21.
ON THE BUS FROM CAPITOL HILL DOWN TO PIKE I LOOK around at my fellow mobile inmates. Why is it that people on buses look like tired sacks of shit? Literally – like someone shat sacks of us onto these ass shaped plastic seats that smell like rank old monkey balls. No one on a bus looks cool. And you can bet your bottom dollar that there is always a whack job just waiting for his perfect moment to go bus fuck mental. Don’t even get me started on the fat-assery of the drivers. You know they got a Pabst hidden down by the gears somewhere. Christ. Last year some middle-aged gasbag driver actually ran over two people and dragged them half a block before noticing. Everyone on the bus screaming their heads off for her to stop.
I’m sweating the sweat of not knowing what to expect. I’m on my way to see Sig. I’m all fucked up. I can’t talk, I’m homeless, I’m an orphan, I need to change my underwear. What am I gonna do when I get there, write him notes for an hour? Do a tap dance? Strip naked and masturbate?
Hell, maybe he’s got cops there waiting for me. It’s a possibility.
I look out the shitty window at the passing city crap. Then I have a pop-up thought: I wonder if Marlene would let me crash with her for awhile?
Marlene works at Sea-Tac Airport as a security officer three days a week. She, well, OK “he,” since we’re talking about her man job, works at one of the full body X-ray huts. You know, the ones for international flight folks where you have to stick a chunk of lead in your pants if you don’t want them to see your junk.
When he’s a she, she sings Eleanora Fagan songs at a tranny jazz club cabaret on the south edge of Capitol Hill. Holy shit does Marlene have some pipes. In her voice Eleanora Fagan comes back from the dead. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard Marlene sing “What Is This Thing Called Love” or “Summertime.” In fact, I’ve got her on the Zoom H4n right now. In my Dora purse. God Bless the Child. I ease up the volume. I feel slightly less deranged.
Poor Eleanora Fagan though. Marlene told me all about her. You know Billie Holiday died in a hospital room where police were waiting to take her to jail? Fucking typical. Cirrhosis of the liver and drug addiction is what it said on her death certificate. What it should have said is that her life was the suck. The only beautiful thing about it lived in her throatsong.
The bus is pointed straight down hill. Always makes me feel like I’m gonna get a nose bleed. The guy across from me has a soiled crotch and a ski parka the color of puke. He’s wearing a hair nest. The woman two seats up has a big weird mole right in the center of the back of her head poking through what’s passing for her hair. Then there’s a DING and we stop and some whitey middle aged corporate dude with a Dolce & Gabbana black leather man shoulder purse gets on. Is he fucking lost? Yeah. Where YOU gonna sit Mr. Corporate Shiny Pants? Oh. Nice. He’s wearing sunglasses. He sits directly in front of me. Blocking my view of mole head. His hair has a weird silver sheen to it and smells like … important flowers.
I reach into my Dora and pump the playback of Marlene singing “Strange Fruit” – low enough that people look up a bit, but not enough for them to figure out it’s coming from the lump that is me. Marlene’s voice calms me a little. Scent of magnolias sweet and fresh. Then the sudden smell of burning flesh. It’s the kind of voice you wish would sing you to sleep at night. I rock in my seat. Sure, a little autistic. But who cares.
Fancy man figures out where the voice is coming from and turns around so his sunglasses are looking at me. Can you imagine? The nerve. I pick the hell out of my nose for no reason. Big drill. Wipe it on the window. Yeah that’s right, turn the fuck back around, guy made of reflective surfaces. We bus mutants way outnumber you.
Then it hits me. I’ve seen this dude before. In the restaurant. With Sig. The day I recorded the exchange where Sig fainted. Right after this dude told him he was going big time – the show – television megastardom. The guy who said, and I quote, “we need your teen monster girl.” Why didn’t I see his ferret ass before?
Silverhead turns back around and leans over till he’s nearly in my lap. “Hello Ida,” slickster says, taking off his man shades, “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
Thoughts roll around in my noggin like dice in a cup. The phone messages? This guy? But why? Ew. I shoot a desperate glance out the bus window – at the bottom of the hill is my stop, my Sig, my escape. Thirty seconds tops. I pick my nose some more and laugh like I’m high on THE DOPE and make chimp faces at him. Most people are scared shitless of out of control teens.
