Hydroplane: Fictions (12 page)

They tried to trip me when I passed.

The cliché goes, You'll go blind.

And once I almost did. I was in the car and love songs played. So thoughts took over. My face pressed to a shirted one's shirt. The shirt is blue. My face pressed so tight it feels like drowning. Like drowning in the ocean. Or in the sky. Or some other poetic bullshit
cliché. A clichéd drowning in my brain. A clichéd fucking and fucking and fucking.

I stopped when I could. I had blindness sorting back to vision.

I saw the ten again as ten on the court.

For weeks it was me and the radio.

I hid beneath my bed singing radio songs. I made pictures from thoughts.

Me, the suitcase. The boy in blue. And this time we run through the grass.

But the boy in the blue shirt was never a boy. And he was never going anywhere I was.

And I was singing too loud at night went my mother.

She went, Do you know what it is to feel a pounding from inside.

She went, Do you know what it is to hear a pounding like a drum.

She went, Inside your brain.

I sat in my mother's car with twilight coming blue through the quartz. They were fighting inside. Then it got dark. There was no more light coming through.

They thought I couldn't hear the fight. But I heard it clear. At three four three.

My father went, Crazy.

My mother went, Crazy.

They thought I couldn't see the fight. But I saw his hand flash through the air.

So I took the rocks to the car.

The neighbor girls could hear the war from their stoops.

I could still hear it clear.

I blared the horn to drown it out.

I was captain of my boat. I was thinking of my treasures.

Everyone heard the car horn blaring. Every dumb girl from every damn stoop.

My mother and father came running outside. My mother pressed her face to the window. I wouldn't get out of the car. I had locked the doors. The windows were up. I couldn't hear my mother screaming.

She smashed the windows to get me out. What did she use. A rock, I suppose. A rock from the drive. From the weeds.

No. It wasn't a rock. It was a clump of cement. Conglomerate, we called it in high school science. A mix of rocks.

She didn't have to smash all the windows in.

I was sinking it felt like before she smashed.

My mother dragged me into the house. There were cuts to clean.

My father took his suitcase. He took his car.

My car hides in the tall blue grass. My soft-seated car from my father.

There are no windows to my mother's car. All crashed-in holes. There's no use hiding in that car.

The neighbor girls went, What is she thinking.

Thoughts, I thought and left it at that.

I returned the rocks to the classroom. I finished high school.
No hard feelings.

The teacher let it slide.

He thought I was going to college.

The neighbor girls went, Keep away from her if you know what's good.

When I sang in class that day, I felt the spotlight. Everyone laughed.

When the radio came in the mail with a card I thought, If only sooner.

If only I had known the radio songs to sing in class.

What was it I sang in there.

Row Row Row Your Boat.

The girls all laughed.

My face got hot.

The neighbor girls go, Whisper whisper.

Their hands flash out.

Their kids duck on the stoops.

The radio card went, Congratulations.

I had graduated. And no hard feelings.

I played the radio until my mother took it away.

Later that night I went, Where is it.

My mother wouldn't let on. She just laughed into a cry.

I was screaming from the stoop, Where the fuck is it.

The neighbor girls went, Still crazy.

I found it smashed in the weeds by my mother's car. I stooped to the weeds and picked up the pieces. Some were very small and some were from the insides.

I'd never blare my horn. The ten would hear it blaring.

They'd turn to see me ducking to the floor.

They'd come up to the window. They'd ask what I was doing.

I'd step out of the car.

I'd go, Hey there sailors, I'm looking for my cigarette, It fell to the floor, Do you have a cigarette.

Or, Hey sweeties, Have you boys seen my boyfriend, He's this tall and he comes here to play one-on-one, He wears a blue shirt.

Or, Hey you sailor-boys, Do you go to this high school, I went to this high school, I'm doing a study on ball.

Or, Hey darlings, Do you know how to change a fuse, I think my fuse has blown.

I saw his hand flash through the air. I saw it reach her face.

I didn't care that his hand flashed through the air. I didn't care that she didn't duck.

I didn't care that he left and never came back.

I cared that he left me with her.

Once I was seventeen.

I stood in the grass before the sun rose.

The grass felt wet beneath my feet.

Then the sun began.

Then everything tried to grow.

If the ball bounces past I'll jump out to chase it. I'll pretend to take it. I'll go, Just kidding, boys, and toss the ball.

If it travels to the woods' edge I'll chase it and stop it and toss it at the speed of sound. Three four three. In air that is.

I'll toss it in a blink to the boys going how the girls once went on the stoops throwing rocks, Think quick!

