Category: Fiction for mojo 17

After a five-year relationship with a man who mirrored your every desire, the seven-o’clock date you set with Brad from the next cubicle over seems desperate. Nashville’s drunken hollers of bachelorettes and waspy plights of emotionally stunted singer-songwriters seep past Broadway, trickling their way towards you as you light a second joint in the parking garage off Church Street. You greet this commotion as a foreshadowing of your imminent demise. Consider that perhaps you’re just high.

Entering the restaurant, a glimmer of hope crosses your mind. It’s time, you think. You met Brad when you were three years into your relationship. In his late twenties, Brad suffered from a strong brow and a weak chin. Being half-Jewish and half-Turkish without the complications of a religious affiliation, your European ass thought it might be love. Recognize that you have low standards early on, it’s easier that way.

“So, Sky, tell me, where do you see yourself in five years?” Brad begins to interrogate you as he swishes and sniffs at his glass of Chardonnay. Silently hope he chokes.

“Where do I see myself?” you repeat, half-expecting for Brad to realize he sounds like your middle school therapist.

Brad nods before spitting his wine back into its glass. Seizing your waiter’s arm for the third time, he questions if his lamb chop will come out medium-rare as the last time he dined with them it had certainly not.“Burnt to a crisp,” he cries out.

You were a server for three years in college. Fantasize about burning Brad to a crisp. Brad orders another Chardonnay– “One that doesn’t taste like the Sahara going down,” he says, chuckling at his own joke.

Excuse yourself to the bathroom. Know he probably prefers the term, “ladies’ room.” You reach the side exit and navigate around to the staff entrance. Slump to the cement sidewalk as your back grates against the brick exterior, reminding you what it’s like to feel something for once. Pull out a vaporizer from your purse, freshly packed, and take three hits of whatever strain your junior-year dealer just sold you. Laugh at the thought of how long you’re taking, and how Brad is probably horrified at the thought of you excusing yourself to take a shit on your first date. A cute waiter saunters outside and asks you for a light. Wish you were a smoker and offer him some of your weed instead. He takes a hit. He has green eyes and a five-o’clock shadow. Feel overwhelmed with the tantalizing prospect of leaving Brad alone at the table with his overcooked lamb and dry wine while you shag the cute waiter in his car.

Decide being whorish is better than being lonely.

Exchange names and numbers. After that’s over, say, “Nice meeting you,” and bite your lower lip for effect.

“Sky,” the waiter says, letting out a small exhale, “Has anyone ever told you that you kind of have a sexy Steve Jobs thing going on?”

Look down at your black turtleneck. Adjusting your glasses, return inside and toss the waiter’s number in the trash. You seriously doubt your ability to live up to Steve Jobs in bed. Walking over, you see that Brad has sent his lamb back.

You’re lying there with your head propped up on three pillows as you wipe at the dried mascara speckled underneath your lash line. Feel as if you’re wasting away. Sprawl the abrasive blanket your dead grandmother knitted for communion across your lap. Flick your toes together and then apart to lessen the sweat between them, while your shoulders shrink from the morning frost leaking in through the threadbare walls.

Relax your jaw. Say, “I’m going to be an artist.” Let these words comfort you, relieve you of the panic you felt last night while you dread returning to work in twenty-one hours. Flip onto your stomach and shove your face into the pillows. Wish you’d never accepted Brad’s offer, that you’d said you had the flu or preferred the labia majora.

Mutter, “I’m never going to be an artist,” into your pillows. Lift yourself up. Braless and pantless, throw on a faux fur coat before shuffling over to the sink. Wash your face and comb your hair. It’s too tangled for your comb to get through. Put it up in a bun.

Say hello to your cat. He ignores you. Feed him and fill his water anyway. Flip the ON switch on your Mr. Coffee. Throw open the refrigerator door too hard, hitting the wall, knocking your mason jar of charcoal and brushes onto the floor. Glare at the glass shards and scattered brushes. Think they’re mocking you. The brushes are brittle and unkempt, without having water or paint on them in eight months. Your cat mews and prances towards the glass. Cart him away and fetch a broom. Kneel down and sweep at the shards. Strands of your hair free themselves from the elastic, and you glance into the floor-length mirror crookedly hanging from the wall. Observe a gray hair as it flickers in and out of your focus, the sunlight penetrating through the wavering blinds. Understand you are your seven-year-old self’s worst nightmare. Decide at twenty-two you are Cruella de Vil.

Your phone violently buzzes on the kitchen counter. Hurriedly sweep up the remaining glass and dispose of it. Your phone shatters on the floor to the left of the strewn brushes.

Exclaim shit, shit, shit, shit. It’s your mother.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Define ‘okay.’”

She tells you that she’s worried about you, that you look “sick and too pale” in your latest profile picture on Facebook.

Say, “It’s February.”

“Well, you need to eat something,” she says.

Ask if eating something will remedy your paleness.

She queries if you’ve been seeing any men.

 Lie and say no. The date with Brad is still too fresh of a memory to be amusing.

She asks if you’ve gone from being bisexual to a lesbian now. She says, “I’m sixty-two. I don’t know how these things work.” Inform her that you have a migraine and need to go. She ignores you and inquires how your painting is going.

Swipe your badge so the tiny arm lifts, and park your car in your designated parking garage. You make fifteen dollars an hour, so your designated parking garage is the economy lot. Spend your mornings envying the bastards who are on salary and park in the 401k parking garage. Hate that at twenty-two your goals revolve around which parking garage you get to park in.

Exit your car and take a swig from your SimplyInsurancethermos. The cap isn’t screwed on, so your organic blonde roast with almond milk hurls itself against your sheer blouse. Bellow profanities across the economy parking garage. The other hourly employees regard you with fear and confusion as they hurry out of their cars and huddle into the elevator past its maximum capacity.

