by Susan Juby
The Tragic Hot Dog Guy is the logger-turned-hot-dog-stand-entrepreneur failure who trundles his cart around downtown Smithers searching in vain for customers. He’s always trying different marketing schemes. At one point he was giving out little chunks of hot dog and bun as samples. People just about run away when he comes at them with the little piece of mechanically separated meat in a Wonder Bread bun clutched in his plastic gloved hand. Then he gets offended and turns back to his hot dog cart, muttering and shaking his head. He always perks up and gets this awful, hopeful look in his eye whenever some out-of-towner buys one of his on-sale hot dogs. He’s my favorite downtown merchant, although even I have to admit that he probably would have had an easier time if he’d stayed in the bush rather than following his dream of having his own business.
Thank God he was around, because if he hadn’t been, Linda might have kept doing a Muhammad Ali on me until I was permanently damaged. When he pulled her off, I guess I was crying or whatever, because my face was wet and I could barely see. The salt from my tears was burning the cut on my lip. When I went to wipe my eyes, my hand came away covered in blood. Then I went hysterical—my eye had been cut! Man. Just like in Rocky. If I had a handler, this is where I would get him to cut my swollen eyelid open so I could finish the fight.
I peered around for my handler, you know, disoriented, and then realized that I was just a nice young girl having the shit kicked out of me by a nut job in feathered hair.
I guess I started bleating about my cut eye and everything, because Kevin and Jack told me to shut up. “It’s just your nose, stupid.” “Oh man, her face is all snotty too.” “Gross.”
Then the Hot Dog Guy, still holding Mad Dog Linda, told me to “get on home.” Just like in the movies. There was a part of me that didn’t want to leave until psycho girl had gotten it out of her system. I mean, I was pretty beat up and crying and everything, but I hoped that being held by a hot dog salesman didn’t confuse her into thinking she hadn’t beaten the crap out of me already.
The boys were agitated. When I walked past them, they looked at my teary, bloody, snot-smeared face with disgust. I was a car wreck of a person. Jack even looked kind of upset.
“I told ya. You shoulda listened to me. I told ya she was going to get ya,” he repeated as I walked past, until Kevin hissed at him, “Shut up, man. Let’s go.”
By the time I walked up the hill and into our driveway, I had a huge headache. My body was wracked with pain. I was shaking like crazy, a hundred times worse than that time Linda hit me with the rock and cut my scalp, even though there was way more blood that time. Mom wasn’t home yet, Dad was in the basement, and MacGregor was out somewhere. I went into the bathroom to clean up, or at least that’s what I meant to do. But then I looked in the mirror and became totally fascinated. It was amazing how beat up my face looked with all the blood and stuff on it.
I stared in the mirror for a while and decided, drama queen that I am, that someone should see me like this before I cleaned up. I wondered what kind of reaction I could get out of my mom and dad. Would they take vigilante action? Head on down to the local Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment and demand Linda’s head on a plate? Maybe they would pile in the car with shotguns at the ready, MacGregor holding up the rear with a big fish net, and hunt Linda down to avenge the wrong done our clan. Or maybe we could all put on our gang colors and jump into the low rider and go ice the bitch who messed with our posse. All these scenarios made me feel so much better that the thumping pain in my head and face hardly mattered.
I was sitting on the toilet cooking up revenge fantasies when I heard my mom come in the front door, call down to Dad, and greet MacGregor. It was time for my grand entrance.
I waited until I was sure they were all in the kitchen. I paused to get the right sort of look happening before I went in. I was trying to strike a pose somewhere between a tough-yet-undefeated Billy Jack and the deformed appeal of the Elephant Man. I made sure to stagger a little bit and keep my eyes unfocused (to show how in shock I was). Then I walked into the kitchen.
It was pretty gratifying when all the conversation stopped. I mean, I don’t think they were really talking too much at the time or anything, but I know they would have stopped if they had been. My father looked at me and said with real feeling, “Jesus H. Christ.”
My mom, less interestingly, started crying right away. It was kind of a weird type of crying. Low, muffled sobs that weren’t really directed at anybody. She put the back of her hand up to her eyes, just like a little kid who’s really bawling and heartbroken, the way kids get. It was awful, actually. Not at all what I had hoped for. She looked like someone had really hurt her. And worse, when I focused a bit to look at MacGregor, he was crying too. That wasn’t at all what I had in mind. He was small and teary and upset.
Oh man. This was a bad idea. And I thought it would be so fun.
I just stood there like a idiot until my dad walked over and said, “Let’s go get you cleaned up.” We walked out of the kitchen, where Mom and MacGregor were still crying. Dad didn’t really say much. He sat me down on the toilet, took a facecloth, and started wiping the blood off my face. I don’t think I have ever felt that sad in my life. I couldn’t believe how defeated my dad looked. He obviously didn’t know what to say.
Underneath the crusted blood I had a fat, split lip and a puffy, beginning-to-go-black eye, and my nose was sort of swollen looking. I couldn’t help thinking about that rerun of The Dukes of Hazzard I saw, where Daisy Duke got into a fistfight with another Southern babe wearing jean cutoffs. Old Daisy walked away with only a bit of a scratch on her cheek. It practically looked like a beauty mark. I am so much more real. I look like a monster.
