by L. L. Soares
"Well, I hope you don't like the birds like that."
"I-what? You mean like this?"
The old woman was walking away from her. Cathie stared after her. She felt her face get hot. A sudden flash of pain went through her chest and was gone.
Tears came into her eyes. Cathie felt stupid crying for a squirrel.
* * *
The sasquatch's penis looked like a long thin carrot that was brown and hairy. No balls. Beneath, was a vagina. It excited her. To be able to use, to feel, both. What was that like?
Cathie spread out her legs and the sasquatch put the curiosity inside her. As it moved itself inside her, Cathie felt herself becoming more and more aroused. She wanted it to penetrate every part of her. She wanted it to go so deeply inside her that it came out her mouth.
The thing was fast and rough and she liked that. She wanted it to conquer her, but she also felt like she was a part of it. The creature looked at her with moist brown eyes that sickened and aroused her.
It was horrible. It stunk like dog crap on your shoe. Its body felt sticky and hairy. It breathed hard gasping breaths on and on and grunted the deeper it went into Cathie. Her body shook with revulsion but she never wanted something so much. She imagined herself becoming liquid and being absorbed into its skin.
Cathie woke up sticky and sweaty. She was exhausted, but in a pleasurable way. Like she'd just hiked to the top of a mountain and was looking down at all the levels she'd climbed. Cathie closed her eyes and became aroused thinking of the dream.
* * *
Hours to get through.
Long, long, the same thing each day.
But each time is new.
Ha ha! That one made her sound like an Eastern mystic. She was so damned profound, bless her ass!
She couldn't stand her job anymore. Wasn't her mind being wasted on mundane tasks? Didn't they realize what a treasure trove was contained in her head? Now they had her sorting through the names on envelopes in alphabetical order. At least they gave her enough intellectual credit to do that.
Being trapped in the mind is just as confining as a real cage, Cathie thought. That would be the flip side of the Thoreau quote: "Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage." Was that it? She wasn't about to go around fucking memorizing quotes.
The point was, physical confinement can at least give you a feeling of fighting against something, while mental confinement is only fighting with yourself. Having something to fight against is strengthening, but if that thing is you and you're losing, that can lead only to self-loathing. Fighting against someone else, even if you're losing, you can still feel superior. How you gonna feel superior to yourself?
* * *
In the park, the Jerry Springer people were not there. She was angry just thinking about those assholes. Of all the gin joints, of all the squirrel runs, of all the dog toilets... they had to come here, didn't they?
Cathie opened her book and began reading. She reached down beside her and took a sip of her iced latte.
Then she heard the rasping voice of the girl, the pounding footsteps of the men. She saw them entering her park. The sight of them made her ache physically. You people are scum, she thought. You people deserve to die.
* * *
The thing looked kindly at her and that annoyed Cathie. So did the feeling of connectedness she felt with it. Just because I had sex with you in my dream, don't you be making all those assumptions. He was ugly, but he seemed to know what she was thinking and was amused by it.
"Cathie," he said.
His eyes were full of warmth and humor. It sickened her, but she could not stop this feeling of closeness that came to her, of an intimacy with the creature. He said the things she felt. She knew he felt the same way she did. She didn't like to feel that they had things in common.
She wanted to run away from him as he approached but couldn't. As he embraced her, Cathie found she wanted to put her arms around him as well. Out there in public, by the rhododendron bush, someone was sure to see them. She wanted to pull away from him but couldn't. She didn't really want to let him go.
It soon came to her that his name was Ronny and that made her laugh because it was a ridiculous name for such a creature to have. She could feel his body shake with laughter, too.
* * *
In the bathroom at work, she noticed the blood on the bottom of her skirt. She soaked a paper towel in cold water and dabbed at the stain. It faded slightly, but she was unable to get rid of it. The thought that her skirt was ruined, one that she'd just bought and liked so much, made her feel ill.
