Tied Within

by Rasmenia Massoud

  6. UGLY TRUTH

  MOST PEOPLE ON the mall go out of their way to avoid us. We put together all the cash we have in our pockets; it doesn’t add up to enough for a night filled with LSD and cigarettes. The obvious solution is to panhandle for a few bucks more. Let the spare change of responsible strangers provide for us.

  But these strangers want nothing to do with us. Each time one of us makes to approach a passerby, smiles fade. Chatter comes to an abrupt stop. Some of them act like they don’t notice us at all, but their increased pace betrays them.

  We make them uncomfortable. The three of us, we’re three of the many drawbacks to hanging out on Pearl Street Mall on a Friday night. As in, “When the weather is nice, hanging out on the mall Friday and Saturday nights is a good time. The only drawbacks are the transients and the hippies. Or the druggies. The panhandlers. The hobos. The lazy, punk-ass kids.” Us.

  That’s not to say we’re completely shunned.

  One of the street musicians tries chatting us up. It works. His technique proves to be far better than any of the methods we’d been trying.

  He ambles toward us as though he doesn’t see us, a banjo strapped to his body and a ferret on a leash tucked in the crook of his arm. On his head is an English driving cap that makes me think of the old photos I’d seen of my grandfather. His dark beard doesn’t look long or scruffy enough for someone living on the street.

  When he tells us, “Oscar hasn’t eaten since yesterday,” we start putting together all the change we have between us, hoping it’ll be enough for ferret pellets or whatever the hell those things eat. It doesn’t seem to matter that we have less than twenty dollars between the three of us, that we need more money and hadn’t come all this way to buy food for some smooth-talking banjo player’s ferret.

  He tells us his name is Chris. One by one, he shakes our hands, looking each one of us in the eyes as he does so.

  As a thank-you, he plays a song for us. Dom rocks out and dances like a carefree idiot while the street musician cranks out a bizarre version of Iggy Pop’s “The Passenger” on his fucking banjo.

  Bronwyn coos and awws at the ferret. I stand there watching all of them, thinking that this absurd scene wouldn't be any funnier even if we had found the acid before we met the banjo player.

  When the song ends, I ask him why he started playing the banjo.

  “It sorta called out to me. Like, it was meant to be, you know?”

  “No. I don’t.” I want to understand what he means; it just doesn’t make any sense to me. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two. Why?”

  “I dunno. You look a little older. The hat, maybe. Or the beard.”

  He gives me a wink. “Must be all my wisdom showing through.”

  “How come you don’t work a normal, everyday sort of job?”

  “Jeez, Ivy. Be a little more nosy,” Bronwyn says.

  Chris laughs. “Nah, that’s cool. It's good to be curious about people.” He shrugs and plucks at his banjo. “I tried that worker bee thing. It’s just not my bag, you know? I know who I am and that ain’t it.”

  Walking away, I decide that street musician is full of shit. Nothing could ever be so plain as that. No one ends up playing a banjo because it’s meant to be. Fate doesn’t send guys into the street to bum cash for ferret food and neither does an acute sense of self-awareness.

  Then I recognize the feeling I have way down underneath my scoffing and head shaking. Not doubt. Not skepticism. Only cold jealousy. Nothing is my bag. Nothing ever called out to me. If it did, I’m deaf to it, or don’t know how to listen.

  That’s the kind of realization that makes me too sad to speak.

  7. HOLY WATER

  DOMINIC REJECTS THE neo-Buddhist recruiters before they even have the chance to convince us that they’re a couple of crackpots.

  “Why are you dressed so nice?” He wants to know. “If you’re Buddhist and want nothing, then why are you wearing such nice shit?”

  I want to know, too, but don’t say anything. These two women nod, smile and explain how wanting does add to our suffering. I try to understand how a person in a silk scarf and another in designer jeans has any right to tell me not to want things.

  “Say this over and over.” One of them says. She gives each of us a little business card. “It’s a chant. Close your eyes. Say it again and again, thinking of what you want. Then it will come to you.”

