as you were (v)

part five

Nov 21, 2024

DAY 1

Has the door always been plum? So aggressively plum? I don’t remember—I don’t remember this door, let alone it being plum, or mauve, or whatever breed of purple this is.

For an old home, everything seems new—the pavers in the front walk are rich-hued and even; the porch is beautiful concrete, unblemished, and baby butt smooth; the awning shows no signs of rot, its shingles snuggled up, pristine as freshly de-braced teeth.

At the plum door’s foot is a semicircle welcome mat—thick bristling fibers woven in industrial rubber, depicting an ovoid sun spewing the new day across a husky horizon.

The door is bookended by tall, fluted urns made of porous stone. The left urn is full of a black, hot-looking sludge. I put my hands out like a trash fire hobo, hoping some Precambrian warmth will burrow between my palm folds. I stoop down to the urn’s rim and sniff; the rank wasabi tingle presses the playground against my cheek.

I straighten and snuffle, wiping snot on my sleeve.

The right urn has two hoppers—slim, tarmac-black brutes the size of my forearm —devouring what appears to be a little boxwood.

I press my forehead to the door’s frosted pane, hoping sight and proximity will shake something loose. I see the carpeted staircase leading upstairs and the floral patterned runner slithering toward the kitchen; if I squint, I can make out the blender dad raved about.

I knock on the glass, softer than I wanted. I step back, the tips of my shoes out of the fibrous sun’s reach. I stand, swaying heel-toe-heel-toe, looking around. It’s quiet; the boxwood hoppers are gone, and I’m alone.

I knock again, louder, longer. I stand close to the door, straining my ears for footsteps or a be right there! but nothing comes.

I take my phone out and call her.

...voicemail.

I knock again, sustaining my stream of raps for well over thirty seconds. The air starts to smell funny.

Nothing.

I redial.

...voicemail.

I slide my phone into my pocket, leave my luggage on the porch, and walk toward the back fence. The gate is wide open, and a plume of smoke rises into the sky.

“Diane?” I pass through the gate, round the corner, and there she is—in the center of the yard, standing over a burning mound of hoppers in her ratty white bathrobe.

“What the fu—WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!” I yell, pulling my shirt over my nose and mouth, powerwalking in search of the garden hose.

She doesn’t respond. She turns her back, zombie marching, tennis racket in hand, towards the bushel of hoppers clinging to her hydrangeas. The air is thick with Velvetta and No5 as I drag the heavy rubber towards the heat.

She has the bottom of her robe folded up pouch-like. I unspool the hose, watching her swat hoppers off the hydrangeas, collecting them in her cotton marsupium.

She’s walking back towards the pyre to deposit her load; I’m finally within spraying distance and pull the trigger.

The water rushes forth, sizzling the flames into clouds of hissing steam. I vampire my forearm over my face for added protection, keeping my eyes closed. The hose is a vein pumping chilly blood; it feels turgid—turgid and alive in my hand. I relish its pleasing cool until a sudden bovine force tackles me to the ground, casting it from my hand.

She’s on me, slapping my face and chest, shouting, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” She gets me square in the ear, “YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO HELP!” There’s a high-pitched ringing; my lobe feels hot, “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!” I manage to sit upright and grab her wrists. “WHY AREN’T YOU HELPING?!” She’s ensnared but flailing like mad. “WHY AREN’T YOU HELPING?!” Her screams retreat into incoherent mutters as I stand. She collapses into my chest, bawling and snotting all over my shirt. I let go of her wrists. My arms, surprised with their sudden emptiness, hang in space, awkward and Vetruvian.

I am dizzy. I rest my chin on her head to stabilize. She smells sour and unwashed. I hold my breath. My right hand takes the initiative, administering some sterile hey there! pats to the small of her back, the type of pat you’d provide a reptile or a strange child at the public pool.

I survey the yard for the first time. The fire is out; the black mound of twitching bug matter remains smoldering. A few paces from the fire is a tent, its door unzipped, and a wrinkled canvas chair placed by its breeze-flapping maw.

The perimeter of the yard is littered with what, at first glance, appears to be garbage, but as I look closer, it is, in fact, clothing and toys—my clothing and toys—little bibs, action figures, bumble balls, onseies, shoes, hugging the property line, exploited for their stench—my stench.

She’s starting to quiet down. She has her arms around my neck now; I feel her shaking. I stop my reptile pats and start rubbing little circles on the small of her back and hissing comforting “shhh” s.

The yard is in better shape than I expected. Sure, it’s pocked with dead chunks and mounds of hopper tar, but, on the whole, the place remains immaculate, verdant, and dense—certainly better than some of the places I saw driving down here.

She’s mumbling something now; her face is smushed against my chest, and it’s too muffly to suss out, but I feel it shaking my ribs.

The hoppers have made quick work of her yews and mock oranges, but there are surprisingly few of them. How many exactly? Two, four….six…eight, ten….twel—

“Is it like you remember?” She says softly, her voice calm, chest-muffled.

