by Michelle Tea
I Cannot Bring These Home, Michelle said intensely, rattling the bag.
Of course not, Quinn shrugged.
No Really, Michelle said.
Throw them away, Quinn nodded at a trash can on the curb.
Someone Could Get Stuck. A Sanitation Worker.
So? They’re clean.
Yeah, But Imagine How Scared They’d Be. They Wouldn’t Know They’re Clean. They’d Have To Get Tested And Everything.
There are actual dirty needles in the trash in San Francisco, Quinn said. There’s like toxic waste. I’m sure they wear gloves and stuff.
Michelle’s mother Wendy had once been stuck with a questionable needle at the psych hospital. She was dosed with precautionary AIDS meds that made her terribly sick. For a week she writhed in bed, sweating from fever dreams of sawing her own lip off or having bullets lodged in her brain. She was certain she had AIDS, punished by God, but for what? Being gay? Did Wendy really believe that? She supposed, in some dark corner of her brain, she did. And the AIDS medication had turned her brain into one big dark corner.
Michelle and Kyle learned of their mother’s hardship like they always did, long after the fact, when the opportunity to help had come and gone.
Why Didn’t You Tell Us? Michelle wailed, though what could she have done? Her mothers were so far away, and plane rides were pricey.
If Michelle thought about putting the needles in the trash can on the sidewalk she thought of her mother’s hand, laden with Claddagh rings and shaded with nicotine, reaching in and getting pricked.
I’ll Take Them To The Hospital, she said.
Walking through the lobby, searching for a biohazard bin, Michelle couldn’t stop thinking of her moms. She hadn’t told them she was moving. Michelle’s life made her moms nervous and Michelle hated the feeling of it—sort of monstrous, always bad all the time. They were happy she was gay, of course, but she was a weird sort of gay, a degenerate gay. She didn’t want to sue the government for the right to marry, she wasn’t interested in gays in the military, she was queerly promiscuous and thought that this was enough, that this was activism. Wendy and Kym hated to say it but it was Michelle and her generation that were holding back the gay rights movement. When Fox News wanted to show gay people, did they bring a camera crew to Wendy and Kym’s to show two middle-aged, out-of-shape lesbians smoking cigarettes in front of the television like the rest of their audience? No. They went to people like Michelle and her friends, who seemed to only want to scar their bodies and strap rubber phalluses to their crotch.
Wendy and Kym checked in on Michelle and Kyle, and Michelle and Kyle checked in on their moms, and then the siblings checked in with each other about their moms—epic conversations wherein Michelle and Kyle detailed all the ways in which their mothers’ lives were sad and stunted, all the ways they could be better if they would just do something to improve their circumstances. They clucked and marveled at Wendy’s unwillingness to become a different person, not this chain-smoking, codependent caretaker of crazy people by day and Kym by night. Working too much overtime, getting bleary with sleep deprivation and then jabbing herself with a needle. Michelle and Kyle talked about the needle incident forever. Was it a cry for help? How ironic it would be for their mother of all people to get AIDS.
And what about Kym? Was she really sick? Had Michelle seen the movie Safe? Kyle wanted to know. Was their other mother really physically ill or was she profoundly depressed, mentally ill, or, even worse, was she simply a lazy bitch? The options were all so terrible to consider. They found themselves oddly hoping that their mom was in fact struck down by a diabolical, new environmental illness.
Everyone hung up their phones upset and grim. Everyone’s hearts were clogged with love for one other—inexpressible, jammed-up love, love that leached like a toxin into the bloodstream, one it would take a surgery to release. This was a family.
Sometimes Michelle tripped out on her deep and painful love for her mothers. If they weren’t related, Wendy would just be one of those trashy lesbians she couldn’t relate to. Kym would be one of those people you see on the bus, sick and stoned. It seemed everything had gone wrong for these people—if there was a social injustice it had happened to them, if there was a malaise they suffered from it, if there was bad luck they’d been stroked by it. Michelle felt repelled by these people, as if their condition, the whole of it, was contagious. She felt bad about this but it was true. And her own mother was one of them. Sickly and paranoid, a drain on those around her. Michelle loved her with a love that had nowhere to go, a bird flying into a window.
