Troika (12 page)

S
ince my injury, I have learned that within a person are multiple levels of reality—realities that may oppose each other, contradictory realities that may appear identical to the person in whom these realities reside, realities that, despite their differences and because of their similarities, may coexist. The two most common are what we know to be true and is true—and then what we know to be true but is false. These are not
views
of reality, not perceptions, distorted or accurate, not hallucinations or altered states of consciousness. Rather, they are realities that carry with them all of the trappings of truth—crispness, clarity, irrefutability, immediacy, pervasiveness.

Sometimes these multiple levels of reality are of equal potency; sometimes one exercises dominion over the other; sometimes that dominion is temporary, transient; and sometimes it is permanent. But it is exceedingly rare, some would say impossible, for one reality
to extinguish fully the other, for the weaker of the two (or three or more) has a life that co-terminates with its stronger counterpart: star-crossed lovers toasting goblets of hemlock brew.

For Julian, one reality is that he drove the car in which I became paralyzed—but that it was neither his fault nor mine. In that reality, he wasn’t so drunk that his reflexes were impaired—just a hair under the legal limit, the police would determine—and that even if he were stone-cold sober, he still had no choice but to veer hard left to avoid the deer and would have hit the utility pole. That reality is coupled with a necessary assumption—that my insistence on driving instead of walking had no bearing on his decision, that he is not the type of man to be cajoled into doing something he does not want to do. One without the other and this reality is negated.

Julian’s second reality is that he drove the car in which I became paralyzed—but that it was entirely his fault. This is a reality to which I do not and have never subscribed. There are, of course, two integral parts to this reality: that he was indeed too drunk to drive and that he allowed himself to be coerced into doing something that he did not want to do. Again, one without the other and this reality is negated.

It is this second reality to which Julian most often attaches and in which he curiously finds some comfort. I asked him once, and only once, to explain why this reality dominates his psyche, and he mumbled something about categorical imperative and certainty, even if faulty, as an antidote to the horror of ambiguity. Now, what this has to do with categorical imperative, I have only the faintest idea, and when he said it I smiled and made an awful joke about
Kant
being a word that should almost never be used, an imperfect homonym that gave us a good laugh. But, really, maybe what he meant by it was that taking sole responsibility was, for him, a moral obligation that might free me from my own guilt.

My
first reality goes something like this: it was not Julian’s fault
and it was only partially my fault, because even though I shouldn’t have pressured him to drive, especially knowing how much champagne he had that night, how could I possibly have anticipated that a deer would leap out from nowhere on a quiet sandy lane and guide us straight into a utility pole at no more than twenty-five miles per hour, and that all of this would have happened? What are the odds that such a thing could happen? Infinitesimal, I have been told.

My second reality is that it was entirely my fault, and it is this complete accountability that is the most unpleasant of my realities. Why had I not agreed to walk home with Julian on that lovely summer night? Would not most women have done anything for the chance to walk with this man along a winding, seaside lane through the nectarean air? What compels a woman to make a foolish decision that puts everything at risk? Is there a root cause of such a decision, some unresolved childhood conflict? A trauma? The belief that any good fortune is undeserved? Or is it something else? Maybe there is no root cause at all. Just a silly decision, random and impulsive, that changes the course of many lives.

My third reality (yes, I have three) is the most beneficial to my well-being. But sadly, it is the most elusive, accessible only in my darkest moments—an option that becomes apparent to me only when I think about the limits of my life; about the near-sexless existence my condition has imposed upon me and Julian; about the body not as a mechanism for joy, pleasure and action, but nothing more than a mushy, sloppy host that houses my intellect and my dwindling soul; and about my infertility, the internal injuries suffered in the crash that made it impossible for me to have a child. It is at these dark moments that I eye the bottle of pills on the side table and wonder what it might be like to take the leap. The deep sleep.

