Pissing in a River

by Lorrie Sprecher

  I put my head on her shoulder.

  “Do you want to go back to America?” she asked.

  “Are you barking mad?”

  “Do you?”

  “No. No, no, no. I want to stay here in England even if it means sleeping in shop doorways. Just let me come in and take a hot bath once in a while.”

  “Stop being so dramatic and give up your bedsit and come live with me,” Melissa blurted out. I was shocked into silence. “Say something.”

  “I’m fucking gobsmacked, Melissa.”

  “It’ll make your money last longer. And it will look better for your visa application.”

  “Melissa, I would love to live with you, and I’m chuffed you’d ask, but—”

  “But?” Melissa’s eyes brightened, translucent like two warm pints of bitter.

  “Melissa, I can’t live off you.”

  Melissa started singing the X-Ray Spex song “I Live Off You.”

  “But I can’t.”

  “Why shouldn’t you?” Melissa insisted. “It’s not even an added cost. I’ve already got the flat, and there’s plenty of room. I won’t support you. You can pay for your own food and contribute to household expenses. The only difference’ll be you won’t pay rent for a bedsit which you’re never in anymore anyway.”

  My heart swelled with gratitude and joy. “But you just said you don’t even know what our relationship is yet. I don’t want to spoil it by moving too fast.”

  “We won’t. You can have your own space in Jake’s room, come and go as you like. Things will be exactly the same as they are now except you won’t go skint paying rent, you won’t be cold, and we’ll be flatmates. If Harriet says it’s best, will you?”

  “I can’t just move in with you because it’s convenient. Can I? Has Harriet rung you yet?”

  “Not yet. Don’t you think I would have said?” Melissa rested her cheek on top of my head. “You know, love, I was really gutted by what you’d been through. And I’m a bit gutted you thought it could make any difference to me.”

  “Telling someone you’re crazy can be a big deal,” I said. “It wasn’t anything negative about you.”

  Melissa roughed up my hair. “You’re not mad. Your lift is only stuck on the ground floor, remember?”

  “Aren’t you going to look at your present?”

  “A pressie? For me?” Melissa opened the Tower Records bag and pulled out the CD. “The Complete John Peel Sessions. Oh, cheers, love. Nice one. This is brilliant.”

  “I figured you’d let me make a copy of it,” I murmured, feeling glittery inside because she liked it.

  “Silly git. You won’t need a copy of it. Not if you move in here with me.”

  That night as we lay in bed kissing, the turntable in my head played “Just the Wine” by Heart. I felt Melissa so deeply even my feet trembled. I knew she wasn’t ready for sex, so I tried squashing my desire just a little. I touched her breast lightly through the material of her T-shirt and shuddered. She put her hand on my breast, and I moaned softly, unable to help myself.

  Melissa felt me shifting my feet uncomfortably. “Is anything the matter, love?”

  “You are so sexy I think I’m going to burst.”

  She blushed.

  In a raspy voice, I recited what I’d heard Patti Smith say during her rendition of “Gloria” in a 1979 concert I’d recently listened to. “‘Oh, I would like to see you some morning. I would like to talk this over very sincere. Maybe we could meet in this life or after . . . There was only one layer covering the garden. I don’t know when we’ll get there again.’”

  Melissa sighed deeply, and I could feel her body giving way to mine, moving more deeply into me. And I thought, we’ve got to get back into that garden.

  TRACK 34 Opinion

  Melissa sent me to a chemist friend of hers who let me buy my drugs at a reduced rate. “And you can stop hiding them in Jake’s bedroom if you want to,” she called after me as I ran upstairs, and the Clash song “Drug-Stabbing Time” played in my head.

  “How’d you know?” I yelled down. I had the Takamine guitar case open and I heard Melissa climbing the stairs.

  “Oh, so that’s where you’ve been keeping them,” she said. “It wasn’t hard to suss out.” Melissa sat on Jake’s bed with a notepad and biro. “What other drugs have you tried?” she asked, crossing her legs.

  “All of them.”

  “All of them?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “All of them,” I repeated firmly. “Ask.”

  Melissa began naming drugs, starting with the newer antidepressants. I’d tried all of them. She moved through the older antidepressants, then into the antianxiety drugs and tranquillizers. I’d taken them all. When she got to the antipsychotics she said, “Now this is ridiculous. What the hell did they think you’d got?”

  “Everything.”

  “Surely not schizophrenia?”

  “When I take that standardized test, you know, the long one with eight-hundred questions like—‘are you afraid of snakes?’—I come out schizophrenic. The report I saw on myself, after I found I had a legal right to demand it, said I was either schizophrenic, had a drinking problem, or couldn’t read very well.”

  “I don’t suppose you need to read well to get a PhD in English.” Melissa’s accent was a little poshed up when she was being medical. “You’re moderately in touch with reality. And with the drugs you take, I’m surprised you can drink at all without getting violently ill.”

  “I can’t.” I grimaced. “Remember the Isle of Whitby? Not being able to drink is my drinking problem.”

