My church is by no means out
in the boonies, despite being in a one stoplight town (which we don’t even
actually need). Still, we take care of a variety of animals that have nowhere
else to go, and when the roof of their building gets done in by a seriously
strong thunder storm the congregation steps up to temporarily house the
otherwise homeless animals.
This is how I found my tiny,
1980’s model single-wide trailer stuffed to the brim (and secret basement
compartment? There wasn’t a lot down there, but there wasn’t nothing, either)
with wild things. At least two tarantulas with bodies as big as my head, fuzzy
and caramel colored like Fozzie the Bear shared a cage with a fox kit. A group
of a mama duck and several ducklings, plus a one-eye-blind, fat, fat tabby had
taken over my closet. Nieces and nephews crowded into the miniscule living
room, which mainly boasted a much-too-big fold-out couch. Granted, the nieces
and nephews weren’t part of the ecclesiastical zoo, but they were just as
beastly.
The next morning, I pilfer
donuts from the master bedroom in my mother’s apartment (I guess we live in a
magical, place-changing abode); they’re half stale, and I can’t choose which I
actually want, so I commit the sin of taking a bit from each one. Send my
little brother off to school on his bike. I have no school to attend, just
drama about all of us getting kicked out onto the street for reasons I don’t
know. Perhaps our mother has offended someone, or not paid a debt, or any of the
other irresponsibility that slip off her being like a native language. Whatever
it is, she’s not around, and we’re cast from our belongings.
Apparently, HE is having none
of this. Copper gold skin and eyes and charm coiled in layers around his
person—I know his name, but I don’t say it, don’t think it, shy away from the
fragility of it. He gathers me flush up against his side and drags me along,
his smile and infectious confidence like a thread sewn down the seam of us,
binding me to him. The force of his magnetism pulls in more people the closer
we get to the apartment. His best friend, all red hair, all over. Jeremy and
Stephanie, who break up and get back together so regularly you can set your
watch by them, agree to help us break in just so we can get our stuff out.
Cousins, charmed off of the rusty equipment at the complex playground.
Even the manager, who blusters
and yells only when Ryan grabs the corner of the brick building and pries away
one wall to gain access. He clears away a guitar in its case, a sax, some
other instrument—perhaps a base drum.
"Hey," I say,
clinging to the edge of the broken floor, putting a hand to Ryan’s shoulder.
"There’s enough room for me to crawl through, unlock the door from
the inside. Let’s get the rest that way."
But the manager, down on the
grass, the soft, spongy grass below, calls up, irate and immutable. “You can’t
do that! Only the King of the apartment can grant permission to take out
belongings!” he huffs.
I drop to the spongy grass,
knocking onto hands, rear end, and feet in my nearness. “I *am* the King,” I
say, smiling him a dare to contradict me.
He scuttles back a foot, like
a crab. “But you still need a second nationality to confirm the things are
yours … “
Scanning the crowd, find a
cousin, guide her before him with fingers cupped at the nape of her neck.
“She’s half Puerto Rican. Will that do?”
His eyes bulge, doubtful,
because the cousin I’ve grabbed is all over as pale as moonlight. She
practically casts a lunar glow around herself. But, it’s true. She *is*
actually half-Puerto Rican, so I feel no shame.
Whether he believes me or not,
he nods. I smile at him, then at my friends, hanging from ledges, and swinging
from handholds they’ve made of window boxes. “We’re good! Let’s come back
later!”
I want to think of something
else, do something else, and suddenly He and I are at the gym, and I’m
contemplating some machine having to do with those muscles that make smart
girls stupid. I don’t need to make any smart girls stupid, but I wouldn’t
myself mind feeling a little more muscular, so I decide instead to use a
machine something of a human-sized hamster ball. It’s all pinging wires
straining at angles designed to make me work for the feeling of being in a
flight simulator. I’m told I’m using it incorrectly, which surprises
absolutely no one, but it’s okay, because the buses to take us to the festival
in the quarter have arrived. Two or more pairs of fat and fluffy leathered
headphones dangle over each seat bench so riders can enjoy music or silence on
the trip.
But I don’t want to take the
bus. Already hot, I want to walk, tracking myself down the scrollwork of a
stairway. Hot breath pins Him to the wall, just enough humidity in the air and
fresh sweat on our bodies that we need not worry about friction between them.
