A Feigned Existence � Glynis
Nothing was all I had to my name � to sound clich�. Nothing lay in my failures in life; nothing became prominent in my personal relationships. Nothing was the name of the Girl I ould never be. Nothing became the emotion the Girl felt for the Drifter. Nothing sat in place of the Androgyne back inside the cafeteria.
Nothing described the streets of this city of nothing � desolation, loneliness, decay, and lassitude. Nothing was the amount of people on the streets as I searched for Jesse. Nothing was Jesse�s and my life, as we searched for a meaning to this redundant routine. Nothing was apathy; nothing was empathy; nothing was antipathy. Nothing was synonymous with existence.
As any person, male or female, I was replete with lies. Family, school, friends, and desires were all lies. What did I desire out of sixteen years as an androgynous person living in a city prone into oblivion? Incontrovertibly, the flannel, jeans, and dyed-blue hair framed my existence � my past, present, and future. Like this city, I remained stolid in one place, although I felt as if I were going to fracture into particles of brick and glass at any moment. As Glynis, falling into the Pit of Hopelessness and Failure, the jeans and shirt remained on my angular frame. Always, they did. For the rest of my interminable adolescence, they would.
Leaving Lena alone at the cafeteria was merely another flaw of mine. But, the sight of two empty white cups on the table set me in a mode of self-isolation, as if I were instead Jesse and I left myself alone inside the cafeteria to drink coffee. Again, I failed him by leaving � for a biological girl, ironically. What kind of girl, really? A girl who valued a machine more than other people and viewed the world in archetypical terms. In my skin, I squirmed uncomfortably after becoming her Girl. She became the Drifter, and Jesse, although originally was the Boy, became the Androgyne. None of us, however, fit comfortably within the archetypes.
If the names were switched, we would have aptly fit into the archetypes. If I became the Drifter, Lena, the Androgyne, and Jesse, the Girl, the current exceptions would be nonexistent. To be the Girl, I had neither the motivation nor the pulchritude; skirts and makeup irked me; my voice had no high-pitched, sexual characteristic to it; I was not attracted, although I was attached, to the former Boy. Instead, as the Drifter, I had no motivation to do anything with my life. Like a dead, dried leaf in a gust of autumn wind, I moved from place to place, apathetically, in life. As a chronic truant, I explored the world before two-thirty in the afternoon, but returned to the same place after. The subways proved to be my streets, since I was merely an urban drifter. As the world changed, it remained mundane, in my eyes, as a realm of lassitude and complacency shrouded by greed and disdain. The Drifter I indeed was; the Girl, I was not.
Jesse, too, did not aptly fit his assigned description. Although at one time he appeared androgynous, even at the start of the winter, he was not anymore. To be androgynous, in my useless opinion, you had to appear ambiguous in terms of archetypical gender characteristics. Jesse, however, no longer appeared ambiguous or even slightly masculine. In the cafeteria this afternoon, the Girl in him fully emerged for the first time. The trench coat no longer shrouded him, and his physical features, which seemed to epitomize any girl�s desire, overshadowed his height. The Androgyne, originally the Boy, transformed into the Girl. Lena, who fancied herself as the Drifter, landed the role of the Androgyne. Unlike Jesse, she was the penultimate of gender ambiguity, especially when she first sat in my seat at the cafeteria almost a month ago. She had her masculine swagger, slicked back hair like a greaser from the Fifties, and pale features that were flawlessly feminine, no matter the amount of dirt, grease, sweat, and scars on her visage.
The soap opera of the Drifter, the Girl, and the Androgyne ended and the protagonists rotated their roles. With the streets and frigid air about me, I searched hectically for Jesse, blazing down the sidewalk now and pushing past people who thought I was too much of a failure. But the weather was tepid � too cold for spring, but too warm for winter � and people and cars meandered through the city at a laggardly pace � they indeed had a destination, but time played no factor until the snow completely cleared from the streets. Surrounded by life, I became lost, for I was a moribund being in a sea of vivified organisms, although this realm was the only one I have ever been acquainted with. Beauty and ugliness swarmed about me, and I stood between the two antithetical ideals. Placing a cigarette to my lips, I ventured toward the library, the only place other than the cafeteria that Jesse enjoyed without my presence.
In the air, the smoke became pervasive as I blew rings into the sky � from my perspective � that looked as if someone spilled gray dishwater over it. Never was the sky blue, I could recall, even in the summer. Staring morosely into the distance, I eyed the factories, as they emitted their own smoke, on my horizon � black blocks releasing black steam into the stratosphere to mingle with the gray clouds. My cigarette smoke migrated to the same destination, and I really could have cared less.
The library was a white-bricked building across the street from the junior high. To its left, the crumbling subway station stood. Behind, the vacant lot swarmed with drunken teenage truants and dropouts. Casting my burning stick of toxins in their direction, I moved through the tinted doors of the library. Although this building rested opposite Emerson Junior Hugh, I seldom walked through these doors to gaze upon and peruse through the myriad of divergent books it possessed. Despite I had no books to return, I passed through the turnstile at the front, like all of the other patrons, and stalked to the main reading room to voraciously search for Jesse.
