Perhaps I�ve Entered the Abyss - Jesse
She waited inside, and I stood outside, in the concrete-paved schoolyard, waiting for something � anything � to happen. She would sit at a desk covered in blue graffiti, fingering a pencil, while I leaned against the chain-metal fence that surrounded the building, fingering my pack of cigarettes elusively in my pocket. The smooth, almost pristine, paper caressed my palm; they were the latest pack I bought with my lunch money. Across the street, two policemen stood stoically in their blue uniforms, partially observing my actions and those of others on the street. In this stagnant drama, I was the anti-hero, the immoral protagonist anticipating my nadir with apprehension. Or, perhaps, without any at all. Perhaps the fear was as innate as my pulsating heart, allowing my blood to move infinitesimally throughout my network of vessels. Unable to avoid, I thought morosely, lowering my head to glare at the pavement.
On the street, this or any, the policemen could have noticed me, for few tall sixteen-year-olds wore the ominous garb of a black trench coat and dyed their long hair royal purple, before parting most of it to one side. They recognized me at a distance, with their gaze fixating on me to mock my stance with the mere movements of their eyes. Words, they would not utter, but, between themselves, they would exchange glances, snicker, and turn away for a moment, eventually, for a brief moment, before focusing on me again with the same intensity. My back against the fence; my hands in my pockets; my hair blowing in the breeze that a melancholy day in March offered. To me, they said nothing, even if an antagonist were to emerge at this moment and assail me, pummeling me to the ground and casting his spittle upon my forehead. As I stood here, like most days, against the same fence that dug into my back, I waited for her � Glynis � as she completed another afternoon detention.
Crossing the schoolyard, with my shadow being cast across the perfectly flat concrete, I furtively ducked into the side doorway. Always, Glynis left from this entrance. The policemen were no longer visible from where I stood, and, thus, I removed my pack of cigarettes that had coyly been seducing my innate weaknesses for the past minutes. The procedure was immediate and mechanical; I removed the pack, cast off the plastic wrapping, extracted one cigarette, placed it between my lips, and ignited it with my lighter, stained from excessive usage. This pack was my second for the day, for, this morning, I traded a bus token for a full pack from a few faceless individuals on the front steps of the high school, and, this afternoon, I began my second, which I bought with my lunch money. A pathetic existence, I thought, shuddering at my wastes; I was incompetent, facing nameless, bartering strangers for the transitory experience of euphoria.
Euphoria itself existed in its own realm, above the monochromatic, vague grays that illustrated this urban landscape. Euphoria called itself the bridge between the tangible and the ethereal of mellifluous sounds, vermilion flowers, and words of candor. Between my lips, the cigarette emitted its gray smoke, enrapturing me with its spell. Closing my eyes, I inhaled, sensing the smoke caressing itself against my visage. My countenance changed, for bliss does not generate the same reaction as agony; I sighed in satisfaction, envisioning myself in a cloistered room ensconced by roses and replete with tables that supported a myriad of steaming cups of coffee with milk. Euphoria, I murmured, eyeing the white cups of coffee in front of me on smooth-surfaced black tables. I stood, gazing at my reflection in a mirror; I was Jesse, on the inside and the out, in a dress I recently bought after denying myself of cigarettes for a few days. Despite the garment was polyester, the pattern reflected the roses outside, an unending stretch of roses upon branches of thorns. Looking down at myself, I fingered the material, tracing a string of vibrant unnaturally pink blossoms and ominous black thorns to my neck. Beneath my fingers, I felt my clammy skin, before fingering the collar of my trench coat. The roses had coveted themselves once again to save me from humiliation. The cigarette had burned down to the filter, and euphoria eluded my grasp once again. About me, I glanced at the coarse surface of the concrete and the rusted chain-metal fence that surrounded Emerson Junior High. Beyond them, rows of stiff houses stood, like corpulent but dutiful soldiers, condescendingly glaring down at me. Against the doors, I cowered, forgetting about the cigarettes. My hands pressed into the metal of the door, even though I sensed the frigid surface, before Glynis bounded down the steps and kicked open the door.
She noticed my expression of shock, as her presence firmly set me into reality again, to tread upon the concrete again in her presence. �I got caught smoking in the bathroom today,� she immediately asserted, as if she already knew that I was going to ask her why she had another consecutive detention. Then, she noticed that I had automatically placed another cigarette between my lips after the previous one had burned to the filter. �Smoking two packs a day again?� she asked but knew the answer. I nodded slightly, hoping to not disturb the stream of smoke. �Hand me one, will you, Jesse?� she asked, without any tone of pleading or demand in her voice. Nonchalantly, I removed the pack and lighter from my pocket. �They confiscated my entire pack this morning,� she groaned. �I was even in there during a class, too. Probably science, since I never go to that, or math, or some useless course like that. I don�t understand it, Jesse. Why the fuck do I need to learn how to add X to Y and find some answer or to know about those burning clumps of gas called planets, when I, Glynis, am not going to be a mathematician or someone who looks up at the stars for enjoyment? Heck, I can�t even see the stars from my room. Is this supposed to spark some kind of interest in me? Well, like hell, it�s not. Honestly, if X ate Y and if Neptune exploded, I could care less. I�d still have my cigarettes and we�d still have our afternoons of nothing. Pure nothing. Even I do ever graduate from high school, I�m going to work in the factories like my parents and like Mike will, even if he doesn�t graduate from high school this year. He�s planning too work at the bottling plant to fill glass bottles with soda. No one around here does anything with their lives. They work at basic jobs, and that�s that, y�know? Or else, they�re smart like your sister, and leave, without turning their backs, for the state college or a trade school to learn a real skill.� She paused in her speech. �How�s your sister doing, anyway?�
�I don�t really know,� I mumbled, shoving my hands into my pockets again. �I haven�t seen her in a while,� I said, with my voice trailing off into silence, as I became nostalgic about the few times I saw Heather since she left home. She lived in Detroit � no walking distance from my house � and worked in an office of some kind. A few summers ago, she came here and drove me out to her house, where we spent a few days together. There, she allowed me to wear some of her old clothes, as gaudy as they were, without appearing mortified, and I escaped the spurning taunts of my peers for a few days of euphoria.
