by Adam Pelzman
This third reality is one that Julian refuses to entertain. In fact, it is one at which he recoils and rejects as delusional folly. To him, my third reality is the antithesis of reality. It is pure fantasy. For it is in this state of sublime belief, of sublime relief, that I know with every ounce of my transmogrified being that it was no one’s fault. Rather, I know that it was the will of God. It was a decision made by some vague, constantly shifting higher power—not a decision that I should be paralyzed, for the will of God was not that I should suffer so, but that once I was, once I could do nothing but crap in diapers for the rest of my life, bear witness to the wasting away of my body and develop bed sores on my ass, once I was forced to face the shame of my permanent impotence—a life stripped of its tactility and redomiciled in a smelly, abstract realm—only then could I have some weird freedom.
What I have is the freedom to take all of that horror and turn it into something good, to be of service to another, to navigate through this mess. I cringe when I hear people say that things happen for a reason. I don’t know about that. I mean, what reason could there be for any of the horrific things that happen in the world? What I do know when I am in this third reality is that things don’t happen for a reason, but once they do happen it’s up to me to find the meaning, the purpose, in them.
And that’s what I (sometimes) have every intention of doing. During these fleeting moments of divine inspiration, I believe that somehow I’m going to turn this catastrophe into something spectacular, something joyous and unexpected. I don’t think I will ever get to the point where I say fuck, I’m grateful that my spinal cord was severed, but there just may be a way that Julian and I can still squeeze a bit more pleasure out of this life.
But most of the time I’d rather die.
A SUCKER FOR A MAN WHO CRIES
It’s five of nine and I’m sitting on one of those soft chairs near the side of the stage and I got a napkin unfolded on the fabric ’cause who knows what kind of germs are on that seat. And I’m hardly wearing anything over my pussy, so a girl’s got to be careful. I look in my purse, check the bills in my garter, and it turns out I only made ninety-seven dollars all shift. And that means I’m three bucks in the hole ’cause the house fee is seventy-five, Schultz and the boys get a twenty-dollar tip and the DJ gets five so he plays my favorite songs when I’m onstage. That’s how it goes around here sometimes, especially during hurricane season when you don’t get many snowbirds and all you get is locals who come in for the free wings at five, have a couple of beers, a slap on the ass, maybe a buck or two in the garter, then back in their F-150s and off to wherever they live.
I’ve got five more minutes and I’m out of here. And I’m thinking about having a shower and dinner with my mom. She sent me a text saying she had a good day at the diner, a tour bus broke down right in front and fifty hungry people from some place in the Midwest came piling out and boy did they eat. And not bad tippers, it turns out. So a lucky day for her, and for me I guess, but not so much for the tourists. And ’cause my mom made a few bucks, we’re going to celebrate with some shrimp and rice and her amazing sweet plantains.
I stand up and the napkin sticks to my ass, stuck to the sweat on me I guess, dangling like some sort of funny tail from a kid’s game. There’s an old lech in the corner—way off, but harmless—and he sees the napkin hanging from my ass and sticks out his tongue like he’s going down on a girl, flicks it real gross, and I give him the finger and get the hell out of the club.
I’m sitting in my car in the back lot and send my mom a text saying be home soon. But damned if I can’t find my keys in my purse and I’m pushing around all the crap inside, the makeup, some tampons, old lottery tickets, some condoms—not that I get a chance to use them much these days—a photo of my dad that I keep in a little plastic holder, a bunch of phone numbers on scraps of torn paper. I’m going through all this stuff and I get that little panic you get when you think something’s lost. The heart beating real fast and a bit of sweat under my arms is the way I feel it first. And I’m wondering how I could’ve lost my keys. Then I remember that I had them in my jacket pocket and maybe they fell out somewhere, maybe on the way to the car. Then I wonder how it was that I got into the car without my keys. And I realize that the door was unlocked, which is something I never do, leave the door unlocked.
