Several times, my father threw the dolls into the trash. And my brother would find the dolls in the trash, clean them up, and stand them, again, on his dresser. Then my father would sit my brother at the kitchen table. Boy, he would say. You are not your father’s son, he would say. No one will save you, he would say. There’s no great man in the clouds, he would say. And my brother would get this look on his face. It was the same dumb look he often got. Though at that one point I did see brightness. I never told this to my father. That I saw brightness at that one point.
My father had been dying for a very long time. It was something with his lungs. They sounded like a storm. They were going to stop working, we had been told. We waited years for them to stop working. And when they did stop working, he called my brother and said, Pray for me, boy. Then he called me and said, Pray for me, girl. But neither of us knew how to pray.
My brother said, He hit you with a fucking book. I said, Yes. I said, No. He said, Which. He said, Yes or no. It was an accident, I said. An accident, he said. Bullshit, he said. There are no accidents, he said. Bullshit, I said. There are only accidents, I said.
The bird was crashing into the walls. I got out of bed. I took a book from a shelf. I waved the book around. I swatted the bird through the window. I walked out of the bedroom. I was still holding the book in the hallway. I was still holding the book, in the room in which my boyfriend was sleeping on the couch. And I was still holding the book standing over my boyfriend as he slept. And I stood there, still, still holding the book, as he opened his eyes, looking terrified.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Perhaps I wasn’t thinking. Perhaps I was only feeling. Perhaps I was feeling like a guy. And what does that mean. I don’t know what that means.
My brother let go of my arm and slammed his fist again into the table. And when the crumbs on the table jumped this time, it wasn’t funny. I stood and said, Fuck this. I said, I’m going. And my brother said, Where are you going. I said, I’m going somewhere. And my brother laughed. He said, You’re going nowhere.
Once, I was bigger than my brother. And I knew he would one day be bigger than I was. And I knew that once he was bigger than I was, he always would be bigger. Because I would not get bigger than I was. But I would always be the bigger prick. Because I was the biggest prick I knew.
I watched from my bedroom window as my father found his underthings all over the yard. I could tell he was angry by the way he stomped toward the house. And by the sound the door made. And by the weight of his steps in the hallway. Then I heard him open my brother’s door. Then I heard my brother’s voice. I heard my brother’s body hit the wall.
And did I try to stop my father. I suppose I did not. I suppose I had my reasons for letting him throw my brother around.
At some point, my father moved away. We were older then, and he moved to another city. He moved to the city for a woman. And then he left that woman. And then there was a second woman. And then he left that woman too. And then there was a third. And then he left that woman. And then there was a fourth. After he died, we met the fourth. She called herself your father’s friend. She told us things we had to do. There were people to meet and people to pay. There were papers to sign and objects to put into boxes. And when every last paper had been signed and every last object had been boxed, she drove us to the airport in her very big car and sad music played and she told us she prayed for our father. And on any other day, we would have laughed. We would have told her what he told us. That no one will save you. That there’s no great man in the clouds.
And on the plane going home, we were very happy. Our father had died, and we had been terribly sad. But on the plane going home, I don’t think we had ever been that happy. We were so happy we were going home, we would not have cared if the plane had crashed. We drank whiskey out of tiny bottles. We spent all our money on the whiskey. We were drunk and we were fucking happy. And when the plane landed, we were still laughing. It was probably something not even funny. It was probably something pretty dark. We probably shouldn’t have been laughing at all. But we were still laughing waiting for our bags. Some of the bags were our father’s bags. These bags were filled with our father’s things. They were coming around with the other bags. One of them had a dent in it. One of them had a stain. And then we were no longer laughing. We were no longer happy but just absurdly sad.
My brother smoked his first cigarette at the kitchen table. He was ten and the cigarette was unfiltered, and he took a long drag, and my father said, Boy, and my father was proud. And when my brother started choking, my father laughed his ass off, and I laughed my ass off too. My brother just looked so dumb, not able to stop that choking. He looked so dumb, the smoke just pouring out of his dumb head, my brother, who was not my father’s son.
I was standing over my boyfriend. It had started to rain. And I liked, in that moment, the rain. I mean I liked, in that moment, the sound of the rain. And I liked the weight of the book in my hand. But it must have seemed like a night terror to him. It must have seemed like a dream of being killed. Because in seconds my boyfriend was off the couch. Then he was the one holding the book.