�Maybe you�ll be lucky and she�ll come by surprise,� she said with optimism, but I shook my head.
�People don�t do anything for nothing,� I muttered. �She won�t come back, unless someone tells her it�s an emergency.� Even as a pariah, I had gained that trite phrase of wisdom.
�Well, I guess they don�t,� she said indifferently. �You have to do something to get her to come here.�
�I can�t do anything to get me noticed,� I added,� other than parading around the house in a dress and makeup, which, of course, I wouldn�t do, since I�d wind up at a shrink�s first.�
�Well, would you wear a dress to school or in the street, at least?� she questioned.
Glancing down at my coat, with the black plastic buttons appearing like metal in the afternoon light, I said, �I already have.�
Glynis�s countenance reflected her sudden shock. �When?�
�Today,� I murmured.
Indiscreetly, she eyed my coat. �Did you take your coat off?�
�Never,� I asserted. �That�d be like suicide.� I paused, fumbling with my lighter. �You�d see mascara smeared across my face and bruises on my stomach for sure.�
�Well, what�d you do about gym? I remember back when we both were at Emerson, the guys would mess you up in the locker room, and you�d run out crying, looking for me.�
�They still do that,� I sighed, recollecting, but wincing from, times in the past and present, in which I was cornered by my male peers. I sensed the cold, metallic locker at my back and was revolted by the feeling of being trapped. Never had I a male friend in my life, and, despite I wore innocuous jeans and a black shirt, my skin seemed to vigorously scream with the notion that I was, somehow, more effeminate than they were.
�So what�d you do?� I stared across the street from where we stood and noticed that the policemen had exited the scene.
�Nothing,� I said, lighting another cigarette.
�Nothing?� she exclaimed, seizing my shoulders and drawing her face close to mine until her dark, vibrant eyes bore into mine.
�Yeah. I just sat on the bench for the entire period.�
Her countenance transformed again. �So, yeah, I guess there�s nothing wrong with that. Is that the first time you�ve done this?�
�I�ve been avoiding gym from the start of the week. I just can�t take it anymore. I�m just not meant to play sports, even if it�s something as easy as kickball. I�m just really incompetent, and I�m disgusted with the fact that I have to constantly worry about whether I�m going to get beat up I the locker room.� That was the most I said all afternoon � or all day, for that matter.
�Hell, I cut gym every day. I might go when we have to play hockey, just to high-stick and hit some arrogant bitch in the face.� We began walking, heading away from the school and toward the sidewalk. Glynis now appeared serious and concerned as she spoke. �Who�s been beating you up?�
�That guy in the red jacket,� I mumbled; his name, generic as any, always eluded my mind.
�Always him,� she muttered. �I bet he has some kind of name, but I could care less about it.� She halted, smirking slightly. �Does he always wear that red leather jacket?�
�Just like I wear my trench coat.� And like she always wore that flannel shirt. From going over her house a few times, I knew that she had more than one, but, nevertheless, she always had one on. Although snow had fallen upon the streets this morning, passively as if its presence were innate to the setting, Glynis refused to wear any coat. The red, green, blue, and black plaid pattern material loosely fit her angular frame, and the arms were often too long for hers, and, thus, the cuffs were always rolled up to her wrists.
Standing at a corner that could have passed as any urban corner, we stood, appearing sullen and disenchanted with the street. Glynis kicked at a pole with her boot, and I, glancing at the sparse amount of cars passing viscously, finished my cigarette, before throwing it into the street.
�So, what do you want to do this afternoon?� Glynis squinted at me, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans.
�I really don�t know,� I murmured, kicking some snow away from my feet. �I don�t have any money on me now.�
�We don�t have to go to the cafeteria,� she said. �But we really can�t go over my house, either.�
�Yeah.� I paused, glancing across the street. �I know.�
Standing against their car, the same two policemen from before now indiscreetly stared at us. Growing nervous, I turned away, hoping that they merely would remain across the street. However, words were exchanged between them, although none were audible to our ears. Glynis noticed them as well, but a mischievous grin passed across her face.
