The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins (30 page)

Then he left and he didn’t come back. The clock on the wall ticked by. My self-sabotage tendency was in overdrive; I was thinking I’d made an irredeemable fool of myself, by just blabbering on like that. I grew edgy. I wanted to go, to just get out of there. My period was heavy and I needed to change my tampon. So I went to the bathroom. Then, for some reason, no, not “for some reason” but because I was hamstrung with anxiety, I picked up my portfolio and walked out into the sun. I immediately saw the leather-jacketed guy outside on the big front steps of the building, smoking a cigarette and talking to a pretty girl. They were laughing. I obviously thought that I was the target of their humor, that he was telling her about this silly little fat kid from Otter County, Minnesota (although I wasn’t fat anymore), who drew comic characters and had the arrogance to think that she was an artist. I was about to sneak past them and just run away, thoroughly defeated, when he saw me and called out my name. — Lena!

I wasn’t even going to stop. He shouted again, more formally this time. — Miss Sorenson!

I had no option but to turn around to face him. I could see him, through my bangs, but I couldn’t lift my chin, felt the point of it pushing hard against my chest. I had never in my life been as painfully aware of the crippling passivity of that reflex.

— Where did you get to? I thought you’d run out on us. I’m afraid it’s not that easy. I glanced up to see his face crinkled in a sardonic smile. — We’re offering you a place here.

— Really? I gasped, looking up again.

— Yes, really.

I couldn’t believe it. This had been a pervasive, all-consuming fantasy of mine ever since that talk at the college. And now my life was going to change on the basis of a casual assessment and a couple of perfunctory sentences from a complete stranger. Then I surprised him, this artist, whom I would later learn was called Ross Singleton, by bursting into tears. — Thank you, I sobbed, — thank you for this opportunity. I won’t let anybody down.

— No, Ross Singleton said with a wry grin, — I don’t think you will. Anything else I can help you with?

— Can I have a cigarette? I asked, daring to smile at the other girl. Her hair was blond and cut into an asymmetrical bob. In her expensive clothes she was the epitome of cool, and I instantly saw my old high-school cheerleaders, to whom I’d previously afforded that designation, as unsophisticated hick girls. And instead of a sneer, or a look of cold embarrassment, a warm, open smile and an outstretched hand came back my way. — I’m Amanda. I got in here too!

— Lena, I said, as Ross proffered and lit the best cigarette I’d ever had. My head spun as I looked across the street, to the sign indicating the start of Route 66. I giddily watched the tourists and prospective students milling around in the sun. Endless possibilities were dancing ahead of me. Ross Singleton left me and the other girl, Amanda Breslin, from New York, to go back to his interviewees. We went for a coffee and talked excitedly about art school. Then Amanda raised her hands to the side of her face, and manically stamped her feet against the floor. — Oh my God! This
totally
calls for a celebration!

She took me to the bar at the Drake Hotel, ordering a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Astonishingly, they never asked us for ID. As the champagne bubbled and fizzed in my skull, and we talked about our respective plans, I had never been so happy in my life, and I wanted the moment to go on and on. I felt a hollow thud when Amanda had to get the El out to O’Hare to catch her flight back to New York. We swapped email addresses. She went home to a life I imagined as wealthy, cosmopolitan, and sophisticated; I returned to my basement and the video store. I couldn’t wait for the term to begin.

In the run-up, Mikey grew more clingy, regularly showing up at my place on Western and talking about “plans.” He was obviously sensing that my art-school objectives were going to form a glacier-sized wedge between us. — We’ll both be downtown. We can meet at lunchtimes!

I nodded with contrived enthusiasm, as Columbia College was close to the Art Institute, but in my heart I knew I wouldn’t be seeing much of him. Everything I did would be about art school. Mikey was like the boyfriend I should have had in Potters Prairie, the one to leave behind. It seems trite and cruel to say that he was the Barry King who survived, but being locked up here has taught me to be honest with myself, and that’s exactly what he was.

