t speak much after I heard that racket!”
“Well,” I interrupted, “It is Thursday.”
“AND?” Sharon asked loudly, then got her anger under control. “I’m sorry Dayne, I’m irritated, but not at you. What are you trying to say?”
Tom looked at me as if I had worked some voodoo magic to get her to calm down, which made me suppress a laugh under a cough.
“You alright?” Sharon asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Listen, Sharon, I think Josh is actually sick. I mean, no student would have the energy to have a party at ten in the morning on a Thursday. He was probably just watching a movie with some party scene or something.” I shrugged. “It probably sounded suspicious, but really, Josh is a good guy. And I think there’s something going around lately.”
“Hmm,” Sharon pondered aloud. “You know, Vince did call in sick as well.”
I coughed again; Vince was probably calling in sick from some mountain in Tahoe. Vince liked to snowboard, and figured work was secondary to that. But Vince was also Sharon’s age, and good looking. I glanced at Tom, who was now turned away from me, shoulders shaking in laughter.
“He did,” I added.
“Maybe you’re right. I’ll call Josh again and tell him I haven’t had my morning coffee yet today. He’ll understand.”
And with that I became Tom’s personal God.
“As long as I can count on you for that kind of miracle-working, I’ll be your slave,” he said after Sharon had departed to the office to re-hire Josh.
“Slave, eh? How can I possible abuse my power…?”
Tom just laughed.
“Back to work, pest.” I joked.
“Yes, my voodoo queen” he said, and bowed.
I blushed and abruptly turned away. I’m no one’s queen…
Sharon left for lunch at noon, and didn’t come back. Her sister, who had been pregnant for eight months and two weeks, had gone into labour, which meant all we were going to hear about for the next three weeks was the brand new baby girl Delilah. Awesome.
At three o’clock I punched out my timecard, unhooked my nametag, and pulled my bag from my locker. Sighing a heavy sigh of relief and fatigue, I stepped into the bathroom and gave myself a good look in the mirror. My eyeshadow had caked, my hair was frizzing, and I needed some of my recommended chewing gum. Plus, my tattoo from two nights ago still burned at my hip. I was trying to think of a profound way to finish a sentence beginning with ‘Fuck Me’ while I fixed my appearance, but could only come up with “Fuck Me Again,” or “Fuck Me Once, Shame On You…” and neither would make me feel better about my tattoo. Scolding myself again for my own idiocy, I walked out into the dreary overcast day.
I surveyed the nearby street for a sign of Jeffery’s car, but it was nowhere to be seen, so I pulled my coat collar up and lit a cigarette from my bag. I took a long drag and filled my lungs with the ashy fog so desired.
A car horn honked, and I looked up to see Jeffery pulling up in his bright orange Volvo. I stubbed out my cigarette, half-spent, and slid in through the obnoxiously fruit-coloured door.
“Hello, sunshine!” Jeffery welcomed gaily (meaning both homosexually, and joyously). “You’re looking mysterious and pensive this afternoon.”
I looked Jeffery up and down, seeing his glasses, blue-plaid shirt, and boyish charm. I couldn’t help but smile from his contagious happiness. “Thank you Jeffery. You’re looking as optimistic as your vehicle today.”
Jeffery laughed wholly, and again I noted the genuine crinkle around his eyes and his wide open mouth. “Oh, you are a catch!”
I smiled, pulling the seatbelt over my shoulder. Jeffery made my days bright, like his car. I looked around, noting the lemon-yellow seat covers, the air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror, the orange interior. And the giant, lime-green teddy bear chilling on top of the dash. “How citrus-y” I said of the lemon, lime, and orange theme of the Volvo.
“Yes, it’s because I’m a fruit,” said Jeffery, laughing heartily. “I named her Veronica after my mother, but someone called her Skittles once, and it stuck. So Skittles it is.”
“You named your car Skittles?” I asked.
“Hey, it wasn’t me, it just stuck, okay?”
“Alrighty then,” I said. “Skittles is fine. It suits.”
“That it does.”
Suddenly, my phone started ringing. I have got to change that ringtone!
“Ugh, guess who slept at my house last night?” I asked into the phone.
“Who?” Raelyn asked with uncommon interest.
“Jasper.”
“No!”
“Yes. He took a pack of my cigarettes too.”
“Jasper’s hot,” Raelyn had to add.
“I guess, in an ‘I will steal you blind’ kind of way. So what are you up to?”
“Just getting out of Jed’s. Man, I can’t hardly walk.”
“Well, take the nearest bus route to your house then, and don’t get assaulted, ‘cause you’ll never run away fast enough,” I joked.
“As if,” she said, and hung up.
Jeffery gave me a funny look. “Who was that?” he asked.
“Raelyn. You should meet her sometime.”
Jeffery scowled like he had smelled something rotten, and turned back to his driving.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“Nothing,” Was the only reply I got.
Moments later we were pulling up to the college, next to the art building. “Gretchen should be coming out any moment, which means your mystery man should be coming out too.” Jeffery grinned. “We should wait for them out of the car, so he can bump into you again.”
I shifted slightly in my seat, making the seat cover stretch. I wanted to say hello to Marc again, but how would I do this? I’m no good at letting people into my little world (Jeffery, the exception to every rule). “What if he’s not there today?” I asked stupidly.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Chapter 1 - unedited
I
Today started like every day. I had one too many vodka-coffees and six too many cigarettes. I didn’t shower, and my hair smelled like too many hours of sleep. My clock said ten when I woke up and made my coffee; the powdered stuff you mix in hot water (and Stoli). I mix, and wrap my pink satin robe around me as I check the mail outside my door. Empty. My neighbour David was doing the same in his flannel pants, holding his coffee and looking through his junk mail and Jehovah’s Witness pamphlets.
“Morning,” he says to me across the parking lot.
“Yeah, uh-huh,” I muttered back, too groggy and hung over to say anything else. I walked back into my apartment and sat on the floor, exposing my bare legs to the sunlight cutting through the blinds like cheese. I sat there in a daze, trying to remember what had happened last night. I remembered being drunk and I remembered meeting up with my crazy best-friend who decided she wanted to go wild, but I didn’t remember much else.
I felt it before I saw it, raw like a bad sunburn, but localized to a portion of my left hip. I knew from past experience what that certain type of pain meant, and I almost slipped on my robe as I ran into my little bathroom and pulled it open to find a tattoo on my hip. Brand new; I was far drunker that I thought I had been, apparently. I now had a permanent reminder of how far I go to get high. I think it says “fuck me.” Great, I thought, and went back to sleep.
I jumped when the phone rang, a techno song from some movie I can’t remember, that made my teeth grind and head wobble on its axis. I flipped it open quickly.
“Mmuh-lo?” I grumbled into the receiver.
“Bitch,” says Raelyn, afore-mentioned crazy best friend.
“Fuck me,” I said back.
“That’s what yours says?” she asked, and I could tell she’d already started drinking.
“Yup.” I coughed.
“Great.”
“That’s what I said”
“Mine’s on my ass, where’s yours?”
I chuckled and coughed into the phone again, lit a cigarette. “My hip.”
“Lucky,” she scoffed. “I’m not going to be able to sit down for a week.”
“Well, mine says ‘fuck me’ so I guess we’re even.”
“I guess,” she replied, and hung up. That’s how we are; it’s like we never stop talking, but have one long, unending conversation.
I took a drag and stubbed out the half-spent cigarette in the ashtray by my bed. I surveyed the room, found some clothes that may or may not have been clean, and pulled my choppy black hair into a hair tie. The make-up from last night still stained my eyes black, and I painted another layer of mascara on my lashes instead of washing it off. I tied a scarf around my neck, pulled on the long leather coat that made me feel like a pirate, and slipped a small bottle of Stoli in my bag before walking out the door.
It was already past noon, I could tell because the sounds had all changed. No longer was it traffic and birds and garbage trucks; it was sirens and shouting, street vendors and people. That’s the sound I love most, the sound that thousands of people make when they’re all talking at once. It sounds organic, like a river or chickens or something. All people make the same sound in large groups. No matter what language they are speaking, it sounds the same.
The little bell rang when I walked into Mike’s, a café just down my street. “Have a seat,” he shouted from the back, so I took one at a booth by a window and tapped my coffee mug at the waitress walking by, Pricilla. She gave me a look that said “get your own damned coffee,” as she topped off my cup. She didn’t like me much, but that was fine because Mike had the best coffee around. Better than Starbucks anyway.
I watched Pricilla walk past, on to the next victim/customer, and I slipped into my bag and brought up the Stoli. As I poured the liquid into my cup, I felt someone watching me, so I looked up, and into the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. It was a man a couple years older than me, with a strong nose, messy sand-coloured hair, and dimples. He was writing in a black book, and had strong hands that should have belonged to a guitar player.
And the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. They were beautiful, like the bottom of the sea or the tops of the trees when they glint in sunlight. I could have stared an eternity into those eyes, but the man quickly looked away as he noticed I saw him watching me. It made me embarrassed, how long I stared at him. “Cheers,” I said to him, and lifted my Stoli/coffee into the air between us.
“Oh, um, yeah,” was his nervous reply. He lifted his untainted orange juice in my direction.
I was about to ask if he wanted to share a booth when Mike came up to take my order. “Um, eggs, over medium, with salt and pepper, Mike.”
“More coffee?” he asks, and the bell over the door jingled.
