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There Is Something So Beautiful About Gristle
Home again.
Home again where I can quietly scream into the drapery.
When I used to come home from my rare social outings in childhood and adolescence, there was this desperate feeling of walking back into my cage. Who knew when I would have the opportunity to go back outside again? Growing up like that was like growing up in a vacuum. I wanted so much else. I did not know how to go about getting it, and it seemed like when I trepidatiously tried to make contact with the outside world, my parents exerted their parental control and put so many obstacles and limitations on me that the struggle eventually killed my spirit. I yearned then for something else.
Now. An adult, I make my own cages.
I've had so many homes -- homes that fluctuated between being a cage or a sanctuary. Moving from one bad roommate situation into another. Living for a few months in one apartment with one person, whether lover or friend, then leaving that and moving into a convivial household with several roommates. And then repeating the pattern, ad nauseaum, it seems. The ad nauseaum paints my memories into a blur of shutting myself up into my room against the noise of some party I didn't want, against some drama about dishwashing, or sitting in some studio apartment, feeling small and useless, and wishing the boyfriend-du-jour would stop sulking in the corner. Or the other portrait: laughing, laughing, having coffee brought to me in bed, lively dinner conversations with spaghetti and cheap red wine, spontaneous sex in the hallway, laughing, laughing. The bonding and the disintegration. I love people. I really do. For a while.
I used to blame all the people in my life for my dissatisfaction. Then, I just accepted the dissatisfaction as a matter of fact.
So, I live alone now.
To fund this luxury, I have a boring job as a secretary, which leeches the spirit out of me. I feel I am just marking off the time in my life with the clicks of the computer keyboard as I type documents about things that hold no interest for me. Did I once have any dreams? I don't remember. I don't remember what I wanted. I spiral into my own uselessness. On better days, I suppose I remember to read books and think about things. Sometimes, I hang out with my friends, such as they are, in nightclubs at night, dancing, seeing the newest band, drinking overpriced beer in bottles that feel smooth to the touch. I connect to something through loud harsh music, which vaporizes in the dawn air. I fling myself into vague romances that fizzle as I never know what I want and pick people who feel likewise. My life is parcelled out this way, the meat and the gristle connecting the parts. I am just marking time. I feel like Eliot's Prufrock, measuring out my life with coffee spoons. I tried to tell this to my mother once, and she suggested I'd feel better when I settled down and had a baby. Mom. Please. If I cannot find my own motivation, I have no business passing on the legacy of coffee spoons, the legacy of meat and gristle, to a child. Procreation, as a salve against pointlessness, seems obscene.
I suppose I should take up a hobby.
Ironic that Mom refers to that sort of life as settling down. I feel so settled now, I'm nearly catatonic. I live this quiet life of marking time. Waiting for? What? I am not waiting for anything, and try not to bother anyone in the process. I'm just minding my own business.
I am just quietly going mad.
* * *
I am home again from a Friday night out. When I walked in the door Saturday evening, home was both a sanctuary and a cage, as the quiet solitude both relieved me and depressed me.
I don't know why I did what I did, except I just walked out the door on Friday night with the idea to "go with the flow," and flow I did. Like a participant in some virtual reality game, I went and played in someone else's life for a while. For no reason. For no purpose. For no result. I suppose because I do things like this every now and then, that's why Mom says I'm not settled. If I were settled, I would have just rented a movie instead.
This is how it happened: Friday night, I came home from work. I was tired. Happy it was the weekend. I bought a bottle of champagne -- just to celebrate my brief liberation from work -- and a burrito. I came home, kicked off my shoes, turned on the TV and proceeded to veg with my little feast. I'd finished half the champagne when the phone rang.
"Hello?" I answered. My voice, thick with half a bottle of champagne's lubrication, startled me. I wasn't slurring, but it was like a foreign echo to me.
"Is Evie there?" someone asked.
"This is me."
"Hi! This is Ratt. Remember me?"
"Oh, yeah! How're you doing?"
Ratt was some young little skinny punk rocker boy I'd met in a club about a month before. I'd run into him at that club or others a few times since. He was awfully young, I remember thinking. He was 19. I was 27. Perhaps not a huge gap, but significant enough. He reminded me of the boys I had sometimes sleazed with when I was his age. I was sentimental enough to find him cute and jaded enough to not much care that I did. He flirted with me in that rather lustful yet indifferent way that arrogant punk youths tended to have, and somewhere along the line I had given him my phone number. I never expected him to use it, as he was at that age when "out-of-sight-out-of-mind" was the status quo.
"Great! Hey, me and a friend are just hanging out here. Want to come join us?"
"Where's here?"
"Fremont."
"Oh, right," I said sarcastically. I lived in San Francisco. Fremont was in the 'burbs, a good 40-minute BART ride away.
