Holly Golightly Syndrome

Holly Golightly Syndrome

  By C.E. Wanders

  Copyright 2012 C.E. Wanders

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

  or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,

  please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and

  did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to

  of this author.

  “The worst evil which can befall the artist is that the work should appear good in his own eye” – -Leonardo da Vinci

  Chapter 1

  “We are gathered here today to honor the memory of Cyril…”

  Father Flanders shook violently in the unforgiving damp-cold with dew fringed glasses teetering on the bridge of his nose.

  An urgent cough accentuated his mistake.

  “I beg your pardon. Sybil N. Vane. Yes we are gathered here today to honor the memory of Sybil Vane.”

  If Sibyl were to see here funeral through the eyes of a raven flying overhead, she probably wouldn’t have been very pleased. Though there was a vaguely large turnout, and they all looked respectable enough in black, most of the mourners remained largely dry eyed. A coughing, hysteric sob crawled out of the throat of a woman on the edge of mourners who defied the general wrinkled demographic of the ceremony and who no one seemed to recognize.

  (Great, the raven sighed, the only woman crying at my funeral is someone I don’t even know.)

  (Who does she think she is, dramatizing my funeral, like I don’t have enough mourners?)

  (And in heels?)

  (For shame! Who wears heels to a funeral? )

  (And why in the world George looking at her like that for? Isn’t he still dating that nice Asian girl?)

  His head leaned towards her and she pictured them ogling over her corpse.

  (No George, don’t do it! I don’t trust that one.)

  Bertha Fall however, was immune to George’s advances.

  She was attending therapy.

  It was raining, which was of course even better for her psyche.

  This naturally hadn’t been her first option.

  She sat in the variously generic offices of psychiatrists, psychologists, and counselors. She faced acres of men, women, red haired, brunette, and gray, on green, yellow, orange, black sofas, all clockwork with paperwork and pretentious glasses. It was like one of those children’s flipbooks where you could incorrectly pair an alligator’s head with a bear’s stomach and human feet.

  They all read the same script. “There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with you.”

  But no one outside of the professional world seemed to accept that consensus either.

  Between extravagant, unsuccessful relationships which often left both her and the others feeling as though they had just been picked up by a twister and left somewhere inconvenient, and a few resulting melodramatic public dramas in college, Bertha slowly began to realize that she needed the equivalent of an emotional garbage disposal.

  It began with charitable commercials, which was unfortunate because it gave people the impression she was charitable. But she found that role a bit too repressed and flourished as the character of the secret American assassin “Mini” on “Lagrimas.” When the depression switched to mania she’d hire herself out as a groupie for bands no one had ever heard of and as an extra on car commercials with sales so big they had no choice but to instigate robust dancing sequences with clapping. They were all more profitable than having a pair of glasses declare her normalcy.

  “Excuse me.” Someone grabbed her elbow. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  (Shit.)

  This unfortunately had happened on a few occasions, and Bertha quickly became the sister nana gave up and never told you about, or personal mistress of the deceased. All very thoughtful stuff.

  “Oh I’m sorry.” Normally she could think of something right on the spot, but the man who had grabbed her elbow thoroughly intimidated her with an icy glare. “I must have gone to the wrong funeral. I’m sorry I have a memory problem and…”

  He smirked. “Really, you have a memory problem? Look its ok I’m onto you.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and began to pace on the water logged lawn. “There’s no shame in being homeless. I mean granted being homeless in a cemetery I think would be a more depressing option as far as public places to…”

  “I’m not homeless.” She snapped back. “Do I look homeless?”

  “Well no, it’s just….I see you here a lot.” His blue eyes were mocking her but she loved them anyway.

  “Well if you see me here a lot, that must mean you’re here a lot too.”

  “What’s it to you?” He shot suspiciously.

  “Oh nothing.” Bertha was eye level with him on the step, and she tried to meet his gaze. “If you really want to know the truth I have a lot of emotions, but I don’t have anywhere to put them. So I…ah… sort of….maybe pretty much… kind of … ah…attend anonymous funerals.”

  He gave her a look. “You can’t be serious. What is this, fight club?”

  “I’m very serious. It’s something I’d rather not discuss at the moment, now if you please I have to go home.”

  “Well sorry then” He stepped back and lit up a cigarette, which went out promptly in the rain. “Sorry to bother you Miss.”

  He said miss as an unanswered question word, and threw the cigarette on the ground in defeat. “You shouldn’t litter.” Bertha pointed out.

  “I beg your pardon.” Water began to run in rivulets down the crevices in his face.

  “Well you shouldn’t smoke. And you shouldn’t litter.”

  “Well you shouldn’t cry all the time it gives you wrinkles. Goodness, are you really still crying?”

  Bertha attempted a half laugh, but it came out as that pitiful sob-laugh where you’re not quite done being miserable about something but you can’t help laughing.

