Valencia

by Michelle Tea

  We were deeply bored. We went to the homecoming parade. Iris’s schoolteacher sister worried about our little adventure and warned us to behave. She did not want to be known as the girl with the lesbian sister. In a campy way I was excited about home-coming, a piece of Americana I had never experienced. It was fall in Georgia and the air stank of it, the sweet rot of discarded leaves. It smelled like being a kid picking apples in New England, and felt good to be out of San Francisco where the weather is so complacent, to be in a place where seasons actually change and time is in motion. There is something very traditional about fall, so it felt correct that this home-coming thing was happening. To show my momentary support for alienating American traditions, I put on Iris’s old varsity jacket, blue satin with “Trojans” on the back. I wore it and my green hair to the high school. No one knew what to do. They were too surprised to beat us up. Iris had a good-sized piece of steel stuck through her eyebrow. Maybe they thought we were crazy and felt no pain. We watched the “floats” go by, cars filled with members of all the high school clubs—the future home-makers, the different levels of cheerleaders, the young blocky boys on the football team, all tossing candy. This was not my high school experience. I went to a vocational high school, a purgatory where losers go to learn a “skill” before being released upon the world. You took plumbing or cabinet-making or sheet metal. If you were a girl you did data processing, cosmetology or graphic arts, like I did. You smoked pot in the courtyard. If you were a girl you got pregnant. No shiny carloads of future homemakers and wholesome cheerleaders tossing bits of candy to the townspeople. The cheerleaders at my high school were sluts. In fact, all the girls were sluts. No slutty looking girls were at this homecoming. There were some slight weirdos, three young girls with hair wraps and Nine Inch Nails shirts who wandered over to ask about my hair. Iris got all excited when she saw them then walk down toward the creek, because that’s where she used to go to sneak cigarettes in high school. Let’s go follow them, she cried, but first we had to go back to the car to get our pack so we could bum a light and seduce them. By the time we got there, the girls were gone. It was just me and Iris on a rock above the slow-running creek that swarmed with flies. And, up a little closer to the street, three new girls, little fifth graders who were watching us kiss. Of course you want to visit the place that shaped the girl you’re in love with, watch all her stories spring up around you, and you get to walk right through them. You just don’t realize how you have to undo yourself to walk down the streets. The kids started yelling at us. Faggots! Homos! Are you a boy or a girl? Go commit suicide! yelled the ringleader, a whiny-voiced girl with long blonde hair and babyfat. It was so precise, “go commit suicide.” Not “drop dead” or even “go kill yourself.” Like she’d heard the story, at church or at home, that homosexuals kill themselves because their filthy lives make them so miserable. Come up here, she challenged us, come on up here. She wasn’t even scared of us. We were Big Kids, we could kick her ass, but someone had told her that people like us can’t fight. You Come Down Here! I yelled, and I was prepared to dump her ass in the creek if she did. I Don’t Care How Old She Is, I told Iris, and thought about how great it would be if we missed her sister’s wedding because we drowned a ten-year-old girl in the creek and had to skip town.

  So we’d been stuck in Georgia so long we had exhausted our tiny supply of activities. By then it was starting to feel like my home-town, too. The novelty of the Waffle House waitresses calling out my hash brown orders had faded completely. Earlier I’d been sad that we couldn’t drive down to Athens to see L7 because it would interfere with the wedding. Now I didn’t care. Of course we couldn’t leave, of course we would remain here, in this town, Chickamauga, Georgia, forever. Lying on the couch, hiding from evil fifth graders, breathing the toxic carpet, never having sex because the television had sucked up our libidos like it did little Carol Ann in Poltergeist. But from deep in our boredom Iris came up with one more activity. We would find Trent. Iris had had a thing with this boy when she was about sixteen or seventeen years old. Trent had been about thirteen or fourteen, and while three years is not a big deal, at that point on the adolescent development timeline it usually means someone is being corrupted. Trent and Iris would drive around in her mom’s car or hang out in secret places, smoking cigarettes and making out. He was probably the closest thing to a dyke she could find at the time: a scruffy, alienated skaterboy. They never had sex, but a letter he wrote her made it sound like they did, and when Trent’s snoopy mother found it she went nuts. She went down to Iris’s house screaming about statutory rape, she was going to call the cops, she was yelling all kinds of names at Iris, who sat on the couch beside Trent, rubbing his back as he cried. Iris couldn’t even let anyone know they were kissing, so the story was that she had befriended him and he had developed a fantastical little crush on her. She was ordered never to speak to Trent again. For a little while they snuck around, and then Iris just heard about him through her mother, a school guidance counselor, explaining to young boys in confederate flag t-shirts why it was dangerous to huff gas. I laughed at gas huffing when Iris first told me about it, but apparently it’s a serious problem in rural areas. Like satanism, suspicious piles of ash out in the woods, beneath trees carved with evil numbers and goat heads. Young kids dying or going retarded from inhaling gas fumes. It sounded so Hard Copy. Iris’s sedate southern town was festering under the surface. The sheriff was corrupt, he was having teenage boys run cocaine for him, murder was involved. One boy was stockpiling guns for the oncoming revolution, but it was hard to figure out where he was coming from. Was he good or bad. He didn’t like the government, but still something was fishy.

