Pissing in a River

by Lorrie Sprecher

  “Was there a gift basket?” Melissa asked facetiously. “No, this has happened before. Now I really am concerned. Remember I told you Nick’s ex-girlfriend has a brother in London? He’s a fucking gobshite piece of filth. He blames Nick for turning Emilia queer, and after Emilia tore arse back to Ireland, he kept harassing Nick.”

  “Was Nick Emilia’s first girlfriend?”

  “Do you think that matters? People like that are beyond explanations.”

  “What did he do to her?”

  “Spray-painted obscenities outside her flat until her landlady chucked her out. Got her number and rang her up all hours. Sometimes he’d be waiting for her when she came home from the pub. He totally messed her up.”

  I shook my head. “Why would anyone go to all that trouble?”

  “He’s probably just miserable about his own damn life.” Melissa quoted from “Mindless Violence” by the Newtown Neurotics, “‘Mindless violence, what does it prove? / It proves you don’t know the people who are shitting on you.’”

  I asked, “Did she call the police?”

  “She couldn’t prove he was the one doing it. They told her to change her number and ignore him. They couldn’t give a toss.”

  “Christ, poor thing.” And the first line of “Glad to Be Gay” ran through my head. “The British police are the best in the world . . .”

  “The harassment stopped after she moved. Maybe Atom’s tracked her down again.”

  “Sorry, Atom? His name’s Atom, as in Atomic?”

  “I think his real name’s Adam.”

  I had a vision of Nick as the heroic lesbian Eve, trapped in the garden with an Adam who insisted she be heterosexual and belong to him.

  For the rest of the week, when Melissa didn’t have other engagements, we drove to Nick’s flat in the evenings after work to see if we could find her. Melissa’s hours at work had slackened off a bit as a result of hiring a new full-time partner at her practice.

  I’d watch the yellow and white lights of London swirling past, the bright neon smorgasbords of Piccadilly, Kensington, and Tower Bridge. Melissa took me all round the city because she knew how much I loved it. I stared out the window at the yellow lights of St. John’s Wood. I felt small and sad but also strangely happy. We passed the shiny red brick of Hampstead tube station, the circular blue-and-red underground symbols glistening in the rain. “This area’s dead flash, Melissa,” I said.

  “I know.” Melissa was blasting her favorite version of the Mano Negra song “King Kong Five” from their live album. “Our flat’s been in the family donkey’s years.”

  “You never talk about your family,” I said. “Except for your sister.”

  “I know,” she said. “Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Do you think we should go to the police?”

  “About Nick? I don’t know what to do. I’d hate to get the cops involved, and I doubt there’s anything they could do. She’s an adult and hasn’t been missing that long.”

  Melissa got us into Nick’s flat by telling her landlady that Nick was a patient who might be seriously ill and unable to get to a phone. “Well,” Melissa said as we left, having found nothing out of the ordinary, “at least we know she’s not in there avoiding us.”

  “What if Atom’s grabbed her and she’s somewhere else in trouble? I think we should report her missing to the police.”

  “If she’s missing on purpose she won’t want the Met picking her up. Maybe she’s in Manchester visiting some mates.”

  When we got home, I distracted myself by recording the guitar tracks to my song “Holiday in Afghanistan.” The Vox amp gave me just the sweet crunch I wanted, and I miked in the guitar, tweaking it with more reverb for a bit of an aftertaste. I used my Small Clone and Digital Delay to make the rhythm guitar more chiming and the DS-1 distortion pedal for a totally biting, heavy lead. I’d got my inspiration from the Fingers’ version of the Bob Marley song “Johnny Was.”

  I waited until Melissa went to work the next day to record the vocals because I was self-conscious about my singing. I recorded them in the loo. The acoustics were great with my voice resonating off the porcelain. To boost my self-confidence, I imagined I was Joe Strummer in that scene from Rude Boy when he’s recording his vocals and listening through headphones so all anyone can hear is him singing a cappella.

  After I mixed everything, it sounded like I’d recorded the song in a proper studio. I separated the different tracks in terms of panning, texture, and volume so I could hear each instrument and the vocals clearly even though they all blended together. I’d never heard my music sound the way I heard it in my head before.

