Jane.

by Riya Anne Polcastro

  Julia has something that I have never had to help her in her bid: a sidekick. I meet her for the first time on a Tuesday afternoon a few hours before work. Sort of. Julia does not introduce her right away, and she does not introduce herself either; she just sits in the corner of the living room, hunched over in a rocking chair, her bony hands folded in front of her. She is ghost white, with shoulder-length black-brown spirals and tiny features: little green eyes, a dainty chin, and an itty bitty nose plenty of girls pay good money to imitate. Her lips, on the other hand, are full and red; but without Cupid’s bow, her overall look is boyish. She does not wear any makeup, and her bangs hang lifeless in her eyes, which only contributes to her overall masculine tone. She sits like a dude too, with her elbows on her knobby knees and her knees spread wide. Really the only thing that gives her away are the boobs under the waves of her oversized Taco Burger polo.

  I sit at the kitchen table with Julia and take out a small glass pipe. It is an iridescent blue with a green lizard wound around the length of it. I slide it across the table to her. She picks it up and rolls it between her fingers. "Cute," she says and holds it up to show her friend in the corner who cocks her head upward for a second and nods then looks back at the floor. I raise an eyebrow. Julia catches my gaze and giggles then rolls her eyes at the girl. "This is my friend Angela. She’s pissed ‘cause she can’t smoke."

  "Why’s that?"

  Angela looks up at me, the first time she has made eye contact. She thrusts her chin up in Julia’s direction and complains, "She won’t let me."

  Julia stares back and responds in kind. "She has to go to work; she can’t work high. I got her that job, and I am not going to have her fucking it up!" With each word, her voice rises another octave.

  "I won’t fuck it up!" Angela yells. There is something meek and submissive that trembles in her voice behind the façade of anger and volume. There is also something of an accent in her words, a country-gangster twang that could only come out of Springtucky (Springfield, Oregon), where people say Tee-vee instead of TV and D-veedee instead of DVD, grrrAhge instead of garage.

  "You will too! You get so dumb! So dumb!" Julia yells back. "You’re not smoking, so just shut up!"

  This Angela chick gives up just as quickly as she started. She bows her head and wrings her knuckles like a child who is being punished. She is, after all, more than happy to be the subordinate. That much is clear from the start.

  Julia produces a small, dense nugget. It is a pale green, with little red hairs entwined and a shimmery coat of kief on top. "It’s the last I’ve got," she says as she loads it into the bowl of the pipe. This turns out to be Julia’s most endearing trait: She always shares the last of what she has.

  There is a knock at the door just as the last hit is drawn off of the dusted bowl. It is an ominous sound for Julia. "Shit!" she whispers. "That better not be my PO!" She hands me back the pipe which I slip into my purse, and she stuffs the little plastic bag that the bud came out of into her bra. Angela sits straight up, and her green eyes dart back and forth.

  There is another knock, this one louder than the first.

  "Just a second," Julia calls. She reaches across the table for a can of air freshener and sprays a cloud of evergreen into the air. The sweet musk of marijuana blends perfectly with the forest, but Julia still lights a cigarette just to be safe. A bundle of nerves, she stands from her chair and turns to crack open the door behind her.

  "Took you long enough!" The voice is young, juvenile even.

  Julia throws the door open as wide as the table will allow and slaps the girl on the shoulder. "What the hell? You scared the crap out of me!"

  "I told you I was on my way!" The girl steps through the doorway. She is just as young as she sounds, obviously still in high school. She carries a backpack over one shoulder and wears a baseball cap low over her eyes. She has long black hair that is pulled back into a low ponytail. She could be very pretty with minimal effort: take away the jock stride and basketball shorts, give her a little feminine mystique instead. She inches through the small space between the table and the counters to get to the living room where she tosses her backpack on the floor. "Man," she sighs, "school was a bitch today." She takes a seat at the far end of the kitchen table, which blocks me from Angela’s frowning stare. "Got anything to drink?"

