She slapped at one of the smaller flies buzzing by her ear.
Girl, just let it go
, she told herself.
Just let it lie and you'll figure it all out later
. But she couldn't, and before she knew it, her mouth was back in action.
“Besides,” she started up again, turning toward Jackson, “why
you
trippin', anyway? I'm the one that took my sorry ass clear across town to do something nice for you, sucking smog in this stinkin' heat, making three damn bus changes, going into a store where people looked at me like I was a piece of shit they wished they could wipe off their shoes, and I still figured out a way to steal you a brand-new goddamn fancy-ass pen, exactly like the one that ran outta ink. So what if I didn't know about the goddamn ink cartridges. You still got a brand new fucking pen. With a new fucking ink cartridge. So, why you gotta ride my ass for what I didn't do just perfect?” Taylor paused. “Damn. It's too hot to deal with this shit. I'll catch you later.” She started to climb back out the side window.
“Wait,” Jackson said. “Don't go.” She reached out and touched Taylor's shoulder, pulling her back into the car. “Listen, you're right. I am tripping. I'm sorry. I just got scared, that's all. You're right. It ain't no big deal.” She held out the new pen, unscrewing the top for the second time. “Look, just give me back my old pen. I'll put this new pen's cartridge in it and it will be good as new. We'll even have us an extra backup pen and next time we're downtown we can get some extra cartridges. Listen, girl. I'm sorry I went off on you like that. I just tripped, that's all. Gimme my pen. It's cool.”
Taylor felt the sick feeling rise up again. She wished she could just go back to having her face buried in Jackson's neck, both of them laughing, her heart busting clear out of her chest it was so full, back when everything was okay. That moment felt like a lifetime ago. Now, the only way out was to go on through. She forced herself to look up at Jackson. “I don't have your pen anymore.”
“What the hell you mean you don't have my pen anymore?” Jackson said, grabbing Taylor's shirt. “Girl, where's my goddamn pen! Please do not tell me you threw away my Cross pen.”
“Nah, baby, I didn't throw it away. I had to leave it at the store. Baby, I'm sorry. I had to swap for the new one when they wasn't looking. That's the only way I could make the cop.”
“You left my pen at the store?” Jackson's jaw clenched. “Damn, fool. Why the fuck would you leave my pen at the goddamn store? What the hell were you thinking?”
“Baby, I'm telling you, it's the only way I could make the cop. You don't know what those stores are like. They got that goddamn shit locked up like Fort Knox. Everything's in these locked glass display cases. You can't touch nothing. You gotta get the manager to open the shit up and then they be watching your ass so tight you can't even think about making a move. And that part of town's screaming with rich people and rent-a-cops so I knew I couldn't pull a snatch-and-dash. Hell no. I wouldn't even know which way to run. So it was all I could do to just stand there and bullshit my way through until the bitch glanced away for a second to sign for a delivery and I could make the switch. It was real clean. I just slid the pen up my sleeve and put your old one back into the fancy box in a flash and told them I'd have to think about whether or not I wanted the gold or silver one and I'd be back⦔
“Ah, shut up, Taylor. I don't want to listen to another one of your stupid stealing stories. Hell, girl, you steal even when you don't got to. How stupid is that?”
“I said don't call me stupid,” Taylor growled. “Besides, what am I not getting? Look, I'm sorry about your pen, but the one I got you is exactly the same, except it's brand new. That's better, right? What's so fucking special about that particular pen, anyway?”
Taylor watched the vein in Jackson's forehead pulse, her jaw clenching and releasing. “My mama gave me that pen.”
“Ah, shit.” Taylor punched the padded doorframe with her fist. “Damn, why didn't you tell me that pen came from your mama?”
Jackson just looked out the window. “She gave it to me the day I graduated from high school. She said she knew I was going to make my mark on the world and that she wanted to be a part of it in some small way. I know it musta taken her a week's worth of wages to save up for that damn pen.”
“Wait. You graduated from high school? What the fuck. Why didn't you ever tell me you graduated from high school?”
