Spectacle: Stories (6 page)

My brother smoked his first cigarette at the kitchen table. He was ten and the cigarette was unfiltered, and he took a long drag, and my father said, Boy, and my father was proud. And when my brother started choking, my father laughed his ass off, and I laughed my ass off too. My brother just looked so dumb, not able to stop that choking. He looked so dumb, the smoke just pouring out of his dumb head, my brother, who was not my father’s son.

I was standing over my boyfriend. It had started to rain. And I liked, in that moment, the rain. I mean I liked, in that moment, the sound of the rain. And I liked the weight of the book in my hand. But it must have seemed like a night terror to him. It must have seemed like a dream of being killed. Because in seconds my boyfriend was off the couch. Then he was the one holding the book.

We were standing at the kitchen table. We were playing the dumb parts we played. It was like I was trying to play a woman, and he was trying to play a man. It was like I was trying to play the victim, and he was trying to play the savior. He said, I’m going to kill him. I said, Then kill him. But my brother would not kill my boyfriend. Because he was my brother, not my father. And so my brother would stand at the kitchen table. And I would stand at the kitchen table. And eventually, my brother would go to his job. He would pick up weights. He would haul out trash. But for now, he was going nowhere. And I was going nowhere. For now, we were putting on a show. It was a show we put on for each other. It was a show we put on for our father. It was a show we put on for our mother. It was utterly absurd, our show. Just a little girl playing little girl. Just a big guy playing big guy. And who was the girl. And who was the guy. It was so confusing, our show. We didn’t always stick to our lines. We didn’t always know our lines.

I should have started with this: A bird flew into the bedroom. And followed with: It was flying crazy into the walls. Feathers floated from the ceiling. I swatted at the bird with a book. I swatted it back through the window.

I should have started with this: I was standing in the hallway. And followed with: I was standing over my boyfriend’s sleeping body. I wasn’t thinking as I stood over his body. I was just holding a book up high while he slept.

One morning my father threw my brother’s dolls into the trash. And this time he locked the trash in the trunk of his car. And this time my brother cried all morning, and my father didn’t know what to do. At some point they had a private talk. My father was sitting on my brother’s bed. My brother was crying on the floor. I was standing in the doorway. Boys only, my father said, and slammed the door in my face. I suddenly felt like the only person in the world. I felt like I was standing on the moon. I screamed, Fuck you, at the door. I screamed, Fuck you, and kicked the door. I screamed, Fuck you pricks, and kicked a hole right through the fucking door.

Later that day, my father took us for pizza. And after we ate our pizza, he took us to a toy store. It was the biggest toy store in the city. My father bought me a book on puzzles. He bought my brother a rocket to build. My brother, for whom there was still hope. He could still become an astronaut.

My brother smoked his second cigarette at the kitchen table. He smoked his third cigarette at the kitchen table. He smoked his fourth, and it was terrible to watch him smoke. It was absolutely brutal. But did I try to stop him. He was so determined. I couldn’t stop him.

And did I try to stop my boyfriend as the book was rushing toward my face. Let’s just say I was working through something. I was making up for something.

This had nothing to do with my mother. When I stood at the mirror, I did not see my mother’s face. It was not that at all. My mother was not a banged-up woman. She was a brilliant woman. She left the house. And I could not have stopped her.

Just before he died, my father came back to the city for business. We met him at a trashy bar. He looked old. He could barely talk. He coughed the whole night. Everyone knew he was going to die. The bartender gave him water. She gave him a look. She gave us all that look. And my father grabbed the bartender’s arm and pulled her in toward him. And through all his coughing, he was able to say something to her. I don’t know why I thought he would say something nice, like thank you or something like that. It wasn’t like he was that type. He did not say something nice. He said something about her body. Something about her ass. Her amazing ass. My father said to me, Look at that ass. I looked at the bartender’s face. It was alarming how much she hated us. And my boyfriend snapped at my father for this. And my brother snapped at my boyfriend. And I snapped at my brother. And as the bartender walked away, my brother looked at her ass. And my boyfriend looked at her ass. And I, as well, looked at her ass. And it was amazing.

There was a night my boyfriend waked me, screaming. Then he was rushing through the room, and I was screaming too. Then he was in the hallway, then at the door, then running down a flight of stairs, and I was running after him, screaming, Don’t. Outside were cars and people on the street. My boyfriend ran out, screaming, They want me. I screamed, No one wants you. He screamed, Yes they do. Then he was running into traffic.

Then I was running too. Then someone else screamed. Tires screeched. I grabbed my boyfriend’s arm.

Next we were standing on the sidewalk. People were staring at my boyfriend. My boyfriend asked how he had gotten there. I guess he meant to the sidewalk. But either way, I did not have an answer. Because it was just too huge a question. Because it was probably a miracle. I mean how the fuck did I get there. How did anyone get there on that street. Some miraculous spark that just kept on. I knew nothing about miracles. I was not the one to ask. But I knew how to get my boyfriend up the stairs.

I could have solved that puzzle at any point. It was a nothing puzzle to solve. But I waited years to solve it. Because I did not want to solve it. A hotel with an infinite number of rooms. I just loved the thought of that hotel. Just imagine that hotel.