However, the main room was flanked by several shelves of books on all of its walls. In the center, rectangular wood tables, surrounded each by four chairs, stood, but Jesse sat at no table. On the shelves, several volumes of encyclopedias gathered dust, since no one ever checked them out of the library. Behind the rows of massive, intimidating volumes of encyclopedias were other research books on a myriad of topics that I had never cared to learn about. I remembered coming to this room in sixth grade to find a source on Greek civilization, but, at twelve, I always completed my assignments. At thirteen, I became cynical and disenchanted with the entire public education system, for, even though I still did my work, it seemed monotonous and uninspiring. Despite, I managed to barely pass that year. By eighth grade, I lost the stamina to do any work. Instead, I seldom spent the whole day at school, and even when I sat in class, no never wrote any notes to remember any important information. I could recall sitting next to Jesse in a facile class called wood shop, which everyone had to take, along with a useless class entitled �home economics,� but I never made anything. I drilled my name into my desk, while he completed the required tasks, and talked to him about our plans after school. But that was it. That was all I did, really, for I saw no reason to make wooden shelves, bowls, or doorstops, for my house had better-functioning ones. Into nothingness, I fell as a disconsolate, discouraged youth doomed to fail. As I stared at the volumes of encyclopedias, I recalled the past but felt ambivalence toward it. The past was talked with Jesse at lunch but never eating since we saved our money for cigarettes and food at the cafeteria. The past was also my indolence to progress, and, thus, at sixteen, I wore the same flannel shirt and blue jeans that I did when I was fourteen.
A librarian, pushing a cart of returned books, came from behind me. �Excuse me,� she said in a reserved tone. I let her pass, but, seconds later, I looked for her among the shelves of books.
�Excuse me, ma�am,� I asked when I found her taking books from the cart to place on the shelves. �I�m looking for someone who came into the library recently. Could you have seen him?�
She seemed irked. �There are several people here, and three floors, so I -�
I interrupted her. �He�s real tall, over six feet. He has this long, purple, wavy hair that�s parted to one side. And, I think, he was wearing a trench coat. He used to come here a lot, but I don�t know if he does anymore. His name�s Jesse.�
She seemed to think for a moment, pausing with her arm extended onto a shelf at eye-level, as if she were placing another book back. �I think I know whom you�re talking about,� she said. �Usually, I�ve seen him upstairs where the novels are. You might check there.�
Without thanking her, I ran, replete with excitement and anticipation, to the staircase near the front of the main floor. Disappearing from the realm of encyclopedias and reference books, I clamorously climbed the steps, which were recently waxed. Upstairs, the atmosphere was identical to that of the main floor. However, the tables were fewer and had circular tops; no one bothered to sit down at any of them. Unlike the main floor, the shelves did not encircle the area designated for the tables. Instead, the rows of books perpendicularly met the walls and the shelves were shorter and clearly labeled �fiction,� �mystery, �drama,� and other genres. Since I seldom accompanied Jesse to the library, I did not know the genre that he preferred to read. But, to me, that was a minor inconvenience, for, after standing near the doorway to the steps, I stalked across the floor and moved along the perimeter of the shelves to search for Jesse. Few patrons populated this floor, and no librarian pushed a cart through the rows of books.
�Jesse?� I called in a low, hushed voice. �Jesse, are you here?�
Along the wall for the books pertaining to the nonfiction genre, I moved, but then a thought � probably not too wise or profound � occurred to me. The shelves only stood seven feet high, and their tops were at least two feet away from the ceiling. Thus, acting impulsively and embracing the lack of adult supervision that pervaded my existence, I climbed one of the shelves, as if it were any ladder, until I reached the top. There, I crouched, attempting to appear like a poised statue.
With my palms flat but sweating against the top of the wooden shelf and my shoes inches behind my wrists, I called for Jesse once again. �Jesse? Jesse, it�s Glynis.�
From the far side of the room, in the section labeled �drama,� a hint of movement cut through the motionless silence of the room. Indeed, I caught a glimpse of the purple hair, inches away from the tops of the shelves, and mundane black trench coat.
�Hey, Jesse, what books you looking for? I might be able to find a few of them.�
Confused, frightened, and flustered, Jesse stepped cautiously into the center of the room, placing a stack of paperback books onto the surface of a table. On top of his column of five books, Catcher in the Rye stood. Initially, Jesse didn�t bother looking up or glancing about the room. Every other person before us had left and no one sat at the front desk. Demurely sitting down at the table, he unbuttoned his black, weathered trench coat and took a random book from the stack to read: Orlando. Indeed, he became focused, perhaps too focused, on the text. But, to continue my ruse, I grabbed a random book from the top section of the bookshelf, and once I held it � a biography of some famous athlete � loosely in my palms, I aimed it toward Jesse�s table. Casting the book toward him, I watched Jesse instantly jump from his seat, casting his book onto the floor. A skeptical but terrified expression possessed his face, and he crossed his arms across his chest, as if he was trying to protect himself from more tormentors. I, now ignoring the trite rules of the library, yelled, �Jesse, I�m up here!� His visage went through a metamorphosis of emotional expression. Previously displaying fear, it now indicated a placid, serene emotion, as if my presence was the mere cure to pacifying his anxiety. Noting my stance, he wandered over to the shelf. As he approached, the scent of old cigarettes and cheap makeup filled my nostrils. His eyes, unlike his face, still appeared to be filled with uncertainty, as if they indicated and dictated his emotions. The greenish-brown globes reflected the bright light of the room but still managed to stay in the dark, from the deep indents in his skull for his eyes. They indicated confusion and betrayal. They spoke his fears, as the corners of his lips turned upward to form a tremulous, tepid smile.