She went to her desk and wrote another haiku:
Happy, sad, so on.
Not bipolar, just alive
To laugh, cry, fart, die.
When she'd passed by Amy's desk before, she thought she heard Michelle say something about her being "weird" and she couldn't make out Amy's reply, but thought she caught the word "spacey" somewhere in the sentence.
It had upset her at the moment, but now she decided not to be sorry for how she was anymore. She was invulnerable. Who else would put up with this shit job? Only she had the stamina, the guts and the character to stand her life.
* * *
Ronny sat next to her on the couch, caressing her back. He was horrible; there was no doubt of that. Nothing she was supposed to like. What was the reason for this well of emotion she had for him?
"We are alike, Cathie. When we fall in love, we fall in love with ourselves."
"I'm you? You're me?"
"I'm the hirsute you."
"You're so full of shit, Ronny."
* * *
Ronny accompanied her to work, keeping himself hidden from everyone's eyes but Cathie's.
She showed Ronny her latest haiku:
Death by my own hand?
Never got around to it.
But it gave me hope.
"That's morbid," he said.
* * *
She hung back from Ronny. Shyly, as if there was something wrong. The blood didn't upset her, although she supposed it should have. It seemed important for him to think well of her. She wanted him to think she was smart and funny, though she'd never cared that much before what anyone thought of her.
She couldn't shake the question from her mind: "Has this happened before?"
Her disconnectedness had been a source of shame, but now she was proud of it. Still, she was unsure; was this a strength or a weakness?
Ronny took her hand and led her out of the park. Cathie liked it when he held her hand, but she was a bit leery of being seen in the company of such a hideous creature. She had to be careful of her thoughts since Ronny could hear them, but he didn't mind any of it. Insults only amused him. He already knew he had Cathie's heart. Cathie knew she had Ronny's even though she didn't want it.
She was part of him. She was one with him, like they said in the wedding vows. It was not based on how she made him feel, but on what she felt. She thought that, rationally, this must be more of a curse than a blessing, but she enjoyed it anyway. Like sneaking a cigarette when you're a kid, she thought. The worse it was for you, the better it tasted.
* * *
Cathie saw her mauled body on the floor. She felt nothing. She didn't need it. She had him. She was him. She breathed through his lungs. She knew his thoughts. She felt his legs moving like they were hers and she left her body behind, not knowing where they were going. It didn't matter. She was her hirsute self.
When I am walking
In my furry big body
Get the fuck away.
Puppy Love
To bite or not to bite? Now that's a question.
Even now I can feel that aching sting. The indentations in the flesh, like potholes and pockmarks. My mother used Vaseline to soothe it, but savagery cannot be smoothed over. The pain was memorable, meaningful and lasting. Lasting in its effects and affecting in its lasting. That unusual age of three and four and five when we're little beasts. Strongly it was pulling at me, lips withdrawi
ng to show teeth ready to gnaw and slice and tear. Satisfied in inflicting and feeling pain. A joy of crippled fingers.
There is a chasm like a bite mark and a bite mark like a chasm.
Most stories don't begin on page one; usually, it's page three where it all starts. Just as lives begin at about age three because we can't remember before then, and I never believe people who say they do. They claim to remember feeding at their mother's breast or learning how to walk. That's pure crap; either they are intentionally deceiving us or themselves.
My first memories were of biting my brother's fingers and of him biting me back. We sat in front of the television; our baby legs folded underneath us, and what caused the disagreement didn't matter. What matters is that it ended with our fingers in each other's mouths. We showed one another no mercy, but bit down like a fox on a chicken or a cat on a mouse, with the madness of one man beating on another man. Let's make no mistake: we are animals, too.
I sit here now with my unbroken, unblemished skin, fingers laid flat on my desk. They do not throb and my mother is not here rubbing Vaseline on them. I put my finger in my mouth and bite down on it, gently like a tamed animal.
