by Amy Yamada
But he didn't hit me. He took my head in his hands and kissed me. I struggled to free myself, but he kept a tight hold on my chin. An odor filled my mouth like a virus entering my bloodstream, a mixture of marijuana and alcohol that spread and flowed through my body.
"I can feel you, Spoon."
Suddenly he pushed me away and started to throw up. It didn't look like he was going to stop, so I took him to the bathroom and stroked his back.
Tears trickled down his bloody cheeks. Spoon continued to puke even after everything in his stomach had come up and all that was left was a mixture of blood and stomach juices. I kept on stroking his back; it was like comforting someone who'd just been told he had six months to live. He cried pathetically. But what was I supposed to do? I mean, I'm not a nurse.
I took the spoon from his pocket and used it to scoop the puke up off the floor and dump it into the garbage can. I felt like I wanted to tell God about it.
I 6 A M Y Y A M A D A
"Hey, God! Look at me scooping puke up off the floor with a silver spoon!"
After I'd finished cleaning up the mess, I went to bed while Spoon washed his face. When he had finished, he came in feeling better, and in an apologetic voice he called my name. But I didn't answer. I was pretending to be asleep.
"Kim, I wanna fuck you. I suppose you don't want to do it tonight, huh?"
Fucking was all he knew. In his heart he must have been screaming, What do you want me to do? How can / make you feel better ? What else is there besides fucking?
He was just a little, immature kid in a g r o w n - u p body. My darling Spoon. This black demon was gradually filling my mind with dirty words. But there was still some free space left. There would always be space for more until the day my mind was full and whistled like a boiling kettle.
"Kim, I wanna fuck you. I wanna make you feel good. Are you sleeping? Are you asleep? Shit! I'm doing my best to make you feel better and you won't even let me touch you."
Spoon climbed into bed beside me and turned his back on me with a sigh.
"You could always rape me."
Spoon turned back, surprised. I gave him a big grin in the dark.
He stopped being miserable.
| had been to bed with other guys twice since me and Spoon started I living together. But it had nothing at all to do with wanting to have 1 sex with them.
Every now and then I just felt really nervous that I had let myself get so caught up in my feelings for Spoon. He was like a big jigsaw puzzle, and I didn't want to turn into one of the pieces.
One day after work I went to see a guy, an old friend. We had a very close relationship, but very relaxed—there was no pressure. We were what you might call partners in crime. In his room that night he did the same things he had always done; I thought he knew me inside out, but I left his apartment feeling defeated. Now I knew I was addicted to Spoon.
When I got back home, Spoon was sprawled out on top of the bedcovers, sleeping facedown with a glass of gin on the floor beside him. I just looked at his big, bare feet and burst into tears.
He woke up when he felt my tears falling onto his feet. I guess he thought I only cried when we made love or when he was hitting me.
"Kim? What's wrong? Why are you crying? What's the matter?
Did someone hit you?"
"It's nothing."
I 6 A M Y Y A M A D A
"Did somebody do something to you?"
"No. I just missed you, that's all."
"Naturally—what do you expect?"
I didn't know what was so natural about it, but he dragged me into bed and started taking my clothes off like he was opening a bag of caramels. Then he started to run his tongue over my body, licking me all over. Suddenly his tongue stiffened. I looked down and saw with horror that there was a bright purple bruise on my chest.
Spoon was so dumbfounded that he couldn't even hit me. He held me by the shoulders, his hands trembling. I really thought he was going to kill me. I steeled myself and looked at his face. I expected to see his eyes wild with anger, but all I saw was desperation and sadness.
I had never wanted to see Spoon's eyes filled with sorrow like that.
The pain was written all over his face, like on one of those teleprint signs going from left to right: "I AM SAD . . . I AM SAD . . . I AM SAD . . . "
A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. I had to do something.
Spoon wasn't supposed to look like that. He was only supposed to have that nonchalant, vacant expression. I wracked my brains for something to say.
