THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT ME

by Wendy Thornton

Jessica leaves the bar at midnight, proud of herself for not closing the place down.  She’s so drunk she can barely walk.  Knows to put one face, no wait, one foot, in front of the other, pace, pace, pace. Keep that rhythm going.  Home home home.  Don’t look up.  Don’t listen to the guys hollering out their car windows as they drive by.  Hey baby.  Wanna fuck?  Naw.  You’re not my type.  What’s  your type?  The type that doesn’t yell out car windows.  Whoooo, man, she burned you.  Fuck you, bitch.  The usual.  Pace, pace pace.

 

The neon lights are blinding.  She can’t remember what else she did besides drink.  Someone handed her something.  Pills. You’ll like this.  What do I have to do for it?  Naw, baby, nothing, just try it.  There’s more where that came from.  I’ll bet.  She’s got no money, so hooking her on something doesn’t make good business sense.  She ain’t coming back for another taste.

 

Used to be somebody.  She could still remember when she was in college, when she had plans.  She was going to be a teacher.  What a laugh.  Imagine, her teaching little kids.  Pay no attention to Ms. Jessica, she’s just having a little inner ear problem today.

 

She passes the restaurant near her home, a brightly lit Denny’s attached to the Holiday Inn.  She’s happy to know she’s so close to home.  She’s going to make it.  One night, she woke up in the parking lot of this very Denny’s, her dress over her head.  She can’t remember what happened.  She was sticky down there and sore, so she’s pretty sure she got raped.  Report it to the police, her friend Carol said, and she laughed.  Report what?  I woke up with my dress over my head and I’m not sure how it got that way?

 

Staggering through the parking lot she looks around warily.  It’s not the dark spaces you have to worry about.  You know they’re dangerous.  It’s the well-lit family places that can catch you, the cheerful smile, the clean-shaven memory of youth.  She stares into the windows, finds herself falling towards them, catches herself just as her nose touches the glass.

 

And there he is, darker than she remembers, his eyes darker.  He is talking excitedly to a group of clean cut young men, waving his hands, gesticulating to make a point, laughing as the others respond to whatever he said.  He looks over at the windows.  His eyes meet hers.  He looks startled.  He turns back to his buddies.  She starts to walk away.  A dream.  An apparition.  Pace, pace, pace.

 

“Jessica?”

 

She doesn’t want to acknowledge the sound of his voice.  She keeps walking.  A hand is placed on her shoulder.  She wants to slap it off.  Fuck you, you don’t know anything about my life.  Go back to your bright restaurant and your clean-cut friends.  “It is you, isn’t it?” he says.

 

No plausible deniability.  “Hello, Daniel,” she tries to purr.  She hopes her voice is soft, smooth, but fears that her words are slurred – her mouth is so dry.

 

He shakes her hand as if it were a dead animal.  “It’s so good to see you.  I was wondering if I’d see any of the old gang this weekend.”

 

“You’re just here for the weekend?”  Somewhere there’s a sinking feeling but she’s trying to ignore it.  Emotion so far away like a bug buzzing her ear.

 

“Yeah, just visiting.  Had to pick up a certified copy of my degree.”

 

“That would be – ?

 

“Doctorate.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“How about you, still going to school?”

 

Fucker, do I look like I’m going to school?  My clothes are slutty, my hair smells like vomit and I can’t open my eyes all the way.  Come to think of it, I do look like a student.  “Yeah,” she says.  “Still going.”

 

He laughs.  “Well that’s great,” he says.  “You always did do things your own way.”  He hesitates, looks towards his friends.  “Listen, are you in a hurry?  Maybe we could talk?”

 

His hesitancy pleases her.  He was always so sure of himself.  When he finished college and went away, he never even asked if she wanted to go with him.  For five years they had dated while he worked on his Ph.D.  Then suddenly he was finished and just as suddenly he left her behind.  She’d have to ask him about that.  What was I, she would say, a college interlude?  For half a fucking decade?  She’d get revenge.  She’d make him want her like he’d never wanted anything.

 

“Sure,” she says leaning towards him seductively, “let’s talk.”

