Black Wave

by Michelle Tea

  Arch your back, girl, arch your back, he kept saying in that wonderful voice, but Michelle found it as frustrating as yoga instruction—did arch your back mean she should round her spine or dip it? Michelle missed having sex with someone whose penis was store-bought, possessed no nerve endings, required nothing from her but the frenzied bucking of her own wild pleasure. When Reinaldo’s cell phone rang he answered it, spoke Spanish, said Puta. Michelle wished she could understand him fully, but she was not in love in this dream and so could expect no magic from her mind. Reinaldo dropped the condom to the shore with all the other condoms, that slab beneath the fallen piers was something of a love hotel. Michelle pulled her dress back over her head.

  Getting out of the place they’d snuck into was a challenge, the sun setting at their back a real threat. Michelle considered simply waking up. Would dreaming Reinaldo—presently a twelve-year-old boy asleep in Chelsea—awake suddenly from his first wet dream? Michelle stayed in the dream. Reinaldo was telling her how his family had escaped the war, how running from war was in his blood and he could feel it when he hopped a fence or trampled a jungle of weeds in his sneakers. Sometimes he wished for the apocalypse so he could experience that part of himself, surviving. They scaled a shaking wall of chain link and dropped onto the backside of the housing projects. Michelle found climbing the fence more physically exhilarating than the sex, but she didn’t regret meeting Reinaldo or staying inside the dream with him. It was all one experience—the particular smell of the rotting wood, Boston like an enchanted city across the harbor, the spires of its office buildings flaunting themselves against the dusky sky, the smashed and ruined waterfront, the weeds run riot. It was a good dream. Reinaldo walked Michelle to the subway and went on to meet his friends at a street festival. Michelle was not invited. His girlfriend/not-girlfriend would be there.

  I’ll tell her I was eating oysters, Reinaldo smiled, and sniffed his fingers. Michelle slipped a token into a turnstile.

  You’re Twelve Years Old, she told him. You’re A Boy. Wake Up. Reinaldo’s face held confusion, then a swirl of recognition even more confusing, and then it shimmered like the harbor waters and was gone.

  20

  The bookstore shelves emptied as Michelle allowed shoplifters to shoplift. At first she had tried to stop them, even waved her gun at one but the woman had called her bluff and began hurling paperbacks at her. Michelle tucked the gun back into the waist of her cutoffs and allowed the woman to ransack the place. She was disappointed in herself for caring but sometimes the chaos bugged her out. She appreciated Joey, who ran an ever-tighter ship in the shadow of the world’s end. The bookstore was cleaner than it had ever been.

  Beatrice and Paul hardly came in anymore, preferring instead to sleep. Apparently the couple had found a way to sync their dreams and experience, together, adventures in a wonderful world. They hiked into pine forests and sat side by side on the edge of a smoking Hawaiian volcano, eating shave ice. They experimented with herbal sleeping remedies, testing for a dosage that allowed them to sleep long hours without degrading the quality of the dreams. They were like drug addicts, Michelle thought resentfully. She shared her analogy with Joey.

  It’s Like They’re On Heroin, she snipped. On The Nod, Having Visions. It’s Fucking Weird. It’s Sad.

  Joey considered. No, he said, They’re just dreams. You know, like the ones everyone’s having. You’re having them, right?

  Michelle nodded. She shared with Joey the story of the painter, the boy in the garden.

  Girl! Joey high-fived her. The imagination you got! I just keep sucking dick, sucking dick, sucking dick. I swear. He fanned himself with a copy of Howl. It’s a good time, though.

  Joey hasn’t figured it out, Michelle thought. Nor had she. Apparently, he’d been destined to a lifetime of fellatio. Michelle had been destined to a lifetime of casual sex with teenage girls who grew up to become transgender men. And Beatrice and Paul, their love was real and lasting. They were destined to a lifetime with each other. Michelle burned with a quiet jealousy. It really was like her employers were on heroin, which made Michelle wish she were on heroin, too. Michelle remembered the feel of it inside her body, side by side with Lu. She didn’t care if the love had been real or fake, the chemical reaction synthetic opiates or organic dopamine, she wanted those feelings again. She thought about Andy and the softer feelings of safety she inspired—that was oxytocin, wasn’t it? The cuddle hormone that makes moms love their babies. Michelle wanted a dopamine/oxytocin IV drip, or, at the very least, another visit from Matt Dillon. With fresh certainty Michelle realized there was no such thing as love. It was all a quilt of sexual compulsion, unmet childhood needs, and brain chemistry. For the first time, Michelle felt glad that the world was ending. Without the illusion of love, it was no good place to be.