  Julia smiles and her dimples show. "I’ve got some Old E."

  The girl shakes her head and makes a sour face.

  "This is Cherry," she says to me. "She just turned seventeen, and she is in love with me." Julia is twenty-seven.

  Cherry bats her eyelashes and smiles coyly. "How about some vodka?" she asks. "Do you have any vodka?"

  "I don’t think so," she says and goes to the freezer which she then opens and inspects with both hands, her cigarette dangling from her lips. "No, no vodka." Cherry frowns. Her face is angelic yet impish with big brown eyes, full cheeks, and pink lips. "Oh wait, I think I have some Alize left." Cherry does not know what Alize is and Julia lies, tells her that it is good. She throws a few ice cubes into a glass and then drains what is left in the bottle. Cherry takes the drink and slurps it down. Just like a kid with Kool-aid.

  At this moment, looking around at these three women, there is no reason to suspect that we will be fast and dangerous friends, that we will usher in the best times of each other’s lives, but also witness the worst of our downfalls.

  3

  (Angela) Julia brought this new girl over again. Jane. I don’t like her. Don’t know what Julia sees in her. She ain’t gangster. Got the wrong kind of clothes, the wrong kind of tattoos; she don’t even like our music. And she way too straight, always talking about boys and shit.

  This chick walks through the door like she belongs here or something.

  "Glad you could make it," Julia beams (I scowl my meanest scowl). "Want a drink?" she offers.

  You know what this preppy bitch says? "As long as it’s not Alize."

  That supposed to be a joke? She think she funny or something? What a dumb broad. Wouldn’t know good liquor if it bit her on the ass.

  Daemon raises his own glass in the air. "We got gin and juice," he boasts. "We’re going old school tonight!" Julia pours a stiff drink, too stiff if you ask me, and hands it off to the bitch. That’s fucked up; she didn’t make my drink that strong.

  This bitch needs to get called out, so I challenge her to a game of dominoes.

  "Dominoes?" she laughs. Laughs! "I don’t know how to play dominoes. Isn’t that an old folks’ game?"

  "See," I point out to Julia, "she ain’t gangster; she don’t even know how to play some fucking dominoes!"

  Julia shoots me the evil eye. "Shut up."

  I scowl and turn to this new girl. "Dominoes ain’t no old folks’ game! Dominoes is gangster."

  Daemon laughs. "Don’t act like you knew. You just learned how to play last week."

  I stare at the floor. This is bullshit.

  "The game is double sixes. We each draw seven," he explains.

  This girl takes her sweet time. Like she waiting for the bones to talk to her or something. For them to fucking call out, "Pick me! Pick me!" Just pick your fucking dominoes, bitch.

  She wins three in a row and I’m out. On her last hand, it’s a double six on one end and a five-three on the other. That ain’t right; that shit just ain’t right.

  This preppy bitch strains to look at the score sheet she don’t even know how to read. She sounds like a cheerleader, all bubbly and shit. "Did I win again?" Her eyes are shining and shit.

  "Fuck beginner’s luck," I hiss. Julia shoots me the look of death.

  "And I am going to enjoy it while I can," she mocks me. Mocks me! Me! If I were a dog, I would growl right now: loud and mean and ferocious. This is my territory. Well, OK it’s Julia’s, but that makes it mine too. It sure as hell ain’t this Jane chick’s, anyway. Later, after she finally leaves, I have a genius idea. There is an easier way to stop her from coming around. All I gotta do is flirt
with her. That bitch is so straight, I’m surprised she can sit down. Couple of good lines, she’ll be so grossed out she won’t never come back! And when that stuck-up bitch gets her twat in a knot, complains about it, shit’s gonna hit the fan! If there’s one thing Julia hates more than red, it’s bigots. Damn straight. Err . . . not straight. Whatever. But she’s gonna have some choice words for this Jane chick when it all goes down.

  "What are you so happy about?" Julia’s looking at me sideways, suspicious.