  Bronwyn says nothing. She seems hypnotized by the strange words printed on the card.

  The women walk on, making their way to enlighten some other lost and vacant mall pests.

  Dominic shakes his head and laughs. “Man, there’s always some fucking weirdos hanging out here.”

  We pass by a transient asleep in a doorway. Dom leans down and slips his card into the front pocket of the man’s old, dingy jacket. “It’s a magical chant, dude.”

  Bronwyn hasn’t stopped gawking at her card. Her eyebrows knit together, showing silent confusion.

  “What does ‘Nam Myoho Renge Kyo’ even mean?”

  “I dunno.” I shrug. “I don’t think they’re real Buddhists. Buddhists don’t walk around the mall looking for recruits, handing out business cards. Do they?”

  “Mormons do,” Dom says. “You seen those guys in suits on bicycles going door to door? Mormon recruiters.”

  “Those are Jehovah’s Witnesses, you jackass,” Bronwyn says.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Remember those three kids in elementary school who always had to go home early when we had class parties for Christmas and Halloween and stuff?” I put the card in the pocket of my jeans. “Those kids were Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

  “Uh-huh.” Dom skips around a trashcan to avoid running into it. “But, I still don’t get what the difference is.”

  “I don’t get it either,” I say. “I don’t think there’s a way to tell a member of one group from another. They just have a different sales pitch or whatever.”

  Bronwyn shakes her head and clicks her tongue in disgust. “You guys don’t know jack shit. They’re all different paths to finding peace.”

  “Well, maybe they should all try to mix and match a little more,” Dom says.

  “What does that mean?” I wonder.

  “I’m just thinking, if they all shut the hell up and put their heads together, the Jehovahs or the whatevers could have cars instead of bicycles. Those kids could’ve had cupcakes in class at Christmas, that bum back there could wear fancy silk scarves and I wouldn’t have to get fucked with when I’m on the mall trying to score.”

  “Wow. That's dumb.” Bronwyn laughs so hard she almost starts coughing, then slides the card into her back pocket, slow and careful as though it were a delicate thing that might shatter if handled too roughly.

  8. SEARCHING WITH MY GOOD EYE CLOSED

  IN ALL DIRECTIONS it’s shoppers and street musicians. More bums and countless neo-whatevers.

  “We should get off the mall,” I say.

  “Yeah.” Dom nods and flicks a cigarette butt. “Maybe we oughta head over to the park.”

  Bronwyn trudges along between us. “Augh. I hate the park. It’s all hippies and frat boys.”

  The frat boys. Cruel, shallow, good-looking, confident types is what she means. Theresa despised them, fraternity membership or not. All college guys were frat boys in her mind. New and improved Theresa, the finished product, would be something else. Her metamorphosis, once complete, would let her belong.

  Her superficial cocoon. An escape route from awkward.

  A life boat to acceptance.

  “We won’t stay long,” Dominic reassures her. “Just long enough to scope shit out.”

  None of us have much to say as we make our way to the park. Bronwyn lumbers along, Dom bounces around, kicking the occasional rock or bit of trash in the gutter. Each of us is lost in our own mind, our own weird set of priorities.

  “Why did you ditch therapy again today?” He kicks an empty cigar
ette pack someone discarded in the grass next to the sidewalk.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that during our silence, Dom had been pondering my motivations for skipping yet another therapy session.

  “It just gets old, you know? The shrink asks me the same questions every single time and every single time, I tell him the same answer: that I don't remember shit.”

  “Is he trying to make you remember, or what?”

  “Yeah, but I don't want to. He says I'm repressing, holding things back. Indra remembered everything, but she was older.”

  No one had seen my older sister Indra after she took off four years ago. As soon as she turned eighteen, she was gone. “I can't stay here,” she’d told me. “There isn't a single person in this fucking town who doesn't know why we don't have parents, why we live with Aunt Stacey and why we're so messed up.”