�Look at me!� she shouted, thrusting her cigarette into the air. �Aren�t you going to stop me? Aren�t you going to write me up? Aren�t you going to ride your car over here, with the sirens blaring?�
She, however, was not the primary focus of their gaze. As our eyes met, my face reddened with embarrassment, and I felt like a clown in my makeup. Upon my face, it was caked and screamed to be noticed. Pink, blue, purple, aqua marine � it all was unnatural, in color and in what was assumed for my sex. A sink was nowhere to be found, although I desired to wash it all down the drain to divert their stares. Never trust a policeman, I thought, as my heart quickened its pace and plummeted into my stomach. My hands perspired, and the pack of cigarettes I once held in my pocket slipped away fro them. Glynis continued to yell obscenities, but no one seemed to notice her. The two policemen, leaning against their car, now left their positions, walking toward us at a rapid pace. My heart leap into my throat, and its sudden change of position caused me to lurch forward awkwardly; I desired a place to escape their ominous gaze, but Glynis refused to budge.
�Okay, so now you come over here and want to smoke a few with me, huh?� Glynis chided them. �Don�t you have better things to do?� She indicated the vacant lot near the library with the hand holding the cigarette. �There�s a whole bunch of fuckers over there, smoking and getting high and stuff. Yeah, I know I�m smoking, but it�s only one over here and fifty over there. Aren�t you supposed to be doing your job? Are you guys really that idiotic?�
Neither man listened to her epithets as they approached us. Looking down at the sidewalk, I hoped to render myself invisible in their field of vision, but that seemed impossible, for, as both men approached me, with their eyes full of malicious intent, tears automatically escaped from my eyes and streamed down to my chin. The mascara distinctively dyed them black.
One smirked and the other snickered indiscreetly; by his hip, I noticed a gun but continued to cry. �So, kid, what�s the deal with the makeup?�
I didn�t answer.
�What�s a-matter, kid?� the other sneered. �Can�t you act like a man?� he asked in a haughty tone to flaunt his authority in front of us.
�What d�ya think we�ll do? Arrest you for looking too much like a girl from wearing her makeup?� He indicated Glynis, who scoffed at this statement.
�Or, d�ya think we�ll lock you up for crying?� he laughed.
Glynis stepped in front of me. �Mr. Officer-Sir, whatever the fuck your name is, you�ve seen me here for the past six years. Don�t you know I don�t carry any of that shit around with me?�
One of the officers turned toward her, while the other eyed me, as if he were the domineering predator and I was the submissive prey. �Then why�s your friend got it on?� he asked Glynis, but she remained silent to mock his authority. The officer indicated me. �That be a boy, right? I ain�t seen no girl taller than me around these parts.�
�He�s as much of a �boy� as you�re a woman,� she asserted, seeming to grow in size in front of my eyes.
Both officers turned toward her, looking confused and irked. �You didn�t give me a straight answer, miss,� he said, but Glynis scoffed again.
�Get your words straight,� she ordered, with her stretch of feigned authority. �I�m no �miss� and he�s no �boy.� We have no titles in this hierarchy; we�re as androgynous as we want to be.� She paused, as her face contorted from her thoughts of her next scheme. �You know what I�m talking about, don�t you? Or, don�t you know about androgyny with your limited vocabulary.� She laughed � not a melodious laugh, but one that was rather cacophonic and crass. �Hell, even I know that, and I�m in my third year of eighth grade.� She decisively paused. �Say, how many years of education do you need to become a cop? I�m just wondering,� she sneered, �especially since I speak better than you do and all. You don�t see me using any double negatives now, do you? I could just drop out now, don a blue uniform, and prowl the street like a stray dog to a vagabond and pick on innocent people, like my friend, Jesse, here. You�re messing with him for looking androgynous, but you�re ignoring those drunken motherfuckers in that lot over there. C�mon now, where�s the logic in that?�
Both men now appeared irate, but Glynis seized my hand and began walking across the street. She turned toward them again. �Adios, fuckers,� she asserted. �Remember, for the future, that I want to be just like you. Remember that.�
Once we reached the opposite side of the street and once my pulse returned to a normal rate, she asked me, �Care to get anything to eat? A supermarket�s fairly close by.�
�I don�t really know,� I murmured, staring down, with slight apprehension, at my middle. With increased cigarette consumption, my appetite had also increased to point in which I had gained over thirty pounds within the past few weeks. After school, we would eat at the cafeteria, and, then, I�d return home to eat � not just dinner but also any food in the house. If I couldn�t have a cigarette, which frequently was the case at home, I�d gorge myself with any food in the refrigerator � sweets, leftover macaroni, soda � to appease my addiction for a few hours.
A week ago, on a weekend, I sat upon my bed, reading and reveling in the silence a Saturday afternoon had to offer. My younger brother, Tom, lay prone on a bed beside my brother Davy, for, with all three of our beds lined next to each other, Davy was in the center and Tom and I were at his sides. He lay inebriated from his activities during the night before. Although soiled, his clothes from the previous day still clung to his skin, now covered in sweat and fragrant of cigarettes. His hair appeared tousled, and, as I walked toward his bed, until I stood over him, his shirt smelled distinctly of cheap beer. Placing my book down, I leaned closer to him, until my nose was inches away from his collar. Beer and sweat, I thought in disgust, although I knew Glynis drank from her brother�s stash of alcohol when she was alone. As I moved back to read more, my bed groaned from my exertion of weight upon it � few times had it sounded in such a manner, but, during the past two weeks, it let out its metallic moan more frequently. To myself, I had admitted that I had gained weight, for my pants, once loose-fitting and in need of a belt about my waist, now stretched itself over my skin. At the waist, my hips pressed into the denim material, appearing to distinctively bulge under the coarse fabric. My stomach spilled over the waist, but I coveted it, in shame, with any shirt. Earlier that morning, I had glanced at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and, although my face hadn�t seemed to have changed, the rest of my body seemed to be trapped in the clothes that once hid my gaunt frame. But, perhaps, I was merely hallucinating, falling prone into the negative remarks cast from my parents and peers.
