The State of Me

by Nasim Marie Jafry

  I was so lucky to get it, renting’s a nightmare in this city.

  She put my case in her flatmate’s room. I’ve put sheets on Jeff’s futon, and you can use my comforter.

  I’ve never slept on a futon, I said.

  They’re hard to begin with but you get used to them. There are more blankets if you want, I know you like lots of weight.

  That’s funny that you remember.

  I always think of you under a mountain of bedclothes, even in summer.

  I should lie down, I said. I feel like the floor’s slanting and I’m walking uphill.

  You’re bound to be out of it, she said. It’s midnight your time. Would you like some tea?

  I’d love some.

  Come through and lie on the couch. Are you hungry? I can make something or we can have leftover pizza.

  Pizza’s fine, I said.

  I went into the living room and lay down. My neck felt like it had been whipped. The blinking red lights of the bridge were visible through the open blinds. I could see why you would want them as your last view, they were very soothing.

  Jana brought through cold pizza and green tea.

  We should have a toast, she said. D’you want some Zinfandel?

  What’s Zinfandel?

  Californian wine, it’s pink.

  Just a sip, I said.

  She brought me half a glass.

  It’s a gorgeous colour, I said.

  It’s called white Zinfandel, even though it’s pink. You get red too.

  It reminds me of Mateus Rose, I said.

  That stuff was disgusting!

  We used to love it, I said. I clinked her glass. Here’s to us! Thanks so much again for sending me a ticket.

  I was so scared you wouldn’t make it, she said. Thank God you did! Let’s toast the men who pushed you here. She thrust her glass up high in front of her and threw her head back, laughing. To the wheelchair men!

  To the wheelchair men! I said.

  I couldn’t stop yawning but it was only 5 p.m.

  You should try and stay up, said Jana, have a bath.

  I get too hot in baths, I said. I can’t stay in for more than five minutes – I’d rather have a shower.

  It’s a great shower, she said, it’ll wake you up, give you a fine pummelling.

  I’ll give you your presents first, I said.

  I went through to my room and wrestled with the labels the airport had put on my case. I gave Jana the perfume, an Aztec Camera CD, Pan Drops, a Broons annual and the sweater Rita had knitted. Rita’s gone a bit mad, I said, she’s knitting stripy sweaters for everyone.

  I love it, she said.

  She put the CD on straight away.

  I wasn’t even sure if you had a CD player, I said.

  I’ve only got six CDs, she said mournfully.

  Well, now you’ve got seven, I said.

  The shower pressure was majestic. I sat down on the tiles, hugging my knees, I could’ve stayed in there forever.

  When I came out, Jana was wearing the sweater and singing along to Walk Out To Winter. This makes me so sad, she said. I miss Glasgow! I miss the seasons. There are no seasons here. It’s flat.

  You don’t miss the rain though, I said. No one could miss the rain.

  I guess it does rain a lot over there.

  It never fucking stops, I said.

  I really miss autumn though, she said, it’s so dark and leafy and orange.

  More like dark and leafy and damp, I said, lying down on the couch again.

  So tell me, how is Mr Cox doing?

  Ivan’s fine, I said. His grandmother’s very ill though and they’re close.

  You’re still crazy about him, she said. I can tell from your letters, reading between the lines.

  No, I’m not!

  Is he seeing anyone?

  I don’t think so, not seriously, I think Wendy, the girl he works with, is after him though.

  How would you feel if he got serious with someone?

  I think I’d be okay if I was with someone else, but if I was still on my own I’d be devastated.

  You are still crazy about him.

  It’s just hard to meet other people.

  I guess you never really get over the last ‘til you meet the next.

  It’s easier here, I said, you all go on dates. Are you still seeing the Finnish man with the broken arm?

  Lasse? Not really, he’s so anal and uptight. Can you believe he made me have an HIV test before he’d have sex with me! I got the fast ‘result in three days’ test. They sent the blood to a clinic in Minnesota. It cost seventy-five dollars!

