Pissing in a River

by Lorrie Sprecher

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  “A lot’s been happening so fast lately—between us, the war. I worry about you.”

  “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “Christ, let someone worry about you. Let me take care of you.”

  “Amanda, I don’t need to be taken care of. What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m not over you being raped,” I said, unable to meet her eyes. “I know it’s stupid, but I feel bad I wasn’t there to stop it. Or at least to help you afterwards. I can’t bear it, thinking of you all alone in a kind of pain I cannot even fathom. I feel guilty you went through it instead of me.”

  “Why? Would you be able to handle it better than I did?” Melissa snapped.

  “Are you angry?”

  “Well, the subject pisses me off. I don’t need to deal with your guilt. That’s your own thing, innit?”

  “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.”

  “Kid,” she said more softly, “I can be pissed off at you. It doesn’t mean anything. I feel bad you had to deal with your psychiatric shite as well, you know. That isn’t a pleasant thought either. But I can’t make it not have happened. I can only love you now.”

  I blurted out, “But what about Rwanda?”

  “What? For fuck’s sake, the genocide? What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Remember how the United States kept calling it ‘acts of genocide’ instead of ‘genocide’ so we could pretend we weren’t morally responsible to stop it? Remember how the whole world turned away and let everybody die? Remember how the surviving women were raped and infected with HIV? And what about rape in the Democratic Republic of the Congo? What about the ethnic cleansing in Bosnia?”

  “Jesus, love.” Melissa looked concerned. “Where’s this coming from?”

  “In 1994 I was completely obsessed with finishing my degree. When Rwanda happened, I wasn’t even aware of it. I did nothing. All I did about Bosnia was cry. I’m doing nothing about the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and now there’s genocide in Sudan. And I’m Jewish. Every Passover we think about the holocaust and say, never again. It could just as easily have been me born a Tutsi at the wrong time in Rwanda.”

  “But it wasn’t. I don’t know what you can do about that.” Melissa sat next to me on the bed. “Is this what’s going on in your head all the time? You went from my being raped to Rwanda in about thirty seconds.”

  “It’s how my mind works,” I said. “Don’t you see the connections?”

  Melissa paused. “I do.”

  “Welcome to the wonderful world of OCD. Or at least my OCD. Like many people with this illness, I am of above-average intelligence, feel an exaggerated sense of moral responsibly, and have a heightened concern with social justice. I’m responsible for everything that happens. Didn’t I tell you that?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t understand the intensity of that aspect of it. Is that what keeps you awake at night?”

  “You sound like a doctor,” I said tetchily.

  “I am your doctor.” Melissa rearranged the pillows to make me more comfortable. “And your friend. And your—never mind, I don’t know what I am. Have you ever gone higher on your Prozac?”

  “I can’t go higher on the Prozac. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with seeing the connections between everything. You can’t medicate away social responsibility. It’s not right.”

  “No, but it’s a problem if it stops you from functioning or sleeping. If you truly think you are the world’s conscience, no wonder you can’t sleep. And why not take more Prozac when you’re feeling this anxious?”

  I was embarrassed. “Because if I take a larger dose I can’t—oh God, I can’t believe we are having this conversation.”

  “I don’t have to be the one prescribing for you,” Melissa said. “You can go to another doctor. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings. It’s what we should have done anyway. I never should have thought—it’s completely wrong.”

  “Please don’t say that,” I implored. “I’ll tell you.”

  “But ethically—”

  “Stop it. You’re the most ethical person I know. Besides, the whole doctor thing, it’s dead sexy, you know?” I waited for her to smile. She didn’t. “I’ve spent enough of my life in the subdued hues of psychiatrists’ waiting rooms.”

  “Amanda—”

  “If I fall down, you bandage me up. It’s natural. There’s nothing wrong with it. I can tell you anything. And you’re kind. If I go any higher on the Prozac,” I said resolutely, “I can’t—I can’t achieve, I cannot, you know, come.”

  “Some ginkgo biloba could help with that,” Melissa said matter-of-factly.

  “Really?” I moved over so Melissa could slide into bed next to me.

  “Really. And you’re right. Genocide is a good reason for not sleeping. You’re hyperaware of connections. I just get worried about you sometimes.” She kissed my ear softly and whispered, “But sweetie, I don’t want to be your doctor tonight. I want to be your lover. Only I’ve never done this before, and I’m really nervous I’ll fuck it up.”

  “Shit,” I said, and we both started laughing, “that’s so romantic.”

  Melissa said, “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

  “Honey,” I said, “you couldn’t.” And I started singing “Hey Jude” by the Beatles. “‘Hey Jude, don’t be afraid. / You were made to go out and get her.’”

  Melissa nuzzled my neck. “That doesn’t help me.”

  “‘And don’t you know that it’s just you,’” I whispered, “‘hey Jude, you’ll do, / the movement you need is on your shoulder.’”

  “I don’t know what the fuck that means, but ta. Our Paul’s a romantic bugger. He and Linda McCartney have done so much for animal rights. I wish she were still alive.”