  “You’ve certainly covered every dangerous and addictive sedative,” Melissa said. “You’ve pretty much had everything except for drugs that are really meant only for full-blown schizophrenia with delusions and hallucinations. I am impressed. Well done, you.”

  “I’ve been writing a song called ‘Empathy Death’ about my Gestapo ex-therapist.” I recited what I had so far.

  I’ve had enough fake empathy

  I’ll give you all of mine for free

  once I had a therapist

  now I need an exorcist

  my therapist was a Nazi

  she was Ayatollah Khomeini

  she was convicted for war crimes

  she worked for the devil

  but other than that I have no opinion.

  Melissa laughed. “That’s you all over. It’s so hard to talk to you. You never have an opinion. She’s a Nazi. No, really, what was she really like? What do you really think? Don’t be shy. Pick a side.”

  “It’s a new genre. I call it ‘lesbian hatecore.’ You didn’t realize I played ‘women’s music,’ did you?” I laughed.

  “Well,” Melissa put down her notepad, “I feel absolutely convinced you’ve told me enough so I’m not snogging you falsely. Wha’d ya reckon?”

  I said dramatically, “Take me.”

  Melissa pulled me down onto the bed and brushed my hair out of my eyes with both hands as I hovered over her. As I lowered myself into her kiss, she asked, “Do you still have symptoms that bother you?”

  “Mmm.” I sucked her lower lip. “It’s not like there’s a cure, you know.”

  “People respond to medication differently.”

  “I’ve tried everything short of having a hole drilled in my head.”

  “Is there anything else you want me to know?”

  “Mm umm.” My whole body tingled, and I couldn’t pry my lips off Melissa’s mouth.

  “Tell me,” she whispered.

  “The surgery is closed,” I said, and nuzzled her soft neck and cheek as she caressed my back.

  “I would never let anybody drill a hole in your head.”

  “That’s because you’re lovely.”

  She cradled and kissed my head. />
  “That’s better,” I said. “I had a serotonin and norepinephrine boo-boo.”

  “I’m glad your brain feels better.”

  “My problem is I get norepinephrine confused with Neo-Synephrine. That’s a nasal spray.”

  “Yes, I know,” Melissa smiled, “we have it here.” She put a hand on the side of my face and moved my head into a better position then began kissing me deeply. I could feel her trembling, and the Song of Songs splashed through my head again. “You feel so good,” Melissa groaned, “but I’m afraid if we take this any further, I’ll shut down.”

  “Don’t you worry about a thing, Melissa,” I said, thinking, “The song of songs, which is Solomon’s.” But out loud I said, “The song of songs, which is now mine.” I only changed it slightly.

  “Let her kiss me with the kisses of her mouth—

  For thy love is better than wine.

  Thine ointments have a goodly fragrance;

  Thy name is as ointment poured forth;

  Therefore do the maidens love thee.”

  Melissa’s ringing mobile startled us. “It’s Harriet,” Melissa whispered, as she picked up her phone. At first Melissa mostly nodded her head vigorously. But then she started saying things like “ta very much” and “oh, that’s brilliant.” She rang off and stared at me in wonder.

  “Well, what is it?” I demanded. “What did she say?”

  “The good news is you’ve got to move in with me right away,” Melissa said, putting her arms around me. “There’s something called the Unmarried Partners rule. If we’ve been living together for two years as a same-sex couple, you can be granted the right to remain here. There are various ways to build up our two years of cohabitation. One way Harriet suggested is we spend six months at a time living together in each other’s countries. But of course that’s hard with work commitments and the cost. But we can consider it as a last resort. A student visa is another route. I know you’ve had about as much education as you can stand, but it’s easier than leaving the country for six months. For me, anyway. We’d just have to come up with the dosh for two years of study. We’re allowed to be apart for up to six months out of the two years if there’s a good reason—no, me neither,” Melissa said, as I violently shook my head. “We need to provide evidence of our cohabitation, but that’s no problem since we’ve engaged a solicitor right away. The best thing is for you not to leave the country. Homophobic Entry Clearance Officers, if they suspect we’re trying to build up cohabitation evidence, can refuse you reentry and deport you. If you’re ever refused entry, it’s going to be difficult to get you back in again. Also, since you’re on a tourist visa, the ECOs can argue our relationship is evidence that you don’t intend to leave, and all tourists have to show their intention of leaving when their visa’s up. So just don’t leave the country for any reason and don’t volunteer information to immigration officials, as it’s an offense to lie to them.”

  “And if I just stayed on illegally?”

  “Some people try that, but the problem is the Home Office can say you have to return to the States and apply from there because one of the conditions of the Unmarried Partners rule is that you have to be legally in the country when you make the application. If you ask to extend your visa because you want to stay with your partner, it will probably be rejected. The impor­tant thing is for us to get your visa extended before it expires. If it does expire, you have to leave the country to reapply. If you’re caught here illegally, you can be banned from returning for five years.”

  “Jesus, that’s harsh,” I said. “Did Harriet say anything else?”

  “She said it’s about time I fell in love, and she hopes we’ll be happy.”

  “You’re absolutely adorable,” I said.

  “You’ve got to move in with me.”