He’s unfazed. He stands up like he’s gonna come sit with me. Gross. He’s wearing black leather gloves. In no situation is a man wearing black leather gloves a good thing.
I stand up too and do an improv chimp dance in the aisle. Chimps can be deadly, remember.
“Please take your seat,” the Pabst bus driver says over some shitty bus mic, but really all we hear is static: “peeeezzzzz-zshhtaaaaakeshrrrrrummmfrah.”
My upper lip sweats. My rib cut stings. My head itches. Cartoons from my bullshit childhood populate my skull. Stranger danger! Stranger danger! OK homeboy, I got about thirty seconds till my stop. You got something for me? Bring it. I take a defensive posture – kind of a mix between Bruce Lee and Harry Potter. My hands in menacing shapes. Savage chimp grimace.
“My dear girl, there’s no reason for alarm,” silverslick says, putting his hands out like to the sides either like a rich well dressed Jesus or like he’s gonna grab me, but the bus is jostling too much and the bus driver is yelling “Sssssshiiiiiiiitooowww-wwnpeeeeesssshhhzzz” and the hill we’re barreling down makes it so we’re all just this side of falling and –
DING.
I’m a girl gone.
22.
HONESTLY, I’VE NEVER BEEN MORE GLAD TO SEE SOMEONE I just fucked over royal in all my life.
When I get up the elevator to Sig’s office the door is already open so I tumble in. I’m out of breath from running. The way we’re standing there – it feels like we are in a movie. Zoom in. I look at Sig. Sig looks at me. Fuck. I whip out my cell from my Dora purse. I quickly text: lost my fkg voice. weird guy chsed me off bus. His pants buzz. He pulls his cell out of his pocket and reads.
He reads. “I see,” Sig says, “let’s just calm down a minute, shall we? Come sit down.” He guides me to the couch and then closes the door to the office.
I sit on the dreaded black leather couch to catch my breath, the pad of paper and Sharpie in my hand. Sig sits in the camel back chair. He crosses his legs. He pulls a cigar out from his pocket. A silver lighter. We sit and stare at each other. It’s awkward. Bordering on creepola. He looks like he’s waiting for something. A whole fucking minute of silence passes. Is he waiting for me? I’m so far beyond an anxiety attack I could power a bus. Fuck it. I make an executive decision. I jam my hand into my skinny jeans pocket and pop a Xanax. I madly chew it like baby aspirin. Sig doesn’t move or comment. I close my eyes. I hold my breath for seven seconds. I blow out for seven seconds. I do it seven times. Sig doesn’t move or comment. When I open my eyes, he’s still waiting. For me.
OK. I can breathe again. I guess maybe that’s fair. It’s my move. I look down at my pad of paper. My ears are hot. I text, you hate me, rt? He reads his phone and I look at the ceiling. Covered with genitalia cracks. Of course.
He studies my words. Christ dude, it’s four fucking words. Finally he says, “Have you ever seen a character on TV called Jung?”
I stare at him. I blink the big eyed blink of an idiot. Then try to stop. What the fuck. He lights his cigar. The air between us is suddenly heavy with a deep tobacco musk. For reasons I can’t explain I think of Heidi. I’ll give him this, he’s a smoothie.
Turns out, I have seen this Jung character on TV. He’s a teleshrink. Mostly his gig is about dreams and animals and new age ju-ju-whammy. But his show is huge.
Yes, I text, he’s rich. Where exactly are we going with this? It’s amazing how fast the smell of a cigar goes from aromatic to gag me.
He rea
ds. “Ah, then you are, as usual, ahead of the game,” Sig says.
How is this helping again? Hello? Voiceless chick sitting across from you? Recently chased off of a bus by some chester the molester? Sig smokes. The smoke, well this is going to sound weird but the smoke seems to be in his control. It wafts up in great curls toward the ceiling, then falls a little above your head, like it’s turned to look at you, to study you, to record your actions and behaviors. Man. I must be in pretty bad shape.
Sig stands up and glides by me on his way to his bookshelf. I have to twist around so I can see him. He does that pet the books thing. Great. Maybe I was wrong to come here. I accidentally stare at his wang area. Flat as a pancake. Get a grip.
