My attack—“Bucktown Horror,” as they called it—was on the local news every three hours, every channel, every day for about a week—my five minutes of fame. The media had such a way of twisting the facts that I was dying to see what they would come up with next, especially after seeing the report about me on my deathbed, asking to speak to the president of the United States. That was a good one, considering it stemmed from the scavengers rifling through my garbage, finding a ripped out personal ad, which just happened to have a picture of the president on the underside.
Through
out my life, my mom constantly turned the news off, asking me to instead play games with her. I’m quite the Canasta player, and can really give you a run at
Boggle
.
But like many a poor soul, despite my own animosity, I decide to watch anyway. So after ten minutes of warehouse fires, hit and runs, and what fruits and vegetables you shouldn’t eat now, I find myself drawn to the picture of a supposed murder scene in
Chinatown, specifically Twenty-Second Street. A store owner was found mauled to death, but no animal was found, only footprints. There were no witnesses.
As the reporter keeps talking, I don’t hear a word, instead stare wide-mouthed at the sign above the door. It’s the Chinese symbol for double happiness, which I recognize from the many trips I took as a child with my mother to
Chinatown; the symbol seemed to pop up everywhere. But this sign is particularly familiar looking to me.
When the news segment ends, all I hear is “Raine Boman reporting.”
Rainbow. “Double happiness over the rainbow.”
I turn to read the personal ad once more and end up staring at its ashes.
*********
I spend my workweek catching up on e-mails and trying to figure out how messed up things have gotten while I was gone. It’s only been about three months, but as Assistant Controller, I’ll probably spend another month reconstructing the books. Things like the purchase of a box of office coffee shouldn’t be depreciated over ten years, unless we’re looking to have our employee emergency room visit experience rate skyrocket.
The week actually makes me yearn
, a little bit, for a night out, in hopes that maybe if I was out until some wee hour of the morning with Amber, I’d sleep soundlessly for a night.
Finally, the weekend arrives, and I find I couldn
’t be happier. I call up my mom to see what she’s getting herself into these days and it’s basically nothing, as usual.
“Whatch’ya doing, Mom?” I ask.
“Just sitting, looking through the want ads.”
I taunt
quickly, “You’re gonna get a real job?” I cannot even fathom my mother working a nine-to-five job. For as long as I’ve known, my mother has just done oddball jobs, like painting and weeding for friends, and friends of friends, leaving me with distant relatives for days at a time while on her ventures. Despite the fact she would return totally exhausted, never once did she not make up the lost time to me with movies, amusement parks, and moments like sitting in our garage, watching lightning storms.
“No, just said I was looking through the want ads. On my way to the garage sales section,” she says with a hoarse voice.
“Oh.” I pause. “You ok, Mom?”
“My throat is killing me today. Must just be a bit of reflux. I
’ll be fine. Always am, right?” She coughs, sounding extremely tired.
“
I survived the week at work,” I say.
“I
knew you would, honey,” she professes, sweetly. “Maybe you can celebrate this weekend with Amber.” She waits for my reply.
“Actually, I
’m calling her next.”
“Good!” She pauses on the phone for a brief few seconds. “Just please be careful. I trust you
’ll make the important decisions for the evening? Don’t leave them up to Amber. I’m too tired to head out to save her ass this evening. You got your pepper spray?”
“If I can gather the nerve to make it out the door with her, yes, it will be in my purse.”
“I love you with all my heart, Kailey. Be safe.”
“Thanks mom.” I hang up the phone, gently.
I dial up Amber, and when I hear her yawn right before she says, “Hello,” I know damn well she checked her caller ID.
“Hi. What are you up to this evening?”
I say, not sure if I want her to say she’s busy washing her hair or if I want her to shout out, “Going out with you, of course!”
“Oh, I
’m just waiting for the seven sexual deviants I contacted through Craig’s List to come over,” she prattles.
“Alright already, I get it. I
’m sorry. Last apology,” I blurt as I roll my eyes.
“
Fine, I accept. So, what’s up?”
I take in a deep breath and then say, “I want to go out with you tonight.” I sit with my eyes closed, feeling my heart race.
“We’ll do dinner first. I’ll be there by six!” she shouts, excitedly.
“Ok.”
She surely notes the lack of excitement in my voice, for her tone changes. “You sure? I can always just come over to watch movies,” she says, genuinely.
I think about how I already got her all riled up, so I must continue with the plan, for Amber
’s sake of course. “Just get your ass over, all dressed up. See ya.”
Six o
’clock means she’ll be here at seven, and that gives me plenty of time to get ready. I can hardly believe I’m the one who initiated a night out, but I’m riding the minute possibility that a few really strong, dirty martinis will crumble a few emotional walls of mine tonight. I’m willing to give it a try, but damn well know the probable outcome—me sitting, totally sober, while already-drunk Amber downs the countless drinks bought for her from overly-anxious meatheads.
I swit
ch on the radio and get dressed while lightly shuffling to “Good Vibrations,” by Markie Mark. As I check myself out in the bathroom mirror, I stare, unhappy with the somewhat low-cut shirt I chose—too revealing. While taking the shirt off, I bend over to plug the iron back in, and then the power suddenly goes out, engulfing me in total darkness.
I freeze for a brief two seconds. Then
whirl about, using my hands as eyes in the darkness, searching for any weapons in my bathroom. Realizing that two previous nights ago I walked away with a pocket knife usually stored in the medicine cabinet, I grab my cuticle scissors in one hand and my hairspray in the other. Kioto had only been moaning in her sleep that night I moved the knife, but it sounded so alien.
Alien
. A
lien-like grunting.
