The Bathtub � Vince
That night, I don�t recall Jesse leaving the house. Then again, I was lying on the floor, with blood gushing from a wound that Jesse�s father gave to my cheek. My mother stood over me for most of the night, crying and wringing her hands with the fear that I was badly injured or incapacitated. I did not sit up, since my efforts against them were futile. My use to the scenario would be as a backdrop, whether I stood or not.
The situation, nevertheless, puzzled me. About the time Jesse�s parents knocked, he confessed that he hadn�t run away from home, but that his parents had made him leave. Then why, I thought, are they coming back for him? Why did they tell him to leave in the first place? The slap to my cheek, and not to my mother�s, provided a sufficient, succinct answer. How did they find where Jesse was living?
However, none of this mattered. Jesse was gone from my life, and I didn�t even know his last name. But, at this point in my life, that didn�t seem to matter � in fact, nothing did, really.
This point in my life was no juncture; I missed the �bus� to a better future, years ago. But how could I watch my mother wither away, as I pursued my dreams? The dreams had to die, and I had to think rationally. Who would support my mother? How would I earn money? I didn�t want to resort to selling my body, like most others at Purple Fingernails did. Instead, I thought ironically, I almost became a prostitute from all those one-night stands from the past. My studies in school were mediocre, at best, and I had no money to go to an art college.
At twenty-six-years, I was nothing more than a useless outcast, caught between many worlds. I wasn�t masculine, but, then again, I wasn�t quite feminine, either. I was trapped between my desire to live and to move from the city, and my mother, who couldn�t leave. I was caught between being straight and gay, but, to cause more confusion, my gender had no definition. And, there was nowhere to hide and no one to turn to for help. In all essence, I was still a confused teenager in the body of an adult, although I managed to pull off the �adult maturity� trick very well.
Perhaps my confused teenager mentality caused me to empathize with Jesse. There was no one to help him through life, to show him how to properly function as himself, and if his parents are as furious and convoluted as they were tonight, I don�t blame Jesse for shying away from the world. At his age, I used to behave in the same manner, while my mother, ignorant and illiterate about the world, would comfort me and tell me to keep pursuing my �dreams.� But, reality killed my dreams, and I sat on my mother�s sofa, crying in the same manner as I did when I was sixteen years old, only now, my tormentors had grown up into successful adults.
The room felt dead, now that Jesse was gone. To stop the bleeding, I held a dishtowel to the wound, but the blood ran anyway. My mother was distraught, although she wasn�t yelling is hysterically crying. No one bothered to turn off the television, but neither of us noticed it.
Why had I become so attached to Jesse? Perhaps, in all superficial essence, this was my fault, but that night, as I trudged through the snow by the park, I couldn�t help but notice some purple-haired person attempting to climb the fence. I knew he would not be able to climb over the iron bars that stood at ten feet, and, from my experiences as a teenager, unless he was seen with glass bottled, a group of friends, and cigarettes, his only motivation for creeping into the park during the night would be to sleep away from home with the vagabonds. The drunkards and high teenagers that sulked behind the trees and laid on the sliding boards of the playground would have bothered him by asking Jesse for money. Then, from the light of the street lamp casting itself upon his profile, I noticed the broad shoulders and makeup � contrasting characteristics from my teenager years. If, by coincidence, he had been a female, which would have been the case, I still would have taken her home with me.
From the last three weeks, the only imprinted image in my mind of Jesse was his pale, frightened visage as I closed the closet door and left the room. How his parents ever found him was an enigma to me, I thought, as I picked up one of my mother�s cigarettes and lit it; she didn�t even look up at me from where she stood against a wall.
That image was the last I remembered of Jesse, since I never saw him again. In this city, he was a nameless pariah, and in order to find him, I would have to knock on every row house door and ask for him. Someone would probably shoot me before I found him, I assumed.
I didn�t even bother to go to the Rocky Horror Picture Show that night � there would be no purpose in my attempt. I decided not to eat, either, and my mother�s food that sat on the table probably spoiled or became infested with roaches. There was no reason to care, I felt; there wasn�t even a reason to get up and go to bed. Tomorrow, I wasn�t planning on venturing over to work, only to talk with Vlad and do a design occasionally. I had no motivation to put the trash in the alley for the garbage men in the morning.