  This is my mother’s favorite song. Michelle hadn’t heard the jingle of the door opening. Patti Smith blared on the stereo behind her and Diane di Prima’s Loba was clutched in her hands, a good combination. She pulled herself out from the world of vessels and prostitutes and wolf-ladies. A young girl, barely teenage, stood at the counter, a sweet smile on her face. Her brown hair fluffed past her shoulders, held back from her freckled cheeks with a wide headband. Little earrings sparkled in her earlobes. Patti Smith crooned around them, Little sister, the sky is falling. I don’t mind, I don’t mind.

  Your Mother Must Be Cool, Michelle said.

  She’s not, the girl said. Her lips were pushed together as if biting back impatience. Something lumped beside her on the floor, a giant duffle bag. A runaway. What must it be like to be a runaway at the start of the apocalypse? Michelle felt the impulse to help—if the girl was tough enough to clean away the rotting body of the neighbor and his rottweiler, maybe she could have that apartment. But helping a runaway had to be like helping any stray, but worse. Once helped, they would return again and again, your charge. Michelle couldn’t handle it. She didn’t want to be this girl’s apocalypse mom. She felt the hard moon inside her rising to eclipse her heart.

  What Do You Want? she asked.

  I’m here to see Michelle, she said primly, the smile growing wider. My name is Ashley.

  Ashley had found Michelle on the dreamtime missed connections site. Michelle had dreamed she was on a boat with a boy and the boat was sailing through a beautiful cemetery. The etched marble mausoleums were hung with pictures of the dead in their prime, many were mustachioed young men with feathery hair who had passed. Michelle knew they had been gay men with AIDS. The lushness of the dream was thick with melancholy. Michelle and the boy leaned against the rail, a slight salt spray dusting their faces, and they kissed with the understanding that they would die. It was a nice dream, it had gravitas. A person named Ashley, located in Alaska, had identified herself as that boy and emailed a request to visit with Michelle while passing through Los Angeles. Michelle wasn’t holding her breath. She wasn’t sure she wanted to meet anyone from these dreams. She wasn’t sure what the point would be. Also, there were so many dreamtime lovers for Michelle they made her feel slutty and embarrassed.

  Now here was Ashley. Her bouncy hair was product-free. Her skirt was tiered and fell down her legs. Her face was sweet cheeked and innocent, she could be paid to sell hope and purity. Hers was the smiling face on a box of dryer sheets or maybe advertising an HMO. Ashley. Very different than the boy who’d stood beside her on the boat.

  Michelle’s stare lingered until she became aware of the girl’s expression of dismay. Ashley had recognized Michelle as the puffier, splotchier doppelgänger of her dream lover and her face bloomed a grimace. Ashley thought Michelle’s clothes were crappy, she had the roughed-up vibe of someone who’d been pushed from a speeding car. Her hair was a blue mess. She smelled of cigarettes. Michelle had thought she looked nice that morning, ready to meet Matt Dillon again, but nice is relative. In Ashley’s dreams Michelle had looked much nicer.

  Oh, Ashley said. She did not attempt to mask her disappointment. You�
�re Michelle.

  Yeah, Michelle nodded. Hello.

  Hi.

  Michelle tried to recover from the blow of the girl’s rejection and found she could not. She grew defensive. Well, You’re Twelve, she snapped, And A Girl, So Don’t Look At Me Like That.

  I’m thirteen, Ashley corrected. Michelle laughed.

  It’s The Same. Twelve Is The Same As Thirteen. Only A Thirteen-Year-Old Would Think A Year Made Any Difference.

  Well, you’re . . . Ashley tripped, halted, bit her tongue.

  Old? Michelle said, daringly.

  No, Ashley said. You’re not that old. But you look like you are. That’s what’s weird.

  I Was So Great In The Dream? Michelle asked.

  Better than this. Ashely shrugged. She looked at Michelle with a level expression. You’re an alcoholic.