  Did he get tested too?

  No, he said he’d already been tested last year.

  And you believed him?

  She made a typical Jana pout. If he was infected, he wouldn’t have wanted me to take the test, would he?

  I suppose not. Were you nervous getting the results?

  A little, you start to think about some risks you may have taken, but I was fine. I gave a false name though, you don’t want that stuff on record…but it was a waste of money, sex with Lasse was horrible, he was so clinical and still insisted we use a condom.

  Condoms aren’t that bad, I said.

  Yeah, but it kept slipping off on account of his button mushroom penis.

  You haven’t changed, I said, giggling.

  Well, what about you, Missy, at least I haven’t seen my stepbrother’s penis!

  I didn’t see it! I felt it through his jeans, that’s all.

  Well, if Lasse is typical of the Scandinavian man, you didn’t miss much.

  I can assure you that Finn seemed to be very well endowed.

  Another toast, she said…to the genitalia of Lasse and Finn!

  We clinked glasses again, and I had another sip of pink wine. Jana lit a cigarette and opened the window. She made smoking look sexy, I almost wanted one.

  Lasse said I have a sexy voice. He said I sound like an actress.

  You do, I said. You have a lovely voice.

  Really, she said, it’s not easy to meet men here, there’s a huge shortage of single straight men.

  What’s Jeff like?

  Very handsome, but also very gay.

  I know, you said in your fax. What exactly does he do?

  I’m not sure. He’s in banking.

  I think of ‘Jeff’ as a name for a farm-boy with dungarees and a checked shirt.

  Not this Jeff, he’s very dapper.

  It’s nice of him to let me use his room.

  He’s a sweet guy.

  What would you have done if his dog hadn’t died?

  It wasn’t really his dog, it was his ex’s, Jeff just had custody for a while. It wouldn’t have been living here for very long.

  I would never share a flat with a dog. They’re too noisy and they smell of ham.

  They do not smell of ham! she said, guffawing. They smell of dog.

  Maybe I should get that Minnesota test, I said, sometimes I worry that I got AIDS from the plasma exchange. They weren’t screening blood then.

  You worry too much, she said.

  You don’t worry enough, I replied.

  By the way, no one here has heard of ME, she said, they call it chronic fatigue syndrome, and most people haven’t heard of that either. They still talk about yuppie flu.

  They can fuck right off then, I said.

  They surely can.

  I think I’ll have a Valium to help me sleep, d’you want one?

  Sure, I could do with a buzz.

  It doesn’t really buzz you, just makes you feel suspended and benevolent.

  Suspended and benevolent’s fine, she said.

  I stood up stiffly and painfully, my legs were dead. I stamped the pins and needles out.

  We’ll need to go to my shiatsu guy in Palo Alto and get you ironed out, said Jana. He walks on your spine and bends you in half.

  Sounds a bit brutal.

  He’s excellent, she said. I go whenever I’m
stressed out at work.

  I came back with half a Valium for her.

  Thanks, she said. D’you want a Zinfandel refill?

  No, I have to sleep now or I’ll die. What will I do if there’s an earthquake when you’re at work?

  Just stand under the doorway and pray, that’s all you can do, she said, laughing.

  I hugged her goodnight. It’s so brilliant to see you.

  You too, honey, she said. Sleep well.

  Jet lag’s like every thought you’ve ever had, compressed into one big thought, and you can’t sleep even though you’ve been awake for thirty hours.

  I’ve been tossing and turning forever, listening to the foghorns. There’s no way I can sleep. I need earplugs and I’m hungry. I get up and look at my watch, it’s 4 a.m. I open the blind. I can see the neon lights of a Diet Coke sign and the pyramid of the Transamerica building through the thick layers of fog. I remember with a jolt that I was supposed to phone Rita.

  I go into the kitchen. Jana’s fridge is huge and buzzing. She has four kinds of bread in the freezer, and she’s covered the door in as many photos, postcards and magnets as you can fit on. She has the postcard I sent her from London and a photo of her and me and Ivan. It’s funny to see him here. (I used to have the same photo but I’d ripped it up when he said he was going to Thailand.)

