East Chase Street ca. 1944
East Chase Street ca. 1944
1. After dark,
passing cars spread white sheets of light
on the ceiling of the 2nd floor front bedroom.
How comfy to know I’m put to bed in the room
where my grandmother will soon join me. Plus
I can tell from the headlights that the machinery
of Baltimore keeps going without me doing a thing.
2. Jack Flood’s place
was what my scary one-eyed step grandfather
called the derelict auto repair shop rotting and rusting
across the street. “He used to keep his women
up on the 2nd floor.“ “Fallen women,” Grandmother
whispered. I pictured women in denim overalls
who had somehow been injured in the War Effort
making the fenders and radiator grills that still spilled
onto the sidewalk. The iron sign said AUTOREPA.
I knew it meant AUTOREPAIRS but I still thought
Autorepa would be a swell name for a make of tractor
along with the John Deeres, International Harvesters,
and Cat Diesels pictured in my step-grandfather’s
Camels- yellowed copies of The Farm Journal..
3. The Red Cross Volunteer place
was three or four houses farther down Chase Street.
Each house we passed had a Gold Star in its bay window.
My grandmother and I walked there every morning.
I forget what she did. What I did was so important
the Red Cross ladies made me a kid-size Red Cross cap
and gave me a big magnet for picking up Invisible Hairpins.
Ladies went to the Red Cross place to get their hair done--
permed or blued.. It was also Miss Viola’s Beauty Parlor.
4. Miss Alma
lived on the third floor of the house on Chase Street.
She was one of my grandmother’s church ladies.
My mother would drop me off at my grandmother’s house
every morning before going to School 49 to teach English
to the Accelerated Middle School boys and girls.
Miss Alma was very tall and slim, with black hair slicked
into a bun. In her long black dress she would float
without making a sound down the stairs to the second floor,
to the first floor, down the hall to the front door, out onto
the fancy tiled vestibule, down the marble steps, out
into her world, whatever that was. I never saw her return.
When my mother was in her nineties, her heart doctored
by one of her girls from School 49, I mentioned
Miss Alma to her, thus adding to Mother’s theory
that I was crazy and a liar. Uncle John, my mother’s
much younger step-brother, remembered Miss Alma
and even her last name: Sinclair. Miss Alma Sinclair.
5. The marble steps
to the huge old brownstones on East Chase Street
were not like the ones you see in pictures of the city.
Housewives on Chase Street hired an old lady
with a scrub bush and bucket to do the steps each month.
’Common,” my mother called people who sat on the steps
on summer nights--part of a phrase ending “…as dirt.”
My grandmother even said the family on the steps
a few doors away was Common. But it was common,
to sit on the steps as the July sun moved west all the way
to Howard Street. The marble was gritty from coal dust
and the dirt of the Elevated stop a few blocks over
but cool, for my grandmother and step-grandfather
and especially to me in my shorts. All of us fanned
ourselves with church fans, cardboard pictures on sticks,
6. The castle
you could see from the Chase Street front steps
turned orangey-pink in the summer sunset.
It had towers and turrets and a scalloped roofline.
I knew it was really the Jail, but I wished
people would stop telling me so. Rapunzel herself
might let down her hair from one of the windows.
7. The Funeral Parlor
was a brownstone mansion my mother and I passed
as we headed down to my grandmother’s house. It had
an imposing stone arch over a yard full of black cars.
“Limousines,” my mother said, “and hearses for coffins.
“t’s The William Cook Funeral Home. Think of those
Gold Stars you see on Biddle Street, one per lost son.”
Later in junior high school we sang a song that went
When you die better try William Cook’s.
It’s the best undertaker in the books.
Its coffins are much cheaper
and they’ll bury you much deeper
When you die better try William Cook’s.
We sang it to the tune of a well-known commercial:
When you buy better try Hochschild Kohn
It’s the store Baltimore calls its own. . . .
A few years later I was a very reluctant debutante.
My date for some big party stopped at William Cook’s
to pick up two debutante-boys’ dates. I was shocked
to realize it was the Cook sisters’ family home. They
wore fabulous dresses pouffed out over huge hoops.
Bridal Hoops, that what whose Gone with the Wind
hoops were called. They hiked up and out in front
in the car. They’d have been just right for a black limo.
- - -
8. Street smarts and my life in crime
My parents felt I should get to know my way
around downtown. “Walk west (where the sun sets)
Walk up a block or two. You’ll find Biddle Street
and Preston Street.” I figured that Preston Street
was named after my father, Robert Preston Harriss.
But Biddle? Was that some kind of stupid baby talk?
Farther north was a Read’s Drugstore and a Five & Ten.
Both carried paperback books with guns and bosoms
on their covers. I would walk there by myself and
read those books till I could see it was almost dusk then
I’d take home with me whichever one I was reading.
Nobody ever caught me. I always got home on time.
9. Little Mysteries
that I used to ask my grandmother about included odd items
I’d see in McCrorie’s so-called NOTIONS DEPARTMENT
like the long skin-colored balloons at one of the counters.
She told me that they were to protect the hardworking fingers
of people who sewed. She didn’t seem to hear me when
I wanted to know why she never wore them, even though
she made all my clothes and bled on some of them.
10. Coal Dust
covered just about everything on Chase Street.
Grandmother’s house had brown velvet portieres
and brown upholstery with was a layer of black dust
on top of it all, even her windowsill African Violets.
I liked to sit on the dusty cellar steps to watch her
go down there in a bathrobe and my step grandfather’s
way too big bedroom slippers to shovel the day’s coal
into the furnace. Her ancient Bible Story Book
had a wonderful scary illustration of wicked people
shoveling babies into Moloch’s Fiery Furnace.
Grandmother was only keeping the house warm.
I understood that the Bible Story Book was just
what it said it was, a bunch of tall tales. Stories.
11. Uncle John’s furlough
brought Uncle John home on a short leave.
He stayed in the way-back second floor bedroom
on Chase Street. Often he and his fiancée Jane
would nap in his room. “So sweet,” my grandmother
would whisper to me in the hall. “They love each other.
And the door’s open.” They married when he came
home for good. “John and Jane.” Cute as a kiddie book..