  I put new light-gauge Elixir strings on the Takamine and secretly recorded the last song I’d written about Melissa. Just two tracks, acoustic guitar and vocals. Later I went back and added a third track, a haunting, wailing riff on my electric guitar to form a melancholy harmony against the vocals. I wished I had the guts to play it for Melissa.

  When Melissa rang from the clinic to invite me out with some mates, I decided against it. I was in the middle of a new song I wanted to finish. At around seven, I collected my guitar and portable amp. First I went back to mine and got the rest of my medication, since I seemed to be staying on at Melissa’s indefinitely, then went out to Bethnal Green. I knew it was probably useless, but I just wanted to show my face there like I was doing something. There was no response at Nick’s flat, so I walked back to the tube and busked for something to do while I waited. I figured if she was in the crowd, she’d hear me playing and we wouldn’t miss each other. I strummed my guitar distractedly, scanning the people going in and out of the Bethnal Green station, ridiculously hoping to spot Nick. I stayed until I was too cold to stand around any longer, then trudged back through the dark streets to Nick’s flat for a last look.

  I rang her buzzer and stepped back so she could see me if she was upstairs looking out her window, afraid to open the door. A bloke was leaning against the building smoking a fag. My mental jukebox immediately dropped the needle on Patti Smith’s “Land: Horses,” and I heard her say, “The boy was in the hallway drinking a glass of tea.” The rhythm of “bloke against building smoking a fag” and “boy in hallway drinking a glass of tea” were the same to me. It reminded me of Gertrude Stein talking about composition as landscape, and about all the elements in the composition having equal value. He must have noticed me staring up at her window because he said, “You a mate of hers?”

  When suddenly Johnny

  gets the feeling

  he’s being surround by

  horses horses horses horses

  “Sorry?” I told myself to focus.

  “You one of the girls?” He took a long hit off his ciggy and chucked the dog-end into the road.

  coming in all directions

  white shining silver studs with their nose in flames

  he saw horses horses horses

  horses horses horses horses horses

  “I’m sorry?” I repeated, offended.

  “You lot are an abomination, you know that?”

  “Are you Atom?” I got ready to tell him off, then thought better of confronting him alone in the dark. I turned and started walking back toward the tube.

  “Oi, I’m not through talking to you yet.” He followed me.

  “Sod off.” He’s mad, I thought, and I couldn’t swallow my spit fast enough.

  “Oi!” He grabbed my arm. He smelled of stale beer, like he’d washed his clothes in lager.

  I yanked my arm free and shoved him. He reached for me again. I put down my guitar case and slapped his hand away. He’s a big, nasty-looking, stroppy lad, I translated automatically in my head, pleased with myself for thinking, even under duress, in British English. That’s when you really know you’ve mastered a foreign language. Look at me. I’m bilingual. I would have loved to play the
hero and beat the living shite out of him for terrorizing Nick, but I didn’t fancy my chances. And I had to protect my guitar.

  He said, “What you need, girl, is a real man to show you how it’s done.”

  Lovely, I thought. I’ve certainly never heard that argument before. “Look, mate,” I said, “at least try to come up with original material.”

  He lunged for me unsteadily. I swung my Fender Ampcan at his head. He stumbled backward but was too alcohol inflated to be seriously dented.

  “Go Rimbaud, go Rimbaud, go Johnny go,” Patti Smith sang in my head. I took the hint. I picked up my guitar and ran as best I could, the heavy case banging against one leg, the Ampcan against the other. Atom came after me faster than I had expected. I didn’t think I could make it to a well-lit main road before he caught up with me. I sprinted into a monotone of blackness and hid behind a rubbish skip for about five minutes. Then, with no idea where I was going, I crept around the bin and went down another side street. But the Gibson hardshell case battering my leg made me loud and clumsy. I heard the sound of boots on cobblestone. I was too tired to go much farther and looked for another place to hide.

