Jane. Read online

  Wow. Tear the fresh scab off of that wound, why don’t you? But I recover and quickly turn the tables. "Me? Oh, I’m not running from anything. Why? Are you?"

  In spite of the convoluted thought process that took over her mind as a teenager, Aunt Rose is smart. Really smart. She is the queen of arguments and master of everything snarky. "Now don’t try to flip this, Jane," she says with authority. But then she softens. "Look, it’s OK to talk about it. I know it hurts. I know you are a tough girl and all, but even tough girls need someone to talk to sometimes." She reaches out and puts her hand on my shoulder, and it all comes out like so much verbal diarrhea.

  8

  Modern-day Narcissus has lifetimes of manipulation and pandering for pity under his belt. His traumas, real or figments of his own imagination, garner sympathy when he deserves punishment. His fuckups are qualified by childhood molestation and the gun his father put to his mother’s head. Whereas his predecessor rejected his admirers, this Narcissus actively seeks out new victims who will venerate him with sympathy. The sob story he tells is more effective than true, and the girls fall for his crocodile tears hook, line, and sinker.

  To say that he gives metros a bad name is probably a shallow assessment, and his keenness for eyeliner and determination to remain trim are more curse than fad. Manorexic Narcissus stares at his naked body in a full-length mirror. He worships himself even as he inspects for signs of chub, visually measures his thighs and sucks in his cheeks. Should he find just a hint of fat (or more likely loose skin), he will eat nothing but salads and skip meals altogether until he is satisfied that it has disappeared. Occasionally his anorexia melds with a bulimic exercise pattern, though this rarely lasts as it interferes with Narcissus’s general laziness and penchant for sleeping sixteen hours a day.

  Still naked in front of the mirror, he rubs tinted moisturizer onto his face for a smooth, even skin tone and lines the bottom rim of his eyelids with black kohl to enhance his come-hither stare. He likens himself a rock star—a rock star sans talent and ambition, but a rock star nonetheless.

  More than once, he has successfully beckoned a hot young lady from across a bar with nothing more than a few curls of his pointer finger. Not only does this sort of accomplishment amuse him, it bolsters his sick sense of pride and gives him something to brag about. Narcissus relishes any sort of female degradation, from a stupid and desperate girl’s failure to expect a little respect to increasingly violent rape scenes in movies. His love for himself impedes any true appreciation for women, and deep down he despises each of them for not giving him the same adoration that he gives himself. He searches high and low for the exception and then finally resigns himself to creating his own perfect mirror.

  In the meantime, Echo, ever the clever nymph, has transcended many a life lesson. She has learned to avoid the type of drama that causes lifelong torment. Her lives of meddling in cat fights are long over. The evils that accompany her gift of gab have been heroically overcome while the positive social implications remain, affording her ample opportunity to escape Hera’s wrath. And yet something holds her here: another lesson to be learned, another challenge to survive in the eternally evolving universe.

  The tables have turned but not for the better. Manorexic Narcissus finds Echo at a bar on campus. She is hot and fun and makes for lively conversation. She is a great catch, and she damn well knows it. He plies her with alcohol and compliments. He tells her how beautiful she is as he holds her face and gazes into her eyes, his lips brushing against hers as he speaks. They fuck that same night, and it is the strangest fuck Echo has ever experienced. Did he even cum? And if he did, where the hell did he put it? Soon they are making love, and he insists that his need for her is greater than his need for air.

  Before she can so much as bat an eye, Echo finds herself cohabitating with Narcissus. It is an interesting ride that she does not quite remember and does not really need to think about as long as he keeps her drunk. Soon he is unemployed, but he makes up for it well with compliments and sporadic light housekeeping. Then, slowly—too slowly for poor Echo to notice—the compliments are mingled, mixed, and then finally altogether replaced with insults and snide remarks. "Beautiful" evolves into "your hair looks stupid" and "that shirt doesn’t match." A gourmet meal that used to garner raves is picked apart as overcooked, under diced, or too high in calories. Narcissus found a beautiful victim and wooed her with compliments just so that he could tear her down once he had her. And once she has been tricked into "love," he dives into her destruction, makes her feel worthless, makes her think that no one else could ever want her, just to ensure that she will never leave him. After all, a hot chick with no self-esteem is the perfect superficial mirror for Manorexic Narcissus.

