Jex Blackwell Saves the World

by P. William Grimm

  The book is intriguing to Jex mostly because, maybe accidentally, it views Los Angeles in a romantic way, and its early punk scene as some kind of iconic moment in the city’s history. And maybe it is all true. Maybe the city did have a pulse that powered its art scene; its punk scene. And maybe the art scene, the punk scene; maybe they powered the city back in some strange, surreal, hopelessly romantic way. Jex likes to dream it was so, and sometimes she wishes she had been there to be part of it.

  And at the same time, she likes to dream that her time in the city is somehow also an iconic moment. Maybe her scene gets power from the city; maybe her scene powers the city back. And at some point in the distant future, some other girl in some other library will read books about this time in L.A., and wish that she had been here. Some days the city feels like it is straight out of a Raymond Chandler book. Some days it feels like Bret Easton Ellis. Mostly, though, it’s just kind of a twisted Hannah Montana episode. Maybe someday, Jex thinks to herself, she could help to make it something real. Or at least something romantic.

  “Ms. Blackwell. Exactly what do you think you are doing?”

  Jex looks up. If she is surprised, she doesn’t show it. It is Ms. Tubman talking, her face beet red and her hands on her hips. She is wearing a blue dress that accentuates her frame, which some would describe as frumpy; holding her large, rather sturdy body in a manner that is strikingly reminiscent of a 1950’s era caricature; the angry librarian steadfastly chasing a truant library book. Her expression suggests that steam may soon literally spout out of her ears. Without waiting more than a moment for a response, Ms. Tubman repeats shrilly, “I said: what do you think you are doing?”

  “Hi,” responds Jex, nonchalance dripping as slow as molasses from each word. She stands deliberately and looks up at Ms. Tubman, who is several inches taller than her. “I was just inspecting this book,” she states calmly, her words purposeful and precise. “It was shelved here in the history section, right here, near Napoleon. But, Ms. Tubman, it didn’t look right to me as I was re-stacking books, and upon scrutiny it appears it may be a fine arts book. I was concerned it might be misplaced, and so I was inspecting it to try to make a determination.” Jex holds the book out to Ms. Tubman. “See,” she queries.

  Ms. Tubman looks down her nose at the book and eyes the spine carefully. “Well,” she sniffs. “This is the third time this month a … ‘fine arts’ book has been … ‘misplaced,’” the skepticism thick in her voice. “I trust very much that we will not see these aberrations continue … or I will have no choice but to investigate the matter much more deeply. Let’s hope it does not come to that.”

  “Let’s hope,” Jex agrees firmly, the sarcasm of her words every bit as impenetrable as the skepticism in Ms. Tubman’s had been.

  “In any event, Ms. Blackwell,” Ms. Tubman sniffs. “I was looking for you. We have a … patron who insists that you are the only library employee who can competently tend to her needs. I find that difficult to believe. In any event, I thought I might find you here, ‘inspecting’ books of one sort or another.”

  Jex looks past Ms. Tubman’s imposing figure and for the first time she sees a girl standing somewhat meekly behind her. It is Molly, the cousin of Jex’s good friend, Eugene. Her skin is pale and she is thin. Her hair is long and pitch black with a flare of blue in the front. She is wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt with a cartoon of what seems to be Smurfette in somewhat cheeky vaudeville attire on the front. Her belly button is slightly visible, just a little. With a hint of surprise in her voice, Jex greets Molly. “Oh, hi Molly!”

  “Hi, Jex.” Molly offers quietly, her voice an embarrassed tin, every bit as meek as her appearance. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m OK, how are you?”

  Molly shrugs. “I’m OK, I guess.”

  “Well,” Ms. Tubman interrupts stiffly, speaking to Molly. “I trust very much that you will be just fine in the … capable hands of Ms. Blackwell.”

  “Thank you,” Molly mumbles, almost silently.

  “And Ms. Blackwell. While I am quite delighted to see that you have your own personal following in our library, I would remind you that you are here as a library assistant. And your assistance continues to be required in the stacking of books.”

  “Yes, Ms. Tubman,” Jex nods diligently.

  “Lots of books.”

  “Yes, Ms. Tubman,” Jex responds again, with no diminishment of determination in her voice.