 

He gently pushed her backwards.  “Let me pick up my check and I’ll be right out,” he says and disappears into the restaurant.  She leans against the wall.  The dirty ground spins at her feet.  Whew, gonna be hard to be seductive if I’m throwing up.  She thinks about putting a finger down her throat, getting it over with.  But no, maybe it would be more fun to throw up on him.

 

He comes out of the restaurant, whistling.  “My room is on the third floor,” he says, leading her into the hotel lobby.  “Just let me just check my messages.”

 

“Waiting for a girlfriend to call?”

 

He laughs again.  His laugh is pleasant, innocent.  “No, no girlfriend,” he says, leading her to the front desk.  “I have a friend overseas who sometimes calls late.”

 

Friend.  I’ll bet.  She looks down at her shoes, scuffed and worn.  Her toenails are dirty.  Beside her, his feet, in brown sandals, are clean, white, shining in the fluorescent light of the hotel lobby.  She is embarrassed by the contrast, her torn sandals, her dirty feet.  He wears spotless khaki pants.  She wears shredded jeans.  He wears a bright yellow polo shirt with some kind of spiffy emblem on the pocket.  She wears a halter top that keeps threatening to expose her boobs.  He is brilliant.  She is blitzed.  Always embarrassed from the bottom up.  Top down.  He was always smarter than she.  Not many people were.  Of course, that was many brain cells ago.  Many lost cells, floating in the ether.  Tell me that you love me, she thinks.  Take me away and I’ll clean up my act.  Even she doesn’t believe this, but maybe she’ll tell him anyway.

 

The clerk at the front counter scans her like she’s some kind of prostitute.  Fucker.  How dare he?  What does he know about her?  When Daniel is finished checking his messages, he leads her to a nearby elevator.  As the doors close, she sticks out her tongue at the clerk, whose face remains professionally impassive.

 

The hotel room is narrow, bland.  Off white walls, impressionistic paintings that look mass produced, swirly bedspreads to match.  Even the furniture is bland, pale wood that matches the headboards on the double beds.  Jessica throws herself down on the nearest bed, her legs open.  Daniel doesn’t seem to notice.  He seats himself gingerly on the edge of the second bed and beams at her.

 

“I’m so excited to see you again, Jessica.  I always hoped I’d run into you again, though I have to admit, I thought the chances were slim you’d still be here.”

 

“Why do you say that?”

 

“Well, I mean – it’s been a while since I left.  I thought – ”

 

“You thought I’d finish and be working somewhere?”

 

“You are so brilliant.”

 

“Ha, that’s me.  The whiz kid.”

 

“Are you still in special ed?”

 

“Not exactly.”

 

“Well, tell me about your life.  I want to hear all about it.”

 

She clasps her hands and says with mock enthusiasm, “Do you?  Do you really?  I’ll tell you.  There are some things you should know about me.  But wait, no, tell me about your life first.”

 

“Mine is pretty dull.”

 

“Do tell, honey.”

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“I had a few drinks this evening, if that’s what you’re asking.  So, tell me about your life.  Where do you work?  Making millions?

 

“Not exactly.  I work for a peace organization.”

 

“A what?”

 

“You’ve heard of the Dalai Lama?”

 

“You work for the Dalai Lama?”

 

“Well, no.  I work for a senior minister in Tibet, the Kalon Tripa.”

 

Jessica hooted.  “Oooh, trippy.”

 

“I guess you could say that.  We’re trying to persuade the Chinese to stop the transfer policy threatening the Tibetan people.  I’m sure you’ve read about the violence in Lhasa.”

 

“I don’t really keep up with current events.”

 

“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter.  Now, of course, we’ve transferred our efforts to earthquake relief.”

 

“You always were a real people person,” Jessica coos, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.  She rolls over on her stomach, hunches up into a fetal position.  She tries to rise off the bed, but can’t.  She groans.

 

He is so near she can smell his skin, cinnamon and something sharp she can’t identify.  “Are you okay?”

 

“No, I think I’m going to throw up.”

 

He is suddenly next to her, putting an arm beneath her.  “Let me help you.”

 

“No, leave me alone.”  She jerks away from him, lurches towards the bathroom.  She half hopes he will come and help her, but he doesn’t.  She feels like her guts are coming up.  This will definitely make morning a more bearable experience.  Wiping her mouth, she staggers out of the bathroom.