* * *
I brought my new puppy home from the shelter. She was part cocker spaniel and part beagle with soft brown and white fur. The woman at the shelter told me she was the sole survivor of the litter. The owner threw the four puppies out onto the highway while he was driving.
"It's something only a man would do," she told me.
Her statement was ridiculous, but I nodded in agreement.
"Terrible," I said. "Were they run over?"
The woman flinched, looked down at the floor. She was quite a drab girl: her long brown hair hanging loose, without style, over her back; wearing square tortoise shell glasses; no makeup to bring out the highlights of a pale, serious face. Her clothes were plain as well, earth tones with as much style as her hair. Beauty was an alien and fearful concept to this girl.
"One was, and then, the impact, the car going at the speed it was...," she trailed off and stared at me.
"You get the idea," she said, uncomfortably.
She petted the 'hero pup' in my arms.
"But this little one," she said, smiling. "This little one had such a strong will to live. You're a good little girl, aren't you?"
"It was probably more luck than will," I said.
She shook her head at me disapprovingly. I felt our sisterhood fading.
"No, she had three broken legs and her little body was badly banged up. It was her spirit that pulled her through."
I smoothed my hand over the pup's neck.
"So you're a tough little bitch."
My ex-sister cleared her throat. "So you, you understand what she's been through?"
"I know exactly how she feels," I said.
"You're an animal lover?"
"Why else am I here?"
"I mean, of course, but I mean, she needs extra loving care. You understand that?"
I brought the pup up to my face and kissed her on the head.
"I'll treat her as tenderly as a little child."
* * *
I put the puppy on my bed. Her shaking wasn't visible, but I could feel the tiny waves of fear convulsing when I put my hand on her side. You'd have almost thought it was a cat purring except for her being a dog. That and the fact that the vibrating of the flesh was irregular, out of synch, unmelodic. A broken metronome.
That shaking almost made me purr. I rubbed the fur along her mouth gently, thinking of what to name her. The people at the shelter called her Betsy, but I didn't like that name. It sounded so plain and bland that I was pretty positive the shelter bitch must have thought of it.
"Betsy," I said to it. "You ain't no plain old Betsy, are you, pup?"
The pup whimpered. I stuck its paw in my mouth and sucked. The thing seemed to like that. I held my hand on its side and the shaking diminished.
Its brown eyes were wide, looking at me. What it needed to learn now was gentleness and love.
* * *
The first time I gave the pup a bath, I found scars on her as I scrubbed, lifting up her fur. Hardened, dried-up reddish brown welts and touching them, the jealousy rose up with the lavender smell of soap. I thought these were more than roadside injuries; these were the result of torture.
That was what made me think to call her Sybil after that movie about a girl who got multiple personalities after being tortured by her mother.
"You're Sybil," I said. "You can't be Betsy when you didn't grow up on some peaceful little farm milking cows, now can you?"
Sybil was shaking in the bath but that was because she was cold. She was coming along well. It was amazing what a little petting, comfort and food could do.
"Now," I said, lifting her out of the water, "whose little baby are you?"
The little thing shivered and licked me on the face.
* * *
I was surprised when I opened the door and the girl from the shelter was standing there, dressed in jeans and a brown shirt buttoned to the top.
She smiled awkwardly; she was blushing.
"Hi," I said. "How are you?"
"Good. I was-how are you?"
"Good."
"Good. I was in the area and I just wanted to see how things between you and Betsy were doing."
"Sybil. Her name's Sybil now."
"Oh, sorry. Of course, you'd call her by a new name. A new start."
"A new start," I agreed. "Would you like to come in?"
She bit the edge of her lip. "Yeah. If you're not busy."
"No." I held open the door for her.
I touched her shoulder as she walked through.
"You are a very compassionate person," I said. "That's very rare."
She looked down at the floor. "I was just in the neighborhood."
"Come by any time. I'm sorry, I forgot your name."
"It's Nancy."
