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This is corky. |
ReTaRdObLoG |
let the music play he won't get away Sat|08.24 Mena's stolen her boyfriend's car and driven it to Florida with a guy you hate and fear, and with her new friend, the one who taught Mena how to make herself puke. You sit in Mena's living room, talking to her mother. Something's wrong with your head. It hasn't felt right in a long time. Mena's head is off, too, since Michele died, but there's nothing either one of you can do for each other. There's not much to say. People are dropping like flies. You escape to Boston as often as you can, you don't come home for vacation and summers, but here you are, home, trying to think of something to say to Mena's mom. "I just don't understand why she would do this," her mother says. A tissue is clutched in her hand and she looks at you like you can explain things. You're not surprised that she did it. Maybe you widened your eyes, maybe. That's about it. So Mena took a car, big deal. You're sure she won't live long and you don't know what to do. You're bracing yourself for it, have been for a few months. You feel her reeling away from you and you're helpless. "I keep dreaming about Michele," she told you in her last tortured phonecall. "What is she trying to tell me, Cleo? I can't hear her." Sometimes she calls and doesn't speak, and you can hear her muffled sobs, and sniffs, and coughing. "I don't know, Mrs. Jones." You shift your legs, try to think how to put this. "I mean, it's just Mena. It's how she is. She doesn't mean anything by it." Back in Boston, Mena calls collect from Florida to ask for a hundred dollars. You borrow it from your sister, knowing full well that Mena will never pay it back, and you wire it to her. Later you learn that she called everyone she knew for one hundred dollars, including your brother, and they all sent it to her. You're scaring your friends in Boston. You can't seem to speak. You have blackouts while drinking, you're told quietly about the things that you did and you can't believe how it feels not to remember. Your journal for your Religions of Eastern Cultures class contains bizarre ramblings about spirits surrounding you and invisible glowing lines, and you are too fucked up to be embarrassed by it. Unexpected bonus--your teacher really, really digs it. Weekends are lost to gin and tonic and ice and lime and your glass bong. You take a lot of naps. You have strange dreams. You're not sure anymore what is real. You like the cold, you like doing your laundry at 2 a.m., walking through the deserted streets with the bag over your shoulder, your neighborhood like a movie set. Fake, fake, fake, you say to each building. Facades for your own personal movie. Your "doing the laundry" movie. You love the leaves on the ground, you love the quiet, you love the crisp air. You think, hey. I should go outside more often. aRcHiVeS | hOmE |