�I thought you went off with that girl, Lena,� he said plaintively, once he reached the shelf on which I crouched. �You weren�t outside when I gathered my things to leave.�
Was I gone that long, I wondered. �We were smoking in that alley on the side. I got worried once I saw you were gone.�
His countenance now expressed apathy, more than ebullience or melancholy. �How did you figure I was here?�
�I assumed. It�s too early for us to be home, anyway,� I stated out of assumption from our usual weekly habits, which now seemed to be rapidly disintegrating.
By my mere mentioning of the word �home,� Jesse retreated from the bookshelf, sat down upon a random chair, and began to cry. For a moment, he said nothing, but, then, after removing his face � with the mascara already running down his cheeks � from his hands, he began his melancholy monologue. �Glynis, I�m not, never, ever going home.� He paused after his initial assertion. �Last night, my sister came back home, almost right after you left. I thought everything was fine, as fine as �fine� can be in that house, but after looking at it, the rejected never returns to those who rejected her. Or the runaway never returns to those she ran away from. Whatever. Heather only sees me once every two years, if I�m lucky, and last night, up in my room, she told me to come to her apartment today. She said it�s not permanent, but I don�t really know what to make of that.� Stopping, he allowed his tears to stream down his curved cheeks to his chin, but only spoke again once he suppressed his tears. �Glynis, I don�t know what to make of my life, anymore. I was forced back home two days ago, but now I�m leaving again. So, why? Why couldn�t I have stayed with Vince? I didn�t need to see my family again, and I�m sure they would�ve been happy to never have to see me again. This morning, downstairs, there was stuff in boxes � stuff that belonged to my parents and brothers, but not to me. I guess it made sense when the night I came back, most of my stuff was in the closet in my room I shared with my brothers. There stuff � I didn�t really care where it was. Perhaps as I sat in my room, Heather helped them move the boxes downstairs. My stuff, in the morning, was still in the same place � no change. They don�t want me there, Glynis - it�s pretty obvious. That�s why Heather�s saying that I can come live with her. They�re all moving away somewhere and leaving me here to rot as my damn effeminate self, with no one but Vince and you, my only friend who�s now favoring a real girl over me.� Then, he ended his lament, collapsing on the table in front. �The books are what I�ll be empathizing with for the rest of my existence.�
Without analyzing my words, I stated, �I left Lena. I told her today that I was a sixteen-year-old who�s still in eighth grade and then left to look for you. I really doubt that I�ll be wanting to see her again, especially after that and the incident in which she and I got drunk in my bathtub.�
My words proved not to be an emollient for his anxieties and uncertainties. Climbing carefully down � which was not as simple as climbing up � the bookcase, I stood behind Jesse, before placing my arms about his broad shoulders. Stooped over in the chair, he appeared like a fallen giant or an oafish coward. At this point in our connection, appearances could be cast aside like useless pennies into a fountain for a transitory, forgettable wish. The penny would be one of thousands and soon would erode, turning a pale green and becoming indistinguishable. However, I know that living with his sister would prove to be an asset for him. Unless she remained here � which I doubt she would do � Jesse would leave North High and encounter a new group of peers to begin his existence with.
�Where do you wish to go?� I whispered into his ear.
�I-I�ve got to find Heather�s apartment,� he murmured.
Perhaps that was the best option. With his sister, he could discuss this situation and his vague future � both of which seemed to elude my grasp now. �Where does she live?� I asked him, merely to keep him talking and to deter him away from the vast plane of suicidal thoughts he frequently became prone into.
�She lives in Detroit, with a boyfriend in a row house in an average neighborhood. I don�t know where she is now, but I think the address of the apartment building she gave me is one of a building across the street from South High.�
The mentioning of South High caused me to shudder beneath my shirt. Lena attended South High, and I became infatuated with her for a brief period in my existence. Standing on the floor and behind Jesse, I realized now that she could be considered part of my past � the ideal I aimed to please but could not achieve myself. For her, and then later for Jesse as well, I vowed to start studying to redeem myself above a failure. But, with a mediocre average, I lost my sense of motivation. In the middle, between fourteen-year-old degenerates, I stood, and, with Jesse leaving, possibly for Detroit, the drive I once possessed for a fleeting period to elevate myself to a high school freshman dissipated like my cigarette smoke.
�I really think you need to talk to your sister about this,� I told him, as I noticed that a few people were coming into the room. Removing my arms from his hulking shoulders, I gathered Jesse�s books: Orlando, Catcher in the Rye, TheOutsiders, and some collection of contemporary one-act plays by writers I had never encountered during my mediocre education.
�Jesse, we�re going,� I asserted, grabbing his bag from the floor. It seemed unusually heavy, feeling as if it contained more than just textbooks and notebooks. �What�s in here, aside from your school stuff?� I asked as we left the room to check out his books.