And if they laugh going, What's think quick, like it's some kind of way we spoke way back but don't speak now, I'll laugh too. I mean I'm no teen striking a pose. I know these boys won't give me some skin. I've never been stupid despite what they think. I know these boys won't fuck me.

There was a time that they'd have fucked me.

But back then I never fucked.

Back then I only wanted one.

He had eyes like blue topaz.

I said I wouldn't say it. But it has to sound poetic. It's a harder science than light and waves.

He had a shirt the same color as his eyes.

I admit like twilight through quartz.

Soon the ten will all be shirted. They'll slap five and walk off the court.

I'll be tempted to shine my lights on them. To blare the horn. To go, through the window, Hey.

He went, Good job, when I spotted fool's gold in the rock pile on the table in the classroom.

The girls went, Crazy motherfucker, when they found the rocks in my locker. And they found what they called my poems.

But they weren't really poems. I wasn't some bullshit poet.

They were notes on rocks. On the teacher's shirt.

They called them poems.

They called them love notes.

But I called it science.

I went to my mother, I'm going to college.

My mother went, You're going nowhere.

My father went, I'm going now.

I mean to say my father went. And I went, Wait.

Soon the ten will walk to my car. They'll pass the ball back and forth.

I'll be tempted to turn the radio up. To step out from the car and go, Hey boys.

But they'll walk fast though the flora, and I'll lower the song and duck to the floor as they pass.

Once I was seventeen. I had thoughts of being eighteen.

Now I'm this. I have thoughts of seventeen.

Once the girls went, You're really crazy.

And I went, Better crazy than stupid.

Once the girls went, How's it going.

And I went, It's going, and left it at that.

Once the girls went, Give me some skin.

And we slid our palms like any kids.

knowing the good of sunstreaked hair, of toothpick legs, a sweet ass hula-shaking on the boardwalk, a soft sweet ass shaking into the boys, hair teased into waves, toothpick legs and pointed tits and big hands on those perfect tits, bear paws squeezing like they're squeezing peaches, like they're squeezing overripe tomatoes, how overripe anything squashes when squeezed, how his bleach-blonde girlfriend's squash when your father squeezes in the kitchen of the beach house when you're standing in the doorway, when you shouldn't be, watching,

knowing to push your tits into the boy you like, to press them into his chest where he stands by the House of Mirrors when you walk
on the boardwalk with the local girls, your boy's hands in his pockets to shift his hard-on, all the girls going how hot he is, how hard his dick is, going you can tell by the way he's standing, slouched, that he's got a hard-on, going, I'd only throw him out of bed to fuck him on the floor, going, Look at his mouth when he looks at you, and, Mouth
orange juice
at him when he looks at you, because it looks sexy to mouth the words
orange
and
juice
, like you're going something else, like you're going, Aren't you sexy, the way your lips go around the words like that,

knowing to eat your cotton candy slow as you can, to tongue it slow off the paper cone, and to wear shades of blue so later he'll see the ocean and sky and the blue lights blinking on the Flying Bobs and he'll remember you wore no shoes,

feet deep in sand in the days, the air so hot you can't see the tip of your cigarette smolder, watching kites in the sky like birds through slit eyes, half dozing on a beach towel, half thinking how maybe tonight you'll let your boy press his mouth to yours and hard, you'll let him put his hands on your ass and squeeze if he wants, as you don't want to come off as some kind of cocktease like your father's trying-to-be-grown-up girlfriend who pushes your father when he tries to get her going in the beach house kitchen, her toothpick legs beginning to buckle, all that pawing and kissing when you shouldn't be watching, but there you are hoping to see something, fucking,

your ass a peach, a ripe tomato, your boy could reach out and squeeze, and you can bet he loves peaches, though not tomatoes, how your father hates how they squash and the seeds and the mess of all that juice when the girlfriend cuts tomatoes on the kitchen counter and the tomatoes squirt like what, Like a pussy, your fat
uncle poking a fork into an uncut tomato on the kitchen counter, Like a virgin's pussy, when the tomato squirts red, your father going to your fat uncle, Shut your fat face, your fat uncle laughing, his face turning purple and splotched, uglier than a face should be,

knowing the good of sunstreaked hair teased into waves, eyes shadowed shimmery up to the brows, his hands all over your face, your tits, the two of you dug into a rut in the night-cold sand in the cave below the boardwalk well after the tourists leave for their hotels, well after the boardwalk shuts down for the night, and the seagulls picking at paper and bottle caps above your heads, and the waves far out and crashing in a way that makes you think of a million dishes crashing to a kitchen floor, and the trashpicker who pokes at trash with a stick and sings in the mornings when the beach is empty, and the sand on your boy, on his suntanned skin, and that coconut smell, that dirt sweat smell that makes you think, for a second, that your life is a life,

