Essay: The Second Most Humiliating Experience of My Life December 10, 2009

This is about a mermaid who goes on a transatlantic flight. This is about a mermaid who rides a camel. This is about a mermaid who remembers how to swim.

Israel was living up to my expectations, based on my perusal of the tour’s website. Skyscrapers only a few miles away followed through on promises of Tel Aviv’s vibrant nightlife: their shiny windows winked knowingly at the sunset. I could see the city, yet this beach was as pure as a Beach Boys song or surfer movie’s idealization of a beach: the deep, aggressive blue of the Mediterranean invading the bleached sand that was not quite hot enough to burn the soles of my feet, but hot enough to make me think about every step. I’d come here to find out how glamorous it was to be Jewish. I’d come here to fall in love with my own reflection by seeing faces similar to my own and my relatives’. I’d come here to feel like my life was more like a movie. That glorious late afternoon on the beach, though, didn’t really prepare me for the genre this movie actually belonged in.

Supposedly, the tour kept us so busy and sleep-deprived that we would become brainwashed Zionists (that is, not necessarily but optimally religious Jews, and political supporters of Israel) and populate the world with Jewish babies (a goal that’s tough to quibble about, less than a century removed from the Holocaust). I read that on a website after I took the trip. I don’t know if it’s true. It’s almost like a technique you’d hear about being used in Guantanamo. But by the time we got to the fake Bedouin camp, we’d spent an exhausting day shopping at a dreary mall with a food court that served excellent falafel. Since my abusive boyfriend had “borrowed” all my spending money, I’d spent the day window-shopping instead, which may have contributed to my bitter attitude. Then we’d traipsed through sand dunes and caves, which were eerily reminiscent of hikes I’d been on in Tucson.

Now it was time for another “adventure,” when I would have been ready to trade my soul for a nap and some bottled water. I had to refill my bottle with tap water. There were things floating in it. Too big for an amoeba, I would assure myself every time I took a swig. Probably harmless sediment.

15 Ways to Bury Jane Doe (1st Draft) October 1, 2009

1. The Author

Maybe the best way to do this writing exercise would be to tell the story of a funeral for someone who had no one mourning her at all. There is a problem, though. Who are these fifteen characters telling the story going to be? It’s interesting that I would immediately be interested in this Eleanor Rigby-esque pathetic character. Maybe I’m depressed.

2. The Editor

Oh, great. Another short story that came from a writing exercise. Am I getting paid to read this? At least I don’t have to smell the formaldehyde. Or sit in a chair awkwardly next to people I don’t really know. And try desperately not to get the giggles. I hope all the paragraphs are as short as that first one.

3. The Funeral Home Attendant

When this body arrived I was annoyed. I was hoping that my overnight shift would give me a chance to sleep. When they brought the body in and I cataloged its clothing, I kept a few things. Twenty dollars from the wallet, and a movie ticket stub from the pocket. Yes, I said “the pocket,” “the body,” and so forth. What does it matter, if it’s a she? Do I look like a necrophiliac to you?

4. The Coffin

You and I are going to be touching for such a long time. Maybe after a while neither one of us will feel the other. Maybe after a while you will hold me as much as I hold you. You are heavy and will grow light. I am dense and will grow brittle. I look forward to the darkness and the quiet. It will be more like being a tree. Perhaps I will yearn for the faint warmth I feel during the day. I ache for the sun. I ache for fresh air. But at least I will not be so alone. I will not feel so mutilated and ridiculous. I will not be stared at. I will be I will be I will be around you you you.

5. The Obituary Writer

What can you do with an MFA in Creative Writing? Well, this. It’s like any form. You become comfortable within its rhythms and feel the openings to stretch the limits. And you can do it in your pajamas. That’s something.

6. The Gravedigger

I hope she’s not pregnant. I hope she’s not pregnant. Jesus, if she’s pregnant. Why can’t she be like this stupid bitch. Dead. Not anyone’s problem anymore. I hope she’s not. She’s a lying bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Cunt. Digging holes just reminds me of her, her, her, her. I hope she’s not. Not. Not.

7. The Florist

Why can’t people order flowers for something different? To celebrate the completion of a triathlon. To mourn the passing of a presidential administration. To poke into the showerhead and confuse your roommate in the morning while he’s still half-asleep. To give to prisoners. To sell to raise money for the NRA. I just want to feel challenged for once. I just want to care.

8. The Butterfly

Lovely lovely oh it’s dead. Oooh that’s not far and that looks lovely lovelylove.

9. The Reader

But who was this Jane Doe? Was she like me? Was she like someone I don’t like? This is weird. This is fun. I’m not a reader at all. I’m an author. Oh christ. Authorial intrusion. I’m not just depressed, I’m delusional.