12. My Criminal Life
continued. After the War ended Uncle John came back
to his home on Chase Street. If I happened to be there
he’d take me for a ride in the family’s old DeSoto.
At first I’d merely sit on his lap and shift the gears.
He did the pedals and the steering. When I turned ten
he let me drive on my own around the farm his one-eyed
father owned. Uncle John smoked Luckies in the passenger’s seat
13. Lessons I learned
a few years later when my Ps asked me if those boys
I ran around with drank: NOOOO I howled
thus assuring Mother and Father that they drank like fish.
The Boys’ Latin School where my drinking buddies
from Bolton Hill went had a fraternity called Gamma
Beta supposedly standing for God and Brotherhood
but really for Gin Belt. That was the semi-official
name of the boys’ prestigious neighborhood near
Chase Street. My Ps seemed rather relieved to learn
I could drive. “Grab their car keys if they’re drunk.”
14. I celebrate Memorial Day
thinking about Chase Street. Gold Stars, Red Cross. dust..
All over Baltimore celebrants are driving drunk. Thanks
to my family and especially Uncle John I’m alive. Still.
***
Of Monsters and Mice: the mostly true story of my life
You know how the saying goes: “Whatever can go wrong… will go wrong.”
It's an apt slogan for my existence thus far.
But perhaps that oversimplifies the thing. The phrase shouldn’t end there. A more accurate descriptor might go something like this: “Whatever can go wrong…will go wrong…. except when it doesn’t and goes bafflingly, marvelously right in the most awkward way humanly possible.”
Yes, that’s a better way to surmise my life thus far, because as I sit here and clatter away at the keys, I’m aware that calling my life a failure is a falsehood. I’ve got some pretty great things going on. I’ve got cute kids, a dedicated husband, a home, and a day-to-day existence so sickeningly sweet it’d give your neighborhood pessimist cavities. Alas, you’re not here to read about that part– that part is boring. The things that go right usually are. And hey, I’m here to tell ya that boring isn’t always a bad thing. Boring leaves some space for peace. If you’ve found that (peace, I mean), please let me know– ’cause I’m still searching. So, let’s dive in, why don’t we? I suppose we should start where all good stories do…
At the beginning.
It began before I can remember. It began with a woman much stronger than I, a woman who overcame, a woman who inspires me to be the best version of myself every single day (It’s my mom, duh). Yes, my mother. She is a rare woman. She is the strongest person I know, but not in that harsh, horrible kind of way. She is strength in her gentleness, in her caring spirit, in her meticulous cleanliness, in her arms that encircle with warmest embrace. She is the reason I’m writing this. I hear her soft alto whispering in the back of my mind even now, “You have got to write a book about your life, Pearl– No one would believe it!” But before there was me, there was her. There was him.
He was handsome. He was tall, and lanky but well-muscled with darkly tanned skin and striking blue eyes. His teeth were a little crooked, but he couldn’t help that. He was meticulously well-groomed, almost as if he were trying to make up for something…and, well… he was. His childhood reeked with the hallmarks of parents still caught in the lingering strife of the great depression. Everything you’ve ever heard about the worst-case scenario of growing up poor? It was true for him. He wore it wonderfully well. He drove fast cars and rode motorbikes and blared rock and roll from his custom record setup. He womanized and fist-fought and was recently divorced– twice over. He was a man on a mission. He was a man with something to prove. He wanted so desperately to be what the world had always told him he never would be: a success. A family man. And so, when he saw mama from across the roller skating rink, her auburn locks glittering in the light of the disco ball- so beautiful, so alone... and wrangling three small boys, he just couldn’t pass up the opportunity. He’d tried to start a family with his first two wives, and had one kid by each before the relationships ended, but here was a woman with kids in tow, and boys nonetheless. Instant family. And he could be the hero. They were married less than a year later.
Mama says he showed his true colors for the very first time on the night of their honeymoon. She’d thought she’d found her knight in shining armor, but instead, she’d leapt headfirst into her worst nightmare. When they got married, there were already five kids between the two of them. Mama’s first marriage had ended in divorce, too, and she liked to think of her family with her new husband (my dad, if you hadn’t caught on) as their own little Brady Bunch...But with a darker bent that mama happily swept under the rug, along with the rest of her baggage. The abuse escalated with each day of the marriage, and I think Mama might’ve fooled herself into believing that giving him another baby would fix it. Along came my brother, and she saw a different side of the man with striking blue eyes. She saw him love with reckless abandon.
He loved my brother more than anything he’d ever seen, more than any of his other children, certainly more than my mother or me. But the abuse didn’t stop. Instead, it escalated. Now she wasn’t just doing things wrong with the house, and her clothes, and her hair… Now she was tainting his precious son. She did what she must– she got pregnant again because he didn’t hurt her so badly when she was pregnant. And thus, I came screaming into the world with a tuft of violently red hair upon my brow, more bruises on my infantile body than seemed humanly possible, and a fire in my soul that smoldered, but didn’t burn. And of course, the undeniable truth that guaranteed a torturous existence: I was female, and my monsters equated that to being less than dirt. So begins our story.
Is this a joke?
July 4th: the sky explodes into color as fireworks burst in every direction. Independence Day? Sure, we’ll go with that, but all I knew was that there was a party somewhere and I needed to make my entrance. I still have a doll from that day. It may be stained and dusty but it is still here as I am. A tiny doll made of hardened plastic all around except its central chest; perhaps I see a resemblance. It has no hair but will always be Goldilocks to me. I cannot for the life of me remember how I came to name her, but I wonder if my sense of humor stretched back to infantry.
I was a vivacious child. As the only girl from both sides, being raised among 10 male cousins truly set the stage for the rough and tumble I was soon to face. Don’t get me wrong, it was a blast, but even sometimes a blast gets too loud. However, outwardly, the silence was all too loud. As chaotic as I could be when I’m having fun, if ever an adult was around, I would transform into a rabid rule-follower.
From creepy hallucinations to playing with just about everyone just about everywhere, my childhood was easily a trippy adventure. Any sport, any activity, I’m down. Bike in the woods? Yes. Roller skate down a steep hill? Definitely. Jump off a cliff? You betcha. All that and I still hadn’t had 2 digits in my age.
