Jane. Read online

  There was calm before the storm. There always is, right? Months and months of calm and independence: walks to the park, window shopping, lunch with new friends, classes on ancient Chinese architecture—total normalcy since last summer. There were even solo trips to the grocery store and the library, and all of this was accomplished without complication. At home tidiness was king, a mascot for the idea that there is a place for everything and, goddamn it, everything should be put back in its place.

  Then, SNAP!

  Out of nowhere it was too hard to vacuum the floor, make a phone call, or even get out of bed in the morning. There was talk of group homes and supervision, and then there was rejection and hate and shame. With shallow breath and heavy heart, I walked out the door, left that filthy apartment on my own terms, and took a seat on a rock under this footbridge, and here I remain even as the creek beneath my feet swells with rain water. "Must wait it out, must wait it out," I mumble to myself as I rock back and forth, soaked to the bone.

  Finally, there are blue skies and the sun shines again, inevitably so; there cannot be sunshine without rain, just as there cannot be happiness without sadness. The sun creeps in slow at first, no more than a nudge; it tickles my toes and tugs at my fingertips. It’s an awakening of sorts, a soft kiss on my cheek. Where everything was wrong, now everything’s right.

  A hearty chuckle rumbles in my belly and escapes through my mouth as I look down on the mess I’ve become. My greasy locks of long black stringiness hang dripping down my face, and my plain cotton T-shirt’s not only wet but torn and muddy as well. My once classic blue jeans are missing half of the right pant leg, and I’m not wearing any shoes whatsoever. No shoes? No shoes?! There’s just a hint of a memory there . . . a field . . . crop circles . . . Can aliens track people by their shoes?

  Ah well, never mind all of that; everything’s better now. As it turns out, everything’s not so terrible after all. But this outfit must be dealt with. There’s a shoe store just across the street. With the lock on my mental dungeon bludgeoned open, shoes seem like a logical first step.

  Except shoes aren't free. And the old switch-a-roo won’t work barefoot. It’s time to try something new altogether.

  "I am sorry to bother you sir, and I realize that this is highly unorthodox, but I have been very down on my luck lately, and I hate to ask, but do you think you might let me use your restroom real quick? I don’t have any money to spend. I just need to go really bad." Puppy dog eyes work every time. They beg. They plead. Then again, he was probably just relieved that he wouldn't have to fit my scuzzy feet.

  Lo and behold, thank Heaven’s lucky stars, the toilet doubles as extra storage, and there’s a stack of running shoes for the taking, quite a few size eights among them. How much easier could it possibly be? A lot actually. The clerk left his regular clothes behind after changing into his uniform. A quick salute’s enough for him, and he’s none the wiser as I smuggle his clothes and his inventory past him in a canvas grocery bag (also lifted from that same restroom). In good time, the clerk will realize that he’s been robbed for one pair of shoes and his recreational clothes, but for now he’s just happy to be rid of this weird homeless-looking lady.

  There’s a McDonald’s down the street. The lobby’s empty. The employees are all tucked away with their cleaning and gossip. The ladies’ room is not the row of double stalls and multiple sinks one would normally expect. Instead, it’s a five by five room with a full-length mirror and a dead bolt. The single sink’s well stocked with liquid soap and paper towels—perfect for a McSpongebath!

  First, I yank my T-shirt off over my head and step out of my jeans with the missing pant leg. My bra and panties are still as fresh and clean as second skin can be when it hasn't been changed in three days straight. The hot water scalds as it cleanses: first my face, then neck and arms. It hurts and feels good, something like antiseptic on an open wound. My hair’s the hardest part. It’s long, very long. Long enough to sit on.

  Here goes nothing.

  I stuff my mane into the sink and let the tap run until the basin overflows. Awkward, yes, but it feels good nonetheless. A little hand soap stands in for shampoo. It doesn't suds up very well, but it will have to do. Rinsing’s damn near impossible, and there’s a tug at the door, then a knock, before even half the bubbles have washed down the drain. "Bah ‘t in jus se’un!" I yell, my voice muffled and garbled amidst the swirl of locks under the faucet. Thirty seconds of rushed silence and then another knock, this one louder than the first. I whip my mane out of the sink and wring it out on the floor.

  Something short whines, "Come on!" from behind the door.