I knew she would ask; of course, she would ask. I’ve prepared a breakglass answer, but I’m thinking now. No—I don’t remember it, not really. It feels new, foreign. I remember the action figures, teddy bears, and Rubik’s Cubes she’s scattered on the ground but not the yard itself—this may as well be a stranger’s yard or a new park the city put in, but this isn’t what she wants to hear. It’s not one of the valid replies so I opt for the breakglass:

“yes,” I say, “of course I do, it’s just as it—”

“They can’t smell it anymore,” she interrupts, “…they aren’t listening…they don’t smell me…” She shakes her head, burrowing in my chest; her earrings are cold through my shirt, making my nipples hard. “I’ve tried everything—everything! I don’t…” she sniffles, “they won’t stop! they won’t—”

She coughs and itches her neck, her voice more conversational now, “…but they’ll listen to you, they’ll smell you, they always did, they will, they must—that’s why you’re here, yes? To help? To make them understand? Oh, please…they won’t stop. They won’t—”

“It’s okay,” I say, quickening my hand circles on her back, “Yes, I’m here to h—”

She’s suddenly energetic. She pulls away from my chest and anchors her chin on my breastplate, looking up at me—towards me, not at me—past me perhaps, her wide, tear-curtained eyes trained on my forehead. It’s quiet. I stare into her. Since when have her eyes been green? Have they always been? Why aren’t mine gr—

“WALK!” She yells; her sudden loudness pops my flight-clogged ears. She grabs my hand tight and sprints to the property line. We reach the edge, and she picks up a tennis racket. Her mouth is wide open; she’s spewing long and deep breaths. Her eyes meet mine for the first time, shooting a get fucking serious look through the purring air. For my own good, I get serious and start breathing like her. She turns away with a shiver of pleasure, ready to go over the top to No Man’s Land, when she sees my diaphragm poke through my shirt and disappear with a generous exhale.

We patrol the property line, walking along all of my shit she’s dredged up from the bowls of god knows where, enlisting it to stand troop-like on the parapets of property, warding invaders off with whatever stench their fibers cling to.

I step on a deflated Socker Bopper with the “B” faded into oblivion. I keep my breaths deep and long as I smile down at scores of Gerber-stained pastel onesies, diaper bags with colorful floral patterns, moth-munched maternity sweats, teeny tiny sneakers, velcro shoes festooned with Rugrats characters, and—are those?—I think so…the blue jellyfish trunks I wore to Wenatchee.

Mom’s standing above them right now. She swats a hopper from a dogwood branch; it falls on a jellyfish. She lifts her booted foot and puts her full weight into a solid stomp, twisting and scraping the guts deep into the trunks. She haunches hyena-like over the smithereens, pulling a ka-bar from her robe, and starts hacking the mess into small heaps incapable of new life. Where the fuck did she get a ka-bar?

She wipes the black-soured blade on the trunks and stands, sheathing her knife. I think she’s saying something, but I’m lost in the jellyfish, trying to remember the last time I wore those, saw those—which of the jellies was my favorite? The pink one? I think it was the pink one with yellow polka dots…or was it the orange one? She’s breathing loud, hyperventilating, snapping her finger at me. I come to. She’s ahead of me, waving her hand impatiently. I follow—walk and breathe, walk and breathe...tell the fuckers you’re here...walk and breathe, walk and breathe...

We circle the property until it’s cleansed of hoppers. She’s out of breath and plops down in her wrinkled camping chair, putting her head back and resting her eyes. I take the opportunity to gather all the pyro-paraphernalia and sneak it inside.

Out of habit, I slip my shoes off on the deck before entering the living room. The air is immediately hot; my vision goes fuzzy, and my gut gurgles. There’s a horrid stench in the place, metal and blood and musk. I look around. In the kitchen is her NutriBullet, full to the brim with frothy pink mush, thawing cubes of pink flesh waiting their turn in uncovered Tupperware. I drop the gas can and rush outside, throw myself over the deck’s railings, and puke onto the lawn.

I’m wiping my lips post-hurl; she’s running up with a shovel, “What the fuck is that in there?” She doesn’t answer. “Diane, what the hell is that?” She’s scooping the puke onto the shovel. “WHAT THE FUCK, DIANE?” She races to the eastern front, gets on her haunches, and uses the ka-bar to spread my insides judiciously on the front lines.

My throat burns, and I hear dad’s voice, “I don’t have time for her crazy.” I cough, nodding in agreement as if he were here, lurching towards a deck chair. I plop down, my head tilted toward the blank sky, tonguing chunks of airport pastries in my teeth.

