In my bed we talked about who knows what. Those nouns that emerge in bed. What passes for deep. Life. God. I know you know how I must have felt. And at some point we just fell asleep. And while we were sleeping, saviors were being called upon. Saviors were showing up to help. Bodies were pulled from the wreckage. The scene was played and replayed and replayed. And we lay there.
But this story is not about the guy. He just happens to be in it. Like paint on the walls. Like sound in the air. Like hydrogen. Like oxygen.
It’s a miracle, my father said. I saved your life, he said. My father had food on his face. The TV droned in another room. The wine was almost gone. A holiday at my father’s house. A miracle, he said.
When the phone rang, my dreams were of ringing. And when I waked and answered, I meant not to answer. But there I was, saying hello. And there was someone else saying, Wait. Saying, Get up, get up. I already knew it was something big. I’d already had a premonition. If I were someone else, I would tell you more. I would tell you what I was told. But I’ll just say the world was then an open door letting cold air in.
And I’ll say it was like a supernova, how I thought of supernovas. A split second of silence. An explosion in the sky. Then a shooting outward and shooting outward. And some things landed. And some things burned. And some flew through clouds. Or fell through clouds. Or crashed into bodies they never knew until they crashed.
I’m sure the people in the bus all died. There was no way, the bus turned over like that, they did not. I wanted to drive out onto the field to see if I could help. But I kept on driving up the road. I had somewhere to be that night. There was no way I could have helped.
I kicked the guy awake. I said, You should leave. I said, Please leave. I said, Leave. And I left too. I watched the guy walk through the snow. I found my car parked terribly. I didn’t notice the tires at first. I didn’t see that two of the tires were slashed. It looked almost right, the car tilted like that. And I drove it like that. And I kept on driving, until I found help.
After the service, we stood outside. The guy broke down in a way that made me ashamed. He tried to hold my hand. I told him, please, to not do that. I told him, please, to go away. I wanted to be alone, I told him. I didn’t want to be touched, I told him. I walked to behind the church. I know I should have been nicer to him. But the holidays were over. There was too much snow on the ground. And I had a thought. I thought, You don’t know when your last snowfall is. It was such a fucking stupid thought.
But this was the shift, if you’re looking for one. I was leaning against the back of the church. I was saying words that sounded like prayer. I was saying words that sounded like fuck and help.
And I heard a plane. And my brain said duck. My brain said now and now and now. There was a lot going on. There was snow, and there was the sound of snow. The moon was out when it shouldn’t have been. The moon seemed close enough to touch. And there was the guy in the way of the moon. He said to get up. But I couldn’t get up. And he said, Get up.
A mechanic looked at my tires. Someone doesn’t like you, he said. But it was a miracle, he said, that I’d made it there. I agreed it was a miracle. It was a miracle, driving on two slashed tires. A miracle had pushed me hard through the snow. The mechanic told me to wait in a room. There was tinsel on the floor. There was a fake tree in the corner. There was the smell of oil and the smell of smoke. And the snow was really coming down. And the mechanic was beautiful, with black beneath every nail.
I could clearly see the scene on the ground. And if I had been someone else, I might have been putting out fires. I might have been pulling bodies out from the wreckage. I might have felt heroic, diving headfirst into the mess. And if I had been someone else, I might have been a body in the mess. I might have been a body pulled from the wreckage. Instead of a body on a couch. Then in a car. Then on a bed. Instead of a body starting something it would have to stop.
I could clearly see the scene on the ground. But I couldn’t see the scene inside the plane.
At dinner, I asked my father why things were the way they were. And my father said, Not my fault. Because it wasn’t my father’s fault, the world. He was too small to take the blame. He was only a person, for God’s sake. It was no one person’s fault, the world. Nothing that small was ever to blame for something that big. I said, Then whose fault is it. And he said, Not mine.
I often imagined crossing the tightrope. I knew to stare straight to the other side. I knew to hold the stick steady. I knew to force the crowd to be silent. And then, when I reached the other side, I knew to force it to explode.
The mechanic would keep my car overnight. I’d shredded the tires. Shredded the rims. Something was ruined underneath. He drove me home in a tow truck. I tried to think of things to say. Like something about how he chose his job. Like what, was he good at fixing things. Or did he just like cars. But it was such a terrible-feeling day. I wanted to tell the mechanic that. But I hardly knew the mechanic. And I hardly knew the girl.
If I were someone else, I would make something up. I would say she and I did things together. Or we were best friends. Or we were in love. But I’ll just say I lit her cigarette once. I’ll say I was shaking as I lit it. I’ll say the fire kept going out. I’ll say it turned into a private joke. I’ll say, Enough.
I looked as the pen scratched down my arm. It had felt like a feather. Or like an ant. But I was thinking ghost. And I said, Stop. I meant, Go. I meant, Stay. I meant, God. And I stood. And he stood. And on our way out the door we crushed the pills with our boots.
I could clearly see the scene from the ground. It looked, from the ground, like meteors falling. Not like plane parts falling.
