Spectacle: Stories (4 page)

The night before, he’d told me a story. He was half-asleep. He whispered it into my hair. It was about a time at Club Midnight. A time he was messed up and had to leave. It was snowing. It was morning. He was waiting alone for the bus. But then this woman came walking through the snow. The woman wasn’t wearing a coat. She was holding a knife. She held the knife up to his face. She said, Give me your money. But the guy had no money. And the woman said, Do you want to be killed. Then he started to fall asleep on me. And I said, How did you answer. But he’d already fallen asleep.

When I imagined falling from the tightrope, I imagined what I would pass on my way to the ground. The hats of the people in the crowd. The necks of the people in the crowd. Their shoes as I crashed as hard as I could. I imagined breaking every bone. I would lie there waiting for someone to help. And a guy would rush to save me. And the crowd would be thinking terrible thoughts. Because I fell. Because I was saved.

I picked up my car the following day. But the mechanic wasn’t there. It was another mechanic I didn’t like. He gave me my keys and walked away. I knew I was going to cry. And I didn’t know why I was going to cry. And I didn’t want to cry right there. So I went into the restroom. It was an awful room. It was the smallest room. And I didn’t want to cry in there either. So I ran water in the sink. I scrubbed my hands as hard as I could. I scrubbed my face and neck and arms. I scrubbed extra hard at the first four letters of my name. And how unsettling to see its faint bluish trace. How unsettling never to see it again.

I don’t know who slashed my tires. I sometimes think it was her. Because it happened when she was flying. I mean it happened when she was dying. She was becoming a ghost in a world of ghosts and almost-ghosts.

I sometimes think she meant it as a joke. Because she and I had a private joke once. But I mostly think it was a desperate stranger on the road.

But of course I knew her. I lied to you. Of course I lied.

This story is not about me. As it turns out, I’m just a detail. Like the sky. Like the snow. Like the car you think was real. Or the bus you think was real. Or the plane you think was real. Or the premonition that, you should know, was not.

It wasn’t technically a crash. It was technically an explosion. It was technically a lot of things. Like the end of things. Not of everything. Not to everyone.

And I would hear its name each day for the rest of my life. Every day from that point on. Fucking stupid as that is.

I stared across the table at my father. I asked again whose fault it was. My father tried not to look at me. He said, Not mine. And I said, I know. I said, But whose. And he said, Not mine. He said, Not mine. He lifted up his empty glass. He threw the glass at the wall. The glass shattered. Dinner was over. The holiday, over. It was snowing again. The roads were a mess. I put on my coat. I walked to the door. Over my dead body, my father said. Murder, he said. The roads were a wreck. But I had new tires.

And I had somewhere to be that night. We would all meet up at Club Midnight. I would sit on a couch. I would drink my drinks. There would be pills to take, and clouds would form.

For a while, I would hear a plane and fall to the snow. And I would wait for the plane to pass overhead. Or for the plane to crash. Or for my brain to tell me what next.

And once, lying in the snow, I watched as a bird crashed into a bird. I hadn’t known such a thing could happen. And there was no one around to tell it to. And I don’t know what I would have said, besides.

And once, lying in the snow, I watched as the moon moved across the sky. And I hadn’t known that one could watch it move.

And once I looked up into a face. And if I were someone else, I would tell you more. But this is not the place for adjectives. This is not the place for any words. Not even, Get up. Not even, You’re fine. Not even, It’s not your fault.

Because words are about desire and desire is about the long-tailed birds in the trees.

And desire is about the long-tailed birds as long-tailed birds. Not as metaphor. Not as signifier. Not as anything other than what they are but long-tailed birds switching from branch to branch.

Predatory, this guy I once met called these long-tailed birds.

Magpies, he called them, because they were, and what did I know of birds.

They will chew off your face, he said.

He said, Your pretty face, and touched my face.

When I watch through a window, I feel watched through the window. When I press my face to a screen, I feel pressed from the other side.

But nothing in trees wants to know what goes on in rooms. Even when I scratch like a cat at the screen. Even when I make sounds with my tongue and teeth.

And when I send words from my brain to the tops of the trees, by which I mean stars, by which I mean something else, the universe, even then.

I was taught to do this as a child. I was taught this would work, sending words from my brain. Taught by whom, I can’t remember.

It was someone who knew about that which listens.

It was someone lying still on the grass, saying, Come here pretty, saying, Not you.

It was someone who knew the universe.

It was a father, of course I remember.

Some father lying still on the grass.

Some father still lying after dark.

As the world went on around him.

And the world went on without him.

But this isn’t a story about the father.

It’s a story about a hike in the woods. It was me and this guy and this friend he had. I never wanted to go on the hike. I mean I never thought it would be a real hike. I thought we’d find a rock, just me and the guy, and sit and stare at the view.