  “Very well,” say Ms. Tubman, who seems to spin on one heel as she turns and walks purposefully away. Molly looks at Jex with more than a hint of fear in her eyes. Jex smiles. “Don’t worry about Ms. Tubman. Her bark is worse than her bite.”

  “Oh,” Molly says reluctantly. “Ok,” her voice a little raspy.

  “She’s actually sweet. And she’s right. I should be stacking books, not reading them. I’m getting paid to stack ’em.” Jex smiles, and her smile is naturally, organically disarming.

  “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” Molly apologizes.

  “Nah,” Jex says, waving her concerns off. “It’s got nothing to do with you. She catches me all the time with my nose in a book. Either a punk book like this or some medical book.” Jex lowers her voice in a mock tone of conspiracy. “Between you and me, I think she’s secretly proud I read so much.”

  “Oh,” Molly says hesitatingly. “That’s cool.”

  Jex points at Molly’s shirt, perhaps thinking it was time to just move on from the subject of Ms. Tubman – adult figures of authority appear to make Molly nervous. “I like your shirt. It’s pretty rad.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Molly replies, her face quickly brightening. “It’s for my new band.”

  “Oh,” Jex exclaims, recalling that when she saw Molly last, she was carrying a guitar. “You have a new band? That’s headlines.”

  “Yeah,” Molly agrees. “It’s gonna be awesome. We are still working up songs. I’m playing bass. Power trio,” she shrugs as if it’s no big deal to her, though it clearly is. She is glowing. “Drums, guitar and bass. It’s gonna be rad. We’re called Bawdy DySmurfia. Get it?” She points at the cartoon on her chest, and then turns around to show her back, where the name of the band is written out. Jex pauses for a moment, putting the pieces of the pun together before smiling broadly.

  “That’s super rad,” Jex agrees. “I love that name.”

  “Yeah,” Molly agrees as she looks down at her shoes and fidgets with her fingers. There is an awkward pause before Jex continues the conversation.

  “So, are you living in L.A. right now?”

  “Yeah,” Molly confirms, and then clarifies, “well, I’ve been staying in Echo Park with Leigh for the last week or two. She’s the drummer of the band.”

  “Cool,” Jex responds. “Echo Park is cool.”

  “Yeah,” says Molly. “It’s cool. I’m just living on the couch for now.”

  “Are you in school right now?”

  Molly hesitates before responding. “Naw,” she says. “It’s not for me right now.”

  “That’s cool. I went in and out of high school before I got my diploma.”

  Molly laughs nervously. “Yeah, but you’re like Marie Curie or something.”

  Jex shrugs. “You don’t have to be smart to finish high school. You just need all the bullshit in life to white out for a while so you can just focus on getting done all the crap they want you to do.”

  Molly agrees. “For realz,” she says. “That crap is too much sometimes. And it’s super hard to white stuff out sometimes.”

  “That’s for sure,” says Jex. “I’m really, like … lucky I made it.”

  Molly laughs again. “Yeah, right… Madame Curie.”

  Not one to accept compliments gracefully, nor to engage in casual chit-chat for any meaningful period, Jex laughs and changes the subject. “Yeah, so, anyways, what brings you to the library?”

  “Well,” Molly says, her words reluctant. “When we were out in the desert last month
, with Eugene? You seemed to be really smart about medicine. And you know about my condition and all, right?”

  Jex had been visiting Molly’s brother earlier that year and recalls very well Molly revealing that she has Type I Diabetes. Eugene mistook her use of insulin needles as proof of illicit drug use and the misunderstanding soon brewed a nasty confrontation. It also turned out to be the night Molly learned that she had contracted TB, and had unknowingly passed it on to Eugene. It was a night of a special kind of awkwardness that Jex won’t soon forget.

  Type I Diabetes is a serious condition, Jex knows, and a hard one to manage; particularly for a kid like Molly, whose parents aren’t around much and the temptations of Southern California are everywhere. If Jex had such a condition even just a couple of years ago, there’s little doubt she would have managed it horribly, and maybe it would even have killed her. Jex is smart enough to know these things, and so a sense of concern with Molly is palpable in her words.

  “Yeah, I remember,” Jex confirms. “How is it going?”

