“No,” I said. “I know that God is a man. Otherwise he wouldn’t let women go through so much shit.”
I had to wash the piled-up dishes today. I thought about what I would do if I were suddenly to become God. Let’s say God decided to pass the crown and He picked me to succeed Him. (I don’t know why He would do that. I didn’t get into the logistics of it.)
So I’d be God. At first I was thinking that maybe no one would know the difference.
People would pray to me. Some of the prayers I’d answer immediately, and the others I’d leave in my inbox for later. I’d get to them two months later, or else I’d wait so long that I’d be ashamed to answer the prayers and I’d delete them instead.
“Why doesn’t God answer our prayers?” those people would say.
People would suffer. I’d try to alleviate some of the suffering, but then I’d get annoyed that there was so much, and I’d end up ignoring the bulk of it. “Oh, quit your whining,” I’d say. “Aren’t you old enough to fix it yourself?” And I’d go off and buy supplies to make a new plant or bacteria or something.
“Why does God allow suffering?” people would say.
That’s how I thought it would be, at first. But then I knew I was kidding myself—that it wouldn’t be that way at all. I realized that my heavenly reign would be decadent, political, and totally selfish, like that of the gods of Mount Olympus.
The first thing I’d do is give all my friends little godships of their own. “I want Veronica to be the Goddess of the Hearth and Long-Distance Phone Conversations,” I’d say. And I’d dole out little powers and omniscience and things to them. Then I’d set up a really good meeting place for us all—sort of like Mount Olympus, but warmer and not so high. (Did you think I meant Hell? No. But I am afraid of heights.) We’d sit around and gossip about all our mortals, drink sacred beverages, and stash the tributes we’d raked in.
Then, once all that was set up, the real fun would begin. The temples would be built and people would start worshipping in earnest. And—I’m not gonna lie—I’d binge on some massive slaughter. Goodbye to all the rapists, child molesters, and people who’d done me wrong. Maybe they’d go in a big flood. Maybe in a plague of grasshoppers. I don’t know. I don’t like to dwell on those things.
The things I’d prefer to dwell on are the details. “This person is humble and thrifty,” I’d say. “She will win the Publishers’ Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. This person is vain and mean. Her hair will be orange for a year. This person makes me smile. I will visit him in the form of Hello Kitty and he will bear my child.”
I’d have fun. I’d throw thunder and lightning or make it rain frogs to get my point across. I’d reassume human form, go down to Earth, and test people. I’d make them prove their love.
But, then again, I’d probably get tired of that after a while and eventually become like the first god I described. I imagine a deity probably gets bored after so many years.
Was that silly and megalomaniacal? It’s only something I thought of while washing the dishes.
Ghost
You know what would suck? It would suck if you became famous, and then died, and then became a ghost, and then someone made a movie about your life, and the movie sucked. Let’s say you’re a ghost and you get to go into the theater and see the movie, and you hate it. What could you do? Maybe you’d yell, “That’s not even how it happened!” in your ghostly voice, and no one would hear. You could always haunt the theater, I guess, but that wouldn’t do much good because they’d be showing the movie all over the country. Maybe all over the world, if you’d been famous enough.
So you’d just be sad. A sad ghost.
If I were a ghost, I would be so damned bored. As a child, I thought that it would be great, hilarious fun to be a ghost. But I now believe that I was wrong.
I thought that I would follow people around and play little pranks on them. What good would that do, though? Let’s say I followed my husband around . . . Let’s say my husband’s an old widower, and I follow him around and break something every time he tries to kiss some other lady. What good would that do? Maybe he’d be afraid to kiss other women, but it’s not like he’d say, “That must be the ghost of Gwen punishing me! I vow henceforth to be celibate and put extra fake flowers on her grave!” Even if he did say that, I wouldn’t want him to do it.
I thought that I’d float around and eavesdrop on people. I could hear all their secrets and see all their scandals. That wouldn’t be worth anything, either, though. What good are secrets and scandals if you can’t gossip about them to anyone?
