by Lisa Teasley
Why I Could Never Be Boogie
Boogie and I meet after school ‘round four to race the turtles, or ride our bikes to the liquor store and back. Boogie’s a bit slower than me, which bothers him ‘cause I’m a girl. And Boogie is so fat—I think he’s no more than ten and only a head above five feet, weighing up there in the two hundreds of pounds. Boogie is huge. But he’s cool, shows me the hangs around Washington Blvd. and the Avenues—I just got to my Grandma’s in LA, and there’s nobody but her, and Boogie next door, to show me what to do. ‘
Round seven Boogie has to go inside to scratch his father’s dandruff and oil his scalp. Boogie’s old man has long, good, wavy, white hair—I think Boogie and his folks have a lot of white in ‘em. Boogie is creamy colored with fleshy fat, which is fine, ‘cause Boogie’s still pretty. His father too, who sometimes lets me come in and watch as he sits on the floor under Boogie. He has long black eyelashes that he looks at you from behind in his sneaky sort of way. He pats my butt whenever I leave, and I turn around and smile because I know he means good. Other times I’m not allowed inside because Boogie’s mother works. She’s a nurse over at one of those fancy hospitals somewhere—I know it’s fancy ‘cause Boogie said the patients arrive in limousines! Imagine that. I even seen a fancy car pull up in front of Boogie’s old rinky-dink, yellow house. I couldn’t see who got out ‘cause Grandma pushed me from the window. Don’t know why she did that.
But Boogie and I, we’re going through some lows, ‘cause Boogie’s getting shit ‘bout his fat and his smell, and I’m getting the big-titty, big-booty shit at school. But Boogie and me, we’ve got the turtles, we got our bikes, the liquor store, and we’ve got each other. So today we ride our bikes to the store for some Now and Laters, but I have to go to the bathroom bad. Grandma’s not home yet from cleaning the Birds’ house in Bel Air (The Bel Air Birds, I call ‘em) and I left my key at home before school this morning, and we can’t go to Boogie’s ‘cause his mother’s working. So we beg the liquor store owner if I can use the bathroom, and we try and explain the situation, me close to tears, and the man just keeps shaking his head no. I can’t see Boogie ‘cause my eyes are burning and I’m starting to cry, now the hot pee is stinging as it streams down my legs into a dusty, yellow puddle on that asshole’s cracked floor. I feel sick, and Boogie’s pulling me by the arm out of the place, and he’s getting me on my bike. I ride home behind Boogie, sniffling, feeling hot and red as a beet, the piss drying to a thick stickness between my thighs and legs, and on the inside of my sock.
Boogie’s father answers the door with a “no-you-can’t-come-in,” because Boogie’s mother’s working. Now Boogie’s throwing a tantrum, and yelling, “who gives a shit if she sees that old white bitch anyway!” I don’t have a clue what Boogie’s talking ‘bout, but Boogie’s father grabs him by the ear, clamps his mouth, and slaps him hard on his fat cheek. But the odd thing is that he pulls us in the house anyway, and I’m allowed to go to the bathroom to clean up.
The house feels dank and clammy inside, and I hear this muffled, retard-like voice coming from across the hall, so I peek, and there in the bedroom with the door half open is Boogie’s mother in her nurse uniform, and a white woman with black eyes, blue cheeks, and bandages covering everything else on her face. The smell of medicine and the look on that battered woman’s face sends me to terror, I can’t help it, I scream. And now Boogie’s shoving me into the bathroom, and he closes the door, hugs me up, me, smelling high with pee like that, and we stay there, me, still terrified, until Grandma comes to fetch me.
Grandma puts me in the bathtub at home, the soap smelling like lemons, and Grandma’s hands, huge and soft with rough lines, splashing the bubbles over my body, ‘til it soothes me to sleep. I wake to the smell of fried bananas, black-eyed peas and coconut rice. I hug Grandma from behind and ask her what’s wrong with that white woman at Boogie’s.
“She had a face-lift,” Grandma says, and so I ask her what that is, and she says, “it’s when doctors cut your face and then sew it up to look younger.”
I say I thought the woman was hiding from thugs who beat her up. Grandma says, “You could say that too.”