  How Do You Know?

  Well, you can kind of just tell. But I’ve figured out a lot. Ashley felt a pulse of sympathy for this Michelle, whose hair was not curling and glossed with heath, as in the dreams, but stained a dull blue, scraggly as kelp. She didn’t know she was also another, better Michelle. Ashley hoped to show her.

  The youth bent down and unzipped her duffle bag. A terrible spongy smell filled the shop. Sorry, Ashley acknowledged the odor. It’s my uniform. Michelle peered over the counter at the clatter of hockey gear.

  You Play Hockey, Michelle said numbly.

  Yes, Ashley said. I’m here for a game. Ashley slapped a folder on the counter and began pulling pages from it. Her movements were calm but Michelle could feel the underlying energy pulsing the stillness. The teenager’s strong vibes and her ability to rein them in felt to Michelle like a sort of authority, a skill beyond the average thirteen-year-old.

  What Sign Are You? she asked curiously.

  Aries. Capricorn rising. Virgo moon.

  You Know Astrology? Michelle was impressed.

  I don’t believe in it, Ashley said. But I know you do. You’re a Pisces, Aries rising, Cancer moon.

  How Do You Know That? Michelle asked.

  Ashley showed her a sheet of paper printed with Michelle’s statistics, her name, her medical information, job history, a timeline of major events in her life: her move to San Francisco, the publication of her book, the relocation to Los Angeles. The timeline rose toward the world’s predicted end and kept going. Michelle writes another book. She stops drinking. She writes another book and then another. She continues writing books, the world gone, long exploded. Six years after the end of the world she breaks up with Lu. Michelle looked at Ashley, confused.

  You Know Lu? Michelle asked. I’ve Barely Written About Her.

  Ashley shook her head. Not really. I did some dream hacking.

  Michelle stared at the girl, waiting. Come On, Don’t Be One Of Those People That Makes Me Beg You To Tell Me Everything. You Walk In Here With A File About Me Like A Fucking FBI Agent, Tell Me What Is Happening.

  Everything that exists can be found, somehow. The teen shrugged. I know how to break into places. Into dreams. For instance, I can be in a dream and find your computer and just look at your files, your writing, your browsing history, all that. And the story comes together. She shook her file folder, her eyes bright. I’m actually really excited to be telling you this. The only other people I’ve been able to tell are my other girlfriends.

  Your Other Girlfriends?

  Ashley waved her hand. I’ll get to that. Anyway, you can actually figure out how to watch other people’s dreams, she continued. And then enter them. After a while it’s really just another world. And it’s nicer than this one. There are still problems but everything isn’t so ruined. It’s like some alternative life, a second-chance world.

  Michelle liked that, a second-chance world. As a writer she liked it. It had a ring. How Are You Able To Do All This? Michelle asked. Are You A Genius?

  Ashley shrugged. You could do it too, she said.

  Michelle fiddled nervously with her poky blue bangs. She pushed them out of her face. In This Other World, she said, I’ve Written More Books?

  Ashley nodded.

  Am I Famous? she asked. Am I A Famous Writer?

  The girl shrugged. It’s relative, she said. Don’t get too excited. But, you’re happy. You’re sober. You look better.

  The girl had successfully blown Michelle’s mind. I Just Can’t Imagine How My Life Gets From Here—Michelle gestured to the bookshop, noticing a tweaker in the Theology section trying to shove a hardcover down his pants. Just Take It! Michelle shouted at him. Take It And Get Out Of Here! The man shuffled out the door, startled. She returned her attention to Ashley. I Just Can’t Imagine How My Life Gets From This To That, she said, wiping sudden tears from her face. She couldn’t believe she was going to die before her life got cool.

  I’ve found two other girls that I have significant relationships with, Ashley said. One is my girlfriend right now, in this world, and one is who I would fall in love with if I lived to go to college. And you’re . . . well, I want you to come with me, too, to the other life where the world doesn’t end. Ashley leaned over the counter and took Michelle by her chin, kissed her.

  Michelle pulled back. You’re Thirteen, she said.

  I am and I’m not. I’m pretty much as mature as you. You’re an alcoholic and I’m an overachiever. It evens us out.

  Can I Keep These? Michelle asked, her hand on the folder. I Just Need To Look At All This.