  I make some toast. I spread the jam on as quietly as possible, scared that the scraping will wake Jana, she has to get up at 6.30. I eat the toast at the kitchen table with my eyes shut.

  When I go back to bed, the fog’s beginning to shred and I can just make out a Safeway and a Bank of America.

  I find my orange foam earplugs and lie down. I can still hear the foghorns, but they are padded and distant. I am exhausted and happy.

  I am in San Francisco.

  24

  Jana

  THE FIRST FEW days, I could only sleep in snatches. I staggered round Jana’s flat like a cat without enough serotonin. I got hooked on The Young and the Restless (a daytime soap) and listened to KUSF, a university radio station that played brilliant music.

  On my third day, I walked to a cafe two blocks away. I made the mistake of ordering tea.

  Hot tea?

  Yes, please. (What other kind was there?)

  Is English Breakfast okay?

  Fine, thanks.

  We also have Prince of Wales.

  English Breakfast’s fine. (I had no idea of the difference.)

  While I waited, two cops came in and ordered coffee to take away. They were scary with their guns but they were undeniably cool. At home the police were so uptight, with dandruff on their black lapels.

  The waitress brought me a cup of microwaved water with a tea bag on the side. I dipped it in and it floated miserably on the surface, barely colouring the lukewarm water.

  The walk back to the flat was uphill all the way. I stopped to rest in a tiny second-hand bookshop. I sat on a stool and picked up some Ray Bradbury stories to make it look like I was in there to browse. I bought the book before I left. The man serving had something wrong with his arms, they extended from his shoulders like Meccano, he couldn’t bend them properly.

  When I got back I lay down, I wanted to be okay for City Lights bookstore. Jana was taking me after work, my first venture downtown.

  Second week in San Francisco. Blue wooden house in Cole Valley. Jana, her dad, Kim and Helen are eating pumpkin soup. Kim is a hippy in her late forties with hollowed-out blue eyes and turquoise rings.

  jana’s dad So are you enjoying San Francisco?

  helen Yeah, I love being in Jana’s flat, just hanging out and reading, looking at the view.

  jana’s dad Have you managed to do much?

  helen We went to hot tubs in Palo Alto. I loved them. You’d never get anything like that in Glasgow…and yesterday we went to the Japanese tea garden. It’s beautiful, so peaceful. Makes you want to be Zen and calm.

  jana [laughing] You couldn’t be Zen if you tried.

  kim [widening her eyes] Do you ever meditate, Helen?

  helen I’ve tried but I just can’t empty my head. I went to a Buddhist class for a while, but I found I was just looking forward to the tea break – they had a giant teapot that did the whole class.

  [Jana’s dad smiles]

  kim Have you tried yoga? It helps restore your energy. I had very weak wrists until I started doing yoga. I have much more strength now.

  helen I don’t think yoga would strengthen my muscles.

  kim Really, the Salutation of the Sun is a wonderfully strengthening exercise…you should try it.

  helen I did and it made me dizzy.

  jana Helen’s tried everything, Kim, really she has.

  kim I use yoga and meditation with a lot of my clients, some of them are really sick with HIV, and cancer, you would be surprised at how energised they can be after our sessions.

  helen I feel weak and horrible after yoga, it doesn’t energise me.

  jana’s dad [sensing the tension] So what are you reading these days, Helen?

  helen Oscar and Lucinda, but I can’t really get into it.

  kim Have you read The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan? It’s a wonderful book, I’ll lend it to you while you’re here. She’s a Bay Area writer.

