|
doc
martens
|
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. But now mine is a lot longer, but not as wavy.
She's not very popular
anymore. The guys
on the football 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 at the lunch table next
to the one with all the nerds, 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. Outside, a mohair
sweater on a leash slowly squatted next to a flower bed. I hoped very
much that I looked pensive. Or, at the very least, mildly tormented.
"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.
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 . I once read
in Young Miss that a make-up artist to the stars said that nobody under
thirty should put mascara on their upper and lower eyelashes. Isa reads
Ms.
Alice took my hand. I looked up from my cup to her quiet, geisha 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 nightgown 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 an elderly woman 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.
"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 like a statue out of the store. I
managed a glimpse of the backs of Alice's combat 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.
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. The shit was still smoldering on
the corner. "I love Him." A black tear divided her face until
her cheek was severed entirely. Alice popped a quarter into the jukebox
in our booth. Jailhouse Rock twanged quietly, His tinny voice almost surreally
hovering over the guitar.
"I can't," Isa said, covering her face and running to the LADIES
room.
"Laverne,
will you let me kiss you?" Alice asked, nudging her chair to within
two 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. Exhale, two three. She just
shook her head and slowly came closer and closer.
Her lips felt like childhood. I could feel my own lips quivering. Her
breath dusted my upper lip and faded. Gently. 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. Her geisha face contorted into
a sneer and she became very ugly. Alice took my hand across the table.
There was no tablecloth. Alice squeezed.
They
walked me to the 2 train. Isa just held Alice's hand as she 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.
[back to top]
|