"Can't you be more careful, Spoon? If you leave marks there it means I can't wear any of my nice dresses."
"Oh, right. Last n i g h t . . . ?"
His face suddenly lit up and he pushed me down and started making passionate love to me.
Somehow I had managed to shift the blame. I never knew I could be so devious.
I sighed with a mixture of relief and pleasure as we made love, and I thought about the way Spoon's jealousy hurt him and tortured me.
Whatever hurt Spoon hurt me, too. I was in love with the useless bastard!
Just the thought made me blush and I looked up at him. He stopped moving and stared back at me with a quizzical expre: b e d t i m e e y e s j
"What's the matter?"
"I think I'm in love with y o u . . . . "
I'm sure I must have looked really proud of myself, like I'd decided to make lobster for dinner or something.
"Naturally," he said.
I wondered if maybe me and Spoon being together was just the way it had to be. Whatever the reason, there was no question that SPOON was stamped on my heart in big, bold letters.
We were lying on the grass in the corner of a park, sharing a joint. People passed by, completely unaware, never thinking for a moment that we might be smoking marijuana. From time to time Spoon would close one eye and blow smoke at Osbourne, then roll with laughter as Osbourne just stood there, paralyzed, like it was a whiff of catnip. I was wearing a heavy coat, and was twisting the tops off one bottle of beer after another.
We were having an Indian summer. The sun was strong. When I closed my eyes, the insides of my eyelids turned into the fresh, young leaves that g r o w on trees at the beginning of summer. I reached out my hand and fumbled for the stiff material of Spoon's jeans. His eyelashes always tickled my cheek just before he kissed me, so I knew what he was up to. H i s Panama hat fell to the ground and Osbourne jumped on it and started playing with it. I wished Spoon would stop blowing my lips like he was playing a trumpet.
We stood at the bus stop in front of the park, munching hot dogs. I had put too much hot mustard on mine and it was making me cry. Osbourne was curled up inside Spoon's jacket, asleep, when I heard a woman's voice.
"Kim?"
f j . A M Y Y A M A D A
It was Maria. I was surprised to bump into her so unexpectedly, but I didn't let it show. I just stood there, rooted to the spot, as she looked Spoon up and down. I thought I would die of embarrassment It was humiliating to be seen with someone you love so much. Spoon, on the other hand, gave Maria a brief glance and went back to stroking Os- : bourne inside his jacket.
"Is this him?" she asked.
I nodded. I always counted on Maria to tell me what to do next, but I didn't want her to pass judgment on Spoon as she had my other men.
"He's a big one," she said after a moment, then mumbled good-bye, §
caught a cab, and was gone. I felt a little sad, like I had just split up with ;.; a boyfriend. I felt like I deserved some kind of diploma, like I had finally |
graduated from her or something.
The bus arrived and we got on. Spoon sat in silence while I talked.
"She taught me everything I know, the same as you have. Don't you a think she's pretty?"
I winced at the triteness of my words and looked up at him.
"Not really."
I felt a moment of panic. Spoon's usual reaction to a beautiful woman was to whistl
e and shout obscenities at her.
"She is! Everyone says so."
"Just shut up and leave me alone."
Spoon looked out the window. His thick eyelashes were wet with tears. Now I felt sick, like I had swallowed a big lump of bread whole.
The lump refused to break up—it just got bigger and bigger.
The bus jerked to a halt and the seat lurched forward violently. I gulped and swallowed the lump back down, and prayed that the driver wouldn't hit the brakes again. I was afraid that the lump would come bursting out from inside of me.
C H A P T E R S E V E N
1 set my gaze on Spoon as I stuffed my scrambled-egg breakfast into I my mouth. He had skipped his usual breakfast, a couple of aspirin 1 washed down with Tanqueray gin, and was looking over some papers that he held carefully in his hand as he talked on the phone to some embassy or other. And every now and then he would just shut his mouth or close his eyes and stop moving.