“You know how I like it, Baby,” I teased, and as Mike wandered off I chanced a glance back at Green Eyes.
He had gone.
I felt like I had lost something; like a tiny part of my future had walked out on me.
The bell above the door jingled again and in walked Raelyn, wearing last night’s party clothes and carrying a shopping bag.
“Where are you coming from?” I asked sceptically.
“Jed’s place,” she said, eyeing me like one accused.
“What’s in the bag?”
Raelyn opened the bag, exposing a new pair of jeans, a shirt with a woman licking her fingers screened on the front, and a green-handled butterfly knife. I looked up curiously.
“Jed’s baby sister was getting rid of all kinds of shit,” Raelyn explained. “I got some ripped tights and a purple wig. I thought you might like this stuff.”
“Thanks, Babe.” I grabbed the knife and expertly flipped it open. It was about four inches long and definitely illegal in the state of California. I slipped it in my bag.
“Pricilla!” Raelyn shouted across the small café. “Coffee!”
Pricilla rolled her eyes and sauntered over. As if she had anything better to do. I waited until Raelyn had added her own alcohol of choice (peppermint schnapps) and had taken a sip before starting.
“I saw this guy this morning, sitting in the booth over there.” I said, without looking up from my coffee. “Musician, I think, although he was writing something, which isn’t really musical at all. But his hands…anyway, he had great eyes.”
“Great eyes?” I didn’t have to look to know that Raelyn had one eyebrow cocked and an expression of confusion on her face.
“Yeah, you know, like really green. Trees behind sunlight, that kind of fire in them. They were startling.”
“And?”
I finally looked up at her, and sure enough her left eyebrow was higher than the other.
“And what? What do you mean, ‘and’?”
“Well, what did he say? Did he talk to you or something? Why are you bringing this up?”
“Well, we didn’t really talk or anything, but-“
“Well fuck, Dayne,” she interrupted. “That’s great. Let me know if he coughs or something, okay?”
“Sure thing,” I said, and let the subject drop. Raelyn was great and all, but sometimes I wished I had other friends to talk to, because she had a tendency to care only about herself. My eggs came, and I added more salt before shovelling them in my mouth like a beast.
“How can you eat?” Raelyn asked dramatically. “I was so wasted last night I could barely get up this morning, let alone eat.”
“Mmm,” was all I said. Raelyn didn’t need words, just some sort of acknowledgement and she would go on until she remembered to breathe. She was saying something about how great a lay Jed was, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was thinking about Green Eyes, and why he had disappeared so quickly. Something was really familiar about him, and really strange. He interested me.
I glanced down at my watch and saw that I was running late. I finished my eggs quickly, drank the rest of my second cup of coffee, and picked up my bag. “I’m out,” I said to Raelyn. I laid down enough cash to cover the cost and tip, and walked out of the café. Outside it was colder than I had expected, so I tightened my scarf around my neck and trudged on to the bus station. I nearly missed it, but waved it down before it could drive off, and the driver opened its doors for me. “Thanks,” I said breathlessly, and flashed a student card. I couldn’t find a seat, so I stood; holding onto one of the metal bars attached to the ceiling just for this reason. Every time the bus had to break I thought I would be flung out the window or down the aisle, but my grip was firm enough and I knew how to avoid touching people. That’s another thing about me; I’m all about personal space.
I jumped off the crowded bus a stop before my own, too intent on being in open air than getting to class in time. Plus, the best feeling in the world is when your body is warm from clothes and coats, but your face starts going numb from the cold. I absolutely love when my nose gets icy and my lips lose feeling and the air tastes like ice chips.
I may be alone in the sentiment.
In any case, I began to trudge, thanking the Gods of Chance I remembered to wear the coat with broken bits of charcoal in the pockets; I could sketch during my statistics lecture with something other than pencil for once. I’m the only person I know still going to classes and studying on the weekends, but that doesn’t mean I don’t let my mind wander over paper when I should be taking notes.
I was ten minutes late when I finally got to campus. Keenan Community College is small enough to be unimpressive, but large enough to get lost in. There are patches of garden and grass in the sea of steps and concrete, and trees planted here and there to make it feel natural. The library has a view of the bay, and the cafeteria is mostly vending machines. There is an art gallery, though. That is its redeeming quality for me. That and the large sculpture of the bust of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., which looks as if it is balanced on its base.
I attempted to open the door to my stats class quietly, as to not disturb the professor, but the door had plans of its own and creaked unnecessarily loud.
“Sit,” commanded Mr. Roderick, and I hurried to a seat next to a boy. Any boy.
The boy ended up being Jeffery, a boy with glasses and short hair and innocent eyes. A boy I could easily get the notes from after class.
I pulled both a notebook and a sketchbook out of my bag, the first just for show. I found a crumbling piece of charcoal in my left pocket and an eraser from my bag, and began to doodle. First I drew the chair leg, then Mr. Roderick’s pocket protector full of pencils and pens. I drew the light switch, and next to that the exit sign over the door. I worked out the part of the girl in front of me, with the stray hair on the wrong side. Then I started to draw from memory the man at Mike’s, Green Eyes and his musician’s hands. I closed my eyes and pictured how he sat, the way his hair fell over his ears, the glass of orange juice obstructing my view of his elbow, the table over his knees…
“Dismissed!” cried Mr. Roderick, and I was instantly thrown out of my drawing and into the world. My foot was asleep where I had been sitting on it, and my neck ached as I looked up. Jeffery was packing up his books as I turned to him. “Hey, Jeffery?”
He looked startled, as if he didn’t realize I could speak. “You know my name?”
I laughed. “Yes, if your name is Jeffery.”
“Sorry, it just seemed like you didn’t pay attention to anything in this class.” He blushed a little. “Not that you slack off…”
I laughed again; I like this boy. “No, I do, it’s okay. Hey listen I was wondering-“
“Hey, I know him,” said Jeffery, staring at my drawing of Green Eyes.
“-If you…You do?” I was astonished.
“Yeah, he’s got art when my sister does. I always see him coming out of the drawing room when I wait to pick her up. I only noticed him because she mentioned how he spilled water all over her drawing and she had to start over.”
“Not on purpose?” I asked, curious.
“I’m sure not, she would have been much angrier.”
Again, I laughed. Jeffery was good at that.
“Well how do you know him?” asked Jeffery.
“Oh, I don’t. I saw him sitting in a café this morning, and he kind of struck me, so I had to get him on paper.”
“Just now? You drew that from memory? Damn.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling broadly. “So, I was wondering if I could borrow your notes from today. I was, well, drawing.”
This time it was Jeffery who laughed. “Obviously,” he said. “Unfortunately I have to use them for the homework tonight, but hey, what are you doing later?”
Uh-oh. “Later?”
“Yeah, I have a class after this one, but say like five, we could grab some coffee somewhere and share the notes and do the homework.”
“Jeffery, I don’t know…”
“Why not?” he asked innocently.
“Jeffery, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea, or lead you on. I’m just not interested in a relationship. At all. Ever.”
Jeffery looked at me blankly, then started to chuckle. “Dayne, you’re a funny girl.”
“Why?”
“The thought of dating you never crossed my mind. I, um, don’t find you attractive.”
I looked at Jeffery incredulously. No one has ever said that so bluntly before. “Um, well…” I stammered.
Jeffery burst into laughter, tears welling in his eyes. “Oh god, Dayne, don’t look at me like that. Don’t get me wrong, you’re a babe. Drop dead gorgeous, actually, in that ‘I’m not afraid to shank you’ kind of way. It’s just…” he laughed a bit more. “Dayne, I’m a fag. I’m totally gay.”
It took a minute for what he said to sink in. “Gay?” I asked stupidly.
“Gay, you know, I suck dick.”
Now I broke into peals of laughter, joined immediately by Jeffery. We were falling over our desks, stomachs blazing and eyes watering, for a good five minutes while kids started wandering in for the next class in the room. Finally we managed to leave with our bags and books, stumbling in our mirth. Jeffery’s eyes crinkled in the corners when he laughed, the lids almost shut, and his mouth opened wide enough to see all his pearly white teeth. He had a hearty laugh, a full laugh, a laugh you could dive into and feel warm. We made plans to meet at The Nook, a hole-in-the-wall café right on the beach with good bagels and chai, for math homework and ‘girl talk’ (even though he’s a boy). I waved goodbye and got on the bus, crowded again in the cold.
As soon as I got off the bus near my apartment I lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out of my lungs; the same color as the clouds. My pants rubbed my hip where my tattoo burned, chaffing and making me want to cry out at every step. It had been hurting all day, and I just wanted to get home to take my pants off.
There were the usual cat calls when I turned the corner; the man at the flower store liked to shout profanities as I walked by everyday after school. The woman at the bakery next to him gave me the evil eye, knowing deep down I was trouble. Then finally I was home, walking up my steps as David emerged from his own apartment to go pick up his kids from school. I don’t know what David does for a living; mostly he’s home in his pajamas or playing catch with his son Colton. I knew he had a little girl named Sarah, but I had never seen his wife or girlfriend. Maybe he doesn’t have one.