So I go to open the door, but before I can pull the handle, there’s a knock on the window just a few inches from my face. My heart jumps and I look out the window. Turns out there’s a man standing there but I don’t know who ’cause his head’s above the window and he’s pressed real close to the glass. But I can tell from the arms and the pants that it’s a man. And now I’m a little panicked and I try to open the door but the man pushes back and closes the door real aggressive. He stands there for a few seconds, doesn’t move or say a word, and then there’s a rap on the window and I see that this guy’s dangling my keys in front of me, and I know it’s my keys ’cause they’ve got a little mother-of-pearl cross hanging from them, a gift from my dad.
And now I’m pissed, ’cause it’s one thing to take my keys, but another thing to take something that’s got meaning. And I’m scared, to be honest, ’cause even though I’m just fifty feet from the club and Schultz and the boys are right inside, my car’s parked behind this row of messy shrubs and some garbage cans and there’s not a damn person who can see what I’m dealing with.
Next thing I know, this guy raps his knuckles on the glass, real threatening, takes a step back and walks around the back of the car. I turn around to see what he’s doing and sure enough he walks over to the passenger side and reaches for the door. Well, I press the lock button real fast, just before he pulls the handle. Then I see him press the button on the key chain and the doors unlock and he reaches for the handle. But I hit the lock button again real fast before he can open the door. He holds up the keys, hits the unlock button again and opens the door before I can hit my button. And I’m thinking that if it weren’t so scary, it would be sort of funny, in a slapstick way, like the Marx Brothers or the Three Stooges, with the two of us pushing the buttons back and forth, back and forth. The door flies open and he plops down in the passenger seat. He closes the door, hits the lock button and turns to me, dangles the keys before me like some sort of hypnotist. These fell out of your pocket, he says, and I’m a Good Samaritan returning them to their rightful owner.
Far from a Samaritan, I say to Julian and grab the keys. You’re a fucker, a motherfucker. And he smiles and leans over and gives me a little peck on the cheek. Your signature move, he says. I lean back against the door and take a good look at him. My signature move? Don’t even go there being all sweet and charming, ’cause you’re a motherfucker and I haven’t heard from you in forever, not even a call or a text since Roger came down. He’s a lovely guy, by the way, and thanks for the money, really, and now you show up out of the blue all bullshit mysterious and inappropriate. What you want from me, I’ve got no idea, and it’s starting to not be fun but starting to feel a little sad and demeaning and it’s chipping away at what little self-esteem I got left.
Julian nods his head and places his hand on mine and ignores what I just said. He tells me he’s got five hours before his flight, a layover to Bogotá. So what are we doing? he asks. And I say we? What are we doing? We are doing nothing ’cause I am having dinner with my mom. Shrimp and rice and sweet plantains. And Julian says I love plantains. And shrimp, too. What do you say I come have dinner with you and your mom?
I put the key in the ignition and turn on the engine. The radio blasts real loud, a reggaeton station I love, and I turn it off. I don’t think that’s a good idea, I say. In fact, I think it’s a really stupid idea. Julian looks at me all confused. A stupid idea? Yeah, a stupid idea, ’cause what am I gonna say? Mom, I’d like you to meet Julian. He’s the married guy from New York I met when I was stripping up in Lauderdale—which she doesn’t know about, remember, the stripping. She
thinks I’m a waitress at the beach. So, Mom, we’ve been fucking in hotel rooms, me and Julian, on and off for months. You got enough shrimp for the three of us?