Social activities too, I crushed them. I would never leave a room without having made someone laugh. Jokes were my identity. I was known for it. My pranks were legendary, we still laugh about them to this day. Life was good.
One fateful morning, my now teenage skater cousins from Brazil were in town. They were the epitome of cool. From rocking backward caps to graffiti, these guys were living the life. Anything they do I had to. There was just no other option. This time, we’re rappelling down a mountain. I’m all fired up and ready to go when the safety instructor looks at me in amazement, “wow you are so brave to be doing this at your age, epic!” All of a sudden like a tidal wave, I was introduced to doubt. Why wouldn’t it be expected? Why am I considered brave? And just when I earned my fearless title, I gave it up on the spot. It was the first time I had walked away from anything, and what a walk that was. As my childhood idols streamed down the flat mountain, their body perpendicular to the wall and caps dripping with even more legendary juice, I walked the whole way down to meet them, ashamed and disappointed.
What was a new feeling for me slowly grew to be my reality as more fear set in in the following years, crippling my identity and eventually almost costing me my life. I became more cautious, more studious, more preoccupied. My jokes became more calculated, more restricted. I had my entire life planned out to the second but that just wasn’t enough. I grew accustomed to that wondrous satisfaction after going through every possible scenario in my head and finding the right solution. I was safe. My life was secure, of course until one day, in the blink of an eye, I was staring death in the face.
I had actually gone through near death experiences, almost drowning in a pond at one point, getting run over by a bike and falling from a front flip straight on my neck. But nothing was nearly as terrifying as that moment. The cruel irony was that in that moment, I had nothing to fear.
OCD. A term used loosely to describe minor organizational ticks and hygiene repetitions, consumed my entire existence to the point where I would spend all the hours of the day battling the thoughts in my head both figuratively and literally, winding up a few minutes later (in my perspective) with black eyes, a bruised face and bloody knuckles when I wasted another day and should have long been asleep. Hours blended into weeks and weeks turned into months and months into years. I remember being given a drug so powerful that it would knock me out before I could even reach my bed. What a joke, right? I kind of wish I could still get that drug prescription today. It would just be a desperately needed rest. I ran all out of laughter.
From chasing dangerous scenarios in real life to running away from non-existent ones in my head, my life turned upside down… and not in the fun way. I lost everything. My friends, my family, my career, and my mind. I lost myself. Everything I had worked so hard to perfect I could see crumbling in my hands as I tried to hold on to the remaining pieces, when what I actually needed was to let go.
I had to lose everything to realize their invaluable value. Their absolute worthless worth. Everything I held sacred in reality ate me up inside. But I soon realized I was the one doing all the eating. I’d like to think I’m strong-willed but that turned out to be my greatest weakness. A fight between me and me would irrevocably see me win. But which me?
I now think back and laugh. Not necessarily because I feel it was a joke life played and is still playing on me, but perhaps at the idea that I might have never escaped it. What helped me heal was realizing that nothing really matters. Nothing really matters. Nothing really matters. Now I’m called reckless, crazy at times, but I’m finally living up to my younger energy. I might have found myself again, but I probably shouldn’t dwell on it. Nothing really matters. Decisions, property, thoughts, pain, existence, life… it is all a joke. It just took me a few punches to find the punchline.
The Devil in Disguise
Nyx grinds the Chevy to a halt on the side of the road, kicking up dust and spinning gravel; a torrent of torment. They are hot for trouble tonight. They fling the door open, ejecting well-bronzed, fishnet-clad gams in flushed fury. Their sacral ache is palpable; carnal longings. Nyx side-shimmies from the hot vinyl seat; their pink, satin thong momentarily visible before they pull down their denim mini skirt with one delicately manicured fingernail. Cocaine and spray tan salons are keeping this town in business, Nyx laughs. Everyone here with money is tanned up and coked out. And me? Nyx wonders. They realize they’re just keeping time with the devils they know: self indulgence and retribution.
Forward motion. Nyx spies the trio of slick-haired, well-tanned men behind the convenience store, talking up a storm. Two undercover partners and one of their informants. I am an agent of change. Or of chance. It’s all the same to me, Nyx shrugs. A hush falls over the men as they admire Nyx, who stands for a moment, allowing the men to absorb them in all their savage glory; clad in purple fishnets, chartreuse fuck-me pumps, short, denim skirt, and a shredded Slayer Hell Awaits tanktop. How apropos, Nyx snickers. These men made a grave error, pun intended. They messed with the wrong person’s friend.
Time to act. Nyx walks their pussy like a dog over to the slick men behind the convenient store. Nyx places one foot in front of the other; heels click-clacking, a cacophony on cobblestone. Their hips switch like blades as they approach the trio, creating friction under the denim skirt. Their inner thighs taught with swagger, Nyx approaches the tallest of the lot. Nyx is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. They grin, moving in for the kill. Here, sheepie sheepies.
The men start cat-calling, which quickly escalates to lewd degradation. Just like life, Nyx notes with disgust. They think I’m a sex worker. Fair enough, I’ve been popped for solicitation a few times. I did my time whether or not I actually did the crime. Nyx is lucky, they always have money to lawyer up and bail out. Less fortunates are forced to either snitch or get on their knees for the dirty cops running the police department. Her friend, Nada, doesn’t have money and isn’t a snitch. Nyx has been watching these men for some time, so knows all about their dirty deeds: the drugs they run, the gangs they supply with coke and guns, the people they exploit and abuse. Nyx even knows how the partners double cross each other. The two thugs arrested Nada twice and assaulted her both times. Nyx begins counting the moments until they’re on their knees. Begging for mercy. Hell Awaits.
One, two, three…
Nyx inwardly recoils. Outwardly, they’re all smiles and subterfuge. The war within! Nyx bites their lower lip as they saddle up next to the tallest man, pressing their body against his. Nyx touches their painted lips lightly to his throat, against his carotid artery, and exhales a warm breath. The man is solid granite from head to toe. Nyx can feel his grotesque protrusion pressing menacingly against their upper thigh. The bile rises.
Four, five, six…
No tan lines with a spray tan, Nyx considers. They study the creases in the man’s neck and folds around his mouth as it curls into more of a snarl than a smile. He’s coked out and sniffing wildly. Nyx can smell the blow on his breath as he exhales; a mixture of kerosene and vitriol.
