DOC MARTINS
I.
Laverne's a feminist
A dyke, Tommy says.
She's been one ever since
she cut off her long, brown hair.
I'm glad she did it though
because she and Tommy
used to have something going,
and everybody said Tommy only liked me
'cuz my hair is long and brown
like hers was. But now mine is a lot longer, but not as wavy.
She's not very popular
anymore. The guys
on the team barely speak to her
anymore, except to say hi
when they pass her in the halls.
Laverne's a feminist.
A butch, that's what Tommy calls her.
but I don't understand why
just because she's a butch/dyke
she has to wear those skanky
combat boots. Nobody wears combat boots
anymore. She used to have such nice clothes.
I always used to see her at the mall. But
I never spoke to her because I thought
she was jealous of me because I got
her old boyfriend, even though she dumped
him. I would have said hi or something
if I had known she was a feminist
all along. But I barely see her now
because she's always hopping in cabs going
downtown or, when she's here, she's reading outside
by the big tree, or in the computer room
on the fourth floor, typing up
a response to a school newspaper article
or helping Annie write her formal
letter of complaint about Mr. Hodges.
She says he touched her, but Tommy
says she's full of crap, I told Annie
that I wouldn't mind Mr. Hodges touching me,
seeing how he's so cute, but she got sort of
mad at me. I guess she doesn't think
he's cute. But I don't care if she hates me
because she sits with the losers at lunch so
she can't do anything
to me.
Laverne sits all by herself because
she's a feminist. Tommy says she's a nobody
now but I've caught him looking at her
out of the corner of his eye. But that's
okay because he already asked me to
Prom. Tommy said Laverne would probably
bring another girl, or not come at all, but
I think she should come. I mean, even if
she's not pretty anymore and nobody talks
to her, she still goes to our
school.
II.
"So how do you feel about Elvis?" Isa said. I had been so intent on figuring out if there were freckles under Alice's caked, white make-up that I didn't realize they had stopped ignoring me. I hoped very much that I looked pensive. Or, at the very least, mildly tormented. I turned my head to gaze out the window. There, a mohair sweater on a leash slowly squatted next to a frozen flower bed.
"What do you mean?" I furrowed my brow.
"What did I say?"
"...'So how do you feel about Elvis?' "
"Exactly."
They looked like freckles, gently splashed across the bridge of her nose.
The sweater was relentlessly releasing turds of steaming shit onto the salt sprinkled sidewalk. I sighed. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.
Alice took my hand. I looked up from my cup to her quiet face. She was a life-size black and white photograph, her black hair clinging to her black, clotted lipstick. Her lacquered nails dug kindly into my skin.
"Do you love him?" She implored. She made it sound so easy.
I first saw them frolicking on Columbia's wrought iron gate. One climbed to the top and stood triumphantly. Her black hair whipped wildly in the wind and her white nightie clung to her slight frame like a flag wrapped around its pole. An M-4 bus interrupted my gaze as it stopped in front of the window, kneeling to let gravity pull the elderly onto Broadway.
They walked into my video store holding hands. Alice grazed demurely in the porno section while Isa confronted me.
"Got Beach Blanket Bingo?" I guessed that being a high school student made me unworthy of a complete sentence."Yup." I murmured, distracted by her hair. It was red, but not a kosher shade of red. Very "I Love Lucy" colored; recently so, based on the streaks of orange that tinted her temples and neck. There was a pink barrette holding the side, matching the pink towel she wore with a kilt pin and belted with a knotted tartan shirt. Isa didn't have any eyebrows; her aquamarine eyes stood out like those of a blinking, dirty doll, whose grayish skin no longer holds such whimsical embellishments as rosy cheeks and baby eyebrows. Her eyes were circled by thick streaks of kohl like mistakes on an in-class essay .
"Where is it?"
"Second aisle. Bottom shelf on the left side."
Alice walked over to the counter, chanting a soft mantra.
"Annette and Frankie and Annette and Frankie and Annette and Frankie and Annette and Frankie and-" her voice halted as her eyes met mine.
"You're pretty," she said flatly. "What's your name?"
I could barely respond before she asked me more questions. How old are you? Sixteen. Where do you go to school? Stuyvesant. Do you have a boyfriend? No. Do you drink coffee? No. What about tea? I like tea. With milk.
Isa held Alice's waist and moved her out of the store. I managed a glimpse of the backs of Alice's black boots before everything became Isa's thick, furry legs and fluffy skirt. Annette and Frankie and Laverne and Annette and Frankie and Laverne and Annette. Bells, hung from the door like mistletoe, somberly rolled over and played dead.
When we finally decided to hang, they picked the grayest coffee shop on Bleeker Street. I guess that's what cool women who go to Barnard do. But I didn't go to Barnard. I didn't have ashes to flick into the bottom of my coffee cup. I didn't even try to put out the citronella candle with my hand. And I didn't know much about Gothicism nor Haiku poems.
"We're a dying breed." Isa said, sucking gruffly on her Camel. "The last of the true glamour-girl-lesbian-Renaissance womyn." Alice smiled, showing blackened, yellowed teeth.
"Bisexual," she corrected shyly.
"I believe in Elvis," Isa whispered. "I fucking love him." She pushed her chair back and exited to the LADIES room.
Alice dropped a quarter in the jukebox at our table. Jailhouse Rock filled the small space between us. The sweaterdog’s shit was still smoldering on the corner.
"Laverne, will you let me kiss you?" Alice asked, nudging her chair closer, to within a few inches of mine. Her skin looked like my grandmother's attic in the pale, Sunday sun, covered peacefully with a fine layer of fuzzy dust. Her almond eyes were fixed intently on my lips.
"Here?" I asked. She nodded. I swallowed hard. There was a couple at the next table. A man and a woman. More people dotted the counter stools.
She tilted my chin with her black tipped index finger. Inhale, two, three.
"...I have a boyfriend?" I asked instead of asserted. Exhale, two three. She just shook her head and slowly came closer and closer.
Her lips felt like childhood. I could feel my own quivering. Her breath dusted my upper
lip and faded. Gentle. I stretched my face forward, then recoiled. My first kiss. From a girl. A womyn. I wasn't sure if that was gross, probably because it felt so kind. So immaculate.
She thanked me then excused herself to go to the LADIES room.
They walked back to the booth, arm in arm. They were too engrossed in their conversation to acknowledge me. The waitress brought two more espressos and one tea with milk.
Isa glared at Alice accusatorially. I went to the bathroom to wipe off the remains of the clotted, black kiss.
"So, did you start wearing Doc Martens because you were a feminist, or did you become a feminist so you could start wearing Doc Martens?"
"Shut up, LISA." Alice said. With a sneer, she became very ugly, a contorted manga character. Alice took my hand across the table in a kind show of support. There was no tablecloth. Alice squeezed.
They walked me to the 2 train. Isa just rolled her eyes as Alice leaned over the turnstile to kiss me on the forehead. I stuffed my hands in my overalls pocket, still clutching Alice's phone number.
"Fuckin' dyke." A group of boys giggled on the bench behind me.
I hope she calls me. I really hope she does.