"Ah, come on. My friend wants to be your sex slave."
"Charming."
"You can have him for $2!"
"Are you drunk?"
He laughed, and I was sure he was drunk or high or something. The boy was weird (part of his charm), but this conversation was even beyond the weird chatting ups we'd had in our other encounters.
"So, come over! We want to have a party," he said.
"Why don't you two come up here?" I said, and nearly immediately regretted it. They would, if I invited them. But then, as quickly as the regret flashed, so did my sense of curiosity. It had been a long while since a quirky adventure threatened to land on my lap.
"Can't. No money for gas to get to the City," he said.
"I can give you money for gas."
"But we can't get there to get the money without gas."
His logic outran me there.
"Why does your friend want to be my sex slave?"
"He needs the two bucks."
I laughed. "And what does being my slave entail? Does he do windows?"
"He'll do anything!"
Of course, he would. He was probably nineteen, too.
"So, come over!" Ratt said. I heard his friend's voice in the background adding a "yeah, come over!"
"I don't have a car. I hate BART."
"We'll come get you at BART."
They said they were going to round up a few of their friends and have a small party. It would be cool. They said I should go. I was dubious. They cajoled.
Although I hardly knew Ratt, and had never met his friend, I finally decided "why not?" I was that bored. I arranged when to meet them at the BART station and then hung up. I dressed hurriedly, putting on a black sweatshirt, black tights, black mini-skirt, black boots -- my usual night wear. I was out the door in ten minutes and running off to go with the flow. I would have to spend the night there, as BART stopped running around midnight, but Ratt had assured me the party they'd have would probably go all night and if not, there was space to crash. I arranged to have them drive me back to the City the next day if I paid for the gas. It seemed ludicrous to go to the 'burbs to go play with some surburban teenagers -- and somewhere on the BART train, while under the Bay, when the champagne started to wear off, I realized just how very ludicrous it was.
But I was on my way. My hesitation, small as it was, was just a convention to the spectre of common sense, that little voice in the back of a person's head that says don't get into cars with strangers, don't eat apples in your Hallowe'en bag, and don't take public transport to strand yourself in the suburbs with semi-delinquent horny young boys. But my instincts, which I trusted, found Ratt harmless and I was mildly intrigued.
Despite the fact that our flirtings had been filled with innuendo -- and the blatant repartee around the sex slave stuff -- I wasn't sure if I was going to Fremont to have sex. With Ratt or the other one. Or both. Or anyone. I wasn't necessarily adverse, but despite the innuendo, I didn't feel like that had been offered. Yet.
Exiting the BART station, I surveyed the unfamiliar environs. No sign of Ratt yet. I chose to stand near the bus stop, to look like I might be waiting for a bus in the glare of the BART station. Then I saw them. Two boys loping over the vegetation growing at the far end of the parking lot. Ratt had a bit of a mohawk. It was growing out, actually, and so just was an odd array of black hair. The other one, whose name I had yet to know, was very tall and had blue hair. They had come over the vegetation, trampling it, a minor reflex rebellion against something. Perhaps the vegetation, itself. It really didn't matter.
They approached me nearly shyly. I said hello. Ratt introduced me to his friend whose name was Vincent. Vincent was friendly, but shy and distant because of it. He certainly didn't proffer his services as a sex slave then, the safety of the telephone gone.
"Where are we going?" I asked as we set out across the parking lot.
"To my house," Ratt said. "We'll get Vincent's car and go pick up . . . ."
He rattled off a bunch of unfamiliar names. Vincent interrupted him, saying they had to go to so-and-so's and see if he had any acid, and something about feeding his rat and saying hi to his Dad. Ratt countered with musings about whether so-and-so would be home or at work, should they call this one, and not to invite that one because she was friends with his ex (snarling as he mentioned the ex). It was already 10 PM. I got the feeling they were creating this party just because that was the excuse they gave me to make me come. Although, then again, they were party boy types. Friday night parties were probably the norm.
I followed along. They were both taller than I and walked in long strides. I was a half-step back, following them like an Old World wife. They talked nervously amongst themselves because they were suddenly too shy to talk to me. I listened and soon learned that this party was happening because Ratt's mother was away for the weekend. I felt suddenly very old. The summer night was warm, though. It was a pleasant walk, It didn't matter. I was amused. I felt like I was in a foreign land, and as we passed by the variety of houses with lawns and bushes and nice sidewalks, I felt like I had travelled very far, although, of course I hadn't.