  [Jana’s dad makes a face]

  kim Robert, don’t be rude, honey…[turning to Helen]…he doesn’t like it because it’s all about women.

  jana’s dad That’s not true. I like books about women. I just didn’t like the style. You should read Mating by Norman Rush, it’s excellent, written from a woman’s point of view.

  kim Yeah, by a man.

  helen I just read a short story by Ray Bradbury. It’s called A Flight of Ravens. I really liked the tone, the hysteria. The man who sold it to me couldn’t bend his arms properly.

  jana You always notice these strange things about people. No one else would.

  helen I know.

  kim There are some great bookstores here, new and second-hand.

  helen We’ve already been to City Lights – I could live there! – and there’s a great second-hand place near Jana. That’s where I got Ray Bradbury.

  jana [yawning] I’d like to read more, but I just don’t have time.

  jana’s dad Who are your favourite writers?

  helen I don’t really have any, though I tend to read men more than women. And I hate books about childhoods. I’m more interested in reading about ‘now’, I don’t care about childhoods. One or two lines is enough.

  jana Childhoods suck.

  [Jana’s dad frowns but recovers quickly and smiles]

  kim Have you ever tried fasting, Helen? It’s a wonderful way to get rid of the toxins that make us sick. Last year, I fasted for a whole weekend and when I went into the bank on Monday morning, people let me go to the front of the line, it was like I had an aura about me. It was amazing, I could feel a light around me, protecting me.

  helen I don’t think fasting’s a good idea for me, personally. Have you got that, you stupid hollow-eyed hippy? (Into herself.)

  [No one speaks for a while]

  helen The soup’s lovely, Kim, how did you make it?

  kim I can give you the recipe, I’ll write it out for you.

  Sorry about Kim, said Jana on the drive home. She’s got a good heart, she just wants to help.

  How she heals people is beyond me, I said. You would need holistic healing after seeing her.

  She lost her husband a few years ago, he drowned, I think that’s why she’s so intense.

  I know, she told me when you were in the kitchen with your dad.

  And she’s from Bolinas.

  Where’s that?

  A tiny town over the Golden Gate Bridge, everyone’s a little crazy there – they all live by their crystals.

  She asked me how being fatigued affected my sex life.

  She did not!

  How did your dad meet her anyway?

  She took his writing class in summer.

&nbs
p; What does he see in her? She seems too New Agey for him.

  Great sex, what else?

  Don’t you think there’s something weird about a fifty-year-old woman wearing plaits? I said.

  I guess.

  We pulled into her driveway, the red lights blinking behind us. We stayed in the car, neither of us could be bothered moving.

  I wish I could live here, I said. I wish I could transfer my sickness benefit. I’m sure I could find interesting voluntary work.

  That would be so great! said Jana. There are lots of good training programmes – I think volunteers are more respected here.

  I know, at home it’s mostly Oxfam or serving tea in hospital cafes.

  We’ll need to find you an American husband, then you could stay.

  We need to find us both American husbands, I said.

  Let’s go in, she said. It’s late.

  Jana went straight to bed. I sat in the living room in the dark, the red lights through the blinds so comforting and peaceful. I counted the days I had left. Ten seemed a lot, but they would blur away to nothing soon enough and I’d be packing to go home. I closed my eyes and imagined kissing Jana’s dad.

  When I went to bed he asked me what I wanted. Your fingers inside me, please, then fuck me, I’ll plait my hair for you, Robert, YES…YES…YES!

  My arm would be useless tomorrow.

  One evening, Jana dropped me at a shopping centre downtown while she went to her advanced Spanish conversation class.

  I got the escalator up to Mango. An assistant pounced on me immediately and asked me how I was, and if I’d like help in starting a dressing room.

  I’m sorry I don’t know what you mean, I said.

  You’re not American, are you?

  No, I said.

  I can tell from what you’re wearing. Americans are all grey and black but you have your own style. If you want me to start a dressing room, be sure to let me know.

  Thanks, I said. I still didn’t know what she meant.

  I began to browse – I wanted to buy everything – and picked up a few things and hung them over my arm.

  Let me take those for you, she said, appearing from nowhere, and I’ll put them in the dressing room.

  Thanks, I said, glad to be able to rest my arm. It was dawning on me that they hang stuff up in the changing room for you to save you carrying it around.