  The thing she hated most was what she called “pity stares.” At the grocery store, pity stares. Her teachers and friend’s parents, all gave her the pity stare. It was something that annoyed me, too, but it was worse for Indra. She had a clear image of our family’s entire picture. Me, all I ever had was my angry older sister and my sad Aunt Stacey. Looking at the two of them every day wasn't enough to gauge the whole spectrum of emotions surrounding our situation; of how those living outside our house viewed us. My aunt and sister experienced the loss more clearly. I never had the strong grasp on death that they did.

  “Most everyone in town remembers it,” Bronwyn says. “You might be better off not remembering.”

  “That's what I think,” I say. “And that’s why therapy is bullshit. I don’t believe in it.”

  “You don’t believe in anything, Ivy. What if it helps?” Dominic looks right at me, his attention now devoted to harping on me about therapy instead of kicking random objects in his path.

  “Helps what? I was locked in a closet with Indra the entire time. When we came out, it was already done and they were dead. Indra remembered and it never helped her any.”

  “Exactly,” Bronwyn says.

  “But—”

  Bronwyn gives Dom a light shove, knocking him off the sidewalk. “C’mon, Dom. Change the subject, already.”

  Most people, they’d get pissed at Dom for badgering them like that, or for being so damn nosy. Most people didn’t grow up with Dom, so they don’t know that his being annoying just means he's worrying about you.

  Another thing about Dom is, he can’t see a dog without having an uncontrollable need to pet it. It doesn’t matter what kind, how stinky and mangy the thing is, he has to scritch and scratch its ears and belly and roll around on the ground with it. He has a lot of puppy playtime in his system and needs to get it out. Bronwyn and I have a theory that living with rotting zombies does that to a person.

  So, when we come across a transient and his scruffy mutt in the park, Dom drops to his knees, leaving us with the hobo.

  “So,” Bronwyn says. “What kind of dog is he?”

  “Dunno. He never told me.” The vagrant has a few teeth missing and a thick mass of gold and gray beard, but beneath all that, his smile is clear enough. He leans down and gives the dog a pat on the rump. He points at Dom. “What kind of dog is he?”

  “He’s a punk rock zombie mix,” I say. “We’re having him neutered next week, so this is his last big bang before the snip.”

  Bronwyn laughs and Dom stands up. “Oh, you're hilarious, Ivy. A real comedian.” I wonder for a moment if this might be my hidden talent. I’d been hoping for something a bit more exciting, but considered that as far as hidden talents go, it might not be so bad. I’d watched a Sam Kinison video with the twins a few months ago and liked it. I remember thinking at the time that screaming about annoying shit as a career seemed like a pretty good gig.

  We stand at the edge of the park chatting with this hobo, who doesn’t seem much like a hobo at all, once you get to talking to him. He asks if we have a few bucks. “For dog food,” he says.

  Most of the time, when a bum on the street asks you for money, it’s not too hard to just walk away, but these fun guys, with their jokes, banjos and cute animals, they make it impossible to dismiss them.

  It makes me wonder what they know that I don’t.

  “Hey,” Dom says. “Do you know where we can find some cheap acid?”

  Hobo laughs. “Acid? What the hell you kids wanna do that shit for?”

  I can see how a derelict mocking your decisions should be an indication that you might not be making the best choices, but he doesn’t seem like most hobos, so what does he know.

  After we part ways with Hobo and his dog, we cross the park.

  “Fuck it,” Dom says. “We’re almost out of money and I don't really give a shit about tripping anymore.”

  “Yeah, me either.” I stumble over a lump in the grass.

  “Nice one, Grace.” Bronwyn laughs. “Well, I don't feel like tripping. I wasn't going to take any if we found it.”

  “Well, why didn't you say so before I fucking hitchhiked into the city in my socks?”

  She shrugs. “It’s not like I had anything else to do tonight.”

  Dom turns around to face us and walks backward as he talks. “Hey, you guys wanna get a can of Scotch Gard?”

  9. LET ME DROWN

  THE WOMAN CHECKING us out at the grocery store doesn’t question why three teenagers are purchasing a single can of Scotch Gard just before midnight on a Tuesday. Her tiny mouth, pointed nose and close-set eyes make me think of a parakeet Aunt Stacey once had.