Despite the awkward date, Brad seems unaffected by it at work. He smiles when you come in and brings you a coffee after you recount the thermos nightmare. Worry you’re always demanding on first dates, how you’ve been told you expect too much. Brad isn’t an entirely dreadful man. Let it register that he can see through your shirt.

“Did you do anything fun this weekend?” your co-worker Janis asks you, leaning over the walls of your cubicle, infecting your area with the vacant smell of children and RedBull. Fake it, just like you do every day. Notify Janis that you had a great weekend and offer no specific details. She adores your vague and positive response. She says she’d love to see one of your “art things sometime.

Hear the words, “Sure thing,” escape your mouth, and bury yourself in short-term disability claims.

Someone else microwaves and consumes your six-dollar organic pesto tortellini lunch. Remember that episode from Friends where Ross’ boss eats his turkey sandwich. Think of having a mental breakdown like Ross– the pros being that you would get a paid leave-of-absence and a Valium, the cons being that no one wants to be a Ross. Venture down to the cafeteria and pay ten dollars for a protein bar and some almonds.

It’s one fifty-three, and your boss Megan, “without an ‘h,’” mentions to you that it’s fine to make mistakes, but mistakes must be remedied in a timely manner. Megan remarks that you should really smile more. Suspect that bitch of microwaving your pesto tortellini.

Arrive home and hug your cat. He purrs. Think at least someone missed you.

Pour two shots of gin and slump on the sofa your ex purchased four years into the relationship. Think about how you tried to return it, the same way you struggled to return all of the things you’d bought together a month after he ended things. Leave your drink on the floor untouched since you returned the coffee table seven months ago. Wander around your two-bedroom apartment. The Christmas lights you strung around the living room together in the second year hang motionless. Their shadows never change, the spiral pattern you centered on the main wall now reads as childish, or perhaps just stale. Old canvases your figure painting professor determined held, “little room for potential,” lay stacked against the corner.

Contemplate calling him. Don’t think of how long it’s been since the last time you talked to him, let alone since the last time you guys had sex. Call someone else. You need moral support. Try your sister. Voicemail. Say, “What about Brad?” Don’t allow yourself such liberties.

Pick up your gin and muster a swig. Your cat hops onto the sofa and stretches beside you. He kneads biscuits on your thighs, purring complacently, unaware of what a troubled life you lead. Think of your neighbor, Claire. Think, maybe I’ll have more luck with a woman. But, Claire doesn’t know your name, and you’ve only seen men exit Claire’s door. Assess the fact that you’ve never even been with a woman. Some bisexual you are.

Try to read a book. It’s a mystery novel. You’re not in the mood for mysteries. Decide that if Barnes and Noble isn’t bankrupted by the weekend, you’ll go browse their Self-Help section– consider crying at the thought.

Your phone vibrates.

Forty-five minutes later, Brad arrives at your door, wearing a fitted cashmere sweater and Doc Martens. You let him in anyway. He removes a copy of Infinite Jest from his satchel and places it next to him. This strikes you as odd. Wonder whether Brad thinks you invited him over for book club, or if reading David Foster Wallace aloud is simply his idea of foreplay. He notices your paintings in the corner and rattles off the Wiki entry for Ignacio Zuloaga, about how he was a true Spanish painter unlike the “silly little pieces” from Picasso or Dali.

Regret every decision that led you to this point. Realize that kissing Brad may be the only option to get him to shut the fuck up.

The sex isn’t bad, but good wouldn’t be the proper word to describe it. Realize after he finishes that he’s going to bring this up at the office tomorrow, that he has probably already told your coworkers about the date, how now you’re going to be referred to as the SimplyInsurance slut, or worse, as Brad’s girlfriend. Revel in your masochistic tendencies. Perhaps, they will build up your character. In the name of artistic suffering, you allow Brad to stay another hour so you can have sex again.

Brad leaves at eleven-thirty. He gives you a smoldering kiss at the door, then says, “God, I just want to eat you alive.”

Lock your door and fasten the deadbolt. Bask in the scalding heat of a forty-minute shower. Scrub the Brad off of you. Ignore that there’s a drought in Tennessee right now. You didn’t finish either time, but you’re too exhausted to use your vibrator.

Consider calling your ex. Know it’s too late.

Make eye contact with the box on the bookshelf. The “Box of Memories,” he’d deemed it. It was a cigar box that you’d given him on your fourth Christmas together after he was hospitalized for a stroke, when you decided to drop out of art school. You typed out all of the tragic and coincidental moments you shared together, placing the slips of paper and a Bukowski poem into the cigar box.

Remember how he pretended not to hear you when you asked the first time if he wanted to take it with him when he moved out, about how when you asked him the second time, he turned towards you with the stature of a man you couldn’t recall having ever met.

Turn off the lights. Lay in bed. Flip from one side to the other, hoping to perish in your sleep. Wake up disappointed. Get out of bed; turn on the lights. Remove the box off the shelf and rifle through each one: The homeless woman in Haight-Ashbury who accused you of being a Confederate soldier. When you ran into the freezer door, and I thought you were dead. That time we didn’t think the cocaine was enough …

Carefully place each memory back in the box as the last remains of hope leftover from your adolescence disintegrate. Think about the high school guidance counselor who left you with the false promise that you could be anything you wanted to be.

In college I wore giant black T-shirts and spent Friday nights wandering around campus, taking photos of gutter debris and poorly lit obelisks. I was too cowardly to photograph people, such as the staggering sorority pledges with mascara streaming down their necks or the gamers hunched over their computers in the basement of the Student Union. One time I stumbled across a flock of Lambda Theta frat boys abducting construction barriers for a party, but all I did was crouch behind a dumpster and watch.

In truth I wasn’t a photographer at all. I’d grown up on a sparsely populated island in the Pacific Northwest, and with my bad skin and hard gaze, I wasn’t the type of person to confront a live subject. The camera simply allowed me to edge closer to something while shielding my face from their inevitable scrutiny.