  As I ran alongside a brick wall, I stumbled onto a tiny play area for kids. I clambered up on part of a metal climbing frame and looked over the wall. It was too dark to see anything below, so I figured I could hide down there. I chucked my Ampcan over the wall and hoped for the best. Then I pulled up my guitar case and tried to balance it on the wall, but something prevented it from staying there. I realized there were strands of barbed wire running along the top. I was going to give up and get down to find another way in when I heard Atom panting somewhere behind me. Gobshite. I put one foot on the wall and tried to heave myself up with my guitar without hurting myself. I slipped and grabbed at the wire to steady myself. “FUCK me,” I cursed under my breath to keep myself from screaming and letting go as I felt a jagged spike rip through my palm. Stigmata, I told myself, to keep calm at the sharp burst of pain, don’t worry about it. If our Lord could take it, so can you. I managed to kneel on the wall and lower my guitar lengthwise down on the other side. I stood up and balanced my feet on either side of the barbed wire, trying to figure out how I was going to get down. I didn’t feel like taking a wild, trusting leap into the open mouth of the night. But hearing the scuffle of boots, I realized it was too late, that he would see me if I didn’t jump immediately. The wall was covered with a thin, slimy layer of green moss, and when I turned to jump, I lost my balance and fell instead. I felt barbed wire tear at the inside of my trouser leg, and then the ground rushed up and hit me. Hard. For a second, I was too stunned to feel anything. Then I felt massive relief when I realized I hadn’t landed on my guitar.

  As I tried to get my breath back, I became aware of a throbbing pain in my right ankle. Oh shite, I thought, hoping Emilia’s brother wouldn’t find me because I wouldn’t be able to run away. I concentrated on the way the wet grass felt and lifted my head. With a shock, I realized I was looking at black, Hebrew letters. I had landed in a Jewish cemetery. How appropriate, I thought. All I have to do is lie here and wait. I was afraid to move lest I make noise. My hand burned. I decided I should remain still for at least half an hour to make sure Atom had gone. The pain in my ankle would subside, and I’d make it to a phone box. I imagined Melissa’s soothing voice over the line and how nice it would feel to ride home in her warm car.

  Of course it started pissing down with rain. I wondered if I should just lie on my back with my mouth open and drown myself. But the possibility of being rescued by Melissa was far too sweet to pass up. Maybe the rain would act like an ice pack from God on my swelling ankle. The freezing rain actually kept my spirits up. It was like God looking down and saying, “Alright?” But it was eerie lying in that place, and soon I couldn’t control my shivering. All the stone inscriptions were in Hebrew so I couldn’t entertain myself by reading them.

  I lay in the rain and sang “Barbed Wire Love” by Stiff Little Fingers in my head until I thought it was safe to move. “All you give me is barbed wire love . . . barbed wire love snags my jeans.” Slowly, gingerly, I got to my feet. At first I was afraid to put any weight on my ankle, but as I hopped around looking for my Ampcan it became numb, and I found I could move about more easily. Leaning on my guitar case like a crutch, I tried to find a way out of the cemetery.

  I slowly made my way to the street and found a red phone box, the old-fashioned kind that hadn’t yet been modernized to allow for wheelchair access. I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out some wet, cold coins. At the flat, I got the answering machine. I tried Melissa’s mobile, thinking, please, please pick up, with a rising sense of panic. When I heard Melissa’s voice, it stirred up all the rescue fantasies I’d ever had about her. I pushed in a few coins. “Melissa, can you come get me?” Please, I prayed to the exacting God of OCD.

  “What? Amanda? Speak up, love, I can’t hear you.” It was noisy on Melissa’s end of the line.

  “Melissa, I need your help,” I shouted. “Where the fuck are you?”

  “Down the disco,” she yelled back. “What’s wrong, love?”

  “Help!” I screamed into the receiver. I lowered my head and knocked it against the phone. I felt like I would die if she didn’t leave her good time to save me.

  “Hang on a mo,” Melissa said calmly, and there was some shuffling about while my brain played Blondie’s “Hanging on the Telephone.” Then it was relatively quiet. “I’m outside. Now I can hear you.”

  “Melissa, I twisted my ankle. I have no idea where the nearest tube is, and I can’t get home.”