“Because I didn't want to make you feel bad. I know how you trip on anything to do with education. Look, it ain't about that anyway. It ain't about me telling or not telling you shit. It's about you fucking up and losing my mama's pen.
Why
didn't I tell you about the cartridges?
Why
didn't I tell you about my mama giving me the pen? Hell, I couldn't possibly even think fast enough to imagine everything I'd have to tell you so you didn't go off and do something stupid.” Jackson sighed. “Look. Just forget it. Just go, okay.”
“No problem. I'm outta here.” Taylor crawled back out through the window. “Goddamn motherfucking piece of shit,” she cursed, slamming her fist on the trunk of the Caddy. She kicked out the side windows of three Chevys as she made her way down the row of cars and back out into the street. J. Edgar wisely kept his distance, watching from the shade of a totaled Plymouth.
When Taylor returned, it was dusk and she found Jackson sitting on the hood of a '65 Mustang, knees curled up to her chest.
“Hey girl,” Jackson called softly. “Glad you came back.”
“Look,” Taylor started. “I'm sorry⦔
“Nah, girl, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I called you stupid. I'm sorry I went off on you like that.”
“No, it's my fault. I blew it. I shoulda known about those damn cartridges.”
Jackson shook her head. “My mama says you can only know what you know and there ain't no shame in that.”
“Yeah, well that could save me a hell of a lot of shame, because what I don't know could fill up a dumpster ten times over. Anyway, I'm sorry. I brought you something.” She handed Jackson a white shopping bag, wrapped in red ribbon. “Open it.”
“Sunset Stationers?” Jackson looked puzzled. She unwrapped the bag and pulled out a green velvet case.
“It's your pen,” Taylor said. “Your real one. I got it back.”
“You kidding me? How'd you do that?” Jackson opened the case and pulled out the pen, holding it gently in her hands. “I know that lady wasn't gonna let you swipe something twice in the same day.”
Taylor reached in her pocket and handed her a folded piece of paper.
Jackson opened it, confused. “A receipt? What are you saying? Taylor, are you telling me you
bought
me my mom's pen?”
“Yep. That's exactly what I did. Went back into the store like a regular person, told the lady I'd made up my mind and that I wanted to buy the pen I'd been looking at earlier. Same one. Gave her the money in cash and transacted the deal. Straight up.”
“Damn, Taylor. I don't think you've ever bought me anything,” Jackson laughed, wrapping her arms around the girl. “Thank you, baby.”
“Yeah, well, don't get too excited,” Taylor said. “Here.” She pulled another package out of her pocket and handed it to Jackson. “I stole you a couple packets of cartridges while she was ringing up the sale. I wouldn't want you to be thinking I'm gonna be making a habit of this buying shit.”
the wound closed
unsure whether to bleed or heal (since, for the body, both the letting of blood and the pink gathering of tissue are healingâalthough there is such a thing as just too much loss), the wound closed in sticky yellow struggle. god sighed
.
Blue Sky
Taylor took the roach and sucked in hard, held it long, and let it out slow before handing it back to Jackson. The two girls had been lying around most of the afternoon, half sleeping, half getting high, mostly just staying out of the heat. “So how come you never let me hear your story?” she asked.
“What story, baby?” Jackson asked, taking the joint and nuzzling back into her girlfriend's shoulder. “What story you want to hear?”
“You know, the one about how we met. I read you mine but you never let me hear the one that you wrote.”
“I'll read it to you, baby,” Jackson said. “You know you can read anything I write.” Jackson reached over and pulled out her leather journal. “You sure you ready for this?” she asked, smiling.
Taylor grinned and nodded. “Oh yeah.”
Jackson sat up a little and began to read out loud:
The white girl seems unaware of how the men are looking at her. That's the first thing I notice about her. She does not engage the eyes of the men. Unless, of course, they are looking for drugs. A friend of Trina's, the white girl comes down to the boulevard to deal. She feeds only the hunger for the drugs; ignores the other hungers, ignores the eyes that want her. The fact that she is not soliciting the men makes them want her even more
.
