To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just Like Him (5 page)

I listened to the hard wet drumming and knew that merely holding the bag above my head wouldn’t be enough. Sadly, I began to slit the bag down one of its sides, making a 13-gallon plastic tent. By the time I sawed through the resistant drawstring with my keys, I was giggling a tiny bit hysterically, imagining the impression I’d make on any neighbor passing by.

My grandma glares sternly, ghostly arms materializing to cross at her chest, as I carefully drape the pointed little tarp over my head and shoulders. It floats weightless around me, my pretty sweater, my silver earrings, my make-upped eyes.

I’m not a poor kid. I’m a fine lady in a white
mantilla.
I’m a beautiful industrial bride.

My grandma makes the tsk noise, probably, but I don’t hear. I totter quickly through the lot, jump over the long puddle to my silver Nissan carriage. Throw down my costume on the cement before cocooning into my chariot and flying happily away.

I don’t know if my grandma’s ghost dissipated back into limbo, or if she had to cool her heels in the foyer until the rain died down. I don’t know why she doesn’t float over to the mall or the movies instead of coming over to criticize me all the time.

When it rains, I always tearfully vow to buy myself an umbrella. When the sun comes out again, I think of the future instead.

Love and Animals

Carnival Macho

S
he wants to go to the carnival so you take her. You don’t wanna spend the gas to drive all across town but then you see her and she’s looking nice, so you say it’s all right. Borrow money from your dad. You’ll work extra next weekend.

Pay for the parking, park in the mud, have to wash the truck tomorrow. She’s all happy so it’s all right. Need a new muffler. Maybe you’ll get some tonight, make this shit’s all worth it.

Pay for the tickets. Ride the rides. Tacos. Drinks. Cotton candy.

Stand in line for some big scary-ass roller coaster. She’s scared but she’s all giggling. You’re gonna hold her. It’s gonna be all right.

Some fucker bumps into you and cuts in line. Big-ass redneck with all his friends. Fuck him. Keep cool. It’s all right.

Motherfucker’s looking, laughing at you with all his friends. Now they’re looking at her. Checking her out. Looking all over her. She looks down. What’s she gonna do? Nothing? She looks back up. She says, “What the . . . ” You tell her to be quiet. You say, “It’s all right.”

Fuck those sons of bitches making all their noise. She says, “C’mon, let’s go, I don’t want to ride that thing, anyway.”

You say, “Fine.”

Y’all walk away. You say, “ . . . if you’re scared.”

Punk-ass says, “Wetback.” She acts like she didn’t hear but you’re not fucking stupid.

Y’all keep on walking but she doesn’t say nothing.

She says she’s tired. You say you wanna ride the rides. Get a goddamned candy apple. You’re not gonna leave ‘til you’re ready.

Some fucker says, “Hey, man, get your girl a Tweety Bird.” Basketballs going in the hoop.

Yeah, she’s your girl; you’ll get her the goddamned Tweety Bird. When he does it, the shit goes in the hoop. When you do it, the shit bounces off the wall.

Fucked up shit. You do it again.

“C’mon, man. Three more dollars for your girl.”

Stupid fucking shit. You do it again.

“C’mon, big man. If my girl was that pretty, I’d get her a prize.”

This shit’s fucking rigged. Do it again.

She says, “C’mon, baby, I’m tired. I don’t want a prize. Let’s go home.”

You say, “Shut the fuck up. Just shut up and let me win.”

To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just Like Him

A
fter years of trying to fight it, I’ve decided that I want to look cheap. Blonde highlights, big earrings, red lipstick, too-tight skirts with cellulite rolling out underneath—that’s what I’ve had set my heart on and what I’ve come back to after all these years. There’s no use pretending to be any better by buying clothes from stores where the sales clerks shame me, by resisting the urges when glittery, not-gold displays catch my magpie eyes.

I’m a cheap slut, if that means what I think it does. I don’t ask for diamonds before I have sex with you for free. You don’t have to buy the cow—you’re getting the milk for free. (But I’m not a cow, no matter how much I hear it when I put on that skirt.)

