Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Fiction

I come home this evening, in my white collared shirt with pretty sleeves, to my two ladies, Cass and Jenny. Cass takes her usual seat at the table while I heat my ration of this-week’s-concoction and steam broccoli rabe over a pot of boiling water until it turns a rainforest green. I plop it into a bowl with two forks and some butter for me and my Cass to munch on over some conversation.

“I’m done with the blues,” Cass exclaims, “I’ve had enough.”

I nod in agreement. We crunch more broccoli, I eat my stew, Cass grabs one of the dinner rolls I made last night, and pats it with butter. She says, “I got a gown,” with her eyes carefully focused on the roll, even though I know she’s curious to see the look on my face as she reveals this information.

Cass has been thinking about going back to stripping so she can make enough money for this EMT course she really wants to do. It seems absurd, but New York city strip clubs require girls to wear a “gown” to wear for the audition, so Cass went shopping.

When Cass talks about her stripping days, I am silently elated. I’m mezmerized by the stories, and the strength that seems to flow from her –- this stoic determination of womanhood that I can never seem to muster. Her comment about stripping is: “I know the true value of female beauty and I know how to make guys pay for it.” Then she declares, “at heart, part of me is just a hustler.” She says it in the same voice and the same Cass face that says she loves nature, and rock-climbing, and dreams of someday being a doctor. And I’m sure she can. She has more integrity than most people I’ve met and I suppose I often put her on a pedestal for being so brave.

Jenny has since joined our gathering and asks where Cass has looked so far for clubs to dance in. She lists a few that she’s interested in, mentions one that’s full nudity and I exclaim, “You can do that?!”

“Sure... I’ve done it before. I just don’t know if I can do it three days a week, you know what I mean?”

No. No, I definitely don’t, I say.

“I mean...it's tiring. It’s a very hard position to take –- you have to constantly redefine your boundaries. You want the guys to always believe they are just about to have sex, even though they never will, and maintain a certain unwavering attitude to the whole thing.”

I’m amazed, I’m intrigued, and I’m envious of her spirit. She has more than I, no doubt about it. “I think if I ever did that I would be immediately jaded forever – just one time and I’d be ruined. Seems so traumatizing.”

Cass throws a sideways glance at me and grins, “You think I’m not jaded?” But I've never thought this of her -- quite the contrary -- of the two of us, I am the non-believer.

“So you got a gown,” Jenny reminds us, “Can we see it?”

Cass dashes into her room and closes the door behind her. Jenny and I discuss our fascination with Cass’s courage, while underneath we are both dying a little bit because we know we wish we could be that voracious towards life, and somehow can’t. Our eyes join for an uncomfortable second; we have an understanding that neither one of us could do as Cass can and does, and our deep, dark corners hate this about ourselves.

The door to Cass’s room swings outwards, and out steps 'Ace,' clad in a red mini-skirted jumpsuit made of some kind of taut, glittering vinyl and chains. The skirt ends just shy of the top curve of her thighs, clings tightly to her buttocks, and ends at the small of her back. The front looks like a series of hoops, joined in the middle with gold links and revealing a muscular torso topped with small, round breasts, that are pressed so tightly into the jumpsuit that they appear solid and cold – like she’s a plastic statue, and she’s not actually real anymore. Black leather straps run up her calves which are harnessed into black and silver stiletto heels – 4 inches tall and thin as needles.

I can’t imagine walking in them, much less pole-dancing in them. Cass mutters, "eehh, you get used to it,” and struts through the living room with none of the self-consciousness that I would most certainly feel, in that outfit, in front of an open window at night-time with the streets of Brooklyn spread out before us, not to mention the two gaping ladies at the table with their heterosexual tongues practically lapping the floorboards. Even at the height of female sexuality, Cass still looks like she could hike the Appalachian trail at the drop of a hat – she’s lost none of her masculinity. I’d almost mistake her for a gritty construction worker in really hot drag, if her face wasn't so pretty.

She’s quickly becoming an excellent friend.

After Cass's fashion show, Jack arrives to borrow my camera. He’s a designer, with upcoming magazine appearances. He’s recently broken up with his boyfriend, and tonight is the first I’ve heard of it. They are both six feet tall, with the kind of hair that you always think is blond but isn’t really. They made a good pair.

