Neither Here Nor There

by Nikki Harmon

  NEITHER

  HERE

  NOR

  THERE

  BY NIKKI HARMON

  www.mt.airygirlpress.com

  All characters in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  NEITHER HERE NOR THERE

  Copyright © 2019 Nikki Harmon

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed, electronic, or digital form without permission from the author.

  ISBN: 978-0-9965373-4-6 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-0-9965373-5-3 (ebook)

  Cover art from the original painting Foxy byArt87JR a.k.a. Jason Rodriguez

  Jason.art87@gmail.com

  Dedicated to my mother, Carole Harmon,

  a wonderful woman whose love, support,

  and inspiration continue to keep me aloft.

  Thank you for instilling in me a love of reading,

  keeping a wonderful collection of books in the house,

  encouraging me to make good use of our local library,

  and providing me with the title of this book.

  It happened again. I just can’t understand how, not to mention why. Why do I feel so loose in myself? It’s as if “my self”, my body, my “Kim-ness” is a costume, a loose-fitting costume that I am rolling around in. I can spin all the way around in it without anyone noticing. I can duck my head inside the collar of it and have a tea party, but as long as the costume shows up, it’s all good. I’m there enough for everything to carry on. But me? I’m just a tiny thing wearing mama’s fancy dress and fur coat and sparkly red high heel shoes.

  I was just coming from class when I ran into some old friends of mine and I forgot who they needed me to be, who I needed to be for them. I messed up and I think I may have lost them. No, they won’t turn their backs on me but they will wonder … and feel the gulf between us. And it will make them uncomfortable. Oh, they will still greet me and joke with me but in time, they will know it for acting and they will drift away from me and I from them. And just like quantum particles, unobserved, we will cease to exist for each other.

  Chapter 1

  I shut my eyes to block out the reflections of my fellow passengers but I’m not stupid. I keep them closed for just a few seconds of peace. I’m on the subway, the Broad Street Line heading home to West Oak Lane and a lapse in vigilance could be a costly mistake. I stare back out the windows, which look onto nothing but the blurred walls of the tunnel we are rushing through. The train stops with a jerk every 3 minutes or so to let a few people on or off, varying the composition of the car but not the mood. Most of the passengers exude the same public transit vibe: a mix of weariness, wariness and detachment. The subway is like purgatory. You are neither here nor there. It’s too loud for conversation, too jarring for reading, and too busy for quiet meditation. So, you just pause, wait for your stop to get off, and get back to living.

  At my stop, I get up careful not to bump anyone, sway to the door as it opens, cross the gap onto the platform, and exhale as the door swishes to a close behind me. Climbing up the grimy station steps, I resume my life as a commuter college student headed home after classes, praying that someone has made dinner because I am starving!

  It’s the middle of October and the leaves are just starting to get serious about turning color. The air has lost its humidity and Halloween decorations are popping up here and there. During the two block walk to my house, I alternate between admiring the work some have put into their houses and scowling over the equal number of boarded-up windows and run-down apartment buildings. My neighborhood has always had these extreme contrasts. Mrs. Harbison’s porch would rival any horticultural display at the Flower Show. Mums and pansies and zinnias, wind chimes and bird feeders and beautiful small statues of the Virgin Mary accompany ferns and palms. There is even a small waterfall over Zen rocks. It should just be a lovely garden, but instead it seems bizarre because right next door to her row home is a house that was owned by a hoarder. It was condemned a month ago, but through the windows, you can see piles of boxes, stacks of chairs, and rows upon rows of thrift store tchotchkes that have not been touched. You can still smell the 37 cats. On the other side, there is no house at all. It collapsed four years ago, the city finally demolished it two years ago and now it’s a vacant lot overrun with scraggly weeds growing among the abandoned slabs of concrete. Too little on one side, too much on the other and Mrs. Harbison in the middle doing her best to incite beauty in her little patch of the world.

  I know Mrs. Harbison because she goes to my church. Or, at least, what used to be my church. I went there my whole life, but my mother got married there seven years ago. Now it’s my mother’s church that she goes to with her new husband. In junior high school, I used to go with them even though I felt like a third wheel. I didn’t care. Going made me feel rebellious. Having discovered my affinity for girls in 8th grade, I knew myself for an outlaw and I knew most sermons to be bullshit. I went anyway, with all my secrets, determined to be seen if not heard. It didn’t last long. My mother could not countenance hypocrisy; consequently, she just stopped reminding me to get dressed, stopped waiting for me, and then stopped mentioning it at all. They would just be gone early on Sundays and I learned how to make a mean French toast and drink coffee in their absence.

  Walking up to my front door, I can see the lights are on and I hear a saxophone solo, Charlie Parker, I think. I imagine the scene inside. My younger brother and sister are sitting at the dining room table, practicing their letters or coloring. My mother is bustling about in the kitchen making some kind of healthy chicken dinner. Her husband is not home yet but eagerly expected any minute. The scene is warm and cozy, a veritable Cosby show episode and here I come, rings cascading down my ears, nose stud sparkling, tattoos peeking out when it gets warm. I mess up the whole picture. I know it and I don’t care. I am an outsider here and yet a small part of me is happy about that.