  I laugh. Not on purpose. Mostly at myself anyway, for the slack-jawed grin I know is on my face, the straw dangling idly from my parted lips. She’s still looking at me, waiting for an answer. "Nothing. I’m not happy. What are you talking about?" The best part about this plan is she can’t even get mad at me for it! What she gonna do, tell me to quit being so nice?

  Couple of days later, Jane comes back around, and I put my plan into action, greeting her ever so sweetly at Julia’s back door. "Hey baby, how you doing?" I offer her my chair, make her a drink, light her cigarettes for her—shit, I even offer to rub her feet! And do you know what this bitch does? She fucking eats it up! She don’t make faces or say "Ew!" or tell me to hit on someone else. She plays right the fuck along! She don’t just let me rub her feet, she even moans through it. What the fuck is that all about?

  By the end of the night, I figure I better step my game up a notch and ask her out to a movie.

  "Are you going to buy the popcorn and soda too?"

  "Of course, baby." Oddly, when I grab her by the waist, she don’t resist, and a sliver of panic rises in my throat. How’s this possible? Do she know my plan and have a plan of her own to beat me at it? And now this little game is gonna cost me money? But it’s OK. It’s all gonna be OK. She’ll bail for sure.

  Except she don’t, and we end up on a real date. I take her to the movies and spend my money on her and keep trying to cross that line in flirting where she finally flips out on me, but it never happens. I even lean in for a kiss at the end, until my belly goes yellow and my head spins and I pull away without putting my lips on hers. How the hell did this happen? How did I possibly end up liking this preppy bitch? My whole fucking plan done backfired.

  4

  Aunt Rose is transferred from the jail to psych triage, all charges dropped by reason of insanity. That there are no real consequences for her actions and that this is both functional and perpetual twists at my cortex.

  Still, I shall enjoy my freedom for as long as it lasts.

  So off to work I go. And off to social encounters where I meet people and make friends and fuck boys again. Julia’s Saturday-night shift is filled by an attractive girl with peculiar mannerisms. Sami has stick-straight black hair past her shoulders, decent curves on a thin frame, the cheekbones of a Mayan goddess, and a goofy smile that scrunches up her almond eyes. She is an open book from the moment she introduces herself, and her penchant for words over work means more tables and more tips for me. Furthermore, she sits and stands way too close for comfort as she relates random personal information about herself and her family. It is kind of strange that she has brought her camera with her on her first day of work and even stranger that she uses it to introduce me and our fellow coworkers to just about every facet of her life.

  "Ohhhhh," she coos, "this is my niece Jessi; isn’t she cute? She’s my sister’s kid. They live with us right now." She leans in even closer to point out her dog, Banana.

  I only halfway pay attention to what she says. My attention fixates instead on why she sits so damn close and shares so much. It feels almost like a challenge, like a duel for space in the wait station. Then she tells me her girlfriend just bought her this fancy camera for their anniversary. Her girlfriend? So is the close-sit a litmus test for homophobia? In that case, I lean in, just a little annoyed but also to make a point.

  A week later, I am in Sami’s bedroom, whiskey and coke in hand, matching bowls with her and her fiancée, Elisabeth. And a month after that, it is off to Canada to witness as they become each other’s wives. It is a last-minute invitation and with barely enough time to pack a change of clothes and roll a couple of joints for the drive. I call in sick to work from the road without a clue as to whether I will stay the night or make the seven-hour trek back after the wedding.

  The closer I get to the border, the stronger the tug at my breastbone. Freedom calls: freedom from responsibility, freedom from Aunt Rose, freedom to just be. I exhale for the first time in months as the ferry undocks and leaves Port Angeles. The tension melts away. So far away from the everyday that even if my aunt is released today, she cannot bother me here.