a yellow silk nightgown hanging on a hook on the back of the washroom door, your father's girlfriend's nightgown you've never seen her wear but have looked at on the hook in the washroom on nights you're getting ready to meet the kids on the boardwalk, making your face shimmer silver above the eyes, blue below, red on the lips, the ruffles around the neck of the nightgown like daisy petals on overgrown daisies,

knowing you're hot as any local girl, squeezing juice on your head to lighten your hair, untying your top to tan your back, always shoeless because who the fuck cares about splinters from the boardwalk, and who the fuck cares about cigarette butts pressed to your feet or the heat of the sand if you walk on the sand,

dynamite making his dick hard like that, making it push beneath his pants pocket like you have some magic force that can turn things to stone just by hula-shaking nights with the local girls, just by smoking on the boardwalk, pushing your smoke out in the pucker you practice in the washroom mirror, a pucker learned from TV nurses and waitresses and girl cops dressed in tight tan pants, and those TV teachers, their walk to the chalkboard, their pants creeping up their cracks, your father going from his place on his chair back home, one hand tucked beneath his waistband, Will you look at that, and, Do you think she's a sexpot, so you'll go, No, so he'll laugh at you, going, Better than you, going, She's a peach, and, Your face could freeze time,

mouthing the words
orange
and
juice
, the boys all going, Come here with that, the boys all going, Come here C. S. L., for cock sucking lips, going, Bring that pussy over here,

your father, your fat uncle drinking beers on the sun porch, your uncle going, Where's the little girl, your father going, She's in the john, going, She's in a mood, how he does about the girlfriend when she swats him away with the back of her hand when you're caught watching touching when you shouldn't be watching, when she's a soft peach getting softer in his paws and she ducks out from his grip, your father going, What, the girlfriend going, Not now, your father going, You're in a mood,

never knowing how to talk to boys, never knowing how to talk to grown-ups, not wanting to talk to your father's girlfriends at the beach, every summer a new bleach-blonde with toothpick legs and pointed tits and a boardwalk night shift, funnel cake maker, ride operator, souvenir seller, never able to order your own food in the boardwalk diners, the grown-ups going to the sunburned waiters,
She'll have fried eggs, She'll have buttered toast, She'll have grape jelly, burnt bacon, because they know what you need, they know how you like it, and you never speak up when you should be speaking, thinking what if you fuck up and they laugh at you in front of a waiter and what if he's hot and you cry at the table and they laugh even harder and it never ends,

dynamite getting yourself off face down in the sand by rolling slightly against the sand, by pressing slightly, thinking thoughts of your boy behind the House of Mirrors, thinking of him and you below the boardwalk making out hard in the night-cold sand, your boy's hands squeezing your ass, your tits, your boy's hands squeezing your father's girlfriend's tits, your father squeezing the girlfriend's tits, your father's paws going down her pants, the girlfriend undoing your father's buckle, your boy,

your father and your fat uncle smoking on the sun porch, your father's girlfriend working night shift on the boardwalk, and you in the washroom putting on the girlfriend's makeup, more than your usual, made up like a sexpot like the TV sexpots, teasing your hair into something big, trying on the nightgown to see if it fits, finding it fits a bit large in places, long in others, but overall close, swiveling your hips in the girlfriend's nightgown in the washroom mirror in the figure eight you learned from TV when your father was sleeping in his chair in the room back home and the show switched to something, the news, then something, some late night show and instructions on how to hula dance, the host of the show in some awkward swivel, painful to watch, and the audience laughing and clapping as you tried out the swivel in front of the TV until your father waked in a snap with a sudden, Don't, and went back to sleep,

your father and your fat ugly uncle looking as you slowly walk across the sun porch, the sun porch already a haze of smoke, as you sit on a chair in the girlfriend's nightgown, as you spread your legs some then snap them shut before anyone sees, crossing your legs at the ankles and going, What,

knowing the good of eyes like smoke, like smoldering ash, the brown eyes you line with blue, the brown hair you streak with lemon juice, your white bra padded enough to have something soft and big to press into your boy's chest, going, Look but don't touch, behind the House of Mirrors, going, Glad you thought about it though, Glad you noticed, Thanks for looking, Look again sometime, walking past with the girls and laughing by the Flying Bobs, laughing when the boys call you C. S. L., when they call you cocktease,

