Bukowski, well, then she would. She totally would. Did anyone think this canon of druggie men were out of control? Only in the most admirable of ways! Out of control like a shaman or a space explorer, like a magician sawing himself in half. Out of control like a poet.
But then Andy began to cry and Michelle couldnât launch into her manifesto claiming drug and alcohol abuse as afeminist literary statement. Her heart cracked at the sight of Andyâs crumpled face. She knew she had betrayed her. She had done it multiple times, and she knew now she could never return to Andy for she would only do it again. She did not have what it took to be faithful to her.
You Should Go, Andy, Michelle said, leaning on the parking meter.
Go? Iâm not going to leave you like this. Iâll bring you upstairs.
No, You Canât. That Person Is There.
That kid?
Yeah.
Well, wake her up and tell her to go. Or I will.
Michelleâs roommate Ekundayo, who hated her, bounded down the stairs, giving Michelle a curt glance, more repulsion than concern, and tossed her a hostile head nod. To Andy she aimed a fat smile. Everyone loved Andy. Andy liked to give people rides home in her 1970-whatever Chevette. She was techie and would help everyone understand their computers. She was a great cook and sent people care packages with homemade soup when they were sick. Everybody felt bad that Andyâs benevolent, caretaking energies had been so exploited by Michelle. No matter how much she appreciated it, Michelle would never be able to return the favor. It just was not in her.
I Canât Kick Her Out, Michelle protested. This Is Getting Too Dramatic. Her stomach soared up one way and down the other, like a pirate-ship ride at a traveling carnival. She clutched the meter.
Getting too dramatic? Andy demanded . I am standing above your fucking puke on the street, Michelle. Michelle couldnât handle Andyâs voice. It was outraged, pissed off, furious. That part was okay. But tunneling through it waspain, a real hurt, a heartache, a Why? Why why why why why? Michelle couldnât handle that part. She imagined Andyâs voice as a candy bar with a crunchy outside and an inside so gooey and tender it made you weep.
Iâm Not Waking Her Up, Michelle said. You Have To Go.
If I go thatâs it. Thatâs it, we are done. You kick her out or Iâm gone.
Michelle stared down at the puddle of puke at her feet. A pale orange, like a melted Creamsicle. Soggy clots like cottage cheese. She could not drag another person into this thing, her life. Okay, she said to Andy, Okay, Go. You Should Go. She wouldnât look at her, kept her eyes trained on the vomit. Thatâs what you make, she thought, resisting the urge to kick at it with her bare feet. Thatâs what you get. She could hear Andyâs breathing change but would not look at her.
Fuck you, Andy breathed, hyperventilating through tears. Her hard outside and the molten inside crushed together, a broken bridge. Fuck you, you are so fucking sick, a teenager, that is so gross, that is so fucking gross, god, I canât believe you, fuck you, fuck this, fuck you.
Michelle stayed glued to the parking meter in her turquoise Garfield nightshirt, hearing Andy go into her car, hearing her crying turn to weeping, muffled behind the glass, hearing the engine rev and purr, Andyâs pride, this car, the product of so much work and money, hearing it tear away from the curb like the shriek of a nerve in pain inside the body, hearing the engine gun, standing there in the exhaust of it, like a drink thrown in her face.
Donât you ever fucking write about me! Andy hollered, and was gone.
Michelle placed her two feet squarely in the slop of her guts, feeling the liquid push warmly between her toes. Sheâdmade her mess, sheâd lie in it. She walked up the stone stairs and into her home, up another flight of wooden stairs, the years of grime sticking to the
But then Andy began to cry and Michelle couldnât launch into her manifesto claiming drug and alcohol abuse as afeminist literary statement. Her heart cracked at the sight of Andyâs crumpled face. She knew she had betrayed her. She had done it multiple times, and she knew now she could never return to Andy for she would only do it again. She did not have what it took to be faithful to her.
You Should Go, Andy, Michelle said, leaning on the parking meter.
Go? Iâm not going to leave you like this. Iâll bring you upstairs.
No, You Canât. That Person Is There.
That kid?
Yeah.
Well, wake her up and tell her to go. Or I will.
Michelleâs roommate Ekundayo, who hated her, bounded down the stairs, giving Michelle a curt glance, more repulsion than concern, and tossed her a hostile head nod. To Andy she aimed a fat smile. Everyone loved Andy. Andy liked to give people rides home in her 1970-whatever Chevette. She was techie and would help everyone understand their computers. She was a great cook and sent people care packages with homemade soup when they were sick. Everybody felt bad that Andyâs benevolent, caretaking energies had been so exploited by Michelle. No matter how much she appreciated it, Michelle would never be able to return the favor. It just was not in her.
I Canât Kick Her Out, Michelle protested. This Is Getting Too Dramatic. Her stomach soared up one way and down the other, like a pirate-ship ride at a traveling carnival. She clutched the meter.
Getting too dramatic? Andy demanded . I am standing above your fucking puke on the street, Michelle. Michelle couldnât handle Andyâs voice. It was outraged, pissed off, furious. That part was okay. But tunneling through it waspain, a real hurt, a heartache, a Why? Why why why why why? Michelle couldnât handle that part. She imagined Andyâs voice as a candy bar with a crunchy outside and an inside so gooey and tender it made you weep.
Iâm Not Waking Her Up, Michelle said. You Have To Go.
If I go thatâs it. Thatâs it, we are done. You kick her out or Iâm gone.
Michelle stared down at the puddle of puke at her feet. A pale orange, like a melted Creamsicle. Soggy clots like cottage cheese. She could not drag another person into this thing, her life. Okay, she said to Andy, Okay, Go. You Should Go. She wouldnât look at her, kept her eyes trained on the vomit. Thatâs what you make, she thought, resisting the urge to kick at it with her bare feet. Thatâs what you get. She could hear Andyâs breathing change but would not look at her.
Fuck you, Andy breathed, hyperventilating through tears. Her hard outside and the molten inside crushed together, a broken bridge. Fuck you, you are so fucking sick, a teenager, that is so gross, that is so fucking gross, god, I canât believe you, fuck you, fuck this, fuck you.
Michelle stayed glued to the parking meter in her turquoise Garfield nightshirt, hearing Andy go into her car, hearing her crying turn to weeping, muffled behind the glass, hearing the engine rev and purr, Andyâs pride, this car, the product of so much work and money, hearing it tear away from the curb like the shriek of a nerve in pain inside the body, hearing the engine gun, standing there in the exhaust of it, like a drink thrown in her face.
Donât you ever fucking write about me! Andy hollered, and was gone.
Michelle placed her two feet squarely in the slop of her guts, feeling the liquid push warmly between her toes. Sheâdmade her mess, sheâd lie in it. She walked up the stone stairs and into her home, up another flight of wooden stairs, the years of grime sticking to the
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