I hear her little boots coming up the steps. I turn; she’s smiling like I’ve given her a gift, just what she asked for. She’s approaching, arms outstretched as she does on those rare Christmases to exchange cheek peeks. I’m dizzy and powerless; I let it happen, let her limp lips press against my cheeks. As she pulls away, I notice something on her neck, a Rudolphian orb, oily, blinking in the sun. I feel my anger again, “Diane…seriously? What the hell is that?” I poke at it; it’s firm and rubbery. She pulls away and sits across from me. “Why are you doing this? Even—even I know you can’t be burning these damn things…how long—how long have you been doing this?” She says nothing, just sits, her dirty hands folded neatly in her lap. “Diane, your neck…” I’m pointing at her, yelling now, “For Christ’s sake, have you seen your goddamn neck?” She stares, mute and smiling. “What are you doing to yourself? To the neighbors?” Still nothing. “Diane?!” She’s just sitting there, twitching her neck bird-like—content and victorious, drinking in her hopper-free yard.

I couldn’t stomach her crazy for another second. I threw up my hands and stormed out, mumbling as I ordered an Uber to take me to a bar, any bar.

I called dad on the way, asking if there was room at his place, staying here—with her—is impossible. He begged me to stay the night—…one night, c’mon…just to make sure she doesn’t burn the place down, saying the gesture wouldn’t be for her, it’s a favor for him (…understand? I’m asking, man to man…please?)

I stayed at the bar until it closed. I’m just now getting dropped off at her place.

My luggage is still on the front porch. I gather it and carry it through the yard to the back door. There’s a light on in the tent. I see her knitting silhouette through the nylon; the purring comes up through the soles of my feet as I slip out of my shoes.

I hope the upstairs doesn’t reek. I hold my breath, sprinting through the living room, the kitchen, and up the stairs. On the landing, I take tentative, probing breaths. Not bad. I breathe normally. Okay, not bad, not bad…stinky, yes, but certainly not puking off the deck bad. I set my luggage down in my old room, swaying as I try to remember.

I plug my phone in. There’s a missed call from dad and a slew of horny texts from Trevor (“how was the flight? Do I still got it?? 😏”, “when’s the flight back? Maybe we can do a FaceTime assist 👀”).

I can still taste puke in my mouth. I rustle my toiletries from the luggage and march to the bathroom, pausing at the door. Is this the bathroom? My bathroom? I enter, locking the door behind me, greeted by a haggard-looking self in the mirror—unshaven, purple rings around the eyes, forehead that keeps laying claim to more of my hairline...the room is spinning. I see the bathtub in the mirror behind me. I run the cold water in the sink and take out my toothbrush—there’s something about the tub drawing my eyes to it—here come those drunk birth howls, belching out the tooth-white tub, shaking my skull; there’s a tickle in my crotch. Do I still got it?? Yes—yes, Trevor...it appears you do.

I switch the tap to hot, full blast, giving up on brushing my teeth. I watch myself as I strip to nothing—Jesus, how long have I had these cabernet tits? When’d they get so pendulous? I stand, observing every skin fold and skin tag, freckle and blemish— waiting for the faucet’s fog to eclipse me. I walk to the bath, pausing at its lip, staring into it. I hear mom’s panting punctuated by my virgin howls. I’ve got one foot in the tub now. The cold plays my femur like a tuning fork; my skin cells pucker for warmth, seizing my muscles.

I’m still dizzy—dizzy and erect. I have both feet in the tub now. I put my face close to the green tiles with their little fern banners, lazily fingering the worn grout with the soft flesh of my fingertips. The room is full of sink steam; the little droplets cling to my skin, making me feel sticky and birth-slimmed. I want to scream—scream to start again, to emerge with new skin, but decide against it.

I lower myself into the cold porcelain crucible; my breath flees when my ass meets the cold. I’m quiet, my mouth frozen in a wide O, my brow scrunched—just as I was before the crying began. The first thing we do when we’re here is scream—if we don’t, we die. Why scream? Why can’t we laugh, or smile, or kiss…

There’s a piss-yellow ducky in the corner; I’m surprised she hasn’t drafted the poor thing to the front lines. Maybe it doesn’t stink enough like me? Lucky bastard. I pick it up and look at every angle, trying to remember if it’s mine. There are black specs of mold under the crook of its little tail.

I put the duck back and stretch out, slowly lowering my head until it thumps against the tile and the cold shoots through my crown. I stare up at the light, lost in the sink’s hiss, and the hopper purrs, so vibrant and powerful they make the bath vibrate my balls, jostling them against my warm thigh meat, feeding my erection.

I’m thinking of Trevor—Trevor and that dog bleeding out under the streetlight, how it must have looked up at the light, a light like this, thinking—hoping it was the sun or salvation or god, anything other than abandonment.

I don’t want it to, but my hand is wrapping around my cock. I am helpless, and my hand is cold. My eyes close, turning the ceiling light eyelid red, and my hand moves slowly, up, down, up, down—my body remembers waking next to Trevor—remembers how he felt thrusting into me, how his hair fell in his face as he stirred his milkshake, how he—just now, not yet ten strokes in, my cum thumps the porcelain.

continue…