Juliet Takes a Breath

by Gabby Rivera

  After a few more stops, the bus driver announced that we were in downtown Portland. Two white lesbian moms on the bus—one had her blonde hair twisted into frayed dreadlocks and the other wore their baby wrapped behind her back in kente cloth—exited in front of me. I followed them, not alerting Phen, not making a sound, just moving. There were fewer trees and more concrete in this part of Portland. I stood at the intersection and just as I picked a direction, a hand landed on my shoulder from behind. I whipped around quick, ready to fight.

  “Juliet,” Phen said, jumping back, “I almost lost you.” He lit the smoke he’d rolled on the bus.

  I sighed and said, “Listen, dude, you don’t have to babysit me, okay? I’m from New York. I can navigate Portland.” I walked past him heading down West Burnside with no idea where I was going. Phen followed me, silent. We walked together with him a few paces behind. Our steps were awkward, like the steps taken while trying to make up after a public fight with your girlfriend. I wondered what he thought, if he knew that he’d been some weird word snob to me on the bus. I had no idea why he was here with me in this moment. Would Phen slow down my aura’s ability to sync with Portland? Since when did I start thinking about my aura as an entity that existed? Feeling light-headed and disoriented, I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and inhaled all the hippie air my lungs could take in.

  We stood at the corner of North West Tenth Avenue. Powell’s Books beckoned to us in red, black, and white, like a flag for a new America. One that’s educated, homegrown, and all about sustaining local book culture. “New and Used” it’s storefront promised, assuring the world that information would not be discarded; that we could find what we needed within its doors. It looked like the Salvation Army of bookstores, and who doesn’t love a little dig through salvation?

  Phen folded his arms behind his back and spoke in a soft voice,” “When I need information not regulated by our genius-crippling government, I come here.”

  I stared at him and asked, “Are you going to be nice to me now? Like, can I get a break?” For a moment he was too real to look at, radiant in an angry sort of way. Phen had the kind of beauty that boys with attitude and slim bones get away with. They’re the type of boys that men like Alan Ginsberg fell in love with and bled out poetry for.

  He held the door open for me, “I wasn’t mean to you. I asked you two questions. You chose to not answer them. Being nice is worthless. You’re existing on a different plane of consciousness.”

  I didn’t respond. He wasn’t on my consciousness level either. The doorway to Powell’s loomed and his judgments of me drifted into the dust. Aisles and aisles of wooden bookshelves created a labyrinth in which nerds like me could lose themselves possibly forever. We walked inside and I almost crashed into a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Harlowe Brisbane. A copy of Raging Flower stood on a large metal easel. The caption above her face read: “Portland’s own Harlowe Brisbane brings her Raging Flower to Powell’s Bookstore! Reading and Q&A Wednesday, July 28 at 7:00 p.m. Make sure to RSVP.” About one hundred copies of Raging Flower sat in stacks of ten along a mahogany table.

  “Intense, right?” Phen picked one up and flipped through it, “Portland dykes worship her and the local literati queers and non-queers just can’t get enough Harlowe. I’m surprised you haven’t received death threats for landing such a coveted internship.”

  “I had no idea that Harlowe was such a phenomenon,” I said, staring at Harlowe’s cardboard face.

  “Juliet, right now in this town and along the West Coast, Harlowe is the white lady authority on pussy, feminism, healing, and lesbianism. You’ve got so much to learn, chica.” He leaned against the row of her books, shaking his head. Phen turned in the direction of other similarly-dressed boys and disappeared into the abyss of books.

  Phen used the phrase “non-queers.” As much as I wanted to dive into his language and understand his words, I also refused to bite. The way he used words felt like bait. He wanted to enlighten me, to educate me. I didn’t want to experience Portland or obtain a queer education that way, not from some smug dude. His energy drained me. I didn’t like the way he said “dyke.” Maybe he was allowed to say it by association, but he wasn’t an associate of mine.