I’m completely confused, and Grandma’s laughing and says, “She’s just hiding while she heals up, and she wanted a place where nobody would see her. Boogie’s mother’s been keeping white women like her for years now. Extra money, you know.”
I say to Grandma, “Wha’ da’ ya mean where nobody can see ‘em? I’ve seen ‘em, Boogie’s seen ‘em. Boogie’s mother and father’s seen ‘em.” Grandma just laughs.
I’m mad. That beat-up white woman gives me nightmares. And now Boogie and me stopped talking. I play by myself with the turtles, and ride my bike to the liquor store alone, where every time I look to see if my pee has left its mark anywhere on that asshole’s dusty, cracked floor.
The Breaking of Miss and Mrs. Gaines
A sincere fuck, was what Anna told Jazz she wanted most from him. Then he could go since she didn’t need him for anything more. She wanted to feel free. No more guilt, no more misconceptions, or obligations, just peace of mind.
Jazz was lying on his back, an arm stretched out, the hand as if it held a good book. The other arm thrown across his face, covering his eyes.
The sun was streaming in and as she stared at the sycamore tree in front of the window, the leaves poured in, floating up to the ceiling, circling around in a rush. The green was overwhelming, and she wanted another beer, or at least to finish the one she had half drank with breakfast alone that morning.
She touched his side and when he didn’t move she got angry but tried not to show it. It was Sunday, and there was something she was supposed to be doing, but she couldn’t remember what.
When he finally rolled over both arms were above his head. He looked like he could be floating dead on water. This didn’t scare her. He had told her she had fire in the mind, and the way she thought burned her head. Maybe she would die in the ocean, she imagined; this would be the only way to put it out.
He moved to his side, opened one eye, looked at her as if recognizing. She smiled, closed her eyes, tried to feel the wind the leaves were making, rushing above their heads in a circle, even closer to the ceiling now.
“Anna, wake up,” he said softly. “Anna, get up,” he said, nudging her shoulder, throwing a leg across her body. He nuzzled up against her, put his nose in her hair, so that she would scratch him, make him itch, maybe make him sneeze, and they would laugh, and she would say she loved him, and he would be happy until they got out of bed.
“Jazz, get up,” she said, her eyes still closed, the ache between her legs, her muscles tight, her arms heavy. “You’ll be late, Jazz, get up.”
He rolled out of bed, made a loud thump on the floor, and then groaned to make her laugh. But she didn’t.
“Three months now, Jazz,” she said, opening her eyes, looking up at the ceiling to see that the leaves were gone.
“I know,” he said.
“I don’t need this.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want it,” she said, shaking her head, holding a tight fist. He was standing now, holding onto the dresser, facing the mirror. He opened a drawer slowly, then held his head like it hurt.
“Look what you did to me last night,” he said, turning his face toward her, pointing at the purple under his eye.
She closed her eyes, tried thinking of all the things she had made by herself. An ice cream candle in sixth grade, a clay dragon in the eighth.
“Look what you did!” he shouted, coming closer to her.
And when he was in her face she grabbed his long dark hair, pulled his head back, and said real slow, “I—don’t—need—you.” When she let go of his hair he slapped her so she would cry. It was always good when he slapped her because she had held the cry for so long. She could let it all out, she could let it all go—show him she didn’t need him. He wasn’t the only one alone in the room.
When he hel
d her, she would hum a little to herself as she cried. This made them both sleepy. This made them stay in bed much longer, on top of the sheets, where it was too warm to be under, too hot to be over.
Anna stopped her crying since the room was now on fire as she had wanted it. Jazz’s nose was in her red, frizzy, wavy tangles; he was kissing her neck and the scoop of her collar bone, on her breast, around the half moon, and in the soft place where the kiss sinks in.
“I don’t need you,” she whispered.