I quit the video store, deciding that most of my time before becoming a student would be spent reading, sketching, and painting. I was anxious to get away from my Western Avenue neighborhood. While it was cheap and technically in the Ukrainian Village, it was by Humboldt Park, on the fringes of a Latino neighborhood, which was no stranger to gang activity and shootings. So I would take the Blue Line El downtown, where I hung out in the Harold Washington Library, in coffee shops, and, most of all, at the Art Institute itself. I’d see all those important-looking people examining the pictures, sculptures, multimedia installations, ancient artifacts, and I wanted to tell them as they browsed over the art, or discussed it in the coffee bars or bookstore: I AM LENA SORENSON AND I HAVE A PLACE HERE. I WILL STUDY TO BECOME AN ARTIST.

But most importantly, I saw two things there, which I was constantly drawn to, and that would inspire my own art and thus change my life. The first was Francis Bacon’s
Figure with Meat
(1954), where I was initially pulled in by the juxtaposition of his name and the theme of his painting. With my morbid obsessions, I was drawn to Bacon’s view of us all as potential carcasses. The second work that really moved me was the sculpture of a batlike man, by the French artist Germaine Richier. I read all about those artists and others, studied every school, period, and great work. I went to see all the new exhibitions that came to town, explored all the galleries. By the weak lamplight in my basement room, I would read, draw, and paint, until I fell into my bed, exhausted. Then get up, full of excitement, and gratefully do it all over again.

I went back to Potters Prairie for a spell, ostensibly to see my folks before starting my second year at DePaul Business School. My real motivation, though, was to photograph and sketch my hometown.

My mom looked at the slimmed-down me in a kind of perplexed terror. It was as if she was just about to start a sentence but didn’t know what to say. Dad just asked me about my classes, only half joked that I’d soon be running his hardware business; things seemed to have had a minor spike. The thought made my blood run cold. I cursed Menards’ incompetence; they had long had Twin City Hardware on the ropes, as Lucy might say, but couldn’t seem to land that knockout blow. But Dad was manifestly pleased with me; the solitary occasion he yelled was when he saw me watching an old Pee-Wee Herman show on TV. — This is just stupid! And strange! Turn it off!

The only strangeness that struck me was that of these small-town people. They could talk about something utterly mundane; how their kids were doing, what was going on with their car, or the everyday humdrum items they’d bought from the store, and easily waste half an hour on each subject. I wanted to scream: leave me the fuck alone, I can’t listen to you waste your life! Then successive waves of guilt would flood me, as I knew that most of them were decent people and I had no right to feel superior.

Returning to Chicago, I started to paint the town scenes from the pictures I’d taken and the sketches I’d done. Then I populated it with zombie-like figures whose decomposing, peeling skin exposed the angry flesh underneath.

And here, locked in this absolutely mundane but also so utterly outlandish tower prison, I can feel my own flesh, not slackening and hanging off, but tightening and toning.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Subject: Thank You!

Lucy,

Many thanks for your email: that puts my mind at rest! So relieved that Lena’s turned the corner (in no small part due to your encouragement, I’ll bet) and is happy in her life and her work.

Yes, I know what that girl is like when she puts her mind to something, so I’m going to quit playing mother hen and let her get on with her project. But if Ms. Sorenson deigns to surface and grace us all with her presence, do let me know!

Best,

Kim

PS Perhaps a girls’ night out in Miami Beach in spring?

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Subject: Sounds Good!

Kim,

You got it!

Best,

Lucy

Jesus Heroin Christ!

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Subject: I’m Done

I couldn’t believe those cruel words you wrote I showed them to daddy and he was as hurt as I am what has happened to our baby girl we hardly recognized you I have just been sitting indoors crying all day

Be-fucking-lieve!

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Subject: I’m Done

Oh, how terribly sad for tragic little you! Write me back when u r done with all the fat, crybaby, poor me bullshit. And, like, learn to use a period and comma, dude.

L

Asshole!