  I focused on cardboard Harlowe. Seeing her immortalized was surreal; it gave me a moment of unexpected reverence. Like when you’re watching someone perform and you’re holding your breath cuz you don’t want them to mess up because what they’re doing on stage makes you feel like you’re in church; it felt like that. I stood in front of her, not moving. This must be what it’s like to be a writer, a real one, not one that leaves graffiti tags in the margins of their notebook, not one that scrawls illegible notes and poems into something that stays forever tucked away. Raging Flower was out in the world and by default, so was Harlowe.

  I stood alongside cardboard Harlowe and wrote in my purple composition notebook.

  ● Ask Ava about Ze, Trans, PGPs, non-queers and use of dyke by non-dykes(?).

  ● Cry a little to Ava. Ask if Mom’s talked to Titi Penny.

  ● How do I identify? As in myself? Identify self. Is that possible beyond ‘hello my name is”?

  ● Be better with comebacks. Dude questioned your gayness. He doesn’t even know you.

  I didn’t want to forget the important things. Maybe other people would ask me those questions here and not having an answer the second time around would be my fault. Perhaps other Portlanders or queers or whatever the people here were, maybe they’d all question me and egg me on to prove myself, my gayness. But, Phen could just be one huge bastion of unchecked ego. I kept that in mind as I roamed through the aisles of bookshelves.

  My phone vibrated in my back pocket: Mom. I picked up without hesitation. I loved her and wanted her to love me back and not care that I was gay. I needed her voice and her support. I needed her.

  “Hi, Mom.” I said.

  “Juliet,” Mom said, quiet, her voice smooth, “You didn’t call me. Texts are not a call. Is everything with the flower book lady going okay?”

  “Yes, Mom,” I replied. “She’s great. Everything is fine.” I walked in circles, focused on her voice. I brushed away single tears. They came without a sound. Her voice had that effect.

  “Good, okay, I’m glad, nena,” Mom responded, pausing, “You know your Titi Penny had a lady friend once and she was very nice. This was right before she met your Uncle Lenny. We didn’t talk about those things back then, but I knew. I could tell by the way she looked at her that it was different than just being friends. I’ve seen you look at Lainie the same way.”

  Her words made my legs weak. I pressed my back against the nearest wall and slid into a sitting position.

  “You knew about me and Lainie?” I asked, hand on my inhaler.

  “I’m your mother, Juliet. It’s my job to know everything about you,” she said. “But it worries me. I’m not happy with it. I don’t understand. I didn’t understand with Titi Penny either. But I’m sure it’s a phase, just like it was with her.”

  “But Mom, it’s not a phase,” I said. She had me glowing for a moment and that one word took it all away. I felt dismissed. I wanted her to understand that this part of me wasn’t going to change.

  “Nena, you don’t know that,” she replied with a hushed sharpness in her voice. I heard Lil’ Melvin calling to her through the phone. She yelled to him that she’d be down in a minute. “Juliet, you don’t know who you are yet. You will grow out of so many things; you have already. Now I gotta go watch my Buffy. Call me, nena, no more of this sending texts business.”

  I said okay. She said okay and then she hung up.

  In less than five minutes, Mom dropped some family truths and tried to find some common ground. At least I think. But nothing was resolved. She didn’t say that she loved me. But she had to still love me, right? Why didn’t she say it? Why didn’t I? It wasn’t a phase. I wasn’t going through some phase. Okay so maybe I went through a Backstreet Boys phase and there w
as that time I only ate chicken tenders and French fries for a few months. Legitimate phases. Being in love with Lainie wasn’t one of those things. Not at all.

  No matter what, I was glad that she called. It meant that her door wouldn’t be closed forever. I maintained my position on the floor in a corner of Powell’s and people-watched. Phen walked over with a few books under his arms.

  “A peace offering,” he said. He bent forward and placed a copy of A People’s History of the United States in my hands.

  I thanked him. Phen offered a hand and helped me up. He led us out and held the door for me as we exited. I didn’t know what to make of his judgment and his impeccable manners. I tucked the book into my bag and braced myself for more time with him.

  Phen worked his slim arm through mine so that our elbows linked. He ran us through the streets until we came to a thudding halt on South West Morrison. He announced that we were in The Pioneer Courthouse Square. It sprawled out before us; clusters of hippie folks all around. Phen and I parked ourselves at the top of some steps.