Michelle couldn’t save her mothers and that was all her love was meant to do. And so the love was useless and exhausting. It turned to rage inside Michelle and so she also hated them. Why was she supposed to help them? Michelle could barely help herself. She lived below the poverty level in a city rapidly filling with rich people. At least Wendy had a career. She could go back to school and better her earning power, she could stop smoking. Kym had gone to community college, she could stop smoking pot, go to therapy, get on an antidepressant, leave the house, make some friends, maybe teach a fucking class or something. Why did Michelle feel like she had to do such things for these women, register Wendy for classes or find a homeopath for Kym?
Michelle felt responsible for her moms’ happiness. She felt she owed them something, something big. The families that had disowned them were full of older women whose go-getter daughters had married up or gotten into antiques and took their mothers gambling in Atlantic City or on Caribbean cruises. Was that what Michelle was supposed to do? Was that what her moms were waiting for? Another perk that their lesbianism had robbed them of.
And so it was in this dark space that Michelle entered the hospital on the hill, a bag of needles in her hand, thinking that by saving a hypothetical sanitation worker she was somehow helping her moms. Deep in the throes of her emotional bender, Michelle was oblivious to her appearance. She looked like a wild drug addict, face bloated and splotchy, hair a blue tangle, malnourished in her skinny jeans, braless in her thin shirt, the twin pyramids of her tits poking around, her nipples staring out from the worn rattlesnake fabric. The secretary showed alarm at the bag of needles in her hand. Can I help you?
My Van Was Stolen And Whoever Did It Left These—rattle, rattle—In The Back Seat. They’re Clean But Maybe You Have A Biohazard Container I Can Leave These In?
The woman’s face twitched. You can’t bring those in here.
You Don’t Have A Biohazard Container? I Don’t Think They’re Dirty But—
You can’t just bring a bunch of needles into a hospital trying to dump them. There are laws, we can’t even—
I’m Not Just Bringing Them, My Van Was Stolen And They Dumped It Outside And Left These—Michelle cut herself off as the reality of her appearance dawned on her. She felt embarrassed, then mad at her embarrassment. She was telling the truth! She was the victim of a crime! Though perhaps she was what the woman thought she was, those weren’t her fucking needles. Fine, she spat, I Was Just Trying To Make Sure Some Poor Sanitation Worker Didn’t Get Stuck, But I’ll Go Throw Them In The Trash Out Front Then.
You can’t, the woman said nervously. You can’t just leave them in a public trash can. And you can’t leave them on our property. The two stared each other down. What was one supposed to do with a bag of fucking needles then? Oh, hold on, the woman’s annoyance broke and she punched some numbers into her phone. Eventually a man showed up, a doctor looking harried and a little nervous, possibly scared of Michelle.
Can I help you? he asked at a distance. Rattle, rattle. Michelle shook the bag.
I’m Just Looking To Get Rid Of These. They’re Not Mine. I Found Them. If I Was Shooting Drugs Why Would I Be Throwing Away A Perfectly Good Bag Of Needles?
The phrase a perfectly good bag of needles rang in Michelle’s head. Why was she throwing them away? The dealers on her corner sold rigs as well as drugs, they whispered outfits, outfits under their breath
at passersby. Maybe she could have gotten her new friend Quinn to barter with them, trade the needles for some balloons. Too late now. The doctor moved toward Michelle to receive the bag. A clear plastic bag jumbled with clear plastic syringes, clear plastic syringes with bright orange caps.
Thanks, Michelle said. She’d been ready to fight the doctor and now had to readjust herself internally. The doctor seemed kind. He had white hair and white clothes and clear spectacles on his eyes.
Are you okay? he asked her. Do you need anything? His voice was heavy with subtext but Michelle didn’t want to know what he was getting at. She hated how shifty she must’ve seemed, hungover, talking about a stolen van, wielding a bag of drug needles.
No, she said, her voice extra cheery like she was interviewing for a job. Just Happy To Have My Van Back! Never Had To Handle A Bag Of Needles Before, Didn’t Really Know What To Do With Them! She laughed a big laugh and shook her head at how crazy life was. She was an average citizen having a really weird day. She waved goodbye at the doctor, at the receptionist who still wasn’t convinced Michelle was not a drug fiend, that she hadn’t stolen her own van, if there even was a van at all. She left the hospital. The light was so bright it rammed into her eyes and shot up her brain. Michelle couldn’t wear sunglasses. She was so blind she’d have to get prescription sunglasses and those were really expensive, so in the sun she just squinted a lot and held her hand to her forehead.