  And these were the kids Trent was still palling around with. Iris’s mom was concerned for him, and Iris decided we had to check up on him and remind him that life existed beyond this small town of gas huffing and drug rings. We drove out to his house. Iris couldn’t ring his bell, still scared of his mother, so I was elected to prance up to the door with some cockamamie story of who I, the green-haired boygirl, was. But when we pulled up, another car was already there, boy forms shifting around inside. Yell “Trent,” Iris nudged me. Trent! Who’s that? called a voice, all suspicious. Just Come Over, I hissed. I don’t know what I was expecting. Iris did have a thing for teenage boys, hair buzzed and shaggy, clothes baggy, young enough for their facial hair to be cute, flipping up a skateboard with attitude. Trent had a horsey face and whiskers that made his chin look unwashed. His brown hair was just kind of regular, and he wore a baseball hat, brim forward. Trent was so excited when he saw it was Iris, he hopped right into the mess of CDs and granola that cluttered our back seat. We still hadn’t cleaned it out from our road trip. Tape cases crunched under Trent’s work boots. He had been so cautious approaching the car because the cops were monitoring him and his friends, sitting around in parked cars noting the traffic at his house. He told us all about it. The cops were out to get him ’cause they knew he was dealing drugs. They’d already raided his house once, on a neighbor’s tip, and his mom had all but given up on him. She’s still a bitch, he said to Iris, and to me, Do you know we used to go out? Aaah . . . Yeah, I replied. Iris looked mortified. She Told Me All About It, I said.

  We drove over to the liquor store to buy a case of Bud. It was a fortunate score for the boys that these girls old enough to buy beer had pulled up. Trent handed me a sweaty wad of bills and coins and in I went. Dumped it in the car and we hit the road. I had no idea where we were going but at least we were off the couch. Iris swerved us through dark winding roads, nothing but fields on either side, and Trent was telling us about how he’d driven this road on a bunch of acid and didn’t crash even though kids were always wrecking out there after drinking or gas huffing or whatever it is they’re all doing. We pulled up to this crappy little house with a BMW parked in the dusty front yard. He gets all this money and that’s what he spends it on, said Trent. The boy who lived in the lousy house had short dark hair and was sweet and
excited about San Francisco. Are there skaters out there? he asked. Man, I bet there’re tons of skaters out there! Another boy was inside, sitting at the end of the couch, not saying a word the whole time. He was extremely pretty, with filthy ringlets of hair on his head, and you could tell from the pout on his face he was probably an asshole. So we were drinking Budweiser and watching MTV in this room with an enormous dead deer mounted to the wall, along with guns and a great big bow and arrow. There was a dad crashing from speed in the next room, and every few minutes the dark-haired boy would say, Hey we really gotta be quiet, in this scared voice. At one point the dad grunted from behind the door and the boy went pale and moved us into his bedroom. Could it be that I’d never been in a teenage boy’s bedroom before? He had skateboard ads ripped from Thrasher hung on his wall in a random pattern that looked very planned. The boy knelt before an impressive stereo and fiddled with CDs. Do you like Danzig? he asked earnestly. Do you like the Beastie Boys? He had one of those glass orbs that shoot violet lightning out from the center, and after submitting to some of Trent’s pot I was thoroughly mesmerized by it. Someone noticed that the light pulsated to the beat of the music and we all sat quietly and watched it dance to Danzig’s growls. I was incredibly stoned. Trent kept handing me beers before I could drain the can I was working on. I was sitting on a bed and somewhere on the dark-brown bedspread a light-brown cockroach was crawling. I tried to keep my eyes on it, but I was stoned, so I kept losing it. I was dumb from the pot and just sat there while they talked about how cool San Francisco was and how boring it was in Chickamauga and school sucked and they were just going to quit and grab their boards and go west. Iris loved these boys, I could tell. She wanted to be them. She was them. I should’ve just gone into the other room and let them all jerk off on an Oreo or whatever secret thing teenage boys do together.