  Molly shrugs. “I dunno,” she says. “Like, it’s been hard I guess. I dunno.”

  Jex nods in the way she does, in a way that is calming and empathetic at once. “Yeah,” she agrees. “It must be really hard.”

  “Yeah,” Molly says. “Really hard,” repeating Jex’s words.

  Perhaps sensing why Molly was here, Jex continues. “Do you want to sit somewhere and talk about it a little?”

  “Yeah,” Molly says instantly, enthusiastically. “That would be awesome.”

  “Cool,” Jex says, looking around and grabbing Molly’s hand. “I know someplace we can go where Ms. Tubman won’t even think of looking for us.” Molly smiles and follows Jex through the stacks, sharing a mischievous moment in the stilted silence of the library basement; the kind of moment that bonds people without words.

  * * *

  “So, anyways. There’s this dude. He’s in a band.”

  Not sure if a wise man said this once or not, but very few scenarios end well that start with “there’s this dude. He’s in a band.” Though only sixteen, it is a lesson Jex already knows well. She and Molly are now secreted out behind a couch on the second basement level, by the patent section. It is a corner of the library that is seldom used, and Jex has exploited the floor’s quiet nature to keep hidden from Ms. Tubman on only the most important occasions. She does not use it often for fear of being discovered and ruining her favorite secret place; but Molly seems sad and scared. She is worth the risk. They are behind the couch, Molly with her legs stretched out and Jex sitting cross-legged.

  “So, this dude, he’s been hanging out at this house I am flopping at. His name is Ian. You know, like Ian MacKaye from Minor Threat. We’ve been talking a bunch. He’s older. Like eighteen or nineteen maybe. He does some shows, grindcore stuff.”

  “Ugh,” Jex mutters under breath. Grindcore is not her scene. Molly shrugs. “I dunno, the music’s kinda rank, but he’s cute and he just makes me go all bonkers.”

  Jex smiles and plays with the rubber on the sole of her sneaker. “Yeah, I dig that,” she says, though there is a hint in her voice like maybe she doesn’t quite know; like she hasn’t really met a dude that has made her go quite bonkers. Not yet, at least. There is a flicker in her eyes. Her focus on Molly and her story is clear, noticeable to Molly, and Molly seems invigorated in her storytelling by Jex’s demeanor.

  “So, anyways. Like, I don’t know, the last few nights we have been hanging out at the house. Not just me and him. And, I don’t know, he likes to drink these cognac drinks.”

  Jex furrows her eyebrows. “Cognac?”

  “Yeah,” Molly says. “Cognac.”

  “That’s kind of a weird drink for a grindcore kid be drinking.”

  Molly looks down at her fidgeting fingers, nervous and uncertain. “It tastes good, I dunno.”

  Jex shrugs. “That’s cool,” in what is perhaps her least judgmental tone, kind of like she doesn’t want Molly to freeze her out.

  “But, that’s the point. I’ve had a couple of drinks with him. And it’s been totally cool. Just a couple each night … but …”

  Jex throws Molly an understanding nod. “But you’re worried how your diabetes might react to it?”

  Molly heaves a sigh that is equal parts exasperation and relief. “Exactly,” she exclaims and immediately realizes her volume is just a couple notches too high for the patent section of the library. She clutches her eyes tightly for a minute before opening them again and repeating, much more quietly, really in a whisper, “exactly.”

  “I get it,” Jex said firmly. “It’s a real concern. How well are you managing it right now?”

  Molly shrugs and holds her head down, shaking it slightly from left to right. “I dunno. I’ve had this shit for like four years now and it’s OK. But, the doctors are all douches and the whole thing is ridic and exhausting. Plus, with the meds for TB, which are super fucking overwhelming …”

  “Yeah,” Jex agrees. “I can only imagine.” She knows that diabetes requires daily attention, and that Molly’s TB diagnosis means that she will be spending many months on a carefully regimented diet of drugs, a literal cocktail of prescriptions to care for and monitor.

  “I really can’t remember everything all the time,” Molly continues. “All the pills and log-keeping, I don’t know, it’s just not me. And now with maybe drinking every now and again, I don’t know. I know I shouldn’t be drinking but hell, I just want to, Jex. But, I feel, like, out of whack and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Out of whack?” Jex repeats, studying Molly’s face carefully.