But the friend was in from out of town. He wanted to go on the hike with us. He knew all the trails that no one else knew.

And he would drive, the guy said.

Come on, he said.

We were standing at my door. I hadn’t dressed for walking up trails. I’d only dressed for sitting on a rock. I’d dressed for charming this one guy. And here was the guy, dressed to go on an actual hike. And there was the friend, dressed for a hike, as well.

The friend called out, Do you have a hat.

He called out, Do you have real shoes.

His voice was such a tough guy’s voice. It seemed like work to talk like that. All the work it took to try to be that guy.

I said, No.

I said, Do you.

He was wearing sturdy shoes. And a sturdy coat. And he stood all tough. It seemed like too much work.

He said, I have real shoes.

I laughed.

I said, Do you.

Trust me when I say I wasn’t flirting. I didn’t like the friend. Though later, this will all sound like a lie. Later, you will think new things of me. You will think some things you don’t think now.

But trust me it was the guy I liked. I wanted a date just me and him. We’d sit on a rock and pretend some things about the universe. About beauty. About other abstractions I didn’t understand.

I said to no one, Give me a cigarette.

I didn’t smoke. But I sometimes wanted a cigarette. Smoking made me feel better at times. I can’t explain it. But of course the friend walked up to me. And of course he struck the match.

And at what point does one tire of performance. At what point is it all just tiring. The friend’s performance of guy. My performance of girl. The guy I liked not even stepping in. Not lighting my cigarette himself. Too scared to get that close to me.

Just standing there like some dumb fuck.

The friend just stood there, dumb, as well.

To say I had them where I wanted them.

They were dumbstruck more than dumb.

Because I was just so fucking charming.

Because I was always just so fucking this.

Just ask my father.

Just ask his ladies.

They would say, What a charming little thing.

They would say, What a pretty little thing.

I could eat you up, is what they would say.

Inside the woods was darker than out. There were birds and bird sounds all around. The friend knew all about birds. He told us what he knew about birds. He told us what he knew about trees. I pretended not to listen. What did I care what tree was what. What birds.

Though I liked to look upward through the leaves. I wouldn’t have told this to anyone. That it gave me a feeling I can’t explain.

And at times I considered stepping off the trail. Of running wild through the woods. It would have been something, I thought. To get lost in the trees. To imagine there was no other world.

And I would have stepped off the trail if the friend hadn’t called out, Come on.

There was something he wanted to show us. It was up ahead. He was walking way too fast.

He called back to me, Let’s go.

Then he was running, and the guy was running, and I didn’t want to run. I wasn’t dressed to run. And I didn’t know what was up ahead. So I walked at my own slow pace.

There were stories from childhood I’d read of the woods. There were pictures in books I’d stared at at night. In the pictures the trees had eyes and teeth.

And there were other stories I knew of the woods. There were things that happened in the woods at night. There were woods by our house and I was told stay away.

I was told stay away from other things too. Like the dog next door, yet I fed him bones through the fence. Like the two dumb guys who came around. They wanted to fuck me. They were both so dumb.

Like my father.

I told myself, Stay away.

He will destroy you, is what I told myself.

Run away, is what I told myself.

He will turn you into him, I told myself.

You are not that whore, I told myself.

But look at me hiking in completely wrong shoes. Look at me in completely wrong clothes. Look at my fucking hair.

From far ahead the friend said, Come on, and the guy said, Come on, but I walked slowly, staring up into leaves.

My father would say, Don’t go in the woods.

I would mock him, Don’t go into the woods.

Then I would go.

At first I didn’t know what to expect.

Darkness, perhaps.

The terrible sound of owls.

Or worse.

The terrible acts of guys.

My body surrounded by what surrounded.

My body eaten, the rest left for worms.

But it wasn’t any of that.

It was far worse, of course, than that.

The friend said, Come on.

The guy said, Let’s go.

Their voices sounded far away. And here was my chance to step off the trail. My chance to save what was left to save.

But there I was, running to catch up with them. There I was, some scared-as-shit girl. I was some scared-as-shit child. Running in wrong shoes up the trail. Scared to be left alone.

And there were the guys, waiting for me.

Then the woods opened up and we were in a place. It was like childhood. Not mine, of course, but the childhood I wished I’d had.

There was what one could call a clearing, and there were trees. There was what one could call a waterfall.

And there was me looking at the waterfall. There was the friend looking at it too. There was the guy sticking his hands into the water.

I didn’t want anything in that moment. I mean I didn’t want to want anything. I don’t know exactly what I mean.

I know I wanted to be a different person than I was.

I wanted to see the waterfall as beautiful.

I wanted to be less beautiful than the waterfall.

I wanted to want to be that.

But when my arms began to ache, for we’d been all day hiking, I said, My arms.

The guy said, Your arms.

