Alone with Other People

by Gabby Bess

  at a rate of 5 miles per hour

  by a migrating pod of whales.

  Every year, starting in the late summer, the whales begin to travel south

  and every year,

  the whales move us further away from each other.

  We are suspended in the sea.

  This cannot be helped. This is simply the result of evolutionary processes.

  It is simple, like this:

  My stomach goes up and down because I am breathing and I am experiencing reality because I am breathing

  On my own I cannot gather large crowds to form

  Nor can I influence their collective actions or emotions I do not have the charisma

  But I can experience reality without breathing

  for up to one minute and, for example,

  I know this truth:

  I can see a picture of an open mouth and know

  that it is Sasha Grey’s open mouth

  PUSH NOT PULL

  “Mom, why are we here?”

  A 20-year-old male rolls a joint in the bathroom of a sleeper train and smokes it in a New York alleyway.

  This isn’t the 50’s. Jack Kerouac is dead, thank God.

  Apart, I open the door to the food court. It swings forward;

  It’s push not pull.

  It’s empty but open.

  I judge my mental health by how often I water my plant.

  I am empty but open. Available,

  though the data are skewed. 80% unexplained variation due to indecisiveness on the part of the researcher.

  The radio stations are changing as the 20-year-old male drives through Cape Cod

  with his pretty girlfriend.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “It’s a little gray”

  Grey. Gray. The 20-year-old male forgets language with his pretty girlfriend.

  Florescent signs on windows, picture taken from an angle.

  “Do you want to take our picture? Let me get a cigarette and look apathetic.”

  “Why was she taking a picture of a window?”

  The word data is plural, that’s the one thing I learned from school. If I learned other things I won’t know until 2 years later

  when I’m crying on the steps of The National Mall because I missed the last train toward Fredericksburg. Street smarts or a centered compass,

  I have neither.

  The 20-year-old male is headed back down the East coast.

  He is wedged between his pretty girlfriend and a woman eating Buffalo wings who keeps talking about her swollen feet. On a train ride from Boston he says my name out loud,

  slowly with hesitation.

  RED GRANITE, WI

  “The water is fine if you don’t mind hypothermia.” A man jumped off a 72 ft. cliff at a quarry,

  (Red Granite, WI)

  broke the water with his chest and face,

  all the buttons on his shirt were gone.

  (You’re supposed to break the water with your hands or feet to avoid body impact.)

  I could imagine a Godlike figure playing with dominoes

  in an abandoned theatre that shows porn on the weekends.

  On weekdays the theatre would play an endless loop of black and white grainy footage of dominoes

  toppling each other off of a wooden table then leaping back up onto the table in the same pattern.

  The theatre would be on a street that someone would refer to as “skid row.”

  Maybe.

  There are some nights

  when my heart feels like it is entangled in my throat. My bones are too narrow.

  11:47 AM

  At 11:47 am, officers responded to East Gobbi Street

  and the railroad tracks to investigate a report of an assault. While there they spoke with Bruce Lee McKinzie, 21, who report- edly had “nunchaku,” or “nunchucks,” in his possession.

  Don’t take the railroad; take the bridge on bike.

  According to the Wikipedia article for “Golden Gate Bridge” more people have committed suicide by jumping off

  of the Golden Gate Bridge than any other site.

  Bridges are high because ships have to pass underneath them. The body is falling very fast end over end, spinning

  or just floating down at a high rate of speed.

  My lower eyelids appear to be stuck to my upper eyelids via eye crust and separation anxiety.

  It seems like every part of my body misses someone. End over end, spinning.

  You can’t swim

  when your arms are broken.

  EXPERIENCE THE FUN

  “He cheated on me.” April made her eyes wide and exaggerated to preclude interest in Maria’s story. Maria was always telling stories, sharing fragments of her life with April, as if they were friends and not coworkers. Maria and April sat close together on a bench, watch- ing the children play on the playground behind the rec center. Really, they should have been standing but the heat and the kids had beaten them down. Their supervisor wasn’t around to supervise either Ma- ria or April, or the kids, so they simply sat and melted.