I see everything, even myselfâa black girl watching the white girl ignoring the men who are watching her, wanting her. I spit and gently finger my knife. There is something slightly dangerous about this skinny white girl who strides the streets in her heavy boots and possible ignorance, half looking like she owns the territory, half looking like she's just landed from another planet. “Jackson, baby, you just leave that white girl be,” my mama warns me. “White girl like that like to get you killed.”
Taylor laughed. “Shit. That sounds just like your mom. Always riding my sorry ass about something. You know, I think she hates me worse for being white than being gay.”
Jackson smiled. “Nah, she don't hate you. It's just taking a while for you to grow on her, that's all.”
“So, you was watching me all that time, too, huh?” Taylor teased, smiling at the thought of Jackson checking her out. “But, damn, then you're watching you watching me, and watching all the motherfuckers, too. What's up with that? Why you gotta write it like you're way up high, looking down on everything?”
“It's called perspective,” Jackson said. “The bigger picture. To write well, you've got to be aware of everything.”
“Hell,” Taylor said, looking back over the story. “I can't hardly keep track of my own damn shit, much less everyone else's.”
Jackson laughed. “Yeah, well, you got a lot to keep track of, I'll give you that.”
The girls lay back together for a while in silence, enjoying the high. Taylor heard a faint scratching and knew that J. Edger was underneath the camper, digging out a cool place to lie down. She knew that meant that the dog had been let off his chain and she listened for the creaking of hinges and the clanging of the chain-link gates as Jimmy locked up the yard for the night. She figured it had to be close to six and wondered what they should do about food. Maybe she'd sell a lid to one of Jimmy's friends and go get them all burritos. She thought about how much she loved to feel her stomach growl when she had money in her pocket.
“Hey, Taylor,” Jackson called softly. “You awake?”
“Uh huh,” Taylor answered, pulling her close.
“Girl, you ever been on a plane?”
“A plane?” Taylor asked. “Nah. Oh, you mean like those Lear jets my rich daddy used to fly us in to Paris every summer?”
Jackson ignored her foolishness. “I've been thinking about what we were talking about. I was in a plane once,” she said. “When my Nana brought me out here from Detroit. All that morning it had been pouring down rain. Sleet and hail hitting you upside the head so bad you wanted to punch somebody out. Umbrellas were a joke. Cars were sliding off the side of the road all the way to the airport.”
Taylor closed her eyes and settled into the story. She briefly wondered what rain and airplanes had to do with their conversation about Jackson's writing, but she was high enough to not care. Besides, she loved the rare moments when Jackson actually told a story out loud instead of always writing in her journal, head buried, unavailable. Jackson didn't talk much, but Taylor learned that if she got her high enough, all that could change real fast.
“So we make it to the airport and get on this big old 727,” Jackson continued, “and it takes off right in the middle of the whole damn storm, rumbling down the runway like a motherfuckin' freight train. Then we're up in the air, surrounded by heavy black clouds, hail slamming all up against the windows, lightning everywhere you look, the plane bouncing around all sideways, people screaming and puking in these little bags they so thoughtfully provided. Girl, I was so scared I almost peed my pants.
“âNana,' I ask her. âAre we gonna die?'
“And my Nana, she just reaches over, cool as could be, and pats my hand.
“âWell, yes, sugar,' she says. âOf course we are.'
“So, of course, I almost lose it right then and there and want to book, but where am I gonna run to, right? And so my Nana just smiles and says, âHoney, we're all a gonna die sooner or later. That's just the way God made us. Now, if what you are asking me is are we going to die right now, on this here plane, well then, baby girl, the answer is no. Of course not. Everything is just fine, sugar. You'll see.'
“And then sure enough, just like she and God had planned it all along, suddenly we bust up through the clouds into this bright blue sky, sun blaring down on the silver wings so you had to squint, all the clouds gone except a sea of white below us, and everything real calm and quiet, like we were floating in space. Then the stewardess straightens her little cap and walks down the aisle with this shiny metal cart that just barely fits, smiling and asking if we'd like a soda and some lunch.” Jackson shook her head. “Hot food, too. Already cooked. And we didn't have to pay for it or anything.”