  There is not much to do on the ferry except enjoy existence. The smoking deck is bathed in a cool but sunny breeze. The early summer sun kisses my skin as I take slow drags off of a cigarette that can barely manage to stay lit between the sea breeze and my leisurely abandon. The gulf is peaceful, its steel-blue water calm even in the wake we leave behind. The dull roar of engines and measured wind masks the voices of my fellow passengers so that even though they are standing right there, the world is still all mine. In this moment, somehow, it becomes apparent that everything will be okay; whatever is meant to be will be and all that preliminary acceptance of catastrophe bullshit. Now more than ever, the world will fall down around my ankles, but the least I can do is party it up while it quivers and shakes.

  Victoria is smaller than I expect, probably about the same size as Salem but quainter nonetheless. The attitude is entirely different from home, something like when people recognize the humanity in each other. Cars stop for pedestrians, and cyclists obey traffic laws. The streets are clean and well maintained. It is a tourist town, true, but aside from the manageable aspect of the image, there is something very real in the air, something very different from the filth we breathe in the valley. Maybe it is a mirage; maybe I only see what I want to see, but straight off the bat, I am in love with this place north of the border.

  Sami meets me in the lobby of her favorite boutique hotel on Douglas Street and convinces me to check in for the night. Then, in typical American fashion, she leads me to the elevator and up one level to her and Beth's room.

  "You’re lazy."

  "What’s your point? I’m getting married today."

  I roll my eyes at her as we step out onto the second floor. She opens the first door on the right, and we are greeted by the unmistakable musk of BC bud and the charge of overabundant nervous energy.

  Sami grabs my wrist as we step inside. "I need a cigarette," she insists as she drags me towards the sole window in the room, nearly floor to ceiling but only a few feet across and tucked over by the washroom. She raises the bottom sill, and we climb out into the hollow of the building. The hotel stretches up some five or six stories around us. I scratch my sneakers on the roofing shingles beneath our feet. Below us is the hotel lobby or one of its many restaurants or clubs.

  "She is driving me fucking crazy!" she explodes, slamming the window shut.

  "Sorry," I chuckle, nearly choking on the cigarette’s virgin drag.

  "Oh my god, everything has to be perfect," she bitches. "She is fussing over the most fucking insane, ridiculous details! It took her an hour to put on eyeliner, for god’s sake." She takes a long drag off of her menthol and spews it out towards the sky. "Fucking eyeliner!"

  The obvious answer begs a question. "What would make you guys think you could get ready together anyways? There is probably something to that whole not seeing the bride before the wedding thing."

  It is Sami’s turn to roll her eyes. "The fact that there are two brides should cancel that out. It’s not that. It’s that Beth is fucking crazy!"

  Her insight into the matter deserves applause, though she is one-hundred-percent wrong about the dynamic. Beth may be crazy right now but so is Sami, and they definitely do not cancel each other out.

  Their relationship does not follow the dichotomy presupposed by the general population. Neither Sami nor Beth is the man. Neither one is t
he lipstick lesbian or the butch. They both cook, they both clean, and they both take the car down the block to the lube joint when it is time for an oil change. Beth may be a little more emotional, a little more high-strung, but that hardly makes her the femme to Sami’s dyke. Furthermore, Sami and Beth will both wear their femininity in matching traditional white gowns, complete with veils, trains, the whole nine yards, while the rest of us will wear pinstriped suits.

  "The rest of us" consists of another couple in their early twenties, Felicia and Jade, and Shoshanna, a latent lesbian with an Eastern European accent to die for. Felicia is short and round with spiky black hair on her head and above her upper lip. She is a taper; she straps her breasts down with an ace bandage wrapped as tightly as circulation will allow. Jade is taller, thinner, and all around cuter. I think she could do better than Felicia, but I do not know her story, and as they say, you cannot always judge a book by its cover. Perhaps she has some serious flaw that makes her lucky to have Felicia. Maybe a third nipple. On her back.

  Like me, Shoshanna drove up alone. She is the single mom of two teenagers on a much-deserved, though brief, break. She recently went through a divorce, in the midst of which she discovered that she prefers women. She teases me that I don’t need my own room; I am welcome to share her bed. "Who knows, you might like it," she suggests, her English wrapped in a well-worn Polish veil.