But like fire falling. I could see the town go up in flames. And I would hear its name every day for the rest of my life.
The mechanic said to have a good day. But it was already not a good day. It was already a terrible day. And I thought to invite him in. I would take his coat. I would make him tea. I would tell him about my night. That it was very good and it was very bad. That it could have been love. That it would never be love. And I would dig out the black from beneath every one of his nails.
But I sat in the tow truck for a moment longer than I should have. A song was playing on the radio. I knew the song from some other time. There were holiday lights in all of the windows. There were holiday lights in all of the trees. It was warm in the truck. And outside it would not be.
The night before, I’d slept the deepest sleep. And I waked not knowing what I was waking into. And the phone kept on ringing. Someone saying, Get up, get up. My father saying, I saved your life. My father saying, Miracle. The guy in my bed saying something.
The night before, he’d told me a story. He was half-asleep. He whispered it into my hair. It was about a time at Club Midnight. A time he was messed up and had to leave. It was snowing. It was morning. He was waiting alone for the bus. But then this woman came walking through the snow. The woman wasn’t wearing a coat. She was holding a knife. She held the knife up to his face. She said, Give me your money. But the guy had no money. And the woman said, Do you want to be killed. Then he started to fall asleep on me. And I said, How did you answer. But he’d already fallen asleep.
When I imagined falling from the tightrope, I imagined what I would pass on my way to the ground. The hats of the people in the crowd. The necks of the people in the crowd. Their shoes as I crashed as hard as I could. I imagined breaking every bone. I would lie there waiting for someone to help. And a guy would rush to save me. And the crowd would be thinking terrible thoughts. Because I fell. Because I was saved.
I picked up my car the following day. But the mechanic wasn’t there. It was another mechanic I didn’t like. He gave me my keys and walked away. I knew I was going to cry. And I didn’t know why I was going to cry. And I didn’t want to cry right there. So I went into the restroom. It was an awful room. It was the smallest room. And I didn’t want to cry in there either. So I ran water in the sink. I scrubb
ed my hands as hard as I could. I scrubbed my face and neck and arms. I scrubbed extra hard at the first four letters of my name. And how unsettling to see its faint bluish trace. How unsettling never to see it again.
I don’t know who slashed my tires. I sometimes think it was her. Because it happened when she was flying. I mean it happened when she was dying. She was becoming a ghost in a world of ghosts and almost-ghosts.
I sometimes think she meant it as a joke. Because she and I had a private joke once. But I mostly think it was a desperate stranger on the road.
But of course I knew her. I lied to you. Of course I lied.
This story is not about me. As it turns out, I’m just a detail. Like the sky. Like the snow. Like the car you think was real. Or the bus you think was real. Or the plane you think was real. Or the premonition that, you should know, was not.
It wasn’t technically a crash. It was technically an explosion. It was technically a lot of things. Like the end of things. Not of everything. Not to everyone.
And I would hear its name each day for the rest of my life. Every day from that point on. Fucking stupid as that is.
I stared across the table at my father. I asked again whose fault it was. My father tried not to look at me. He said, Not mine. And I said, I know. I said, But whose. And he said, Not mine. He said, Not mine. He lifted up his empty glass. He threw the glass at the wall. The glass shattered. Dinner was over. The holiday, over. It was snowing again. The roads were a mess. I put on my coat. I walked to the door. Over my dead body, my father said. Murder, he said. The roads were a wreck. But I had new tires.
And I had somewhere to be that night. We would all meet up at Club Midnight. I would sit on a couch. I would drink my drinks. There would be pills to take, and clouds would form.
For a while, I would hear a plane and fall to the snow. And I would wait for the plane to pass overhead. Or for the plane to crash. Or for my brain to tell me what next.
And once, lying in the snow, I watched as a bird crashed into a bird. I hadn’t known such a thing could happen. And there was no one around to tell it to. And I don’t know what I would have said, besides.
And once, lying in the snow, I watched as the moon moved across the sky. And I hadn’t known that one could watch it move.
And once I looked up into a face. And if I were someone else, I would tell you more. But this is not the place for adjectives. This is not the place for any words. Not even, Get up. Not even, You’re fine. Not even, It’s not your fault.
SIGNIFIER
Because words are about desire and desire is about the long-tailed birds in the trees.
And desire is about the long-tailed birds as long-tailed birds. Not as metaphor. Not as signifier. Not as anything other than what they are but long-tailed birds switching from branch to branch.
Predatory, this guy I once met called these long-tailed birds.
Magpies, he called them, because they were, and what did I know of birds.
They will chew off your face, he said.
He said, Your pretty face, and touched my face.
When I watch through a window, I feel watched through the window. When I press my face to a screen, I feel pressed from the other side.
But nothing in trees wants to know what goes on in rooms. Even when I scratch like a cat at the screen. Even when I make sounds with my tongue and teeth.
And when I send words from my brain to the tops of the trees, by which I mean stars, by which I mean something else, the universe, even then.