appearing behind the House of Mirrors the first night at the beach after your father goes, Don't get back too late, and appearing, shoeless, in from the city, What's your name, Susan, Where you from, The city, What city, Baltimore, the local kids knowing you're hard as coconut, hard as stone, this tourist from the city who knows this beach is some stupid crazy land of spinning kites and every damn ride on the boardwalk spinning, the Himalayan, the Flying Bobs, songs playing up so loud on those rides every tourist in every hotel can hear them playing nights, the local boys going, Sweet Susie Q, the local girls going, Don't listen to them, the man at the Flying Bobs going, Do you want to go faster, the kids on the ride going, Yes, the songs so loud they get stuck in your head the way pictures get stuck in your head,

someone on the sun porch seeing, your fat uncle seeing, a quick glimpse of something, you can tell, as he raises his eyebrows and looks at your father,

wanting to be invisible from some magic force that can turn you to cloud when you have to turn to cloud so your father can't see you come in at sunrise, so the girlfriend can't see you with the kids on the boardwalk, so she can't see you picking at your salad at the table and go, Eat your salad, pretending she's a grown-up when she's closer to your age than to your father's, a local your father met on the beach, her top untied to tan her back,

going, Give me a smoke, to some local girl who smells like sweat, who wears her hair the way you wear yours, long, streaked, who dresses how you dress, Give me a smoke, before walking past your boy, your boy going, Come here Susie Q, Where you going Susie Q, Where you going sexy girl, and you going, I don't know where I'm going, and, Why should I, making the local girls laugh,

not eating your eggs and bacon in the diner, not looking up at the sunburned waiter, your head full of blue lights, blinking lights, thinking of your boy and what you'll do tonight, what you'll let him do,

your father going he's been spending too much time with the girlfriend and he's got nothing to do before your fat uncle comes over tonight for beers and he'd like to take you to the boardwalk for a good dinner and a ride on the Ferris wheel, Father daughter, Won't that be fun, going you've been running around the boardwalk nights like some kind of crazy local, the girlfriend has seen you, has seen the crowd of kids clustered on the boardwalk, going, Wouldn't a night together be fun, just you two on the Ferris wheel, cotton candy, Father daughter, Dinner first,

crazy when you don't let your boy grab your arm, the boys all going, Cocktease, going, Suck my dick, laughing, doubled over, the
local girls laughing, a crazy spinning in your gut going faster faster, then faster when you let your boy touch your arm, when you let him grab hold of your arm, the girls all laughing, the girls all going, Look at you, your boy all looking at your face and you let him look, you let him lean in as if to kiss your lips, your father's girlfriend rushing past the House of Mirrors to get to work, your father's girlfriend pretending not to see you, but she sees you, you know, and she ignores you, the girlfriend walking faster, your boy going, Cocktease, when you wriggle away,

your father ordering you fried clams, fried potatoes, your father drinking a beer and going, Let's ride the Ferris wheel, trying to look excited, like the Ferris wheel is any big thing,

the girlfriend looking at the black bottoms of your feet when your feet are on up the kitchen table when she's chopping tomatoes, like she has any right looking at your feet, like she has any right going, when your father leaves the kitchen, I saw you last night,

your father calling you old maid because you can't decide on pink or blue and it's just cotton candy for fuck's sake, and really you don't want cotton candy, but your father wants to buy you one, and who can't decide on cotton candy when it all tastes the same, your father going, Old maid, when you can't decide so it's pink you decide on, your father going, Girlie, when you decide on pink,

thinking, as the waves crash to bits, as the kites make their crazy loops, how tonight you'll let him kiss you if he wants,

the girlfriend going, I saw you last night, going, I saw you with those kids, going, Is that boy your boyfriend, I won't tell your father, you going, Shut your fat face,

Baltimore, that nothing place of outside smokestacks, gray sky, brick, and inside TV, hula dancers, sand and blue, TV static, your father asleep in his chair,

seen on TV, some who knows what show, some show for teens, some teenage girl going, Boys like girls in light blue,

always a cocktease, always wriggling,

in line, your father holding your ticket and your hand, going, The boys over there are looking at you, pointing to behind the House of Mirrors where the kids are already standing, smoking, even though it's still light, even though things don't happen until after dark, the songs already up loud on the rides, the songs that stick in your head, and the songs will stay stuck in your head for long, for how long, for as long as you live, and you'll hear them in cars and stores and streets when you're a grown-up dragging your ass through a space and you'll want to cry because everything has changed and nothing has changed,

your father going, Who are those boys, like some kind of boyfriend, like some kind of jealous fucking boyfriend, your father going, You're a funny girl, when your face gets hot, going, Funny looking, Ha ha, A face that could stop a clock,

the girlfriend turning soft in your father's paws, your father reaching inside her pants, your boy's hands inside her pants, your boy's hands inside your pants, the kites soaring faster than birds,