Elsewhere, California

by Dana Johnson

  I whisper, I thought he was an idiot. I thought he didn’t have class.

  Nurse cracks open a 7UP and sits cross-legged in a chair. His dad? Knows her dad, it turns out. Fraternity brothers at USC from a million years ago. He’s loaded too. His dad is, anyway.

  But what about him not having class? What about the two beers instead of three?

  That was before, I guess, Nurse says, and rolls her eyes. True love. Who was that dude? She slurps her 7UP loud and Adelaide turns over. She turns over for the slurping sound but not the door. Nurse says, Please don’t tell me you did it with him.

  No. I didn’t.

  Good. Thank God.

  It was just a blow job, I say.

  Nurse slaps her forehead. You’re not even going to remember it in the morning. Trust me.

  Yes I will, I say. I’m going to remember this for a long time. He liked me, I say. And he wasn’t a brother.

  Yeah, but what was he? Like Turkish or something? A Jew?

  Turkish? I don’t know what that is. I shrug. He looks white to me.

  Yeah, Nurse says. But not white, white.

  What’s the difference?

  I don’t know, Nurse says. But still. Maybe he’s Italian or Greek or something.

  But that’s white, no?

  Nurse turns up her palms, like, What do you want me to do about it? Okay, she says. Congratulations. He’s white. I’m going outside.

  She slams the door behind her, trying to wake up Adelaide, I’m sure. But they’re totally dead. They look like a little prince and princess sleeping in those sheets, like in one of those Hans Christian Andersen stories I loved when I was a kid. They’re in their own special little world. They’re a fairy tale.

  PALM SPRINGS WAS totally worth it, even though I’ve spent so much money. I’ve already maxed out my credit card. It’s the only one I have left—don’t even ask me about the other ones—and I don’t even know how I’m going to pay it all back. First we split the room, and then Adelaide and Nurse wanted to go to these places and eat food I’ve never even heard of before. And even if I’ve heard of some of this stuff, why would you want to eat it? They order mussels, which look like snot on a seashell. They order paté, which looks like a big square piece of baloney, which would have tasted good if it was baloney. But for twenty bucks. They order three different desserts, just to try them. Who orders extra food just to try it and leave it sitting on the table? And appetizers too. How much food do you need? I order the same thing every time because I don’t like spending money on something I’m not going to want to eat. So it’s burgers and fries and chicken for me. Stuff that actually makes you feel full when you eat it. They always want to split everything three ways because it’s easier. And it is easier, I guess. I don’t want to sit there counting who has what and how much it costs and I don’t want to look like the cheap one. It’s all on credit, anyway. I just don’t want to even know what my balance is.

  But it’s the end of the week and Nurse and I have screwed ourselves because we haven’t even tried to write papers that are due when we get back. Ugh, Nurse says. I’ll get it done. Me too, I say. Me too.

  Mine’s done, Adelaide says.

  What? we say. When?

  She turns up Diana Ross singing Ain’t no mountain high enough. I got it before we left, she says.

  What does she mean? I ask. What do you mean, you got?

  I got it, Adelaide says. She points. It’s so pretty here. I don’t want to leave. She keeps one hand on the steering wheel and rolls down the window to make waves in the air with her other hand, even though the air coming in is so hot we can barely breathe. Cost me just a hundred bucks, she says. Chaucer. Wife of Bath. Like I’m going to say something new about that. I got better things to do.

  Ad, Nurse says, shaking her head. But she’s smiling.

  She bought a paper? I have never heard of anybody buying a paper before. Even stupid Anika with all her money never bought a paper. She was always working. But I think about this. I think of Adelaide taking something that is not hers and putting her name on it. Now it’s hers. People can buy that. So is it just stupid for me to do the work? But I have to do the work. It’s not stupid if you have to do something and you do it. But what if I didn’t have to? What if I could just spend a hundred bucks and get a paper? If I really, really wanted to, I could charge a paper on my credit card, I guess. But no. I can just see myself getting caught and kicked out of school. Mom and Dad. Oh my God. I can just hear it. You mean to tell me you gone get into USC and then not do no work? You gone buy a paper and get kicked out when all you had to do is sit your ass down and write a paper? Ain’t got to do no real work. Ain’t got to punch no time clock. No kids to feed. All you need to do is go to class and pay attention. Write a paper and be one step closer to being better off than anybody we ever knew? Is that what you mean to tell me? That instead of doing that, you decided to go on ahead and get kicked out?