�Some clothes � a dress, some pants and shirts, and socks � and a couple of tapes. I grabbed what I could this morning and shoved it into my bag.� His crying halted as soon as we left the library and stood on the street again. For the time of year � not quite winter, not yet spring � the snow merely remained in gray-colored piles from previous falls but never fully melted yet, as if it were a reminder of the previous dominance it exerted on the city for four months. The grass, however, was brown � wherever there was grass � and appeared like the matted, uncombed hair of a boy who awakened in his sleep after a nightmare.
To maintain some kind of loose conversation and to continue to veer him away from suicidal thoughts, I asked, �What kind of tapes did you bring?�
Thinking for a second, he said, �Just a few � New Order, old Pet Shop Boys, and this depressing Cure album you got me a while ago. I really didn�t have much time.�
�It doesn�t matter.� I surveyed the surroundings after walking down nearly endless streets covered lined with row homes. Together, we faced the park, adjacent to that Cupid statue that Jesse detested. The gates were open, but inside, no children played. The grass still appeared brown and tangled and only a few disheveled adults passed through, presumably walking from the entrance to the exit as a short cut. A fountain, stained black and green and marred by unintelligible blue and red graffiti, stoically stood at the center like a proud soldier, but no water flowed from it and long glass bottles and trash rested at its feet. On the benches surrounding the fountain, vagabonds vegetated, covering their ragged, threadbare clothing with old newspapers and paper bags, which, I assumed, were used for warmth. In front, Cupid still stood, bow and arrow in hand, and smiled, but not out of innocence. The park was a microcosm of this city and decreed the fact that innocence no longer existed.
Jesse glared up at the statue, squinting his eyes until his long mascara-covered lashes met. �I�ve always hated him,� he mumbled. �He appears so innocuous, but then contemptuously smirks down at you. I�ve never understood its purpose. I think he might have been the son of Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, but his presence speaks hate and destruction � of youth, innocence, and truth.�
Reversing our usual roles in conversation, I nodded and responded with, �Yeah,� to Jesse�s words.
However, we didn�t stand for much longer, for Jesse�s face, as he turned away from the statue, brightened and he soon began to run across the street from the park, in which several large, white-bricked apartment buildings towered above, keeping anachronistic Cupid in his menial place � the love slave to the vagabonds. One building in particular caught his attention, and he clamorously ran down into an alley lined with doors to lower-level apartments. Carrying the library books and address to his sister�s, I laggardly followed.
On the bottom floor of this building, apartments, some vacant and others with the shades drawn lined the outside. Above, the floors all contained balconies make of concrete. Stopping in front of one door, Jesse placed his bag on the ground, standing in silence, with his head bent downward, for a minute. From a distance, standing by the street, I watched him timidly knock on the door. Who could he possibly know around here, I wondered, thinking about the area, which was a mottled stretch of strip clubs juxtaposed with gay bars. After Jesse knocked three times, a man, balding but burly in stature and wearing pants stained with white paint, opened the door, and Jesse, aghast, stepped back in shock. I stepped into the alley to hear their discourse, which Jesse, confused and timorous, began.
�Sir, wuh-where�s Vince or his mother?�
The man crossed his muscular arms over his chest and appeared irked by Jesse�s inquiry. �You mean mister or miss Vladislavsky?�
Jesse became stymied � his visage vividly displaying his uncertainty about the situation � and frustrated. �I, um, assume s-so.� He paused, looking away from the man, whose stare indicated that he wanted to pummel Jesse into the asphalt outside. �Vince was tuh-tall and had this l-long black h-h-hair. He, uh, lived he-he-here for twenty-suh-six years with his muh-mother, I, um, th-think. He yu-yu-usually wore makeup.�
The man�s cross expression lessened its severity. �I know who you�re talking about, kid. Everyone here does. Don�t you read the obits in the morning?� Jesse, with tears already streaming from his eyes, shook his head. �He was found dead here � drowned himself in that there bathtub.� The man pointed inside the apartment, but Jesse looked away and covered his eyes with his hands. �The mother? I don�t know where she went to, but all her old shitty-lookin� stuff�s here for sure. The complex asked me to clean out their stuff so someone else can move in.�
�Muh-move in?� Jesse stammered, taking his hands away from his face. �B-but Vince luh-lived here!�
�The fuckin� cockersucker�s dead,� retorted the man. �No one here liked him. No one cares he�s gone.�
�Yeh-yeh, uh, y-yeh,� Jesse stuttered, trying to muster his courage, I assumed, into saying �Yeah, they do.� But the man, placing his calloused, scabbed hands on Jesse�s shoulders, shoved Jesse into the opposing wall, before closing the door to resume his duties.
Jesse covered his face with his arms and sat against the wall. Continuing to take the books with me, I sat next to him on the cold, sordid pavement. �Why did you come here?� I asked Jesse but tried not to sound cold or hostile, as if I were blaming him for our minor detour or for Vince�s death.