  Maria lived in Hampton, across the Potomac River, about an hour out from their job in Virginia Beach. Once, on a field trip to the Air and Space Museum in Hampton, April pointed to the Potomac River and tried to convince the kids that Maria lived inside of the river with the Loch Ness Monster’s American uncle. Maria and April laughed and shared a look between them, like friends. “Alright kids, hold on. We’re about to fly,” April said, as the bus drove across the incline of the bridge. The bus descended over the other side, picking up speed, and Maria, April, and the 25 5-8 year olds in the city’s summer camp program, held out their arms as their voices blended into a chorus of “weeeeeeeeeeeee.” They sounded like strangled, joyous birds. “We’re flying! We did it!” April said.

  April had to constantly try to turn work into a game where the only way to win was if all 25 kids were laughing in unison. “Look!” April pointed to an old bell tower. They were approaching historic Hamp- ton. “That’s where Quasimodo lives.” One of the kids asked April what a Quasimodo was. “A Quasimodo,” April said, “is a very sad man that lives alone in that tower.” April pointed again, for empha- sis. “His job is to ring the bell so that everyone remembers that time moves forward. Quasimodo, himself, cannot forget about time. Not ever.” The kids looked confused but impressed by her knowledge of Quasimodos. “Shall we visit him instead of going to the museum? He is very sad and lonely.” “NOOOOOYESYESYNOOYES,” the bus of kids responded.

  It was July and the sun seemed to swell, fat and overfull above the playground, directly into April’s eyes causing them to produce invol- untary moisture. April’s entire body was involuntarily moisturizing itself. The wetness sat in-between her shoulder blades and peeked through her blue shirt. The words “The City of Virginia Beach -- Ex- perience the Fun” were highlighted in sweat. “Oh honey, it’s okay.

  You don’t have to cry, I’m not sad. I’m over it. He was a bastard. I’m glad he cheated on me,” April’s coworker Maria tried to console her. Maria’s hand made light vertical motions across April’s dampened back, mainly hovering but sometimes accidentally touching. She wasn’t sure how one could feel glad about being cheated on. It must just be a thing that people say, she thought. She didn’t know. She had never been cheated on. April felt like the heat was preventing both of them from experiencing emotions correctly.

  “Oh, I wasn’t crying,” April said as she swiped at her eyes quickly. “It’s just that the sun... It’s hurting my eyes... One of these kids prob- ably needs a bathroom break by now, right? I’m going to make one of them go to the bathroom. I need to go inside. Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. You were just cheated on and I’m complaining about my shitty eyes. Shit. I’m sorry. That sucks. I am crying. Really, I am. Shit. This should probably be the opposite, right? Do you want me to rub your back? I just talked a lot at once. I’m sorry. Shit.” Maria laughed and continued to touch the air behind April’s
back. April wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands and grinned.

  Maria suddenly removed her hand from the air behind April’s back and started flailing it in front of her face. “Ryan!” Maria yelled across the park. One of the boys, Ryan, was revving up to take a running start at the slide. “Ryan, don’t you even think about running up that slide.” Ryan’s face looked like the face of a raccoon that was caught in the beam of a flashlight as it was digging through the trash. Alert, but uncaring. “Ryan, are you listening?” Maria made the word ‘listen- ing’ have five harsh syllables. “Ryan, look at Tyquan. Do you want to look like Tyquan?” Maria pointed to Tyquan and Ryan looked where Maria’s finger was pointing. Tyquan had attempted to take on the slide during a game of tag. His squat legs scrambled up the slide as he groped for something to hold onto. Tyquan’s hands grasped air as he fell back down the slide, head-butting it with various parts of his face. Tyquan’s lips were now swollen and puffed to where his face was 40% lips. His lips hung open like broken, blood-crusted gates. Tyquan noticed Maria pointing at him, waved, and said, “Hi Miss Maria!” enthusiastically. Maria and April tried not to cringe as they watched Tyquan’s mouth form words but Ryan was not as tactful. He contorted his face into crazy, exaggerated shapes with his hands and pulled at his own lips to make sure they felt right. Ryan made eye contact with Maria, considered the slide, and then walked over to the swing set.