From the bookshelf where he’s stroking his collection, Sig says, “Jung is a hack. Former colleague of mine. Former student, actually. Unfortunately for me, he has come back into my life with very … serious repercussions.”
Now I’m pissed. I punch my little iPhone letters with venom. Wtf dz this hv 2 do w me? I consider chucking my iPhone at him.
He reads. “Everything, my dear Ida,” he says.
Okey-dokey. My shrink’s toppled his dreidel. And it’s probably partly my fault. Karma’s a bitch, right? I’m fucked. I stand up and rub my almost hair and make like I’m gonna leave. What was I even thinking? But when I get near him he gently grabs my arm.
“Ida,” he says, “please. Sit.” He pats my shoulders. He guides me back to the couch. “All will be revealed.” He smiles. Briefly he doesn’t look insane.
I open my mouth. I try to talk. A sad little breath rasp comes out. I sit down on the couch. More and more with my little gimpy iPhone I feel like that chick in the chick flick The Piano. But it’s all I’ ve got. Look, I text. My dad had a huge coronary. My mum fled 2 vienna. Stuk w my dads ho n demon midgets. Hav no voic. Sum perv trid 2 grab me. Things aren’t ql, ok?
He reads.
He nods.
He chuckles.
Yuck it up, asshole. He looks up without saying a goddamn word.
Fine. Well let’s just wrap this little charade up then. I text, Dy hv any blo? Top drawer of desk? Coz so far dats d only thing here to help. Jst lite me up and il b outa yr hair. I sit with my hands at rest. Without drama.
The dude remains unflappable. Dang. I actually sort of admire it.
“I do, as you suggest, have benzoylmethylecgonine. But I think we’ ve both partaken adequately. No?” He leans toward me. “Do not despair, beautiful Ida. I can help you. But in order for me to help you,” he puts his hand on his own throat, “you, will have to help me.”
Jesus. I shoulda known. Does it all really come down to this? Am I gonna have to blow my shrink? Pass out? Wake up in the emergency room? Would that make us even?
He laughs. Like he knows what I’m thinking. “It isn’t that,” he reassures me. “And besides, you already gave me, shall we say, a colossal rise on that score?”
Well I’ll be goddamned. He certainly seems to be taking that well.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” he says, leaning in even closer, and now his eyes look like two silver dimes. “There is a certain video in your possession.”
My neck bristles and I shoot my knees together making a clunk sound.
“Oh come now. Don’t look so surprised. I know because my publicist knows, and he knows because his minions found it on … what do you call it? YouTube? Aptly named for a nation of egocentric children.” He turns and walks over to my clock present on his desk. Yep, the one with the camera in it. He bends over so his face is directly in front of it. He smiles and waves. “Hello,” he says into its face. Then he blows cigar smoke at it.
Busted.
I look down into my lap. I have to pee. My knees itch. When he speaks again his voice is a father’s voice. Not my father’s voice, but the voice some other father would use if he was angry or stern. I’m no idiot. I know what a father voice is supposed to sounds like.
Gotta up it a notch. I text, IK bout yr sho.
Sig reads, then itches his head. Then itches it harder. Then coughs.
“Ida, I need that video. I cannot let it fall into the wrong hands. There are people who want it. They want to profit from it. They … well. Let me show you.” He paces back and forth. He coughs. Then he walks over to his desk drawer and I think maybe he’s going to bring us on over some blow after all but instead he hits the playback on his desk phone. Voice message.
“Sigmund – look. What people want these days isn’t reality TV. They want beyond reality TV. They want the next level. They’re hungry for it. Hell they’d kill for it. What happened to you – it’s the next level. No one has ever seen anything like it – uncut, uncensored, HBO baby. HBO wants the Emergency Room scene. Your ER drama blows those fake TV ER dramas out of the water.”
“That,” Sig explains, “was the man who chased you. He wants to offer you a hefty sum of money for that footage, Ida. He wants it for the big show he’s made of my life’s work.”
Sig stands up and walks over to his bookshelf again. He runs his palm over an entire row of shit brown bound books. Like a hundred of ’em all in a row. “These are my case studies. My life’s work. The labor of my body, my mind, my very soul. This one,” he puts his hand on a slim volume at the very end of the row, “is yours. I named you ‘Dora.’ This is your story.”
Unamed me after my purse? I text.