  Eventually we left and became one of the cars carrying fucked-up kids down the perilous road. We did not crash. We took Trent to his house and parked there. You want to smoke some more weed? he asked. I’ve got some really good shit inside. Not being one to turn down pot, Iris said yes and Trent darted into his house. I’m Really Fucked Up, I said. Iris nodded. Do you think they’re all doing each other? she asked, grinning. We wanted them to be, partly because that was hot and partly because we were so starved for gay people. Trent came back to the car and lit a joint off the car lighter. I could not imagine what would happen to me if I smoked more pot. I held it to my lips and drew it in. We silently held our clouds in our chests, passing the joint around the car and watching Trent’s mother watch us through the window. She’d edge up to the curtain and slowly draw it back, spy for a minute and move away. Look, there she is again, Trent exhaled. Crazy bitch. Want to see my dog? He led us over to a small pen that held a fierce-looking dog. It went wild as we approached, barking and trying like crazy to fly over the fence. Trent liked to give his dog pot and alcohol. I’m going to give her acid, he said rubbing her slobbery head. She’ll fucking trip out! I turned back to the house and saw the mom’s silhouette at the window. Let’s Go, I mouthed to Iris. She made vague plans to see Trent again as we wobbled back to the car. I’m going to come to San Francisco! he yelled as we climbed in. I’m going to come out there! He waved to us from the lawn. That Poor Fucking Dog, I said as we drove away. I was disturbed. He’s Going To Kill It. He’s fucked-up, Iris said simply. What else could she say? She was terribly stoned and they used to be such good friends. Towns trap people, that’s for sure. The rest of the world may as well not even be out there.

  And the wedding, the reason we were stuck in a little Georgia town where a famous Civil War battle had been fought, the creek running red with the blood of the soldiers. This town is so small it’s a shock to see it on a map, but usually it’s listed, because of the battle. The night before the wedding I was crying. I wasn’t going to go. They could shove it up their ass. I had been with Iris at the bridal shop, in the dressing room, helping her into the horrible dress, maroon like the color of crusty menstrual blood, long and straight, little rosettes on the shoulder. Raw silk. Classy, not one of those froofy pastel numbers. I was trying to make the best of it by getting frisky behind the heavy dressing room curtain. It’s not every day that Iris looked girly. I thought I’d put the moves on her but it was hopeless. This is where everything turned sour. Iris on a little pedestal, an old woman crouched at her feet, sticking pins in the hem. It was so wrong, so obviously wrong. Iris was a boy, she was beautiful, she was Peter Pan, and they had her done up like a matron. Take a strong and noble animal, an elephant or a black bear, and throw a hat on it and put it in a circus. That’s what was happening to my girlfriend. It was terrible to observe. And what about me, my hair was bleached a fuzzy blonde so that with my glasses I looked like a cartoon chick. I looked like Tweety Bird. I had caved in to the bride and scrubbed the lime color from my scruff. Hanging in the closet was a Laura Ashley dress Iris’s Aunt Dixie handed over when we realized I had brought nothing suitable for a six thousand dollar Southern Baptist wedding. It would have been really embarrassing had I given a shit, sitting in this perfect country home my mother would die for, ducks and rabbits and that blue and white ribbon motif. Dixie was rushing in and out of her two perfect daughters’ closets, offering me all kinds of tasteful clothing, and I couldn’t even make a decision because I had no idea what was appropriate. I felt like such a pauper, but instead of blushing I got into it. What else could I do? Dixie loves this, Iris’s mom assured me as Dixie whooshed back with a pair of navy blue flats for me to sample. There I was, selling out to ease the bride’s histrionics. And know what the problem was? She didn’t want everyone to be paying attention to me and my green hair on her big day. It wasn’t fair. She was supposed to be the center of attention. She’d waited her entire life for it. Please. Like I wanted the collective eyes of the homophobic Baptist family focused on me. Maybe I Just Won’t Go. I Can’t Go. I was crying in Iris’s bed. It’s Just Wrong. It’s Wrong That I Can’t Hold Your Hand. We Always Hold Hands. I was wracked by the injustice. At a marriage, a celebration of love. And Iris, it seemed so easy for her to pretend we were pals, she could just shut it off like that. I was sobbing. Maybe a little melodramatic, maybe not. This is what it comes down to, right? Standing up for what’s right and all that. Have you lost respect for me? she asked, and I wanted to say no, do the unconditional love thing, you know, I Support You No Matter What, but I thought it sucked. Little tough-shit kiss-my-ass Iris, all self-righteous in San Francisco, so quick to judge, and she can’t even hold my fucking hand. But it’s her family, and that’s a big deal, and you can’t force someone out of the closet, blah blah blah. I know, and I’m telling you it was wrong. And it was a dry wedding on top of it all. Baptist. Iris and I had plotted to smuggle in a bottle of whiskey to share with her alcoholic dad and the best man, who was so far gone everyone feared he’d get the shakes during the ceremony, going so long without booze. Obviously that little plan couldn’t happen.