Tom stirred in his position, shifting until he lay on his side. His back, appearing hollow even beneath his shirt, faced me, but not for long, for, although his reflexes were laggard, he became irate with the fact that I had leaned in his direction.
�It�s my side of the room,� he mumbled, still facing away from me.
�I duh-duh-didn�t do an-anything,� I murmured, engrossed partially in the novel.
�Sure, sure.� He rolled over onto his other side. �I heard that there bed creak, fat ass.�
�Quit calling me th-that.� I didn�t bother to look up from the pages of my book.
�Fine, then. You�re a fat faggot then. There�s your new name.�
What irony, I thought. What alliteration.
�Aren�t you going to make some lame come-back, fat faggot?� Again, I replied with nothing as a response. �C�mon, Jesse, put on some of your makeup and girly clothes and dress up for me to make me right.� Standing up and walking toward me, he said, �I know you�ve got some of that shit hidden in the closet. I�ve seen you in some of that red mascara before and black lipstick, so put in on, you fat faggot, transvestite, drag queen, whatever you are.�
The sunlight streaming through the glass of the window illuminated one side of his face but left the other side in the dark, allowing the whites of his eyes, lined sharply with red veins, to seem more prominent than any other aspect of his face. Tom, however, was extremely impulsive, and, thus, this juxtaposition was merely transitory. Running from his position near the edge of my bed, he seized the book from my hands, throwing it to the floor, and threw himself on top of me, clutching and forcing my shoulders into the bed. Such outbursts were usual on Saturday mornings, for, during the prior nights, he engaged in acts of drunken debauchery with his friends, who were all so replete and saturated with cheap alcohol that they seldom remembered why they decided to drink in the first place. Seldom had the police brought him home, and, thus, at odd hours of the morning, he stumbled through the house and into our room, to find his own bed and fall asleep, fully clothed, until the afternoon. Often sitting on my bed, I, who knew that Glynis never awakened before noon, became the target of his anger. That morning was no different, for, as I submitted to him, I felt no tinge of fear inside me. As he slapped me across the face with one of his raw, reddened hands, I had the audacity to say, �Get your drunken hands off me,� without stuttering.
My words were of no effect, for, nevertheless, he usurped several locks of my hair in his fist and pulled them in several directions, searching for the one that caused me the most pain. All and none did. Beneath him, I was a mannequin, wooden and distant from the action. In my skin, as the object of his mockery, I allowed apathy to seize me, rather than Tom�s fists and words of antipathy that, although seemed unintelligible, still had the intonation of bullets as they�re randomly shot from a gun into a victim. His knees pressed into my arms, but, I noticed, my legs were free from his control, although they sat limply and lifelessly on the bed.
�Ge-get of m-m-me, Tom,� I yelled, before he assailed me across the face again.
�Look atcha fuck ups. You ain�t my brother,� he mumbled in his own slurred speech, enraptured in his drunken stupor. �I tolya ta put on makeup. Ya ain�t puttin� any makeup on.�
Although he managed to spurn and assail me several times, his eyes now appeared unfocused. His dark but shallow pupils focused neither on me nor on the wall in front of him, I noticed. Perhaps he�d eventually fall back to sleep on top of me, I thought, before noticing that my mother had entered the room, appearing irked with both of us. In a half-hour, she would have left for work, but, now, she stood stiffly in our room, wearing a faded pair of red jeans and a navy blue sweater decorated with a pattern of white snowflakes; her hair appeared to be piled on top of her head, I noticed from where I lay. Several times before, she had seen this � Tom pummeling my face and chest in his drunken stupor to release whatever anger resided inside of him. This time remained no different.
�Get your ass off of your brother,� she asserted, approaching the bed from behind.
Tom turned, agape but unaware of his appearance. �I ain�t done nothin�,� he muttered.
�What do you mean, �ain�t done nothing�? You�re sitting right on top of Jesse. He can�t help himself as much as you can,� she acridly said.
�I tol� him ta put on his makeup,� he said, �but he ain�t do what I says.�
She grabbed his shirt and arms, eventually bringing him to his feet in front of her. �Don�t tell me you�re not drunk, Tom,� she snapped. �I�ve got enough of you inept sinners in my house. And, I�ve told you before, don�t beat up on your brother.�
�Ain�t ma fault he�s weaker than me.�
�Go back to bed,� she ordered, �but if you�re not up by the time I get back from work, I�ll get your father to talk to you about your behavior.� Our father � the most domineering and threatening figure in both of our lives. Ironically, he drank during the week after work, before he came home to consume a bland dinner with a family he detested having created.
Tom stumbled into Davy�s bed, lying prone again but silent.