This third reality is one that Julian refuses to entertain. In fact, it is one at which he recoils and rejects as delusional folly. To him, my
third reality is the antithesis of reality. It is pure fantasy. For it is in this state of sublime belief, of sublime relief, that I know with every ounce of my transmogrified being that it was no one’s fault. Rather, I know that it was the will of God. It was a decision made by some vague, constantly shifting higher power—not a decision that I should be paralyzed, for the will of God was not that I should suffer so, but that once I was, once I could do nothing but crap in diapers for the rest of my life, bear witness to the wasting away of my body and develop bed sores on my ass, once I was forced to face the shame of my permanent impotence—a life stripped of its tactility and redomiciled in a smelly, abstract realm—only then could I have some weird freedom.

What I have is the freedom to take all of that horror and turn it into something good, to be of service to another, to navigate through this mess. I cringe when I hear people say that things happen for a reason. I don’t know about that. I mean, what reason could there be for any of the horrific things that happen in the world? What I do know when I am in this third reality is that things don’t happen for a reason, but once they do happen it’s up to me to find the meaning, the purpose, in them.

And that’s what I (sometimes) have every intention of doing. During these fleeting moments of divine inspiration, I believe that somehow I’m going to turn this catastrophe into something spectacular, something joyous and unexpected. I don’t think I will ever get to the point where I say fuck, I’m grateful that my spinal cord was severed, but there just may be a way that Julian and I can still squeeze a bit more pleasure out of this life.

But most of the time I’d rather die.

I
t’s five of nine and I’m sitting on one of those soft chairs near the side of the stage and I got a napkin unfolded on the fabric ’cause who knows what kind of germs are on that seat. And I’m hardly wearing anything over my pussy, so a girl’s got to be careful. I look in my purse, check the bills in my garter, and it turns out I only made ninety-seven dollars all shift. And that means I’m three bucks in the hole ’cause the house fee is seventy-five, Schultz and the boys get a twenty-dollar tip and the DJ gets five so he plays my favorite songs when I’m onstage. That’s how it goes around here sometimes, especially during hurricane season when you don’t get many snowbirds and all you get is locals who come in for the free wings at five, have a couple of beers, a slap on the ass, maybe a buck or two in the garter, then back in their F-150s and off to wherever they live.

I’ve got five more minutes and I’m out of here. And I’m thinking about having a shower and dinner with my mom. She sent me a text
saying she had a good day at the diner, a tour bus broke down right in front and fifty hungry people from some place in the Midwest came piling out and boy did they eat. And not bad tippers, it turns out. So a lucky day for her, and for me I guess, but not so much for the tourists. And ’cause my mom made a few bucks, we’re going to celebrate with some shrimp and rice and her amazing sweet plantains.

I stand up and the napkin sticks to my ass, stuck to the sweat on me I guess, dangling like some sort of funny tail from a kid’s game. There’s an old lech in the corner—way off, but harmless—and he sees the napkin hanging from my ass and sticks out his tongue like he’s going down on a girl, flicks it real gross, and I give him the finger and get the hell out of the club.

I’m sitting in my car in the back lot and send my mom a text saying be home soon. But damned if I can’t find my keys in my purse and I’m pushing around all the crap inside, the makeup, some tampons, old lottery tickets, some condoms—not that I get a chance to use them much these days—a photo of my dad that I keep in a little plastic holder, a bunch of phone numbers on scraps of torn paper. I’m going through all this stuff and I get that little panic you get when you think something’s lost. The heart beating real fast and a bit of sweat under my arms is the way I feel it first. And I’m wondering how I could’ve lost my keys. Then I remember that I had them in my jacket pocket and maybe they fell out somewhere, maybe on the way to the car. Then I wonder how it was that I got into the car without my keys. And I realize that the door was unlocked, which is something I never do, leave the door unlocked.

So I go to open the door, but before I can pull the handle, there’s a knock on the window just a few inches from my face. My heart jumps and I look out the window. Turns out there’s a man standing there but I don’t know who ’cause his head’s above the window and
he’s pressed real close to the glass. But I can tell from the arms and the pants that it’s a man. And now I’m a little panicked and I try to open the door but the man pushes back and closes the door real aggressive. He stands there for a few seconds, doesn’t move or say a word, and then there’s a rap on the window and I see that this guy’s dangling my keys in front of me, and I know it’s my keys ’cause they’ve got a little mother-of-pearl cross hanging from them, a gift from my dad.