  “Christ, Melissa, that’s a big decision. I feel like it’s being forced on you. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I wanted you to move in before we found out about the Unmarried Partners rule. Of course I’m sure. Especially if it means you can stay.”

  “I’m paid up at the bedsit through the end of the month,” I said. “That’s gives us a little time to think about it.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to think about.”

  “But we’re jumping into being partners and bypassing all the intermediate steps. How do you know you’re even going to like having sex with a woman? What if you change your mind?”

  “Even if our relationship weren’t a romantic one, I’d still say I was your same-sex partner if it meant you could stay in the country. I can’t imagine my life or Nick’s without you now.”

  “If, after some thought—I insist,” I said, as Melissa started to protest. “If you still want me here, we’re going to have to tell Nick about our relationship.”

  “Why? We can tell her it’s so you can stay in the UK.”

  “You don’t think she’s going to wonder why we’re suddenly using the rule for same-sex partners? That it was the first sodding thing we came up with? She’s not bloody stupid. I doubt I can officially start cohabitating with you until I’m completely out of that bedsit anyway, so you’ve got a fortnight to decide. You’re acting like it’s not, but it’s a big decision. Really.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you. Jake’s bedroom is now yours, so you can do what you like.” Melissa put her arms around my neck. “Please recite more poetry to me. I’ve never had a— lover do that before.”

  Her use of the word “lover” made me shiver, and I said,

  “Thy two breasts are like two fawns

  That are twins of a gazelle,

  Which feed among the lilies.

  “Or,” I smiled, “to put it in my own words,

  Thy lovely Bristols

  are hot as pistols.”

  Bristol Cities—titties.

  Melissa laughed. “You’re getting really good at that. Soon you’ll be a rhyming-slang dictionary.”

  I said,

  “Thy lips, O my bride, drop honey—

  Honey and milk are under thy tongue;

  And the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon.”

  “Do it in your own words again,” Melissa asked.

  I paused.

  Your mouth leaves honey on my tongue,

  And your hair smells of London.

  Your fingerprints are on my bum.

  When I’m with you I am among

  The lucky ones

  Whom God has blessed.

  I’m trembling here in your caress.

  “That’s bloody good for off the top of your head. Please stay,” Melissa whispered.

  TRACK 35 You’re Nicked

  Nick was sitting on my bed paging through an old gay and lesbian magazine as I sorted through my belongings. I hadn’t exactly told Nick I was moving in with Melissa, just said I was bringing over some of my gear because I spent so much time there. “Six Activists Storm Helms’ Office, Gay Protesters Face a Year in Jail,” Nick read the headline from the August 1, 1990 issue of Outweek aloud. “Wait, is this you?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  WASHINGTON—a band of six activists staged a raucous demonstration in the congressional office of Republican Sen. Jesse Helms of North Carolina on July 17, and each of the six may face up to one year in jail and fines of up to $600 apiece . . .

  “‘At 1:30 p.m.,’” Nick read, “‘demonstrators entered the mail room of Helms’ office in the Dirksen Senate Office Building by a back door. Once there, they used Helms’ facsimile machine to transmit press releases . . .’ That’s quite funny.”

  We’d also used the phones to call newspapers and TV stations. I’d written a resignation letter for Jesse Helms, and we refused to leave until he signed it. In it, he apologized for being a homophobic bigot.

  Nick
was laughing. “That was in one of the gay papers here. I remember talking about it down the pub with some mates, and someone wanted to send you lot flowers across the pond.” She put the magazine back in the box with other items from my arrests, like bracelets made out of discarded flex-cuffs and a summons to appear in DC Superior Court for “unlawful entry” and “demonstrating in a capitol building without a permit” from an arrest at the FDA in 1988. The bright yellow paper had my thumbprint in the corner and described my hair as “brown frizz.” My jail paperwork from 1987 described my hair as “brown and blue,” and my jail receipt listing the possessions taken away from me at the time of my arrest read: “orange sweatshirt, jeans, one red and one black sneaker, six earrings, gay-rights shirt, two pens, three pieces of paper, one novel, yellow police tape, two lesbian-rights buttons, six tampons, a flex-cuff.”

  “What’s this?” Nick pulled out a 1981 issue of the British gay newspaper Gay News and paged through it. “Why’d ya keep this one?”

  In that late May-early June issue I’d learned about the British men deported from America for being gay, which led to my arrangements to fly TWA and leaflet my own flight back to the States. There was an article explaining that the annual gay pride march was being held in Huddersfield that year to take a stand against the viciously antigay policing in the north and one announcing the first-ever, women-only Lesbian Strength march in London.

  “Oh my God, is this you?” Nick was looking at the headline “Whistles and Hooters Greet Bullet Mayor.” There was a picture of a group of protesters in front of Trafford town hall, and there I was with my sign, “No .303 for Me—Lesbian and Proud.”

  I looked at my much-younger self. “How the bloody hell did you ever recognize me?”

  “You told me all about lugging your sign on the bus, you silly twat,” Nick laughed.

  “I forgot.” I grabbed up my rucksack. “Wanna grab something? I’m ready.”