Even with the temperatures soaring around us, the coolness of his skin makes my
chest burn. It’s sticky, and I hate sticky, but I don’t hate this. I want more
from it.
He kisses me through his
smile. It’s a heaviness that makes no sense. Senseless, and overwhelming every
sense I’ve got. A consumption.
"After this let’s go
home, take showers, and *not* get dressed," I whisper, my face somehow
having found his abdomen, which is soft and smooth, but so very slim, and my
mouth grazing the bare belly-button where his shirt’s flipped up. His jeans
aren’t new enough to cling any higher than the space just below his hipbones.
He smiles that smile again. I
may have a heart attack, seriously. Just BOOM! But he grabs my hand, pointing
over the railing, out of the shadows slicing across our enclosed space. “Look!
And I’ve got a couple of free passes.”
A squashy older woman in a
floral dress and squashier hat festooned with aging silk flowers stands at the
ready behind the bar of a rickshaw. He wants to ride to the concert in that
thing. I inspect the old lady again, doubting she can haul anything with speed,
let alone a rickshaw carrying two people.
"Wait here for a bit,
then," He says. "I’ll test her out first," and off He
strides, almost hopping through the crowds in his enthusiasm before I
even open my mouth to answer.
I ‘m sort of used to
this kind of behavior. I sigh, knowing I couldn’t have stopped him,
regardless. If I weren’t immune to blissful ignorance, I’d find this quality of
His infectious. As it is, I’ve instead learned a lot about patience,
because I love him. I think probably everybody loves him, but I do in the
closest proximity.
Time on my hands, I look
around to see what else might occupy them. All around me every horizontal
surface is covered with coffee mugs spilling over with perennials. Flowers of
every short, stunty variety, colorful and stubborn, strain against ceramics
sporting logos and snarky comments. It’s a sea of seedlings and sarcasm.
Some radio station has set up
a DJ booth, but instead of tunes being the main attraction, author and my
own acquaintance, Heather Marie is doing a book signing. The promoter has
done a bang-up job. Her name is EVERYWHERE. It’s on the plastic covering the
insulation of a building under construction, for goodness’s sake. In screaming
hot pink. Heather is doing well, buddy
Which is great, but not my
business at the moment, because I’ve spotted a magazine, and there on one
half of the center fold, unblemished by staples, He poses. And HE’s gorgeous,
of course. He couldn’t be less than beautiful if he tried, as far I’m
concerned. It isn’t fair, actually. There’s some short-haired female, but who
cares. It isn’t her image chasing adrenaline down my veins..
How is it suddenly dusk? The
sun has fallen in the sky as if it wanted to get a good look, too, and thrust
itself too hard, overshooting the horizon. Naked lightbulbs dangle from wires
strung overhead. The DJ announces there’s a prize for the first person who can
answer the following question about Heather Marie.
"What celebrity musician
told Heather on Instagram that turning 44 doesn’t matter at all?
I grin, knowing the answer
even as the crowd surges forward, shouting themselves hoarse getting it wrong.
I laugh quietly to myself,
quietly getting it right.
A giant of a man with the face
and aura of John Torturo notices. He’s got to be eight feet tall. One of his
hands could easily encircle my entire waist. He turns his face in the direction
of the DJ and hollers that there’s a tiny little thing over here who knows, but
the crowd is so loud the DJ can’t hear even him. I don’t mind.
Someone does eventually get
the answer, and moments later the crowd disappears, a swarm of mosquitoes
sensing fresh blood elsewhere. Now there’s room to lean against the booth, even
a free barstool so I don’t need to stand. My eyes tease Heather while her
husband starts packing out empties and balling up discarded shrink wrap
behind her.
"How’s Dido lately,
anyway. Had enough of her, yet?" I ask.
Heather ignores my question,
her face a wreath of wryness. “You still waiting?”
Suddenly, the far away clouds
seem very interesting.
But.
Then there He is. Different
rickshaw, different, driver, same would-be infectious smile, and He has my
brother sitting next to Him, home from school, the straps of his backpack wound
around his ankles to keep it from falling out.
The adrenaline chases down my
veins again, slamming so hard into my nerve endings I suck in a shuddering
breath to ease all this pressure in my chest.
I understand about the
happiness attached to Him. I get it. Like the situation is a promise
pirouetting on the tips of my fingers, one whorl from shattering completely.
How come this terror is so addictive?