Sitting up in bed, I noticed that my mother�s gaze was now fixed on me. �And what�s wrong with you? You�re sixteen and your younger brother can beat the shit out of you. But look at you; I don�t blame him. How�d you manage to gain all that weight? I know you�re not drinking � but you�ve ate enough of our food,� she said with a sardonic sneer, before grabbing the collar of my shirt. �C�mon, Jesse. Get in the bathroom.� Another session of passive scrutiny and humiliation.
Complying with her orders, I stumbled into the bathroom. Ashamed of my reflection, I turned away from the mirror, choosing to loose myself in the image of the bathtub instead. The gray cracks along the sides, parting the superficial beige surface to unearth the white middle. The rusted faucet. The shower head that was older than I was but managed to function better.
�Turn around and take off your shirt,� she commanded, harshly slapping my back. Again, I complied. Nevertheless, I shied away from the mirror and my grotesque, distorted reflection that I refused to believe was my own image. Poking me in the stomach, she asked, �Is this where all our food�s gone?� The question was rhetorical, but I nodded my head anyway, in shame. �Just look at yourself, Jesse. Don�t you feel some pangs of shame in you? You didn�t use to look like this. I�m honestly surprised you managed to do this to us. First, it�s the cross-dressing and now, you probably won�t even fit into the tub for a bath. You know we�re not rich, and your sister didn�t help us either by going to college to study whatever nonsense she did. You keep getting fat like this, I�ll make you leave school to make you work off all the money you costed us.�
My mother continued to poke at my middle, as if her actions could make the excessive fat dissipate, until my skin felt raw and bruised, although, as I looked at my reflection, it wasn�t.
�Let�s just go to the supermarket,� Glynis said, casting her last cigarette onto the pavement, once we reached the adjacent side of the street. �I don�t have any money, you don�t have any money, we�re hungry, and you�ve got a bag.� Glynis could shoplift masterfully; I, however, never had enough audacity to put a can of soup in my pocket, even if I were going to pay for it.
The supermarket stood a block north from the junior high. We seldom went there, for the cafeteria served as our usual spot. Recently, as I increased my consumption to two packs a day, I had been spending my lunch money on cigarettes and, thus, had none left to buy a coffee and a doughnut after school. Glynis occasionally lent me money to buy the coffee and the doughnut, for my cigarette consumption now surpassed hers, but, this afternoon, neither of us hand any money.
The bright lights and towering, polychromatic displays in the supermarket blinded us as we entered. At this time of day, few seemed to be pushing one of the mental carts through the aisles, aside from senior citizens and mothers with young children. Unless I had to buy some staple foods such as bread, milk, or boxes of macaroni, I never entered through the doors of a supermarket. Glynis, however, lived closer and often bought food for her family, especially since her older brother proved to be more irresponsible than she.
�Just unzip your bag,� she whispered, pressing her face close to mine, �and keep it close to your hip.� I had to admit that I was not fond of participating in Glynis�s shoplifting schemes, but I silently complied, knowing that Glynis was seldom caught in the act.
Wandering into an aisle of shelves filled with cans, Glynis took a few cans of soup and, after holding them in her hands for a moment, elusively slipped them into my bag. I sensed the added weight of the cans but continued to follow, as Glynis continued the same innocuous pattern. Soup. Ravioli. Canned bananas, peaches, and pineapples. Pickles. Sardines. Bread. My bag appeared significantly larger as Glynis moved through the rows of food. She grabbed two quarts of whole milk, shoving them on top of my books. Behind her, I merely stood, watching about us for anyone staring in our direction. From where we stood, I saw no one noticing us, although I wouldn�t know what to do if I did. Run? Whisper to Glynis? Dump the food from my bag and apologize with absolute sincerity over tears? Indeed, there were people in the store, but no one pried in on our scheme. Nevertheless, I wanted to leave the store, to run back home, reaping our rewards but forgetting the process of the whole ordeal. Perhaps, that was how thieves functioned.
�Hold on a sec,� she said. �I�ll be back. I�ve just got to take a piss.� She left � maybe abandoned me � by the rows of milk, eggs, and cheese and ventured to find a bathroom.
Standing I my stance, for there was nothing else to do, I felt my nerves � intense anxiety and pungent fear � usurp me again. My bag appeared too large and I was left alone, in desolation, aside from a mother with her two children � innocence at its worst � looking at a case full of ice cream. I desired to blend in with the milks, becoming ghostly pale and invisible to their eyes. And, indeed, I thought, perhaps I was, until one child diverted his attention from the bright containers of ice cream to my ominous makeup and nefarious purple hair. Children are uninhibited with their actions, and perhaps I was as a child as well. But, perhaps, I was too silent to say anything, even when something appeared bizarre. I knew I was too silent to say anything when I came home from school with a bloody nose and a soiled shirt. And I was too silent as I was pushed backwards onto the sidewalk, and said nothing as I broke my fall. But this child had a voice, although his words were from the trite pool of questions containing, �Is that a boy or a girl?�. In an attempt to veer my own attention, I focused on the cartons of milk in front. One perfect. Two percent. Skim. Chocolate. Strawberry. In quarts and gallons. White as the snow outside but as clean as a sink. Glancing at my watch, I noticed that Glynis had been gone for five minutes � an eternity, in terms of isolation. The boy, as his mother spoke to his sister, approached me, and, once he stood in front, looked upward at me, studying my face and figure. He appeared as old as my brother Davy, but had eyes replete with scorn. Davy�s eyes, like mine, held apathy, although I could safely assume that Davy and this boy knew the same games and played with the same toys.