  “Me, too. Melissa, do you really want to be with me?”

  “Yes, very much.” Melissa’s arms went around me, and I rubbed my cheek against her soft sleeve. She kissed my eyelids. “You’ll tell me what you like, if what I’m doing doesn’t feel good to you. And you’ll tell me if you’re not ready.”

  I immediately thought of the song “You’re Ready Now” by the Manchester punk band Slaughter and the Dogs. That entire, huge last chorus started resonating in my brain, mocking me:

  You’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now.

  Melissa was speaking to me quietly. She helped me off with my T-shirt and massaged my neck and shoulders. I started to calm down. In my head, “You’re Ready Now” got less frantic. Melissa turned me over and massaged my hands and breasts. “You’re Ready Now” began to sound more triumphant and less like a threat. What she was doing was so lovely I felt myself relaxing into her touch. She massaged my legs and feet. When she massaged my inner thighs, I thought I was going to die from pleasure. She slipped off my knickers, and I felt her tongue gently caress me. “You’re ready now” was replaced by “oh my God.” I felt her hands on my nipples. The pleasure intensified. I am now at the hub of the universe.

  This felt way more intimate than making love with anybody else ever had. I could really feel her loving me as we made love. I held on tightly to one of Melissa’s hands. “Oh God, Melissa,” I gasped, flushed through with the sweetest feeling. I came and came again. I never did that. I pulled Melissa up beside me. “I need you here,” I said.

  Melissa continued to touch me. “You know I love you, don’t you, love?” she whispered, and I moaned, my body responding
to her words.

  “Jesus, what are you doing? I can’t believe you feel this good. God, Melissa.” Finally I held Melissa’s hand to make her stop. “Oh my God.” I collapsed against her, my whole body throbbing with waves of pleasure. “Okay, okay,” I said, kissing her fingers, “you’ve made your point. Jesus.” I fell against the pillows, letting out a huge breath. “You’re bloody brilliant.”

  “Sweetheart,” Melissa murmured. She wrapped her arms around me and held me as tightly as she could.

  “That’s it,” I said. “I belong to you. It might not be politically correct to say so, but I do. It’s like really having sex for the first time. Nobody has ever made me feel like that. I love the way you touch me. You’re so tender and sweet.”

  “I love the way your body responds to me,” Melissa said.

  I started caressing her gently. “Making love with you is like living on God,” I said.

  TRACK 44 Don’t Worry About the Government

  “I feel like a proper lesbian now I’ve made my girlfriend come,” Melissa said. She was making us a humane fry-up of eggs from cage-free chickens, baked beans, tomato, vegetarian bangers and fried bread. “You can’t imagine how relieved I am.”

  “It wasn’t a test.”

  “I know. And anyway, I passed.”

  To celebrate, I asked my dad to please ship me my made-in-Japan, silver-sparkle Fender Super-Sonic guitar, vintage black Univox Hi-Flyer with the grungiest pickups I’d ever heard, and my 1972 black Fender Musicmaster. Kurt Cobain had recorded the first Nirvana album, Bleach, with a Univox Hi-Flyer, and I’d had the Musicmaster routed for a humbucker, just like Kurt did with his Fenders. And I put his favorite pickup, the JB Duncan humbucker, in the bridge position.

  Nick brought by the new AFI album Sing the Sorrow for us to hear. While she and Melissa had tea, I worked on a song I was writing called “Speaker’s Corner.” Speaker’s Corner is at the corner of Hyde Park near Marble Arch where people with opinions stand on crates and boxes and emote. I love to go there on a Sunday and argue. It’s full of loopy Christians and people who hate homosexuals. Many of the same people are there every week, year after year. When I was at university, there was a bloke called Jimmy who used to stand on a stepladder and proclaim that lesbians had driven up the price of Coca-Cola because they use the bottles to stick up their cunts.

  “You sounded good,” Melissa said as I came downstairs bringing my Gibson with the pink-and-black “ACT UP/DC” and black-and-white “Kurt Cobain 1967–1994” stickers on it. “What we could hear of it.”

  “Cheers.” I rubbed my hand over the picture of Kurt’s face on the sticker next to his name.

  Nick said, “You ought to be performing someplace other than tube stations. You may have to.” She slid a copy of that day’s Telegraph at me. “You have to busk legally now. Which sort of ruins the whole point.” There was an article saying how London Transport was going to require all buskers to be licensed. You had to audition to play at one of the twenty-five official pitches at a dozen stations.

  “I don’t know if you need to be a permanent resident,” Melissa said. “And of course you don’t want to call attention to yourself.”

  “If they’re going to regulate it, what’s the fun in that?” I said.

  “You should start playing pubs and clubs,” Nick said. “I’ll bet you could get a gig for Gingerbeer’s monthly barge party. And lots of places have open mics. There’s a place called Club MIA in Slough that I’ll bet would have you.”

  “Money,” I said. “Where will I get it?”

  “The three of us will think of something,” Melissa said.