  Then, one day, Echo wakes up sober and pregnant, suddenly aware of the altered reality that he has created for her. She wants out but is too broken to escape. She finds freedom though, in the midst of miscarriage; the ties that bind flushed away like so much bloody tissue dripping from between her legs. Then two days later she comes home to find Narcissus in bed with a nymph of indiscriminate sex and painful unsightliness and it is her free pass, her one hundred percent guilt free escape. She leaves him behind―never looking back― to be consumed by the mirror of his true self.

  9

  Aunt Rose’s favorite part of the story is when I catch Jaime in bed with someone else. Her hand shoots to her mouth, and she blurts out an "Oh my god!" chocked full of shock and disbelief. "Who was she? Was it one of your friends?"

  I shake my head and struggle to hold back my gag reflex. "I’m still not sure that it was even a chick!"

  "Oh," she says slowly as her face mimics the wheels that turn in her head. "OH!" she gasps. "Did you see a second penis?"

  "No! No, I would be sure if I saw that! It just looked really manly. Manly face, short SHORT hair, no makeup."

  "Were there boobs?"

  An obvious question except, "You know it isn't that simple anymore." I roll my eyes. "They were really, really teeny tiny ones. But it was kind of chubby too, so they could have been man boobs for all I know. The whole thing was terrible, Rose; I didn’t know if I should cry or throw up!"

  "So, what did you do?"

  "Well, of course Jaime’s stupid ass jumped up and tried to explain and apologize and all of that bullshit."

  My aunt rolls her eyes and exclaims, "What a dumbass!"

  "And the boy/girl jumped out of the bed on the other side and tried to grab its clothes. So I fucking rushed it and threw a right hook."

  "Wow, you guys fought right there? What did Jaime do?"

  I can feel the adrenaline pulse through my system as if it is happening all over. "Nah, we didn’t fight. I threw a freight train at her, Aunt Rose; she got knocked the fuck out!"

  10

  (Rose, twenty-four years ago) Something’s got to give or I'm going to fucking break. It isn't a joke, and it isn't a fucking cry for help; it’s the pure reality of the matter. My eyes hurt, my head aches, and I sure as hell cannot see straight. The world has slammed shut on me, enveloped me with its hate. Pain exaggerated to the point that even when it’s real, it’s still mistaken for fake. Fake. Fake.

  Fake.

  Fake pain.

  Fake sane.

  What happens if I hurt myself today? Or you . . . him or her . . . maybe all of you? What the fuck? This is crazy talk! Get it together, man! Man, man, woo-man.

  You understand?

  Sam I am.

  Huh? I’m lost. Are you my boss? How much’s this going to cost? Not long until the next frost. Dinner on the lawn and cinder blocks. Bitter sweet litanies. How many fucking degrees? Some like it hot. Some like it not. On the dot. Hello, Spot! Caught. Fought. Fraught.

  Aw man, woman, woo-man, what the fuck? Stop!

  Cop.

  Lop. Hop. Mop.

  Stop it! Fucking stop it, goddamn it, motherfucker! Fucking quit! FUCKING STOP!

  Fucking?

  Lucking? Mucking? Hucking? Ducking?
Chucking? FUCKING! Fucking dumb fucking fuck.

  Fuck!

  Fuck!

  Fuck! FUCK!

  It was God. He made me do it. I swear it. I fucking swear it to you! He was talking to me. Told me what to do. And the bush was burning too.

  What do you mean you don’t understand me? What do you mean you don’t know what I say? It’s all clear as day. Along the way. They’re going to pay! In May.

  Something’s gotta give, but I don’t know what it is! OK Liz? Giz. Fizz. His. Ms.

  It ain’t a lot. No, it’s not! Shit, he’s hot! Do I talk a lot?

  Incoherent, spent. Is it Lent yet? I’m giving up crazy for the holiday.

  Ramadhan, Ramadhan, where have you gone?

  It’s all so strange but at the same time peaceful. Joy and suicide married, united, as one; perfectly happy to watch sanity fly out the fucking window.