Purrfect, thinks Nyx. The hungrier he is for it, the more likely to succumb. The man asks how much it’ll cost to take him around the world while offering Nyx a bump of blow from his car key. Nyx inhales; the blow was clearly brought across the border in a gas tank, hence the kerosene aroma. Blow’s not their favorite, but it’s decent quality. And Nyx knows it’s better to play into pretense, so accepts a second bump. Nyx tells him for an 8 ball of blow they’ll do him and his friend. The more the merrier! The tall man winks at the second undercover. Clearly, this isn’t their first rodeo.
Nyx swallows back bile and widens their smile, hoping to draw attention away from the loathing behind their eyes. Narcissistic, spray tanned, coked out, crooked undercovers are typically easy marks. Still, Nyx can’t risk giving themself away. Too much is at stake. Poker face sliding, Nyx pretends to drop their purse, bends over, nice and slow, allowing the denim mini to creep up, exposing their pink, satin thong once more. Nyx stands slowly, doesn’t pull down their skirt too quickly, then walks to their car without casting a backward glance.
Seven, eight, nine…
The two men grin, nudge each other, bump up more blow, then follow. They always follow.
Nada will never have to worry about these two again.
The men won’t make it to ten, Nyx smirks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The trees are zooming by so quickly that Nada can scarcely count the species. Counting is important to her. Numbers matter. The Universe Tells its Secrets Through Numbers. The chaos of the trees is unsettling. They are mostly evergreens, so she need not count them all, Nada consoles herself. Sometimes. Most times, you can only ever know part of a thing. The part that can’t hide itself. The trees are too blurry. It’s disconcerting, so Nada concentrates on the sounds instead. The drone of the engine is almost consistent. It is comforting enough that she’s able to focus on her breath, pulling it first deeply into her lungs, then allowing it to expand into her belly and calm her parasympathetic nervous system. She allows her thoughts to pass by like clouds, without attachment. None of them matter. Nothing matters. It’s a thought so liberating it causes Nada to weep.
Nyx would wipe away my tears, Nada laments. It starts raining and the driver turns on the wipers. The steady, rhythmic swish click of the wipers is a blessing as it drowns out the deafening silence. She has nothing to say to the woman driving her away from everything and one she loves; driving through the forest, trees whooshing past too quickly to count. Nothing about this feels right, Nada decides. The halfway house is apparently halfway to the middle of nowhere. Isolation is a key element of the program’s success in rehabilitating minors, they say. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Nyx will find her. Rescue but not save her. But even that won’t matter. Her conclusion is forgone, Nada knows. From the moment the dirty cop arrested her, she’s been counting her numbered days. No one outruns a dirty cop. They’ll find her no matter where the judge sends her. Many judges, like cops, have backs that want scratching.
Still, better to spend the remainder of her days with Nyx than not at all. So Nada shuts her eyes and breathes; intrusive thoughts zip by overhead like clouds as rapidly as the trees zip past the car window. She remembers Nyx’s touch. She counts to ten.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The walls are that special shade of institutional white that causes one to hallucinate if they stare at them too long. White is the most odious color - reflecting back all the visible wavelengths of light that shine upon it. Pompous dick of a color really, Nada sniffs as she resists the temptation to give the walls attention. There is nothing to count and the only sound she hears is the maddening tick tock of the wall clock. She can count the seconds, she thinks. But she knows that’s a trap because then she’ll be thinking about time. She can’t think about time.
If she’s a good girl, if she just settles down, stays calm, and does as she’s told, they’ll remove the five point restraints, they tell her between thorazine injections. They’ll leave her in solitary confinement a few days longer, until she proves she’s not a harm to herself. Or others. Half right, Nada considers. Less than that, actually. It isn’t her they ought to be concerned with. When Nyx gets here and finds out they’ve strapped me to a hospital bed, then. Then they will know true terror, Nada thinks. She likes this particular thought. It’s enough to help her return to her breathing.
Thoughts pass like clouds.
Days later, Nada is allowed into the general population. She is a very good girl. They even stop the thorazine injections. When she blinks, the world is no longer hazy around the edges. And there are so many things to count: patients, therapy sessions, picture books, sock puppets, crayons, meal times, nurses and doctors, correction officers and wardens. Her days consist of numbers rather than minutes. Her thought clouds begin forming a celestial tower. A beacon. This is how Nyx finds me, she tells herself. Nyx will see my cloud tower, no matter how far away they are. How far away are you? Nada wonders without weeping. Only naughty girls weep. She is a good girl. So very good.
She remains calm, and a few days later, they grant her a true privilege: for one hour (that’s 42 sock puppets and 13 crayons) she is allowed to sit in the courtyard. The fence isn’t too high. She could climb it before they caught her. But how far will she make it in a hospital gown and no shoes? She considers this a bit longer, but decides to count instead. The view from the courtyard consists primarily of a dull gray parking lot. One shiny yellow Rolls Royce is parked in the center. It belongs to one of the shrinks. The for-profit, privatized institution is lousy with unethical doctors amassing small fortunes.
There is a basketball court. One slack jawed, doped up patient dribbles the ball idly as drool dribbles down his chin. Nada focuses on the syncopated beat of the ball hitting the court. It’s maddeningly irregular, but enough to count. As long as she can count, she can breathe. As long as she can breathe, she can keep constructing her cloud tower, her bat signal to Nyx. They will come for me soon, Nada tells herself.
When a nurse ushers the dribbling dribbler inside, Nada notices a bush in the back corner of the basketball court and her heart soars. She knows this species! It’s a bougainvillea - her grandmother has scores of them. Its bright pink flowers call to her. Unable to resist, Nada slowly stands from her plastic stool. A watchful nurse takes a tentative step in her direction, but is held back by a correctional officer. He’s secretly hoping Nada will misbehave so he can restrain her in solitary confinement again. Nada isn’t going to give him the satisfaction. But she is unable to resist the lure of the bougainvillea. So many flowers to count!
