Swinging
Peg, 12/10/05
Tracy has very good coke and lots of it. He is also bright and cute in a National Geographic photographer kind of way, which is fitting, since he says he is a cameraman for CNN. He’s been to the Far East several times, and the floor of his small and rather shabby apartment is covered with beautiful kilims, dhurries, and textiles she can't place but knows are highly valued. He probably traded cartons of cigarettes for them. He seems like that kind of guy.
None of this has anything to do with why she goes home with him, though. She goes home with Tracy because she can; because he sees her as a trophy; because tomorrow afternoon she will resume a long long lifetime of monogamy and be happy about it dammit; because she can't go home with the guy she really wants to go home with, what with him not wanting to go home with her and all.
Tracy has this weird messiah complex. Quite sane he seems, and reasonable, whilst sincerely believing that he was put on this earth to teach the rest of us . . . something. He's not sure what, yet, but he knows he is different, made of finer, more spiritual stuff than the poor benighted clods of clay who imagine they are human beings.
She listens, drawing him out. The good coke helps. She thinks he is full of shit and has less self-knowledge than a fairly bright amoeba, but the whole thing is very entertaining, and when will she ever have the opportunity for this kind of misbehavior again? She savors every moment: this is the moment when I am left alone in the living room with all these beautiful kilims while he goes to the bathroom; this is the moment where I fix myself in space and time; this is the moment when I belong to me.
It is perfect, this delusion of his, because it keeps her at arm’s length from him—metaphysically at least—she can tell she is not going to fall in love, not going to transfer her obsession, not going to care if she ever sees him again. She finds it interesting that such an enlightened being would take home someone else’s wife (she was honest and told him straight off), but then a lot of smart people drink a lot of suspect Kool-Aid, so you never know. Even better, he has no sense of humor. People who take themselves that seriously never do.
She refuses to let him take photos of her stretched nude on the hood of his car—she has that much sense, at least, even though truth be told she is flattered (and has not had such an offer since). And, she manages to wake herself up quite early, while Tracy is still in deep sleep, strands of long golden hair veiling his cherubic profile (he is, she was surprised to find, a bit chubby).
For once, the movie script in her head plays out perfectly. Tracy sleeps on, dreaming, no doubt, of Geraldo Rivera, while she slithers off the futon and into her garments (numbering two), washes her face, rinses her mouth, casts around for paper and pen, and sticks a note under a magnet on the front of the fridge among the snapshots of Tracy drinking tea in yurts, Tracy embraced by actual ethnic vendors in actual souks, Tracy nuzzling a drooling yak. She thanks him for a lovely evening, wishes him well, and signs her first name. She doubts that he will try to find her, but she's not giving him any head start.
Of course she's still in her bar clothes. Someone with more slut experience might have appropriated a T-shirt or other neutralizing piece of apparel that wouldn’t be missed, but it never ocurrs to her. In fact, it's not until she totters down the few wooden steps leading to his front door, bestows an affectionate pat on the flank of the car on the hood of which she has not been photographed, carefully creaks open the iron gate, and steps out of the shade onto the very sunny sidewalk, that she begins to think about the story that ½ mile walk home will illustrate for all passers-by. She knows Tracy is gentleman enough to graciously give her a ride if she returns and wakes him, but being alone in the sunlight is strangely delicious and walking feels really good, and she is most satisfied with the seemingly seamless closing of what could have been a very messy chapter.
Of course there is, always, also an element of penance. She has been very wicked, sinned as badly as she was capable of sinning. She does not deserve a painless whisk to safety. She should be made to walk the gauntlet.
She could hardly have chosen a route more fraught. Yes, it is a straight shot down McClendon to her side street, but never mind Sunday, McClendon is already energetic, a steady stream of traffic in both directions, going just slowly enough to get a good long look at the braless bar slut in the clingy jersey bar slut dress with the bar slut low back, carrying the little bar slut purse just big enough for lipstick, cigs, a house key and hopefully some bar slut drugs. Better to carry shoes in hand and walk conspicuously barefoot, or mince along in 4” high gray suede wedges, in shoes that never should see the sun? Nothing to do but walk. Weave in and out among the side streets, or go for the speedier straight shot? I’ll take the straight shot and bet 100% of my comfortable life, Alex.