  I walked around the reception like a ghost, this dazed girl in a flowing dress. I wasn’t there at all. Getting introduced to various relatives who had no idea who they were meeting. They thought I was someone else. It was awful. And Iris getting escorted down the aisle on the arm of some gentleman. I locked myself in the church bathroom and cried. All the relatives telling her how pretty she looked and how San Francisco is such a lovely city and how they’re going to come visit one day. Iris was in the receiving line with the dyed-to-match pumps lying on the carpet, pantyhose webbing her toes. When’s your turn? an aunty teased. Oh, I don’t know, Iris laughed uncomfortably. Beside her was her dad, so robust and glowing I knew he was sipping from his own private stash. He knew what he was getting into. I was the fool who drove halfway across the country on a lark. Totally unprepared. I sat like a wallflower on a folding chair eating cantaloupe. Next to me were a couple of girls Iris’s sister taught science to. They were pretty weird-looking for that part of Georgia, dark blue nailpolish, a cluster of silver hoops jangli
ng off their ears. And they were fixated on Iris. She was kind of a legend, being the one girl who had looked weird and had played music and had been so outspoken about things like racism that she got a cross burned on her lawn in high school. These girls were gazing at her. Are you her cousin? one asked. No, I’m Her Friend. You two are best friends? I nodded. They were best friends too. Iris’s dad danced with the evil bride and everyone went Awww, and then we were allowed to leave. Out front sat the bridal getaway car, hung with balloons and streamers. One kid was hiding balloons under the tires for a big bang when the car pulled off. The bitchy sister flung her bouquet and, alas, Iris did not catch it, her eighty-year-old grandmother did, and I suppose she does have a better chance at marriage than Iris. Everyone thought it was so cute that the old lady caught the flowers. The wedding was over and we all got to go home.

  Before Iris and I went back to California, one more thing happened—Daisy’s tragedy. It was the day before our departure, around 2 p.m., our breakfast hour. We never did manage to overcome our strange lack of energy. From couch to bed and back was a struggle. Depressed people sleep a lot, I learned in my high school psychology class. So it was two o’clock and Iris was hooking up the Folgers and searching the fridge for leftover wedding food, and we heard crazy barking in the backyard. Daisy. Just howls and barks and whines and we walked over to the back porch, this screened-in, astroturf place with a cozy wooden swing, and there’s Daisy running in circles, frantic, crying those awful cries. I thought maybe she’d been stung by a bee. She ran around the side of the porch scratching on the wood like she wanted inside. She hopped into the window, and that’s when I screamed. Look At Her Eye! It was a moment clipped from a horror movie—our screams, little Daisy who had become a monster, her eyeball hanging out of her head, red and white, grotesquely swollen like a balloon you could pop, the pupil dead and staring in the center. Iris screamed, Oh my god, oh my god! and we did not know what to do. We heard her scratching at the back door, a noise like this awful beast. We were scared and crying, and we couldn’t open the door. Iris called her mother at work. We were really inept. Now was the moment Daisy needed puppy cuddling the most and we couldn’t even look at her. But we had to. We had to get her into the car and to the vet’s. It was a nightmare. We left the house gingerly, like two kids in a slasher film, and when Daisy spotted us she barked fearfully and ran. She was so confused. We had the car door open, we tried to coax her in. We couldn’t touch her, I couldn’t stop thinking about the eyeball bumping into me and bursting. Come on, Daisy. She usually hopped right in. Daisy, get in the car, Iris cried. She was sobbing. Daisy got in the front, and I got in the back and held her still, petted her. I forced myself to look at her eye so I could get used to it, but that didn’t work. Bulging right out of her head. The fact that eyes can pop out suddenly became a reality to me. My eye could pop out. So could Iris’s. If My Eye Ever Pops Out, Just Cover My Face, Don’t Look At It, I said. Oh, Michelle, I couldn’t look at you with your eye out of your head, Iris said, still crying. I Couldn’t Look At You Either, I confessed. It was terrifying and heartbreaking. Poor Daisy. She seemed much calmer and not in pain but sometimes she’d try to scratch the eyeball and I’d shriek. There was lint caught on the end of it. We pulled up to the vet’s and Iris’s sister’s husband’s mother was waiting for us. This big crazy-looking woman with makeup caked into a deeply wrinkled face, silvery bird-feather hair like a bad hat. She came over to the window with a smile. She was only seeing half of Daisy, the good half. Oh Daisy, now, that’s not so— Her face froze. She dipped her head into her arm. It was very dramatic. Daisy, WHY? Oh, WHY Daisy, WHY? Daisy stared at the woman with her exploding eye, very calm. She had been hit by a truck, and it jolted her eye straight out. Daisy got her eye knocked right out of her li’l ol’ head, Iris’s mom said in her sweet voice, all perky. The vet said the eye was hanging by a single nerve. Imagine if it’d snapped. I couldn’t have handled that. I guess they snipped the eye off, then sewed up her eye socket. She’s a spaniel, so hair grew right over it. It’s kind of cute, like a pirate puppy. Just her depth perception is off, so sometimes when she chases her braid she slams into the wall.