It is a thing of unspeakable beauty, this one lone bougainvillea amidst a sea of gray asphalt. As Nada stands, entranced, a ray of sunshine pierces the otherwise dismal day, illuminating the flower's colors in kaleidoscopic cadence. So many hues of pink, she notices for the first time. Strange, how often she stared at this exact species in her grandmother’s yard yet never noticed, until this particular moment, how varied its hues are. As if orchestrated, three butterflies alight atop three different flowers. Six miracles, Nada muses. She doesn’t know butterfly species, but their wings are bright orange, lined in black, and their entire bodies are speckled with tiny white spots. Nada nearly weeps at their beauty.
But the correctional officer is poised for the pounce. Nada dares not give him reason. She attempts to count the petals of each burgeoning bloom. It’s proving rather difficult. The correctional officer decides Nada is not providing reasonable cause and leaves. He can find other patients in need of discipline. Nada watches the butterfly trio, wondering if they’re a family. Or, maybe they’re all butterfly buddies. Just. You know. Hanging out. She genuinely nearly laughs. She has never witnessed anything as breathtaking. She has never felt more alone.
What if Nyx doesn’t come? For the first time, Nada honestly wonders.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
On the second floor of the building facing the courtyard, an aggressively mustached man stands nose to window squinting under heavily knitted eyebrows. When a second guy walks in, the mustached man is oblivious. It’s clear to the second guy that there’s something out there to behold. He walks over to the mustached man and follows his line of vision.
“What the fuck?” he manages before a figure ducks behind a tree at the far end of the parking lot.
“You see that too?”
The second man shakes his head no but replies, “I saw…something. Some. One. ?”
“I know what you mean. Tell me - ” Mustache asks, raising an eyebrow, “What did you see?”
“Someone wearing a denim miniskirt - and ripped up stockings with some kinda yellow-green high heels. Ripped up shirt. Weird hair too, almost the same color as the shoes. Pretty sure it’s a wig. ?”
“Right. Ok. So I ain’t crazy. Maybe.”
“How long they been there?”
“I dunno,” Mustache shrugs, “Off and on for a couple of days. No more than three, far as I can tell. I been calling him - her - it - the Watcher. They seem harmless enough. Just hanging around. You know. Watching.”
“What?” Second guy is dumbfounded, “And you ain’t told no one?” He now seems suspicious. “What the hell? You know you’re supposed to say if you see anyone hanging around like that.”
Mustache man stands upright, a full head taller than Second guy. He looks him in the eye, squares his jaw, knits his heavy brow and, before he can say anything, Second guy makes a hasty departure. Whether to go tattle on him like a little bitch, or because he’s actually concerned, Mustache isn’t certain. What he is certain of is that something smells rotten. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t reported the Watcher either. Honestly, he can’t make out their gender. They could just as easily be a perverted man in a wig as they could a troubled mother in a poorly executed disguise.
Perhaps Mustache is confused by the ambiguous gender of the Watcher. Perhaps he is confused by his ambiguous arousal. But his confusion doesn’t matter. Something bad is about to happen. He can feel it deep inside his mustache.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~``
Nyx holds their breath behind the maple tree and counts to 10. That mustached man and his cohort spotted them. That’s ok, they tell themself. It just accelerates the plan. Same plan, just kicked into high gear. Nyx is still in high gear from the encounter with the spray tanned undercovers. Nyx has over a kilo of blow left from the dirty cops. It’s enough to get Nada away from here. They can live for a while together, somewhere, anywhere else. Nyx just needs to move the blow. It won’t be difficult, they reassure themself.
We’ll sell most of it and head across the border. I’ll just keep a small stash for myself, gradually wean myself off, Nyx reasons. We can live comfortably. For a while. This plan makes an incredible amount of sense to Nyx as they emerge from behind the tree. The mustached man appears to be gone, so Nyx makes a break for the back door to the left of the courtyard. They never seem to have more than one guard stationed there. It’s the weakest point of entry and, as luck has it, close to Nada’s room.
Nyx is going to attempt to open the back door, sounding the alarm, wait for the one dumb guard to open the door, brain them, then storm the castle. They’ll rush straight down the hallway, four doors down to Nada’s room, grab her, and head straight back out the way they came in.
Nyx will kill anyone who tries to stop them.
Nyx sees a flurry of movement in the 2nd floor window as they run toward the back door. Purrfect. The orderlies are distracted. They’re all upstairs looking for Nyx from the window. I’m coming for you, baby girl. Nyx sends the psychic message with everything they have: I’m coming, Nada. Be ready. I’m taking you home.
Nyx kicks the door handle, tripping the alarm as they pull the undercover’s gun from the waistband of their denim miniskirt.
The guard opens the door, as carelessly as anticipated.
And so it begins.
Nyx is taking Nada home.
Where is home? Nyx isn’t sure.
They wonder what home even means.
Nyx bashes the guard in the back of the skull with the gun.
The alarm is louder than they expected.
The whole place reeks of antiseptic and despair.
Nyx sees Nada halfway down the hallway. She is standing there in gowns; a heavenly apparition. Nada starts to laugh as she runs towards Nyx. Nada’s laughter is music in their soul.
Nada throws herself at Nyx, who pauses a moment to feel their hearts pressed together, hammering in joyous unison.
“I knew you’d come.”
“Nothing could have stopped me. Now, common baby girl, let’s get the fuck outta here.”
Nyx grabs Nada and runs for the door, away from this, into the great unknown. Nyx feels Nada’s tears of relief and joy as she presses her face against the nape of their neck.
At this moment, Nyx understands exactly what home means.
Test-Session 2
Purpose- The testing of the durability of the Human Spirit under extreme duress.
Research Subject- 815165
Specifications- Species-Human
Type/Gender-Female
Hair/Eyes- Blnd., Hzl
Height-5'5" Wt.- 105lbs.
Life Stage- Pre-Adolescence
Dated: May 05 1986
Time: 1500 (MT)
Observer/Intuitive Perspective:
The subject is in a dark room. Neon red light begins to spiderweb all around her. The floor is splitting open below her. She does not know what to do. So she sits. The web encircles her, weaves into her mind, her thoughts, her psyche. Later, when she seeks comfort, she will re-enact the webs as best as she can, because this is what she knows. And familiarity breeds comfort. She has not stopped falling, but the webs lend her hope in the moments she brushes against them.