  Jesus. Forget it. No way. And anyway, I just don’t see myself doing that. It’s not fair work for a fair grade.

  Adelaide keeps looking at me while she’s driving. Why are you staring at me, she says. What the hell are you looking at?

  Nothing, I say. I don’t know. But I do know. I don’t think it’s fair that she gets to do whatever she wants. She gets to fuck the surfer dude, be skinny, buy a paper, and look like Michael Jackson.

  I say, I’m sick of Diana Ross and the Supremes and all that. Why don’t you put on some Depeche Mode. I dig through my bag and pull out my cassette.

  That shit? She makes a face. What kind of sister are you anyway? British white boys? This is Miss Ross. She says. You hear me? Miss Ross.

  I’M JUST TRYING to get through school. I just want to focus on graduating and enjoy being in school. I feel like, being on campus, even though it sometimes is crappy and I feel like I don’t really get along with hardly anybody, I’m protected here. Campus feels better than the rest of the world.

  But my mother is always calling me with bad news. Every time she calls me, I swear. I always say, What’s wrong? after she asks me how I’m doing. And then she tells me. Your cousin Layla back home pregnant again. Already got five babies. What she need another one for? Your aunt Janice finna lose her house. She done fell six months behind on her house note. Your uncle Cesar, don’t nobody know what’s wrong with him. Back home, they say he talking to hisself, tried to strangle somebody down the hill and the police had to come get him. The house falling in, too. Gone have to get them a trailer or something. And Keith, Lord have mercy. That boy. Arrested again. They gone keep him for a long time, this time. Running around with that white boy. That white boy always seem to come up all right. But where Keith at? Uh huh, Mom says. Uh huh. Acting like he can afford to run around.

  I listen, but I can’t stand to listen, because it’s always something. Always sad. Babies. Money. Sickness. Bad news from Tennessee and the old neighborhood about people and things I can’t do anything about. I can only think, Thank God it isn’t me. I’m glad I don’t have a baby. I’m glad I’m in school. I’m glad I’m not sick. And I’m not crazy. I’ll graduate. I’ll get a job and I’ll live by myself. Get a boyfriend. Finally.

  I say, How are you doing, Mom? Fine?

  You know, Mom says. Fair to middling. She breathes into the phone. You got any change on you?

  I think for a moment. I just got paid. My check is four hundred dollars. I have to make it stretch the whole month, every month. I live off campus now, so for rent, one hundred dollars. Bus pass, fifteen dollars. Food, eighty dollars. Credit card payments, two hundred. I don’t have any student loan money left over this semester. Once I paid my tuition and books, it was all gone. I can’t afford anything else.

  Do you? Mom says. I got an extension on my phone bill and my trash bill, but I got to get them paid.

  It’s been like this since she and Dad split up. The way Dad left wasn’t dramatic, like on TV when parents sit kids down. He just came home less and less and then I was in school. It
was happening all along and then it was done. He pays the house note, but there is all this other stuff. I say, I can give you fifty dollars, Mom. Would that help?

  Yeah, Mom says.

  I don’t hear anything else for what seems like a long time. Thank you, she says.

  Why did she have to say that?

  You’re welcome, I say. I wipe my eyes and sniff because my nose is running.

  You got a cold?

  No, I say. Well, maybe a little.

  Get you some Vicks salve if you stopped up and get you some NyQuil too. And vitamin C.

  I will, Mom.

  Now do it soon. Don’t try and wait. Do, it’ll get worse. And wrap that money up real good before you mail it so won’t nobody take it.

  Okay, I say. But I wish I could tell her the truth. That I didn’t have a cold. That her Thank You was the worst thing she could have said to me. It makes me feel like a cheater, like I’m taking credit for hard work that somebody else did.

  ON MY WAY to work at the School of Fine Arts, I keep thinking about my budget. I can see there’s something going on in front of Bovard. There are all these American flags and red, white, and blue balloons. And TVs. I want to stop, but if I stop for too long I’ll be late for work, and I can’t afford to mess up in any way with that job. The money comes first, no matter what. But I stop because there’s shouting. USA! USA! U.S. out of Africa! U.S. out of Africa! I ask this redheaded boy, What’s going on? These idiots, he says. He points to a group of guys in dress shirts and ties. They’re Young Americans for Freedom. They’re pissed because we’re protesting on Ronald Reagan’s birthday. He’s in there.