  “What? You’re hurt? What happened? Where are you?”

  “I don’t know where I am.” Tears ran down my cheeks to mix with the rainwater, as I felt truly sorry for myself. All the most unappealing aspects of my OCD were kicking in, the need for constant reassurance, the panic, the inability not to focus on my own suffering, and I was having trouble controlling my emotions.

  “Can you find a main road and get a taxi? I can meet you at the flat.”

  “I can’t. I can’t walk.”

  “You what? How badly are you hurt? Do you need me to call 999?”

  “No,” I sobbed, “fucking hell. I just need you to come get me, only I don’t know where I am.” I told her what had happened while my brain mocked me. Yes, OCD is one of your more attractive mental illnesses. Um hmm. What a prize. She’ll be lucky to have you. She doesn’t know how lucky she is.

  “Fuck.” This reaction startled me, as I’d never heard Melissa sound so angry before. Then she softened her tone. “It’s alright, love. Where do you think you are? Where were you the last time you saw a street sign?”

  I told her I was in a phone box near a Jewish cemetery somewhere, vaguely, in the vicinity of Bethnal Green. She said that she would find me. “I’ve got an A to Zed in my car.” Luckily the London A–Z lists burial grounds. “Don’t freeze to death,” she said.

  “If I do, just bury me here,” I said, and hung up the phone.

  TRACK 25 Hold On I’m Coming

  I stood my guitar and Ampcan in the phone box, and there wasn’t room enough for me. I sat in the rain, ignoring Melissa’s admonition not to freeze. I played the Clash version of Ed Cobb’s “Every Little Bit Hurts” in my head.

  By the time I saw the familiar headlights and then the distinctive thick, rubber bumper of Melissa’s car, I was singing “I’m Not Down” by the Clash under my breath to keep warm.

  Melissa pulled up and got out of her car, leaving the headlights shining on me. She bent down to examine my leg. She seemed controlled but angry. I wasn’t used to seeing her like that. “I’m sorry I had to ruin your night,” I said hesitantly.

  “Don’t be silly.” Melissa untied my sodden white Converse Chuck Taylor high-top and gently felt my ankle. “Can you put any weight on it? Tell me if this hurts.” She checked for point tenderness. “Yo
u have a sprain.” She took off her coat and wrapped it around me.

  “No,” I protested, “you’ll get all wet.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said firmly, rain pelting her hair and streaming down her face. “Christ, your hand.” Melissa looked at my wound, which hadn’t stopped bleeding. “That’s quite a deep gash. It’s going to need suturing.” She opened her medical bag. Gently, she put on a dressing and wrapped my hand in a gauze bandage. And the phrase “the gentleness of bluebells” kept running through my head because the way she bent over me reminded me of the graceful way the heads of the bluebells leaned down from their stalks in the woods of Exeter.

  Before I let her help me into the passenger seat of her car, I made her put in my guitar and amp. When she returned for me, I was singing “Behind Blue Eyes” by the Who. “‘If I swallow anything evil, put your finger down my throat. / If I shiver please give me a blanket / keep me warm, let me wear your coat.’” I hoped I wouldn’t get blood all over her car. Melissa once told me she’d redone the steering wheel and gearshift so there was no “tortured-screaming-dead-animal” inside.

  We zipped through quiet streets with the heater on full blast. “If Nick knew he was hanging about, how could she have let you walk into that?” Melissa pounded her hands on the cruelty-free steering wheel.

  “It’s not her fault, Melissa. How was she to know?”

  “This could have been a lot more serious than a twisted ankle.”

  “And stigmata,” I mumbled.

  “And stigmata, yes,” Melissa said, and I stared at her profile to see if she was smiling. “Let’s get you to A and E and have your hand sutured.”

  “Wait. What? You’re taking me to A and E? You’ll do the suturing, right?”

  “The A and E doctor will do it.”

  “No way,” I said. “No one touches me but you.”

  “Amanda, I’ll be right there with you. It’s not a complicated procedure.”

  “No.” The weight of the whole evening came crashing down on me. “I want you to do it. I won’t let anybody else touch me.”