Lopez, the burlesque girl with the ink, she steps out the back door of the club and behind her is a rich guy who comes by every now and then, a real mean guy, short with a hard, round belly. I danced for him once and that was enough for me. Lopez looks around the back lot like she’s casing a bank job and then the guy puts his hand on her shoulder, pushes her down to the ground as Lopez unbuckles his pants and gets to work. Now, I’m not too shocked, ’cause I’ve seen this sort of thing a hundred times, but I look over at Julian and I can tell immediately that there’s something wrong. He’s biting his lower lip and there’s a twitch in his eye and he leans forward, almost pressing his face against the glass, and it looks like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
Julian puts his face in his hands. He rubs his eyes and turns away from me, so I’m looking at the back of his head. And I hear a little sound. I don’t know what it is. A grunt? A whimper? Is he clearing his throat? And then I reach over and I place my fingers under the man’s chin, turn his face to mine, and I see that he’s got tears in his eyes. Now, I’m a sucker for a man who cries, ’cause unlike with us girls it’s usually something real. Most men, they’re not using tears to manipulate, to get a result. They’re just as sneaky as us, of course, it’s just that they use different tactics. Anger, threats, lies, but no tears. When they cry, there’s something going on. So I pick up my phone and text my mom.
I hope you got enough food for three, ’cause I’m bringing a friend.
SACRED RITUAL
The litany of indignities that I must suffer in our sex life is sometimes too awful to accept—so awful that I have at times considered putting a permanent end to it. The only thing that prevents me from shutting down completely, from refusing to touch or be touched, is the rare moment when Julian and I are together: when our bodies touch; when the upper half of my body feels his weight; when I forget for a moment, as if I am in a dream, that I cannot move; when I see that look of pleasure on his face; when my ability to bring him to orgasm is a validation that, yes, I am still a woman; when my brain triggers a recollection, an echo of my able-bodied self when I once moved freely above Julian, below him, beside him; when I experience not an orgasm in the traditional sense, but something frustratingly close—a vague sensation above my waist, a tantalizing tingling, a flutter and a spreading warmth like a drop of ink on white linen. The brain, I guess, rewiring and adapting and trying to give a paralyzed girl just a little bit of pleasure in life.
Julian enters the bedroom at half past nine. He’s been out for dinner with Roger, his buddy from high school with the bad foot, the good heart and a loyalty to Julian that is unshakable. I love Roger. I love anyone who cares for Julian as much as I do. Julian and Roger have been at Clancy’s, their favorite little Irish bar on Second Avenue. Julian doesn’t drink at all, not since the accident, and Roger only has the occasional beer, but they love this place, what with the antique wood bar and the old Paddy from Shannon who pours well vodka into the Stoli bottles, and the antiquated jukebox that plays classics from The Chieftains, The Dubliners, The Wolfe Tones. They’ve got shepherd’s pie there, corned beef and cabbage, even a wild game menu with quail, ostrich, bison and all sorts of weird, wild things that Julian loves. The hunter’s son.
Julian enters the bedroom. He smiles. You good, babe? he asks. I smile in return and, with my left hand, weakly pat the open stretch of mattress by my side. Julian removes his clothing, everything but his boxers. I admire his body—sinewy, lithe, powerful. The body of his youth. Julian sits down next to me. He puts his hand on my shoulder, which is one of the few areas of my body that transmits normal sensation.
In Julian’s eyes, there is a hint of his amorous flash, vital and dangerous, that has stirred me since our first night together. Prior to the accident, there was a certain coarseness to Julian’s otherwise glorious lovemaking—not violent or mechanical or detached, but instead efficient, controlled, determined, as if his sexuality, his technique, were driven not by a need to dominate me, but instead by a need not to be dominated himself, to defy any submission on his part.
Since the accident, Julian’s flash has appeared with less frequency. But he is more tender now, and the crippling of my body has awoken in Julian a reservoir of compassion, an appreciation of human fragility, an understanding that his aggression could be harnessed, tamed, maybe even a belief in the possibility that one could be safe without dominating the world. Julian now expresses his desire for me in different ways. The playful, painful tug of hair—which had once been my great delight—has been replaced by the gentle stroking of my scalp. Instead of the pinch of my nipple, Julian now runs his tongue delicately across my breasts. And rather than a quick slap on my bottom, there is the long, deep therapeutic massage that stimulates the flow of blood in my partially immobilized body.
“What do you think?” Julian asks.
“About what?”
“About trying tonight?”