  Checkout Lady looks like a mean, unhappy parakeet. I wonder if she’ll be going home to an empty house. She doesn’t look like anybody’s grandmother.

  She starts to put our can in a little paper bag. Dom stops her. “Um… can I get plastic?”

  “Paper’s better for the environment.” She sounds like she’s been saying this several times a day for her entire life.

  “Oh, yeah... I know. It’s just that, um... my mom uses the plastic ones. For her collages.”

  I hear Bronwyn make a weird snorty-choking sound and know it’s taking all the strength in her enormous body to hold the laughter inside. I don’t dare look at her because I know if I do, I’ll lose it, too.

  As soon as we get out of the store, she explodes. “What the fuck... who makes collages with plastic grocery bags?”

  Dom shrugs. “Who makes collages?”

  We walk back over to the park until we reach the big wooden jungle gym. We climb up the little ladder, one at a time until we reach the platform at the top that has a caged dome over it to make it look like a rocket ship. From our hiding place, we can watch out for any random people passing through the park.

  Bronwyn goes first. She spritzes a small amount of the waterproofing spray into the plastic bag and inhales a couple times, then hands it to Dom, who does the same, only with a considerably larger spritz.

  He hands the can and bag over to me. Instead of taking my turn right away, I watch the two of them for a moment as they space out on their chemical high. Huffing, it isn’t my favorite thing, but the few minutes of oblivion are nice. I never told Bronwyn or Dom, but I wasted an entire day the summer before by huffing a can of Scotch Gard that Aunt Stacey bought for the sofa. I kept going until I puked on myself. Then I changed my shirt, grabbed the little wastebasket from the bathroom and set it next to the couch until I finished the can.

  I told my therapist for some reason. Before I realized what I was confessing, I’d already blurted it out. I do things like that and I always regret it. I just don’t think before doing or talking sometimes. He said I should be dead and could have permanent damage, that I could have killed something in my brain. If that’s true, I’m sure the parts of my brain I don’t want survived just fine because they’re still annoying the hell out of me.

  People like to put their paranoia on you to keep you from having the fun they’re afraid to have themselves.

  Bronwyn comes to and asks me if I’ve taken my turn yet.

  �
�Nah. I was spacing out.” I spray a burst into the bag until the fumes rise up to my face. I put the bag on my head and feel the wet of the waterproofing spray on my forehead, waterproofing my hair. The last thing I hear before the blast of color fills my mind is Dom’s voice.

  “Jesus, Ivy. What the hell are you…”

  10. NOTHING TO SAY

  THE FIRST THING in my line of sight when I come to is Dom’s combat boot. I don’t understand why my entire body is shaking, or why his boot is so close to my face. I hear him shouting, but can’t make out what he’s saying. His voice is so far, but his foot is so close.

  A grinding sound in my ear drowns out his voice. A strange, bumpy sensation on my cheek confuses me and I want to ask why someone is rubbing crushed ice on my face, but I can’t make my mouth use words.

  “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.” Bronwyn's voice, gasping panic. “Is she dead? What the fuck?”

  Dominic’s scabby forehead, his big brown eyes blinking at me. “Ivy? You dead?”

  “I dunno. Why was I shaking? What’s on my face?”

  “Shaking?” Bronwyn’s panic doesn’t give way to relief. Instead, it seems to escalate, making her voice louder and shriller. “You were convulsing. You were doing the fucking fish, Ivy.”

  I look up. “So, how did I get down from the rocket?”

  “You said you wanted some food.” Dom tilts his head in that gee, don’t-you-remember-any-of-this way. “Then you started to climb down the ladder, but you didn’t actually climb or anything. You just sort of stepped off the ledge and ate shit into the gravel.”

  “What’s on my face?” I put my hand on my cheek and little bits of gravel fall to the ground.

  “You landed hard,” Bronwyn says. “You have gravel stuck on your face. It’s gonna look pretty jacked up in the morning.”

  “Oh. Oh, yeah.” I rub my face. “Well, I think I still want some food, though. We got any money left?”