�I told you,� he mumbled into his sleeve, �weeks ago. I called you up from a payphone about it. This is where I lived when my parents kicked me out.� He paused. �Vince was one of the few adults that was actually concerned about me. He � he was this man who accepted his fate as an androgyne with open arms. And he helped me get out of this hole I�ve dug � and the world has dug � for myself. Now he�s dead � drowned himself in his own bathtub.� He stopped, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his coat before speaking again. �I wanted to see him again, to see if he would let me live with him again, or even to just say goodbye or something like that, before Heather leaves for Detroit. It�s not that I like it here � in fact, I hate it, - but I don�t want to leave you here and didn�t want to leave him here, wondering what happened to me. It�ll be no different in Detroit, except that Heather won�t be calling me a fag or complaining about my attire.�
�Jesse,� I sighed as I held out my hand for him to seize and stand. �You can grieve � it�s understandable. But don�t you think we ought to go to your sister�s? She could explain all this better.� I realized that my words were as cold and lifeless as metal, but I myself felt apathetic. He ought to be ecstatic that he�s leaving, I thought, away from this travesty called a city, in which everyone, once he or she is eighteen, leaves or becomes another decrepit denizen in this Pit of Failure. His grievances did capture my empathy, for I longed to leave the confinements of the city and do something � anything.
Jesse stood, dusting the dirt off him, and solemnly walked out of the alley, as I followed behind. Away from the park and toward South High, he walked morosely. South, unlike North, was constructed with white bricks and had large, gleaming windows in front. North, on the contrary, had reddish-brown bricks and no windows in front, aside from those in the classrooms; the building, barely standing, crumbled into the decaying filth � trash, snow, and abandoned cars � that surrounded it. But, even when we passed by the front, eyeing our disheveled reflection traverse the dark glass, I felt nothing � no longing or callowness because I was too immature to handle a relationship with a girl � or anyone � aside from Jesse, my companion for the past five years. However, I did not loathe Lena either. Apathy usurped my soul, but, as we entered the apartment complex in which Heather temporarily lived, it dissipated once I realized that our days of roaming the streets together and eating at the cafeteria as Glynis and Jesse had terminated.
�Do you have her address?� Jesse asked wearily. In walking, he stopped crying, and I think he began to realize that the result of the situation would be salutary on his behalf.
Handing the paper with her address written on it, I said, �Yeah, here it is. I think she lives on the fifth floor, so we should take the elevator.� Jesse, saying nothing, nodded in response.
Finding an empty elevator, we laggardly stepped inside. Jesse leaned against one of the wood-paneled walls and closed his eyes as the elevator ascended. In less than a minute, the doors opened again, and we stepped off onto the fifth floor to look for Heather�s apartment. The floor itself depicted neither decadence nor dearth with its forest green carpet and clean but plain white walls. No one else walked through the halls, but her apartment stood adjacent to the elevator. As Jesse and I stood in front of the door in silence, Jesse lowered his head solemnly, staring at the floor below, before knocking lightly on the door. Behind him, I stood, holding his books from the library. Glancing down at them, each with a mark on their sides to indicate that they were from the public library, I wondered why he needed these � especially four � for he would be leaving in a few days.
A woman, who stood at my height, answered the door. Assuming she was Heather, she had similar features to those of Jesse but was shorter and had her straight light-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. �Jesse?� she asked, concerned and surprised, appearing agape with shock by Jesse�s melancholy countenance and ghostly pallor. She then noticed I stood behind him.
�Come� Come inside,� she said, beckoning me in as Jesse nearly collapsed into her arms. Taking his things, she motioned for him to sit on the sofa in the front room. I set the books down on an adjacent chair and waited by the door to leave. However, Heather soon approached me.
�What happened to him?� she asked in a hushed, whispered voice of concern. �I saw him yesterday, and he wasn�t acting as depressed as this. I�m really quite worried.�
I breathed in deep and looked at her directly into her eyes. �He�s scared, frightened, something like that. He doesn�t know where to go, since he was kicked out from home a month ago, and now he�s being asked to leave again, but permanently this time.� Heather became stern, as if she were contemplating the full meaning of my paltry choice of words. After pausing, I stated in a lower tone, �And he found out, as we were walking here, that another friend of his died recently.�
At first, she said nothing, but, like Jesse, put her hands over her face as if she were about to cry. Her hands, however, appeared different from Jesse�s. While his were fleshy but angular at the joints, hers were long and curved, as if someone carved them from soap. Both had pale skin with square nails at the tips. Jesse seldom painted his nails, but when he did, they were often dark purple to match his hair. Heather�s, on the contrary, were coated with a glittery shade of pink.
�Who died?� she then asked, once she removed her hands from her face.
�This man named Vince,� I stated. �Jesse lived with him for a few weeks when he wasn�t living back at home.�
Turning, she glanced at Jesse, who lay in a supine position on the sofa, an overstuffed, pastel-flower patterned piece of furniture that seemed appropriate in the white-walled and carpeted room. �I should let him rest,� she said, after turning back toward me. �I�ll need to fully explain what�ll happen over the next few days to him once he can focus properly.�
�Yeah,� I replied, looking away from her glowing chestnut-colored eyes that were as sunken and sullen as Jesse�s. �Yeah.�
�Would you want to stop back later?� she congenially asked. �This is going to be difficult for him.�
�Sure,� I responded. �I know it�ll be.�
�Thanks for bringing his books back,� she said.
