than in the air
Here’s my Writer’s Craft culminating assignment.
It started out as a series of Write or Die attempts–I wrote a chapter each time with this one character, dividing them by changes in time. Of course, I could only find the very first one when I decided to use it for my assignment (Murphy’s Law?), but I only really liked the first one anyways.
I rewrote it in a more dull and careful voice. That was my main experiment in writing this–to throw my voice, so to speak. This isn’t my style of writing and it shows. Any humour is derived from the situation, not the character. Honestly, it was a bit of a challenge.
There is very little under my belt, either physically or figuratively. I do not have a cairn of skulls stacked haphazardly in my closet, nor are there bloodstains tainting the knife in my sheath. There is not a whole lot I can say I have done, but hell, I am still alive, and at this moment in time that is all that drives me further.
I stride down the street in my too-thigh-high boots. They make me feel powerful, or confident, I suppose. The heels are elevated and I find myself looking down at everything I pass instead of meekly turning my head up as per usual. Tonight, I pretend I am superior to all.
The stars could blind tonight. In the city, they seem eternally obscured when one seeks them out—it is only while walking the darkest of streets alone that one is able to notice them sans hazy Pepsi-coloured fog. Bitter windchill nips at me as I crane my neck—a return to the necessity of looking up at things it appears—so I wrench my scarf tighter around my throat. It is cold, and I can admit that without embarrassment. Casually, I glance about for a sensitive yet macho man to whom I can declare this in an attempt to strip him of his jacket, but I see no suave Michael Stipe lookalikes laying in wait for a romantic ambush. I make a mental note to criticize this ‘stranger with a jacket’ cliché in the next lovey-dovey chick film I watch.
I reach the run-down street that I have jokingly dubbed my neighbourhood. My frozen key resists my pleas to turn the lock—we quarrel. Eventually, my feminine charm overcomes, and I leave the stars and cold February air behind without another glance. Although I drip with the horribly-muddled slush that is city snow, I cross the small distance to my bedroom, wrench open the stuck drawer in the bottom of my nightstand, and deposit my first condom wrapper next to a tube of lip balm and an aged cereal bar.
It feels good to have one skull in my closet, I suppose.
—
I realise, at an uncertain time in an uncertain degree of consciousness, that I have fallen asleep with my wet street clothes on. This enlightenment comes subtly—I do not have to use my eyes because I can feel the damp grit covering my bed, the insides of my sheets, even the pillows. Sharp grains and flecks graze my skin uncomfortably as I turn, and I imagine little scratches forming all over my body, small dots of red and black commanding my arms and chest like a virus. Soon, the dirt takes form inside of me, a dissimilar yet entirely lucid entity next to my blood and flesh and mind. I turn again—but the grit covering the bed is completely gone. It is all inside of me, attached just as much as my limbs or organs or head. Tears drop from my eyes because not only is the dirt a part of me, but it feels suddenly yet painlessly natural as well.
—
There is sunlight in my face. I have a habit of closing the curtains each night to avoid such a rude awakening, but evidently I neglected to do so last night. For once, I do not mind the early start on the day—my dreams were understandably less than desirable. I instinctively check for the little scars of which I dreamt, but my skin is much cleaner than I had expected. I head for the bathroom regardless.
I collect shampoo bottles on the edge of my shower. It is a quirk, to be sure—I have never been able to throw them out personally, so I would be reduced to waiting several months until someone—mum, a friend, the peculiar landlord—took pity upon me or became repulsed by the squalor of my bathroom, and tossed the colourful containers into the trash. Each time this took place, I would watch, awe-struck, and wonder exactly how they managed to do that. It was like watching someone solve the crossword clue you have been working on for days in mere seconds—humiliating yet obvious.
Today, I shiver as I knock two empty bottles to the floor while placing a new one on the ledge. I pick the fallen up and nestle them close to their family. They are cold to the touch. I nudge them closer together.
I shower, and it is bliss. For once, the pitiful hot water tank shared by the entire apartment building stands fast. It is not until the third time through shampooing and conditioning my hair that I realise I will not become any cleaner. Easing the rusty taps off, I towel myself dry and don an old bathrobe.
Fifteen minutes later, I find myself nursing a cup of coffee at the oversized brick that passes for my kitchen table. For once, I wish I had a class to attend this afternoon—anything. I could even cope with some Fundamentals of Journalism or Introduction to Reporting Studies at this point. Something nice and dull—I need a distraction. While rifling through my textbooks, I find a sticky note that offers such a nice and dull distraction: I go to call my father.
The receiver clicks irritably as if woken from sleep. The dialtone kicks in suddenly, and I dial the seven numbers closest to my heart. I wait, and he picks up seven and a half seconds later.
“Hello?” he mutters gruffly. I forgot it was so early still.
“Dad. This is Caithlin,” I say, an unexpected smile coming to my face.
I hear him exhale, put on his glasses, and—somehow—I hear him smile. I imagine him sitting hunched over at the kitchen island, fiddling with the toaster in his faded bathrobe and slippers—not the new housecoat and Ralph Lauren loafers I bought him last Christmas, of course. Dad wears his ragged old robe weekends and mornings like army fatigues, but takes care of it as one would diamond jewellery. “Caithlin,” he replies finally, with considerable warmth. “How is it going?”
We speak. I had not realised that the two of us had not conversed for a good month. It strikes me as strange—when I first moved out of the family home, I must have called him three times daily, just to regale him with tales of noisy neighbours and what I made for lunch. He never did seem to mind, though. He was always interested in what kind of sandwich I chose, even when I was a child.