I unlocked the door with my key, and walked inside. My house was disgusting, I hated to admit. I closed the door, hung the keys on the slip lock, and bolted the door closed. There were dirty and clean clothes all over the floor, along with junk mail, paid and unpaid bills, drawing supplies, books, and dirty dishes. The futon couch was pulled out in ‘bed’ position, the house plant was dead, and there was a thin layer of ramen-noodle crumbs covering everything. My kitchen was full of unwashed pots and pans, used cups and bowls; but empty of food. My bathroom counter was cluttered with make-up, and hair products that I rarely used. I had half-converted the bedroom into a studio, except that I had gotten lazy and had not put everything in its place. There were paintbrushes moulding in cups of paint wash, paper strewn about the floor and tables, and the clean clothes that I had yet to put away were in a pile in the corner near the closet.
There’s something depressing about coming home to chaos.
The first thing I did when I came in, and I do this every day, is turn on my computer and put on music. Sometimes its old jazz, Frank Sinatra and Miles Davis. Sometimes it’s new pop, Joss Stone, Alicia Keys. Jamie Cullum.
But mostly it’s Tool. Sweet, sweet Tool.
I put on 10,000 Days, the beginning to Wings For Marie, and striped off my pants. ‘Fuck me’ is there in black, throbbing and irritated, printed plainly and obviously. I sang along with Maynard, “What have I done, to be the son to an angel? What have I done to be worthy?…” as I rubbed ointment on my tattoo, aiding the healing process. I looked in the mirror at my other tattoo, one that I had planned for and designed myself. Located on the back of my right shoulder is a Celtic knot in dark green ink, three ravens intertwined.
Much better than ‘Fuck me’ anyway.
I pulled on another pair of pants from the floor, looked at the time and figured I had time enough to shower and wash my face. I stripped down to my underwear (black and lacy, by the way) and turned on the hot water. When the steam was rising, I turned on the cold, opened a window, tested the temperature, and took my panties off. I’m always afraid someone will see me getting into the shower, so I stay clothed for as long as possible. I pulled my hair out of it’s hair tie and washed it for the first time in a few days, scrubbed my body (and around my tattooed hip) with lemon-verbena soap that was my guilty pleasure, and shaved my armpits. I found my face wash while I conditioned my hair, and felt my make-up come off like a layer of skin. I knew from past experience that my mascara was going to take a special kind of remover, and I’d look like something from a horror movie when I looked in the mirror with it running down my cheeks under my eyes.
I turned off the water and opened the curtain to a bathroom of fog; like walking into a cloud. I floated to the mirror, wiped a slippery stripe with my hand, and gazed into my still blurry reflection. I dabbed on the special make-up remover, and got to work clearing my face of all the black tar. Once that was done, I washed it again, scrubbed harder and deeper, feeling another film of foundation and eyeliner come off in my hands. I opened the door to let the steam dissipate, walked out to the living room to check the time. I was going to be late.
I hurried to dress; found an old rust-coloured sweater I loved because it wrapped around me like a blanket, put that over a plain white shirt and brown scarf. Jeans were in the closet, bunched on the floor, and I carefully pulled them over my raw tattoo. Back to the bathroom where I brushed my damp hair and pulled it back into a bun of sorts, all messy and careless. I scrutinized my face for a moment, saw freckles I had forgotten I had, and decided that I was going to put on mascara only: I couldn’t bear to add a layer of foundation and eyeliner and blush and concealer and lipstick to my now glowing-clean face. After the mascara and chapstick, I grabbed my bag and ran for the door. Realizing halfway out the door that I had forgotten my notebook and sketchbook, I turned back, unlocked the door, grabbed them both, then locked the door again. In the time that I spent doing that, I nearly missed the bus heading downtown.
“Wait!” I called to the last person getting on, and the bus stood motionless until I arrived. Flashing my student card, I quickly found the nearest seat and sat without looking around me.
The bus still wasn’t moving. I looked up, wondering what the problem was, and realized someone else must be coming. I turned my body to the window, looking out longingly for the wind and slight rain. I loved the cold. The bus was muggy and hot, as far as I was concerned. Someone sat beside me, and I moved without looking so I wouldn’t touch the person. Their coat was damp from being outside; I fogged up the window with my breath and drew pictures in the vapour. The bus began to move, and the street blurred through the misty window.
“Um,” said the voice next to me, apparently belonging to a man. I still didn’t look up, wondering if he was talking to me or not. Could be on a cell phone.
“Um, excuse me, miss…” he tried again, and I lifted my head to signal I was listening. “I think…well,” the voice stammered. “Is this yours?”
I turned around as the man handed me a dirty piece of paper. I took it, turned it over, and it was indeed one of my sketches. The one of Green Eyes, actually. It was smudged a little, dirty around the edges, but all and all still intact.
“Oh, yes. Thank you very much for grabbing it for me. How did you know…”
It was him. It was Green Eyes himself, sitting next to me on the humid bus, sharing the same blue bench seat. He was holding firm to the metal bar in front of him, seemingly afraid he might topple out of his seat. I looked, and sure enough, he was on the edge, as far away from me as he could get without being rude or obvious. Right on cue the bus hit a pothole, and Green Eyes was nearly flung from his seat. I laughed in spite of myself.
“You know, you could sit closer. I don’t bite.”
He smiled wanly, slid himself closer to me.
“Thanks for picking this up. How did you know it was mine though?” I had to ask, curiosity got the best of me.
“I didn’t until I got on the bus and saw you sitting there. Then I figured it must be yours. You-“ he blushed, stammered again. “You, your hands are artist hands. I can tell.” He smiled again, that small, quiet, almost pitiful smile that wasn’t real. “Plus, you’re holding a sketchbook with papers coming out of it.”
I looked down at my book, rifled the pages together properly, and placed the sketch of him right on top.
“That’s me, right?” He asked this without looking at me, as if he was afraid I would say no. Or yes.
“Well, yeah.” I sighed. “I mean, I draw what I see, and you happened to be sitting at Mike’s this morning in an interesting position. I drew it during math.” I didn’t tell him I was drawn to him, that his eyes captured a piece of my soul and I had to get it back by drawing him. I didn’t tell him that I had been thinking of him all morning and had been silently praying to see him again.
“That’s pretty good for just seeing me that once.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean really good. You hardly looked at me at Mike’s; I was gone almost as soon as you got there. How do you remember so much?”
I thought for a moment. I’m having a conversation with Green Eyes. What do I say to someone like him? I looked up at him, into those green eyes that I named him after, wondering if he would understand. He seemed to want to, at least. So I began.
“I draw because it’s in me, intrinsic in my nature. I can’t live without seeing color and composition; everything is a piece of art to me. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes grotesque. I painted a picture of a bird that was run over, its brains on the road like when you squeeze toothpaste out of the tube. I had to paint it, get it down, because there was a story in that, a moment of time that no one would appreciate unless it was drawn. So I drew it. It was in fifth grade, and I got an F.” I laughed at the memory of my teacher’s face, so disturbed a ten year old kid would paint a dead bird. I looked up, and his eyes continued me on. “But that doesn’t really answer your question, does it?” I smiled. “I remember what things look like because I have always remembered what things look like. My eyes see, my head scores it into my retinas until all I see is a thousand memories of the way things look. This morning, you grabbed me. My mind burned your image into my eyes, and I couldn’t see anything else until I got it out on paper. Kind of annoying, actually.” I coughed, ending my monologue. “Sorry, I guess I could have just said ‘cause I have a photographic memory’ and it would have made more sense. Been shorter too.”
“No, please, I don’t think that way,” he said. “I want to hear the truth. The real, deep, metaphorical truth.” Green Eyes was still holding the bar, looking down at his shoes. “Sometimes people don’t feel real, you know? Like maybe I’m floating and no one else can hear me or see me, and I’m getting higher and can’t come down.” He looked at me then. “I saw your drawing, and it hit me that someone saw me, that I was real, down on this plane of existence. It grounded me. And you…” He shook his head, like trying to get the pieces to fit in his mind. “You’re real. You feel, you think, you see. You ground me.”
There was silence between us then, the only sound came from a kid’s sniffling in the back of the bus, the tires on the road in the rain. I was trying to remember what it was like to breathe. I ground him? How could I, we didn’t even know each other, he was just a boy with green eyes and a nervous smile. Who is he really?
The next words came out of my mouth in a rush, all breathless and honest: “I want to know you.”
He smiled, a real smile then, making his eyes shine and ears rise. “I had hoped so.”
The bus stopped with a jerk, ruining the moment. Green Eyes held fast to the bar to keep himself from being tossed off the seat. People got off the bus, shoving and crowding the aisle, and people got on, taking over seats previously occupied. The bus kept going, merging into traffic so suddenly that a horn blast made us all laugh. “Fuck you too, buddy,” said the driver, and then all was quiet again.
“What’s your name?” I asked Green Eyes, knowing that any name must be better than the one I gave him.
“What’s yours?” he asked, not giving me his.
“Okay, where are you going?” I changed the subject, not wanting to give my name first.
“I’m headed downtown to meet a friend.”
“What’s your friend’s name?” I laughed.
“Rachel.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Boyfriend?” he smiled.
“No, I mean, is Rachel your girlfriend?”
“No. She’s my cousin. Do you have a roommate?”
“Nope. All alone. You?”
“Rachel.”
I laughed at this, the funny way we asked questions; rapid-fire like throwing punches at each other. Silly.
“What do you do for work?” he asked me.
“Barnes and Noble,” I told him. “Favourite book?”
“I couldn’t answer that one if you gave me three days. Yours?”
“‘White Oleander’, by Janet Fitch.”