I don’t think Dad appreciated the authenticity of my wounds, but I kind of liked them because usually most of my problems are in my head. I suppose I can understand how a beaten face could be upsetting for a parent, though. The satisfaction I felt was not something they could be expected to understand.
After Dad washed the crud off my face, we went back into the kitchen, where Mom was making dinner. MacGregor sat at the table. My mom tried to work herself up to the subject of my face.
“Alice,” she began.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“We have to talk about it.”
It was cruel, I know, but I said it anyway.
“Aren’t you the same person who fired me today?”
My dad looked over at my mom, surprised.
“I didn’t …” Her face crumpled.
“Just leave me alone. There’s nothing anyone can do. You’ll just make it worse.”
I was about to go on because suddenly I was in a rage at my mom, at my dad, at this whole stupid town. And then I saw MacGregor’s face.
“Never mind,” I said. “We can talk about it tomorrow. I just want to go to bed.”
I didn’t come out of my room all night. Mom put a plate of her version of comfort food, whole wheat macaroni and some kind of cheese substitute, just inside my door.
I slept and thought about the fight and the feeling of being hit. I also thought about my misunderstoodness showing, and looked forward to showing people outside my family.
This is going to require major modifications to my Life Goals list. For number 2, Increase contact with people outside of immediate family, I wonder if my face with Linda’s fist counts. As for number 7, this definitely counts as a new look. Unfortunately it is back to being mostly sad.
JUST FINE, THANKS
August 27
Mom and Dad asked me this morning whether I wanted to go to counseling today. They said they would understand if I didn’t. They looked nervous.
“Just let me handle it,” I said, in my best heroic but fragile voice.
My face really looks terrible now. Swollen, blue, puffy—I’m pretty pale to begin with, and my short hair shows off my war wounds well. As I walked to the Transition Center, I could see the people driving by do a double take when th
ey saw my face.
I imagined them thinking I was a battered child or girlfriend or something. The air should have been filled with the sound of bagpipes.
I made sure to walk past the North Star Café so all the gossips having their morning coffee could get a good look at me. It was too early for Linda or Kevin or Jack to be out, so I figured I was safe. I wished school had already started so I could make a big entrance there too.
Even though I hadn’t shown any admirable qualities, like heroism or courage or anything, during the beating, the suggestion of violence was a major draw for the Teens in Transition waiting to google at Bob. People were interested in my wounds. Some of the girls at the club revealed that they are actually aware of my existence. A few misunderstood and overly sensitive girls tried to express concern, and I did my mute-and-miserable impersonation, hoping to evoke more pity. Violet the Victim, who talks nonstop to whoever will listen, but not usually to me, walked over and nodded knowingly, like her suspicions had just been confirmed.
“People are animals,” she informed me, like the revelation would come as some big surprise to me. “They always go after us sensitive ones,” she continued. Then she asked if I was interested in starting up a watercolor painting club with her. I shook my head.
“I don’t actually draw. Or, uh, paint.”
“But you’re an artist, right?” she asked, as if the answer was obvious. I shrugged. Maybe I was. Maybe I was a performance artist who specialized in getting beaten up in public.
“Because they always go for us artists,” finished Violet, before sighing off to consider more injustice.
Then Llona came over. She and Jim Martino are the official couple at the Teens in Transition Club. The necking and lap sitting give it away. Today Llona was alone. She looked strangely incomplete.
“That totally sucks,” she said, indicating my face with a wave of her hand. Or maybe she was indicating all of me.
Stumped for more conversation, she closed her mouth and rocked onto her heels a few times.
“I can talk to Jim for you,” she offered finally.
God no.
“No, that’s fine. Really.”
“Bob said you’re coming to the Alternative, eh?”
I nodded, surprised that she knew.
“Me and Jim. We go there. We’ll keep an eye out for you.”
She gave me another sympathetic look and walked away.
I was stunned, and for a second I thought I was going to cry. Then Single Mother/Peer Counselor walked over and asked if there was anything she could do. And that time I did cry a bit. But I pulled it together when it was my turn to go in and see Bob. It’s a good thing, too, because as soon as I walked into his office and he saw my beat-up face, he started to come apart.
“Oh geez,” he whispered after I sat down. “Oh man. Wow.”
I kept my eyes on the floor (but not so far down that I couldn’t check out his reactions).
“That’s really heavy,” he said. “Do you want to talk about it? I mean, of course, we are going to … possibly should … We have to take a look at … how?”
It dawned on me that Death Lord Bob might not ever recover his confidence as a therapist if I stonewalled him on my beat-up face. It’s not that I think Bob is a good counselor or anything, but I don’t want to be responsible for his failure. I can’t handle another Mrs. F. on my conscience. So I told him what happened, skipping the bit about getting fired and making it all sound like it was no big deal, like I get into fistfights pretty often and everything.
Bob was really upset. His whisper sounded dangerously strained, and I wasn’t sure what I could say that would make him feel better. In fact, he started to tear up a bit, and I didn’t know what to do for him.