Realizing they'd completely left me out of the conversation for several minutes, Ratt made an effort to talk to me. He said something about some band, and so for the rest of the walk, we swapped chatter about music. We came at last to a gate at the back of a condo complex. Everything was small trees and shubbery with concrete sidewalks illuminated by little tasteful wrought-iron lamps. It looked pretty and mass-assembled, as modern architecture tends to. So used to the dilapidated worn Victorians and Edwardians in San Francisco was I that the newness of buildings in the suburbs seemed very much like some fantasy land. People hadn't had a chance to mark their mark on their burrows here yet.
We didn't actually go to where Ratt lived yet. Instead, we went to the parking lot, where Vincent's car was. The car, an old Impala with a matte battle gray paint job and a bat painted on the hood, looked rather incongurous with its surroundings, but then so did the boys.
Getting into the car pleased me as it felt more familiar to me than the clean sidewalks. The car was deteriorated, old, and obviously loved. I bounced into the vast back seat, moving a bunch of clutter to make a space to sit. Music was popped into the precariously attached stereo, and we were off. The first stop was Vincent's apartment, where I was introduced to his Dad and his rat. His Dad, drinking Budweiser from a can, was very gracious and mild-mannered and didn't seem in the least curious that his son had a strange girl in tow, as if this happened all the time here. The rat liked me, too, and Vincent let me hold it for a bit.
Our next stop was the house of the man who the boys hoped to procure acid from. It was in sharp contrast to Vincent's apartment, and I felt unwelcome. Although the man, somewhere in his twenties, scruffy in both personality and dress, was obviously a friend to Ratt and Vincent, there was an edge to the proceedings. His wife/mistress/girlfriend hovered impatiently in the background as we all sat around the dining room table. He had no drugs right then, and so we had to wait as he made a few phone calls, all of which came to no avail. We spent too much time there. I said little. I had said little all night, actually, to anyone. I was just watching.
The boys, at last reconciling to their disappointment at getting nothing, left. The next order of business was to round up the others, and in a flurry of driving, the others were each fetched and introduced to me until the car was at maximum capacity. The first ones to be fetched were Gigi and Ian. Gigi, dark-haired and vivacious, engaged me in innocuous conversation. She made me laugh, and I, her. The other one, Ian, was her boyfriend, and they were plainly attached to one another. He was quiet, shy. Said hardly anything. Nadine was the next to be fetched. She was a petite girl with short-cropped bleached blond hair. She got into the front seat, in between Ratt and Vincent and proceeded to complain about Vincent's driving very loudly.
"Where are you from?" Gigi asked me.
"San Francisco."
"What are you doing here then?" she asked without rancor. It was probably a justified curiosity. To them, this was a boring night in the 'burbs.
I shrugged, laughed. "I was bored."
Nadine took up complainly bitterly about how boring Fremont was then until a song came on that she expressed hatred for, and the next few minutes were a debate on what music should be put on to replace it.
The last person to be fetched was Gavin. He was a broad-shouldered boy with a dark olive-colored trenchcoat and spiky dark hair carefully moussed. We squeezed him into the backseat with myself and Gigi and Ian. Squeezed against me, he talked to me.
"Let's go to Safeway and get some beer," Ratt said.
"How?" Gigi asked.
"Evie's over 21," Ratt said because he did know how old I was.
"You are?" Gavin said to me, not believing it.
"Yes, I'm 27."
"No way!"
"Yes way," I replied. "Wanna see my driver's license?"
Although I was joking, they made me show them my driver's license. I was used to people expressing disbelief at my age. I looked several years younger. Now I had them completely baffled. What possessed a 27-year-old from San Francisco to come down and hang out in Fremont? I was beginning the wonder the same thing, although I was slightly enjoying my voyeur role. But that was just it -- I really felt like all I was doing was watching them.
But I made myself useful. Before getting to Safeway, I was plied with their cash and their orders.
"Let's get some peppermint schnapps!" Gigi said.
"I've never tried that," I said.
"It's soooooo good."
"Fucks you up real good," Ratt added.
They waited in the car while I and Gavin went inside. Gavin went to buy some cereal. He helped me carry the beer and the schnapps to the checkout stand. I bought myself a bottle of champagne, too, as that is what I had started out with that night, and now its effects completely worn away, I decided I wanted more. Like the people in the car, the grocery clerk didn't believe I was over 21 either, and I had to pull my driver's license out once again.
Now that we were supplied with alcohol and people, we went to Ratt's house to begin the party. It was by this point a little after midnight. The condo was a two-story townhouse, carpeted, amenable, modern, clean. Most of the house was furnished in the way such houses are and betrayed no particular voice other than "house." Ratt's room was the exception, and it evidenced, as so many teenager's do, shrieks of who he was and what he liked in a cluttered cacaphony. Everyone made themselves at home, as they had doubtlessly done on many previous occasions. It was easy to see that they had all known each other for a long time and probably most of them had grown up together.