“I’ve read it, it is amazing. I thought you’d choose something like ‘Scar Night’ by Alan Campbell though.”
“Read it, it’s good too.” I was smiling big, seeing the enthusiasm on Green Eyes’ face. “Where do you work?”
“A restaurant downtown. I’m a server.”
“Which restaurant?”
“Strawberry Red.”
“Wow, you work at Red’s?” Strawberry Red was one of the swankier restaurants, where you had to bribe the host to get a good table; reservations were made a week in advance. A place where the deserts came on fire to your table and the dishwashers made in one night as much as I did in a weekend. “Impressive.”
“Not really. Its hard work and you get tipped really well but paid really shitty. It’s a job though, so…” he shrugged as if to say ‘what can you do?’
Our conversation continued like this for the better part of thirty minutes. I learned that his favourite color is garnet red, he has a pet snake named Diablo, he had braces as a kid. I liked the way he started to get comfortable with me, let go of the bar and spoke with his hands. He played the guitar, as I had predicted, and blushed when I said he had musician’s hands. He never wore cologne. He liked to draw, but admitted he wasn’t very good at it. And he wrote poetry.
All too soon, it was my stop.
I was getting up to get off the bus when he grabbed my arm and wrote something in black sharpie on my smooth skin. “I have to go,” I said; I blocking the aisle.
“What’s your name?” he asked me, and I bit my lip. Keep him wondering, said a voice in my head.
“Don’t forget me,” I said, and ran down the bus steps into the cold.
“Your name!” he called out the window, but I simply waved and turned away. I could feel his laughter at my back and smiled. I pulled up my sleeve, and saw written there, in handwriting not unlike my own
I would rather be ashes than dust. Kyle
Below this was his seven-digit phone number.
I was practically skipping into the café, up the rickety front steps and through the heavy door. The Nook was a coffeehouse that took their beverages seriously. Just walking into the place made you think of coffee: the walls were a rich cream color, the trip a mocha-brown. The scent of the place was Venezuelan coffee beans and chocolate, mingling with the heady aroma of wood and bread. Books lined one wall, windows on the other, and the piano on one side was being played by a grey old man with quick fingers; Bach or something. I walked to the corner where Jeffery was waiting for me, statistics book open and notes cast out on the table. I sat down, and sighed dramatically.
Jeffery looked up from his homework, our homework, and raised his eyebrows. “You should wear your make-up like that all the time. You look fresh.”
“Thanks,” I giggled. “Guess what?”
“I think you’re going to tell me whether I guess right or not, so just tell me.”
“Okay,” I said, but right then my phone rang. I scrambled in my bag for it, wishing I knew how to change the ridiculous ringtone.
“Hey, Raelyn, that guy at Mike’s coughed.” I said into the phone, smiling at my own joke.
“Veraldayne Barnett?” asked a man’s deep, official voice.
“It’s pronounced vera-la-dayne,” I corrected, frowning. Who is this asshole? Jeffery looked at me with confusion, seeing the look on my face.
“You are the sister of a Mr. Jasper Barnett?” asked the voice at the other end.
Oh no. “I am.” Oh no, oh no.
“I’m Detective Mitchell, with the County of San Francisco. When was the last time you saw your brother?”
I put my head in my hand, rested my elbow on the table. I hadn’t seen my brother since he knocked on my door asking for money a few months ago. Last I knew he was living in Hollywood, not San Francisco. San Francisco was only two hours away. “Um, last December. What’s this all about now?”
“We’ve linked him to an armed robbery case, and he seems to have left the state. Do you have any idea where he might be, anyplace he would go in this kind of situation?”
“Armed robbery?” I asked, my fear that my brother had died now evaporating. “You mean that situation?” I thought fast; no way had he left the state, not without hitting me up for cash. He’d be here any day now.
“Yes, ma’am. Do you know of any friends he has outside California he would try to contact?”
Jenna in Chicago. “No, detective. I don’t know.”
“You’re sure?” he asked sceptically.
“Yes, sir.” Jeffery had a look of concern on his face, and I shook my head.
“Well, write down my number in case you think of anything.” I pretended to write down this man’s phone number, reciting it back like I had a pencil in hand. Really I was doodling on a napkin with a crayon I found in a pocket. I hung up, wishing Detective Mitchell luck while cursing my brother in my head.
“Who robbed what?” asked Jeffery.
“My brother, apparently something or someone in San Francisco. I thought he was in Hollywood still.” I took a sip from Jeffery’s tea. Earl Grey. I had forgotten my Stoli at home, damn.
“Some brother,” said Jeffery.
“You said it.”
My brother was that kind; the toddler who took toys from the babies and threw them in the trash, the boy who spit at you and pulled your hair. In high school he had ditched every class junior year to get stoned, and ended up spending an extra year there to make it up. As if that fuelled his fire, the second he got out, he moved to Chicago with some drug-dealing girlfriend of his. They had a time of it, getting arrested and then moving to Jersey. Jenna went back to Chicago after dumping him for some young guy with a future. Jasper came back to live in Hollywood, “make it big” he said. He ended up selling TVs at Sears and barely making rent, spending all his money on dope and speed. If he wasn’t mellowed out from the pot, he was skidding around on uppers. Every few months he came begging for money for rent or food or something else. I gave in two times out of three, but that wasn’t happening this time. Armed robbery?
“Who’s Kyle?” asked Jeffery, and I was pulled back to the present.
“What?”
“Kyle, the guy who wrote his number on your arm. Who is he?” Jeffery was being nice, changing the subject, but I was too pissed off at Jasper to be enthusiastic about my time with Green Eyes.
“He’s the guy I drew earlier, the guy in your sister’s art class.”
“You tracked him down?” asked Jeffery, getting excited. “What did he say?”
‘I didn’t track him down, we met on the bus. We talked for a while, about nothing important. He gave me his number. Whatever.” I looked down at the doodle on the napkin; a dead bird, its brain like toothpaste.
“Whatever?” asked Jeffery incredulously. “You drew him! And he’s hot!”
I smiled then, weakly. “That he is, Jeff.”
“Are you going to call him? Of course you’re going to call him…”
“No I’m not going to call him.” I said emphatically. “I’m going to wait and see if we run into each other again first. I didn’t even give him my name.”
“You-“ started Jeffery, then understood. “You sly fox! Keep him thinking about you. Clever girl.” He toasted me with his tea, nodded his head a little, and took a sip. I laughed, feeling better. Jeffery was good at making me laugh. My phone rang again.
“Hello?”
“Hello? It’s me, stupid.” Raelyn.
“The guy at Mike’s coughed.” I said, hoping she would get it.
“Great. Hey, listen, where are you? I’m bored out of my skull.”
“Go to Jed’s,” I replied, annoyed. She really didn’t care sometimes.
“I’m at Jed’s.”
“Well, I’m doing homework.”
“Loser,” she said, and hung up.
I closed my phone, wanting to throw it out a window, or off a bridge or something. Jeff was looking at me like he was going to burst. “What?” I asked.
“I know how you can run into him again!”
“What? How?” I loved how energetic Jeff was, in his glasses and collared shirt. He looked too geeky to be gay.
“Come with me to pick up my sister from art class!” he practically shouted, receiving evil glares from people around him. “He’s in her class, and you’re my friend. Plus, I really want to see him wriggle now that you’ve got him on a hook.” He winked at me.
Laughing, I asked “When does she get picked up?”
“Tomorrow at four thirty,” he answered.
“That’s perfect; I get off work at three.”
“Where do you work?” asked Jeff, and I smiled at knowing Kyle had asked me that just minutes before.
“Barnes and Noble.”
“I’ll pick you up, and then we’ll go pick up my sis. She’s cute, you’ll like her. And you’ll run into your hottie and give him your name or number. Or nothing.” He chuckled. “Yeah, nothing. Does he have a gay brother?”
This last I hadn’t expected him to say, and burst out laughing. Now I was being given the evil glares, but what did that matter. This is a free country. “I’ll ask him.”
“Mm, good. I hope he does. That would uncomplicated my life completely.”
“No,” I said. “Boys complicate life more.”
“Those, my dear, are the wrong kind of boys.”
I laughed again, and opened my notebook. Statistics was a pain, but it did take my mind off of my issues for a time. I couldn’t believe Jasper, and Kyle was just…too much. Far too much for one day.
I caught the late bus home, leaning against the window and watching the little shops pass by; the apartment buildings and the all-night Laundromat. I had my sweater pulled tight, my headphones in. I watched the homeless men and college kids-the late night beings-all with Eliot Smith as a soundtrack.
But I’m already somebody’s baby…
By the time I threw my keys on the bed and took off my shoes I was exhausted. My thoughts skipped like a record, catching like rough skin on satin. I brushed my teeth and flopped my whole body onto the bed, sending the keys flying to the floor. I put on Miles Davis, unable to bear anything with lyrics at that point. I hummed to ‘So What’ as I stripped and lay above the blankets, open to the cold. My neighbours were watching some sporting event; baseball I think. About every three minutes someone would be either shouting or cheering, and I couldn’t stand it. I slipped on my robe and walked outside to smoke, letting the freezing air send shivers through me. The cheap menthol cigarette smoke clashed with the frigid oxygen in my lungs and I coughed, making someone near me jump. I spun around, nearly coming out of my robe, and saw Jasper there, in the shadows, looking like a startled deer. “Jesus, Jasper. Get inside you moron.”