Look. What if there was no bird. What if there was no bird flying through the room. What if there was only me and the book. What if I made up the bird.

And what if I was holding the book like this. And what if I was standing there like this. And what if I made a face like this. And what if I felt like a zombie. And what if I felt like an animal. And what if I felt just like a guy. And what if he opened his eyes like this. What if he looked at me like this. I said to my brother, You have never seen terror like this.

I should have started with this: After my boyfriend hit me in the face with the book, everything stopped. And followed with:

I mean the rain and every blade of grass and every leaf on every tree and air and light and time and

I should have started with this: After my boyfriend hit me in the face with the book, everything started. And followed with:

I should say there were good times with my boyfriend. The morning after he ran to the street, we laughed pretty hard. We laughed at his saying, They want me. And at my saying, No one wants you. And we laughed at the sound the tires made. And at the person who screamed. And at his dumb-as-shit questions. And my dumb-as-shit answers. We laughed pretty much all morning.

But one day I would be at my brother’s again. I would have another mark on my face. The mark would be on the same side as the other mark. But it would be flatter than the other mark. It would not be from a book this time. And I would know something then that I hadn’t, before that day, known.

And on that day, as my brother stood to leave, I would tell him the unsolved puzzle. I would hope that he would solve it. I would hope his brilliance would return. I didn’t want my brother to be my father. I wanted him to be my mother. The question, I would say to him, is how. How, I would say, but he wouldn’t care. He would leave his place. He would find my boyfriend. And I would sit there, waiting.

But before that day was this day, and it seemed the rain would never stop.

And streets would flood and bridges would fall and people would die, and no one ever predicted all that rain.

And did you want to hit him, my brother said.

I was not that type of girl.

I was my father’s daughter, not my father.

I didn’t hit him, I said.

And the rain would fall for thirty days, and it seemed the rain would never stop.

But did you want to hit him, my brother said.

And a day would come that would be the last.

Not the last of the rain, but the last of the days.

And no great man would come to save us.

No great man would ever come.

And I would hold up my hand for a high five.

And my brother would hold up his.

One does not start with mourning doves.

One cannot start with doves surrounding the bedroom.

One starts with the trip to Sausalito, the quick ride over the bridge, the city shrinking in the side-view.

One starts with the trip, as the details of the trip are simple: Mexican food, espresso.

The details are simple: houseboats and the theater where one remembered seeing a film on a first date, a blind date, some years back.

The date himself, one remembered, was beautiful, the night itself, and if one felt to sleep with him on the first date, one would have gotten, one would guess, the second date.

The film was foreign, fine, two perfect people falling in love.

One cannot start with mourning doves surrounding the bedroom, several in windows sitting on branches, making their hollow sound.

One cannot start with doves looking through the windows to where one lay in one’s bed, still, too late to be lying still in one’s bed.

One starts with something lighter, light, the Mexican food, the espresso, and, walking past the theater, one told one’s friend about the blind date from years back, how beautiful his face was; how sentimental the film; how one fell for it, still, the perfect people falling in love; how after the date, one went back to his place; how one was asked to take off one’s shoes; how one was asked to lie in his bed; how one did not go all the way on first dates; how that was back then; how this was now.

One’s friend laughed, and all that mattered, in this moment, was this moment.

All that mattered in the next moment was the pulling in one’s gut as one laughed too.

One mentions the pulling as it too is a detail, the detail that made one stay in one’s bedroom, shades drawn, the following day and the following day, but it was a great day, this day, to be on the other side of the bridge.

Everything was a metaphor this day.

Like the bridge itself.

Like the lack of traffic on the bridge.

Like the doves cooing from every branch that morning in bed, and one read the doves as a sign of something to come.

One was right to do so; everything that day was a sign.

Not from the universe, as one now knows the universe is not in control, as one now knows the universe is not calling the shots, as one now knows that neither is there human control and neither is there fate and neither is there an explanation for what there is.

There is just the endless dialogue between one’s own soft brain and one’s own soft brain.

One has to accept this.

It was just a morning.

It was just a visit one had to get to, and as the birds flew off the branches, one by one, one got out of bed, one pulled on clothes, one left.

It was just the usual: one’s body transported as if pulled by strings.

Then the wait, feet up, for the doctor to enter, the doctor who called one Baltimore; How’s it going, Baltimore, he’d say, and laugh.

After, one felt the need to leave the city, to see it shrinking in the side-view.

And when one felt like being alone, one left one’s friend at the table, one stood outside in the wind, looking toward the houseboats, feeling half-pathetic, half-heroic.

Which is to say half-oneself, half—someone else.

Once back inside, one didn’t explain the events of outside, that while one’s hair was whipping about the way one would imagine, there was a pulling in one’s gut.

One only said one saw the houseboats, a man in a straw hat standing on one, sweeping its floor, and this seemed a metaphor too.

But for what.

One does not know.

Perhaps something about out with the old.

Perhaps something about each man for himself.

Perhaps something about that.