  A group of guys in open-toed sandals and cargo shorts played hacky sack. Phen ran down the steps and joined them. I remained at my perch just taking everyone in. At the bottom of the brick steps, a couple sang while they played acoustic guitars. The square was filled with people and dogs off leashes; there was even an anarchist’s corner. It felt like Washington Square Park in the summertime, minus the frenzied pace and designer suits. Bustling and free: a place to smoke trees and fall in love with someone wearing too much eyeliner and not enough deodorant.

  Phen hacky-ed his heart out as the hours passed. I wrote about my conversation with Mom. Made notes about Titi Penny having a girlfriend; I wondered if she’d tell me about her if I asked. Or if she’d be weird about it? Would Ava know? Phen waved up at me. I could see his armpit stains from where I sat. I waved back. Like, did he want me to watch him play this dumb kick-a-bean-bag game? I remembered the book he gave me as a peace offering. Maybe this was how he attempted a fresh start. I watched him play for a while; he was kind of pretty to look at.

  I sat up with a start. We still hadn’t checked out the library. I grabbed our bags and ran down the steps. I tossed his bag at him. He and the hacky sack dudes were passing around some beers in brown paper bags. Phen was less than concerned about the library.

  “It’s probably closed by now,” he said. Phen smoked a clove with his beer. “We’re going to go to an action for union rights. You should come and learn some things.”

  I sighed at him back. “I don’t know, Phen. I wanted to check out the library and I don’t know your friends. I’d rather go back to Harlowe’s.

  “Everyone is a spiritual comrade, Juliet. Just come with us,” he replied, with a quick eye roll.

  “I’m not sure,” I stammered. It was all dudes and me; dudes I didn’t know and we’d be going somewhere unfamiliar.

  “Whatever, Juliet, you’re obviously not cool with us. So much for ‘I’m ready for anything,’ You have no sense of adventure or curiosity about other people,” Phen declared, his hands on his hips. His friends watched us. They said nothing.

  Phen, all sorts of worked up, said, “You’re not ready for Portland.” He nodded to the guys and they walked off.

  “Phen,” I called out, “How am I supposed to get back? Which bus did we take?”

  “Figure it out,” he said without looking back.

  The sun set over the Willamette River and I was alone. He left me. I couldn’t get over it. Yes, I was from the Bronx, but I’d always been surrounded by my people. My Titis wouldn’t have left. My friends on the block wouldn’t have left me either. We stick together. We don’t generally troop around solo in the Bronx. Roaming in a pack protects against predators and police. I retraced my steps and found Powell’s Books. From there I crossed the street and found the bus that would bring me to Harlowe’s house of wonders. I felt sick inside. I didn’t want to go to Harlowe’s. What was I doing here? I’d been in Portland for less than 48 hours and I’d been judged, dismissed, and abandoned. Also, I hadn’t seen one other Latino. No faces like mine; nowhere to breathe easy.

  The bus pulled up and I got on, weary in my bones and feeling like my heart was frayed. If I were home and some dude pulled what Phen just pulled on me, one phone call would have Titi Wepa and Titi Mellie on the scene ready to bust his ass. But in Portland, I had no one, just me. Harlowe wasn’t gonna throw blows for me and the one kid I thought could be my friend just ditched me in an alleyway. And, like, does anyone really want to chill with random boys besides straight girls and other random boys? Like, am I crazy for not wanting to crack open a hot can of PBR and find a union action? What the hell was a union action anyway?

  Disillusioned, I settled into my seat on the bus and watched the alien streets roll by. I took in my surroundings and this time I noticed something different. Instead of dirty white hippies, the bus was populated with brown and black folks: four young Mexican dudes in the back corner, an elderly African American couple, and a few lone Black women. Everyone looked just as tired and “over it” as I did, and I took a perverse comfort in that. I felt like a small piece of the Bronx existed in this sad, little night bus. Sometimes you just feel better surrounded by people that look more like you do. I smiled and leaned back in my seat. Slowly, the streets breezing past my window began to look a bit more familiar. I was nearing Harlowe’s.