I was taught to do this as a child. I was taught this would work, sending words from my brain. Taught by whom, I can’t remember.
It was someone who knew about that which listens.
It was someone lying still on the grass, saying, Come here pretty, saying, Not you.
It was someone who knew the universe.
It was a father, of course I remember.
Some father lying still on the grass.
Some father still lying after dark.
As the world went on around him.
And the world went on without him.
But this isn’t a story about the father.
It’s a story about a hike in the woods. It was me and this guy and this friend he had. I never wanted to go on the hike. I mean I never thought it would be a real hike. I thought we’d find a rock, just me and the guy, and sit and stare at the view.
But the friend was in from out of town. He wanted to go on the hike with us. He knew all the trails that no one else knew.
And he would drive, the guy said.
Come on, he said.
We were standing at my door. I hadn’t dressed for walking up trails. I’d only dressed for sitting on a rock. I’d dressed for charming this one guy. And here was the guy, dressed to go on an actual hike. And there was the friend, dressed for a hike, as well.
The friend called out, Do you have a hat.
He called out, Do you have real shoes.
His voice was such a tough guy’s voice. It seemed like work to talk like that. All the work it took to try to be that guy.
I said, No.
I said, Do you.
He was wearing sturdy shoes. And a sturdy coat. And he stood all tough. It seemed like too much work.
He said, I have real shoes.
I laughed.
I said, Do you.
Trust me when I say I wasn’t flirting. I didn’t like the friend. Though later, this will all sound like a lie. Later, you will think new things of me. You will think some things you don’t think now.
But trust me it was the guy I liked. I wanted a date just me and him. We’d sit on a rock and pretend some things about the universe. About beauty. About other abstractions I didn’t understand.
I said to no one, Give me a cigarette.
I didn’t smoke. But I sometimes wanted a cigarette. Smoking made me feel better at times. I can’t explain it. But of course the friend walked up to me. And of course he struck the match.
And at what point does one tire of performance. At what point is it all just tiring. The friend’s performance of guy. My performance of girl. The guy I liked not even stepping in. Not lighting my cigarette himself. Too scared to get that close to me.
Just standing there like some dumb fuck.
The friend just stood there, dumb, as well.
To say I had them where I wanted them.
They were dumbstruck more than dumb.
Because I was just so fucking charming.
Because I was always just so fucking this.
Just ask my father.
Just ask his ladies.
They would say, What a charming little thing.
They would say, What a pretty little thing.
I could eat you up, is what they would say.
Inside the woods was darker than out. There were birds and bird sounds all around. The friend knew all about birds. He told us what he knew about birds. He told us what he knew about trees. I pretended not to listen. What did I care what tree was what. What birds.
Though I liked to look upward through the leaves. I wouldn’t have told this to anyone. That it gave me a feeling I can’t explain.
And at times I considered stepping off the trail. Of running wild through the woods. It would have been something, I thought. To get lost in the trees. To imagine there was no other world.
And I would have stepped off the trail if the friend hadn’t called out, Come on.
There was something he wanted to show us. It was up ahead. He was walking way too fast.
He called back to me, Let’s go.
Then he was running, and the guy was running, and I didn’t want to run. I wasn’t dressed to run. And I didn’t know what was up ahead. So I walked at my own slow pace.
There were stories from childhood I’d read of the woods. There were pictures in books I’d stared at at night. In the pictures the trees had eyes and teeth.
And there were other stories I knew of the woods. There were things that ha
ppened in the woods at night. There were woods by our house and I was told stay away.
I was told stay away from other things too. Like the dog next door, yet I fed him bones through the fence. Like the two dumb guys who came around. They wanted to fuck me. They were both so dumb.
Like my father.
I told myself, Stay away.
He will destroy you, is what I told myself.
Run away, is what I told myself.
He will turn you into him, I told myself.
You are not that whore, I told myself.
But look at me hiking in completely wrong shoes. Look at me in completely wrong clothes. Look at my fucking hair.
From far ahead the friend said, Come on, and the guy said, Come on, but I walked slowly, staring up into leaves.
My father would say, Don’t go in the woods.
I would mock him, Don’t go into the woods.
Then I would go.
At first I didn’t know what to expect.
Darkness, perhaps.
The terrible sound of owls.
Or worse.
The terrible acts of guys.
My body surrounded by what surrounded.
My body eaten, the rest left for worms.
But it wasn’t any of that.
It was far worse, of course, than that.
The friend said, Come on.
The guy said, Let’s go.
Their voices sounded far away. And here was my chance to step off the trail. My chance to save what was left to save.
But there I was, running to catch up with them. There I was, some scared-as-shit girl. I was some scared-as-shit child. Running in wrong shoes up the trail. Scared to be left alone.
And there were the guys, waiting for me.
Then the woods opened up and we were in a place. It was like childhood. Not mine, of course, but the childhood I wished I’d had.
Spectacle: Stories Page 4