Mrs. Gaines thought it would be best to put the fishbowl out in the hallway. That way people could pass it by when they visited instead of having to stare at it as they sat in the living room, or worse yet, that she would have to stare at this bright orange fish with fins like flames, in her bedroom. She would never sleep. She got little enough as it was. But Anna had told her to get the fish, last time they spoke. Anna thought it might calm her down. Her daughter told her she had fire in the mind, Mrs. Gaines assumed this was why she never got to sleep. Mrs. Gaines put the picture of her dead husband face down every night before she got in bed. She told herself this spared him of any embarrassment he might have. Mrs. Gaines slept, whenever she did sleep, alone. But because this was enough for her, she decided it was embarrassing to him. But she really didn’t need anyone.
Anna had left her a year ago for a willowy sailor named Jazz. Mrs. Gaines hadn’t really believed he was a sailor, but this is what he’d said. She figured he was stupid enough to be in the navy, though he didn’t look very strong. And then there was his too-long hair. Mrs. Gaines figured he was really just a rich surfer from La Jolla that could make things. He’d carved her the most beautiful chess set before he took Anna away. Then his beating her at chess told her he wasn’t so very stupid. Perhaps he was only soft, a bit too bendable. Anna didn’t need that. Anna had fierce will. Mrs. Gaines had given Anna her fire in the mind, after all.
Mrs. Gaines picked up the phone to call Anna. A recording announced that the phone had been disconnected. It’s no wonder, Mrs. Gaines thought, because Anna never worked a day in her life, and Jazz’s money couldn’t last that long. Even if he really was a rich surfer, thought Mrs. Gaines. His hair was too long for the navy.
Mrs. Gaines put the phone down and contemplated the kitchen. She could put the fish on the counter, and it would discourage her from picking at the food as she made it. She was usually so proud of the food she made, but ashamed of the picking she did throughout the whole thing. She would put the fish in the kitchen.
The bowl was a little heavy to her, the water splashing up with the imbalance, the fish jerking around, afraid. She found the fish annoying, looking so paranoid. She thought, Why should a fish look so paranoid when a fish was so stupid after all? She wondered what kind of life a fish had, and whether it was fair or unfair to keep a fish in a bowl. She decided it wasn’t worth worrying about since no one could tell her the truth. Things such as this shouldn’t be worried about. Life was too short.
Mrs. Gaines turned her back to the fish, now on the long counter near the sink, and thought about what she was supposed to be doing. It was Sunday, but she couldn’t remember. Didn’t matter. Mrs. Gaines appreciated her own easygoing nature. She could take a nap. Slowly, Mrs. Gaines walked to the bedroom. This wasn’t a day to be rushed. Things could be taken easy.
Anna lay there with her legs wide open, singing to herself, and to Jazz if he was listening. He was lying on his side with his back to her, studying his fist. Anna kept singing.
“Get me a beer, Jazz,” she said when she stopped, and as she moved she spilled his cum down the inside of her thigh. This was a relief to her. “Get me a beer, Jazz, now, please. I’m thirsty and tired and I want to go back to sleep.”
Jazz didn’t move.
“You’re making things worse, just lying there. I don’t know what you look like anymore,” she said, pulling on his hair. “You never show me your face. It gets so I can see every fucking pore in your back. Please, Jazz, turn the fuck around.”
Jazz stretched, opened and closed his fist, licked the bruised knuckles.
“Get me a beer!”
“When’d your mouth get so filthy?” Jazz asked, turning to look at her in disgust.
Anna jerked herself out of bed. She stood for a moment holding her head. When it didn’t take off by itself, she started to walk. She walked slowly, in case Jazz had decided to get up. When she reached the doorway, saw it was futile, she crossed the threshold.
Jazz turned around to watch her leave. He imagined it was the last time he’d ever see her. This became reality to him for a few moments. It was good at first, then it was bad. He rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face to his ears in the pillow. It wasn’t saying anything, so there was nothing to learn.
Mrs. Gaines found it easier to sleep when she kept her mouth open and let the drool run free. She never did this when her husband was alive, better to keep sleep neat and decent. A little drool could be disgusting, she thought; a little drool kept the pillow wet. As if tears didn’t.
Mrs. Gaines cried a little into her pillow when her husband was alive. She stopped when he died because she couldn’t feel sorry for herself anymore. So she drooled a little instead now, somewhat happily, messily, never really sleeping too deeply, reaching it sometimes and snoring loudly. She imagined, snoring loud enough for her prayers to be answered.