“Hey, sis.” He said, standing slowly. “How you been?”
I turned my back on him, stubbed out my cigarette, half-smoked, and laughed sardonically. “Don’t pretend you’re here for me, asshole.” Jasper followed me inside and closed the door, then the blinds, checking to see who was around.
“Paranoid much?” I asked.
Jasper feigned offence. “Now, Dayne! Your big brother just drove a few hundred miles from Hollywood to come see how you’re doing, and I get called names?” He put his hand to his chest, half a gesture of boy-scout honesty and half like I shot him. “Got any coffee?”
“San Francisco,” I corrected, leaned up against the wall with my arms crossed over my chest. “You came from San Francisco, jackass, and no I don’t have any coffee.”
Jasper’s face fell. “So you got a call?”
“Armed robbery, Jasper?” I almost shouted in frustration and threw my hands up. “What are you trying to prove?” I started to pace, kicking clothes and mail out of my way as I did. “You think I’m going to support this kind of behaviour? I’m not giving you any money, I don’t know why you’re even here. You always do this shit!” I turned to him, my fury flushing my face bright red. “Explain yourself!”
“Okay, mom,” he mocked, and I threw him a look that held death.
“Jasper, I have it in my head to call the police this instant, if you-“
“Okay! Okay, okay, just hang on li’l sis. No need to call the cops on me” Jasper ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. “I was in the City by the Bay with some friends of mine, and there was this cabbie who tried to rip us off. We started arguing, one thing led to another…” He looked into my eyes, sheepishly. “I had a squirt-gun painted black…”
“Jasper, you’re telling me you robbed a cabbie with a squirt-gun?” I wanted to laugh in his face, at the sheer stupidity of the situation.
“Well when you say it like that, Dayne, it sounds so juvenile.”
“It is juvenile!” I shouted and shook my head. “Are you kidding me!” I put my face in my hands, suddenly fatigued and hopeless. “What do you want Jasper?” I asked through my fingers.
“Look, “ he started. “I’ve got a plane to Chicago in the morning.”
“Jenna?” I asked.
“Yeah, who else? Anyway, it leaves at six from San Jose.”
“What do you want Jasper?” I asked, finally looking up and crossing my arms again.
“Just a place to crash until then. I’ll leave at four.”
“Fine,” I said, too tired to care. It was only five hours anyway.
I picked up a pillow from my bed and tossed it onto the floor. I rummaged around a crowded closet for an extra blanket while Jasper cleared a spot on the carpet of paper and magazines. I snuggled under my covers, slipped out of my robe, and turned out the light. I tossed and turned, found a comfortable position, and settled in for a long night of shouting and cheering from the next-door neighbours.
Today started like every day. I had one too many vodka-coffees and six too many cigarettes. I didn’t shower, and my hair smelled like too many hours of sleep. My clock said ten when I woke up and made my coffee; the powdered stuff you mix in hot water (and Stoli). I mix, and wrap my pink satin robe around me as I check the mail outside my door. Empty. My neighbour David was doing the same in his flannel pants, holding his coffee and looking through his junk mail and Jehovah’s Witness pamphlets.
“Morning,” he says to me across the parking lot.
“Yeah, uh-huh,” I muttered back, too groggy and hung over to say anything else. I walked back into my apartment and sat on the floor, exposing my bare legs to the sunlight cutting through the blinds like cheese. I sat there in a daze, trying to remember what had happened last night. I remembered being drunk and I remembered meeting up with my crazy best-friend who decided she wanted to go wild, but I didn’t remember much else.
I felt it before I saw it, raw like a bad sunburn, but localized to a portion of my left hip. I knew from past experience what that certain type of pain meant, and I almost slipped on my robe as I ran into my little bathroom and pulled it open to find a tattoo on my hip. Brand new; I was far drunker that I thought I had been, apparently. I now had a permanent reminder of how far I go to get high. I think it says “fuck me.” Great, I thought, and went back to sleep.
I jumped when the phone rang, a techno song from some movie I can’t remember, that made my teeth grind and head wobble on its axis. I flipped it open quickly.
“Mmuh-lo?” I grumbled into the receiver.
“Bitch,” says Raelyn, afore-mentioned crazy best friend.
“Fuck me,” I said back.
“That’s what yours says?” she asked, and I could tell she’d already started drinking.
“Yup.” I coughed.
“Great.”
“That’s what I said”
“Mine’s on my ass, where’s yours?”
I chuckled and coughed into the phone again, lit a cigarette. “My hip.”
“Lucky,” she scoffed. “I’m not going to be able to sit down for a week.”
“Well, mine says ‘fuck me’ so I guess we’re even.”
“I guess,” she replied, and hung up. That’s how we are; it’s like we never stop talking, but have one long, unending conversation.
I took a drag and stubbed out the half-spent cigarette in the ashtray by my bed. I surveyed the room, found some clothes that may or may not have been clean, and pulled my choppy black hair into a hair tie. The make-up from last night still stained my eyes black, and I painted another layer of mascara on my lashes instead of washing it off. I tied a scarf around my neck, pulled on the long leather coat that made me feel like a pirate, and slipped a small bottle of Stoli in my bag before walking out the door.
It was already past noon, I could tell because the sounds had all changed. No longer was it traffic and birds and garbage trucks; it was sirens and shouting, street vendors and people. That’s the sound I love most, the sound that thousands of people make when they’re all talking at once. It sounds organic, like a river or chickens or something. All people make the same sound in large groups. No matter what language they are speaking, it sounds the same.
The little bell rang when I walked into Mike’s, a café just down my street. “Have a seat,” he shouted from the back, so I took one at a booth by a window and tapped my coffee mug at the waitress walking by, Pricilla. She gave me a look that said “get your own damned coffee,” as she topped off my cup. She didn’t like me much, but that was fine because Mike had the best coffee around. Better than Starbucks anyway.
I watched Pricilla walk past, on to the next victim/customer, and I slipped into my bag and brought up the Stoli. As I poured the liquid into my cup, I felt someone watching me, so I looked up, and into the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. It was a man a couple years older than me, with a strong nose, messy sand-coloured hair, and dimples. He was writing in a black book, and had strong hands that should have belonged to a guitar player.
And the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. They were beautiful, like the bottom of the sea or the tops of the trees when they glint in sunlight. I could have stared an eternity into those eyes, but the man quickly looked away as he noticed I saw him watching me. It made me embarrassed, how long I stared at him. “Cheers,” I said to him, and lifted my Stoli/coffee into the air between us.
“Oh, um, yeah,” was his nervous reply. He lifted his untainted orange juice in my direction.
I was about to ask if he wanted to share a booth when Mike came up to take my order. “Um, eggs, over medium, with salt and pepper, Mike.”
“More coffee?” he asks, and the bell over the door jingled.
“You know how I like it, Baby,” I teased, and as Mike wandered off I chanced a glance back at Green Eyes.
He had gone.
I felt like I had lost something; like a tiny part of my future had walked out on me.
The bell above the door jingled again and in walked Raelyn, wearing last night’s party clothes and carrying a shopping bag.
“Where are you coming from?” I asked sceptically.
“Jed’s place,” she said, eyeing me like one accused.
“What’s in the bag?”
Raelyn opened the bag, exposing a new pair of jeans, a shirt with a woman licking her fingers screened on the front, and a green-handled butterfly knife. I looked up curiously.
“Jed’s baby sister was getting rid of all kinds of shit,” Raelyn explained. “I got some ripped tights and a purple wig. I thought you might like this stuff.”
“Thanks, Babe.” I grabbed the knife and expertly flipped it open. It was about four inches long and definitely illegal in the state of California. I slipped it in my bag.
“Pricilla!” Raelyn shouted across the small café. “Coffee!”
Pricilla rolled her eyes and sauntered over. As if she had anything better to do. I waited until Raelyn had added her own alcohol of choice (peppermint schnapps) and had taken a sip before starting.
“I saw this guy this morning, sitting in the booth over there.” I said, without looking up from my coffee. “Musician, I think, although he was writing something, which isn’t really musical at all. But his hands…anyway, he had great eyes.”
“Great eyes?” I didn’t have to look to know that Raelyn had one eyebrow cocked and an expression of confusion on her face.
“Yeah, you know, like really green. Trees behind sunlight, that kind of fire in them. They were startling.”
“And?”
I finally looked up at her, and sure enough her left eyebrow was higher than the other.
“And what? What do you mean, ‘and’?”
“Well, what did he say? Did he talk to you or something? Why are you bringing this up?”
“Well, we didn’t really talk or anything, but-“
“Well fuck, Dayne,” she interrupted. “That’s great. Let me know if he coughs or something, okay?”
“Sure thing,” I said, and let the subject drop. Raelyn was great and all, but sometimes I wished I had other friends to talk to, because she had a tendency to care only about herself. My eggs came, and I added more salt before shovelling them in my mouth like a beast.
“How can you eat?” Raelyn asked dramatically. “I was so wasted last night I could barely get up this morning, let alone eat.”
“Mmm,” was all I said. Raelyn didn’t need words, just some sort of acknowledgement and she would go on until she remembered to breathe. She was saying something about how great a lay Jed was, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was thinking about Green Eyes, and why he had disappeared so quickly. Something was really familiar about him, and really strange. He interested me.