  My locks are braided back today, but they, too, have remained a source of irritation to my mother, who remains scarred by the memory of a close call. MOVE was a back to nature group in Philadelphia in the eighties. Easy to spot by their then unusual dreadlocks, my mother, young and curious, met and made friends with a few of the members and even thought about joining them. A few months later, they were bombed by the city of Philadelphia. Children died. My mother’s friends died. The city was traumatized and my mother was racked with guilt. Apparently, my dreadlocks remind her of the loss. I’m sorry about her friends; I am. But I like my locks and I’m not giving them up, bomb or no bomb.

  I reach in my coat pocket for my keys just as I hear bass coming down the street, followed by what sounds like a song, then finally, a car engine. Squinting through the dusk, I recognize the driver. It’s Meer.

  She was Amira until 7th grade, when she cut her hair, took up basketball, gave up wearing anything “girly” and challenged anybody to say anything to her. She went full-fledged hard-core dyke in 10th grade but by then, everybody knew and accepted her and nobody much cared. I also came out in high school, though, I did it in dribs and drabs, parsing out my secrets to a few close friends who I trusted and to the one girl I liked. And that didn’t go well. In my mind, Amira and I have always had a complicated relationship, even though we were not friends. She was tall, loud, funny, and bold, while I, though a rebel in my own mind, kept myself amused with academics, science fiction and sarcasm. We didn’t have much in common, but I was always curious about her.

  Meer. She’s creeping down the street, her neck craning around. A weird hum starts in the back of my skull, like an overloaded electrical circuit. I give a shake to clear it, but then my vision
starts to blur. I blink and squint to try and focus, but it feels like time has slowed down, the world feels underwater, but I am buzzing with energy. When I tilt my head left, I have a vision of myself flagging her down, walking up to the car and saying, “Hey Meer!” When I tilt my head right I get a glimpse of myself turning back to the door, inserting the key, and continuing into the house. When the car reaches my house, I decide to raise my hand and take a step down the stoop. She notices me. The buzzing and blurring recede as I exhale and focus on her. She rolls to a stop as I walk down the steps towards her. I glance back up at the front door and see a brief outline of where I used to be, a shimmer, a wink of light, and then nothing.

  She rolls down the window. I lean down and say, “Hey Meer!” She peers at me, trying to place me.

  “Heyyyy ….”. I decide to help her out.

  “It’s Kim, Kim Thornton from Central. We graduated together…from high school, like last year?” I’m starting to feel like the biggest loser ever when she says, “Oh yeah! Kim! Yeah, I remember you! How are you? You live around here?”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “I live right there,” I say jerking my head to indicate the house behind me.

  “Hey, I like your locks! They’re so long! Look, I’m just starting to grow mine.” She rubs her hand over her head full of baby locks. “Hey, I’m supposed to be picking up a friend to go play ball. She said she lives at 136 but I don’t see any address like that.”

  “Hmmm, these numbers start at 1400, are you sure you have the right address?”

  “I thought so. She said she’d be outside but her phone is broken. I guess I’ll just look for her. Hey, you want to come and help me? It’s getting dark and I’m already late.” I look up at my house and back to Meer, who is grinning at me with her hands pressed in mock prayer.

  “Please, pretty, pretty please,” she begs. She seems just the same: friendly, loud, and confident. I can’t think of anything important that I have to do. I shrug and reply, “Sure, I’ll come along.”

  “But you have to come to the game, too, ok? I’m already late. I’ll bring you back home though, I promise.” I shrug and say, “ok”. I get in the car. It’s an old dark blue Lincoln – wide and long with leather seats. I suppose it fits her fine since she’s almost 6’ tall, but I am pretty small in that big seat. She smiled as I slid in, and then peered at me a little closer. She reached out and touched my ear and smiled. I knew that she had spotted my double woman sign earring, which pretty much announces that I’m a lesbian. I raise my eyebrows at her and smile.

  “You? You’re fam?” she asks incredulously.

  “Yup,” I say. She laughs out loud.

  “Since when?”

  “Tenth grade.”

  She grunts approval and nods.

  “Well, this day is just getting better and better!” She looks at the clock on the dash. “Shit! We gotta go! You look right, I’ll look left. She’s holding a basketball. It shouldn’t be too hard to find her.”

  ∆∆∆

  After four blocks of staring out the windows, we find her friend Tamika, and she climbs in the back huffing and puffing about Meer always being late. We take off and drive to a huge rec center in Germantown and park right in the front. Meer and Tamika jump out and sprint across the parking lot to the entrance. Laden with my books, purse and big puffy coat, I trot behind them and tell them not to wait for me. When I find the right gym, I make my way up to the bleachers and arrange all my stuff around me. I look around and wonder what the hell am I doing here? I don’t know anybody, I’m sitting alone on hard, cold bleachers and I’m starving. I look out on the court and see a dozen black and brown women with Meer in the center, laughing and apologizing and making jokes to what appear to be her teammates. The girls towards the left side are looking at her a little pissed, but I don’t think you can hold a grudge towards someone who crawls on her knees begging forgiveness and then gets up and slaps you on the butt.