  I want to hurt someone. No, no that’s not true . . . Why do I say such things? What will they do? Or you? Too? Who? Fool, I have never ridden a mule. Is it just a phase? Haze? Raze? Maze?

  Lazy? Phazy wazy crazy. Crazy since I was a baby.

  Good times, bad times, you know I’ve had my share.

  Fair. It isn’t.

  Lair. Move into my.

  And the other fare. So there. And their. Hair. And hare. Mare. Care.

  What am I talking about? What the hell? Do I smell? Are you doing well? Swell! She fell. My name isn’t Kell.

  Yeah. Go to fucking hell.

  The bottle’s talking to me. I don’t know what the fuck it’s saying. It talks like air blowing, hollow vibrations, and I have no fucking idea what they mean. It all makes my head hurt. Too alert. What the fuck do we do? It ain’t about right or wrong, what will work and what will not work, but that doesn't matter here; we’re determined to fail! Quail. Mail. Or male. Always wants tail. Hail. FAIL!

  Got a beer. And a tear? What a queer. Dear. Dear. Calm down or you’ll drown. I don’t want to throw up again.

  I want to hurt myself. No! It’s you I want to hurt. I really don’t want to hurt anyone, but I feel like it’s expected of me, like I’m not holding up my end of the bargain if I don’t.

  There is a fly in a bottle, and that motherfucker is talking to me.

  Huh? What? Chicken butt.

  I don’t know; it ain’t saying much. Fuck your mama. And fuck your mama’s mama too. Ha ha, and fuck you too. My favorite word. You are a turd.

  Is it going to keep getting worse and worse? Is it a curse? Are you much on verse?

  It all swirls around my head at ten thousand RPM. I try to slow it down. I hold my breath. It keeps going and going and going. It is that motherfucking bunny that treks across deserts and beaches and snowy mountain peaks on the same damn battery beating that same damn drum. Must sell batteries! Must sell batteries! I am batteries. No, no I am slow as sludge. I do not know what the fuck is going on, but God keeps talking to me, and that damned bush is on fire again.

  Ha ha ha.

  Tip the bottle back and take a good swig. It will either calm me down or hype me up, but either way I won’t be THIS way. Usually. Normally. Mostly. What the hell does that mean? It is not a measure of time or occurrences. Not even a rough estimation of percentages. How am I supposed to make quantitative sense of that? I need numbers, damn it!

  OK, OK, it’s coming to me. I’m here. I’m back. I get it all. No weird behavior here. Perfectly normal. All is well and normal. NORMAL.

  What an ugly word. It is nasally and whiny and demanding. Indignant! Unthankful. And even snobbish. Shoulders shudder, skin prickles. Normal. Why do I fear it so? It makes both qualitative and quantitative sense! Genius! Anti-genius? Girl genius? Twirl genius? Off I go again. Despair, I do declare. What must I do to climb off of this ship? What must I do to fucking give a lick? Where does it end? Where does it begin? Somewhere in the middle? Somewhere at the end? Right smack dab at the very beginning?

  I’ve been duped. I think. I’m pretty sure I’ve been duped, and I am a dink. Ding bat. All's hells and hip to that.

  It’s getting worse, isn’t it? The more I try to get control, the more I lose it. So I should just go with the flow? Ho ho, Bobo! Whaddya know? Koko momo lomo nomo . . .

  No, no, no. Get it together. I can do this. I can snap out of it. See! Click click. Do you hear that? Click click, snap snap.

  No. It’s all gone wrong. Too wrong. It’s all gone haywire. I don’t know what to say. Don’t know what to think. Big words like institutionalization and schizophrenic psychosis. Scary words and I don’t know what to think. Can I still think? Does anything still work up there? Is it nothing but Jello? Clam chowder and oyster crackers?

  Oh shit, I have really fucking lost it now, haven’t I? Can’t breathe. Can’t focus. What the fuck do I do about yesterday? I mean tomorrow? An open can of tuna left out in the sun. Mmm mmm, yum, smells like fun.

  It’s too much; it’s all too much to take. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I love you? If only you knew . . . Whoo hoo. Whoop dee doo, moo moo, foo foo, roo roo, loo loo.

  I’m not crazy. Really, I’m not. Seriously, I swear it, I mean it, and I would never lie. OK? OK. So what were we talking about, anyway?