  (So much for being charming. I sound like I’m on a horse tranquilizer in slow motion.)

  “Sorry I’ll be on my way now.”

  “Wait” he called. She attempted to speed walk across the soggy lawn in heels, and ended up looking like someone who really needed to go the bathroom. “Here, I gotcha poor sot.”

  Suddenly she found herself looking at his back and backside, which was quite nice, and wondering if she truly seemed that intoxicated.

  “I’m not drunk.” She shouted over the thunder.

  “Maybe that’s your problem.” He shouted back as the rain began to pour down so hard it was deafening and finally set her back on the sidewalk. His eyes glanced inquisitively at her, as if she were some rare specimen on the discovery channel. “I do realize… this is a bit ridiculous…but you look a lot nicer when your face isn’t all scrunched up. Do you want to get a drink?”

  “Sure! Why not?”

  They settled into some pretentious looking bar with legitimate business people in button down shirts and ten dollar drinks. Women with matching umbrellas and designer rain boots sent disgusted stares at Bertha and her wet hair.

  Unfortunately, several drinks in, she had all but forgotten her budget, and her new friend George wasn’t doing much better. Slightly tipsy, she set her glass down forcefully and said “George, George darling I’m giving you an ultimatum.”

  “And what is that?” He was on his third beer.

  “Well I have to give you a disclaimer. I am, in case you haven’t noticed, completely insane. You have two options. The first and most advised is that you run for your life. Just finish that off, maybe stretch your quads, and start
running…” She and looked at him expectantly. He hadn’t moved. “Do you doubt my warning, sir?”

  “Bertha.” He said in a flat voice. “I found you bawling your eyes out about someone you’ve never even met.”

  “Yes, well I’m just as crazy when I’m happy. I’m warning you. But I’ll give you the second option and then you can reevaluate. Well you see I’ve always wanted to race someone down the street in the rain.” She grinned goofily and hiccupped.

  “So to be clear…” He rested his head on his fist. “I’m going to be running in the rain either way?”

  “Mhmm.” She nodded curtly.

  “I may as well beat you in the meantime…”

  “Who says you’re going to beat me?”

  After they finished their drinks they walked swiftly to the door, so as to not look too suspicious, but being drunk and far less subtle than they assumed themselves to be, they did evoke some derision from polite society and looked even more conspicuous running down the city sidewalk towards his apartment.

  “So there you are being all cocky for nothing?” He arched his eye brow up.

  “I guess so.” She panted.

  For a moment they stood in silence, breathing and listening. A woman rudely hit Bertha with her purse, but she didn’t seem to notice. The next thing they knew, they were pressed against each other, a sopping tangled panting mess without a name.

  (Oh shut up I know it’s cheesy.)

  Bertha woke up with a headache in a foreign bed with wonderful silk sheets.

  His apartment was immaculate. Everything seemed to have its place. She felt like an intruder, messing up the order of an internal universe.

  “Hi there.” He nodded, with bags under his eyes. It was immensely difficult to read his face.

  “Good thing it’s a Sunday or I would have had to kick you out much earlier.”

  “Oh.” Bertha was taken aback by the comment, and began to look for her outfit from yesterday, which she found neatly folded. “Did you do this?” She unfolded them, suspiciously.

  “Call it a compulsion, but I like having everything clean and in order.”

  “Me…me too.” She stammered a bit in relief. “I like color coding my closet.”

  He laughed, and grabbed the small of her back, pulling her into a long drawn out kiss. “That’s so sexy.”

  (How long can I hold on to this one before he goes running for his life and sanity? Hopefully longer than a week…) “Sorry I’m not terribly intelligible in the morning. I sort of have a coffee problem, do you happen to know if there’s somewhere nearby I can get some.”

  “I’m not sure I don’t drink coffee. However I do have some for when my family visits.”

  “You don’t drink coffee?” She gasped.

  “Not really. I don’t like it unless it has a lot of cream and sugar.”

  “Oh.” She shrugged.

  It was a step up from the other guys she had dated, who didn’t want to seem unmanly and ordered black coffee if she did too, so as to not seem inferior in some sense. She could always tell they were fakers because they’d make an accidental grimace, or would leave it scarcely touched. “How do you do it?”

  “I sleep for one,” He smirked “…probably quite a bit more than you do. You’re not much of a sleeper, are you?”

  “Oh I sleep ok. Unfortunately I’m much better at sleeping in the morning and afternoon than any other time. Sometimes I think I was born to take a night shift in something…”

  “What is it that you do?” He began to put a pot on. The rest of his house was substantially smaller than the bedroom. Bertha peered at the pictures on either side of the leather couch. Each one featured what she assumed was his family; a skinny mother, a stoic looking father, and a sister. They shared the same smile. The sight of his sister gave her the sensation of spiders crawling around in her stomach. She had never had problems getting approval from older or younger brothers, but sisters don’t work the same way as brothers, especially because she looked about the same age. There’s more complicated programming involved. It had taken her an eternity to accept her own brother’s girlfriend, despite the fact that she was perfectly nice.