“I’m okay, Bob.” He was sucking the pleasure out of the whole thing.
I reassured him that I am actually quite inherently violent and that this didn’t really mean anything or deter me from wanting to go back to school. By the end of the session, I’d gotten him calmed down. It was so exhausting that I could barely even enjoy the walk home with everyone staring at my face.
Later
Officer Ross came over tonight. My parents called him. Or maybe Bob did. Just what I need. Another helping professional. Officer Ross asked me if I wanted to press charges. He asked who had assaulted me. I’m no Law and Order hard case or anything, but I didn’t answer him. He asked my parents to leave the room so he could talk to me alone.
“Look, Alice, I know who beat you up.” Officer Ross coughed softly and cleared his throat. “But for us to do anything, you’re going to have to help out.”
“It’s fine.”
“Your parents don’t think so.”
Next the mayor would be over here to offer his condolences. At this rate we might be able to get the whole town council involved in my situation.
“I think it’s over now.”
“I can go speak to Linda’s parents.”
I thought of her face that time in first grade when her dad pulled her out of the office.
“No. It’s fine. Really.”
Relief passed over his face. “I know it’s no consolation.” He paused. “But Linda’s situation … it’s not good.”
“I guess I know that.”
Officer Ross nodded. He looked awkward, too big and uniformed for our kitchen, our house. He got heavily to his feet and handed me his card.
“Give me a call, eh? If you want to talk.”
My parents walked him out and stood talking to him by his car. I watched from the kitchen window.
Later, I heard them fighting.
“Diane, we are going to have to pick up the slack. Make allowances.”
“What am I supposed to do? Quit my job?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Fine. You’re just saying. School is less than a week away. I don’t think I can go through that again.”
I put on my headphones so I didn’t have to listen to anymore.
Before bed my dad knocked on my door and asked if he could come in.
“Your mother and I have been talking. Maybe this isn’t the right time for you to go back to school.”
“It’s fine.”
“Well, maybe we should send you to school somewhere else. We can come up with the money.”
“It’s fine. Honestly. I want to go here. In Smithers. It’s all set.”
Ten minutes later my mother came in and asked me the same questions in different words. No way I’m going to let Linda keep me from going back. I’ve got a commitment to Bob and I’m going to keep it.
PUTTING ON A BRAVE FACE
August 29
I got a letter from Aubrey this morning. He apologized for how he had treated me and said he hoped he hadn’t broken my heart, but there were so many demands on him that he couldn’t focus on just one person. Then he went on to tell me about some girl he met at a gas station on his way back to Prince George.
Apparently he had a very deep discussion at the pump with this girl and now he’s going back to see her. She and her family are the only people in the town, which basically just consists of the gas station. I wonder where that poor family is going to go when Aubrey has been talking for ten hours straight. Maybe they can sneak out and stow away in the back of a semi trailer or something. Either that or they can run away and hide in the bush and forage around for berries and roots until Aubrey decides he can’t focus his energies on just one person.
By the end of today my bruises started to fade. I am pretty attached to them, so I snuck into the bathroom and doctored them up with some of my mom’s makeup. Nothing too obvious, just a bit of blue eye shadow and some black eyeliner smudged around. With the touch-up the bruises look just as bad as they did right after I got them. If not worse. It’s a bit of an art to accentuate bruises. Thank God my mother’s makeup collection, which dates back to disco, runs to the special-effects colors. I wish the dark-green eye shadow didn’t have so much glitter in it, though. Th
e sparkles are a dead giveaway.
I suppose I could let my face heal, but I’ve been having such a good time with it, I’m not ready for it to end. What kind of bizarre need is this desire of mine to look like roadkill? I bet it’s just a natural reaction to the sicknesses in our society that I am particularly sensitive to. Also, all the sympathy and attention are nice. MacGregor lent me his latest issue of National Geographic and told me I could keep his copy of Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals. Mom has made semi-unhealthy food for the past three nights. She even bought white bread for my lunch. Dad said that my “desire to join the Wonder Bread nation is sheer perversity,” but I noticed that he packed away half a loaf with peanut butter and jam.
Bob said we are all nervous, with me going back to school and everything. He said he’s barely sleeping at night and is “having trouble with food.” I’m not sure if that means an eating disorder or just anxiety. With all these people worrying on my behalf, I’m starting to feel like my own concern is a little redundant.
September 1
Oh man, what a horrible weekend. I got caught with my false bruises during a MacLeod Family Weepathon. We were sitting around in the living room watching a naturalist show about wildebeests that MacGregor had wanted to see. One of the baby beests wasn’t a very fast runner, and he ended up getting eaten by some hyenas. It was pretty harrowing to watch, expecially since I could relate to that little wildebeest. Plus they showed the killing and eating part in what I thought was unnecessary detail.
Of course, it was very emotional and everything, and definitely too much for our little family. Mom cried openly (not surprising), Dad and MacGregor did the choked-up, breathing-hard thing and, to my embarrassment, I had the tears flowing freely.
So we were all sitting around in the living room, eating popcorn and crying and watching the poor wildebeest mom mooing and acting bewildered, when Dad happened to look over at me.
“What’s that on your face?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” was my quick-witted reply.