  Inside, the kids formed a line for the water fountain and devoured the metallic tasting water. The water was metallic tasting, to a kid, for a number of reasons. The distinctly metal taste of public water is from various chemical treatments or a lack thereof but each of the kids, uniformly, had a very concrete and recent reference point for the taste of metal. One after the other, they would step up to the wa- ter fountain, either bending down, or reaching up on their tip-toes, turn the fountain knob with their tiny hands, and wrap the expanse of their mouths around the spout. The thin skin around their mouths would stretch to accommodate the spout and then bloat as it rapidly filled with water. They would become the water fountain in their ea- ger search to fill themselves of everything. What is this, Miss April? Okay, but what is that, Miss April? Where does the water come from? When I flush the toilet does the water go into here? What if I drink a fish!? Each kid would hover over the water fountain wearily, ques- tioning all of existence, before devouring it.

  Toward the back of the fountain line, the kids were getting restless. They started to secretly punch and kick each other with theatrical slowness of movement. There was a group of boys, Conner, Madden, and Billy, who especially liked to punch and kick and dare the other kids to kiss each other. Insofar, they had not succeeded in fostering any kisses but they would not give up, no matter how many times they were scolded. Conner, Madden, and Billy would form a circle around their targets, punching and kicking the air and whatever else was around them while shouting “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” They called this Kung Fu. All provocation was simply Kung Fu to a seven-year-old boy.

  Conner, Madden, and Billy were the jokesters, the good-natured pranksters, the class clowns. Everyone laughed at their antics. They couldn’t help but laugh. The kids were adorable. April could see Con- ner, Madden, and Billy’s life trajectory. They would grow up; they would be athletic and popular, but also smart. Their humor would turn into wit and their round, smiling faces would turn handsome. She would help them become this, April thought, as long as she kept them behind the line, as long as she kept them from crossing over to bullies. She felt a strange obligation to these kids. On a summer weekday she saw them more than their own parents did. For an en- tire summer she was a surrogate mother to 25 children and she felt it, her feet swelled and her skin sagged deeper. For $8.65 an hour she was Miss April.

  Before interrupting the merry-go-round of shouting and kicking boys, April watched them, in an envious sort of way, tilting her head up to try to steal some of their lightness. Kissing is like Kung Fu, April thought, in the way that one person always gains the upper hand and has the option to deliver an open-palm-punch straight to the other’s heart area. The boys jumped and kicked and laughed and said the word kiss without any hesitation. They said the word kiss so carelessly, tossing it up and then playfully punching and kicking it. April thought about kissing and wanted to feel the force of three seven-year-olds consistently punching her heart area for the rest of her life.

  “Alright, cut it out boys.” April jogged from the front of the water fountain line to the back of the water fountain line to break up the gang of boys. At the site of April the boys froze mid punch and tried to affect a look of innocence. “Miss April we were only playing!” said Billy. “Yeah,” Madden cut in, pumping up his fists and grinning, “we were just playing kung fu.” April wanted to shout at the boys. Stop making my life difficult, she wanted to say, or rather, stop adding to the difficulty of my life. Life felt like too much for April sometimes. She wanted to scream and cry like a child, only to be comforted by a version of her herself, Miss April, that would try to calm her or make her laugh. April wanted to scream “FUCK EVERYONE” until she be- came light and floating, like a helium balloon.

  April looked at Madden. He was pudgier than Billy or Conner, which made him cuter now but would surely morph into a disadvantage in later years. Madden was picking his nose and then smearing the boogers onto his shirt and then onto the wall. She had to get away from him. April knew that if she kept looking at Madden and his boogers she was going to become dangerous. As she watched Mad- den make abstract art with his boogers, April empathized with school bombers. She felt very capable of bombing a school or at least making an earnest bomb threat. April felt serious and non-sarcastic about bombing a school. She felt afraid of herself. “C’mon, boys,” She heard herself saying. “Let’s go inside and have snack time.” April’s voice was gentle and calm. “I think the snack for today is animal crackers but I can sneak some Scooby Snacks for you guys.”

  pessimist/opportunist

  OVERSIZED T-SHIRTS

  What if I’m actually boring and I only know how to communicate with people [men]

  via a hyper-sexualized version of myself? I’m posting this inquiry

  to the conspiracy theory message boards.

  Sitting on your couch in my best underwear, with my hair up and your old shirt on,

  I am a small boy swallowed by his

  father’s clothing

  Proud & Smiling.

