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Authors: Martha O'Connor
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bitch until she scores some at work tonight, so I’m sure as hell not staying home. Instead I’m lying on my back on Sam’s living room floor, the bottle of peppermint schnapps inches from my fingertips as we debate Marx, physical labor versus intellectual labor. I get a charge out of debating because it makes me feel smart, smarter than Rennie, even. Sam and I are always on the opposite sides of things, and sometimes things heat up so hot they scorch. It never scares me—Jesus, I live with Marian—and he rides me to the edge of the world; one breath and he could blow me into the universe. But we have to fight first. That’s just how we work.
I’m about to logic-ize Sam under the table, which means I get to pick where in Sam’s apartment we have sex and I get to boss him. I maynot be Rennie Taylor, Girl Genius who reads
The New York Times
from first page to last every day, but my mind works quick, even when I’m fucked up, or should I say
especially
when I’m fucked up. Sam and I are so fucking predictable, but not as predictable as Marian. I half-hope she
doesn’t
score some coke at work, because when she brings it home she feels generous and wants me to do lines with her, presses it on me, pushes, pushes, just like ordinary moms probably fill your plate with lasagna despite your protests. Only I will never try cocaine, never never never never.
“Cherry, you don’t even understand the most basic Marxist concept. Let me say it very slowly. Value. Derives. From. Labor.”
He’s being insulting, and half of me burns with hatred and half of me loves being given a reason to blow up, to fight, to release the tension that’s built up in me. I vow to be a difficult bitch about the whole conversation because it makes things a hell of a lot more fun. “Got. It. Sam.”
Sam always sweats when he drinks, and a few blond strands cling to his forehead, pulled together like snakes. “So. Next concept. In
Das Kapital
Marx says, ‘More complicated labor counts as simple labor raised to a higher power.’”
I know where he’s going with this. He can be such an ass. “What’s your point?”
“That means I’m doing intellectual labor by writing my essays.” See, he writes these fucking essays that no one but me and him reads, and he thinks that’s going to, I don’t know, start a revolution or something.
He takes the schnapps bottle from me and gulps a few times. “So you need to take care of physical labor like finishing those dishes in the sink and giving me a blow job.”
I burst out laughing. “Show me someone who’ll trade an essay for a blow job, and I’ll show you a truly desperate individual.”
“Come on, Cherry. How much training does it take to do a blow job?Now, think about how many years of study I’ve put into understanding the works of Marx and Lenin and Trotsky. There’s no comparison.”
“Who are you to say how many years I’ve put into doing blow jobs?” He’s actually the first one, but I’ll never admit that. I’m the girl who’s been bad since the day she was born. “News flash, here’s how you get a blow job from me. Gimme some of this, then I’ll give you some of that.”
His eyes narrow as he drinks some more and wipes his mouth. “So, are you going to write the definitive work about the transition from the first phase of communist society to its higher phase, and the complete withering away of the state?”
“The problem with your stupid argument, Sam, is that this society you describe has never existed anywhere in the world.” The fact that Sam can use Marxism to make me do the dishes or give him a blow job proves that there is something seriously wrong with that philosophy. “Karl Marx can eat my sorry cunt.” Marx has a point, I guess, in that people are after money and power all the time, and the rich should share with the poor. But like most philosophies, it doesn’t stand up to reality. “You want to move to the Soviet Union and stand in a breadline?
I’m about to logic-ize Sam under the table, which means I get to pick where in Sam’s apartment we have sex and I get to boss him. I maynot be Rennie Taylor, Girl Genius who reads
The New York Times
from first page to last every day, but my mind works quick, even when I’m fucked up, or should I say
especially
when I’m fucked up. Sam and I are so fucking predictable, but not as predictable as Marian. I half-hope she
doesn’t
score some coke at work, because when she brings it home she feels generous and wants me to do lines with her, presses it on me, pushes, pushes, just like ordinary moms probably fill your plate with lasagna despite your protests. Only I will never try cocaine, never never never never.
“Cherry, you don’t even understand the most basic Marxist concept. Let me say it very slowly. Value. Derives. From. Labor.”
He’s being insulting, and half of me burns with hatred and half of me loves being given a reason to blow up, to fight, to release the tension that’s built up in me. I vow to be a difficult bitch about the whole conversation because it makes things a hell of a lot more fun. “Got. It. Sam.”
Sam always sweats when he drinks, and a few blond strands cling to his forehead, pulled together like snakes. “So. Next concept. In
Das Kapital
Marx says, ‘More complicated labor counts as simple labor raised to a higher power.’”
I know where he’s going with this. He can be such an ass. “What’s your point?”
“That means I’m doing intellectual labor by writing my essays.” See, he writes these fucking essays that no one but me and him reads, and he thinks that’s going to, I don’t know, start a revolution or something.
He takes the schnapps bottle from me and gulps a few times. “So you need to take care of physical labor like finishing those dishes in the sink and giving me a blow job.”
I burst out laughing. “Show me someone who’ll trade an essay for a blow job, and I’ll show you a truly desperate individual.”
“Come on, Cherry. How much training does it take to do a blow job?Now, think about how many years of study I’ve put into understanding the works of Marx and Lenin and Trotsky. There’s no comparison.”
“Who are you to say how many years I’ve put into doing blow jobs?” He’s actually the first one, but I’ll never admit that. I’m the girl who’s been bad since the day she was born. “News flash, here’s how you get a blow job from me. Gimme some of this, then I’ll give you some of that.”
His eyes narrow as he drinks some more and wipes his mouth. “So, are you going to write the definitive work about the transition from the first phase of communist society to its higher phase, and the complete withering away of the state?”
“The problem with your stupid argument, Sam, is that this society you describe has never existed anywhere in the world.” The fact that Sam can use Marxism to make me do the dishes or give him a blow job proves that there is something seriously wrong with that philosophy. “Karl Marx can eat my sorry cunt.” Marx has a point, I guess, in that people are after money and power all the time, and the rich should share with the poor. But like most philosophies, it doesn’t stand up to reality. “You want to move to the Soviet Union and stand in a breadline?
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