Appearing agape for a few moments, he asked, �Are you a boy or a girl?� Hackneyed question. An answer I didn�t want to utter. An answer that eluded my tongue. His older sister soon ran over to him, grabbing his arm, but I attempted to speak.
�I-I, uh, I�m -� Both children now focused on me. �I�m a, uh, a b-boy.� My statement lacked in candor, to be blunt.
Glynis emerged, standing behind the wide-eyed children. �And I�m his friend, so you better get out of here, now.� Both then turned toward Glynis, scowling at them through her blue hair with her dark crescent-shaped eyes, before running off to join their mother. �Stupid fuckin� kids,� se muttered. �We�ve been around here for too long, so let�s get out.� For her, that action was as simple as walking out of the store and onto the street. No alarms sounded as we walked through the doors of the supermarket and crossed the street.
In a fast half hour, we ended up at my house � no one would be home until eight o�clock � with all of the food spread out on a card table my family ate dinner about. Glynis stacked the food, piling cans on top of each other, as I passively watched. Although in the supermarket I had felt the weight of the cans in my bad, I hadn�t realized the amount that Glynis stole. She smirked; I could assume that she was thinking that she defied authority once again. Sitting on the sofa, I stood, walking over to an archaic tape player next to the television and placed in a tape � Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me by the Cure. Glynis, however, paid no attention to me at the moment and took all of the cans of soup and ravioli, venturing into the kitchen to search for a few pots. She treated this house as if it were her own, as long as my parents didn�t walk through the doors. From where I stood, watching the tape rewind to the beginning, I noticed that she emptied four cans of tomato soup into a large pot and four of ravioli into two smaller pots. She operated the archaic equipment with ease, although, I knew, as she looked about the kitchen, she felt like an anachronism in the room � in the house, even. In her room, she and her older brother Mike had a stereo that played both tapes and compact discs. I, however, remembered that, when I was ten years old, my parents bought their first tape player and VCR at a garage sale. Although our television had color and they had a turntable, the objects appeared new to me, although, from Heather�s remarks at the time, I knew they had been obsolete for years.
Returning to the room where I sat, Glynis brought a can opener and a few forks with her. �You want to have some fruit and sandwiches as the soup heats up?� I nodded, reaching for a can of bananas in syrup. They didn�t taste at all like ripe bananas, I thought, opening the can and spearing a few pieces with a fork, only to see the thick syrup drizzling back into the can. Glynis opened a can of pineapple chucks and consumed them nonchalantly. Several cans of fruit lay on the table, stacked on top of each other, and I doubted that I could consume that much, but my stomach growled its dissent.
After savoring bananas, peaches, and pineapples in thick syrup, I, as well as Glynis, made myself a sandwich out of the bread, sardines, and pickles she stole. Neither of us bothered to cut the pickles into slices for a sandwich; on the bread � almost tasteless in comparison to the fish and pickles, saturated in brine � we slathered the sardines and placed a few pickles down the center. The remaining pickles � those that were not used for any sandwiches � I consumed, feeling neither famished nor full.
When Glynis brought out the steaming pots of tomato soup and ravioli, with two bowls, I managed to disconnect myself from the sensations in my stomach. Out of habit, I lit another cigarette, watching the smoke disperse itself throughout the room; to find some form of empathy, I assimilated myself into the music � gloomy, melancholy, morose melodies � emanating its sound waves from the tape player; in my mouth, the broth and cheese had no taste. I didn�t know what I was eating; merely, I ate and smoked. I was meaning to halt my habit, but I lay prone into another, and the first hadn�t bothered to die away. To my stomach, I was enslaved, obeying every demand and behaving obsequiously to await the end of my habits. My stomach, however, never saw my skin, my cherubic frame, and the clothes I could no longer fit into. My stomach didn�t feel my shame or frustration, but could I express such emotions properly? I felt my belly � my corpulent middle � falling from my jeans and pressing into my trench coat, and knew that only I, as the submissive servant, had such sensation.
In front of Glynis and me, two pots and a dozen cans � all empty � lay. Leaning into the sofa, I groaned, and Glynis, slouched into the cushions, seemed satisfied.
�Y�know,� she said. �We ought to do this more often.� I wanted to disagree but decided against it. �How many times in your life are you going to do that � get all that food for free? Not too many, I think. Then again, I am the supreme ruler of Kleptomania � no one�s as good as I am. You�ve got to admit that, Jesse.�
�I don�t know any other shoplifters,� I said weakly, looking with disgust at my middle and away from her.
�Your brother, Jesse. Your brother.� She paused. �He doesn�t get drunk from stuff he buys, does he?� As I sensed her staring at me, her mood changed. �Jesse, are you alright? Are you feeling okay? Did you eat too much?�
I shook my head. �No, that�s not it. I�m just feeling kind of odd at the moment.� I was still disconnected from my own sensations and emotions.
Touching my hands with her firm palms, she said, �It�s your weight, isn�t it?�
I shrugged. �I guess it is.�
�You guess? You know it. I know it.� She paused. �You don�t have to be as skinny as a telephone wire to be worthy of anyone.�
�You sound like a motivational speaker giving a trite speech.�
She threw her hands up in the air before planting them down on her knees. �Do you think I care? I worry more about you than I do of myself. Jesse, I�d rather you be kind of chubby than incredibly emaciated.�
�Well, it doesn�t really matter. Everyone�s still going to be picking on ms anyway, whether I�m fat or thin,� I mumbled.