We were standing at the kitchen table. We were playing the dumb parts we played. It was like I was trying to play a woman, and he was trying to play a man. It was like I was trying to play the victim, and he was trying to play the savior. He said, I’m going to kill him. I said, Then kill him. But my brother would not kill my boyfriend. Because he was my brother, not my father. And so my brother would stand at the kitchen table. And I would stand at the kitchen table. And eventually, my brother would go to his job. He would pick up weights. He would haul out trash. But for now, he was going nowhere. And I was going nowhere. For now, we were putting on a show. It was a show we put on for each other. It was a show we put on for our father. It was a show we put on for our mother. It was utterly absurd, our show. Just a little girl playing little girl. Just a big guy playing big guy. And who was the girl. And who was the guy. It was so confusing, our show. We didn’t always stick to our lines. We didn’t always know our lines.
I should have started with this: A bird flew into the bedroom. And followed with: It was flying crazy into the walls. Feathers floated from the ceiling. I swatted at the bird with a book. I swatted it back through the window.
I should have started with this: I was standing in the hallway. And followed with: I was standing over my boyfriend’s sleeping body. I wasn’t thinking as I stood over his body. I was just holding a book up high while he slept.
One morning my father threw my brother’s dolls into the trash. And this time he locked the trash in the trunk of his car. And this time my brother cried all morning, and my father didn’t know what to do. At some point they had a private talk. My father was sitting on my brother’s bed. My brother was crying on the floor. I was standing in the doorway. Boys only, my father said, and slammed the door in my face. I suddenly felt like the only person in the world. I felt like I was standing on the moon. I screamed, Fuck you, at the door. I screamed, Fuck you, and kicked the door. I screamed, Fuck you pricks, and kicked a hole right through the fucking door.
Later that day, my father took us for pizza. And after we ate our pizza, he took us to a toy store. It was the biggest toy store in the city. My father bought me a book on puzzles. He bought my brother a rocket to build. My brother, for whom there was still hope. He could still become an astronaut.
My brother smoked his second cigarette at the kitchen table. He smoked his third cigarette at the kitchen table. He smoked his fourth, and it was terrible to watch him smoke. It was absolutely brutal. But did I try to stop him. He was so determined. I couldn’t stop him.
And did I try to stop my boyfriend as the book was rushing toward my face. Let’s just say I was working through something. I was making up for something.
This had nothing to do with my mother. When I stood at the mirror, I did not see my mother’s face. It was not that at all. My mother was not a banged-up woman. She
was a brilliant woman. She left the house. And I could not have stopped her.
Just before he died, my father came back to the city for business. We met him at a trashy bar. He looked old. He could barely talk. He coughed the whole night. Everyone knew he was going to die. The bartender gave him water. She gave him a look. She gave us all that look. And my father grabbed the bartender’s arm and pulled her in toward him. And through all his coughing, he was able to say something to her. I don’t know why I thought he would say something nice, like thank you or something like that. It wasn’t like he was that type. He did not say something nice. He said something about her body. Something about her ass. Her amazing ass. My father said to me, Look at that ass. I looked at the bartender’s face. It was alarming how much she hated us. And my boyfriend snapped at my father for this. And my brother snapped at my boyfriend. And I snapped at my brother. And as the bartender walked away, my brother looked at her ass. And my boyfriend looked at her ass. And I, as well, looked at her ass. And it was amazing.
There was a night my boyfriend waked me, screaming. Then he was rushing through the room, and I was screaming too. Then he was in the hallway, then at the door, then running down a flight of stairs, and I was running after him, screaming, Don’t. Outside were cars and people on the street. My boyfriend ran out, screaming, They want me. I screamed, No one wants you. He screamed, Yes they do. Then he was running into traffic.
Then I was running too. Then someone else screamed. Tires screeched. I grabbed my boyfriend’s arm.
Next we were standing on the sidewalk. People were staring at my boyfriend. My boyfriend asked how he had gotten there. I guess he meant to the sidewalk. But either way, I did not have an answer. Because it was just too huge a question. Because it was probably a miracle. I mean how the fuck did I get there. How did anyone get there on that street. Some miraculous spark that just kept on. I knew nothing about miracles. I was not the one to ask. But I knew how to get my boyfriend up the stairs.
I could have solved that puzzle at any point. It was a nothing puzzle to solve. But I waited years to solve it. Because I did not want to solve it. A hotel with an infinite number of rooms. I just loved the thought of that hotel. Just imagine that hotel.
Look. What if there was no bird. What if there was no bird flying through the room. What if there was only me and the book. What if I made up the bird.
And what if I was holding the book like this. And what if I was standing there like this. And what if I made a face like this. And what if I felt like a zombie. And what if I felt like an animal. And what if I felt just like a guy. And what if he opened his eyes like this. What if he looked at me like this. I said to my brother, You have never seen terror like this.