The friend said, What do you mean your arms.

He walked over to me.

He said, It should be your legs.

He said, Where.

I held out my arms. He touched them. And the guy just watched. He did nothing to stop it. He too was too scared.

After the hike, we drank in the car. And after we drank, we went for a ride. It was early evening and summer and perfect. And I loved in that moment the sound of the crickets. I loved in that moment the color of the sky. And the back of both guys’ heads in the front.

As a child, I could never make up my mind. I would want both toys. I would want both dolls.

Old maid, my father always said.

You’ll end up with nothing, he always said.

Or both, I always said.

If one was truly charming, one could have both.

Just look at me charming my father’s ladies as a child.

Look at them giving me things to keep.

I would hold out my hands, which were filled and refilled.

And look at me getting the toy and the game.

Getting both new dolls.

Getting both dumb guys.

Look at me hiking up my skirt.

Look at them now all scared of me.

Look at me running through woods.

I was utterly disgraceful.

Just look at the sun about to set.

Just look.

The guy had to piss. The friend pulled off to the side. The guy went into the woods. The friend and I stood by the car. At first it was nothing, just standing. But then he lifted me onto the hood of the car. It was just to be funny, I was thinking. But I wasn’t thinking. I mean to say there was no thought.

But that’s not true. Because I was thinking something as he lifted me up.

I was thinking of something wrong to think.

And when his face was near mine, I thought of the guy.

And when he said, Pretty face, I thought, Pretty face.

And when I said to stop, he said, Stop what.

And when it was me on the hood of the car, it wasn’t me on the hood of the car.

And when I was a girl on the hood of the car, I was a guy on the hood of the car.

I didn’t know where to put my hands.

The guy had come out from the woods by then. He was standing at the woods’ edge. He was looking at us like I don’t know what.

Like, Fuck you two. Like, I will kill you two.

I want to say I was drunk. But I was more that thing after drunk. That thing between drunk and sleep. Or drunk and regret. Or drunk and drunk again.

And the truth is I knew where to put my hands.

Because I was predatory.

That’s not the word.

I was perverted.

That’s not it.

I was something though.

Just some little thing.

Just some charming little thing.

I wish I could give you a climactic moment. But there is no climactic moment in this. There is no such thing here as climactic. In a story about a hike, there is only a circling around and around.

In a story about me and guys, there is only a circling around.

And in a story about a story.

In a story about the father.

Mine taught me all the wrong things.

Mine taught me how to be that girl.

Mine taught me how to be that guy.

So thank you, Father, thank you, thank you.

And thank you, trees, for not noticing me.

Thank you, birds, for not noticing me.

Thank you, windows, for keeping the universe on its side.

For keeping me on mine.

My father would wake me mornings, his face too close, shout, Rise and shine, in my face, and I wanted his face far away.

And I wanted it farther and farther.

And when it was as far away as it could be, it still wasn’t far enough.

It was still right there, my father’s face, in front of my face.

My father ready to give me away.

My father ready to throw me away.

Whenever you’re ready, he always said.

I’m waiting, he said.

Old maid, he said.

Still waiting, he said.

Then he died.

I should say there were moments in childhood worth something. I made tents from sheets like anyone. I dug holes in the yard.

My father threw me into the air, caught me.

He threw me into the air, caught me.

He threw me into the air.

It wasn’t so different in moments. I wasn’t so different from you.

I was falling, like you, for something.

The guy stood by the edge of the woods. I wanted him to stop looking at us. I wanted him to stop looking like that. And I would have said something smart, like, Take a picture. But I was thinking instead that he could get hurt. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was the shadows on the road. Or his smallness next to trees. I was thinking of the stories of the woods at night. I knew what could happen in the woods. There were monsters. There were witches. There were killers.

So I sent a thought to the universe. And I sent it again. I sent it again.

And when he moved from the woods, I was a believer in something.

And when he reached the car, I was not.

Because then I remembered.

What.

I just remembered.

What.

Desire is desire for recognition, and I was controlled by desire just like you.

I was fucked up just like you.

The guy walked up to the car, said, What’s going on, and I said, What.

And he looked at the friend and said, You know what, and the friend laughed and said, What.

Now, I see why this was wrong. All of it. I see.

But in that moment I was too in love.

I don’t mean with the friend. I don’t mean with the guy.

The ride home was the radio loud. It was none of us saying a word. It was my drinking what was left to drink. It was the friend dropping the guy off first. It was the guy slamming the door.

Then it was just me and the friend in the car. And we pulled up to my place. He followed me inside.

I swear I was thinking, No, and, No.

I swear.

This is not the time to ask me what I was. Though if you did, I might say a child. I might say the child I was as a child, landing hard on the grass and lying there until the world went dark.

It was my father who said to send your thoughts.

It was he who said to tell the universe what you want.