"Drop by every day if you want, Nancy."
"I don't want to bother you."
I whistled and the pup came running toward us on her clumsy oversized paws. I looked at Nancy and saw her overjoyed to see the pup so happy, as I knew she would be.
She bent down and petted Sybil. Nancy was smiling and had sad eyes. I would've liked to pet her. She looked up at me.
"Veronica, you've really done wonders with her."
"And she with me," I said. "It's symbiotic."
Nancy smiled at my funny word. She liked it and what's more, she knew what it meant. Symbiotic made us simpatico again.
"I just wanted to see how you guys were doing," she said. "I should be going."
I put my hand on her back. Nancy cleared her throat and looked at me, wide-eyed.
"Don't go. Stay for lunch," I said.
The pup, apparently in on this with me, jumped up and put its little paws on Nancy's knees. As they say in the movies, she could hardly refuse an invitation so charming.
* * *
With a vegetarian entree, with the pup so happy and with the wine-well, only I had the wine, Nancy was, of course, a teetotaler-the lunch was comfortable, relaxing and fun.
"I wish I was smart like you," I said, rubbing the bottom of my lip with a stalk of asparagus.
"Veronica, you are smart."
"I'm not an academic like you, Nance. You've been to law school."
Nancy smiled and shook her head. I was the one drinking the wine, but she had the flushed face and glazed eyes of someone clearly buzzed.
"I'm never sure if you're serious or not. It feels like you're making fun of me. It made me suspicious of you at first, but now, I kind of like it."
"I was suspicious of you because you seem so damn serious. But I see now that's just an act. You are a fucking crazy chick."
Nancy blushed and covered her face with her hand.
I poked her in the ribs.
"C'mon, crazy chick," I said.
Nancy looked up and laughed. "I think you're the one who's craz
y."
I threw back my head and laughed loudly. This irritated some people, but Nancy seemed to like it.
* * *
Nancy was getting a crush on me. Admittedly, I think everyone has a bit of a crush on me. How could any sentient human being not? I am attractive, intelligent, funny and just so damn entertaining. Most of this is probably projection, as I am my own not-so-secret admirer, but I knew I was right about Nancy.
Here's the proof: yesterday, as she was saying goodbye to me at the door, she put her hand on my arm and smiled at me. That may not seem like much to you, but for a girl as conservative and reserved as Nancy, that was the equivalent of the neighborhood lothario giving you a kiss on the lips. Maybe it's a geek girl's way of copping a feel. Hahahahaha! Do you know that I love myself soooo much, I kiss myself on the shoulder and sniff the lavender soap scent on my skin. Ooolala!
I almost felt sorry for Nancy yesterday. Her smile was so shy and sweet and her fingers so warm and moist when she touched my arm...but I don't give into emotion. I want her to fall in love with me the way the pup fell in love with me. The pup is sweet, too, and cute, but I can't let sentimentalism get in my way.
The pup has it in her to do what I command. First off, she's young and pliable and completely dependent on me for food and love and shelter. And second, she's known violence and cruelty and, therefore, she's learned how to hate. Don't let her big brown eyes, wagging tail, or affectionate licks fool you. If you've been beaten and kicked and tossed out of a moving car, you've got that violence inside of you that's-excuse the doggie pun-waiting to be unleashed. And dogs are so damn trainable; people too.
* * *
Today was the first day of Sybil's training. I didn't feed Syb all day and then I cooked me up a delicious shell steak with mushrooms and onions. The pup went crazy from the smell of it. She jumped up on me, pleading with her big brown eyes, but I pushed her down. Then she went over to the stove, yipped, scraped her overgrown toenails against the side of the oven as she stood up on her hind legs. I rolled up the newspaper and hit her in the nose with it. Syb looked like a kid who just lost her helium balloon to the sky. After staring at me for a couple of seconds, she whimpered and ran out of the kitchen. That really made me laugh.