Mrs. Gaines imagined she prayed when she slept, since she couldn’t allow herself the concentration to pray when she was awake. But it was definitely something she believed in, there was definitely some One or some group of Ones or some Body or Force who answered the sleeping prayers. After all, her husband was dead, wasn’t he?
Mrs. Gaines smiled in her sleep, she imagined. She thought she must be beautiful when she was asleep. Her mouth a little open, drooling, and snoring and praying. Perhaps Jazz would take himself sailing, if she slept long enough. If only she could consciously pray and have her prayers be answered. It wasn’t necessary that he die. Just that he go sailing or surfing or floating, somewhere else, away from her and Anna. And then Mrs. Gaines remembered that she herself would have to die eventually. She was wide awake now. The pillow dry, and the room quiet.
***
Anna came in with the beer. She had a shirt on now, open, hanging off like it shouldn’t be there, hanging off like she hated it but wore it simply to annoy herself. Jazz’s face was still buried in the pillow, Anna hoped he was crying. When she came closer to him, pulled his long dark hair so that his head rose with his hands still grabbing the pillow, she saw he wasn’t crying, and that angered her.
“I’ll leave today,” he said, as she let go of his hair.
“Are you taking the boat?” she asked.
“Yes. I have to get the hell out of here.”
“Yes, me too,” she said, looking out of the window, wanting the leaves to start pouring in again. I’m going with you, she said to herself.
Mrs. Gaines suddenly felt her prayers were being answered, that Jazz was leaving and Anna would be back home to learn how to grow up properly, to learn how to control the fire. As she thought about this the more she became convinced, and this relaxed her to the point of considering bringing the fish into her bedroom, so that she could watch it swim and make the best of its situation.
Perhaps fish aren’t so stupid, she thought, after all, they could just float in one place and then die, but they don’t; they swim around and around and around.
“I’ll move the fishbowl into the bedroom,” Mrs. Gaines said aloud, getting out of bed, and once she entered the hallway she found herself running to the kitchen, to the fishbowl.
Anna and Jazz were lying in bed now, their faces pressed close together, eyes staring deeply into one another’s, their arms clasped around one another’s waists, their legs entangled.
“I’m going to have the baby,” Anna said. “I wanna give birth at sea,” she whispered.
Jazz said nothing, blankly staring at her face, thinking about what he had ma
de.
“I think you’re selfish, Anna,” he said to her, as he turned from her embrace. “Much too selfish,” he whispered to himself, his back to her. Jazz suddenly got out of bed. Anna watched him go into the bathroom, and shut the door behind him.
Mrs. Gaines had the fishbowl in the bedroom now, and she didn’t know why but after staring at the fish swimming around there on her dresser with its flaming fins, she started thinking about things of the past, and something made her feel just a bit sensuous, and then remembering a certain scene titillated her, and she started touching herself, and just a bit embarrassed she turned to see if her husband’s picture was face down, and then feeling a bit daring she picked up the picture so that it faced her and then she lay back staring at the ceiling, then closing her eyes, she touched herself all over, abandoning more and more of her stipulations and confinements of the mind. This felt quite good as long as it lasted. But then it was over, and she got up and went into the bathroom to throw up.
Once Anna heard the water running in the bath, she felt calm. She opened the door, Jazz was sitting in the tub. She could see his body, the water running over it. She climbed in and he made room for her. She lay back, facing him, and she closed her eyes. Feeling him there with the water running over their bodies was soothing. She could sail away with Jazz; she would go anywhere with him.
*
Mrs. Gaines looked at the bathroom and felt satisfied with the job she’d done in cleaning the vomit, so she went into the bedroom feeling there was no need to be in the house. She decided that if the phone was disconnected at Anna’s, she would just have to drive herself over and see what the trouble was about. Maybe Anna would come home with her. She knew there was trouble because the fish was so paranoid right then, even though the room was quiet and clean, and there was no evil. She figured the fish could sense some danger within her, and all that was within her was fear for Anna. Her daughter Anna. I’m her mother, after all, Mrs. Gaines thought. It took a long time for her to realize this. She had created Anna. She had made her, she was hers.