The doctor’s kindness had left her shaken. Why couldn’t her mother work for a nice guy like that? Maybe Michelle should start to look for nursing positions on the Internet, print them out, and send them to her mother, maybe her mothers would have a better quality of life in San Francisco. Wasn’t San Francisco full of sick lesbians, too? They had art shows and gatherings, Kym could be part of a vibrant sick community rather than wasting away on the couch. Why did some people get excellent lives while other people’s lives were so shitty? She couldn’t bear the thought that her mothers’ lives sucked. It filled Michelle with heartbreak and panic. By the time she got back to Quinn she was in tears.
What happened? Quinn was alarmed.
The Doctor—Nothing. He Took Them. It Just Made Me Sad About My Mothers. Michelle burst into tears.
Oh! Quinn panicked at the sight of Michelle in tears. Partly she wanted to pet her new friend, but she was also aware that her new friend was sort of crazy. She didn’t want to get in too deep. She couldn’t tell if having a drug bond with someone was a light bond or a deep bond. It felt deep when they were high but so did everything. By the light of day, there by a bus stop in a random part of the city with this crying, trembling wreck of a girl, the sort of girl a person sees and says, Give her a cheeseburger!—scrawny and alive with wild emotion—Quinn wondered what the fuck she was doing. What, if anything, did she owe this person?
The bus came and the pair climbed aboard. At the back of the vehicle Michelle quietly wept. Her emotions were now almost 100 percent chemically regulated. She felt happy when high, nervous and tragic while crashing, peaceful as the intensity faded, optimistic as she planned her evening’s chemical intake—just alcohol tonight, just one beer, just a cocktail, maybe one line, the rest of the leftover nub of heroin and then no more until next week, no cocaine until the weekend, okay okay okay.
Quinn was not heartless. Her hand came to rest upon Michelle’s neck and stayed there, bouncing with the jumble of the bus. It felt nice. Michelle appreciated it. She didn’t think things were going anywhere with Quinn, but that was fine. Where was anywhere, anyway? All anyone had was this moment. Michelle was in the moment. She liked the way she was. People adopted lifelong courses of religious study to try to achieve a state that came naturally to her.
Quinn’s heart leaped when she realized this random bus skirted her neighborhood. Strangely, Quinn did not live in the Mission. She lived in some other neighborhood where, like the Mission, the streets were numbered, but they were not streets, they were avenues. People called that part of town the Avenues. It seemed sinister to Michelle, like the Mission’s evil twin. What did people do out there? Apparently, they watched The X-Files with their husbands. Michelle still could not understand that Quinn had such a thing.
What’s Your Husband Like? Michelle asked Quinn suddenly, realizing she had never inquired.
He’s really nice. He’s stable. I was having a lot of panic attacks when I married him. She paused. He takes glassblowing classes.
Is He Taller Than You? Michelle asked. Quinn nodded.
Is He Going To Let You Come To My Going-Away Party? Michelle asked. Quinn lifted her hand and bopped Michelle in the head.
It’s not the 1800s, Quinn laughed. I don’t have to ask him for permission to go to a party.
What About Sleep Over At My House? Michelle asked. Do You Have To Ask Him? Does He Care?
Quinn shrugged. He doesn’t love it.
What About Drugs, Does He Do Drugs?
No. I do drugs.
Michelle nodded. It didn’t actually sound like a bad arrangement. Sort of like a parent. Michelle would like someone to take care of her, too. But she’d had that with Andy. Something was always expected in return. It wasn’t worth it.
What About Driving Me To Los Angeles? Michelle asked. Is He Going To Be Okay With You Driving Me To Los Angeles Now That My Van Is Gone?
I’m not driving you to Los Angeles! Quinn laughed a nervous laugh and hit Michelle in the head once more.
You Have To, Michelle whined. How Else Will I Get There?
Can’t someone else drive you? Quinn asked.
No. You’re My Only Friend. She laid her head on Quinn’s shoulder and began to weep anew. She had meant it as a joke but it was too real. Stitch and Ziggy and Linda and Andy all felt variously betrayed by her, and she by them.
Oh, come on. Quinn shook Michelle from her shoulder.