  These stolen clothes aren't much, and they’re too big to boot, but they’ll have to do. There’s another tug at the door. No time to lace up the pilfered Nikes, and the tongues hang out as I turn the lock. There’s a shove on the door the same instant that the dead bolt clicks over, and a boy of about seven years and a hundred pounds barges in. He breathes hard and sweats. "Get out! I gotta go!"

  I stare back at him in the shocked silence of seemingly unaskable questions. First, of course, the most obvious: What the fuck? Then: How the fuck did this kid get so big? Does that qualify as child abuse? And then, Where the fuck are your manners, boy? Disgust crawls across my freshly-washed face. Isn’t the men’s room over there? What the fuck are you doing coming in here? I know you got bigger boobs than I do, but you don't have a pussy! There are times, there are moods, when such vulgarities could come spilling out without regard to the recipient or his age. Luckily, this is not one of those times.

  There’s a scuttle, a little dance; I’m trying to escape while he’s trying to shove his way in. The boy’s forehead grazes my forearm in the process, and he leaves a trail of sweat behind. "Come on lady, get out! I’m gonna shit my pants!"

  "You shouldn’t eat so much shit then, fat-ass." Oh fuck . . . it just came out. You don’t talk to kids like that! You’re going to hell for sure!

  Pools form in the corners of his eyes, and it’s time to disappear. Out of the bathroom, out of McD’s, out period. Out is outside. Outside there’s a bar.

  A bar. They serve drinks in bars.

  It’s a short trek across the street to one of those hole-in-the-walls that would be all too easy to forget if it didn’t have the uncanny ability to be there at just the right time. The mirrored door should be a sad reminder that any notion of fashion’s long past dead, but my mood’s too light to see anything but joy and happiness. Never mind that money’s going to be an object, what with the cheapest beer being two dollars and me without a dime to my name. I take a seat regardless and light a wilted generic cigarette.

  "Can’t smoke in here anymore, you know that" the bartender croaks from the other side of the bar. He’s a large, portly man with a pompadour and a gray beard, a white stripe down the middle of each. He waddles over, a limp in his right step as if the left leg’s just a little too long. He carries an empty ashtray, shiny in its utter lack of use, which he then holds up with a curt yet friendly command to "Put it out."

  "What the shit’s that about?" Taken aback yet compliant, I oblige and stamp the cigarette out.

  "State law," he barks.

  A voice pipes up from the far end of the bar, "About time too."

  I'm confused; when did that happen? "Just like the government to tell us what we can do."

  "Everybody’s got an opinion on it, one way or another," he points out. "Ain’t nothing you can do about it now, so no point in bitching."

  "Hey Melvin." It’s the voice from the other end of the bar again.

  Melvin turns his way. "Yeah, what?"

  "It’s your lungs they are trying to save."

  Melvin throws the bar towel that he’s been juggling at the customer and turns back. "You are welcome to smoke outside. We have a lovely little smoking porch out back in the alley."

  There’s a grunt of amusement somewhere nearby.

  "No, that’s OK. Thank you, though."

  "So what
can I get you?"

  I laugh nervously. "You know, honestly I'm broke. I was really hoping there would be someone here that would offer to buy me a drink."

  He leans over the bar. "So, same old same old then?"

  A nod, a smile, and a wink: nonchalant, detached, and sensual despite the bag lady attire and tearstained face. "It would be greatly appreciated."

  He runs the Pabst Blue Ribbon for half a second to clear the line of stale beer and cut down on excess foam before he puts a glass under the tap, then serves it on reused cardboard coasters advertising the competitor’s brand.

  "So what am I at?" Pause. "As far as a total I mean."

  "Don’t worry about it." Melvin limps out to the dining room with another bar towel.

  "No, seriously! How much is it?"

  "I said don’t worry about it." The tab’s always paid on time, as are all of the bills that Darla handles. Melvin knows he’ll get his fair share on the first when the government checks are cut.

  "Hey, what time is it?"

  Melvin glances at his watch and hollers back across the bar, "Almost four o’clock."

  "Hey Charlie," I yell towards a brightly lit doorway just on the other side of the bar. "Can I get a burger and some fries?"

  A voice yells back, "Well done?"

  "Yup, thanks!"