  LOOK WHAT I’VE DONE, DAD.

  Last night, our naked asses touched and that is what we were:

  Two Naked Asses Touching

  We weren’t supposed to do this

  We weren’t supposed to get naked like this and then leave our bodies to look down on ourselves, aerially, viewing the shapes that our spines could make together

  Now I sit on your couch and project an image of the word BORING onto your forehead as

  if your thoughts were showing through

  your skin.

  Our fingers,

  fractions away

  from holding hands, remain heavy islands

  (There is probably a mathematical equation for figuring out the amount of time spent staring at empty hands in the average lifespan

  For the amount of time that is spent walking past couples that are holding hands

  and laughing

  For the number of times I have wanted to scream out to them, to those filthy hand-holders:

  YOU ARE FUCKED UP

  And the number of times that I simply continued to walk, turning

  like an unsteady sniper trying

  to carefully discern

  which pair of hands could be loosened to fit mine between them)

  You look straight ahead, unflinching,

  as I look at you, projecting

  more words onto your forehead. Our spines create shapes unnamable and our faces look sad

  but I think that is just the way our faces are.

  INSIDE OF THIS POEM THERE IS A ROCK AND THEN THERE IS ME

&nb
sp; Inside of this poem there is a rock and then there is me.

  Outside of this poem the rock is just a rock.

  Outside of this poem I am being shot out of a cannon in an earnest attempt to move my body

  farther away from earth.

  Just kidding.

  I’m writing this poem alone in my room.

  But in this poem, man,

  the rock is so dumb.

  It has no conception of feminism.

  The rock can’t even understand the poem that I put it in but being an object

  is better than being a human.

  The rock is better than me. It is smug.

  The rock is so fucking smug in this poem.

  In this poem, if the rock is dumb

  then I am severely disabled.

  I am just a human in this woman body.

  I want to be objectified. As an object, I am passive and unmoving

  until you move me.

  I can be your bitch for cash

  I can be new&softbodiedinnocent and dirty&used

  but only if that is what you want

  I want to be an object: Coveted

  Craved

  A representation

  of a woman and a Maybach in adjacent rap lyrics

  An empty glass that can hold

  Now, at this point in the poem I must admit

  that I kidded you, again.

  I am writing this poem

  in my room but I am not alone.

  Inside of this poem there is a rock

  and then there is me

  (and all of the me’s that I can imagine)

  (and all the me’s that men can imagine for me) and then there is you

  (and all of the you’s that you can imagine)

  (and all the you’s that I can imagine for you) and then there are strangers.

  Right now, on my webcam, hundreds strangers

  have fallen in love with me and they tell me this

  as I pull at my underwear and place them into a poem.

  AN EXTREMELY LONG NECK

  Jordan’s feet met the edge of the steps to the train station. This was her city day. She would go into DC and try to work at feeling cosmo- politan and interesting as she visited the galleries–maybe today she would go to Curator’s Office to see the new video installation piece or perhaps she would visit The Phillips Collection to look at the ab- stract expressionist works–the act of observing was her main intent. Oh how she imagined being a wonderfully fabulous Gallery Girl but surely, she knew, she wouldn’t be more than a tourist. She knew the whole idea of it was hopeless and on the morning of her City Day even the sky was depressed, as if it were only concerned with serving as an analog for her disposition, ignoring the rest of the commut- ers, whose faces bore the mild shapelessness of one who was sensibly resigned. Regardless of personal narrative, large gray clouds shaped like castles and fetuses pushed down toward their heads as they made their separate ways toward the train station. Jordan shuffled out some greeting in her modestly-heeled shoes as she stared at the steep steps that lead down to the station, wondering how the handi- capped ride trains. Next to the steps there was a 5-foot long gutter that belly-flopped into a stream of sharp rocks running parallel to the steep steps: a wheelchair ramp for stuntmen. Trains are not for the faint of heart, Jordan thought. She thought about the cliché “faint of heart.” She imagined her heart sighing, long and slow, and then fall- ing over from its normally suspended position inside of her ribcage. She felt like that, like a faint heart, most days. While boarding the train she tried to see if she could spot any wheelchairs.