You Kind Of Are. Michelle looked deeply, tearfully, into Quinn’s eyes, which meant into her eyeglasses, which reflected herself back to her. She looked like a wreck. It was not helping her situation. She would not be able to seduce Quinn, she was too grotesque. She would have to draw on the girl’s pity and her inability to say no.
How? I don’t have a car.
Your Husband Doesn’t Have A Car?
No, he rides a bike.
Oh, one of those. Does He Have A Credit Card? Michelle asked. Can One Of You Rent Me A U-Haul?
This is insane, Quinn said in a brief moment of clarity before she capitulated to Michelle’s tears and agreed to rent a U-Haul and drive her to Los Angeles in the morning.
13
Michelle’s going-away party began at the Eagle, a bar Michelle did not particularly like. The out-side was so dark and the heat lamps made her hot and sleepy and occasionally ignited a clump of dead twigs and leaves. She could never find who she was looking for, and there was no place to sit unless you pulled yourself up on the tables and then your dangling legs made your feet fall asleep. But it was big enough to accommodate a large gathering and you could smoke outside, and if you hadn’t eaten all day you could feed yourself from the wooden barrel of peanuts by the door, so that was good. The after-party would be at Michelle’s.
Stitch was excited about this, as Stitch was generally amenable to an after-party. Ekundayo hated after-parties. She had to breathe down the violence she felt whenever Michelle and Stitch brought one home. But this one was different. Michelle was finally leaving. It was a true celebration. Ekundayo was not joyful enough to join the festivities but she would not bust them up, would not drag her stick through the living room on her way to piss in the water closet, glaring at the little doped-up fools snorting lines off the dumpstered coffee table. Michelle had dragged that coffee table back from the Marina, a nice neighborhood. Andy had arranged a couple’s counseling session for them there during the Linda era. The counseling had gone poorly. They’d spent most of the hour unpacking why Andy didn’t like going to the movies. What’s wrong with the movies? the therapist, who’d had a lot of plastic surgery, ha
d asked in a slightly shaming voice.
I don’t know, Andy shrugged, uneasy. I just don’t like going to the movies.
Well, maybe Michelle would like to go to the movies? the therapist suggested in a more playful yet still scornful tone.
Yeah! Michelle chimed in. The therapist liked her! The therapist was on her side, would understand why Michelle had to look elsewhere to get her needs met. Andy wouldn’t even go to the movies with her! What was that about? But when the focus shifted to Michelle, she bristled. I Don’t Think Long-Term Relationships Are Inherently More Important Than Short Relationships, she said airily. We Learn All Sorts Of Lessons From All Sorts Of People, Who’s To Say Which Relationships Are More Meaningful? Michelle was busting out the big hippie guns.
So, the therapist began, do you not want a long-term relationship with Carlotta?
I Want The Relationship To Be What It Is In The Moment, Michelle said. I Don’t Want To Label It. I Want It To Be Free. I Just Want To Go To The Movies Sometimes. She tried bringing it back around to the movies, she’d liked that part. The rest of the conversation felt so stressful. Why were they even there? What did Andy want from her? It must have been so expensive, the therapist, and Michelle wasn’t paying for it, not even a little.
We’ll talk more about this next week. The therapist leveled her surgically lifted eyes at Michelle. I think there is a lot to discover here. But Michelle knew there would be no next week. She felt confused and surly as they left the therapist’s office, on the verge of lashing out at Andy. And then she found the coffee table, sleek and black, a higher quality of trash than the stuff left curbside in the Mission. Andy drove it home for her in the back of her classic car.
But the party! Many people came. Not as many as would have come if Michelle had packed up and left town about a year or so earlier, before becoming such a druggie that some began avoiding her. A certain demographic was present. Those who had shared bindles of cocaine with Michelle, key bumps in the queer bar bathroom, or lines on the pinball machine at the Albion. People she had popped open tiny ziplock baggies of crystal meth with. Michelle’s speed dealer came, though she would not have ever called him that, no way, that made it seem like their relationship was based on, well, drugs, when it wasn’t, it was based on a shared enthusiasm for The Gossip, an enduring affection for Courtney Love no matter how fucking crazy she was, a nostalgia for old San Francisco, before the yuppies and the dot-commers had come, when the good old drag queens were still alive. Michelle’s speed dealer DJ’d at some of the better—meaning seedier—fag bars in town, ones where leathermen hung out totally naked but for their caps and boots, sucking each other off in the corner.