  Melvin returns from wiping tables with both hands full of empty pounders. "So what are you up to today?" he asks. "Keeping out of trouble?"

  "Of course. You know me," I flash a mischievous smile, "always well behaved."

  He leans back, his furrowed brow questioning. "Staying out of jail? Out of the hospital?"

  "I was at the hospital once. But they let me out right away." I shift my butt on the barstool, reflecting on exactly what information should be shared. "Besides, I am moving today. My niece is going to keep me out of trouble."

  "Oh yeah? You staying in the neighborhood, or is this the last time I’ll be seeing you?"

  "You know I'll always come back to visit you Melvin," I giggle. "You pour the best PBR in the state."

  Ten minutes later, Charlie appears in the kitchen doorway, steam wafting from a plate heaped with steak fries and a burger that looks like it’s meant for a lumberjack, not an itty bitty woman who’s barely ninety-five pounds soaking wet. My skin feels tight as my eyes go wide and my lips stretch into a toothy grin. "Thank you, Charlie!"

  "Any time, Rose," he answers. "It’s always good to see you doing well."

  Charlie and Melvin have witnessed some rough times. They can appreciate the most mediocre of the good ones on the sole basis of how terrible the bad can be.

  I scarf down my food and guzzle my beer, and a second, with lightning speed. Then I hop off the bar stool and head for the door. "It was nice seeing you guys." I wave goodbye slow and walk out of the bar in a cloud of disbelief. Haziness is taking over. Colors blur and streak―surreal like swimming in a bottle of hash oil.

  Goodbye, hole-in-the-wall dive bar. Goodbye, shitty sidewalk with all of those lumps and bumps and cracks and crannies and otherwise uneven surfaces. The last walk back to city housing’s a short one. Just down the block. Goodbye, tenements. Goodbye, little cig shop. Goodbye, Schizo Steve always passed out in the alcove. Up three flights of stairs. Goodbye, smelly stairwell. Goodbye, fellow residents that hate me as much as I hate them. Goodbye, nosey next-door neighbor who never minds her own fucking business.

  4

  I have just about given my aunt up for dead when an oddball figure bounces down the hall swaddled in big and tall. Is she really skipping? Yes, skipping and full to the brim with vim and vigor.

  "Hey Jane! You’re already here? Wow, I wasn’t expecting you until much much later. Oh my, oh my gosh, I am sooo sorry! I totally should have been here when you got here. Have you been waiting long? Gee, I sure hope you haven’t! I’m sorry, I guess I just lost track of the time." She talks a mile a minute and does not bother to leave room for an answer after any of her questions. She goes on like this until I suggest that she unlock the door and grab her stuff so that we can get on the road.

  "Oh yeah, yeah, of course!" She digs through baggy pockets first. Then, when I guess she realizes she is not actually wearing her own pants, she swings a green canvas shopping bag around and sets it on the floor in front of her. "Sorry, I forgot to move my key when I changed." Squatting, she rifles through her possessions. "Oh, oh here it is!" She holds up a single key on a fuzzy Garfield keychain, pride aglow on her face, and jumps up to unlock the door.

  A stampede of angry stench barrels through the open door. Rose apologizes again, this time for the mess. The front room, which is the living room/bedroom/dining room rolled into one, is all piles: piles of dirty clothes, piles of shoes, piles of library books that have to be overdue, piles of shells and shit under the bird’s cage. As soon as we enter, she makes a beeline for a filthy cockatoo. "Hey, Pretty Bird! Hey, pretty Pretty Bird!" Her voice morphs into baby talk, "Did you miss me? Did Pretty Bird miss Mommy?"

  My strained bladder begs for relief, but the first door off of the front room goes to a linen closet and the second radiates with the unmistakable affront of human feces. My nose crinkles and a shudder travels through my body as I try the knob. "Hey, Rose, the door is locked. Can you open it for me?"

  "No, no, no. No, sorry." She finally looks up from the bird only to frown at me. "I’m sorry, I’m really sorry." She shakes her head. "The toilet got all clogged up. I tried to fix it, but it just ended up crapping all over the floor." She hangs her head in shame. "I’m sorry. I just couldn’t deal with it. It was too much for me . . ." She trails off and stares into space.