I wanted to say, Hey, your girl's got eyes for nothing but you, but all I could do was sit there beside him, stealing the odd glance at his big, black face.
Spoon had told me not to play Chet Baker so early in the morning, but other than that he hadn't said a word. He was usually so loud about everything, but recently he'd been really quiet. Who'd he think he was, a philosopher or something? He had even quit snorting coke. But he smoked all day long, his big body sprawled out on the couch. Spoon worried me.
His eyes, which always told me exactly what he was thinking, were full of anxiety. And what had happened at the bus stop was still gnawing at me. What was that all about, and why was I still so upset about it?
J 6 A M Y Y A M A D A
It was as though we had reached an important point in our depraved lif together, and a bookmark had been thrust in between us to mark the event.
I was picking some egg from between my teeth with a toothpick when I hit a raw nerve in a bad tooth. It made me feel so depressed. The ache in my tooth hit another nerve somewhere in my mind.
I snatched the pile of papers from the table and flung them at Spoon, but they just fanned out in perfect order in front of me like a lost poker hand, and that made me even more angry. Spoon responded with a sharp slap across my face, and I suddenly realized the papers must be some kind of plan he was working on.
I fell to the ground with the force of the blow, but Spoon gave me no more than a glance as he gathered up my cards (he had certainly won that hand) and left the apartment without a word.
Alone in the room, I crouched down and clutched my hands to my chest. Then I rolled over onto the floor and started kicking my legs in the air, screaming and crying like some spoiled child. But it didn't ease the pain in my heart. I tried calling out his name like I was just calling out the name of a kitchen implement: "Spoon!"
Just a tool for getting the food from the bowl to the mouth. I started kicking my legs in the air again.
"SPOON!"
This time I yelled like I was calling for my man, and hot tears flowed from my eyes. That made me feel a little better.
I had always stayed calm before, even when Spoon beat me half to death. Spoon and me, we were bound too close to each other and our relationship was something far too insincere to be called love. I knew there was no reason for me to worry about Maria, and that made me feel even worse because 1 knew I didn't need a reason—Spoon had shown me exactly how he felt, and I could see the pain in his expression. Whenever B E D T I M E E Y E S j 7
Spoon hurt, I felt pain, too, and then neither of us could help the other because we were both hurting so badly.
On one hand, I was pleased that Spoon was attracted to Maria—at least he had good taste. But it made me feel more jealous than I had ever felt before. W h a t an ungrateful bastard he was! How could he leave his glass before d r i n k i n g the last drop? I wanted to despise him because he had no manners, but it only made me hate myself.
I had to go and look for him, so I stood up, combed my hair, and put my coat on. I wandered around town like a sleepwalker, searching for him, starting with the places he was least likely to be: the bars, the discos, and the record shops we had been to together. I even went to one of his friends' apartments where Spoon sold drugs. But I couldn't find him anywhere, so I decided to follow my instincts, and turned my steps toward Maria's apartment in Jiyugaoka. Despite the fact that he shouldn't k n o w where she lived, like a madwoman, I was drawn there by my intuition.
I rang the doorbell, and there was no answer, but I could feel Spoon on the other side of the door begging for my help. Once, when I had been a homeless teenager, Maria had given me the key to her apartment.
Now I used that key to silently unlock the door, and I pushed it open.
Spoon lay on the bed in the corner of the large, loftlike room. He half sat up. Maria's long hair, like seaweed, spread out from between his legs, and each hair seemed poised to turn into a wriggling Medusas snake. Peeping through the hair were sharp, gold-polished fingernails.
She looked up quietly.
"Come over here, K i m . "
I walked over and looked at them both lying there. Spoon's body, glistening black, looked like sweet, mouthwatering chocolate. And that was all. That was what I had been running around Tokyo like a crazy woman to find. But for me, it was worth it.