I’M UNDER THE
shower when this brown, rusty stuff gushes out over me. I stand back, in disgust and loathing, shivering, running the water till it turns clear again. I rinse the gunk off my body, nervously waiting for another volley of crap, which thankfully fails to materialize. As I step out and dry off, I’m looking at the mold growing up the bathroom walls in clustered black spores; my apartment is falling apart. I can’t stay here. Fucking Sorenson,
whom I am waiting on
, is living in new-build luxury! I get out into the car—no paparazzi on the street these days—and switch on the radio, looking for something that doesn’t make me too nauseous and finding jack.

After her constant pestering, I’ve agreed to meet Valerie Mercando at Soho Beach House. I find her sitting in the patio bar, drinking coffee. I take a stiff peck on the side of my face without returning the favor. After the usual small talk, she gets down to business. — I can’t understand it, Lucy, you’re no longer on the radar of Quist’s team. So why not just do this?

— I can live without the fucking harassment.

Valerie looks sadly at me, shaking her head. — I guess I never pegged you for a quitter.

I feel a rage searing my insides. — I’m not fucking quitting. Don’t try and fucking manipulate me.

— I wasn’t—

— Yes, you were, and I watch the bitch fry under my gaze. — Don’t dress up your personal fucking greed as a phony motivational speech to me. I wrote the fucking book!

Her head wobbles side to side as the bitch squeaks, — I’m sorry if it came across that way, she says, that shameful look of the bastard agent who knows their client has rumbled that they’ll barbecue them in a salivating feast if they’re hot, and discard them like an old Tampax if they ain’t. — Look, she continues, — you’re obviously under stress.

— Yes, I am. And you want to add to that.

— You look tired, she suddenly purrs in fake concern. — Are you getting enough sleep?

— No, and it’s because of a fat bitch, I tell her. — They’re the ones who mess things up for you. Two chicks; one will get gangbanged, but the fat bitch, she gets off scot-free, cause who’d wanna fuck a fat bitch?

She’s blinking uncomprehendingly at my broadside. — I really don’t think being offensive to me is—

— Ha! I wasn’t taking about
you
. Everything isn’t about you—

— You’re confusing me, Lucy—

— But on that note, you do seem to have put on a bit of weight—

— What?!

— Around your face, midsection, thighs, I persist.

— I suppose I’ve been busy—

— Exactly what I thought, and that’s what concerns me. You’re looking after a lot of people, I drop my voice, — but who’s looking after Valerie Mercando? Kids, partners, clients, they all make demands. Have you got time to be
you
?

— Look, Lucy—

— I must go. I rise. — I got a client to see. I’ll be in touch.

I dismiss the Botoxed media sleazebucket; she and her ilk are just toilets, superficially smooth and pristine but ultimately tawdry and full of piss and shit. I head downstairs to the valet, who brings up the Caddy DeVille. I drive back down to Bodysculpt. It’s very slow these days. A lot of clients are cutting back; instead of renewing their memberships, they’re buying new running shoes and Total Gyms. False economy: these home gyms always just gather dust. Most people in life aren’t self-starters. They need to be told what to do. That’s where people like me come in.

In the fitness club, the bank of TV screens still blasts out shit. It turns out that Balbosa, the fleeing pedophile who killed the kid, was an illegal. — Hayzoos J. Christo, Lester jokes.

I’m not laughing. Quist is on the TV again and he’s going crazy. I can’t look at his big red face. Then I glance at another screen, where the channel features a crappy magazine program. I can scarcely believe it: the fucking wannabe celeb Miles is sitting on that gross leopard-skinned couch in his apartment. — She was into chicks, and I wasn’t complaining. We had three-ways all the time. Life was pretty damn good.

I look over to see Lester’s eye whites glaring at me. I run out of Bodysculpt, pushing past two incoming clients, scrolling my iPhone and hitting Miles’s digits. He picks up straightaway. I’m tugging at my hair, screaming into the phone, — You fucking asshole! I never did a three-way with you!

— Poetic license, babe, these newshounds need a little juice. Dunno why the hell you’re so sore, I portrayed you as a goddamn sex bomb, I oughta be charging publicist’s fees! Did you a big favor; dudes and chicks’ll be lining up around the block for some action from you now!

— Yeah, fucking sleazeballs like you! Like I need your help to get dates!