  Who? Reagan? In Bovard?

  Yeah.

  I look up at my favorite building.

  Well who are you guys?

  U.S. out of Africa! He yells with his fists in the air. This is a disgrace, he says. We are one of the last major universities to divest from South Africa. It’s sickening.

  His face is pink from yelling. I barely know what he’s talking about. I know about apartheid, but I don’t know about schools and divestment or anything like that. There’s this black man touching my shoulder. You are with this group? Students for Peace and Justice?

  Oh, I say. No. No.

  Come, he says. He takes my hand and pulls me into the crowd. I’m trying to pull my hand out of his, but he won’t let go. Listen, he says loud. He yells, Everybody! People crowd around him. Whites, blacks, Asians, and people I can’t even tell what they are. Everybody, he says. This is what we do in Soweto. He dances. Marches in place with his fists in the air. And he sings. I look at his smooth face, cheeks that are sharp like carved wood. But I just stand in one place. I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m not going to sing and dance and look stupid. Everybody else is doing it, though. I can’t do it. I believe in sanctions, of course. Who wouldn’t? I’m totally on their side. But it seems crazy to risk being so late for work, for people I don’t even know so far away. And it looks like it could turn into something wild. People could get arrested even, and I don’t want to make those kinds of waves. Like I need that in my life, getting arrested. And what’s marching going to do? Besides, I’m only one person. They can do all of this without me. I keep trying to get away from the guy but he’s got me. Hey, he says. What are you doing? You cannot protest and stand still. That is not protest.

  This time I really yank my arm away. I have to go to work, I say. I’m late.

  He looks at me with a funny expression. Like he is entertained by me. Of course, he says. There is something more important. Making money. Perhaps your money will trickle down to us all standing here and standing in South Africa? He turns up the corner of his mouth. It’s supposed to be a smile but his eyes—he keeps his eyes down like he’s looking at my feet. He makes me look down too. He makes me think there is something wrong with my feet, my dirty white Converse. And then he turns his back like I’m not even here. When I get out of the crowd, there is a guy in my way. One of those guys in a shirt and tie. A Young American for Freedom. All I see is a big gap in his front teeth. And a big nose. It’s none of your business, he screams at me. This is America. You worry about America.

  I push him on the shoulder. Get out of my way. He’s so close to my face, some of his spit lands on my lip. I’m mad, and I’m thinking, You don’t know who I am. How can you talk to me like you know something about me and what I think? But he’s looking at me like he hates me, like he knows exactly who I am. He hates me so much and he doesn’t even know me. I try to get past him but he blocks my way and keeps yelling. You don’t even belong here, he says. You better thank God for affirmative action. I can’t get around him and he won’t do anything but yell. I’m trapped. I can’t say anything and he won’t let me get away. I start to shake. I tell myself, Don’t cry. Don’t you fucking cry. When I finally push past him, I say something stupid. I say, You’re supposed to be for freedom, and I end up crying anyway. I’m late for work on top of that. Dad’s always going on and on about Reagan this and Reagan that, anti-union, anti–civil rights, and don’t care nothing about black folks, about poor folks. Those white folks love him. They love him, Dad’s always saying, but I don’t care about any of that right now. All I’m trying to do is work. I got enough problems worrying about myself.

  The phone doesn’t ring that much when I get to work and I’m glad because I’m still shaking and I don’t think I can make my voice, my words, sound the way they’re supposed to sound. I draw because it makes me stop wanting to cry. I draw Bovard, with the vines coming down and out, the tips of the vines like fingers tapping people on the shoulders or wrapping themselves around people’s necks. I draw the vines popping the balloons that I saw, but I’m drawing in pencil, so they’re not red, white, and blue. It’s all gray from my pencil. Everything is all gray. I draw a man dancing. I draw him hopping up and down with dots and arrows to show he’s moving. Then I draw myself lying down next to the dancing man. Just lying down like I want to do right now. This isn’t enough, though. I feel like there’s so much more I could do, so many ways to say what I’m feeling, all mixed up, but I don’t know how.