As I observed my lethargic, depressed state, the notion that I was transforming into my mother occurred to me. Although she was capable of doing several simple, mundane tasks, she seldom left the house. During the day, she became sedentary on the sofa like an immoveable rock, except for when she walked across the room to open the refrigerator and oven to cook. Some nights, she wouldn�t even walk to her small room to sleep, since she had no motivation to stand up from the sofa. The television blared constantly, and, aside from the commercials depicting ecstatic, flawless models attempting to sell a superfluous product, melodramatic, melancholy programs were on.
On a daily basis, my mother forgot to change her clothes, and I was surprised she didn�t have any infections, although she never went to the doctor�s, as far as I could remember. From the start of my adolescent years, she was always clad in that red flannel bathrobe whenever I arrived home. Holes had formed in the sleeves and the back was threadbare, but I seldom saw her wear anything else during the past eleven years.
Once I could walk and speak properly, I helped her at home, until I began to do most of the work, unwittingly perhaps, while she lay on the sofa in her maudlin, decrepit state. Yet, I did not resent her, for she was my mother, and I had no one else to turn to for my own help, despite her advise was trite. She was illiterate, having never entered a school before, and, thus, she could not empathize with me about the issues I had with my peers. �They don�t matter,� she always told me, but as soon as I was verbally harassed in school the next day, she advice became saccharine words to appease my troubles.
Although my mother could not comprehend why I chose to emulate typical female mannerisms and attire, she never objected to it, and perhaps, that aspect of her was why I chose to stay with her into my adult years. Despite it limited where I worked, I was able to find a job, and she did not attempt to change me. As long as I brought money in, she had no reason to complain. Yet, I did not have the stamina to thank her for her tolerance.
Why wasn�t I able to thank her or, at least, appreciate her, I wondered. Had I transformed into a selfish ingrate? I hadn�t, I knew, since, for the past three weeks, I did not begrudgingly take care of Jesse. In fact, I appreciated his company, and although he brought in no income, I still felt distraught and maudlin over his sudden departure. However, I couldn�t exactly point to the source of my sadness.
Staring at my mother, who blended in with the walls, I noticed that she had become moribund � a corpse standing erect in a tattered red robe. She had no effervescence or ebullience about anything, since a dark cloud of depression always hung over this room � this whole apartment, practically. The flickering from the television only enhanced her pallor and wrinkles, although her skin was pulled taut about her bones. No cheeks, only s hollow skull with no muscle. The butter and potatoes and sour cream meals puzzled me, as I quizzically stared at the plate of food. And she still looks like a skeleton, I thought. Staring at her again, I scrutinized her even closer and observed that her teeth were rotting, reminding me of chunks of coal in her mouth. Why isn�t she dead?
�Vince,� she said sternly but shocked me since she never called me anything but �Vinny.� �I need some time alone.�
�I�m sorry I brought the kid home,� I blurted out suddenly. �I didn�t want to see him sleeping in the park in the snow.�
�It-� she hesitated. �It really isn�t even that. I can�t really explain it to you.�
�But what is it?� I asked curiously
�I think you know why.� I didn�t. �I just need some time to myself, honey.�
�That�s fine,� I replied in a monotonic voice. �I feel like taking a bath. I�ll go heat up dinner afterwards.�
�Thank you,� she murmured, heading toward the sofa to become sedentary again.
Inside of the bathroom, I closed the door behind me quietly and turned on the light, but I didn�t turn on the faucet handles yet. Leaning my head against the door, I listened to my mother mumbling a rant to herself; she hated her existence as much as I hated mine.
�Goddamn useless whore,� she asserted louder than any other phrase, and I knew she spoke about herself in that negative light. She spoke of my birth, her depression, and her dependency on me in that single phrase. No, my mother was no prostitute, but someone raped her when she was seventeen years old after a party. The man is still unknown to her, but she became pregnant anyway, giving birth to me, despite she had no knowledge of this man. I didn�t know half of my chromosome as a result; I didn�t even know if I was fully Russian, like my mother or Vlad. Since that incident, she�s been depressed, and once I could speak, she became dependent on me. I could read, write, and navigate the streets of the city; she only knew where to buy potatoes and chicken stock in bulk quantities for a small amount of money.