The story itself is a force inside; the doctor afraid to move closer; one’s insides afloat, quivering black and white on a screen.

The doctor said nothing, kept his distance.

One knew what he was thinking.

One now was fluent in the doctor’s face.

One now was fluent in one’s insides.

One now knew where to find this and that: the cord, the head, the spastic flicker of the heart.

When the doctor sighed, looked down, one thought, Now what.

The nurse, as well, looked down.

There was nowhere else to look.

This was not the time for words.

This was not the time to say something dumb.

Anything would have been dumb.

Fuck this
would have been dumb.

Why
would have been pathetic.

It was supposed to happen to others.

It was not supposed to happen.

One was only trying to be an adult.

One was only trying to start one’s life.

One was only trying to start another.

Check again, one said.

One said, Check again.

Check again, one said.

The heart wasn’t beating.

One said, Check again.

The doctor held out his hand for a handshake and anyone would have been confused.

It was not a handshake but a way to help one up.

Tomorrow, he said.

One did not want to get up.

The technical term was
aspiration,
and this was not the time to deconstruct words.

Get dressed, Baltimore, he said.

One left him hanging, hand in the air, and he left.

When one’s phone rang, one was still undressed, standing barefoot by the screen.

One’s friend said, What do you need.

It was too big a question.

There were machines in the room one did not understand.

There were jars of sticks one could not figure out, not the jars, but the sticks.

One’s man was supposed to be there, helping to pull one’s underwear on.

One’s man was supposed to tell one what next.

But there is nothing to say about one’s man.

One’s man was only in one’s mind.

In one’s mind he had those long legs one loved and ragged jeans.

He had hair hanging into his eyes.

But this is not about one’s man.

Because there was no man.

Forget the man.

There was only one standing alone in a room.

There was one’s friend saying, What.

It was too hard a question.

One had a sudden need to be melodramatic.

One had a sudden need to be difficult, loud, one’s default before one learned to perform.

Then came the need to be driven fast across the bridge, the need to see water, seabirds, houseboats moored to a dock.

A sign on the wall said to avoid drinking liquor.

A sign on the wall said to avoid eating shark.

But one could now drink heavily.

One could now eat shark.

One would try to remember to say this to one’s friend.

I can eat a whole fucking shark, one would say.

But one would quickly forget this joke.

And what good is it, sitting here now.

One stayed undressed until the nurse knocked on the door, knocked again, said one’s name, knocked again, opened the door still saying one’s name, still knocking.

The menu said the espresso was the best in Sausalito, and, not having tried it elsewhere, one believed it was.

The Mexican food, too, one feels was the best.

One liked to see the theater again.

To be reminded that one cannot force a spark in another.

That one can get undressed, get into his bed, and still get sent home in a cab.

That one can watch a sunrise by oneself on one’s living room floor, a perfect cliché.

That one can make decisions about one’s future on one’s living room floor, as the sun moves from chair to couch to wall.

And the silent melodrama of this.

One used to think
mourning
was spelled
morning,
and then, as
morning,
it was a different kind of dove, a different sound they made.

That was in Baltimore, and then one was young and one was dumb.

And then one thought one was tough.

And that was then, and everything then was Baltimore Baltimore Baltimore.

And the brilliance of this.

Now though.

This is the West.

This is what it is to be an adult.

And one cannot handle the accuracy of these birds.

One cannot handle the sentimental fuckload that is these birds.

One cannot even write these birds without feeling like one of those people one detests.

One of what people.

You know what people.

But this is not the time to detest those people.

This is not the time to detest oneself.

This was not a thing one could control.

Because one was never in control.

Because nothing was ever in control.

The technical term was
spontaneous.

The technical term was
involuntary.

There was no explanation.

There was only rising as if pulled by strings.

There was only wondering what next.

And never knowing what next.

The café would close and the ride back to the city was looming.

There would first be a joke about cigarettes, about picking up smoking.

There would first be a joke about whiskey, about drinking oneself sick, about drinking oneself under the fucking table.

There would first be the hope that one’s friend would head the car north instead, along the coast, that one would never return.

But one’s friend needed to get back to the city.

One’s friend had a wife, kids, waiting on the other side of the bridge.

For one’s friend, there was dinner waiting, warm, and talk of the safe and dull events of a day.

And for one there was night, then later night.

And the melodrama that was a ceiling coming into view.

And the melodrama that was one’s brain considering the ceiling.

And the sudden deep thoughts one had that only seemed deep, that only seemed sudden.

About each man for himself.

About out with the old.

And so on and so on.

Listen to this, friend.

One had it going on in Baltimore.

One was never safe, never dull.

One had different aspirations.

But that was then, and now a new city forced its way through the windshield.

And one could pretend one was tough, still.

One could pretend one could handle it all.

One could say, Beautiful, and point to the skyline.

One could pretend one had never fallen in love.

With a brilliant thought.

A faceless man.

A rapid flicker on a screen.

It’s all heart at this point, the doctor once said, and shook one’s hand.

And one could laugh out the window, not one of those people, not one of those sentimental fucks, and pretend one’s own heart hadn’t stopped.