  “I primarily work at a magazine for teen girls. It’s not an ideal job, but it gets the bills paid and gives me enough time to work on my own writing. Then I have a few odd jobs here and there. Sometimes I make a guest appearance on a telenovela.”

  “That sounds like fun.” The sound of moving pans nearly drowned out his voice.

  “What do you do?” Bertha cracked her back, as she turned to look back at him.

  “I developed a patent for a more efficient plane engine. Well for small planes.”

  “Oh an engineer?”

  “No.” Something began to sizzle. “Actually I was a political science major, so much good that did me. I also own a restaurant down on the east side that does pretty well.”

  “That’s great.” Bertha smiled. “So what are you doing in graveyards all the time?”

  “I attend anonymous burials in place of therapy.” He yawned.

  “Oh very funny…” She pouted. “But seriously?”

  “Oh, Sybil was actually a relative of mine. Grand-aunt or something.”

  “I’m so sorry about that again…” Her face grew hot, and she retreated to some juvenile iPhone game where you had to run away from manic fruit by jumping over obstacles, while simultaneously knocking over stacks of pigs seated to either side of the course.

  “It’s ok; I didn’t know here very well.” he handed her the coffee, and she wafted in the smell of Colombian-ambrosia-life-force. “I was watching the funeral next to me, I mean before I noticed you…” he blushed. “Anyway, you could tell there was a black sheep at the burial. The rest of the family sort of parts as if the person was contagious. And then you have those regretful sort that mutter about never having told so and so that they are sorry or that they actually loved so and so. They’re the sorts that are too proud to say anything to a living thing, but have no problem talking to something that can’t talk back…do you like pepper on your eggs?”

  “Oh that’s sweet of you to make breakfast. No thank you.”

  “I think the biggest shame of all is flowers placed on graves. They look beautiful, but think how much nicer the world would be if all the flowers placed on graves were given to the underappreciated living people.”

  “It’s just a tradition.” Bertha countered, as she dug into her eggs. “I think it’s more for the person doing it. It’s about revering the ancestors. But I definitely see where you’re coming from. I always thought it was curious that people like cut flowers in the first place. But people seem to be under the impression that the beautiful things have to be hunted, cut up, captured and displayed.”

  “Hmm.” He bit into a piece of toast. His chewing was loud in the ensuing silence as they tried to find conversation in passing traffic and clinking forks.

  “So,” Bertha attempted to redeem herself. “Did you…”

  But a swinging door interrupted her. A skinny woman burst through the door carrying two six packs of cheap beer. “Hey George.” She didn’t seem to notice Bertha, and Bertha attempted to remain invisible upon matching up the face of the invader with his family pictures. “Are you still alright with the girls coming over tonight? We probably won’t go out until later. Oo who’s this?”

  “Eliot, this is Bertha.” He ran up and gave her a hug. “It’s so great to see you!”

  Bertha was left finishing her breakfast stuck in that merciless void when you’re with someone who knows someone you don’t know very well. So she retreated to the bathroom to wipe the bits of makeup from yesterday that had crept to the corners of her eyes. She didn’t intend to listen to their conversation, but it’s often easier to listen to something when you aren’t supposed to.

  “So everyone is coming over tonight. Ja ja!”

  “Ja ja!” He replied back. “And you’re goi
ng to be all Ms. Drunk Pants.”

  (Oh no. What did I get myself into?)

  He was still talking excitedly, with his sister when Bertha left and he waved her off dismissively. As the door shut, Emily scowled. “I don’t like her.” She decided promptly.

  “Oh and why’s that?” George began to rinse off the plates.

  “She skinnier than me.” Emily scowled. “Oo oo so…”

  Bertha was not psyched about George’s dismissive goodbye, and was a bit taken aback by Emily, but at least George had her number, so that had to count for something.

  “But I’m getting too far ahead of myself.”

  She sighed, and she entered her apartment. A black figure jumped out, causing her to spill the guts of her purse: vanilla hand lotion, a wallet with ignored cumulative pennies and a debit card in it, a phone that had miraculously stayed in one piece despite its daily struggles, and a copy of Paradise Lost with 500 post-its poking out here and there.

  Kitty weaved through her legs. She didn’t name the cat, of course, because that would suggest that she owned the cat when in reality the black fur ball seemed to own her.

  “Hi Kitty.” She opened a can of cat food, set in on the floor, and began to scan the cupboards for something for dinner.

  A single bottle of sirrachi sauce, solitary sergeant, tottered as she opened the fridge.