Today, however, conversation is generally difficult to strike up. After the exchange of superficial niceties, great long pauses seem to crop up like mosquito bites after a long summer’s hike. Dad does not seem to notice this, munching toast and scribbling upon his crossword whenever the conversation wanes. When he finally asks me if anything is wrong, I make up a half-hearted excuse and end the call. There are some things one just cannot tell one’s father.
An icicle cracks off the roof outside, and as it shatters on the windowsill the sharp noise resonates throughout my small living room. I move to the window, open the blinds, and look out at the melting landscape, squinting because of the glare of sun on snow. For whatever reason, I grab my coat and keys and hustle out of my tiny, suffocating apartment. I lack any sort of motive or inspiration to explain this of which I am aware, but this is on the whole usual for me. When I was a child, I went on arbitrary walks quite often, to the point where Dad thought I was sneaking off to do drugs or some such. There is something cathartic about walking through crowded streets and watching the families and couples and teenagers go on with their lives, running errands and making friends. Today I find myself heading down concrete stairs towards the lesser-used back exit of my building. I am not much in the mood to watch life go on.
I walk outside and immediately trip over a couple hip-deep in the throes of intercourse. I kid you not—the couple is stark naked and groaning overdramatically with the rhythm. I think about the absurdity of this event as I lose footing and careen through the air. Even as I land, I make a note never to use again the back exit of my building, and perhaps to complain to my landlord as well. Could he even do anything about this particular problem? I then realise that I have scraped my knee, and with a slight moan look up into the glaring lens of a video camera.
“Hey, lady. You’re on my set,” a smarmy voice complains. Glancing up, I note that there are in fact several cameras, ample portable lighting and microphones, and a transparent Tupperware box containing lube and sex toys lying several feet away. I have fallen quite literally into a pornography shoot.
I do not speak. Moreover, I have no clue what I would say if I felt the need to open my mouth. I shoot a quick look behind me and see the female model give me a quick wave while nursing a new bruise on her thigh. Before I can wonder if the injury was caused by my tripping over her or as a result of the startlingly muscled man gripping her legs like chopsticks, she grins at me sheepishly and says, “Good morning. I’m May.”
“Caithlin,” I reply, trying pointedly to avoid staring at her breasts or worse. “Pleased to meet you. Sorry for…” I make a sweeping gesture, not entirely certain why I am apologizing.
“Not at all, Caithlin—pretty name—it’s a pleasure.” She extends a hand. I am not lying. She extends a hand, and in light of my state of distress I shake it. “We must apologize for the mix-up here,” she says as I stealthily wipe my hand clean on the side of my jacket. “We were under the impression that this entrance was blocked off completely, and since there aren’t any windows or parking lots back here…” She gestures around dramatically, then shrugs in indifference.
I wonder if all pornographic models behave like this: vaguely formal yet with a strange candid theatricality. Truth be told, her attitude rather amuses me and I try to match it in spite of the situation. “I understand completely,” I reply while attempting to smile. “Actually, I have never seen anyone out here myself.”
She nods in agreement, and as the director decrees a fluffer—whatever that may be—is required for the male model, May slips on a flocked white bathrobe and a battered pair of flip-flops. Placing a hand on the small of my back, she leads me away from the steps and towards a collapsible table bearing jackets and a small cooler. Lifting the lid only slightly, she withdraws two cans of diet soda, tossing the first sideways to me and opening the other with her teeth. “I take it you live up there,” she states, gesturing at the tall apartment complex behind us before sipping at her soda. I nod—rather dumbly next to this woman’s apparent elegance, I think—while fumbling with my own can. “That’s almost surprising,” she says. “You look…well, don’t take this the wrong way, darling, but you look a little too innocent to be living in a place like this.”
I glance up at the crumbling building that holds my home, my bedroom, and my battered old nightstand. “One would think,” I mutter, trying to make out my window in the cascade of frosted sills. I spot the array of icicles lining the eaves and cannot help but wonder how May and the male model do not freeze in this climate. Admittedly, the winter has begun to melt away, but the temperature is barely positive. “Are you not cold?” I ask her.
“Oh, no, you get used to it quickly,” she responds enthusiastically. “Actually, it’s more exciting out here like this. More of a rush, you know?” She pauses and grins. “You ever made love outside?”
I blush fiercely, remembering the shame of last night. For the first time since the event, I make it clear in my mind: I lost my virginity outside a bus station and as much as I am loathe to admit it, yes, it was exhilarating—but only in those few moments. Now, in the aftermath with the February sunshine on me like a spotlight, all I know is the shame and the memory of how the moisture and dirt entombing my body felt as I lay on the ground and wondered if this utter demoralization is all there is to sex. I look at May and wonder if she feels this when she models and is watched by a crowd of drooling cameramen and finds fresh bruises on her thighs. “No,” I say at last. “No, I have not.”
“May, get your sweet ass back here,” croons the director, jarring May and I out of our conversation. She responds with a perky nod, then squeezes my hand gently and heads back towards the steps. “May,” I blurt out before she reaches the set. “Is it…” I trail off, and she cocks her head passively. “Is it hard, doing what you do?”
I make out a small smile on her lips as she eases the bathrobe off her shoulders. “Darling, it’s all I got.” As she sits down upon the steps once more, I turn away and leave the alley, tossing my soda into a nearby dumpster as I pass. Craning my neck, I stare up into the sky and notice the blurry outline of the daytime moon. It looks so very alien hovering in the blue sky, but a thick cloud soon hides it from sight and I return to looking at the mundane world around me.