And you ask me why I wanna look like all the other women you’ve known (even while you wonder what the hell I’m doing with you in the first place). And then you realize anew what you’ve known all along: all women are whores, and the best you can hope for is to save up enough money to own one who will only be a whore for you. And, actually, you haven’t spent any money on me at all, so I must be even worse than the whore that you know all women to be.

So what’s left for me to do? I’m damned if I do and lonely if I don’t, right? So I’ll be damned.

Bring on the cheap stuff. Glitter on my eyes, silver on my toes. Hard nipples through a tight t-shirt. My hair like I just dragged myself out of your bed and walked down the humid street to see who else was out there—not with the blank face of “I can’t hear you whistling at my body parts” but with the head-toss and smirk of, “Don’t be whistling, buddy, unless you’re sure you can last a night with me.”

Spend the dollar on gasoline and treat yourself to me. I’m a cheap piece of meat. Heat me up tonight. I’m cheap like sugar and food coloring—I’m the big Barbie birthday cake you buy a little girl when you can’t afford to send her to college. Cut me up, eat me up, forget about it. I’m cheap like paper—a golden piñata shining in the sun. Fill my holes with your sweet stuff, hombre. Smack me around a little. Then go on your way. Give another man a chance to use his stick. Pull me down from the sky and tear me apart. Take everything I had inside, then smash it into the ground.

Ants

A
nts have been on my mind a lot lately. (Not literally, but you know.) We get lots of them in the summer. There are the big red ones outside, and the little black ones inside. The red ones bite me when I’m working in the garden. My anger at them is always tempered with grudging respect. I’ll put my foot near the edge of a flowerbed so I can pull out a weed, and the ants will start attacking me. I’ll yell, “Dammit! Ow! Die, you little red bastards!” But then I’ll realize that these ants are running out and braving the Giant Foot to
save their people,
and I’ll have to coo, “Aw!”

The black ants never bite me. They just come in to eat the food that the kids have dropped around the dining table. I used to freak out when I saw them and run to douse them with bleach, brake cleaner, or whatever was on hand. Or else I’d get my oldest shoes—the ones with no treads left—and use them to pound the ants into the floor.

But I don’t kill them anymore. Why should I? They’re only looking for food. It’s hot outside and there’s nothing but bugs and abandoned garden tomatoes for them to eat. There must be billions of ants out there, in our town. Or maybe even billions in my back yard alone. It must be like some kind of impossible dream when a colony of ants discovers the way through my kitchen door. I can just see the first ant coming in. He pulls himself up through the crack and, suddenly, the air is cool. It’s alien. “Weird,” he thinks. Maybe he’s a little scared. But he goes on. He is a scout, determined to complete his mission.

When he gets under the table, he stops and stares. (Or waves his little feelers around. Whichever.) It’s like mounds of shining treasure in the pyramids of Egypt or something. Tortilla crumbs! Bread crumbs! Little bits of cheese! And— oh, my ant goddess!—a pool of melted Popsicle!

But he doesn’t know the brand names, of course. He just smells the food. He senses the sugar. They all like sugar, you know. They’re just like me. Well, not like me at all, really. But they do like sugar.

And they work so hard. There’s no telling how much organization it takes to get them all into the house and out again with the food in tow. Some people think that colonized insects must be telepathic. Either way, their systematic workflow is impressive.

Ants really like to congregate in the piles of dirty laundry, I’ve found. And I can’t help but notice that they like to hang out in the crotches of my panties. Sometimes they eat holes into the fabric.

This might be sick, but I find that sort of flattering.

Not so flattering that I’d make up long involved fantasies about it, of course. I mean, I would never sit around and imagine large ants from outer space kidnapping me so that they could tie me up and then stimulate the pleasure center in my brain with real-seeming holographic scenarios about attractive celebrities being romantically interested in me, all so that the giant space ants could harvest the precious crotches from my panties and the nourishing juices contained therein.

Or that a cornerstone of their alien economy rests on the sale of said juices and therefore makes my pleasuring an absolutely vital cause, requiring a huge lab and Research and Development Department to sustain it.

No, I would never think about it to that extent, because that would be wrong. I’m just saying that it’s interesting that ants like laundry. Isn’t it?