Whee!
There is real danger here. This is her—their—neighborhood. Anyone might drive by, and she is not exactly inconspicuous. She would have to use the passed-out-at-a-friend’s-place story, and she would probably be believed, but she doesn't even want to think about how sick she would feel trying to sell that to Jeff. She feels worse about the lying than the sex--and she is much worse at it. And, outrageously, unfairly, every time Jeff swallows lie she loses a little more respect for him.
She is projecting insouciance quite well, she thinks, but her inner slut is sauntering down Ponce in a cracked read vinyl skirt and a grimy pink pushup bra. Oh, this is a very very long walk. Why has she never realized how far this was before? A marathon of exposure. Keep projecting, keep it up, look like this is perfectly normal—oh god, those people in that Honda looked at me really weird, I hope I don’t know them—shoes on for a block, off for the next, Sweet Baby Jesus on a breadstick will this ever be over?
The park. She forgot about the park. She knows it is there, of course, in a geographical sense, but it's not figuring in her present ordeal of endurance. The grassy shoulder dips gently down from the road at this part; an easily navigable slope (without the shoes). She rests a moment, she rethinks strategy, she has a cigarette, and no one can see her at all.
There is a swing set at the bottom of the slope where the ground levels out. It has those buckety-strappy swings, which she appreciates because they conform to reasonably-sized adult asses. She loves to swing.
And she is swinging. The park is well maintained; the chains creak only softly and the A-frame does not shudder with every push. She feels like the girl on the Rolling Rock swing; she feels like Wendy flying with Peter Pan; she feels that if she were to let go she would simply sail up over the oaks, up into the spring-blue sky, become something else entirely; she feels in danger of becoming what she was meant to be.
My heart, she thinks, must be made of ice. She has never been happier.
Tracy has very good coke and lots of it. He is also bright and cute in a National Geographic photographer kind of way, which is fitting, since he says he is a cameraman for CNN. He’s been to the Far East several times, and the floor of his small and rather shabby apartment is covered with beautiful kilims, dhurries, and textiles she can't place but knows are highly valued. He probably traded cartons of cigarettes for them. He seems like that kind of guy.
None of this has anything to do with why she goes home with him, though. She goes home with Tracy because she can; because he sees her as a trophy; because tomorrow afternoon she will resume a long long lifetime of monogamy and be happy about it dammit; because she can't go home with the guy she really wants to go home with, what with him not wanting to go home with her and all.
Tracy has this weird messiah complex. Quite sane he seems, and reasonable, whilst sincerely believing that he was put on this earth to teach the rest of us . . . something. He's not sure what, yet, but he knows he is different, made of finer, more spiritual stuff than the poor benighted clods of clay who imagine they are human beings.
She listens, drawing him out. The good coke helps. She thinks he is full of shit and has less self-knowledge than a fairly bright amoeba, but the whole thing is very entertaining, and when will she ever have the opportunity for this kind of misbehavior again? She savors every moment: this is the moment when I am left alone in the living room with all these beautiful kilims while he goes to the bathroom; this is the moment where I fix myself in space and time; this is the moment when I belong to me.
It is perfect, this delusion of his, because it keeps her at arm’s length from him—metaphysically at least—she can tell she is not going to fall in love, not going to transfer her obsession, not going to care if she ever sees him again. She finds it interesting that such an enlightened being would take home someone else’s wife (she was honest and told him straight off), but then a lot of smart people drink a lot of suspect Kool-Aid, so you never know. Even better, he has no sense of humor. People who take themselves that seriously never do.
She refuses to let him take photos of her stretched nude on the hood of his car—she has that much sense, at least, even though truth be told she is flattered (and has not had such an offer since). And, she manages to wake herself up quite early, while Tracy is still in deep sleep, strands of long golden hair veiling his cherubic profile (he is, she was surprised to find, a bit chubby).