I glanced down at my watch and saw that I was running late. I finished my eggs quickly, drank the rest of my second cup of coffee, and picked up my bag. “I’m out,” I said to Raelyn. I laid down enough cash to cover the cost and tip, and walked out of the café. Outside it was colder than I had expected, so I tightened my scarf around my neck and trudged on to the bus station. I nearly missed it, but waved it down before it could drive off, and the driver opened its doors for me. “Thanks,” I said breathlessly, and flashed a student card. I couldn’t find a seat, so I stood; holding onto one of the metal bars attached to the ceiling just for this reason. Every time the bus had to break I thought I would be flung out the window or down the aisle, but my grip was firm enough and I knew how to avoid touching people. That’s another thing about me; I’m all about personal space.
I jumped off the crowded bus a stop before my own, too intent on being in open air than getting to class in time. Plus, the best feeling in the world is when your body is warm from clothes and coats, but your face starts going numb from the cold. I absolutely love when my nose gets icy and my lips lose feeling and the air tastes like ice chips.
I may be alone in the sentiment.
In any case, I began to trudge, thanking the Gods of Chance I remembered to wear the coat with broken bits of charcoal in the pockets; I could sketch during my statistics lecture with something other than pencil for once. I’m the only person I know still going to classes and studying on the weekends, but that doesn’t mean I don’t let my mind wander over paper when I should be taking notes.
I was ten minutes late when I finally got to campus. Keenan Community College is small enough to be unimpressive, but large enough to get lost in. There are patches of garden and grass in the sea of steps and concrete, and trees planted here and there to make it feel natural. The library has a view of the bay, and the cafeteria is mostly vending machines. There is an art gallery, though. That is its redeeming quality for me. That and the large sculpture of the bust of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., which looks as if it is balanced on its base.
I attempted to open the door to my stats class quietly, as to not disturb the professor, but the door had plans of its own and creaked unnecessarily loud.
“Sit,” commanded Mr. Roderick, and I hurried to a seat next to a boy. Any boy.
The boy ended up being Jeffery, a boy with glasses and short hair and innocent eyes. A boy I could easily get the notes from after class.
I pulled both a notebook and a sketchbook out of my bag, the first just for show. I found a crumbling piece of charcoal in my left pocket and an eraser from my bag, and began to doodle. First I drew the chair leg, then Mr. Roderick’s pocket protector full of pencils and pens. I drew the light switch, and next to that the exit sign over the door. I worked out the part of the girl in front of me, with the stray hair on the wrong side. Then I started to draw from memory the man at Mike’s, Green Eyes and his musician’s hands. I closed my eyes and pictured how he sat, the way his hair fell over his ears, the glass of orange juice obstructing my view of his elbow, the table over his knees…
“Dismissed!” cried Mr. Roderick, and I was instantly thrown out of my drawing and into the world. My foot was asleep where I had been sitting on it, and my neck ached as I looked up. Jeffery was packing up his books as I turned to him. “Hey, Jeffery?”
He looked startled, as if he didn’t realize I could speak. “You know my name?”
I laughed. “Yes, if your name is Jeffery.”
“Sorry, it just seemed like you didn’t pay attention to anything in this class.” He blushed a little. “Not that you slack off…”
I laughed again; I like this boy. “No, I do, it’s okay. Hey listen I was wondering-“
“Hey, I know him,” said Jeffery, staring at my drawing of Green Eyes.
“-If you…You do?” I was astonished.
“Yeah, he’s got art when my sister does. I always see him coming out of the drawing room when I wait to pick her up. I only noticed him because she mentioned how he spilled water all over her drawing and she had to start over.”
“Not on purpose?” I asked, curious.
“I’m sure not, she would have been much angrier.”
Again, I laughed. Jeffery was good at that.
“Well how do you know him?” asked Jeffery.
“Oh, I don’t. I saw him sitting in a café this morning, and he kind of struck me, so I had to get him on paper.”
“Just now? You drew that from memory? Damn.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling broadly. “So, I was wondering if I could borrow your notes from today. I was, well, drawing.”
This time it was Jeffery who laughed. “Obviously,” he said. “Unfortunately I have to use them for the homework tonight, but hey, what are you doing later?”
Uh-oh. “Later?”
“Yeah, I have a class after this one, but say like five, we could grab some coffee somewhere and share the notes and do the homework.”
“Jeffery, I don’t know…”
“Why not?” he asked innocently.
“Jeffery, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea, or lead you on. I’m just not interested in a relationship. At all. Ever.”
Jeffery looked at me blankly, then started to chuckle. “Dayne, you’re a funny girl.”
“Why?”
“The thought of dating you never crossed my mind. I, um, don’t find you attractive.”
I looked at Jeffery incredulously. No one has ever said that so bluntly before. “Um, well…” I stammered.
Jeffery burst into laughter, tears welling in his eyes. “Oh god, Dayne, don’t look at me like that. Don’t get me wrong, you’re a babe. Drop dead gorgeous, actually, in that ‘I’m not afraid to shank you’ kind of way. It’s just…” he laughed a bit more. “Dayne, I’m a fag. I’m totally gay.”
It took a minute for what he said to sink in. “Gay?” I asked stupidly.
“Gay, you know, I suck dick.”
Now I broke into peals of laughter, joined immediately by Jeffery. We were falling over our desks, stomachs blazing and eyes watering, for a good five minutes while kids started wandering in for the next class in the room. Finally we managed to leave with our bags and books, stumbling in our mirth. Jeffery’s eyes crinkled in the corners when he laughed, the lids almost shut, and his mouth opened wide enough to see all his pearly white teeth. He had a hearty laugh, a full laugh, a laugh you could dive into and feel warm. We made plans to meet at The Nook, a hole-in-the-wall café right on the beach with good bagels and chai, for math homework and ‘girl talk’ (even though he’s a boy). I waved goodbye and got on the bus, crowded again in the cold.
As soon as I got off the bus near my apartment I lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out of my lungs; the same color as the clouds. My pants rubbed my hip where my tattoo burned, chaffing and making me want to cry out at every step. It had been hurting all day, and I just wanted to get home to take my pants off.
There were the usual cat calls when I turned the corner; the man at the flower store liked to shout profanities as I walked by everyday after school. The woman at the bakery next to him gave me the evil eye, knowing deep down I was trouble. Then finally I was home, walking up my steps as David emerged from his own apartment to go pick up his kids from school. I don’t know what David does for a living; mostly he’s home in his pajamas or playing catch with his son Colton. I knew he had a little girl named Sarah, but I had never seen his wife or girlfriend. Maybe he doesn’t have one.
I unlocked the door with my key, and walked inside. My house was disgusting, I hated to admit. I closed the door, hung the keys on the slip lock, and bolted the door closed. There were dirty and clean clothes all over the floor, along with junk mail, paid and unpaid bills, drawing supplies, books, and dirty dishes. The futon couch was pulled out in ‘bed’ position, the house plant was dead, and there was a thin layer of ramen-noodle crumbs covering everything. My kitchen was full of unwashed pots and pans, used cups and bowls; but empty of food. My bathroom counter was cluttered with make-up, and hair products that I rarely used. I had half-converted the bedroom into a studio, except that I had gotten lazy and had not put everything in its place. There were paintbrushes moulding in cups of paint wash, paper strewn about the floor and tables, and the clean clothes that I had yet to put away were in a pile in the corner near the closet.
There’s something depressing about coming home to chaos.
The first thing I did when I came in, and I do this every day, is turn on my computer and put on music. Sometimes its old jazz, Frank Sinatra and Miles Davis. Sometimes it’s new pop, Joss Stone, Alicia Keys. Jamie Cullum.
But mostly it’s Tool. Sweet, sweet Tool.
I put on 10,000 Days, the beginning to Wings For Marie, and striped off my pants. ‘Fuck me’ is there in black, throbbing and irritated, printed plainly and obviously. I sang along with Maynard, “What have I done, to be the son to an angel? What have I done to be worthy?…” as I rubbed ointment on my tattoo, aiding the healing process. I looked in the mirror at my other tattoo, one that I had planned for and designed myself. Located on the back of my right shoulder is a Celtic knot in dark green ink, three ravens intertwined.
Much better than ‘Fuck me’ anyway.
I pulled on another pair of pants from the floor, looked at the time and figured I had time enough to shower and wash my face. I stripped down to my underwear (black and lacy, by the way) and turned on the hot water. When the steam was rising, I turned on the cold, opened a window, tested the temperature, and took my panties off. I’m always afraid someone will see me getting into the shower, so I stay clothed for as long as possible. I pulled my hair out of it’s hair tie and washed it for the first time in a few days, scrubbed my body (and around my tattooed hip) with lemon-verbena soap that was my guilty pleasure, and shaved my armpits. I found my face wash while I conditioned my hair, and felt my make-up come off like a layer of skin. I knew from past experience that my mascara was going to take a special kind of remover, and I’d look like something from a horror movie when I looked in the mirror with it running down my cheeks under my eyes.
I turned off the water and opened the curtain to a bathroom of fog; like walking into a cloud. I floated to the mirror, wiped a slippery stripe with my hand, and gazed into my still blurry reflection. I dabbed on the special make-up remover, and got to work clearing my face of all the black tar. Once that was done, I washed it again, scrubbed harder and deeper, feeling another film of foundation and eyeliner come off in my hands. I opened the door to let the steam dissipate, walked out to the living room to check the time. I was going to be late.