  Ashley nodded. Of course. I brought them for you. She lifted her wrist and looked at her watch. I’ve got a tournament tonight. I know you won’t come, but you should know you’re invited.

  What About Your Other Girlfriends? Michelle asked. She tried to imagine the harem of tweenage girls Ashley was keeping in her parents’ muddy, rustic home in Alaska. The slumber party of it. Michelle, pushing thirty, trying to will herself into an alternate dimension each night. She thought about the UFO cult that had recently drunk poison to somehow hop aboard a passing comet. How was this any saner? She imagined the parents that would arrest her as a pedophile the moment she crossed their threshold. Never mind her tweenage love rivals. Won’t Your Girlfriends Hate Me?

  Ashley shrugged. They’re pretty cool, she said. They know about you. Our relationship won’t really happen until the future, so it doesn’t interfere with their love. We all just have to be really adult about it.

  And If I Don’t Come What Happens?

  You die, Ashley said.

  I Could Die Anyway, Michelle said. Even If I Came. Your Plan Doesn’t Make A Lot Of Technical Sense. It Sounds Like A Wish.

  It’s true, I might not figure it out. It does seem unlikely right now, but it’s definitely the only chance.

  Can We Stay In Touch If I Don’t Go? Michelle asked. Can I Email You?

  Ashley shook her head, her thin lips disappearing. No, she said. I’ll have to move on.

  Michelle opened the folder, rustling through pages of her life. Her trip across the country, leaving her mothers for a life in San Francisco. Her eight years with Lu, what it looked like, the ways it changed her, for better and for worse. Their breakup. In one passage Michelle wails long into the night like a shot animal. She feels stripped of her dignity to have such a private moment known by Ashley—Ashley who seemed so dignified, despite her meager age. She shut the folder, ashamed at how quickly she’d become obsessed with the details of her life.

  Sorry, she said. This Is Just—I Write Memoir. It’s Weird To Read My Story Before I’ve Lived It.

  Ashley nodded. I’ve got to go. My number is in the folder. She leaned over the counter one more time, and as they kissed Michelle could feel a glimmer of the person she was with Ashley. How good it felt, that version of herself, what a gift it was to feel some dormant part of herself enlivened. Ashley caught a glimpse of her own future self, felt older, tougher, more of a boy than the girl she was then. They pushed their different selves between them until the door jingled open and Michelle jumped away from the kiss. Ashley smiled. Please call me and I will
take you. I know you don’t have any money, it doesn’t matter.

  Michelle didn’t bother trying to defend her financial state, the girl knew everything. And if she knew everything, she had to have known that Michelle could never go with her.

  21

  Michelle enjoyed matching music to writings. Much of the music for sale in the shop was obscure to her, so she took a lot of chances with album covers. She played gospel as she read Dorothy Allison, and with Eileen Myles skipped between opera and Sonic Youth. Peter Plate and the Clash. Charles Bukowski and Tom Waits seemed too obvious. She tried Leonard Cohen instead, but went back to Tom Waits. Dodie Bellamy and Nico. Kevin Killian and Kylie Minogue. What would the sound track be to this folder in front of her, notes for a memoir of a life never lived? She found not an album but a busted cassette of Morrissey’s Viva Hate, slid it into the tape player, and opened the folder. This was where she was when Paul stumbled into the bookshop.

  Michelle had not seen her boss in weeks. He’d grown larger, his hair longer, more matted. If she hadn’t known him she’d presume he was another drug addict looking to pawn a Danielle Steel paperback. When he spoke his voice croaked, as if he hadn’t spoken out loud for a very long time. He moved the phlegm around his throat with some coughs and gurgles.

  Melissa, he addressed her. Excuse me. I haven’t spoken out loud in a while.

  His eyes, Michelle noted, were crusted with sleep, as if he’d been lying facedown in a sandbox. The corners of his mouth looked sticky above his beard.

  It’s Michelle, Michelle said. She observed her boss, who leaned on the counter, taking a breath. He was a mess. Do You Need Water Or Anything? Are You Okay?

  He brushed away her kindnesses impatiently. I’m fine, I’m fine. He turned his face to the windows, looking out onto the Strip. The world is really deteriorating. Have you noticed?