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A dark abyss opens before me, spreading wider and wider, all consuming, eating the world, gaping, gaping...
Math. Quadratics. For all it means to me, it could be Arabic. I nod, uncomprehending, with a false smile signifying that I understand it all. Then stare blankly at the page, struggling to decode it all. Screw the answer, I need to know the question.
I don�t speak Arabic.
�...looking it up is not a failure,� she is saying. Ha. What the fuck does she know? She�s twenty-four years old, and she�s trying to tell me she hasn�t learned anything in all that time. What a waste of a life. She�s about to be married, and she can�t even recognize failure when it stares her in the face.
I resist the urge to swear. Or flick her off. Or punch something, anything. The math book, perhaps. If I had a pair of scissors... But I don�t. Pity.
Time�s up. The abyss fades away and for a brief two seconds, walking towards the car, alone, there are brilliant green hills stretching on and on until forever. Until I look up from all the green, and see the storm encasing me. My father. He says nothing, merely waits for me to sit down before putting the car in reverse and pulling out of the lot. Still saying nothing. My family is like that, sometimes. We don�t say anything. When we do, it doesn�t mean anything. We�re each living in our own separate worlds. It seems strange to be sharing a house. Stranger still to be related.
The acrid scent of disapproval stings my nose, my eyes, my face. I want to get out. Walk home. Walk, by myself, away from them. Sometimes, at night, I have to force myself to stay in my room. To keep myself from just slipping out, and walking anywhere, anywhere at all, just to get away from the rooms which scream their names through the silence. There is no silence in my house. Even when there�s no one home, the house still echoes with their heartbeats. They still live here. A part of the house. Running through the trees, in the darkness, at least I can get away...
The car lurches to a halt in the driveway. My father lurches everywhere. Constant speed is a concept unknown to him. His foot flutters on the accelerator, faster, slower, faster, slower, no constant, just perpetually wavering, indecisive. It used to make me sick. Now I�ve gotten used to it.
It�s time for dinner. I eat as fast as I can, wanting to flee the table and the aggravation of being trapped in the same room with all three of them at once. I�m gone in three minutes. Up to my room. Shutting the door as quickly as I can without slamming it, punching the chair a few times for good measure. I don�t know why I can�t stand them. I�d rather share a house with three tarantulas. I don�t mind tarantulas much. It�s easy to forget they�re spiders, they�re so large. Rather like some people�s parents. They�re so friendly and normal, you can almost forget they�re parents. Not mine. They ooze �parental� everywhere they go. It doesn�t help that they�re psychiatrists. Everything they say is slow, everything they do is slow, as if they�re certain that they are the only sane ones in the world and must be verrrrrrrryyyy, veeeeerrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyy careful. Molasses. And droning. Full barrels of molasses, both of them, with very small openings, so that they pour, and pour, slooowwwwwly, for what seems like forever. And just when you think that it�s empty, you find it�s still more than half full.
Molasses should be banned as a public health hazard.
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Sometimes, I wonder if there�s something wrong with me that no one�s telling me about. Like there�s a horrible disfigurement on the back of my head or neck, or somewhere I can�t see. Or I have a terminal illness. Or maybe I�m demented, or have some kind of mental illness, only I don�t know because of the fact that I have that illness, and everyone either assumes that I know or can�t bring themselves to tell me, or just figures I�d be better off not knowing. I feel like there should be something wrong, so I analyze myself trying to figure out what it is. Everything, physical, mental, emotional, environmental... I know there has to be something wrong with me. I just can�t figure out what it is.
Maybe it comes from having psychiatric parents. When you�re constantly guarding yourself and feeling analyzed, you start trying to see what they see, what they�re analyzing. Then you think there has to be some reason, and there you have it. Problem numero uno. You don�t know what it is, but you know it has to be there, somewhere. And then you find a problem, or invent one, and it slowly takes you over.
I think that�s the heart of most problems. Nothing is wrong, but people either get bored or start assuming that something has to be wrong, and then a problem is created out of nowhere and develops until the people can go, �aha! See, there is a problem!� And then they bicker about it, and it gets worse, and worse, until it really is a huge issue, and then it erupts, and voila, a war from nowhere.
Papillon
It is cold. Early March, in an unheated building. Puyallup. A fun match, hosted by the Eastside Hushpuppies. My club. I stand, in my oversized blue and gold T-shirt, looking around for someone to help. They don�t need me at concessions. Ring steward. They need another ring steward in ring three. Scurry over, pitter patter of sneakered feet consumed in the cumulative noise of the show. Dogs. Handlers. Barking, talking, shouting, whining, laughing, growling, the soft purr of fifty blow-dryers, the clanking of crates painstakingly put together. Chaos. For a dog lover, heaven. Ring two passes by. Novice obedience. Ring three coming up. Wriggling though dogs and people and expens, tripping over a leash. Sorry. Hurry. Moving onwards through the throng, pressing towards the now visible judge. Almost there. At last, finally. There. Through the mass of doggie-energized people.
The judge already has another steward. Back to the kitchen for the fifteenth time, to see if they need help. A runner, in a sense. Indirectly. Yes. Little dog up ahead. Tricolor, with its handler. I pause. Watch. Energy and love embodied in one little dog. Five months old. So I am told by the handler. Might keep it. Might not.
A papillon, it is called. It dances on the lead, its still developing ear fringe waving in a self created breeze. Black eyes shining with mischief, enjoying this new game. All of its handler�s attention, and people. And dogs. What to do with it? What to do at all? It seems to be silently giggling, as it stacks, jumps, stands again, quivering. What to do? How to please? How to win the game?
I pull myself away. Must get back. Must work, must help. Can watch dogs later. Mind can linger, but body must move on. Walk. Sneakers reluctantly resume their slow and squeaking progress back. Maybe someone needs a break. Needs someone to take over their shift. Maybe. Papillon. Lively. Scurry here, scurry there, dodge a flailing arm. Step over a dog. Ignore the endless buzz of conversation. Just walk. Think. What a dog. Papillon...