 

“Do you feel better?”

 

“I do,” she says, falling into his lap.  “Do you want to get it on?” She tries to put her arms around his neck, presses her breasts against his chest.

 

“I always found you very attractive,” he says as he pries her loose.

 

“Past tense.”

 

“No, it’s just that I don’t – ” 

 

How did he get over there, on the other bed again?  She doesn’t remember letting go of him.  One minute he was in her arms; the next she was alone again.  Déjà vu.  “You don’t what?” she asks coldly.

 

“I’m celibate, Jessica.”

 

“Why?  Why would you want to waste that beautiful body?”

 

“I try to concentrate on the spiritual realm.”

 

She gets up, crosses the room, and falls against him, whispering in his ear, “Sex can be very spiritual.”

 

“Please, Jessica.”  He pushes her gently away.

 

She wants to rip the shirt off his back.  She wants to tear his eyes out.  “Oh, Christ,” she says mournfully, falling back on the bed and staring at the ceiling.  “I can’t believe you’re rejecting me again.  I can’t believe I’m stupid enough to let it happen again.  Do I have to be hit over the head?”  She begins to beat herself on the forehead with the palm of her hand.  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she intones.

 

“I never rejected you.  I just moved on to a different plane.”

 

She laughs, tonelessly.  “Right, one that didn’t include me.”

 

“I was afraid to tell you what was happening to me, afraid you’d laugh at me.  But I’m secure in my position now.  You could come with me.”

 

“To your spiritual plane?”

 

“I’m worried about you.”

 

“Don’t be,” she snaps.

 

“I’ve never seen you so drunk, or so sad.”

 

Jessica sits up and stares at him.  “Sad?  You mother fucker.  Don’t you pity me.  I pity you, you pathetic little spiritual ant.  Don’t you know there’s no other plane?  This is it.  What you see is what you get.”

 

“That’s not true.  If you could just trust me, I’d show you.”

 

“Trust you?  Trust you?  You’re kidding, right?”

 

“There is so much that needs to be done.  You could help.”

 

“Charity begins at home, motherfucker.”

 

“Please don’t talk like that.”

 

“Oh, am I offending your sensitive ears?  Poor baby.”  She props up the pillows behind her and sprawls again, tasting bile in her mouth.

 

“Look, I’m sorry I left you.  I didn’t think you were ready for a transformation and I needed to separate myself from all the material things that brought me down.”

 

She doesn’t even need to sit up for this one.  “You sanctimonious son of a bitch,” she spits, the words falling out of her mouth like the bile she can’t seem to get rid of, “you left me after five years.  I thought you’d run off to start a new life, but it’s even worse than I imagined.  You ran off to contemplate your fucking navel.”

 

“I loved you.  Truly I did.  Do.”

 

“What do you know about love?”  She stands up, walks over to him, grabs his face between her hands.  Forces him to look at her.  “Love is not other-worldly.  Love is being there, asshole.  Love is sharing juices, holding my head when I throw up, tying my shoelaces when I can’t bend over anymore, growing old together.”

 

“There are many kinds of love,” Daniel says, turning away from her.

 

“No, there’s only one kind.  There’s the kind that puts someone else before you.”  She walks to the door.  “That’s why I’m leaving now, Daniel.  Because I love you.  Because I don’t want to bring you down.  Because I’m not good for you.”

 

“That’s not true, Jessica.  Why don’t you give us a chance?”

 

All we are saying, she hums, is give peace a chance.  Oh, she wants to stay with him.  She wants to devote her life to a noble purpose, to live free of alcohol and drugs.  She wants to sleep bloodlessly beside him and wake to a clean shower and clean sheets.  She wants him back.

 

But that is not what she says.  What she says is, “Sorry, baby, I’m leaving you because I love you.”  How good it feels to say these words to him.  It’s worth it to see his face.  Worth it to throw those last words he said back at him, to see that he recognizes them, to see that they hurt him so deeply, even if she’s snipping off her own nose in the process.  And so what if, when she gets home to her apartment, she will cry herself to sleep?  For God’s sake, who wants to live in Tibet anyway?

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~ This piece was posted on Friday, July 16th, 2010 and was filed under Short Story, Writing. You can make comments on it below. ~