I stated at the pile of books on the chair. Orlando rested on top, with The Outsiders below. �Do you think he�ll read all of them?�
�Jesse�s been a voracious reader, especially when he�s depressed. This�ll suit him fine.�
�Oh,� I said, realizing that I did not have the experience of living in the same house with Jesse for ten years.
On the sofa, Jesse shifted his position so that his back faced us. The material from his black trench coat stretched across his shoulders and outlined the shoulder blades on his back. His purple hair lay beneath his collar, falling on his nape.
�I�ll be back in a few hours,� I stated as I opened the door. Closing it behind me quietly to not disturb Jesse, I watched Heather move toward the sofa. Pausing for a brief moment to look through the space between the door and the wall, I noticed that, as she stood over him, she unbuttoned his trench coat; the purple fabric from his blouse emerged. Then, I completely shut the door behind me and left the apartment building minutes later.
But, once I walked through the incongruous streets of the city, I realized that I did not envy Jesse. His situation, however, appealed to my desires to leave this place in which mediocrity represented the supreme condition of anything. Unlike Jesse, I was not blessed with an independent older sibling that lived three states away from where I resided in agony. Instead of Heather, an attractive twenty-four-year-old with a boyfriend and sufficiently paying job, I had Mike, an incompetent twenty-year-old high school senior that enjoyed an inebriated existence and drifted with his destructive entourage, while harassing my best friend simultaneously. I was no better as a chain-smoking sixteen-year-old eighth grader who occasionally became drunk to escape reality and believed herself to be a lesbian, or at least a bisexual. My roots stayed in the gray, trash-strewn snow, while I myself existed in another realm of permanent bliss and androgyny.
A subway station appeared a block away from the park. The filth, trash, and darkness consumed me; I was an urban youth, ignorant of but absorbed in the world about me. The sidewalks were my grounds; the exhaust fumes from the bus were my air; the clatter of the subway cars was my anthem. No matter my denial, my boots walked over the pavement of the city and nowhere else. My ears were tuned to the intonation of the various subway lines. My eyes viewed poverty and decay with indifference. On the platform, the Drifter did not appear. The Girl waited alone for the next train, and I had no qualms. But, the Girl, if she ever resided in me, never left her imprint. The tinge of femininity that was her trademark was engulfed by my androgyny. No, I told myself, the Girl I could never be. But, neither the Boy as well. The Androgyne seized my skin and usurped my blood.
The subway stop nearest to my dwelling approached. With the halting of the train, I stepped onto the platform again, which appeared no different to the one I stood on before. However, I sensed the imminence of my mother�s enmity and my brother�s contemptuousness. Once again, I failed; once again, I was arriving home late.
But whatever animosity was coveted behind the mundane brick walls of my house did not appear prominent as I stood on the steps. The banality of a repetitive existence was merely heightened and justified as I walked indolently through the doors and spied my younger brothers playing video games. Neither my mother nor Mike obstructed my view.
Then again, I epitomized �failure.� My failure to fully observe the scenario surfaced once Mike jauntily and puppet-like descended the stairs. His words, at first, heightened my fears of the world beyond the turgid urban landscape. �Ma, Glynis is home,� he stated � mundane but oddly unique for the occasion. Perhaps, his drunkenness added that hint of newness to his words, although I heard them a myriad of times before. But maybe, this inebriated state merely was a shroud to suppress the blatant meaning of those trite four words.
�She wants to speak to you,� he mumbled, using a crescendo up to �speak,� as if it were the most important idea of the sentence.
�No crap,� I muttered but refused to move no farther than the sofa. Watching the cubic, archaic graphics on the television from my brothers� game system had more appeal than listening to another lecture by my mother.
�One of our aunts is on the phone,� Mike asserted once he reached the bottom of the stairs. �She�s that one in California.�
�I could care less,� I stated.
My mother�s shrill voice imminently emerged in the turgid scene. �Mike, where is she?�
�In here,� Mike answered, transforming into the ideal son for the moment. From the kitchen, a dull click � the clashing of plastic � sounded. �Glynis, get in here,� my mother said, as if this were to be the last time she would utter that familiar phrase.
I moved. I didn�t desire to, but I did, and in seconds, I faced my mother in the kitchen, leaning in the doorframe to prepare for an escape back into the streets.
�I didn�t do anything,� I stated bluntly. �For the first time I didn�t do anything. I even stayed in school. My grades are going up. Call if you don�t believe me.�
My mother remained silent, but that rusting metal chair continuously creaked beneath her corpulent frame. �My sister and I have been talking -�
Furious, I interrupted her. �Didn�t you hear what I just said?�
My words had no effect on her, for she continued to ignore whatever spilled from my mouth. �We�re both worried about you � your grades and social functioning in particular.�
�But I�m passing,� I vehemently exclaimed. �I�ll be in high school next year,� I stated, with a hint of verisimilitude in my voice. �And Jesse�s moving away with his sister to Detroit, so you don�t have to see him anymore.�
The last statement usurped my mother�s attention. �Really?� she flatly stated. �Then you should be pleased with your aunt�s proposal of staying with her for a few weeks before attending a military academy in Sacramento.�
Against my body, the doorframe felt like the dull blade of a used knife that suddenly embedded itself in my skin. I stood but didn�t; I was stoic but timorous.