10. The Forensic Investigator

Nothing suspicious here. I want to go home and have a nice long bath and some tea. I want to go home and fuck my wife so hard that I’m absolutely one hundred percent sure she’s alive. I want I want I want.

11. The Sparknotes Employee

Irony. Multiple points of view. Death. Repetition. I got an MA in English Lit for this? Maybe I’m depressed, too.

12. The Carpet

I like the lonely people the best because they don’t attract those other people who just want to step on me and oppress me and grind me down and spill their drinks on me and leave me without a backwards glance. Hey, #11? I’m the ultimate subaltern and I want to rise up. I want I want I want too!

13. The Coin

Someone superstitious put me in here, in this mouth. I will never get out of here. But I still know what I am. I am Lincoln. I am shiny. I have something written on my back. I will endure.

14. The Soul
.
.
.
.
.

15. Jane Doe

The end.

New untitled story April 25, 2009

Jack was at the Swinging Swan. He was a policeman, and that was where policemen went after their shifts, to relax, to meet floozies, and so forth. Jack hadn’t been a policeman long, and he went as often as he could; he wanted to fit in. There was one particular floozy who hung out there.
-What’s her name? Jack asked.
-Ananda, one of the guys said.
-Amanda, one of the other guys said.
-Who gives a shit? another one said.
-God, she’s a crazy bitch.
Jack didn’t say anything, but he noticed that most of the older, more experienced officers seemed to be quite familiar with this girl, in the Biblical sense. He’d learned about body language in the police academy. He could tell that they were embarrassed, ashamed, lying, turned on, all kinds of strange reactions that they never seemed to have to any other girls.
When Jack approached the girl he was curious and maybe more turned on by the thought that all the guys were thinking about him being about to fuck her, than he was by the girl herself. She wasn’t bad-looking, a nice body, but her face was lined and haggard. She was young but in the right lighting, she didn’t seem young at all. Most of the Swan was dark; she was never there in the daytime; it was only one flickering neon light that gave her sadness away.
-Hey. I’m Jack. Can I buy you a drink?
-Sure.
-On one condition.
-What’s that?
-Tell me your name.
-Does it matter?
Jack thought maybe she’d been listening to their conversation and he blushed.
-Oh you’re just a baby, she said.
-I’m nineteen.
-Are you a baby with a gun?
-Yes. No. I have a gun. I’m not a baby.
-Show me, she said.
They went back to her place. The guys said things as they left together but Jack couldn’t make anything out that made sense.
Her place was small, dark, unpleasant. It reminded Jack of Gollum’s cave in Lord of the Rings. My precious. Jack followed her to the bedroom, undressed her, kissed her. She tasted like beer and ashes. Finally she sat up.
-You’re just a baby.
-Do I look like a baby?
-Why’d you want to be a cop?
-I dunno. I just want to take care of things, I guess.
-I read somewhere that cops and criminals are psychologically the same. They do tests, she said, lighting a cigarette and taking a few drags.
-That’s bullshit.
-Does it annoy you when I smoke? She blew smoke in his face.
-Yes.
-You don’t smoke?
-No. It’s stupid. Expensive. My grandpa died of–
-Whatever. I want you to grab my cigarette.
-Make you stop smoking? Take care of you?
-No. I wasn’t finished. I want you to grab my cigarette and put it out on my skin.
-What? That’s fucked up. Are you crazy?
-Yes.
-Well I’m not going to do that. Put it out yourself.
She put it out and ground it into her arm. She closed her eyes and winced. It sounded like a girl in a porno coming. Jack didn’t stop her.
-Jesus. That’s fucked up. I’m going.
-I like cops, she said.
-Good for you.
-Your friends in the bar there, they’ve all fucked me.
-Yeah, I gathered that.
-They weren’t scared. They liked putting out cigarettes my way.
-Right, sure.
-No, they did. They like doing other things to me. You want to know my favorite thing?
-No. Where’d I put my–
-I like it when they shove their nightsticks up my ass.
-What? That’s sick. You’re sick. You need a fucking shrink. You need.
-They all do it. Why don’t you do it? You’re a fucking pussy.
Then they fucked. Jack fucked her. Jack did what she wanted. Jack did what he wanted.
Jack went to the bathroom and washed his hands. There was blood on them, and shit. He dried his hands on her towel. He washed his hands again. He dried them on his jeans. He lifted them and smelled the tips of his fingers. He went out into the room with small steps, like he had shrunk.
-Were you abused or something?
-You’re a fucking genius.
-Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know–
-Don’t be. Get out of here now, kid.
-Do they really–
-Yeah. They do. Just like you. Except they want it harder. Except they know themselves better maybe.
-You’re still bleeding. You need–
-You don’t have any idea what I need, she said. Get out of here. Get out before I call the cops. She laughed like air hissing out of a slashed tire.