I 6 A M Y Y A M A D A
Why? Since when? Who started it? So many w questions cam crowding up into my throat, all trying to get out at once. I could feel all those w battling it out inside me; it felt like a scene from an American cartoon. Now that was funny—I was a comic heroine! I wondered if maybe I should just throw my head back and start laughing at myself.
Maria glanced at me sideways, picked up the gown from beside her, and put it on. I just stood there, my lip curled.
"You made me do it," she said.
I just stood and stared at her. I couldn't figure out what she was trying to say. If it had been in a book with notes, I would have skipped straight to the last page for the explanation.
"This is all your fault, Kim."
She thrust the words at me as if to say, Have you had enough? Or do you want some more?
My lips felt dry and I tried desperately to moisten them.
"What are you talking about? I don't know what you mean. You just met me with Spoon by accident. And then, before I knew what was happening, you stole him! You conniving bitch!"
It was the first time I had ever called her a bitch. Any respect I had for her was gone.
"I didn't steal him from you."
"Yes, you did! He's mine"
I suddenly realized that all of the satisfaction I got from being dom-inated by Spoon was actually the satisfaction of owning him.
"And you are his, aren't you?"
"That's right."
"Well, there you go then."
"Huh?" I was lost. She always had that effect on me.
I stared at her. Her eyes looked as heavy as if they'd had golden wine poured into them, wine that had been aged in a cellar for a hundred years. I had always been intoxicated by them; they reminded me of my B E D T I M E E Y E S 5 5
own ugliness. I'd always asked her to check out the men I was seeing he-cause I didn't think I was smart enough to judge for myself. She had taken care of me since I had been on my own, and I'd always trusted her completely.
Then, when I met Spoon, he had replaced Maria. I was too ignorant and too unsure of myself to go it alone, wavering unsteadily like seaweed in the ocean; I always needed someone to tell me what to do.
Maria stared back at me. I felt strangely calm. There was a song I used to sing about a girl whose boyfriend cheated on her. I got all worked up, imagining how she felt. The idea of her agony and her beautiful expression made me cry. She must have felt like her whole body would dissolve into tears that would just wash away. I cried tears of pity for that poor, heartbroken girl. I had never had a man stolen from me before. My love for every man I knew had snuck out the back door long before someone else could take him
from me. And Maria would whisper quietly to me over and over again that that was the way things were, and eventually I would forget all about it.
Now I was the one who had been tricked, and I felt like the girl in the song, but I didn't start singing any blues. I just stood there like I was bound hand and foot, and was watching TV. It seemed like all my emotions had been frozen.
"I don't know the meaning of anything anymore. I sure don't know the meaning of love," I said.
"That's because you're in the middle of it."
What the hell was she talking about? If anyone was in the middle, it was Spoon.
I could tell he was scared by the way we were talking about it so calmly, no shouting, no fuss.
And suddenly I felt sorry for him. For the past few days he had had a look on his face like he was going to do something dangerous. But now he just looked awkward and embarrassed. So what had that serious
• i
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expression been for? I was so frustrated, I felt like stamping my feet. I knew that if I asked him how he felt about all of this, he'd just say something lame like, Hey, it's no big deal.
But it was important to me. Even if, maybe, to this cheap whore of a man (Now how did I come up with a phrase like that?) it was just a fling.
But I had adored Maria and had even dreamed of being her lover. I didn't want to believe that an affair with her could ever be a shallow thing—I wanted it to have some deep meaning.
"You're in the middle," she repeated.
"Just lay off, will you?" I said, beginning to cry.
"Hey, baby, don't cry."
"Kim, my darling, don't cry."
Their voices overlapped.
"I love you, Kim."
I couldn't believe my ears. This woman, who I had worshiped for so long, was saying words I'd never expected to hear. But it was too late. I had already stopped loving her.
"I've always loved you. There has never been anyone else."
Now that she said it, I knew it was true. She really did love me deeply.
Far more than her hats and her rings, or her men.