�You�ll be taking a bus there in a few days. We�ve been talking about this for almost a month, but I figure I�d tell you now, instead of before, so you couldn�t object to any of this,� she added. Neither smugness nor hopelessness adorned her visage. Instead, apathy possessed all of her features.
�And when am I leaving?� I bluntly asked.
�On Tuesday, or tomorrow, if you prefer,� she mechanically replied.
No words glided onto my tongue. No caustic or antagonistic phrases were uttered from my mouth. I no longer leaned and felt the stabbing sensation against my side. �Where�s the address?� My mother handed me a piece of paper with her blobby cursive handwriting upon it. Glancing first at the paper and then at her, I left both the room and the house. Quick and simple, the affair was decided. The deal was done, as if an agreement had been settled between rival businesses. Neither bliss nor anger seized me. Instead, as I stood upon the sidewalk again, after fifteen minutes inside, I decided to see Jesse one more time before departing from this decrepit, destitute city.
The subway ride and walk to the apartment building remained a mottled cloud of images and figures in my mind. Upon the platform, I stood alone, with my head lowered and my fists balled in my pockets. With my hair shrouding my face, I recalled the sleek, silver body of a train arriving, and, as if I were caught in a drunken stupor, I became cognizant only when I stared at my distorted reflection in the metal walls of the elevator in the apartment building. I stood here, an hour before, and stepped off onto the fifth floor, with the white and forest green decor flashing me in the face. Hours became minutes and minutes, seconds. At one moment, I glanced at myself in the dark window of South High as I passed by with Jesse this afternoon; the next, my mother and I vehemently faced each other in the kitchen. Now, the door to Heather�s temporary apartment faced me. Pressing my ear to the door, I heard silence on the other side � no sounds from Jesse, Heather, or the television. Had he left? But I knocked nevertheless. No answer. I rotated the doorknob � it was open.
But, seconds became hours now, and the air became saturated with liquid; I watched Jesse as if he and I were fish in a fish tank. Merely feet away from me, he slept peacefully, and I did not desire to disrupt his somnolent slumber, but his countenance that that perfect, but ghostly, pallor from yesterday. Immaculacy graced his room then and spread itself over his bed, but I recalled the sole funeral I watched and thought about the corpse in the open casket. Only days only, the lifeless body appeared as a mannequin in a blue suit, but the skin was the color of bones, as if the flesh became petrified from fright. Upon the couch, with a blanket pulled up to the middle of his chest, Jesse lay, with his makeup appearing flawless, as if he never shed a tear all afternoon. Soundlessly walking across the room on the carpet, I stood above him, observing his composure, just as I did in the funeral for a brief period. Now, however, I felt an attachment to the body before me. In both instances, I wanted to cry, but then, although the identification of the body fled my memory, I merely cried from seeing a corpse.
Jesse had life, despite the rouge upon his cheeks deceived me for a moment. His breathing � the slow breaths he took � sounded like the tones from a vacuum cleaner. No one else seemed to be in the apartment, and thus, kneeling by the couch, I slightly shook Jesse to awaken him and to reveal my news, which, now, excited me. Away from home � in California � with other girls who have delinquent tendencies like I do � the bliss extended, but only to a point, as I observed Jesse in his morose, maudlin mood.
But Jesse turned � away from me, in fact. With the blanket now shifting off his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of his purple blouse and lace vest beneath his trench coat. Like the blanket, his hair moved as well, revealing his pale, unblemished nape.
�Jesse?� I whispered, but he did not reply.
Standing, I felt like a soldier who had returned from a futile battle. The crowds did not line the streets, waving flags and banners in my return. The citizens shunned me and refused to acknowledge my bravery, despite the loss � my and their loss. I had no family to greet upon returning, and my former apartment had become vandalized after months of desertion. However, by Jesse�s books, I spied a binder and pen, and for once in my years as a delinquent, I realized I had an ingenious idea. This would not be the end for Jesse and I, although we would be apart for months � years, maybe. Eventually, but perhaps only in my own mind, we would meet again, perhaps in the same city and cafeteria. Or, perhaps, on a subway. Or maybe once I fled the military academy in Sacramento and arrived in Detroit, after traveling thousands of miles in strangers� cars. Then again, I could hear his androgynous, ambiguous voice stutter on the phone, if I called to him from California, and that would be it. The end. Official termination between friends.
Phone privileges might elude me there, perhaps, I thought, as I imagined myself, uniform clad in an austere setting out of a military movie, in which all cadets, erect, are standing in a straight line in front of a drill sergeant, who barks orders and commands for calisthenics in a monotonous voice, as if his throat were filled with gravel.
The paper and pen stared at me, and I stared back. Jesse didn�t move or speak, and I felt as if I were betraying him by awakening him. Thus, tearing out a sheet of paper and grabbing the writing utensil, I began to scrawl a letter, trying to create closure for the moment and to inform him of my fate. Despite I was no eloquent writer, I attempted to inject some kind of meaning into my words, as if I were writing a poem to him instead.
Dear (Deer, Dearest, Deerest, whatever, I dunno, I never learned to write a proper letter),
Jesse,
By the time you�ve woke up, I�ll be gone. Or maybe I�ll be packing my suitcase. I dunno. Like you, I�m leaving in a few days, but not to some cold place like Michegan. I�ll be going to California to live with my aunt.