  April walks by my desk. Still, after three years, she has the mohawk. It’s straighter than ever. She’s still wearing her Dr. Martens and torn fishnets and shorts with a T-shirt. She hikes her backpack on her shoulder because it keeps sliding down. I go, Why don’t you just put it on both shoulders?

  She shrugs. Because I’d look like a dork? She sits on the corner of my desk and plays with a hole in her fishnets. What’s all that?

  Nothing, I say. Nothing. I pull it to me because I don’t like her seeing what I draw. She’s always trying to see but it’s crap, so why show it to anybody? It doesn’t even make any sense. Besides, I’m not in art school. She is. I’m answering phones.

  April looks around the office like she’s bored and then she jerks the paper away from me. She rips the corner but there’s nothing there but white space anyway.

  What the fuck? She turns the paper sideways, upside down. Holds it out in front of her as far as her arms let her. That Bovard? Who are the people in ties?

  Young Americans for Freedom.

  Those assholes. What’s the business with the vines? She squints at the paper and pulls it closer to her face.

  I think about it, but I’m not sure. I don’t know, I say. I take the picture back and look at it like I’ve never seen it before. Maybe, I say. Maybe they’re tapping everybody and saying, You’ve been looking at us all this time, but now we’re going to really make you look.

  Yeah? So? April says. After looking, then what?

  I stare into space. I shrug. I don’t know. I have no idea.

  April nods. She takes the paper back. It’s pretty good, though. I like it. Oh! Wait a minute, she says. Check this shit out. She pulls out a book. The cover says Rauschenberg in big letters. This dude is the shit, April says. I fucking love him.

  She pushes the book at me and her hand is holding down the page of something he did
called Minutiae. I don’t know what I’m looking at, except I see what looks like three room dividers covered in newspaper clippings, comic strips, photographs, and pieces of posters. There is paint, dripping down and coloring all of this. And fabric. Wood, metal, plastic. The colors. Red, yellow, blue, green. And plants are painted, too. Something growing in the middle of all of this. I have never seen anything like this before in my life. This is just the picture of this amazing thing. What does it look like for reals? In person?

  I’ve never seen this before, I say.

  Why are you whispering?

  I’m not.

  Yes you are. You’re whispering. He’s bad, huh?

  People can do this?

  Where have you been?

  Where is he?

  I don’t know. Boston?

  Can I borrow it?

  For how long?

  One day. Just give me one day.

  April shrugs. She stands up. Sure. Avery’s in love, she sings.

  But after a while, all I hear is a sound like eee, eee, eee. I’m not listening, really. I’m looking. I didn’t know you could do this, put a whole bunch of stuff together that seems like junk and tell a story about people. That’s what this Rauschenberg is. A story. I’m looking and I want to do it too. Tell a story.

  APRIL DOES IT again. Blows my mind. She takes me underground. She’s all, You’re going! Don’t even. But I have a lot of schoolwork to do. Papers. Tests coming up. So I try to get out of it but she’s not hearing me. She’s in my room and I’m throwing clothes together and then she’s driving me away from school in her Honda. Turns out that underground is just five minutes from school. This club that moves around. You just have to know somehow. I’m thinking that we’re seriously going underground, underneath the street, but no. Just down some gross, wet alley with rats and pee smell and garbage and into some old building that used to be something else and I’m practically deaf the minute I’m in and it feels like the whole building is throbbing with music. Just beats and beats. It’s full of people and so beautiful, I have to tell you. Marble. Ceilings so high that in the dark with the strobe light you can’t see where the limit ends, where the walls stop. Long, long red velvet curtains with gold ropes pulling them aside. Like a castle. People everywhere. Boys in makeup and skirts and girls in suits or practically naked. So many people pierced in the lips and eyes. I’m trying to see everything at once, but my eyes can only see one thing at a time. Then I see her. A black girl with a bald head dancing in the corner all by herself and that’s the weirdest to me, the bald head on a girl. Why did you do it, I want to ask her. You could be pretty, but no. She’s the light color brown that you know her hair would be curly or wavy with no nap at all, and that’s what she does. What do people think? I want to ask her. Your mother? Your father? Your teacher? Your boss? What does everybody think about that bald head?