joan was a wicked woman. mostly, of course, she was desperately unhappy; but she allowed her unhappiness to make wicked decisions for her. fawning & solicitous as every newly-vulnerable woman arrived, she cooed & plucked tearful confidences from them. tete-a-tete with joan on the couch in her office, she would lean forward entreatingly, filling out the paperwork ~ gleaning the details of each woman's circumstances, circumstances leading to their arrival at the women's shelter. all smiles & assurances, she filed these details away; and for a while every newcomer was her new best friend. extra favours, charming acknowledgements, solicitations to the other women ~ the less recent women ~ to make the extra effort for the newcomer.
it never lasted long.
by christmas, 6 women-in-need had fled the shelter, fleeing her abuse. the confidences shared at that first vulnerable interview, later used as ammunition & leverage, shilled out to others to gain new currency. one by one, she made each of our lives intolerable, with her vicious temper, her endlessly whining manner, her back-biting duplicity. with slightly hunched back, enormous zippered dressing gown, protruding watery eyes & cheap slippers, she moved like a large ominous bug. one by one, we all fled.
but not before we struggled. not before we paid the price. her own pitiful lack of self-esteem propped up temporarily by this position as 'house manager,' barely concealed her own desperate straights, her own desperate need for housing.
the house itself was poison. they didn't tell you that, not when you applied. it was only once you'd moved in, your welfare cheque in their fists that you learned of the catastrophic water damage, the gutting, the 'renovation' of a house that ought to have been razed. black mold behind the dry wall, paint fumes & synthetic carpets & bargain laminate flooring that outgassed constantly, cheap formaldehyde-soaked kitchen cupboards & the most toxic of chemicals on twice weekly cleaning brigade. when i moved in, she made motions towards baking soda & vinegar, with a nod to my extreme sensitivity. by the time i left, i swear she enjoyed Mr Cleaning & Super-Cloroxing extra often; just because.
20 years her junior, slender, exotic, and as flamboyantly pigmented as a peacock, in wildly expressive gypsy clothing that always turned heads, i must have rubbed something the wrong way ~ some long embittered corner of her own sad, neglected femininity. she also immediately hated my friend on sight, barking at him for trying to carry a heavy box into the house. "NO MEN ALLOWED!" the words curdling in her throat, shooting eyes of outrage at us. every night i'd go out. every night she'd stay in, hiding herself behind a flimsy shower curtain for door covering, watching middle american tv re-runs. the room ached with loneliness. i fled, usually downtown, into the night circus for hours at a time. anything, anything rather than that toxic house, that toxic woman, that much pinched misery.
upon return, i'd lie alone in bed, face by the wide open window, sucking in fresh air. midnight. lying still, i'd send out silent heart entreaties, willing him to call. 'come,' he'd croon, 'come. i want to sleep beside you. don't worry about the cab, i'll pay. just come.'
call the cab, be outside waiting when it arrives. exit a block from his house, walk the last 200 yards in on foot. a basement apartment entered by the back door, his roommate a surly security guard with a penchant for chain-smoking & loud seedy wrestling glitz on tv. his own special 'rules' about visitors.
ducking under the large 70s balcony, crouched double, i'd feel my way through the pitch black towards the tiny bedroom window, snug at ground level. if i held my palm flat against the glass, i could slide it open easily. poking one Blundstoned foot in first, then the other, gathering up huge long trailing skirts, i'd lower myself silently over the bookcase and onto the darkened bedroom floor, closing the window behind me. pause. let eyes adjust. his bed consumed the tiny room, layers of wool flokhati's from Nepal & Canadian Tire sleeping bags, all slippery burgundy polyester, flannel lining, & lush felted wool. i'd shed my clothes, slip into the nest, and lie quietly breathing in the dark, waiting.
'night, dude,' he'd say, offering the security guard a final smoke or some other such feigned friendliness. pause. bathroom. toothbrushing. running water. flush. then the doorknob would turn, he'd slip in, drop his clothes, and slide in naked beside me, all stealth. 'good to smell you,' he'd whisper, burying his face in my hair, my neck, my shoulder, pulling me into warmest embrace. burrowing,
i'd inhale deeply. home.
image Jenny Holzer
from the "Truisms" series, 1977-79
0 comments:
Post a Comment