“Tonight?” I reply, alarmed by the immediacy of this proposed intimacy.
“We could,” he says reassuringly. “It’s been a while. But no pressure if you’re not up for it.”
I struggle to recall our last attempt at intercourse. “How long?” I ask. “How long has it been?”
“Not sure exactly. Five, maybe six months.”
I cringe at the length of our dry spell. I pause and consider the preparation that will be involved. I consider the potential pleasure of the act, the possibility of achieving a greater closeness with Julian, the look on his face as he comes inside me, the twist of his mouth, his post-ejaculatory daze, his surrender, his collapse, the full weight of his body supported by mine: all beautiful images that evoke in me not a current desire to fuck Julian, to make love to Julian, but rather a desire that is vestigial, a wistful longing for a complete romance that is not missing its most essential element.
“You do know how long it takes me to get ready,” I say.
“An hour?”
“About.”
“I can wait all night.”
I sigh and brace myself for what comes next. “Okay, have Norma come in.”
Julian kisses me on the forehead. Since the accident, I find this gesture to be patronizing, as if I am either infantile or elderly. Almost immediately upon Julian’s departure from the room, Norma enters.
“Yes, Mum, you ready for bed?” she asks, unaware of our intentions.
I pause, embarrassed. We’ve been through this a few times, Norma and I. And while it’s always awkward for me, it arouses in Norma an adolescent jubilation, as if she is back in Trinidad preparing for her first date with the shy boy she met at a church dinner.
Norma accurately interprets my pause. She smiles to ease my discomfort. From the cabinet next to the bed, she removes a pair of rubber gloves. She shakes them, snaps them over her hands, then removes a suppository—bullet-shaped and waxy—and a tube of petroleum jelly. She squeezes out a glob of jelly and coats the suppository, gently turning me on my side.
“I normally don’t do this on the first date,” she says.
“This isn’t our first date,” I reply.
She reaches between my legs, nothing more than two floppy ropes, and inserts the suppository into my anus. I wince, not from the pain of the insertion, as that I cannot feel. I wince from the indignity.
“How long does it take? I forget.”
“When was your last movement?”
“Midday. Around three.”
“Then no more than an hour, Mum. Then we’ll get you all cleaned up.”
Paralysis raises numerous issues when it comes to sex, the most repugnant being one’s inability to control bowels and bladder. For how quickly the inadvertent release of feces or urine can extinguish the roaring libido!
Norma
guides me on to my back. She taps the urine bag that is strapped to my midsection. “Half-full,” she says. “Maybe three-quarters.”
“How’s the color?” I ask.
“All good, Mum, not too dark. Perfect color.”
She rubs her gloved hands together, warms them up, and then pushes slowly down on my bladder.
“Anything?” I ask.
“Yes, Mum, it’s filling up now.” Norma watches as the bag swells with urine. “I think that’s it,” she says, removing the bag by twisting a plastic seal that connects to the catheter tube. Norma wraps a diaper around my waist and tapes it up, careful that it does not tug at the dangling tube. “I can stay here with you, Mum. Or come back when it starts to work.”
“Best to come back, Norma.”
She nods and lowers the lights. “I’ll make sure Mr. Pravdin doesn’t come in until we’re finished. Keep that man at a distance until you all fresh and pretty.”
I stare at the ceiling and wait for the rumbling sensation in my bowels. I snapped the cord clear through, so waist-down I’ve got nothing. Then there’s a few inches above the waist, a narrow, transitional band where I’ve got some feeling, then above that there’s normal feeling, and in some places it is even super-normal.
From the bathroom in the hall, I hear Julian in the shower. He is engaged in his own pre-sex ritual. I hear him humming out of tune. He’s the only man I ever met who is so tone-deaf he can’t even hum right. Several minutes later, Julian turns the shower off. He moves to the sink, indicated by the tapping of his razor on the marble counter. I know from experience, from listening to his rote ablutions for so many years, that he will shave quickly. Another minute passes and the sink is off.