Observer/ Reality Perspective(as pertains to Humanoid Environment):
She is sitting on the love seat, her mother on the old cat clawed, raggedy fold out couch.
Next to the couch is the scarred up nightstand with the clock radio quietly blaring baseball stats.
Her mother's mouth stops moving and she snaps her mind to attention. She is supposed to say something here. "Uh-huh", she manages. Then too late, she realizes her mistake as her mother launches into (yet another) lecture on proper grammar that somehow sidewinds into a shaming session on what an ungrateful little slut she is.
This time, when the mouth stops moving, she is ready. Has dutifully paid attention to every single word. She is ready for the pop quiz.
She uses every ounce of willpower to control her facial muscles so the relief does not register anywhere in her expression, as she mercifully, eventually, scores high enough on the quiz to be granted dismissal.
She walks steadily to her bedroom, and carefully closes the door. Her mother values privacy. Another mystery unsolvable.
She lifts her hands to her face with a vengeance, then abruptly re-orients to grab at her hair instead. Mustn't leave marks. She yanks and pulls, grits her teeth, and screams inside her mouth.
She needs blood though, so she raises her shirt, and claws at her chest. Then she calms herself, shamed silent by her outburst.
She then looks fondly over at the pram with her baby dolls, and exclaims brightly, "Let's go for a walk!"
She is 10 and a half years old.
Session 2 concluded.
Observations recorded.
Awaiting analysis reports.
To be continued...
Redcheeks
I came into this world two days late, mad as hell. My parents were nine years too far into their marriage. My mom was two years from an overdose attempt and my father, five years from a decade-long disappearance.
My grandfather-- who would later assume my dad's role-- had the quirk of nicknaming all the babies born into the family. Sometimes it took a while, as he needed time to reflect on looks, personality, and memorable moments. Then he would christen them with whatever he found fitting. But mine came in an instant. As I screeched in my mother's arms, wailing in protest, nostalgic for the void, her father pulled me into his age-spotted arms and I settled, growing silent in his embrace.
I like to think that my soul recognized his, that there was some part of me that carried an innate knowing of the traits we shared. But that's a story for another chapter. If you're the skeptical type, then it's a tall tale for another time. My Papa looked at me, and I looked at him, face still flushed with the remnants of my tantrum. On that Tuesday afternoon in the late Southern spring, my nickname chose itself.
Screaming Redcheeks.
Papa was the only one who called me this, and usually shortened it to Redcheeks, rarely calling me by my given name. There was even a paint stick with SCREAMING REDCHEEKS scrawled onto it with a fat-tipped Sharpie, kept atop the china cabinet for the days in which I lived up to my namesake. My tantrums became expected, routine even. I was set off by nearly everything, even trivial matters like the dog not listening or an especially tricky level of a computer game. I was (still am) argumentative and questioned the validity and authority of everyone and everything.
With my history, I find it strange that others describe me as calm or stoic. I was noted as being a polite, intelligent, and motivated child, though that sentiment decreased dramatically in my teens. Anytime I'm complimented on my nature, a montage of screaming fits, unfeeling language, and brazen manipulation flashes through my mind. I think of the year I smashed all the Christmas ornaments during a tantrum, or the time I threw a dining room chair at my mother. I see my children's worried faces and my patterns repeated within them. Then plays a vision of my marriage on the rocks, with my husband wavering on the cliffside, peering into the depths of Irreconcilable Differences.
My temperament breathes in dualities. There's a consistent ebb and flow, tempestuous currents of mood and mentality. There is understanding betrothed to denial. Warm embraces are frozen in a duel with cold calculation. Within hope lives hopelessness. In the absence of mania, comes depression.
I am Screaming Redcheeks. I am Marissa Wolfe.
Somewhere, within the gray of black-white polarities, there have been touches of silver that slow the pendulum just enough to offer glimpses of what healthy, happy, and hopeful looks like. Just enough to strive for. Just enough to snap the paint stick and depart from the path of rage. Anger is birthed from sadness. Sadness is birthed from pain. Pain roots itself, unyielding, into the grooves of the brain and chokes out the chambers of the heart.
And yet, it has been my greatest teacher. My greatest motivator.
The flame-soaked phoenix wails to the heavens, wondering why she's been forsaken, but within her scattered ashes is the chance to start anew. She reforms, entrenched in her cycles, and cries a different song, more knowing than the one before.
The Monsters Made Me Do It
The night life happened, I was ten years old, and the air was thick with the kind of oppressive humidity that makes breathing feel like a chore. The living room, dimly lit by the flickering light of the television, felt like a stage set for a tragedy that had been rehearsed in whispers and shadows.
My mother sat on the threadbare couch, a cigarette burning slowly between her fingers, its ember the only sign of life in her otherwise lifeless form. Her eyes were vacant, staring through the television screen into some dark void that I couldn't see but could feel creeping into our home. She had been like this for days, trapped in a silent battle with demons that only she could see. Depression, they called it, but it felt like a possession, something dark and malevolent that had taken hold of her and wouldn't let go.
I reached for the phone, my small hand trembling as I thought to call for help. “Dad…” I whispered into the silence. Dad, we called him, but he was anything but. Likely, he was at some dingy bar, hunched over a drink, his face etched with the lines of a man who had given up long ago. He was always drunk, it seemed, always doing everything he could to avoid being home, to avoid the life he pitied. When he did stumble through the door, it was with the heavy scent of alcohol and regret, his eyes bloodshot and his movements sluggish.
He had his own demons, ones that he drowned in whiskey and cheap beer. I knew he hated himself for not being able to save my mother, for not being able to save any of us. But instead of fighting, he chose to flee, seeking solace in the bottom of a glass and the temporary oblivion it offered.
I stood in the doorway, my small frame trembling with a mix of fear and anger. I hated her in those moments. Hated her for the weakness that seemed to seep from her very pores, for the way she had let herself be consumed by whatever darkness had claimed her. Yet, beneath that hatred, there was a flicker of something else—pity, perhaps, or the remnants of the love that had once bound us together.