However, after those three words, her mumbled rant became incoherent, and I could not decipher her convoluted speech. I decided to take my bath and removed my shoes, before sliding into the tub like a serpent. What was the point of this whole experience, I asked myself, but had no answer. Each day, I live, but I move in the same pattern. My actions are like those of a machine, and my words are fabricated, with the only purpose of saying something when I open my mouth. Then, the jaw closes mechanically � sleep, eat, work, sleep, eat, dream, sleep, eat, dress, sleep, eat, scream.
At the confusing period in my life entitled puberty, I decided I did not want to continue living as a man. I wanted to cry, walk with a bounce in my step, wear lipstick, and grow my hair longer � but not live life as a stereotype. But who, aside from my pernicious peers, was there to tell me, �Get yourself in line�? If a dragon does not want to spit fire, is he branded a coward? In my eyes, I had debased myself into a position of cowardice. The expressing of my feminine side did not push me into this hole, but, rather, my own factory � like a mundane existence did. When Lawrence threw the radio at Vlad, I recalled each of the metal parts � tubes, transistors, and dials � breaking apart once they hit the floor. Vlad didn�t flinch and came to work the following day. �What do you expect me to do?� I asked myself, in the bathtub. �What can you do?�
Then, another realization dawned on me that filled my organs with lead, until they collapsed on top of each other. Vince, I told myself, you�re trapped in the same cell like a prisoner. This space does not ensconce you; you�re screaming to get out of this block, but you�re chained to the floor � pure debasement. Every one-night stand, taking Jesse in � all efforts to break the mechanical pattern. And now, you�ll never see any of them again, I reprimanded myself. Every man kissed your lips and caressed your thighs, but, after those few hours, the rapturous bliss had disintegrated and the man was gone. Jesse provided a diversion and served as a prot�g� � into the world of androgyny � but he vanished as well. And you, Vince, you remain in the clouds of dust created by the invisible.
In all sincerity, I was moribund like my mother. My life was measured out in piles, and, now, each pile contained a paltry amount. I never cared much for numbers, but each day, the varmints of the world stole parts of my piles to keep for themselves. �Faggot,� they�d say, and my head would lower. �Goddamn queen,� and my face was in my hands. �Cock sucker,� and I was doubled over in pain. �Worthless freak,� and on the floor I lay in fetal position. The blood would slow its pattern of flowing through the vessels and the cells would die, until my skin became gray and tough but pliable. And, they could peel my skin off and watch me scream when they encountered a patch of living cells.
In a process like osmosis, I was either outside or in the �cell�s� wall, taken in. Vlad and Lawrence allowed me to work and I became accepted at Purple Fingernails. However, once I returned home, I was a regurgitation again that society spit into its wastebasket. No one wanted a shy, cross-dressing man who took care of his depressed, illiterate mother. Outside the streets of the neighborhood, children snickered, adults gasped, and teenagers had the audacity to utter lewd remarks in my direction. Yet, where was a familiar corner in sight to crawl into and cry? I declared that I would not be a coward, but I was chained to the floor in my vault of shame � fatherless and tied to a decrepit mother, confuse about gender, and ashamed of the sores I bore on my legs from the many men that touched me. Perhaps my mother and I were both whores, but my case seemed to be more plausible than hers. Use the sex to escape. Take in innocent teenagers that you feel sorry for. Suck from the breast of society in secret.
Their milk was my poison, but I never became inebriated, as it captured my spirit. They stuck me in a cage and only took me out for the show � only I was the attraction.
All of the confusion condenses at the point in which I lost my virginity at nineteen years. I was unlike Jesse; the innocence escaped once I put on a face to apply for work. But, I knew a man who was two years older than I that still lived with his parents a few stories above our apartment. His placid manner always impressed upon me that he was heterosexual but reclusive, until he began to follow me to and from work at a flower shop. He didn�t work there, obviously, but he knew I did. Never spoke a word to me, I recalled, nor did I know his name, but, for one afternoon, he conversed in the alley near my apartment. And, for those hours, I felt human. Before and after that point, I had no friends, but the few words he spoke removed part of society�s stigma on me. We drank coffee in his apartment, since his parents weren�t home, but the coffee tasted weak, I recall. His face, like the memory I now held of that day, blurred, with each feature melting into another, but I remembered his lips were a pale pinkish color. In his eyes, I was neither freak nor child, although he ran his fingers through my black hair, as if I were a doll, and tied it back with a ribbon from his sister. My clothes were faded and out of style, but he kissed me, anyway, in his room, which had color in it, unlike my drab beige room. And, no one cared, as long as we stayed in the closet and appeared as heterosexual men to the world. But, my face fell off, and I realized I was Vince again, as soon as I had lain with him on his bed, in his arms.