My photos never came out right either. They were either oddly blurry or completely static, as if the subjects were imprisoned in a mold-covered museum. I blamed my cheap camera with its scratched lens, but I in fact had no idea how to use the settings. I just kept opening and closing the shutter and hoped something would stick.

Still, I developed the film, almost out of spite, and whenever I finished a roll I got on my bike and rode to the nearest Rite Aid, crossing the border between the university and the neighboring paper mill town. I would stick the film in the slot, ride back to my dorm, then pedal back 48 hours later to collect it.

Toward the middle of the first semester my sophomore year, the woman who was ringing up my order said, “The shots of the trees are real nice.”

I didn’t think the clerks were supposed to admit that they looked at your pictures, and she was lying anyway, but it was the first praise I’d ever received for my artistic endeavors. I was standing there wondering if I should file a complaint or just run away when she went on saying that her father had once been a foreman at the paper plant.

“Let me show you some real trees sometime,” she said, “the big ones.”

My disbelief must have been obvious and should have embarrassed her, but her behavior was unhurried, her mannerisms clinical. Her name tag read Eileen. “I got your number right here,” she said, tapping on the form with a long, robin’s-egg-blue fingernail.

The person behind me coughed impatiently. I took my overexposed photos and left. I was pretty sure I was being put on.

She did call though, a couple days later.

“Just wondering, but how old are you?” I asked her on the phone, my heart halfway up my throat.

“Thirty-seven years young,” she said, which surprised me. I’d assumed she was in her mid-forties.

“I’m twenty,” I said, rounding up ten months.

She coughed and said, “That’s the best age, doll.”

I wasn’t a virgin, but my experiences had been limited to a few bumbling dalliances with a chubby, equally terrified freshman the year prior. Eileen was eighteen years older than me.

I agreed to go. Not because I liked Eileen, but because she’d seen my face—and had still called. I wasn’t vaccinated as a child, and chicken pox and years of acne had ravaged my skin, leaving behind a topography of divots and pockmarks. Add to it my prodigious brow and large, wide-set eyes, and I was aware that I had slightly manic bearing.

Eileen offered to pick me up outside my dorm. I wasn’t sure if the sight of me climbing into a battered silver Lumina driven by a woman almost twice my age would titillate my dorm-mates or merely give them more fodder, but I opted for the latter. I said we could meet at the gas station just beyond campus.

We didn’t check out any trees on our date though. Instead Eileen took me to a gray-market complex of slapdash eateries, unsanctioned events, and a slew of random enterprises. It was situated in a former factory surrounded by abandoned potato fields in which barns sat wilting and huge insects bounded across the field in long noisy arcs. A rickety freight elevator with a gaping hole in the floor carried us to the top level. By the time we’d arrived, Eileen’s arm was hooked through mine. A few more minutes and my hand was against the small of her back. All the while my camera slapped against my chest like a massive, misshapen pendant.

We moved from booth to booth to see what “her people” were hawking: crafts, antiques, cranberry this, lobster that. It was interesting, but I couldn’t focus. My hand somehow ended up in Eileen’s back pocket, her tight little ass pumping against my palm.

“Starting to feel like spring,” she said.

Though I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, the slant in her smile made it clear. 

We then made our way to the basement level where, she claimed, the best food was sold. We sat at a poorly constructed picnic table and had some slushy fruit drinks and vegetable fritters while her friends cooed and teased us from afar. They were a different breed of townies, bereft of teeth, wearing auto repair jumpsuits and cleaning uniforms, sallow and weary-looking. One woman was pushing a wheelchair with a doll on the seat; Eileen gave her a hug, then asked the doll, Clarabelle, how she was feeling today.

“She wants ice cream,” the woman said on the doll’s behalf, “but she had some yesterday.”

Back at the table Eileen said to me, “She had three miscarriages before her uterus simply quit and walked off. And then her man Carl Robert up and walked off too.” Eileen gave me a sympathetic look and squeezed my hand. “I know, I know.”

I thought her friends would eventually grow bored and venture off, but they stood there transfixed, commenting in loud whispers about our every move.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” I said, sweating.

“Do whatcha gotta,” Eileen said, winking.

***

In the bathroom I wiped my forehead dry and fixed up my hair. What did people see when they saw Eileen and I together? Me in my black attire and low-wattage scowl, and Eileen with her concomitant youthfulness and decay, her scarred-up knuckles, her hair bleached such a bright yellow it glowed under fluorescent lights, her long legs working furiously within those tubelike jeans.

I was finishing up at the urinal when a guy on a motorized scooter crept up behind me. His girth spread beyond the cart’s wheelbase, but his smile was shrewd—photogenic, even. 

“You with Eileen?” he said.

“We came together, if that’s what you mean.”

“Woah, woah. No need to get angry.”

I zipped up but remained facing the wall, hoping he’d leave. “Who’s angry?”

“I’m just saying. You probably don’t know her. We do. Know what I mean?”

The stink of sour feet and rotting food hovered, but I couldn’t be sure if it was the bathroom or the man. “I don’t. Eileen’s just showing me some of the local haunts.”

“During the fireworks one summer,” he said, lost in reverie, “her hair caught fire. What a sight. Know who put it out?” The guy jerked his thumb toward a small fire extinguisher strapped to his bumper and laughed. “She was white as a clown afterwards and couldn’t breathe right, but she’s still with us, thank the Lord.”

I gave my hands a swipe on my shirt and was about to breeze past when the guy saw my camera.

“You gonna take my picture or what?” he said.

“I, uh—yes. Ok.”

He twisted in his seat to present a full set of dentures. “Just make sure you get my good side.”

I flipped off the lens cap. “Say ‘Aw jeez.’”

The guy laughed so hard his glasses tumbled off his face and into his lap.

When I was done capturing him, he extended a small, soft hand for a shake. “Nice to meet you,” I said, and perhaps for the first time in my life meant it.