When I see them on my sink now, I apologize quietly and then try to kill them quickly. I smash them with the tip of my finger, hoping it was fast enough to be painless. When I see them on the floor, I use my broom. While I’m sweeping them out the back door, I wonder how they’re rationalizing it all in their little ant minds. Do they survive the fall? Are they afraid as they rush through the air? When they get to the ground, how do they figure out where they are? Are there other ants around to tell them? Maybe they fall, and the other ants rush up and exclaim, “Dude, I saw you! You FLEW out of that house!” Or do they become completely disoriented and wander around for days until they die? What if they meet another ant tribe before they can make it home? Are they given a membership application, or does the local ant police pick them up and haul them away? Who knows? Does anyone care besides me?

If I could speak Ant language and interview one of these brave scouts, what would I say?

“Just tell me, sir—
were my panties worth it?”

Ha. Just kidding. I would never think about such a thing. But, if I did, I can’t help but imagine that the answer would always be yes.

In Heat

H
e is behind the house. He is big and white and I want him bad. I walk by, pretending not to see. He wants me bad, too, now.

He fights with the others. He hurts them and they run away. I roll on the concrete in my lust. He comes to me, bleeding, ready. “Get away!” I say. “You disgust me!” He takes me, anyway. It is so good, I scream.

The same thing happens again. They are all good. White, black, and orange. I am tired and I tell them to go away. I mean it this time, so they go.

I am so, so hungry. And I itch. I call to the woman so that she will feed me. I touch her. Sometimes she scratches me, but sometimes she’s lazy. I touch her because sometimes she scratches me.

I had a hard night, and now I have children.

My children are hungry. I will feed them. They are dirty, too. I will lick them. I play with them and hold them while we sleep.

I love my children, but they get on my nerves. They need to find their own food.

My children keep eating my food. They need to learn how to call the woman and make her feed them, too. I’m hungry. I love my children but they’re pissing me off. Who is that? Is that someone who used to be my child? Get out of here! Get your own food! Go find your own house!

Finally, I’m getting some rest and there is enough food for everyone.

I see a gray cat. I want him bad.

To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just like Him (Revised)

W
hen is it going to be enough for you?

Anything you wanted, I gave you. You wanted me to be yours alone. I was. You wanted me to live with you. I did. You wanted me to take care of you, the frightened child. I cared. You wanted me to give you space. I gave it.

You wanted to be the smart one. I shut my mouth. You wanted to be the funny one. I shut my mouth. You wanted me to prove my love. My friends wonder why they never hear from me anymore.

I do love you. I do want us to be happy. That’s why, every time you say that things could be perfect—that you could love me better if I would just change myself or rearrange my life—I do. All I want is for us to be happy together. Baby, I’m tired of fighting, too.

I do whatever you want. Isn’t that enough?

I let you do whatever you want. Isn’t that enough?

I won’t do anything unless you want. Isn’t that . . .

I’ll be quiet and wait for you to tell me what you want. Is that . . .

Just correct me when I’m wrong. Just show me when I’m wrong. You just make me see I’m wrong. You make me understand. I know I’m too stupid to do it on my own. Tell me louder if you have to. Scream it in my ear. Throw the bottle against the wall if it helps you make your point.

Shake some sense into me. I know you don’t want to hurt me, you just want me to understand what it is that you . . . Shake me. Hit me. I run. Call me back and explain it all again. I think I almost understand . . . Don’t you see, baby? I think I finally understand what you want. No . . . hit me again. I stay, waiting. Drag me by my hair. Hit me until I understand. Tell me why I’m always wrong, why I’ll always be too stupid to understand, why I’m too worthless for anyone else to try to take the time to make me understand, why I’m lucky you’re the only one who cares enough to try to make us happy, why you hit me, slap me, kick me, beat me, bite me, burn me, scream at me, laugh at me, ignore me, humiliate me, love me the way I obviously don’t deserve.

I forgot—what was the question again?

The Bus Driver

E
very afternoon you fall for his sad black hair and haunted eyes.

This isn’t a pale, corporate, middle-class, white dough-man like you can see every day at your desk high in the sky. This is a man who will sweat. The only kind you’ve ever known. You look at him and he looks back. His eyes make you ache.