The
guttural sound of grunting from my assaulter’s throat echoes through my mind as I stand motionless, frozen from fear, remembering the noise as he tore off my cotton panties the day of the assault.
I lay there, on my stomach, on top of my newly made bed, staring at Bear—a feeling of despair so great and overpowering pulsing through me
. I also remember, too painfully, the blood-curdling scream that escaped my throat as I pleaded to anyone listening, a higher being even, to please save me.
Don’t let this happen to me
.
This
shouldn’t
be happening to me.
I wouldn’t survive feeling that hopeless again.
After my eyes adjust, and as I wait for the sound of footsteps or breathing, I hear neither, so I peek around the door and see Kioto lying on the ground, head turned toward me—possibly perturbed by the roaring sounds emanating from my chest. I walk, shakily, with weapons still in hand, toward the window and I see the whole block is out. A quick check toward the sky reveals the approaching storm. I collapse on my couch and cry like a baby, doubting my ability to function like a
normal human being ever again. Kioto walks toward me, and slowly licks my blackened tears from my face. “Thanks, baby,” I say as I snuggle into her and regain my normal breathing.
I wipe my running mascara from my face and gather my composure. A glance at the clock tells me that Amber should be h
ere soon. Sooner than I can fix my makeup, the power goes back on, giving me another heart attack when “Kung Fu Fighting” starts blaring throughout the apartment. What a wonderful start to the evening.
Amber arrives at
7:15 and lets herself in with the key I gave her last week, which was supposed to be for emergencies only. She is absolutely stunning. Her long, straight blond hair complements the lime-green baby-doll dress and her black stilettos. She’s only five foot three, so the extra four and a half inches brings her closer to eye level, but not for long. I decide to wear my knee length, heeled, black boots with my new taupe silk tank top and black pants. I grab my father’s ring off my dresser and slip it into my pocket.
She stares at me and says, “Girl, I need some of that leg length. If you die, can you donate your legs to me?” I laugh and tell her only if she shares some of the endowment on her chest. She’s about a thirty-two E, compared to my thirty-four B.
“You sure you’re ready to do this?” She emanates sincerity.
I shake my head no as the tears fill my eyes and I grab my purse.
Seeing my reaction, she steps softly toward me and hugs me tightly.
As she lets go, I say, “I can do this, really. I
want
to do this.” I sniffle and grasp the ring in my pocket. I pull myself together and say, “I’m ready. Let’s go.” I smile at her.
“Let’s go and find
us some sugar daddies,” she purrs mischievously. My eyebrows raise and she then says, “or some boring, but respectful male who loves his momma, and thinks of nothing but pleasing the female race?”
I laugh at her as we both say our goodbyes to Kioto, before walking out of my apartment. With a sudden change of tone as we walk downstairs, she asks, “How’s your mom doing?” Amber is always asking about my mom and worries as much as I do.
“She’s hanging in there. The doctors are repeatedly amazed at how she continues each day without dialysis—which she refuses. The kidney is not doing well.”
Amber frowns and says, “I hope you tell her how much you love her. Every day.” She look
s to the sky and says, “I would,” in a whisper. Her sorrow makes my own eyes tear up and I take a deep breath, holding it deep in my chest, and bringing myself back to my own emotions.
We decide that, with menacing clouds still lingering above, we don’t want to go anywhere café-ish, where we could have sat outside if the weather was decent.
“How about that new hot spot over in Lakeview that serves all their food raw?” she suggests.
I imagine a plate full of vomit-looking bu
tternut squash and steak tartare, and it makes me want to puke. “Sorry, I’m not into that whole raw scene,” I snap. “I want something warm and comforting tonight—maybe with some grease to soak up the cosmos I’ve been daydreaming about.”
We decide on a soul food restaurant that’s been around for years. We both get excited as we jinx each other with a simultaneous “
Cornbread!” But after we hail a cab, we regret it immediately. The cabbie slowly scans us with his beady eyes as we climb in and smiles a smile I rather dislike, displaying his stained teeth.
The yellow, rotten teeth, brown-streaked from years of neglect, sneer as he comes close, sniffing my lightly perfumed neck.
Amber
, seeing my reaction, then leans in toward me and whispers with beautiful, professionally whitened, but clenched teeth, “If I smell like this cab at the bar, I am going to start smoking again.”
She quit three years ago
, thanks to my constant nagging, and her comment indeed pulls me back to reality. “I’ll spill some kind of fruity drink all over you so you don’t stink. Sound good?” I give her my best wholesome smile, attempting to wash away negative thoughts that may ruin my night out.
“You are such a true friend. Thanks,” she says. “You’d probably light a match, too.” She smiles quirkily at me, showing her full set of dazzling white teeth.
Our chatting turns my mind from the cabbie as we discuss how Helping Hands is doing so poorly. And how maybe, it’s no coincidence considering the increase of strange and depressing news that scours televisions these days. We then both stare at each other, silently acknowledging that we’ve hit yet another topic we should currently steer clear of, so we then divert our focus to the cattiness of our female Helping Hands colleagues, and how we are just
so
above that as grown, mature women. Our laughs intertwine as we realize we are so full of shit. But my laugh soon dissipates as a glance out the window informs me we are in unknown territory.
I grab my purse and the pepper spray inside as I scan the area for street signs. Amber grabs my arm and gives me a glare I’ve grown accustomed to throughout the years—the one informing me I’m overreacting. She asks the cabbie where we are, and he replies, with the thickest Middle-Eastern accent I’ve ever heard, “
Dragon Palace, just like you said.”
“No, it was
Regina’s Palate
, on Southport.” Amber’s voice rises quickly.
The driver’s face contorts as the prospect of a decent tip flies out the window—and Amber hasn’t even begun with him yet. “I think you need to pay me now,” he says.