  Guilt racks that empathetic part of my soul. For whatever reason, everyday emergencies are much harder for my aunt than the average person. Change is nearly impossible for her—even when it is positive—so when things go wrong, she is incapable of dealing. How could I expect her to react to a malfunctioning toilet like a normal person? To everyone else it may be an inconvenience, an annoyance, a waste of time; to Aunt Rose it is a crisis too insurmountable to approach. Here is proof positive that Mother lied. She suckered me into this. My aunt hasn’t "improved dramatically" since my childhood. If anything, she has taken a giant backslide since the last time we saw each other.

  "So, Rose, what do you do if you have to go to the bathroom?" I ask with a curious dread of the answer.

  She smiles with pride at her ingenuity. "Well, if I have to go number one," she explains, "then I just grab a cup and dump it down the sink." Next, she ambles over to the washroom door and picks up a Yuban can off the floor next to it. She peels back the plastic lid and releases a billow even fouler than when she threw the front door open—this one so strong, so heavy I can taste human shit, so intense it make my eyes water. "I have this for number two," she says showing me the contents.

  Dry heaves start like ripples in my belly, but I cling to humor and beat them back. "Oh well, Aunt Rose, it looks like you have been eating a lot of corn."

  "Yeah, they put a lot of creamed corn in those food boxes," she laughs. "What I want to know is, how does it come out looking more whole than when it went in?"

  I shake my head and turn away from her without answering so as to survey the rest of the apartment. Aunt Rose’s hide-a-bed has taken over the front room, complete with piles of clothes and papers and the impossibility that she has slept in it in quite a while. There is a coffee table pushed up against the side closest to the door, and it is completely covered in dirty dishes: plates with crusted over scraps, bowls of moldy spaghetti, a saucer full of curdled milk, and glasses of furry juice. At least ten paper coffee cups line the front of the table, neat and orderly, as if they have been posed for an advertisement—Starbucks or a public service announcement on waste control, it is all in the framing. There are also, at minimum, ten flies swarming above this mess, which begs the question: what other bugs are creeping around here?

  The foot of the hide-a-bed is flanked by an entertainment center that leaves just si
x inches of space to travel between the two. And this rickety pressboard shelving, it holds my aunt’s most prized possessions: a television and her collection of ceramic cows. Yes, cows. And each of these ceramic cow figurines faces northeast to some very important and specific bearing. They are arranged in rows from shortest to tallest, skinniest to fattest. There are black and white cows, cows with straw hats and flowers between their teeth, cows dressed in business suits, and ballet dancer cows. Aunt Rose insists that I "moo" at them as I pass through. "You have to greet them properly. You just have to, OK? If you don’t, we’ll be cursed with reruns." She hangs her head in shame once again. "I know it doesn’t make any sense. I do know that, OK? Please, just do it," she pleads.

  It is hard to tell if she is serious or not. If she is just messing with me, it would not be the first time that she got me to do something silly or embarrassing by feigning desperation. Reruns are irrelevant, but I take the chance on humiliation—she is the only witness after all—to avoid the more likely situation of a breakdown on the drive home. Whatever box those damn things end up in better manage to fall off the truck somewhere on the way down to Salem.

  The kitchen is even worse than the living room. It is enough to make my head heavy, and I cover my nose with my sweater so I do not pass out. Chunky bile pushes up against my throat as the full assault of the kitchen’s toxicity attacks my senses. What I see before me makes the hairs on my arms stand up. The odor churns my stomach. It is all so overwhelming that my ears ring and cause my equilibrium to tremble. The piles of plates and bowls and silverware are so extensive that it seems Aunt Rose, instead of ever washing them, must buy a new set of dishes every time she runs out of clean ones. Why doesn’t she just switch to paper and plastic if she has no intention of reusing them anyway? The stovetop is its own special kind of disaster. On every burner there is a sauce pot, and each pot contains about a half a serving of ramen in varying degrees of fermentation. My first guess is that this is where the majority of the stank comes from; there isn’t much that can beat rancid, decaying ramen after all. But then I see the sink. It is a double: one side filled to the brim with a thick, greasy sludge, the other oddly clean in comparison. That must be where she dumps her piss. Chunks of something beyond recognition float at the top of the mucky side, and on top of those chunks, maggots incubate and slither about. The bile makes another push towards my throat, and I have to turn away before it rolls out onto my tongue.