I thought I would appear to people in their dreams and give them little messages. Like what, though?
“Letty, this is Gwen. Tell everyone to put fake flowers on my grave.”
“Melissa, this is Gwen. I like that sweater you had on the other day.”
“Tad, this is Gwen. I’m still dead.”
It just isn’t worth the effort. Even if I had some great mystery to help resolve, like Patrick Swayze did in the movie Ghost, I wouldn’t want to mess with it. Too much trouble for too little return, I say.
Maybe I could catch up on all the movies I missed, though.
I used to think that the best part would be hearing what people said about me after I was gone. Now I realize that it would only upset my ghostly self. I’d listen and then either think, “That’s not true! That’s not the way it was at all!” or else I’d think, “Yeah, that was true. But what does it matter now?”
So I guess instead of wasting time as a ghost, I’ll just go straight to hell.
That’s my plan.
Just kidding. I don’t believe in any of that crap, anyway.
Raining
It was raining like crazy this morning after a long spell of no daytime rain at all. I don’t have an umbrella. I never have one. I never have had one. Don’t ask me why.
My car was parked 40 or 50 feet from my door and the parking lot was developing a shallow moat. I decided to wait out the worst of it. Checked my email, updated my budget, and it was still raining like a big rain bucket from hell. I halfheartedly searched my apartment for a non-existent umbrella, even though I already knew what I would have to do. I just didn’t want to do it.
My late grandmother’s translucent head floated over my left shoulder, crabbily telling me, “Just use a trash bag.”
But I don’t want to use a trash bag, Grandma. I’d rather die. I’d rather wait at the bus stop for fifteen minutes, becoming absolutely drenched in the rain, earning the leers and scorn of the passersby, than be one of those kids who shows up to school wearing black Hefty bags with three holes torn for their arms and head. My friends and me make fun of those kids, Grandma. We’re poor bur we’re not nerds. I must retain my soggy pride.
I considered just calling in sick. But no.
Why didn’t my family just buy me an umbrella? Why was every little convenience some extravagant conceit that only “those bolillos” had?
Or why didn’t I just buy an umbrella with my summer job money, instead of spending it all on thrift store clothing, pizza, and records?
Teeth gritted, legs dragging, fists clenched, I walked to the pantry to get a glowing white Glad kitchen bag with festive red drawstring. I would just hold it above my head and walk very quickly, I decided. My grandma watched me and rolled her eyes.
Why haven’t I bought myself an umbrella by now? What’s my excuse? I have a nice car/job/apartment and enough money in the bank to get a big striped umbrella with a wooden duck head for the handle. Not to brag, but I have enough money to get two.
I listened to the hard wet drumming and knew that merely holding the bag above my head wouldn’t be enough. Sadly, I began to slit the bag down one of its sides, making a 13-gallon plastic tent. By the time I sawed through the resistant drawstring with my keys, I was giggling a tiny bit hysterically, imagining the impression I’d make on any neighbor passing by.
My grandma glares sternly, ghostly arms materializing to cr
oss at her chest, as I carefully drape the pointed little tarp over my head and shoulders. It floats weightless around me, my pretty sweater, my silver earrings, my make-upped eyes.
I’m not a poor kid. I’m a fine lady in a white mantilla. I’m a beautiful industrial bride.
My grandma makes the tsk noise, probably, but I don’t hear. I totter quickly through the lot, jump over the long puddle to my silver Nissan carriage. Throw down my costume on the cement before cocooning into my chariot and flying happily away.
I don’t know if my grandma’s ghost dissipated back into limbo, or if she had to cool her heels in the foyer until the rain died down. I don’t know why she doesn’t float over to the mall or the movies instead of coming over to criticize me all the time.
When it rains, I always tearfully vow to buy myself an umbrella. When the sun comes out again, I think of the future instead.
Love and Animals
Carnival Macho
She wants to go to the carnival so you take her. You don’t wanna spend the gas to drive all across town but then you see her and she’s looking nice, so you say it’s all right. Borrow money from your dad. You’ll work extra next weekend.