�And I�m going to stand up for you no matter what you look like. I�m not the best-looking person myself,� she said, but I felt ambivalent about her words, for she never had to deal with punitive parents and a younger brother who could easily send her to the floor in pain.
�I know,� I mumbled. �I know.�
Continuing her stare in my direction, she said. �You�re home, Jesse. Why haven�t you taken off your coat yet?�
Glynis had not spent any time at my house during the past two weeks. During that time, I vowed to never take my trench coat off as long as I was home. My father would groan and my mother would sigh out of dismay in response, but neither forced me to change. With the coat, I coveted my secrets � my attire, my identity, my weight � and, thus, the black material that shrouded my figure had almost the complex of Pandora�s Box.
�I haven�t felt like taking it off in a while, even when I�m home,� I said, without any candor in my voice.
�What�ve you got under there that�s so secret?� She paused. �Is it so personal that you can�t tell me about it?�
Drawing slowly on my cigarette and watching the smoke escape from my nose, I said, �In my room, I could.� I recalled one of our conversations from earlier in the afternoon. �I already told you I had a dress on under here.�
�You want to go up to your room now?� she asked. I agreed.
Upstairs, we faced each other; Glynis sat on the edge of my bed and I stood. Our eyes met out of empathy and trust, and, in silence, we vowed to break neither and embraced each other�s androgyny. In the twilight, as bluish-gray light fell into the room from the setting sun, I noticed Glynis�s hair had become illuminated by the outside light. Her locks had the color of sapphires, or it used to, while mine was of amethyst. In a moment such as this, we had dyed our hair two months ago, creating a bond of empathy that could not be severed. In front of the bathtub and the sink at her house, we stood, combing the colors into our mundane brown hair. The mere act was impulsive, for we know that, in hours, we�d be reprimanded by adults and mocked by siblings. In her mirror, I combed my hair back with the dye, following the directions and bleaching my forehead with peroxide. From behind, as she sat on the rim of the bathtub, she said, �That color�s going to look good on you.�
In my room, I had my back turned toward the mirror. Even in the dark, where I stood, my hair remained purple and hers, blue. The black trench coat coveted my form below my neck had always functioned as my armor � my protection that seldom failed me. With each black button glinting in the light like small bits of onyx, the garment seemed to breathe about my figure, and I felt vivified by its presence. Without it, I was vulnerable, leaving all of my wounds exposed to the world. Upon my flesh, they festered and bled, growing in size and number, but they were wounds upon my own flesh, and the pain was my pain. Out in the street, I desired not to expose them to the elements and convolution of society; the snow, dirt, and trash would not find its way into my raw flesh and allow them to fester more. My wounds belonged on my skin and my pain belonged beneath; but, with our declaration of empathy, Glynis had exposed her �wounds� as well in the past. In the cafeteria, over cups of coffee that smelled of ambrosia and stale, free doughnuts, we had sat across from each other. In her, I confided my desires of androgyny, masturbatory fantasies, and humiliation and let her read anything I had written. No matter what I could write, as bizarre as it could be, she never mocked my words � even those not on a page. I was never an articulate speaker, and I seldom uttered a plethora of words of importance, but she had her own idiosyncrasies. In me, she confided her dreams and the reoccurring nightmare about the incident at the public pool two years ago. However, I reassured her that she never abandoned me and that I was pushed into the deep end as she was changing into her bathing suit. She spoke of glistening green grass of front lawns lining the sidewalks and of white houses beyond the vast fields of green. The streets near pool, she and I knew, were crowded with decaying brick row houses and no green, aside from a car or graffiti on the wall surrounding the pool, was in sight. Nevertheless, the dream, in her words, came back like a former nemesis seeking revenge from a petty scuffle or an insignificant fracas in the street.
In front of Glynis, I unbuttoned my coat, pushing the pieces of onyx through the holes until they appeared like ordinary black plastic buttons, and cast off the shroud. As I stood in the dark, the pink roses and black vines of thorns spoke for themselves and spoke more eloquently than I ever could. In the cafeteria, I had confided my habits with Glynis, but, nevertheless, always wore the innocuous jeans and solid colored shirts to school. The day after I had bought the dress, I hadn�t spoken of it to her and wore an old pair of acid-wash jeans and a blue sweatshirt instead. Over her house, when we were younger, she let me wear the clothes that her mother bought her, garments that she detested and wished would burn into flames while drying. Frilly dresses. Gaudy blouses. Tight jeans. Patterned leggings. All colored in pastels, white, and purple. She would put a chair against the door as I undressed, as both of us prayed that Mike would not walk in. But, never in front of her did I wear clothes I bought for myself. Staring at me, she lit another cigarette, with her countenance having no drastic change.
�You look nice,� she said, �but you always do, in my opinion.� She paused, slightly chuckling but without choking on her smoke. �Jesse, you�re beautiful.� I know I had said that to her a few weeks ago, but, at this moment, I didn�t know if I was sincere then.
I blushed slightly from her remark, but I didn�t know if she was sincere either. �Thank you,� I murmured but my gaze strayed away from her.