I hurried to dress; found an old rust-coloured sweater I loved because it wrapped around me like a blanket, put that over a plain white shirt and brown scarf. Jeans were in the closet, bunched on the floor, and I carefully pulled them over my raw tattoo. Back to the bathroom where I brushed my damp hair and pulled it back into a bun of sorts, all messy and careless. I scrutinized my face for a moment, saw freckles I had forgotten I had, and decided that I was going to put on mascara only: I couldn’t bear to add a layer of foundation and eyeliner and blush and concealer and lipstick to my now glowing-clean face. After the mascara and chapstick, I grabbed my bag and ran for the door. Realizing halfway out the door that I had forgotten my notebook and sketchbook, I turned back, unlocked the door, grabbed them both, then locked the door again. In the time that I spent doing that, I nearly missed the bus heading downtown.
“Wait!” I called to the last person getting on, and the bus stood motionless until I arrived. Flashing my student card, I quickly found the nearest seat and sat without looking around me.
The bus still wasn’t moving. I looked up, wondering what the problem was, and realized someone else must be coming. I turned my body to the window, looking out longingly for the wind and slight rain. I loved the cold. The bus was muggy and hot, as far as I was concerned. Someone sat beside me, and I moved without looking so I wouldn’t touch the person. Their coat was damp from being outside; I fogged up the window with my breath and drew pictures in the vapour. The bus began to move, and the street blurred through the misty window.
“Um,” said the voice next to me, apparently belonging to a man. I still didn’t look up, wondering if he was talking to me or not. Could be on a cell phone.
“Um, excuse me, miss…” he tried again, and I lifted my head to signal I was listening. “I think…well,” the voice stammered. “Is this yours?”
I turned around as the man handed me a dirty piece of paper. I took it, turned it over, and it was indeed one of my sketches. The one of Green Eyes, actually. It was smudged a little, dirty around the edges, but all and all still intact.
“Oh, yes. Thank you very much for grabbing it for me. How did you know…”
It was him. It was Green Eyes himself, sitting next to me on the humid bus, sharing the same blue bench seat. He was holding firm to the metal bar in front of him, seemingly afraid he might topple out of his seat. I looked, and sure enough, he was on the edge, as far away from me as he could get without being rude or obvious. Right on cue the bus hit a pothole, and Green Eyes was nearly flung from his seat. I laughed in spite of myself.
“You know, you could sit closer. I don’t bite.”
He smiled wanly, slid himself closer to me.
“Thanks for picking this up. How did you know it was mine though?” I had to ask, curiosity got the best of me.
“I didn’t until I got on the bus and saw you sitting there. Then I figured it must be yours. You-“ he blushed, stammered again. “You, your hands are artist hands. I can tell.” He smiled again, that small, quiet, almost pitiful smile that wasn’t real. “Plus, you’re holding a sketchbook with papers coming out of it.”
I looked down at my book, rifled the pages together properly, and placed the sketch of him right on top.
“That’s me, right?” He asked this without looking at me, as if he was afraid I would say no. Or yes.
“Well, yeah.” I sighed. “I mean, I draw what I see, and you happened to be sitting at Mike’s this morning in an interesting position. I drew it during math.” I didn’t tell him I was drawn to him, that his eyes captured a piece of my soul and I had to get it back by drawing him. I didn’t tell him that I had been thinking of him all morning and had been silently praying to see him again.
“That’s pretty good for just seeing me that once.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean really good. You hardly looked at me at Mike’s; I was gone almost as soon as you got there. How do you remember so much?”
I thought for a moment. I’m having a conversation with Green Eyes. What do I say to someone like him? I looked up at him, into those green eyes that I named him after, wondering if he would understand. He seemed to want to, at least. So I began.
“I draw because it’s in me, intrinsic in my nature. I can’t live without seeing color and composition; everything is a piece of art to me. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes grotesque. I painted a picture of a bird that was run over, its brains on the road like when you squeeze toothpaste out of the tube. I had to paint it, get it down, because there was a story in that, a moment of time that no one would appreciate unless it was drawn. So I drew it. It was in fifth grade, and I got an F.” I laughed at the memory of my teacher’s face, so disturbed a ten year old kid would paint a dead bird. I looked up, and his eyes continued me on. “But that doesn’t really answer your question, does it?” I smiled. “I remember what things look like because I have always remembered what things look like. My eyes see, my head scores it into my retinas until all I see is a thousand memories of the way things look. This morning, you grabbed me. My mind burned your image into my eyes, and I couldn’t see anything else until I got it out on paper. Kind of annoying, actually.” I coughed, ending my monologue. “Sorry, I guess I could have just said ‘cause I have a photographic memory’ and it would have made more sense. Been shorter too.”
“No, please, I don’t think that way,” he said. “I want to hear the truth. The real, deep, metaphorical truth.” Green Eyes was still holding the bar, looking down at his shoes. “Sometimes people don’t feel real, you know? Like maybe I’m floating and no one else can hear me or see me, and I’m getting higher and can’t come down.” He looked at me then. “I saw your drawing, and it hit me that someone saw me, that I was real, down on this plane of existence. It grounded me. And you…” He shook his head, like trying to get the pieces to fit in his mind. “You’re real. You feel, you think, you see. You ground me.”
There was silence between us then, the only sound came from a kid’s sniffling in the back of the bus, the tires on the road in the rain. I was trying to remember what it was like to breathe. I ground him? How could I, we didn’t even know each other, he was just a boy with green eyes and a nervous smile. Who is he really?
The next words came out of my mouth in a rush, all breathless and honest: “I want to know you.”
He smiled, a real smile then, making his eyes shine and ears rise. “I had hoped so.”
The bus stopped with a jerk, ruining the moment. Green Eyes held fast to the bar to keep himself from being tossed off the seat. People got off the bus, shoving and crowding the aisle, and people got on, taking over seats previously occupied. The bus kept going, merging into traffic so suddenly that a horn blast made us all laugh. “Fuck you too, buddy,” said the driver, and then all was quiet again.
“What’s your name?” I asked Green Eyes, knowing that any name must be better than the one I gave him.
“What’s yours?” he asked, not giving me his.
“Okay, where are you going?” I changed the subject, not wanting to give my name first.
“I’m headed downtown to meet a friend.”
“What’s your friend’s name?” I laughed.
“Rachel.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Boyfriend?” he smiled.
“No, I mean, is Rachel your girlfriend?”
“No. She’s my cousin. Do you have a roommate?”
“Nope. All alone. You?”
“Rachel.”
I laughed at this, the funny way we asked questions; rapid-fire like throwing punches at each other. Silly.
“What do you do for work?” he asked me.
“Barnes and Noble,” I told him. “Favourite book?”
“I couldn’t answer that one if you gave me three days. Yours?”
“‘White Oleander’, by Janet Fitch.”
“I’ve read it, it is amazing. I thought you’d choose something like ‘Scar Night’ by Alan Campbell though.”
“Read it, it’s good too.” I was smiling big, seeing the enthusiasm on Green Eyes’ face. “Where do you work?”
“A restaurant downtown. I’m a server.”
“Which restaurant?”
“Strawberry Red.”
“Wow, you work at Red’s?” Strawberry Red was one of the swankier restaurants, where you had to bribe the host to get a good table; reservations were made a week in advance. A place where the deserts came on fire to your table and the dishwashers made in one night as much as I did in a weekend. “Impressive.”
“Not really. Its hard work and you get tipped really well but paid really shitty. It’s a job though, so…” he shrugged as if to say ‘what can you do?’
Our conversation continued like this for the better part of thirty minutes. I learned that his favourite color is garnet red, he has a pet snake named Diablo, he had braces as a kid. I liked the way he started to get comfortable with me, let go of the bar and spoke with his hands. He played the guitar, as I had predicted, and blushed when I said he had musician’s hands. He never wore cologne. He liked to draw, but admitted he wasn’t very good at it. And he wrote poetry.
All too soon, it was my stop.
I was getting up to get off the bus when he grabbed my arm and wrote something in black sharpie on my smooth skin. “I have to go,” I said; I blocking the aisle.
“What’s your name?” he asked me, and I bit my lip. Keep him wondering, said a voice in my head.
“Don’t forget me,” I said, and ran down the bus steps into the cold.
“Your name!” he called out the window, but I simply waved and turned away. I could feel his laughter at my back and smiled. I pulled up my sleeve, and saw written there, in handwriting not unlike my own
I would rather be ashes than dust. Kyle
Below this was his seven-digit phone number.
I was practically skipping into the café, up the rickety front steps and through the heavy door. The Nook was a coffeehouse that took their beverages seriously. Just walking into the place made you think of coffee: the walls were a rich cream color, the trip a mocha-brown. The scent of the place was Venezuelan coffee beans and chocolate, mingling with the heady aroma of wood and bread. Books lined one wall, windows on the other, and the piano on one side was being played by a grey old man with quick fingers; Bach or something. I walked to the corner where Jeffery was waiting for me, statistics book open and notes cast out on the table. I sat down, and sighed dramatically.
Jeffery looked up from his homework, our homework, and raised his eyebrows. “You should wear your make-up like that all the time. You look fresh.”
“Thanks,” I giggled. “Guess what?”
“I think you’re going to tell me whether I guess right or not, so just tell me.”
“Okay,” I said, but right then my phone rang. I scrambled in my bag for it, wishing I knew how to change the ridiculous ringtone.
“Hey, Raelyn, that guy at Mike’s coughed.” I said into the phone, smiling at my own joke.