When I found Eileen, I leaned in and kissed her. She gave it a moment, then pulled away.

“You can use one of my toothbrushes,” she said. “I get them free at work.”

***

Back at her modular unit, the bedside lamp was already on and a bottle of lubricant sat at the ready. Eileen tossed aside the heart-shaped pillow and peeled back the pale-yellow sheets, faded from years of drying in the sun.

What we did was not lovemaking. It was fucking—not animalistic but coldly recreational. Eileen, for her part, was patient if not pandering, though at times it was creepily instructional. “Crawl closer,” she said in round one. “Smaller circles,” she muttered at one point. “Think of me as a rainbow.”

And while Eileen didn’t need the lube, by ten o’clock I’d been rubbed raw and just wanted to go home and sleep. Eileen slipped into a pink bathrobe, then put on a cassette tape of all-time-best country hits and settled onto her scratchy brown couch with a gin and tonic—though when I asked for one, she refused.

“You’re underage,” she said. “Now let me relax a moment, hon’, and then we’ll get you home to hit the books.”

As I dressed, I stole glances at the décor. Her home had no photos, paintings, or bits of art, save for four taxidermied crows and some ceramic blobs that were probably supposed to be angels. I assumed I’d never seen her again, that this was some sort of one-off conquest for her, and got out my camera and started documenting it all.

I badly wanted to photograph Eileen too—something to carry with me from city to city over the years. I’d ensconce it in a secret spot so that every once in a while I’d stumble across it and think, Holy shit—Eileen. I’d be reacquainted with those dark eyes in ponds of blue eye shadow, the pale lip gloss, the scars where a man had broken her wrist for reasons unexplained. But whenever I pointed my camera at her, Eileen blocked the lens and her face clouded over.

“This ain’t for us,” she said. “I’m not going in time.”

“What?”

“Get dressed. I gotta work in the ay-em.”

***

That wasn’t our last date, however. Our second was a movie followed by pancakes at a 24-hour truck stop followed by sex in her car. On our third date, she took me to meet the matriarchs.

“Now listen, William,” Eileen said on the drive there, “you go right ahead and get used to the fact that Ma’s got a big old spirit of hate inside her. You can call her June or Mrs. Farwell but don’t call her Junie. That’s for close folks. And don’t say nothing about the wars, because Junie loves the troops defending our freedoms overseas.”

I’d originally balked at the absurdity of lunch at her mother’s house, but that sick new photographer’s curiosity welled up in me—except she demanded I leave the camera in the car.

“I—I can’t. I need it for—an assignment.”

At this she snorted, then stuck her gum in the pink wad already weighing down the ashtray. “I’ll write your teacher a note. Ok, hon’?”

Her mother’s obesity blotted out telltale signs of aging, making her and Eileen seem more like sisters. Mrs. Farwell worked as an administrator at the university I attended, which was troublesome. After welcoming us at the threshold, she waddled over to her thronelike armchair, pulled her TV tray closer, and commenced eating while taking in the latest college hockey game.

Eileen’s grandmother, a sweetly smiling woman, sat unspeaking in a much-smaller armchair in the corner. As I shook her hand, I don’t think I’d ever felt so disembodied from my own past.

“Burgers are done,” Eileen’s mother said, jutting her chin toward the kitchen.

“We brought our own.”

Eileen went off to prepare our turkey burgers. Her grandmother and I stared at the television and listened to Eileen’s mother chewing.

“This putz just can’t get off his backside,” her mother said while jabbing her fork at the TV. “Why is he even playing?”

“King is injured,” I said. I knew nothing about hockey but had seen the headline a few days earlier while eating alone in the dining hall.

“That’s right,” she said. “No wonder.”

She set her tray aside when the game heated up. “Our” team came close to scoring, but it was a near miss. I joined her in bemoaning their fate. 

“Their skates are too sharp,” I said. I had no idea what I was talking about, but she laughed.

“You got that right. Where did you say you work?”

“I’m at the university, Mrs. Farwell.”

“Which department?”

“Oh, uh, Liberal Arts.”

“What’s your title?”

“Title?”

“He’s a student, Ma,” Eileen said as she returned.

In the corner, Eileen’s grandmother smiled and wrung her hands together. Her skin was magnificently textured, and I briefly considered fetching my camera and risking offense.

“Ah,” her mother said. “Eileen’s robbing the cradle again.”

“Ma, come on.”

Her mother shrugged, picked up a large green tub, and held it toward me. “You do pudding?”

“No thank you, Mrs. Farwell.”

“Oh, stop it. Call me Junie.”

Eileen scoffed. I shrugged, reaching for the spoon, but that wasn’t what she had in mind: she was feeding me. I leaned over, and Eileen’s mother slid a spoonful of goop into my mouth.

When the game was over, Eileen got up to clear the trays and her mother leaned over the edge of her armchair and said, “What’re you doing with someone like her?”

“It just sort of happened.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

Eileen’s grandmother grunted with displeasure in the corner.

I shrugged again. “She’s fun to be with.”

“She makes you feel like a man, huh? I get it. I was with an older guy when I was young. That’s how Eileen came along.”

I nodded, unsure if any suitable response existed.

“Think about it,” she continued. “She doesn’t have skills for anything other than crap jobs. Young ones like you are her only excitement. You make her youth flow, if you know what I mean.”

Eileen’s grandmother shook her head and moaned quietly.

“She’s affable,” I said, “and has a lot of friends and—”

“Those losers are mostly former coworkers and classmates. Nah. If they were drowning, she’d be too worried about chipping a nail to throw them a life ring. Listen to me, hon, you—”

We heard Eileen’s heels transition from the kitchen linoleum to the carpeted living room.

“Is she chewing your ear off?” Eileen asked.

“Just getting to know one another,” I said, standing.

Eileen gave her grandmother a kiss on the cheek, then her mother.

“It’s been a real pleasure,” Eileen said and dragged me out of there.