I should have started with this: After my boyfriend hit me in the face with the book, everything stopped. And followed with:
I mean the rain and every blade of grass and every leaf on every tree and air and light and time and
I should have started with this: After my boyfriend hit me in the face with the book, everything started. And followed with:
I should say there were good times with my boyfriend. The morning after he ran to the street, we laughed pretty hard. We laughed at his saying, They want me. And at my saying, No one wants you. And we laughed at the sound the tires made. And at the person who screamed. And at his dumb-as-shit questions. And my dumb-as-shit answers. We laughed pretty much all morning.
But one day I would be at my brother’s again. I would have another mark on my face. The mark would be on the same side as the other mark. But it would be flatter than the other mark. It would not be from a book this time. And I would know something then that I hadn’t, before that day, known.
And on that day, as my brother stood to leave, I would tell him the unsolved puzzle. I would hope that he would solve it. I would hope his brilliance would return. I didn’t want my brother to be my father. I wanted him to be my mother. The question, I would say to him, is how. How, I would say, but he wouldn’t care. He would leave his place. He would find my boyfriend. And I would sit there, waiting.
But before that day was this day, and it seemed the rain would never stop.
And streets would flood and bridges would fall and people would die, and no one ever predicted all that rain.
And did you want to hit him, my brother said.
I was not that type of girl.
I was my father’s daughter, not my father.
I didn’t hit him, I said.
And the rain would fall for thirty days, and it seemed the rain would never stop.
But did you want to hit him, my brother said.
And a day would come that would be the last.
Not the last of the rain, but the last of the days.
And no great man would come to save us.
No great man would ever come.
And I would hold up my hand for a high five.
And my brother would hold up his.
UNIVERSE
One does not start with mourning doves.
One cannot start with doves surrounding the bedroom.
One starts with the trip to Sausalito, the quick ride over the bridge, the city shrinking in the side-view.
One starts with the trip, as the details of the trip are simple: Mexican food, espresso.
The details are simple: houseboats and the theater where one remembered seeing a film on a first date, a blind date, some years back.
The date himself, one remembered, was beautiful, the night itself, and if one felt to sleep with him on the first date, one would have gotten, one would guess, the second date.
The film was foreign, fine, two perfect people falling in love.
One cannot start with mourning doves surrounding the bedroom, several in windows sitting on branches, making their hollow sound.
One cannot start with doves looking through the windows to where one lay in one’s bed, still, too late to be lying still in one’s bed.
One starts with something lighter, light, the Mexican food, the espresso, and, walking past the theater, one told one’s friend about the blind date from years back, how beautiful his face was; how sentimental the film; how one fell for it, still, the perfect people falling in love; how after the date, one went back to his place; how one was asked to take off one’s shoes; how one was asked to lie in his bed; how one did not go all the way on first dates; how that was back then; how this was now.
One’s friend laughed, and all that mattered, in this moment, was this moment.
All that mattered in the next moment was the pulling in one’s gut as one laughed too.
One mentions the pulling as it too is a detail, the detail that made one stay in one’s bedroom, shades drawn, the following day and the following day, but it was a great day, this day, to be on the other side of the bridge.
Everything was a metaphor this day.
Like the bridge itself.
Like the lack of traffic on the bridge.
Like the doves cooing from every branch that morning in bed, and one read the doves as a sign of something to come.
One was right to do so; everything that day was a sign.
Not from the universe, as one now knows the universe is not in control, as one now knows the universe is not calling the shots, as one now knows that neither is there human control and neither is there fate and neither is there an explanation for what there is.
There is just the endless dialogue between one’s own soft brain and one’s own soft brain.
One has to accept this.
It was just a morning.
It was just a visit one had to get to, and as the birds flew off the branches, one by one, one got out of bed, one pulled on clothes, one left.
It was just the usual: one’s body transported as if pulled by strings.
Then the wait, feet up, for the doctor to enter, the doctor who called one Baltimore; How’s it going, Baltimore, he’d say, and laugh.
After, one felt the need to leave the city, to see
it shrinking in the side-view.
And when one felt like being alone, one left one’s friend at the table, one stood outside in the wind, looking toward the houseboats, feeling half-pathetic, half-heroic.
Which is to say half-oneself, half—someone else.
Once back inside, one didn’t explain the events of outside, that while one’s hair was whipping about the way one would imagine, there was a pulling in one’s gut.
One only said one saw the houseboats, a man in a straw hat standing on one, sweeping its floor, and this seemed a metaphor too.
But for what.
One does not know.
Perhaps something about out with the old.
Perhaps something about each man for himself.
Perhaps something about that.
The story itself is a force inside; the doctor afraid to move closer; one’s insides afloat, quivering black and white on a screen.
The doctor said nothing, kept his distance.
One knew what he was thinking.
One now was fluent in the doctor’s face.
One now was fluent in one’s insides.
Spectacle: Stories Page 6