She moved suddenly, a jerky, desperate motion that sent the ash from her cigarette scattering like grey snowflakes onto the carpet. Her eyes, now wild and frantic, darted around the room as if searching for an escape from the demons that tormented her. I watched, frozen, as she began to mutter under her breath, her words a jumbled mix of fear and incoherence.
"Mom?" I ventured, my voice small and hesitant. "Mom, are you okay?"
She didn't respond, didn't even seem to hear me. Her muttering grew louder, more frantic, and she clutched at her head as if trying to keep it from exploding. I took a step closer, my heart pounding in my chest, my mind racing with the urge to help her, to save her from whatever horror she was experiencing.
But then she screamed—a raw, guttural sound that cut through the silence like a knife. It was a sound that spoke of unimaginable pain and despair, a sound that would haunt my dreams for years to come. I watched in helpless horror as she collapsed onto the floor, her body convulsing, her screams turning into sobs.
In that moment, I saw the demons. Not as she saw them, but as a reflection of the torment inside her. They were the dark shadows that had consumed her spirit, the invisible chains that bound her to a life of misery and despair. And I hated them. I hated them with a ferocity that surprised me, a burning rage that was only matched by my helplessness.
I wanted to run to her, to hold her and tell her that everything would be okay. But I couldn't move. I was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by a mix of fear, anger, and sorrow. All I could do was watch as the woman who had once been my mother was reduced to a sobbing, broken shell on the floor.
As the night wore on, her sobs eventually subsided, and she lay there, exhausted and spent. I finally found the strength to move, to go to her and wrap my arms around her frail body. She didn't respond, didn't acknowledge my presence, but I held her anyway, hoping that somehow my touch could reach through the darkness and bring her back to me.
In the rare moments when my father was sober enough to speak, his words were slurred and bitter, laced with the pain of a man who had lost his way. He was a ghost in our lives, present but absent, his presence a reminder of the life he was trying so desperately to escape.
I held my mother tighter, feeling the weight of our shared despair. I pitied her, pitied him, but most of all, I pitied myself for being caught in the crossfire of their demons. The night it happened, I realized that I was alone in my fight, that the adults I looked up to were too broken to save me or themselves.
In that darkened living room, surrounded by the echoes of my mother's sobs and the phantom presence of my drunken father, I made a vow. I would not let their demons become mine. I would find a way to fight back, to carve out a life for myself that was free from the shadows that haunted our home.
And as I held my mother in my arms, I promised myself that I would survive. I would endure. I would find a way to escape the darkness, even if it meant doing it alone.
The Best of Times The Worst of Times
Puddles.
Why not begin this account with a bit of philosophical rambling from the the ADHD author who penned it? One day I was walking across a North Dakota street to the store around the corner from my sister's house were I'd taken up residence when, all at once, I looked down at a puddle left over from a rain.
This got me to thinking: at what point in my life did I stop playing in puddles? At what time in all our lives does the nature of puddles change? I propose here that puddles may be used to mark the passage of time.
During the childhood years those little collections of mud infused rain water are a source of gaiety, of entertainment. We laugh and splash our siblings, friends, or other relations in innocent glee. I sure know I did. Then one day that all goes away. Puddles become a nuisance. They make us slide, they ruin our brand spanking new footwear, or they are splashed upon us by passing cars in a seemingly malevolent mockery of our own childhood splashes.
When in a person's life does this happen? That's hard to answer because it's such a gradual and organic process most of us don't notice. I noticed, for I fancy myself something of a philosopher. I wonder what happened to my childhood love of puddles.
I've died and come back( that when I was only a dopey toddler). I've been in and out doctors offices. I went to college. I've made friends that became brothers, brothers who became write offs, and seen at least one write off get his crap together.
As of the time I Penn or rather type these words I've escaped from a purgatory that almost ended my life via my own hand. I've been a paraeducator trying to help kids who didn't always want it. Only God who brought me back from the otherside knows what I'll be from there. You'll see a little of what I am. a little of what I'd rather not have been and perhaps we can solve that riddle of the relationship of puddles to the changing of life's fickle seasons.
I’m No Lesbian
I am not a lesbian, she thought.
She knew she wasn't. She insisted to herself she wasn't. It was an honest denial, even though she worshipped and admired women--as a species unto themselves. She was proud to be one. Exalted. Enraptured by estrogenic brilliance.
She thought about women--what they do for the world. Women conceive and make new human beings! They are feminine, from their lactation and nurturing of our babies to their very anatomy--receptive. Held fast within the mothering of the bosom, one is safe. Welcomed by the exclusivity of the vagina, one is the chosen one.
Women give of themselves without hesitation. Put themselves second... then third, fourth...last... They offer what's left--of food, attention, and love--even when wanting, themselves. If God is love, it is woman who was made in His image.
Yes, she loved women. Yes, she loved being one.
She recognized what a woman brings to a relationship. She knew how a relationship is defined by a woman's contribution, input, and even insistence. She knew that should the biochemistry between men and women be deconstructed, hers stands alone as unique, counteracting all of the harm brought into the world by the wizardry--the necromantic alchemy--of men.
She knew women to be magical creatures, so there was never any need to search for unicorns.
She knew how women love. She knew women who love men. She knew women who love women. She knew women who love both. She knew women who love themselves. Thus, she knew what love is. And she knew who God is.
If God is love, there is no God without women, she thought.
When a woman dies, she surmised, there is a moth-eaten hole that remains, ruining the entire wardrobe shared with men.
She thought about her body. Her body as a woman. How a thigh brushing the other is not a mating call but a celebration of her temple. Her holy temple, she thought, and then she would laugh. She felt alive. She felt important--even crucial. She felt real. She felt the Earth rotate around her, even as the men fall off.
She had a clear vision of the world's men and women, perched on her pedestal, placed there by Divine Authority. She watches with women's eyes. She weeps with women's tears. She shouts with women's cries.
No, she thought, I am not a lesbian. But I sure do think about them a lot.
I Chose Hampture
On more than one occasion, while walking past the basement aquarium in which Hampture resides, I asked myself how my life arrived to this point. It is not a well adjusted man who constructs a fully functional scale model underwater habitat for hamsters, much less makes use of it.