  “I don’t suppose you need another partner in your practice?” I asked. “A literary doctor?” I sang a few lines from Kurt’s song “Very Ape.” “‘I take pride as the king of illiterature, / I’m very ape and very nice.’”

  TRACK 45 Two of Us

  I brought the Takamine into the back studio where Melissa was painting an extremely abstract portrait of me with my guitar. “I wrote a song for you,” I said shyly.

  “Not another one?” Melissa smiled and wiped her brush. “Will you play it for me?”

  I suddenly felt awkward. “Okay, but don’t look at me while I’m singin’ it.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “‘Redemption,’” I said.

  Melissa turned back to her painting and I plucked out a complicated tune that started in A minor.

  Moses don’t part the Red Sea for me

  I’ll break my own heart on the shores of the sea

  I’ll drown on my own so call back your boats

  my body goes down, I hope my soul floats.

  Redemption is not always easy

  close my mouth so I don’t ask for pity

  shut my eyes, pretend that I hold her

  give anything to put my head on her shoulder

  everything for you

  everything for you.

  Moses don’t part my hair for me

  when you look in my heart I hope I’ll be pretty

  if I show you my brain will you invite me

  in from the rain I swear I’ll walk lightly.

  Redemption is not always pretty

  close my mouth so I don’t ask for pity

  shut my ears to all the world’s lies

  give anything to see love in her eyes

  everything for you

  everything for you.

  “That’s beautiful,” Melissa said, turning to look at me when I finished. “Do you really think of yourself that way?”

  “What way?” I put down the guitar.

  “That you hope you’ll be pretty enough so I’ll ask you in from the rain.”

  I lowered my gaze self-consciously. “Remember that night I waited for you outside your flat and it was raining? I think I felt like that then.”

  Melissa put down the brush and kissed me. “You don’t need to break your own heart anymore, love,” she said.

  “Oh.” I was barely audible. I held her against my black “SILENCE = DEATH” T-shirt with the pink triangle on the front.

  Melissa squeezed me. “I love you, you know.”

  I rested my head against her shoulder. “I love you, too.”

  “I love it that you write me songs.”

  My face felt warm, and I sang a soppy Ramones tune I love off the Subterranean Jungle album, “My-My Kind of a Girl”:

  “When I saw you on 8th street

  you could make my life complete, baby

  yeah, yeah, yeah

  you’re my-my kind of a girl.”

  “Come on,” Melissa laughed, “I’m serious.”

  I continued:

  “When I saw you by the Peppermint Lounge

  you were lost but you’ve been found, baby

  yeah, yeah, yeah

  you’re my-my kind of a girl.”

  “You know what, love?” Melissa tousled my uneven, spiky hair. “I decided if I was talking to you inside your head somehow and was there when you needed me, then I’m glad.”

  I put my mouth against her ear, singing a little of the chorus to the Jellyfish song “Will You Marry Me,” and kissed her.

  In the back sitting room, Melissa put on Nirvana’s Nevermind CD and fixed herself a vermouth and 7UP. I took sips from her glass as we sat together on the couch. “Lithium” was playing, and Kurt Cobain sang, “I’m so happy cause today I found my friends, / they’re in my head—”

  “Hey,” I nudged her, “that’s my song.”

  “—I’m not scared, light my candles, / in a daze cause I found God.”

  After “Lithium,” Kurt’s antirape dirge “Polly” came on, giving me a jolt. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t been prepared with some excuse to take the CD out before it reached that song. Nervously I said
, “This album can be dead depressing if you’re in the wrong mood,” afraid she might be upset. “I prefer these songs live and not overproduced.” I gave the sensible, musical reason to turn it off that had nothing to do with content.

  “Sorry,” Melissa said, getting up to change the CD. She put on “Rape Me” from Nirvana’s In Utero CD and gave me a solemn look. My mouth dropped open, and she winked at me.

  “You’re a laugh riot,” I said, and Melissa smiled.

  I got up and put on her best bootleg of the Real People, a mod band from Liverpool that I loved. I sang along with “Feel the Pain.” “‘Feel the pain, open your heart. / I’m so in love that I’m falling apart.’”

  “You’re right,” Melissa said, putting her arm around my shoulders as I sat back down, “mental illness is much funnier.”

  “I still wish I could track him down and kill him for you.” I was only semi-joking.

  “Paul? Yes,” Melissa said enthusiastically, “that would make me feel ever so much better, especially when I’m visiting you in the nick. What a perfect way to be here for me.” She squeezed my shoulder and kissed my cheek.

  I remembered a song from a Take Back the Night march I’d gone to a long time ago in Soho.

  Don’t go out on your own tonight,

  you’ll never get home my lad.

  Don’t go out on your own tonight,

  the women are really mad.

  ‘Cos we can kick, and we can fight,

  and women will take back the night.

  Tonight’s the night the women are on the rampage!

  We’d pounded our fists on the windows of the sex shops in Leicester Square. A mob of about thirty rough-looking patrons came out and stood menacingly at one end of the street. A gaggle of coppers stood at the other end. We decided to take our chances with the police, who escorted us to the tube station and made sure we got on a train.