***

In the days after that date, I called her trailer, but with no answering machine, the phone just rang and rang. Her neighbors probably could have heard it; it was likely something they heard often.

From then on I took my film to Shop ‘n Save, which had a better lab anyways. I was locking up my bicycle outside the store a couple weeks later when I spotted Eileen crossing the parking lot with her arm around some guy. By then I could have recognized her strut through a telescope—a nasty cock of the hips as each foot hit the pavement, a noticeable give in her lower back from two decades in high heels, legs as thin a model’s but stiffer and slightly bowed. The guy looked older, clearly an upperclassman. A bit fat, he was wearing a flannel shirt tucked into Carhartts—practically the fraternity uniform—and his thick brown hair caught the breeze. They stopped beside his red Jeep, kissed a while, then climbed in and drove off in a puff of blue exhaust.

I might have cried as I pedaled back to my dorm room, but it could have been the wind. I lay on my bed the rest of the day wondering if a leap from the fourth story would be enough to kill a person. The feeling was quickly usurped by relief, however. I wondered if I should get an STD test.

The phone rang in the middle of the night—Eileen was an insomniac—and I caught it on the first ring.

“Whatcha doing this weekend?” she asked.

“Are you serious? I saw you with some slick-haired rapist from one of the fraternities.”

“Oh, hon’.”

“Which one was it? Sigma Nu? Kappa Zappa Lambda?”

“Yes, I see other people.”

“Why? I thought we were a thing.”

I think she snickered. “Look, hon’, I’m a modern lady and—”

“Modern? You?”

I heard her sip something. I pictured her clutching a gin and tonic. Her curlers would be clamped to her bangs, her jeans and heels in a pile beside the couch, the crows watching over her shoulder. “What does that mean?” she said.

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“Say it or be a coward.”

I turned on the light and sat at my desk. “You really shouldn’t look at other people’s photos at work, you know. They’re private.”

“Don’t be foolish. You’re always sticking that camera in people’s faces and clicking away. You’re practically begging for someone to look at them.” She sipped, coughed. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Some are for show and some aren’t. I have to pick the good ones. It’s art.”

“Don’t you worry about that, youngster. Take lots of bad ones before you get the good ones. It’s just like love.” She laughed, coughed. “Now tell me your last name so that down the road I can find your pictures.”

I told her my full name.

“Fine. That’s a real rememberer of a name. You should be proud of it.” She took another sip, said, “Well, William Byars, I hope one day to see you among my people.”

She hung up.

“Your people?” I said to the dead phoneline.

It took me days to realize she meant the magazine.

In dark parks, after hours, impromptu funerals crop up like dandelions in flower gardens. Everywhere I look, there are people cradling candles in star-like clusters, weeping, clutching ratty dog toys, and hugging strangers to their bosom.

I don’t seek comfort in this midnight vigil—I’m not sure I deserve it. I don’t want a slobbering, snotty stranger clutching onto me, telling me it’s okay, we’re gonna get through this, we didn’t kill the stars with our arrogance, we didn’t we didn’t we didn’t.

Constellations first cried their swan-song nine years ago. But for us, down here, it’s been only a month. Orion died first, followed by Sirius, his dog. A coincidence that echoes all those pseudo-inspirational stories about dogs following their owners everywhere, even into the afterlife. I think about my dog, how he was stupid enough to get run over by a semi-truck last year, and I was stupid enough to cry in bed for weeks.

The sky is darker than usual even by city standards. Where do stars go in the afterlife? Probably the same place we visit when we fall asleep. Which is why I haven’t been sleeping much, lately. Too scared of the dark, too proud to use a nightlight.

Deeper into the park, near the swing-set glinting rusty red, I find another outsider. Like me, he’s not part of the sobbing people-clusters. The tip of his cigarette burns through the dark that will soon become all we know.

He expels a cloud of herbal smoke into my face. Hands me his cigarette. I think about absent god and hopeless rituals of mollification.

“Are you going to tell me everything’s gonna be okay?” I ask.

“No.” His warm laughter snags against the goose-bumps of my skin. “I was about to welcome you to the end times.”

I wring out the mop in the brackish bucket and drag the mop’s tendrils across the gray tile floor. I scrub at a sugary spot of cola. In my mind, I replay what the doctor said, about how what I had wanted for so long would never be possible for me, and how my eyes fixated on the short stack of manila folders on his desk, at the dusty colored rubber bands cinching the folders together.

The parking lot outside the gas station is empty except for my bruised Buick and Celeste’s pickup. A few of the lights next to the pumps are burnt out, and have been for a while. The night sky spits down on our cars. If I stare at the windows, I can see myself hunched over the bucket, my hair frizzy from the moisture in the air, a jacket zipped up to my throat.

As I drag the bucket to the next aisle, Celeste’s phone blows up, and Chet Faker’s “Cigarettes and Chocolate” screams from the tiny speakers. She answers, talking too loud for the middle of the night. I watch her twirl her pink gum around the end of her finger.

“I can’t ditch until Ollie gets here,” she says into her phone. “Because of the robbery?” She laughs.

Eight months ago, the gas station was robbed by a new age Bonnie and Clyde. The girl working the register said they were a handsome couple: a pretty girl, a model type, and a man with a tattoo behind his ear and spreading like a rash on his neck. Now, the manager, Dee, said there always has to be two of us working the graveyard shift. I don’t mind the company, but today I can’t seem to snap out of the daze fogging my head. When Celeste and I work together, she always yaps the whole time, either to me or to one of her boyfriends on the phone—she always seems to be talking to some new guy, and the same information assails my ears like a bad record. My mom’s house is a launch point for my greater success; I’ve got an idea for a hot new product, the likes of which QVC hasn’t seen, but I can’t tell you, I’ve heard patents are hard to come by. She’s always working on some product or another, and leaving the skeletal mock-ups and flyers she makes around the station when she leaves.