  “Yeah,” Molly says. “Like something is not right in my head and my body. I mean, I try to monitor my glucose and take care. I know with TB it’s more intense, and the chance of me … croaking are … higher.”

  Jex gestures softly in a shrug that is non-committal. She could tell Molly that the mortality rates for diabetics with TB is markedly higher than those without; that there is a growing epidemic of young people with TB and diabetes; that treating and managing these dual diseases is flustering doctors around the world. Jex thinks better of this and instead says nothing more. At least not at this point. She waits for Molly to continue.

  “I dunno. It seems pretty bad to me.”

  Jex shrugs again. “It’s not great,” she agrees quietly.

  “Anyways, yeah, my head’s not been right the last couple of days, or my body. I’ve been sweating, shaking. I can’t get my temperature right. I’m thirsty all the fucking time, no matter how much water I drink. I’m lightheaded or I’m dizzy. I’m either nauseous or I’m starving. I dunno, I feel like I’m pregnant.”

  Jex raises her eyebrows and looks carefully at Molly, speaking with her eyes but not saying anything. Molly hears what she is saying and shakes her head. “No, not pregnant. Not possible.”

  Jex nods and states the obvious conclusion. “Hypoglycemia,” she states firmly.

  “Yeah,” Molly nods back, but then says, “Naw. I check my glucose levels really regularly and I’m OK right now. It teeters between being low and OK, but right now it’s OK. A little low but OK. I’m worried about how much I can drink.”

  “Well,” Jex says with humor in her voice, “I see why you don’t want to talk to the doctors.” She smirks. “I can’t imagine they’d be too anxious to tell you how much booze is OK if you’re diabetic with TB,” she chuckles.

  “Look, Jex,” Molly says earnestly. “I don’t want to get wasted. I don’t want to get hammered and puke. I’m not into that. I see these dumb kids doing that, and I’m not into it at all. Like, at all. But Ian is drinking and all these cute little punk girls are drinking too, and eating whatever they want. And doing . . who knows what. I don’t want to do who knows what, so I have to at least have a drink in my hand.”

  Jex chuckles again, and nods with understanding.

  “Look, dude. I’m not going to be the one who tells you how much to drink, but there are plenty of pla
ces on the inner-webs that will tell you precisely what you need.”

  Molly grabs Jex’s hand in exasperation, and points to her head with dire stabbing motions. “I know, Jex, I know. But there’s something in my head that won’t let me search. Every time I have tried in the last two days, I have gotten headaches and the screen looks black. I don’t know.” Tears well up in her eyes. “I think it’s all just getting to my head. I can’t use even my phone at all.” She begins to cry, just a quiet one, though; almost like a weeping.

  Jex taps on Molly’s leg urgently. “Come on, Molly. Don’t worry about it. I know this shit is overwhelming. Don’t worry about it,” she says reassuringly. “I can help you.”

  * * *

  About forty-five minutes later, Jex and Molly are in the library’s first floor café. Jex is drinking a Diet Coke and Molly is drinking black coffee. They are sharing a table and flipping through a big book that Jex pulled from the library, Clinical Medicine by Parveen Kumar and Michael Clark. Eighth Edition. Jex is pointing out little pieces of information about diabetes and Molly is taking it all in. “So, you see,” Jex explains, “type 1 diabetes is increasing all over the place, see,” she says, pointing at the page. “There’s going to be 57.2 million people with it in ten years. That’s crazy.”

  “Nuts,” Molly agrees.

  “And you see,” Jex continues. “Diabetes is inherited. In other words, you can get it from your family. But, it’s not genetically predetermined. See,” she says, pointing. “Your chances rise if your parents have diabetes, but not that much.”

  “Mine never had it,” says Molly.

  “Yeah,” Jex says. “It’s just a few points, but it’s super interesting.”

  “Yeah,” Molly says, interested in the subject for what seems to be the first time. Jex moves on from the background.

  “So, listen, Molly. I don’t want to encourage you to drink, but the facts are you can. You can as a diabetic, and it won’t kill you. It just won’t. Just do it smart. You’re not going to be one of the kids getting wasted and crashing out on the lawn.”