For once, the movie script in her head plays out perfectly. Tracy sleeps on, dreaming, no doubt, of Geraldo Rivera, while she slithers off the futon and into her garments (numbering two), washes her face, rinses her mouth, casts around for paper and pen, and sticks a note under a magnet on the front of the fridge among the snapshots of Tracy drinking tea in yurts, Tracy embraced by actual ethnic vendors in actual souks, Tracy nuzzling a drooling yak. She thanks him for a lovely evening, wishes him well, and signs her first name. She doubts that he will try to find her, but she's not giving him any head start.
Of course she's still in her bar clothes. Someone with more slut experience might have appropriated a T-shirt or other neutralizing piece of apparel that wouldn’t be missed, but it never ocurrs to her. In fact, it's not until she totters down the few wooden steps leading to his front door, bestows an affectionate pat on the flank of the car on the hood of which she has not been photographed, carefully creaks open the iron gate, and steps out of the shade onto the very sunny sidewalk, that she begins to think about the story that ½ mile walk home will illustrate for all passers-by. She knows Tracy is gentleman enough to graciously give her a ride if she returns and wakes him, but being alone in the sunlight is strangely delicious and walking feels really good, and she is most satisfied with the seemingly seamless closing of what could have been a very messy chapter.
Of course there is, always, also an element of penance. She has been very wicked, sinned as badly as she was capable of sinning. She does not deserve a painless whisk to safety. She should be made to walk the gauntlet.
She could hardly have chosen a route more fraught. Yes, it is a straight shot down McClendon to her side street, but never mind Sunday, McClendon is already energetic, a steady stream of traffic in both directions, going just slowly enough to get a good long look at the braless bar slut in the clingy jersey bar slut dress with the bar slut low back, carrying the little bar slut purse just big enough for lipstick, cigs, a house key and hopefully some bar slut drugs. Better to carry shoes in hand and walk conspicuously barefoot, or mince along in 4” high gray suede wedges, in shoes that never should see the sun? Nothing to do but walk. Weave in and out among the side streets, or go for the speedier straight shot? I’ll take the straight shot and bet 100% of my comfortable life, Alex.
Whee!
There is real danger here. This is her—their—neighborhood. Anyone might drive by, and she is not exactly inconspicuous. She would have to use the passed-out-at-a-friend’s-place story, and she would probably be believed, but she doesn't even want to think about how sick she would feel trying to sell that to Jeff. She feels worse about the lying than the sex--and she is much worse at it. And, outrageously, unfairly, every time Jeff swallows lie she loses a little more respect for him.
She is projecting insouciance quite well, she thinks, but her inner slut is sauntering down Ponce in a cracked read vinyl skirt and a grimy pink pushup bra. Oh, this is a very very long walk. Why has she never realized how far this was before? A marathon of exposure. Keep projecting, keep it up, look like this is perfectly normal—oh god, those people in that Honda looked at me really weird, I hope I don’t know them—shoes on for a block, off for the next, Sweet Baby Jesus on a breadstick will this ever be over?
The park. She forgot about the park. She knows it is there, of course, in a geographical sense, but it's not figuring in her present ordeal of endurance. The grassy shoulder dips gently down from the road at this part; an easily navigable slope (without the shoes). She rests a moment, she rethinks strategy, she has a cigarette, and no one can see her at all.
There is a swing set at the bottom of the slope where the ground levels out. It has those buckety-strappy swings, which she appreciates because they conform to reasonably-sized adult asses. She loves to swing.
And she is swinging. The park is well maintained; the chains creak only softly and the A-frame does not shudder with every push. She feels like the girl on the Rolling Rock swing; she feels like Wendy flying with Peter Pan; she feels that if she were to let go she would simply sail up over the oaks, up into the spring-blue sky, become something else entirely; she feels in danger of becoming what she was meant to be.
My heart, she thinks, must be made of ice. She has never been happier.
posted by LifeWriter at 12:14 AM
1 Comments:
Wow, Peggy. Awesome!!! (jim)
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