Headlights careen across the store and the car halts in one of the spots in front. Exhaust huffs against the glass doors. Celeste comes around the side of the counter, her station shirt bunched tight around her post-baby squish. Her dark hair is braided down the nape of her neck. Piercings cling to her ear, too many to count. I remember when I used to be 22 and jaded and beautiful like her.

“Why so quiet, Leigh-Ann? You’ve been walking around here like a zombie,” Celeste says as the bell dings over the front door and in walks Ollie with his hood over his head, his parka slick with the rain.

“Acting the part for the graveyard shift,” I say. Ollie unzips his jacket and shakes it over the mat near the door. I want to hand him the mop, see how he likes mopping up dirt and disgusting wet things.

“Nothing ever dries here,” Ollie says. “It’s so damn wet.”

Ollie’s a transplant, originally from Minneapolis, but he’s been here too long to use comments about Bellingham’s weather as conversation fodder. His backpack is slung over his arm, the strap tight on his shoulder. He’s a student at Whatcom County Community college, and I know from the heft of his bag that he’s got his textbooks in there.

“Bye, losers,” Celeste says and darts out the door before we can say anything. I can barely concentrate, but I’m not tired. My shoes squeak when I move.

It takes me two hours to mop because I’m procrastinating. I know when I finish I have to clean the bathrooms, and I don’t even want to see the horror that’s in store for me. Ollie is reading some glossy covered book at the register, sipping out of a thermos.

I take my break early, ducking out back by the dumpsters. Because of the wet, it doesn’t reek like it usually does. I fish a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket and light one, thankful that it’s mostly just misting now. I remember what it felt like in Dr. Flores’ office, the chair’s wooden arm hard under my elbow, the feeling that my ass was falling through the chair, all the way to the ground.

I watch smoke puff from my mouth. Aidan’s face springs into my mind. I see him as he left: his hair in a ponytail tucked into the neck of his shirt, his hands nervously clenching the straps of his duffel bag. I feel his mouth on mine, and I smell his cologne, dripping with bergamot. Since he left, I have slept poorly, waking to the feeling of his hands on my waist, his back against mine, but when I open my eyes it is dark and I can’t feel him anymore.

A baby’s cry peals through the night. The sound is probably in my head; I wonder how long it has been since I last slept well. I stumble forward and grind my cigarette under my boot. It has begun raining again, the droplets splattering my forehead and neck. I peer over the side of the dumpster. Next to a Nestle Crunch wrapper and a used condom, there is a baby, crying its head off, cheeks and skin pink from the cold. I step away from the dumpster.

My head spins. It is the middle of the night, and there is a baby in the trash. A lump jumps in my throat, and I almost cry. I press my hand to my lips and inch forward. I can’t believe this.

Sitting amongst the black trash bags, toilet paper rolls, and food wrappings, a tiny child, with downy brown hair, and a slip of pink tongue in a black mouth. I lift the baby up, feeling the cool skin damp from the weather. The child touches my hair, reaches for my breasts. I give her my finger instead.

I stare at this baby, press her close to my body. Her eyes are the blue of the chlorinated pools I swim in at the Y. She is light. She does not seem scared of me at all, or unhappy that she was just in a smelly dumpster with used napkins and plastic twist-off soda caps.

I can’t leave this baby here. I won’t. I try to think quickly, but each thought stutters, and my hands shake. I pull out my phone. Half past three; I have two more hours until my shift ends. But this baby might get pneumonia, or some disease burrowing in the trash bags or clinging to the side of the dumpster. I put the baby back in the dumpster, and I take one last look at her. We’re both nothing. 

I run back inside. Ollie glances up from his book.

“You’re excited,” he states.

“I’ve got to go,” I say.

“Okay,” says Ollie. “Where you going?”

“It’s an emergency. Don’t tell anyone I left early.”

Ollie laughs. “Who cares? As long as we don’t get robbed, no one will notice.”

I grab my purse from the back room. Ollie doesn’t look up as I leave. I root through my car for the crushed cardboard box Aidan and I used when we sold his cousin’s puppies off the highway. I tuck the box in the space between the passenger seat and the front of the car, and I take my jacket off and stuff it inside.

She feels lighter this time as I reach for her. Her diaper is heavy and smells, but maybe it’s from the trash. She wears a pale pink onesie spotted with delicate crescent moons. I reach out to touch the floof on her head, which reminds me of the day I went over to my mom’s house and she nuzzled a chick into my hand. The thrum of life, she said. I reached out a finger and petted the chick softly on the back; I was afraid to press down too hard. She’s hardier than you’d think, my mother said, her eyes on mine. All small things are. When my mother died, she left behind 50 chickens, bobbing their heads and running around and kicking up their own shit.

I name her Pearl. I place her in the box, and wrap the sleeves of my jacket around her chubby legs. She doesn’t make a sound on the way back to my house. I hold the edge of the box with the tips of my fingers as I drive. At the stoplights, the windshield wipers beat against the glass and I look down at her, and she smiles at me, like she’s just learning to do it. I wonder what Aidan would say. I imagine him tucking Pearl into his flannel shirt, kissing the top of her soft head with his stubbled mouth.

At home, I throw out her old diaper and her onesie. I wet a washcloth with warm water and run it over her skin, cleansing the stink of garbage from her. I cut an old towel into strips and tie it around her in the crude shape of a diaper. I do some research while she gurgles in her box. I look in the kitchen for something she can eat. I find a browning banana and I mash it in a bowl with a fork. I sit her up in my lap and push the spoon toward her mouth. I inhale the smell of her soft hair, which still smells good, like baby soap. She kicks her legs. She doesn’t eat much of the banana, but she takes a few bites and does not choke.

I call Aidan, even though it is too early for him to be awake. He doesn’t answer. Pearl falls asleep in my arms watching cartoons. There are no babies reported missing according to the news and amber alerts. No one is missing this baby.