  It will all get better. It really will. Time heals all wounds, right? That or you get a staph infection and your leg fills up with puss and they amputate one of them for good measure and then they give you IV drugs for six weeks and then you’re hobbling around on crutches taking off your prosthetic leg wherever it suits you. It could be at the grocery store or the movie theater; a public park or your best friend’s wedding. Maybe you forget it somewhere; tottering around on your crutches, you don’t even notice you left it behind.

  Morbid thoughts. But not as morbid as the one where an alien germ species takes up residence in my new fishnets and sends me orders to collect used panty liners from restrooms across the city for some sort of biological warfare against humankind.

  Ridiculous! Yet so real.

  Oh fuck! The little green men are on my trail. They’re going to catch me and take my stash. I huff and puff and try to take control of my breath. Am I too far gone? Is there any hope? Is the end of this an inevitable incarceration? Will I live through this? Will everyone else live through this? What more is there to suspect? I collect a mass of weapons to protect me from the aliens, though I remain helpless under the assault of their germs.

  Voices, voices everywhere. Some are mine, and some I just hear.

  Shanks, shanks everywhere. Some are mine, and some are just there.

  I think I might die tonight.

  I can’t deny it. Can’t run away from it. There is no escape from this state, this feeling, this part of my mind gone awry, weird and scary and altogether fucked up, but it’s my life whether I like it or not. Can I beat it? I don’t know. Can I will it away? I don’t think so, but I'll try.

  All of a sudden there is blood. It drips from my right hand clutched around shards of glass, a bottle crushed in its grasp. Wow. A smile tugs up on the sides of my mouth, pleased, even proud. That took strength and balls. Yes man, my cajones are as big as yours, eh?

  11

  A soft whisper of late season snow pays us a visit just after dinner. Most of the flakes are small, barely even visible as they hurtle towards the earth. The larger, lazier flakes drift and spiral and otherwise take their precious time coming down. Regardless, each melts as soon as it touches the ground.

  "A walk would be great now," I say aloud, almost to myself. My aunt is sitting in the middle of the empty living room, hunched over a sketch book. "Aunt Rose?" I call. She jerks her head up, startled by the sudden noise of my voice. "Would you like to go on a walk with me? It’s snowing. Might be nice to get out and enjoy it."

  She stands to look out the window and gushes, "Wow! Look at that! That’s amazing!" In a sudden frenzy, she jumps into a pair of worn leather boots and rifles maniacally through the mysterious black duffel bag she "found" in the park earlier this afternoon. Sh
e pulls out two scarves: one is bright orange with black tassels and the other is blue with white checks. She finds one glove that matches the orange scarf and one that matches the blue and white one. She does not waste any time trying to find a match for either, as if any lollygagging on our part could result in the snow gods revoking their gift of wintery goodness before we even hit the pavement.

  Aunt Rose pushes me out the front door and locks the dead bolt. She then proceeds to bless the door in the special way that the Toad Fairy of Agarama taught her, which means that she touches her right index finger to her tongue and lips and then rubs the zest of the spittle over the peep hole and the doorknob. This has been her ritual ever since I can remember. It is as much a part of her as mood swings and zany impulses. Of course, that does not make it any less embarrassing when others are watching. Rose skips down the two short steps in front of our door and out onto the sidewalk. The extremeness of her moods has always been particularly susceptible to novelty, and her temporary elations tend to strike with the most inane of these.

  There is something like an electric enchantment in the air. The sky is brighter now than it was in the middle of the afternoon and, in fact, it is so bright that the street lamps have turned off all on their own. There is a purplish, almost mystic glow to the air, as if we have left the Flats and entered a fairy tale.

  Rose's voice cuts through the magical air. "Oooh! I have a great idea!"

  I do not say a thing, just keep walking and wait. It could be a good idea, like a walk downtown to the coffee shop for hot chocolate. Or it could be a bad one, like launching snowballs (or slushballs anyway) at cop cars from an overpass.

  "Let’s make snow angels!"

  "That is a great idea!" I exclaim, sharing in her enthusiasm. "Except that there is not any snow on the ground."

  She giggles like a five year old girl. "I mean once there is, silly!"