Pay for the parking, park in the mud, have to wash the truck tomorrow. She’s all happy so it’s all right. Need a new muffler. Maybe you’ll get some tonight, make this shit’s all worth it.
Pay for the tickets. Ride the rides. Tacos. Drinks. Cotton candy.
Stand in line for some big scary-ass roller coaster. She’s scared but she’s all giggling. You’re gonna hold her. It’s gonna be all right.
Some fucker bumps into you and cuts in line. Big-ass redneck with all his friends. Fuck him. Keep cool. It’s all right.
Motherfucker’s looking, laughing at you with all his friends. Now they’re looking at her. Checking her out. Looking all over her. She looks down. What’s she gonna do? Nothing? She looks back up. She says, “What the . . . ” You tell her to be quiet. You say, “It’s all right.”
Fuck those sons of bitches making all their noise. She says, “C’mon, let’s go, I don’t want to ride that thing, anyway.”
You say, “Fine.”
Y’all walk away. You say, “ . . . if you’re scared.”
Punk-ass says, “Wetback.” She acts like she didn’t hear but you’re not fucking stupid.
Y’all keep on walking but she doesn’t say nothing.
She says she’s tired. You say you wanna ride the rides. Get a goddamned candy apple. You’re not gonna leave ‘til you’re ready.
Some fucker says, “Hey, man, get your girl a Tweety Bird.” Basketballs going in the hoop.
Yeah, she’s your girl; you’ll get her the goddamned Tweety Bird. When he does it, the shit goes in the hoop. When you do it, the shit bounces off the wall.
Fucked up shit. You do it again.
“C’mon, man. Three more dollars for your girl.”
Stupid fucking shit. You do it again.
“C’mon, big man. If my girl was that pretty, I’d get her a prize.”
This shit’s fucking rigged. Do it again.
She says, “C’mon, baby, I’m tired. I don’t want a prize. Let’s go home.”
You say, “Shut the fuck up. Just shut up and let me win.”
To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just Like Him
After years of trying to fight it, I’ve decided that I want to look cheap. Blonde highlights, big earrings, red lipstick, too-tight skirts with cellulite rolling out underneath—that’s what I’ve had set my heart on and what I’ve come back to after all these years. There’s no use pretending to be any better by buying clothes from stores where the sales clerks shame me, by resisting the urges when glittery, not-gold displays catch my magpie eyes.
I’m a cheap slut, if that means what I think it does. I don’t ask for diamonds before I have sex with you for free. You don’t have to buy the cow—you’re getting the milk for free. (But I’m not a cow, no matter how much I hear it when I put on that skirt.)
And you ask me why I wanna look like all the other women you’ve known (even while you wonder what the hell I’m doing with you in the first place). And then you realize anew what you’ve known all along: all women are whores, and the best you can hope for is to save up enough money to own one who will only be a whore for you. And, actually, you haven’t spent any money on me at all, so I must be even worse than the whore that you know all women to be.
So what’s left for me to do? I’m damned if I do and lonely if I don’t, right? So I’ll be damned.
Bring on the cheap stuff. Glitter on my eyes, silver on my toes. Hard nipples through a tight t-shirt. My hair like I just dragged myself out of your bed and walked down the humid street to see who else was out there—not with the blank face of “I can’t hear you whistling at my body parts” but with the head-toss and smirk of, “Don’t be whistling, buddy, unless you’re sure you can last a night with me.”
Spend the dollar on gasoline and treat yourself to me. I’m a cheap piece of meat. Heat me up tonight. I’m cheap like sugar and food coloring—I’m the big Barbie birthday cake you buy a little girl when you can’t afford to send her to college. Cut me up, eat me up, forget about it. I’m cheap like paper—a golden piñata shining in the sun. Fill my holes with your sweet stuff, hombre. Smack me around a little. Then go on your way. Give another man a chance to use his stick. Pull me down from the sky and tear me apart. Take everything I had inside, then smash it into the ground.