I take Pearl into my bedroom where I lay her down on the rumpled bed. I lie next to her. I have read somewhere not to sleep next to babies, because you might crush them, but I don’t sleep much so I am not afraid of falling asleep. I watch her chest rise as she breathes.

Thank you, I tell the ceiling. When I was little, I taped a picture of God on the ceiling so I could see him before I went to sleep and always know who I was praying to. The picture showed an animated version of God, with long white hair like Santa Claus and his arms outstretched, light pouring from his fingertips. I can’t help but think Pearl is a miracle, although I have not prayed in years.

Every fifteen minutes, I call Aidan again. At 5 a.m. he picks up, his voice fuzzy from sleep. I rush out of the room so I won’t wake Pearl, but I stay in the doorway so I can keep an eye on her.

“You said to call if anything changed,” I say. I laugh.

“Are you high?” he asked. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Get rid of her,” I say. I try not to think about the slender figure in his bed. “Get over here. Bring formula.”

“Are you babysitting?” he asks.

“Better,” I say. I hang up.

I pick her up and settle her in my arms. She doesn’t wake. I stroke the back of her head. I head to the kitchen and burn the papers the doctor gave me, a bunch of mumbo jumbo certificates of inadequacy. They don’t mean anything now. I throw the papers in the sink and listen to the paper crinkle as the flame devours it. The smell is gratifying. I run the water and mash the ashes down the drain with the end of a spoon.  I look out the window and wait. I am not sure if he will come. Longing rises in my throat. I stare at the driveway for what feels like a long time.

When I see him, I fight the urge to run to him, to throw myself at him, to say, take me, take me or throw me away. If I can’t be yours I don’t want to be mine. As he climbs out of his truck, I return to the bedroom and set Pearl back on the bed. She hasn’t rolled over yet, but I pile pillows around her just in case.

His face looks stern when I open the front door, but he’s carrying the jar of formula under his arm.

“I’m no mule,” he says, shoving the jar of formula at me.

I tell him to follow me to the bedroom, and he doesn’t make any jokes. He must know something is different. He walks easy through my house, like he did when he used to live here, like the world owes him something. He is quiet when he sees her on the bed.

“Is this a joke?” he asks.

“A miracle,” I say. “I found her in the trash. No one is looking for her.”

He falls on his knees next to the bed. He reaches out a hand and strokes her hair, the top of her hand. He is more gentle than I thought.

“Okay,” he says, and I know that this moment is special, that he has agreed to something. My heart swells, and I want to embrace him and breathe in his smell, but we haven’t spoken in six months. I’m not sure how to be around him anymore. I don’t know what I am to him. But I know what he is to Pearl. A father.

***

Dee has me restocking the candy aisle, stuffing slick Hershey’s bars into their box on the shelf. Last night, we stuffed Spirit into the DVD player, and Pearl smiled and squirmed like she was trying to dance. “Here I Am” is stuck in my mind, and my hips sway as I stuff the packages of fruit rings onto the hook. Ollie’s working the register and playing a computer game. If Dee knew, he’d be angry, but we don’t get many customers anyway.

Sun streams through the windows, illuminating the film of dirt and pollen on the glass. Potholes spot the parking lot, and a poster someone attached to one of the pumps flaps in the wind.

Pearl has been with us for two days. Yesterday, I scuffled around, keeping my eyes down. I checked the news incessantly. But no one has reported a baby missing, and if they haven’t yet, I doubt they will. Last night, I started clearing the room full of all my Mom’s old crap: her golf discs, her collection of baseball caps, her old tax returns and boxes of receipts. When she died, I moved into her house, and stuffed a lot of her belongings into one of the bedrooms. One of her friends took all the chickens, and now the coop lays vacant in the yard. 

A pale man with a head of corn-colored hair enters the gas station and the bell over the door jingles faintly. He wears tight gray jeans and a baggy T-shirt with holes on the shoulders. His arms are tatted up; I spot a dragon, a cross, and a compass, all in colorful ink, like a box of markers exploded on the pale paper of his skin.

 “S’cuse me,” he says. He rubs the back of his head. “Where’s your trash dumpster?”

My heart stutters. I hope this man is just another addict, come to shoot up in the bathroom.

 Ollie glances up. “Around back,” he says. “It’s employees only.”

The blond man touches a Bellingham Bay postcard on the carousel. One flits to the floor and he kicks it with his sneaker.

“Listen, I’m looking for my kid,” he says. He clears his throat. “My ex said she got rid of her.”

I drop a bag of pretzels on the floor. My hands tremble as I pick it up.

“So you’re looking in the dumpster?” Ollie asks incredulously.

“She said she put her in the dumpster here,” the man says. “Please, you’ve gotta help me. She’s my little girl.”

“I’m calling the police,” Ollie says. He reaches for his cell phone.

“No, wait!” the man says. “I’ve got a little charge. It’s nothing, but I can’t get custody. Those fucking lawyers are sharks, always trying to steal your kids from you.”

“Did you kill someone?” Ollie asks. “Isn’t it that you walk past like 60 murderers in your lifetime?”

“I’ll take you to the dumpster,” I say.  I gesture for him to follow me, and I push out the employee exit.

He looks in the dumpster, uses his bare hand to sift a couple of bags back and forth. He rubs his hands on his jeans, sighs. I watch him carefully. From the way he is swallowing, hard, I think he might be trying not to cry.

“You got cameras here?” he asks. He points to one fixed to the side of the building.

“Just for show,” I say. Dee is too cheap to fix them, even after we were robbed.

“I’ll give you my card, in case you hear anything,” he says.

 A tatted up man in a t-shirt with a business card?

 He hands me the card. Miles Blake. Consumerist and Philanthroper.   

“You’re rich?” I ask.

“You sure you haven’t seen a baby around here?” he asks.

 “I’m sure.”