Ratt put the movie "Sid & Nancy" on the VCR. Nadine groaned, complaining they'd seen it too many times. But although the movie stayed on in the background, no one sat down to watch it. Everyone milled about the house, drinking. Ian had some acid on him, and he took some and gave some to Vincent. There wasn't enough for everybody, and no one else clamored for any. I had started in on my champagne and was beginning to feel relaxed and sleepy. Ratt was drinking beer and shots of peppermint schnapps. So were the others. As I'd never had peppermint schnapps, they insisted I should try some. So I did. After a while, we were all pretty messed up.
Nadine got weird then and went into some room upstairs to freak out. Vincent followed her. Gigi explained to me that she tended to get a contact high if people were on acid, and she always freaked out because she had taken acid once and it had been bad for her. Ratt made a noise to show how irritating he found her. Ian pulled out a synthesizer and started to play some music. He was playing a Depeche Mode song. Gigi went to go check on Nadine. Ratt followed. I sat down next to Ian and asked if he knew Depeche Mode's song "Stripped" as I was fond of it. He did, and he played it for me.
Gigi came back downstairs and asked if I wanted to play Ouija. I shrugged and said "why not?" I followed her upstairs. Ratt was setting up the Ouija board in his mother's bedroom, which he kept dark and lit by a couple of candles. We fiddled with the board for a while with no amazing results, then Gigi left the room to go see how the others were doing. In the dark, facing each other over the Ouija board, Ratt and I stared at each other over the board for a minute. Then, he kissed me in a rather drunk offhand sloppy way. We decided to have sex, so we locked the door, took off our clothes and had sex on his mother's bed. Afterwards, I got up, got dressed again, went to bathroom and came back in to his mother's room. Ratt had left, and I didn't know where. I sat down and promptly passed out on the bed.
* * *
Mixing champagne and peppermint schnapps produces the most profound of hangovers I found out.
Ratt woke me up late in the morning and told me I had to leave. His mother was due back home that afternoon, and he was suddenly agitated about having to clean the house up. I stumbled downstairs. Everyone else was in the kitchen, in various states of being hungover. I yearned for some coffee, but there was apparently no time to make some. Ratt gave me a Diet Coke instead. No one was moving fast enough for him, and his agitation increased.
"She's going to be here by 3! Come on. You've got to go!"
I wondered why no one offered to help him clean up. I considered it, but felt in no condition to be of much use. I was also not accustomed to being thrown out so unceremoniously after boffing someone, although I didn't really hold that against him, considering the circumstances. As I had the evening before, I just watched.
As the morning had changed everyone's mood, and I found my host even more inhospitable than the evening before, I wondered whether I was still getting a ride back into the City. I didn't really care at that point and wouldn't mind being just left at BART. I asked Vincent about the ride and he said "sure, no problem" and was still intending to drive me back to San Francisco. But they had a few errands to run first if I didn't mind. I didn't, so we all -- minus Ratt -- piled back into the car.
The errands took hours to complete. Not because of anything intrinsically complicated about them, but, like the party preparations the night before, it seemed more important to be in the car and moving around than to really be anywhere. The longest of the errands was taking Gigi to Planned Parenthood for an appointment follow-up for her getting birth control pills. Ian and Vincent went inside with her while Gavin, Nadine, and I stayed in the car. I, still harshly hungover, stretched out in the backseat and tried to sleep some more. The appointment took over an hour by which time Nadine, the only one of them that seemed not in sync with the laissez-faire way the afternoon was progressing, was climbing the walls and yelling at them about how long it took. They ignored her. Gigi just waved the long strip of tropical-colored condoms they'd given her and looked terribly pleased with herself.
At long last, they drove me back to the City. I invited them into my apartment, out of politeness, I suppose, but more out of a sudden whim to tell them who I was by letting them figure it out for themselves by looking at my walls as I had learned who they were by the osmosis of being around them. But they declined, having more destinations to drive to and not get to.
And, I suppose that was just as well. I was still safe in my anonymity.
* * *
And now I am home again.
Where I can quietly scream into the drapery. I never really do. I just stand there with my face pressed against the end of the drapery, sometimes laying my cheek on the cold window pane, where both my apartment and the outside world are within my peripheral vision. Straddling the drapery, you see. It's like straddling the fence, only the indecision is about which of the two worlds I belong in, the inside or outside.
Why I went to Fremont, I do not know. Why I stayed and watched them for so long when I didn't really believe I belonged there, I do not know. I wasn't motivated by anything other than the flow.
I will tell my friends, though, I had an adventure and got drunk and got laid. That will explain my motivation to them. But not to me.
A carnivorous Prufrock, I take the little bits of gristle offered, sometimes, and wonder about where the meat has disappeared. I am left with just the gristle, the connection with nothing attached to it anymore.
I am so completely home again. Goddamn it.
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