The next day, his parents told him to leave, and he spoke to no one. Was I his transient whore or a fleeting object of lust? Perhaps I was merely his doll, gathering dust upon a shelf. I don�t even have the ribbon, but the day he left, I washed myself of him in the bathtub, sitting in the large basin of water, as I did now, with my soaked clothes clinging to my pale flesh. As a novice to society and its ethics, I desired to die � every drop of blood desired to escape from my body.
However, I continued to live, since I did not wish to abandon my mother. But, what have I become, I asked myself. When I no longer dream at night, I might as well cease to exist, if I have become a machine. Tomorrow, I�ll rise from my apathetic, tortured slumber and head to work � or maybe I won�t. Maybe I�ll take a day off, smoke cigarettes in my room, and read from the poetry books in my closet that have gathered dust. �Its snaky acid kiss that petrifies the will/ It�s these isolated slow faults/ That kill, that kill, that kill,� I recollected from a Sylvia Plath poem I read long ago and felt the words ringing like chimes of truth in my ears.
But, the aura of serenity was transitory, for I reached for a cigarette by the sink and lit it with the lighter beside the pack. No money to buy decent food, I thought, but enough to buy cigarettes and scatter them about the apartment. As I leaned back into the tub, the water rose to my neck and the cold porcelain kissed my nape. My long black hair looked like seaweed beneath the surface of the water, and the flowers on my blouse were like a garden of coral. Was I the mermaid in this mirage? Perhaps, no, I was a mere bystander; mermaids were fictitious, anyway � no creature that resembled a human could live under water.
The smoke from my cigarette clouded the room, and I gazed upward at the ceiling to see the haze disguise the peeling wallpaper and the fluorescent light. Drawing upon my cigarette, I felt complacent � this is where I wanted to be for the rest of my life. The bathtub was my earth, the water was soil, and the smoke, my sky. If only I could bring Jesse and Vlad to my paradise. Eventually, we would die, with our bones decaying beneath the surface of the water; perhaps that fate would be worth the bliss.
What bliss, I asked myself. Stand up from the water and look at yourself in the mirror, I commanded. With water dripping from my skin and clothes, I laggardly stood up from the tub and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Lipstick, rouge, and mascara were smeared, and my pallor had never been this white. No hairs appeared on my cheeks or chin, but I still would shave in the morning. Perhaps I wouldn�t be awake then or ever, and this was to be the last day of my life. From all the sweat shed after welding iron for years, this was going to be my anticlimactic end. What a coward, I thought of myself. First, you tell Jesse to live his life after he�s feeling miserable, but then, you decide it�s time to take your own.
However, when I gazed into Jesse�s melancholy, deep-set eyes, I wanted him to live and tear his heart away from his sleeve to shove back into his own chest. In my eyes, he was still a child, while I had developed into a machine. Where was the pleasure in repeating each day, uncertain of the time when someone is going to remove your bolts and take you apart? Jesse had not lived in my silhouette, but his doleful expression reflected his precocious and innocuous state. His spirit was capable of leaping from his fingers, while mine was debased and chained to a stone floor. The mascara could stream down his face, but I wished for him to live beyond walking and opening his mouth; he had to stumble before finding his pattern and stutter before finding the best words. Wherever he is, I wanted him to put on his dress and makeup and strut about he streets without getting shot down like a duck by a merciless hunter.
Yet, I knew life � more precisely, mine � had become a battle. I could be the artillery and the dying soldiers simultaneously � I had to survive, but I was unwittingly killing myself in the process. My destiny was in my own hands as I put the bullet through my chest. Who are you, Vince, I asked myself, but the question was never answered.
Sliding back into the tub, I felt my own weight pull me into the bottom � the bolts were starting to be removed. Faintly, I heard my mother�s voice, �Vinny?� she asked, �Are you done with your bath?�
My mother never received an answer, for the weight I carried pulled me into an abyss. The water passed over my head, and my black hair covered my eyes. Holding my breath, I closed my eyes, and never released either, as my skin grew cold and my hands slipped from the rim of the bathtub into the water.