***

When I get home, Aidan is sitting on the floor with Pearl, watching as she wiggles around on a polka dotted blanket. She burbles, and Aidan talks to her in a soft voice, the corners of his mouth smiling. I kiss him and he smells like machine oil and spice.

I consider the man with the tattoos, and I wonder how I will bring him up in conversation with Aidan. Aidan has snapped picture after picture of Pearl as if making up for lost time. When I tell him about the baby’s father, he will pack up his things and leave. And once again, the house will be quiet and I will be afraid of the sound of my own voice.

“I’ve missed you,” he says. I’m not sure who he is talking to. He swings the baby up and into the car seat he’s already bought her with his nearly maxed out credit card. I stare at the pink embroidered flowers on the bottom of Pearl’s new socks. Aidan straps her into the seat and the buckles click loudly.

He tastes like jasmine tea, his tongue steeped in it. He lifts me and carries me into the bedroom, and his hands feel like water, dissolving into my skin. I try to remember everything about this moment: his hands on my waist, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck, his kisses like petals on my neck. I sense a drought is coming, so I soak everything up.

Everything was different when Pearl and I were both nothing. But now I know that someone is out there looking for her. If I keep her, I will remember she is not mine everyday.

I have to do what’s right. I will dream of her powdery skin, her soft baby smile, her deep blue eyes.

In the bathroom, I sort through my purse for the card. I look underneath the sticky wrappers closed over hard lumps of gum, the receipts for gasoline and Ritz crackers. I search my pockets, and that’s where I find the card. I think about dropping it into the toilet, watching it glug down the drain.

I ask Aidan to head to the Chinese restaurant across town, because I know it will take him at least forty-five minutes to get our Kung Pao chicken and return. Pearl is heavy in my arms as I stand outside in the driveway, the soles of my feet pressed into the moist sidewalk. She tugs on my necklace. I watch as Aidan adjusts the radio and backs down the driveway. He gives us a little smile before he drives off.

I put Pearl in a new diaper and set her in the battered cardboard box. I change into my work clothes and carry her to the car. She babbles the whole way to the gas station. I park around back and clutch Miles’ card in my hand, crushing it into a ball. The sides of the card jab into my skin. I unfurl the card and dial the number.

“Miles, it’s Leigh-Ann. Your baby is here. How soon can you get here?” I try to speak slowly, so my voice doesn’t quiver.

I lean against the car and bob Pearl on my waist. I can’t look her in the eye anymore. I want to remember every last moment of her, but I keep going back to Dr. Flores’ office. I’m so sorry, he said. But he wasn’t. I was a name on a form. Every day, I go back to that moment and replay it in my mind. Each time, I hope something different happens. But even my mind can’t imagine a different outcome. It would always be the same—I would ask Aidan to meet me for a drink at his buddy’s bar, and I’d tell him after I’d had a few drinks; he’d say that it didn’t matter to him, but in a few months he’d leave anyway, pretending the two things had nothing to do with one another. Only later would he admit the real reason he’d left.

Miles pulls up in a rusted Honda Odyssey and kills the engine. He leaps out of the car, a big grin pasted to his face. His arms reach out for her, not even seeing me. It is surprisingly easy to let him pluck Pearl out of my arms and encase her in his own. The weight of her disappears. I pretend a lump is not forming in my throat.

“Oh god,” he says. He crumples to the ground and holds her. My feet will not walk around to the driver’s seat, even though I know Aidan will be home soon. Miles stands.

“Where was she?” he asks.

“In the dumpster,” I say.

“She wasn’t there. We looked—you and I,” he says. “Where’s her onesie?”

“Maybe someone returned her,” I say. “She smells bad.”

He smooths her hair away from her face. He is holding her tight. Although I know I should feel happy to have reunited them, all I feel is this deep pit inside of me. Miles studies me. For a second, my heart stumbles, and I wonder if he will call me on my shit.

“Thank you,” he says.

I watch him load her into a disheveled car seat and slide the door closed. I watch him until he backs away and peels out of the parking lot, until there is nothing to do except go home.

***

When I get home, I toss the cardboard box into the yard, next to the chicken coop that is peeling and falling apart. The house is quiet inside, but I know Aidan is here. I follow the smell of Chinese food to the kitchen and find him waiting next to the kitchen table with his arms crossed, the food untouched in white boxes in front of him.

“What did you do?” he asks, although he already knows.

“Her father was looking for her,” I say. “She wasn’t ours.”

“She could have been ours,” he says.

“We were deluding ourselves.”

“Don’t lecture me,” he says.

“Are you going or what?” I ask, and my voice rises. “You’re always gone or about to be gone. I can’t take it anymore.”

He gathers up the food and packs it into the paper bag. He tucks it under his arm. I glare at him and try not to cry. It is better to force him to leave now than to wonder how long he will stay until he leaves again.

“Don’t say I didn’t try,” he says.

“Tell it to some other girl,” I say.

He reaches forward, grabs my wrist, and squeezes it tight. “You never understood anything,” he says. “I don’t want this with anybody else.” He breathes hard. “But I have to try to want this with someone else.”

I don’t say anything. I wrench my wrist free. I want to punch him, to hurt him. But I don’t need to—he’s hurting enough as it is. We never talk unless he is leaving.

He stalks toward the front door, leaves, and the door slams shut. I run after him.

“Don’t fucking come back!” I yell as he starts his engine.

He backs out of the driveway. My body feels light without her. I want to crumple to the ground, but I don’t want him to see. When the exhaust is the only part of him that remains, I drag myself into the backyard. I stand in front of the coop, raging, unsure whether I want to kick the wood and pull at the wire until it breaks, or whether I want to clear out all the bird nests and spider webs and fix it up again. I sit down with my back to the wire. Birds chirp from the nearby trees. I close my eyes and remember Pearl beside me, kicking her feet and extending her arms out to reach me. She laughs, and smiles up at me. I remember taking her into my arms, holding her like I would never let her go.