Ants
Ants have been on my mind a lot lately. (Not literally, but you know.) We get lots of them in the summer. There are the big red ones outside, and the little black ones inside. The red ones bite me when I’m working in the garden. My anger at them is always tempered with grudging respect. I’ll put my foot near the edge of a flowerbed so I can pull out a weed, and the ants will start attacking me. I’ll yell, “Dammit! Ow! Die, you little red bastards!” But then I’ll realize that these ants are running out and braving the Giant Foot to save their people, and I’ll have to coo, “Aw!”
The black ants never bite me. They just come in to eat the food that the kids have dropped around the dining table. I used to freak out when I saw them and run to douse them with bleach, brake cleaner, or whatever was on hand. Or else I’d get my oldest shoes—the ones with no treads left—and use them to pound the ants into the floor.
But I don’t kill them anymore. Why should I? They’re only looking for food. It’s hot outside and there’s nothing but bugs and abandoned garden tomatoes for them to eat. There must be billions of ants out there, in our town. Or maybe even billions in my back yard alone. It must be like some kind of impossible dream when a colony of ants discovers the way through my kitchen door. I can just see the first ant coming in. He pulls himself up through the crack and, suddenly, the air is cool. It’s alien. “Weird,” he thinks. Maybe he’s a little scared. But he goes on. He is a scout, determined to complete his mission.
When he gets under the table, he stops and stares. (Or waves his little feelers around. Whichever.) It’s like mounds of shining treasure in the pyramids of Egypt or something. Tortilla crumbs! Bread crumbs! Little bits of cheese! And— oh, my ant goddess!—a pool of melted Popsicle!
But he doesn’t know the brand names, of course. He just smells the food. He senses the sugar. They all like sugar, you know. They’re just like me. Well, not like me at all, really. But they do like sugar.
And they work so hard. There’s no telling how much organization it takes to get them all into the house and out again with the food in tow. Some people think that colonized insects must be telepathic. Either way, their systematic workflow is impressive.
Ants really like to congregate in the piles of dirty laundry, I’ve found. And I can’t help but notice that they like to hang out in the crotches of my panties. Sometimes they eat holes into the fabric.
This might be sick, but I find that sort of flattering.
Not so flattering that I’d make up long in
volved fantasies about it, of course. I mean, I would never sit around and imagine large ants from outer space kidnapping me so that they could tie me up and then stimulate the pleasure center in my brain with real-seeming holographic scenarios about attractive celebrities being romantically interested in me, all so that the giant space ants could harvest the precious crotches from my panties and the nourishing juices contained therein.
Or that a cornerstone of their alien economy rests on the sale of said juices and therefore makes my pleasuring an absolutely vital cause, requiring a huge lab and Research and Development Department to sustain it.
No, I would never think about it to that extent, because that would be wrong. I’m just saying that it’s interesting that ants like laundry. Isn’t it?
When I see them on my sink now, I apologize quietly and then try to kill them quickly. I smash them with the tip of my finger, hoping it was fast enough to be painless. When I see them on the floor, I use my broom. While I’m sweeping them out the back door, I wonder how they’re rationalizing it all in their little ant minds. Do they survive the fall? Are they afraid as they rush through the air? When they get to the ground, how do they figure out where they are? Are there other ants around to tell them? Maybe they fall, and the other ants rush up and exclaim, “Dude, I saw you! You FLEW out of that house!” Or do they become completely disoriented and wander around for days until they die? What if they meet another ant tribe before they can make it home? Are they given a membership application, or does the local ant police pick them up and haul them away? Who knows? Does anyone care besides me?
If I could speak Ant language and interview one of these brave scouts, what would I say?
“Just tell me, sir—were my panties worth it?”
Ha. Just kidding. I would never think about such a thing. But, if I did, I can’t help but imagine that the answer would always be yes.
To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just Like Him Page 3