Jack comes in with the cold and says abruptly, "I’ve got some pot if you want any," and lifts a white stub from his pocket, “My hands are freezing.” His cheeks are pink under the several-day-old beard that’s new, and sexy on him. He’s grown into a very fine looking man, I think to myself, remembering him as a still awkward teenager in highschool.

Jack is my ex-boyfriend, and has always reminded me of the Statue of David. Needless to say, our romantic endeavors were doomed from the beginning, but I admire him often; he, too, is of the ilk that is fearless, and seemingly invincible. In the last few years he’s become darker -- in mind and in body. It gives him an i-don’t-give-a-fuck edge, and I’m fascinated by it in an utterly scientific way. I’d like to study these people –- these fearless people.

Jack has a strut, too. His shoulders are broader than they used to be. He seems to fill the room with a vibrant and dominating male energy though he is androgynously sensual. He towers over us, and is boisterous, so we laugh and are happy he stopped by.

We don’t get a lot of visitors -- although Rob has been staying with us since he got evicted. Rob is a 30-year-old skaterboy and recovering alcoholic who has relationship issues with his sponsor and his ex-girlfriend whom he calls, “Suffering.” He’s also Jenny’s ex-boyfriend. Apparently, he went home to his apartment one night to find all his earthly possessions sitting in trash bags on the sidewalk at midnight; he’s been squatting with us ever since. He drank half a bottle of my New Years' Captain Morgan in one sitting, probably in one morning, and the next day told me to hide the bottle, “I won’t go searching for it, but if I see it I can’t help myself.” I put it on the top shelf of my closet, and everytime I open the door now I feel like an alcoholic, too. Isn't this what they do? Stash alcohol in unlikely places?

He’s a nice guy. I feel sad for him. I understand his predicament, yet am capable of no sympathy. Although being honest with oneself is a difficult and frightening thing, I sort of despise those who shy from it.

Jack tells us a bit about his break up, “I’ve been sleeping twelve hours a day and smoking for the last week,” and makes a dull face like it’s making him extremely unhappy. “Why did you break up?" I ask, "You two seemed so good together."

He makes me feel very small. I don’t like it much. Around him I distrust my own intuition and I’ve never been able to figure out why.

“Just got to a point where I thought, you know what? This isn’t it. So it’s over -- it's gotta be.” He complements this finality with a cutting motion through the air and a tongue-whistle. He has very intense eyes. “So I broke up with my boyfriend and shaved my head this week. I went crazy.”

Cass groans, “this really is Heartbreak Hotel here,” and retires to her room, eyes puffy. Last night Cass had stinging, bubbly tears streaming down her face, and the kind of sobs that only come from years and years of loving the one person who doesn’t love you back. I hugged her, and she was hard to the touch -- her body was so tense. In addition to Cass’s and my own troubles, Rob continues to be totally devastated by Suffering, who insists they hang out daily and skate together. She’s not even that cute – he showed me her picture. I think she’s probably evil, to be stringing him along like this. Still, he has no excuse. He could always just say no.

But he sort of enjoys addiction, doesn’t he. I guess we all do.

I tell Jack my latest woes. His response is strong and definite – kind of like him. I regret it isn’t me though, and remember that I hate advice.

Jack takes one last gulp of water and wraps his wooly sweater around him, pulling up the hood of his green sweatshirt so it’s tight around his head. “I’m out,” he declares, and stands up to kiss each of my cheeks. I hug him, and he bends almost halfway over so I can pull my arms around his neck. I wonder if I smell bad, I think, remembering that I forgot to put on deodorant after the gym tonight. But my sleeves are so pretty… it doesn’t really matter.

“Let me know how your story unfolds,” he says, though we seldom talk, and we both know I won’t. But as he’s swinging out the door, Jack’s deep blue, earnest eyes flash at me one last time, and with purpose. “Nothing is by accident,” he whispers, and then dashes out the door, brown wool flurries in his wake.

Monday, January 01, 2007

Snap

I cut my hands
so many times on the knife
this morning as i
sliced and squeezed a lemon
that the pain from its juice
in my wounds
practically snapped my
fingers in two and
shot hard angry zaps
of lemon zest
up my trembling arms.
Refreshing.
Dull thoughts feel like
death sometimes.
I'd rather stab
promptly dispose
of thoughts like these
than allow a steady decomposition.

Easier said than done.
And my hands are still bloody.