  After a few minutes, they settle down as two women head to the center of court. The ref throws up the ball and they jump up to tap it. As they begin the game, I start to feel stupid. No, maybe not stupid. Ignorant. The players are talking, laughing, grunting, running, pushing, jumping, defending, and shooting the ball. They are at ease with themselves and their game.

  Besides the obligatory rooting for the local Philly teams and attending the occasional high school football game, sports have always seemed kind of pointless to me. But now, it dawns on me that I have been oblivious to the obvious appeal of sports for women. Nobody cares about looking cute or being cool. Nobody is asking permission or being nice. And no one is apologizing for wanting to win. These women are free, at least during the game. How did I miss this? Some feminist I am!

  I turn my attention to Meer. The last time I saw her was graduation. Everyone was hugging everyone else, making promises for the summer, plans for the night. I had stumbled in her path of hugs and she smiled and reached out for me. I went right in there and hugged her. She felt muscular but soft at the same time and smelled like sandalwood. It stirred something in me, but people were calling her name and she moved on to the next girl eager to have an excuse to hug the big gay basketball star. I shook it off and looked for my parents at the far end of the auditorium. But right now, Meer is focused on the ball. She moves to the right and blocks another woman, looking for the ball. Her hands up, she catches the pass and dribbles left towards the basket. She pulls up and shoots, but misses. She chases the loose ball, gets it back, and passes it to Tamika, who shoots and sinks it. They high-five and jog down the court to defend on the other side.

  Stomach growling, I find a smashed granola bar in the bottom of my bookbag and devour it as I sit back to watch the game. To be honest, I just watch Meer. At half time, the teams return to their benches, pull out water bottles and towels and discuss strategy. I walk down to say hi and ask directions to the bathroom.

  “There you are!” exclaims Meer. “I didn’t see you and thought maybe you’d left or something. Why are you sitting all the way up there? You should be sitting down here where I can see you. I need someone to cheer me on!”

  “Oh, I ...ok… I just didn’t want to be in the way,” I stutter. She is sweaty and happy. I smile back at her and ask for the bathroom.

  She points left and says, “You can leave your stuff here. I’ll watch it.” I do just that and make my way to the ladies’ room. When I return, the game has resumed and my stuff is right there on the floor, courtside. I move back a couple of rows so I can get a better perspective. Meer glances over at me a few times and smiles. I wave back and try to concentrate on the game.

  Meer is not my type. I’m clear on that. Though to be honest, I’m not sure I have a type; romance has never been my forte. In high school, I had a crush on one girl, Amber. She was very funny and sarcastic, but confident, too. And she was pretty, one of the prettiest girls in the school. I know I should not have said anything to her. I should have just kept it to myself, but I was having a moment and I boldly told her I liked her. To my surprise, she replied that she liked me, too. But then she looked at me, and something must have been on my face because she continued, “I mean, I like you as a friend. Isn’t that what you mean? Right, Kim?” I guess I didn’t answer right away. I was trying to choose my words carefully but that hesitation was enough to send her backing out the room, apologizing for not being interested. She was awfully nice about it. We talked just one time after that. Out of the blue one day, she invited me to a party after school. I almost went, but my best friend, Jen, begged me to help her with biology so I went to the library with her instead. I saw Amber in the hallway the next day and tried to apologize to her, but she didn’t seem to hear me. I was just glad she didn’t embarrass me at school or snicker behind my back. She didn’t do anything at all except ignore me for the next two years. I stuffed my “like” for her back, way, way back until I forgot all about it and I focused on school. There were a few other “special” friendships that might have become somethi
ng more, but I didn’t pursue it. I was not willing to risk another rejection at school. I had set my sights a little higher elsewhere.

  Meer. She’s coming right towards me. She leans on the bleachers and grins up at me.

  “I guess you like being a little higher up huh?”

  “I can see better from up here,” I reply.

  “Uh huh,” she says. She turns to sit down and drinks some water. I look at the back of her neck and the little droplets of sweat rolling down it. She stretches her arms out and bends them back to lace her fingers behind her head. I watch her biceps lengthen out and tighten back into hard rocks. Her fingers are long, her nails short. A whistle blows and she runs back out onto the court as another player trots to the bench. I get caught up watching her and have to distract myself. Swallowing hard, I try to think of other things like basketball and physics, the socio-economic reasons that most of the women here are African-American, the paper I have to start writing for my organic chemistry class. After a while, older guys start drifting in one by one until the bleachers are loud and crowded. I look at my phone; it’s almost 8:00pm. The whistle blows. It’s hard to tell who won because Meer is hugging everybody goodbye. She comes over to me, pulling on her hoodie and popping on a baseball cap.

  “Want to get a bite to eat before I take you home? I’m starving.”

  “Um, sure. Is Tamika coming?” I ask.

  “Naw,” she says, “Tamika is going home with her new girlfriend.” Tamika, hearing her name, looks over and waves before she walks out, arm around a woman from the other team.

  “It’ll be just you and me. I think we have a lot of catching up to do, don’t you?” She is almost yelling now because the guys are loud and boisterous and just about to start their game. I smile and nod and follow her out the door.