  (But if I end up shopping on an empty stomach I’m just going to end up with a compilation of pregnant woman/ teenage boy food.)

  With a full Saturday sprawled out ahead of her, she instinctively knew she should make an attempt to be social, but had no innate desire to do so. During the week she would make the effort like a trooper, being nice to everyone at work, and listening to their stories. But by the end of the week she was all listened out and couldn’t straighten out other people’s lives from her own.

  (Hmm… maybe I’ll start that novel again.)

  The full-fledged delusion that she was going to publish something someday resulted in notebooks of all colors and sizes, endless word documents, and a full blown crisis brought about by writing. Then of course, the crises which had been caused by writing had to be documented. Her fingers has scarcely typed “chapter one” when, the doorbell rang.

  She brushed her wet hair back and adjusted her white tee shirt over her yoga pants accordingly in case it was George.

  “Hey can I come in?” A short girl with a particularly loud voice asked.

  “Oh, sure Rose.”

  “I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d stop by. So guess who’s starting to get interested in me now that I’m taken?”

  This is the problem with being friend with a hyper sociable person: there are too many names to remember.

  “…Ugh so Bobby didn’t want to go to Walgreens with me, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

  Bertha scrunched up her nose, not horribly eager to hear about Bobby again.

  “… cause like I was flirting with this guy for fun the other night, but I feel like it wouldn’t be like the same for George and you, you know?”

  (For all I like Rose, her and Bobby are going to get in serious trouble someday with the things that they say.)

  “No, yeah that’s true.” Bertha was unsure how to respond. “Because I don’t flirt, because I don’t find the need to.”

  The comment went completely over her head. “Oh my God and it’s so cute he keeps talking about the engagement ring, and even though I don’t like his parents I think I could live in Connecticut.”

  “Uh huh.” Bertha nodded, having heard the same story with the last three boyfriends.

  It had always been that way. In college, she and Bobby acted like some authority couple on everything, as if Bertha hadn’t been dating the same person for three years.

  (I wonder if she knows that she’s naïve, or if she’s playing pretend. Not that I can fault her for it. People do it all the time. Most people know more than they care to admit.)

  (And after three years, all I know is that I’m still naïve about this. I’m only smart enough to know that I know nothing.)

  They continued to talk about so and so and who and what with Arrested Development on in the background, but Rose didn’t stay long because she had to go to someone’s birthday.

  It was then that Emily found herself texting George.

  Or who she thought was George…

  Unfortunately she hadn’t put his number under a name yet, and after updating her phone some of the old contacts on her phone had reattached themselves.

  She didn’t get a very pleasant response.

  Bertha??? Do you know who you’re texting??

  Who do you think this is?

  (It could be one of about twelve people, judging by the level of outrage.)

  George lol? She replied just to make sure.

  Sorry wrong number.

  (Shit, I have to keep track of my mortal enemies better.)

  (Come to think of it, I should probably try not making mortal enemies.)

  Sometimes it was an ex, sometimes a friend she had fallen out with, and sometimes the friend of a friend she had fallen out with or broken up with because that person was too terrified to face her on her own.

  But the problem with Bertha’s mortal enemies is that she had never meant to make them mortal enemies. They had all been in the way of her momentary spurts of anger, and she usually forgot about them afterwards, the way a tornado doesn’t particularly remember where it touches down. Unfortunately this made matters more confusing if she got a dirty stare, because she couldn’t remember what it was for or if it was justified.

  (Sorry… I think?)

  She didn’t hate people, she just hated aspects of their behavior or speech, and that was what she would react to. Unfortunately, in states of anger, she usually wasn’t able to articulate this properly.

  (….an angry roommate with dark eyes angrily and proverbially announcing “it’s what you leave behind that makes you who you are.”)

  (But it’s really the opposite, what you leave behind is the exact definition of what you are not anymore.)

  After thinking about George’s funeral comment, she pictured her own funeral. There would be the well-wishers, hopefully. And then in the backdrop there would be a group sitting there laughing and perhaps striking up a chorus of “Ding Dong the Witch is dead…”

  But if it was one thing Bertha knew, it was that she would die with a smile on her face. She didn’t believe she was going anywhere when she died, she believed death was a bit like a lovely endless sleep. For someone with a sleeping problem this was particularly appealing.

  So what if you look a little crazy during your lifetime by telling the truth? At least you have the decency not to pick a fight with something that can’t fight back, and the courage to stick up for yourself.

  The thought of several people beating up her corpse just made her laugh, especially because her face would be chemically frozen with a look of happiness and serenity.

  The people who never get their minds out are always the ones who drown in the end.

  “Bitch stop smiling, I’m kicking you!” she imagined one trying to pick a fight with her corpse.

  She wondered who would defend her corpse, and who would be kicking it.

  (Eh, you never know: death mixes everything up.)