“No, Ida. I named you after my niece. A girl of your age who was both cruel, and once, kind to an old man.” He runs his hands back across the spines of his case studies. “Really, they are all that’s left of me.” He looks at the ground.
Jeez, is he gonna cry? For a second I feel sorry for him.
“They want to make my books into televised excrement! It seems there is very little I can do to stop them. They even want … Jung. My ungrateful nemesis. To play me.” He drops his head. He walks back over to his camel back chair and sits down. His shoulders look smaller. He smokes his cigar. It smells briefly like benevolent grandfathers.
We sit in silence staring at each other. My breathing is sort of funny. I hold my breath in an attempt to straighten it out. Don’t be a pussy. Stay frosty.
“Seeing as you are responsible for this video coming about,” he says through his cigar smoke, “I feel it is my prerogative to ask that you give it to me, and only to me. I think,” he puts his cigar in an ashtray on the table between us, “you owe me that.
It’s a matter of ethics.” I stare at the stub of cigar. Yep, looks like a brown pudgy little dick. Erectionless. Why am I here?
I study him through the smoke dissipating between us. He’s right of course, what I did to him on one level does suck giant dong, but it’s MY art. I made it. It’s what I do. Hell, it’s the only thing I know how to do. I get to decide what to do with it. Goddamn it. My art is all I am. I don’t say anything. I don’t move. I try to look at him like I’m the statue of fucking liberty. Concrete. Like I can pee standing up.
So he gets to be the ethical one and I have to surrender my art? Fuck that noise. I put my phone down. This calls for a more careful approach. I open my Dora the Explorer purse. I pull out my beloved purple sharpie. I scan the room for paper. I see a pad of paper on his desk, nab it, and scrawl out: What’s n it for me? I hold the pad up for him to read. Then I fake smoke my sharpie. Smells like felt pen.
He smiles. “If you agree to give the video to me, Ida, I will help you not only to recover your voice, but I will help to release you from your current situation. For good. Forever.”
Sly bastard. I don’t know what he means by that but he’s for goddamned sure got something up his sleeve. I nod my head up once at him in the universal street lingo of s’up.
Then he drops the bomb. “Ida, I’ve arranged for a scholarship to attend Tisch School of the Arts at New York University. Free. It’s one of the finest film institutes in the country. Where you can, my lovely, raging girl, make any films you like.”
Motherfucker. Wonder how long the sly
dog has been sitting on that one.
You know what I look like right this second? A kid with a pink plastic purse who is smoking a sharpie like a candy cigarette. If my knees were skinned I’d be about, oh, eight years old. I take the goddamn sharpie out of my mouth. My mouth hangs open. I don’t know how to do this I don’t know how to dot his I don’t know how to do this FUCK. Even inside my voiceless girl sack, I’m speechless.
I’m baffled, but I’m not dead. I text therefore I am. Wl think bout it, I text, even though it makes me feel like someone I don’t know.
23.
I WISH I COULD SAY LIFE GIVES YOU A SUCKER SHOT once in awhile, but my empirical data has shown that it’s nearly always a one-two punch.
Before I can even come-to from the stun of what Sig just said to me, I find Ave Maria and Little Teena sitting on the curb outside his office. Little Teena stands up. Ave Maria bounces like a pinball.
“They’ ve got Obsidian!” Ave Maria squeals, cupping her elbows.
My eyes go big. I put my head in the direction of Little Teena.
“What she means is, Obsidian’s been arrested.”
My breathing immediately clusterfucks and my head fills with cotton. I see stars. Do NOT faint. Hold it together you pussy. I close my eyes and picture a tree with roots. I try to feel my feet like roots in the ground. I have no fucking idea where that came from but I have a million mile away flint of memory that my mother told me that when I was eight. Then again, I’m prone to hallucination. I kick one foot with the other to try to keep from going numb.
I grab Little Teena’s shoulders and put my head down some and give him the sternest look I can muster.
“OK listen,” he says. “Try to stay calm. Obsidian was up at the rez near Coeur d’Alene to see her cousin and her dad’s brother came at her. Drunk I guess. Pinned her to the ground and started trying to … you know. The cousin jumped on his back to try and stop him and Obsidian, well, Obsidian…”
I don’t need to know what the next sentence is. I know. Obsidian took her shard of Obsidian that hangs from her neck and cut him.