If someday I'm asked about it on an authors panel at one convention or another, I dare not answer honestly that it was a tripartite cocktail of depression, autism and LSD. It's a tightly knit industry and one which expects its representatives to be at least somewhat family friendly, in the bucolic corpo-clean sort of way.
But that is indeed how it happened, and I doubt it could've otherwise. My trauma isn't special, anyone who grows up autistic will tell you a similar sob story of being beaten, tricked, ridiculed and force fed slugs behind the gym. Maybe not that last one, though slugs are a nutritious low calorie snack with a rich, smoky flavor one ought to try before they knock.
I might've had an easier time of school, had I not been the only one convinced of evolution at a fundamentalist private school which taught young Earth creationism from the A.C.E. curriculum. Stubbornly single minded about factual accuracy as my neurotribe tends to be, it was the proverbial meeting of an unstoppable force and an immovable object.
Humiliation and ostracization by staff and fellow students alike only let up when I became receptive to their efforts at social correction, agreeing to meet with a faith based child psychologist who would get to the root of my evolutionist brainwashing.
Something like a G rated version of Winston's interrogation in 1984, I eventually confessed that indeed 2+2=5, Earth is not older than ten thousand years, and received an end of year "most improved" award for my compliance. Turns out, the force was never actually unstoppable!
This left me less trusting of authority, and humans not in my immediate family, than I should've been. But this too is probably a common experience (and supervillain origin story) not worth wringing my hands over.
I've lived a worthwhile life so far not because of such experiences, howevermuch chest thumpers insist that what doesnt kill us makes us stronger (not accounting for the third possibility of becoming crippled).
Rather, I carried on and developed myself according to my ideals anyway, because of how I coped with that trauma. After many years of circling the drain, that familiar downward spiral with death at the bottom, it was no longer in me to swim upstream. I came to a point where, if I didn't do something drastic to alter the trajectory I was on, I would certainly have killed myself.
So, I started a hobby. After all no shortage of well meaning family and friends throughout my life advised me that I needed a hobby. Only to then turn around and say "not that one" upon discovering I was submerging rodents.
It was an engineering challenge, an excuse to care for animal companions, and something to differentiate one day from the next during a period in my life when days had a way of blurring together.
Simply witnessing incremental progress proved therapeutic after spending so long accomplishing nothing at the bottom of a deep, dark pit. That pit can become seductively homey once you resign yourself to the conviction that you belong there.
This is also how I discovered darknet psychedelics, which I soon became a voracious consumer of. Like a horse with a feedbag of cubensis mushrooms around its neck, an explosion of fresh insight and motivation followed, then it was off to the races.
This was by far my most productive writing period. There were week long stretches during which I hammered out one full short story every night. Not my best work, but one can't worry too much about that or they will never write anything for fear of not being perfect from the start.
To be a writer one must write, and prolifically, trusting that quality will come with practice at some point downstream. (Everything written prior to that point may be thrown away. Then you can finally posture as if you were always effortlessly talented.)
This is how I attracted the attention of my first publisher, with whom I put out two tradpubbed anthologies. It's also how I was brought onboard by Honor Code to work on Narcosis, a deep sea horror themed VR game, and how I finessed my way into the Mars Desert Research Program, a mockup Mars base in the Utah Desert where I simulated EVAs by day.
By night I wrote a well received report on sea-space analog principles for Robert Zubrin's Mars Society. During my stay, amid various adult make believe activities, I was interviewed by a journalist to whom I gifted my only copy of Ian Koblick's Living and Working in the Sea. I regret parting with it, given the eye-watering sum it goes for nowadays.
Maybe it was all wasted on me, as I've long been more fascinated by the sea than the heavens. I was space obsessed as any young boy between the ages of 3 and 12. But one quickly runs out of manned missions to obsess over and memorize every detail of. There's a much longer, and lesser known, history of manned undersea activity.
This would lead me to become involved with Dennis Chamberland's Atlantica Expeditions. Chamberland being aptly named, for a man who hopes to establish an undersea land of interconnected chambers. What he managed by the time I joined was the Scott Carpenter Analog Station, a micro habitat fit for two occupants, roughly the size of a delivery van, emplaced in less than thirty feet of water.
The same Floridian lagoon, in fact, which also hosted the Jules Undersea Lodge (formerly La Chalupa) and Marinelab, now in a museum. The month long duration of that mission was the only time in history when three separate undersea habitats were continually manned in close proximity. Conshelf 2 may also qualify, depending what counts as "close".
But fundraising for round two proved more difficult than anticipated. So when years passed without any further subaquatic expeditions, I took matters into my own hands. Using what I learned building heated, humidity controlled positive pressure hamster habitats, I constructed my own solar powered, surface supplied diving helmet.
Inelegant but functional (as with most of my inventions), I built it from a 5 gallon square sided jug into which I inset plexiglass windows. Flat because curved windows distort ones view like lenses in water, and because a diving helmet is under no pressure differential.
It won't surprise you to learn that I immediately used this contraption to trip balls underwater, for up to five hours on one occasion, at the bottom of a Minnesotan lake. Less impressive than it sounds, as limits on the electric compressor meant I could venture no deeper than 35 feet, and mostly hung out around 15 feet.
Helmet diving's quite different from scuba. Posture must remain upright, due to having a buoyant pocket of trapped air on/around the noggin. One may "moon jump" if only slightly weighted. One peers out through big windows into the surrounding water, from within an air-filled sanctuary. Very "Jules Verne". Curious minnows swam right up to the faceplate, undoubtedly more astonished by the encounter than I was.
I saw and felt things that would've been indescribable, if not for my experience as an author. It is the job of authors, after all, to eff the ineffable. The surface undulated overhead like time lapse cloud cover. Shimmering god rays danced between murky shadows, which morphed into whatever I most feared might be lurking in the water with me.
I wrote up this encounter as an article for Psychedelic Frontier, which last I checked is still online. It was one of many such psychedelic expeditions, into subterranean lava tubes and whatnot, by far the most instructive.
It's difficult, after the fact, to give a satisfactory explanation for most of these actions. The closest I've come, (besides "autism and drugs") is to quote Larry Walters, the fella who made news decades back for rigging hundreds of helium balloons to a lawn chair, which then carried him skyward: "A man can't just sit around all day."