And now I’m pissed, ’cause it’s one thing to take my keys, but another thing to take something that’s got meaning. And I’m scared, to be honest, ’cause even though I’m just fifty feet from the club and Schultz and the boys are right inside, my car’s parked behind this row of messy shrubs and some garbage cans and there’s not a damn person who can see what I’m dealing with.

Next thing I know, this guy raps his knuckles on the glass, real threatening, takes a step back and walks around the back of the car. I turn around to see what he’s doing and sure enough he walks over to the passenger side and reaches for the door. Well, I press the lock button real fast, just before he pulls the handle. Then I see him press the button on the key chain and the doors unlock and he reaches for the handle. But I hit the lock button again real fast before he can open the door. He holds up the keys, hits the unlock button again and opens the door before I can hit my button. And I’m thinking that if it weren’t so scary, it would be sort of funny, in a slapstick way, like the Marx Brothers or the Three Stooges, with the two of us pushing the buttons back and forth, back and forth. The door flies open and he plops down in the passenger seat. He closes the door, hits the lock button and turns to me, dangles the keys before me like some sort of hypnotist. These fell out of your pocket, he says, and I’m a Good Samaritan returning them to their rightful owner.

Far from a Samaritan, I say to Julian and grab the keys. You’re a
fucker, a motherfucker. And he smiles and leans over and gives me a little peck on the cheek. Your signature move, he says. I lean back against the door and take a good look at him. My signature move? Don’t even go there being all sweet and charming, ’cause you’re a motherfucker and I haven’t heard from you in forever, not even a call or a text since Roger came down. He’s a lovely guy, by the way, and thanks for the money, really, and now you show up out of the blue all bullshit mysterious and inappropriate. What you want from me, I’ve got no idea, and it’s starting to not be fun but starting to feel a little sad and demeaning and it’s chipping away at what little self-esteem I got left.

Julian nods his head and places his hand on mine and ignores what I just said. He tells me he’s got five hours before his flight, a layover to Bogotá. So what are we doing? he asks. And I say
we
? What are
we
doing?
We
are doing nothing ’cause
I
am having dinner with my mom. Shrimp and rice and sweet plantains. And Julian says I love plantains. And shrimp, too. What do you say I come have dinner with you and your mom?

I put the key in the ignition and turn on the engine. The radio blasts real loud, a reggaeton station I love, and I turn it off. I don’t think that’s a good idea, I say. In fact, I think it’s a really stupid idea. Julian looks at me all confused. A stupid idea? Yeah, a stupid idea, ’cause what am I gonna say? Mom, I’d like you to meet Julian. He’s the married guy from New York I met when I was stripping up in Lauderdale—which she doesn’t know about, remember, the stripping. She thinks I’m a waitress at the beach. So, Mom, we’ve been fucking in hotel rooms, me and Julian, on and off for months. You got enough shrimp for the three of us?

Lopez, the burlesque girl with the ink, she steps out the back door of the club and behind her is a rich guy who comes by every now and then, a real mean guy, short with a hard, round belly. I
danced for him once and that was enough for me. Lopez looks around the back lot like she’s casing a bank job and then the guy puts his hand on her shoulder, pushes her down to the ground as Lopez unbuckles his pants and gets to work. Now, I’m not too shocked, ’cause I’ve seen this sort of thing a hundred times, but I look over at Julian and I can tell immediately that there’s something wrong. He’s biting his lower lip and there’s a twitch in his eye and he leans forward, almost pressing his face against the glass, and it looks like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

Julian puts his face in his hands. He rubs his eyes and turns away from me, so I’m looking at the back of his head. And I hear a little sound. I don’t know what it is. A grunt? A whimper? Is he clearing his throat? And then I reach over and I place my fingers under the man’s chin, turn his face to mine, and I see that he’s got tears in his eyes. Now, I’m a sucker for a man who cries, ’cause unlike with us girls it’s usually something real. Most men, they’re not using tears to manipulate, to get a result. They’re just as sneaky as us, of course, it’s just that they use different tactics. Anger, threats, lies, but no tears. When they cry, there’s something going on. So I pick up my phone and text my mom.

I hope you got enough food for three, ’cause I’m bringing a friend.