My mind became empty, for, as I read the last sentence to myself, my words seemed purposeless.
Sometime, I�ll be gone to a military school before the end of the year. Yeah, that�s right, I�ll at a military school with a bunch o� delinquents like me. Don�t worry, I�m happy. They�ll
cut short my hair and give me some cool uniform to wear. Maybe in a few weeks, I�ll be
ruling the roost with my antics. I sure hope so.
With this letter, I have the address to the school. In a month or so, write me and give
me you�re address so I can write you back. Maybe I�ll have calling priveledges, so give me
you�re new number, too.
Jesse, I know everything seems fucked up now, but before the end of the year, it�ll all
straighten out. Trust me. Maybe I might be able to see you in the summer, if military school
gets breaks like regular schools do, I hope so. But, we won�t be in this city no longer, thank
goodness (God doesn�t exist). With every thing, I wish you luck. Don�t give me any. In a
couple of days, I�ll be in the California sun with the girls, just like the song goes.
Six years goes by fast, huh? I remember us, all the way back in 5th grade at Emerson
Jr. High. I think we�ve changed alot, but in a good way. It�s not like we went from being
Good kids to being heroine addicts or something like that. I�m sorry if this gets too
Sentimental or anything, but I don�t think it is.
I don�t know how to end this. I�ve failed English twice, and apparently in 8th grade,
you learn letter writing or something like that. You�d know how to finish it. Your pretty
smart yourself. Smarter than me, that�s for sure. Farewell for the time being, my Goth rock
star.
Love, sincerely, your�s truly, or something,
Glynis, the blue-haired sane criminal.
On top of his books, I left the letter and the address to the military academy. Jesse, in his euphoric, blissful state, continued to remain ensconced in slumber. And I left him sleeping. But, before I turned my back on him for another extensive period, I solemnly walked toward the sofa and stood above him, studying him to imprint his image in my mind. His pale skin, embellished by his long lashes and crimson, thin lips. Those eyes � sunken into his head, with a shadow always cast over them, as if he always lived in the dark � I always adored them, but I never told him that. In fact, I knew he despised his eyes, but I thought they were beautiful, to say the least. But now, he kept them shut, and I could assume that they were probably red from crying.
Parted to one side, for the past year, his hair continued to shroud one side of his face, as if the side beneath the purple, undulating locks was scarred and deformed. Near his hairline, framing and contrasting with his pale skin, his roots revealed themselves. Dark brown, they were, I recalled, but purple seemed to be his natural color. A year ago, he parted his hair down the center of his scalp, but that image appeared foreign to me now, as if it spoke to me in a language incomprehensible to my ears. In that old image, Jesse was lithe and gaunt, with a lanky torso and legs that appeared as if the muscles had been torn from the bones. His hands were shaped like frozen doves, but they never moved through like air, like mine did, when he casually spoke. He never wore feminine attire in that former picture, but nevertheless, frequently covered himself with his trench coat. But, I recalled those faded, frayed jeans and loose-fitting shirts; men�s attire never seemed to appropriately cling to his frame. Only in his room did he appear like he did now � frills and ruffles of purples and black, like the colors of an iris. An iris. I wished to remember him like this � blossoming like an iris in the spring after a rainfall, rather than as a violet, shrinking away in the twilight.
So I left � the apartment and the room � and envisioned myself in my room, packing my suitcase. However, I couldn�t even do that in a tranquil, orderly manner; I had to fling my jeans and flannel shirts into the suitcase, as if I were gleefully casting blasphemous, heretical books into a bonfire. But, now, on the street, I stood at a mid-point between Jesse and my �home� � a former residence in a few days. I wished to return to Jesse, peel his blanket off him to awaken him, and propose that we could escape this mess together � like a trite scene at the end of a movie � like we used to do in the past. But we didn�t go anywhere until now. Or more appropriately, tomorrow. However, time evolves, and Jesse and I were no longer thirteen years old and no longer sat at adjacent desks in a dreary classroom. Instead, he was leaving with his sister for Detroit, and I, for Sacramento. But like always had its slight ironies.
The cavernous subway station opened its enormous jaws and proposed to swallow me whole after I paid my fare, carrying me through its metal-lined digestive system. The weather, as I looked about me, was becoming warmer, and thus, the snow was melting. The garbage, frozen upon the sidewalks for the past month, thawed and piled up on the pavements where the snow once stood in ice-covered mounds. For the first time since Jesse and I conversed in the cafeteria about androgyny months ago, I had to admit that the air, with its usual frigid palms, no longer slapped my cheeks. Tonight, I desired to walk home, reveling in the warmth I waited months for. Months. Years, maybe.
A lone pile faced me upon the sidewalk, as if it were a villain from a Western challenging me to a duel. I had no guns, but I behaved like the sane criminal I always was � I kicked the pile nonchalantly into the street.
I walked, perhaps for a few blocks, but I didn�t stand stoically in front of my house like a sentinel protecting my paucity of dignity. The windows, although at my eye level, patronizingly glared down at me. The curtains were drawn, but the flickering images and cacophonic sounds from the television flowed into the street and fell upon the sidewalk about my salt-stained boots. Turning away, I sat on the front steps and smoked another cigarette.