  I didn’t want to leave the bus. Any of the older ladies on that bus could have been my mom on her way home from work. I wasn’t ready to let go. Three blocks from Harlowe’s street and I decided to ride the bus until its wheels fell off or until the bus driver called out, “Last stop.”

  I saw Harlowe’s house from my window. I didn’t pull the yellow cord. Her house faded in the distance. I didn’t know where I was headed, but I didn’t care. It was only 9:15 p.m. I’ve ridden subways trains at 4:00 in the morning in New York City, with drunks nodding off on my shoulder and kids starting fistfights. This bus was like a quiet drive in the country and I was all of a sudden in the mood for a little sight seeing. We drove for over an hour. The last stop was on a dark road before a huge bus depot. The driver, taking pity on me all alone in the back, walked me to the next bus headed out—the last bus of the night. They waived my fare and I hugged the bus driver. I didn’t have any cash or coins on me. We made the slow, dark trek back to Harlowe’s. My entire day had been one of retraced steps and unresolved issues.

  Sneaking into Harlowe’s in the middle of the night was easier than I anticipated. She didn’t lock the front door. I crept inside and headed up to the attic. I stripped, plopped onto the bed and fell out.

  In the morning, I walked into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, and found a note from Phen to Harlowe.

  Harlowe,

  I’ve got to follow the pull of my gravity and I’ve got nothing to lose but my chains.

  Good luck with her.

  ~Phen

  My cheeks flushed red. I felt it in the bottom of my stomach. Phen left because of me. What if Harlowe questioned me? What if she found out he left because I didn’t know about PGPs and Ze’s and ordered me to leave? I grabbed a cigarette from the pack of American Spirits on the small table. Titi Wepa would tell me that he wasn’t worth my time or emotions. She’d also tease me for giving in to Puerto-Rican-worst-case-scenario-anxiety. Mom wouldn’t get it because she’d think that I liked Phen. She’d end up thanking God for answering her anti-gay prayers. And all I wanted to do was wrap my arms around Lainie, my beautiful girl. My beautiful girl that still hadn’t called me back.

  I sat on Harlowe’s blue porch and lit the smoke. I looked at my phone. No missed calls or texts from anyone. I smoked the entire cigarette. “Coffee” was scrawled out in pink chalk next to my feet. I could do coffee and then I’d go find the library by myself. I looked up at the grey Portland sky. Maybe the universe had done me a favor by having Phen go follow his chains or whatever. Doing things alone made me feel vulnerable, like the whole world could see I didn�
�t have any friends with me. But I had research to do, coffee to drink, and I didn’t want to be there when Harlowe found Phen’s note.

  7. Celesbian Skin

  A few streets away from Harlowe’s house was Blend Coffee Shop. The cement walls were spray-painted lime green. A cork message was on display near the entrance: Nanny needed for gluten-allergic kids and Vegan Buddhist looking for drum circle. The artwork on the wall boasted local artists. They didn’t just sell coffee at Blend, they sold Portland. Bronx bodega coffee served in blue and white cups were too many miles away to miss. I ordered an iced coffee with milk from the young white girl with tribal tattoos and a septum piercing. I wasn’t sure if she was gay but she was wearing an Ani Difranco T-shirt, so it felt safe to assume she wasn’t straight.

  “We’re out of regular milk. Sorry. We have soy milk if you don’t feel like waiting,” she said, looking apologetic and adorable.

  I froze. Ugh, it was hard enough drinking Harlowe’s almond milk (How do you even get milk from almonds?) and now I was being offered soy milk.

  “I’ve never had soy milk before,” I said, “I feel like around here that must sound crazy, right?”

  “Maybe a little but you sound kinda like you’re not from here,” the cute barista said, leaning over on her elbows, “New York? Brooklyn, maybe? And just try the soy.”

  “You’re good, close, the Bronx,” I replied, gazing up at the chalkboard menu, avoiding eye-contact, “I’m here as an author’s research assistant. And sure, soy sounds great.”