“Veraldayne Barnett?” asked a man’s deep, official voice.
“It’s pronounced vera-la-dayne,” I corrected, frowning. Who is this asshole? Jeffery looked at me with confusion, seeing the look on my face.
“You are the sister of a Mr. Jasper Barnett?” asked the voice at the other end.
Oh no. “I am.” Oh no, oh no.
“I’m Detective Mitchell, with the County of San Francisco. When was the last time you saw your brother?”
I put my head in my hand, rested my elbow on the table. I hadn’t seen my brother since he knocked on my door asking for money a few months ago. Last I knew he was living in Hollywood, not San Francisco. San Francisco was only two hours away. “Um, last December. What’s this all about now?”
“We’ve linked him to an armed robbery case, and he seems to have left the state. Do you have any idea where he might be, anyplace he would go in this kind of situation?”
“Armed robbery?” I asked, my fear that my brother had died now evaporating. “You mean that situation?” I thought fast; no way had he left the state, not without hitting me up for cash. He’d be here any day now.
“Yes, ma’am. Do you know of any friends he has outside California he would try to contact?”
Jenna in Chicago. “No, detective. I don’t know.”
“You’re sure?” he asked sceptically.
“Yes, sir.” Jeffery had a look of concern on his face, and I shook my head.
“Well, write down my number in case you think of anything.” I pretended to write down this man’s phone number, reciting it back like I had a pencil in hand. Really I was doodling on a napkin with a crayon I found in a pocket. I hung up, wishing Detective Mitchell luck while cursing my brother in my head.
“Who robbed what?” asked Jeffery.
“My brother, apparently something or someone in San Francisco. I thought he was in Hollywood still.” I took a sip from Jeffery’s tea. Earl Grey. I had forgotten my Stoli at home, damn.
“Some brother,” said Jeffery.
“You said it.”
My brother was that kind; the toddler who took toys from the babies and threw them in the trash, the boy who spit at you and pulled your hair. In high school he had ditched every class junior year to get stoned, and ended up spending an extra year there to make it up. As if that fuelled his fire, the second he got out, he moved to Chicago with some drug-dealing girlfriend of his. They had a time of it, getting arrested and then moving to Jersey. Jenna went back to Chicago after dumping him for some young guy with a future. Jasper came back to live in Hollywood, “make it big” he said. He ended up selling TVs at Sears and barely making rent, spending all his money on dope and speed. If he wasn’t mellowed out from the pot, he was skidding around on uppers. Every few months he came begging for money for rent or food or something else. I gave in two times out of three, but that wasn’t happening this time. Armed robbery?
“Who’s Kyle?” asked Jeffery, and I was pulled back to the present.
“What?”
“Kyle, the guy who wrote his number on your arm. Who is he?” Jeffery was being nice, changing the subject, but I was too pissed off at Jasper to be enthusiastic about my time with Green Eyes.
“He’s the guy I drew earlier, the guy in your sister’s art class.”
“You tracked him down?” asked Jeffery, getting excited. “What did he say?”
‘I didn’t track him down, we met on the bus. We talked for a while, about nothing important. He gave me his number. Whatever.” I looked down at the doodle on the napkin; a dead bird, its brain like toothpaste.
“Whatever?” asked Jeffery incredulously. “You drew him! And he’s hot!”
I smiled then, weakly. “That he is, Jeff.”
“Are you going to call him? Of course you’re going to call him…”
“No I’m not going to call him.” I said emphatically. “I’m going to wait and see if we run into each other again first. I didn’t even give him my name.”
“You-“ started Jeffery, then understood. “You sly fox! Keep him thinking about you. Clever girl.” He toasted me with his tea, nodded his head a little, and took a sip. I laughed, feeling better. Jeffery was good at making me laugh. My phone rang again.
“Hello?”
“Hello? It’s me, stupid.” Raelyn.
“The guy at Mike’s coughed.” I said, hoping she would get it.
“Great. Hey, listen, where are you? I’m bored out of my skull.”
“Go to Jed’s,” I replied, annoyed. She really didn’t care sometimes.
“I’m at Jed’s.”
“Well, I’m doing homework.”
“Loser,” she said, and hung up.
I closed my phone, wanting to throw it out a window, or off a bridge or something. Jeff was looking at me like he was going to burst. “What?” I asked.
“I know how you can run into him again!”
“What? How?” I loved how energetic Jeff was, in his glasses and collared shirt. He looked too geeky to be gay.
“Come with me to pick up my sister from art class!” he practically shouted, receiving evil glares from people around him. “He’s in her class, and you’re my friend. Plus, I really want to see him wriggle now that you’ve got him on a hook.” He winked at me.
Laughing, I asked “When does she get picked up?”
“Tomorrow at four thirty,” he answered.
“That’s perfect; I get off work at three.”
“Where do you work?” asked Jeff, and I smiled at knowing Kyle had asked me that just minutes before.
“Barnes and Noble.”
“I’ll pick you up, and then we’ll go pick up my sis. She’s cute, you’ll like her. And you’ll run into your hottie and give him your name or number. Or nothing.” He chuckled. “Yeah, nothing. Does he have a gay brother?”
This last I hadn’t expected him to say, and burst out laughing. Now I was being given the evil glares, but what did that matter. This is a free country. “I’ll ask him.”
“Mm, good. I hope he does. That would uncomplicated my life completely.”
“No,” I said. “Boys complicate life more.”
“Those, my dear, are the wrong kind of boys.”
I laughed again, and opened my notebook. Statistics was a pain, but it did take my mind off of my issues for a time. I couldn’t believe Jasper, and Kyle was just…too much. Far too much for one day.
I caught the late bus home, leaning against the window and watching the little shops pass by; the apartment buildings and the all-night Laundromat. I had my sweater pulled tight, my headphones in. I watched the homeless men and college kids-the late night beings-all with Eliot Smith as a soundtrack.
But I’m already somebody’s baby…
By the time I threw my keys on the bed and took off my shoes I was exhausted. My thoughts skipped like a record, catching like rough skin on satin. I brushed my teeth and flopped my whole body onto the bed, sending the keys flying to the floor. I put on Miles Davis, unable to bear anything with lyrics at that point. I hummed to ‘So What’ as I stripped and lay above the blankets, open to the cold. My neighbours were watching some sporting event; baseball I think. About every three minutes someone would be either shouting or cheering, and I couldn’t stand it. I slipped on my robe and walked outside to smoke, letting the freezing air send shivers through me. The cheap menthol cigarette smoke clashed with the frigid oxygen in my lungs and I coughed, making someone near me jump. I spun around, nearly coming out of my robe, and saw Jasper there, in the shadows, looking like a startled deer. “Jesus, Jasper. Get inside you moron.”
“Hey, sis.” He said, standing slowly. “How you been?”
I turned my back on him, stubbed out my cigarette, half-smoked, and laughed sardonically. “Don’t pretend you’re here for me, asshole.” Jasper followed me inside and closed the door, then the blinds, checking to see who was around.
“Paranoid much?” I asked.
Jasper feigned offence. “Now, Dayne! Your big brother just drove a few hundred miles from Hollywood to come see how you’re doing, and I get called names?” He put his hand to his chest, half a gesture of boy-scout honesty and half like I shot him. “Got any coffee?”
“San Francisco,” I corrected, leaned up against the wall with my arms crossed over my chest. “You came from San Francisco, jackass, and no I don’t have any coffee.”
Jasper’s face fell. “So you got a call?”
“Armed robbery, Jasper?” I almost shouted in frustration and threw my hands up. “What are you trying to prove?” I started to pace, kicking clothes and mail out of my way as I did. “You think I’m going to support this kind of behaviour? I’m not giving you any money, I don’t know why you’re even here. You always do this shit!” I turned to him, my fury flushing my face bright red. “Explain yourself!”
“Okay, mom,” he mocked, and I threw him a look that held death.
“Jasper, I have it in my head to call the police this instant, if you-“
“Okay! Okay, okay, just hang on li’l sis. No need to call the cops on me” Jasper ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. “I was in the City by the Bay with some friends of mine, and there was this cabbie who tried to rip us off. We started arguing, one thing led to another…” He looked into my eyes, sheepishly. “I had a squirt-gun painted black…”
“Jasper, you’re telling me you robbed a cabbie with a squirt-gun?” I wanted to laugh in his face, at the sheer stupidity of the situation.
“Well when you say it like that, Dayne, it sounds so juvenile.”
“It is juvenile!” I shouted and shook my head. “Are you kidding me!” I put my face in my hands, suddenly fatigued and hopeless. “What do you want Jasper?” I asked through my fingers.
“Look, “ he started. “I’ve got a plane to Chicago in the morning.”
“Jenna?” I asked.
“Yeah, who else? Anyway, it leaves at six from San Jose.”
“What do you want Jasper?” I asked, finally looking up and crossing my arms again.
“Just a place to crash until then. I’ll leave at four.”
“Fine,” I said, too tired to care. It was only five hours anyway.
I picked up a pillow from my bed and tossed it onto the floor. I rummaged around a crowded closet for an extra blanket while Jasper cleared a spot on the carpet of paper and magazines. I snuggled under my covers, slipped out of my robe, and turned out the light. I tossed and turned, found a comfortable position, and settled in for a long night of shouting and cheering from the next-door neighbours.
self project
starting new book ideas, working on existing book ideas, and random other posts. don't judge me
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