�What? You don�t think I mean it?� she said, before drawing on her cigarette again.
�I don�t know,� I mumbled.
�Jesse,� she laughed, �I�m not saying that I�m sexually attracted to you or anything like that. I�m just saying that you look nice, y�know?� I nodded. �Anyway, I�m hoping I�m asexual, non-sexual, or whatever. I�m waiting to see my mother�s face when I�m thirty-five and she realizes that I�m not on any path to marriage. I�d rather wear the tux, if you know what I mean, but I don�t know if I�d necessarily marry a girl. All the girls I�ve seen around here are bleach-blond, white-trash, whorish bitches that are intimidated by me. But, man, I have to say that I love that sensation of power. Know what I mean?�
I sat beside her on the bed. �Nit really. I�m usually the one who�s being forced to submit.�
�You�ll experience it eventually.� She paused. �But don�t you at least feel some kind of power when you write? Like the power to chose the words you want, y�know? You can�t really have a word reject you.�
�No, but it can seem kind of elusive at times. Kind of like a butterfly; then, when you finally catch it, touching its wings, you realize it can�t really fly after that.�
�I don�t write anything. I don�t even copy notes at school. Heck, I�ve even stopped writing my name on things,� she laughed. �I�m just conserving my energy to scrawl stuff on bathroom walls or to eventually write my epitaph for my tombstone.� She lay supine on my bed. �On a marble slab: Here lies Glynis, who, at one point, probably attempted to kill you or at least pissed you off. Maybe someone will actually have me put in a coffin with a flannel shirt still on.� She drew on her cigarette. �Jesse, if you�re still alive by then, please don�t have someone bury me in a dress. I actually want to die with some part of myself still in tact.�
�Sure,� I said, lying beside her, with our faces turned toward each other�s. �But what happens if I die before you?�
�That probably won�t happen,� she said, turning her face upward to the ceiling.
�Yeah, but let�s say that I�m accidentally hit by a bus during my senior year of high school or as I�m going to work?�
�Well,� she said, hesitant, �I�ll just make sure that Heather and I get in contact and plan your funeral and that you don�t get put in some hideous suit that belonged to Tom.�
I lit another cigarette, but, as I lay on my back, the smoke entering my lungs felt more euphoric. A ghost entered me, usurping my soul, and indicated the path away from the abyss. The smoke drifted up toward the ceiling, before dissipating, although its scent lingered longer. �Euphoria,� I murmured, feeling the smoke and internal sadness escape. The weights rose from my chest, and the desolation I sensed was almost perfect.
�You�re always saying that,� Glynis said, shifting on her side toward me. �Over coffee and cigarettes � it�s all euphoria to you.�
�I can�t really describe it,� I said, facing the ceiling. �It�s this sensation, this release, that they bring.�
�Yeah, but when you say it, you always sound like you�re high or something.�
�I could very well be. It�s like I�m some kind of bird, and I�m being released into the air, only to feel no force of gravity forcing me into the ground. It�s as if all this lead that was in me before is gone and that the only kind of weight or force I feel is my own body�s. It�s not like I feel it in any other way, so that�s why it�s probably euphoria.�
In the next hour, I felt myself sink into the abyss again, sensing the liquid lead filling my body until my skin complied with gravity. Glynis and I cleaned up downstairs, and she left, doing whatever she did on her own. A few times she told me that she�d go home and watch the television or drink from Mike�s hidden stash of liquor, but she seemed perfidious. I thought that she was merely trying to appear tough and stoic, to create some kind of image of masculine maturity, but I seldom went over to her house and observed that she appeared sober the next day.
In my room, I changed out of the dress and into a pair of jeans, almost faded white by a myriad of washes, and a purple sweatshirt. Nevertheless, I wore the trench coat over both. The ambivalent and the ominous would overpower the innocent. The innocents lay in the dark, cowering away from experience, until they were innocent no longer.
No one had come home, although, as I checked my watch, the hands were pointed at six o�clock exactly. Opening my bag, I began my homework but never engrossed myself in it. I never saw the purpose of trigonometry, perused through history that had no impact on my life, and solved chemical equations for elements and compounds I would never come in contact with. The concepts appeared lucid but had an aloof, elusive quality about them. I would assimilate them and regurgitate them onto paper, forgetting them in a week�s time. The whole process is useless, I told myself, feeling like a machine processing strings of information that had no pattern or purpose.
For English, I had to write a poem � any poem. But I also had to make use of metaphors, similes, imagery, and alliteration � things I was learning in class. I knew my peers would hand in some trite, rhymed driveled that would declare, �My love is like the sun/ The feelings we share are one,� and make poor use of the poetic devices. But I was no omniscient scholar, who wrote shockingly profound prose and poetry. However, I wanted to write something � anything � that would not seem so banal.
The marble slabs � the
Gallows over which
He stands.
He � the prisoner and the bird
Himself, a hedonistic heretic of
The hoarse voice saying little.
You�d recognize him
Like seeing soap in the sink.
Her hands stay back
But his beckon.
To the abyss?
To the ocean?
He puts away his lighter
And heads for the faucet.
I finished and I was done. My parents and brothers were downstairs, making noise but not talking to each other. I stood up from the bed, finished my latest cigarette, and headed toward the faucet to scrub off the mascara.