Fucking Jenny. Fucking sick Jenny. She didn’t even steal it. She was as broke as me, broker even, with a bigger drinking problem, more of a need for cash, and she didn’t even steal it. Her need to hurt me had blotted out even basic self-preservation. Under all my despair was a new fear now; fear of Jenny. She might as well have killed me, I thought, or at least sent someone to kick my ass.
I thought again about the men. The simple destruction of the money, the basis of those consensual trysts, now made every call an act of violence survived. I was shaking. I went back into my room and laid down on my futon. With both doors open to the beautiful day, I passed out.
When I awoke it was evening. The wind had stirred up on the hill and was blowing through my apartment like a little hurricane. My broken doors whined on their hinges. I padded into my kitchen, still in my whore clothes: a shimmery skirt-cheap from Ross-and a blousey lady-shirt, sheer, the ghost of my push-up bra a hazy vision beneath the fabric. Jenny had loved me in my whore outfits, months back when we had first hooked up. She had thought the getup hilarious, and it was. I remember her sitting squat on the dank wooden floor of my bedroom, her tiny hand spidering out around the fat bottle she was drinking from. Red-cheeked and giggling, she watched my transformation. I strung the lingerie around my body, pulling back my fried hair, removing my heavy horn-rimmed eyeglasses, and dusting my lids with shimmery powder. We’d fucked that first time, there on the floor, the splintery wood scraping my ass, scuffing my Payless pumps, and I didn’t even care; her mouth cold from the beer and tasting of bubbles.
Three months is not a long time for a relationship unless you’re a dyke. After the first few days, we were together all the time; I knew her story and she knew mine. We had one real good month together, and then things started to slip. She’d get moody and I’d turn bitchy in reply. We stopped fucking at home and instead did it in bar bathrooms, when the first flush of alcohol-induced good mood washed over her. By the time we got back to one of our places she’d be in a different state, sour, and we’d fight. I always regretted it. I know better than to argue with a drunk person-both my folks were drunks and it’s like trying to have a logical conversation with some loony on the street. My points may have been good, may have been right, but in the morning Jenny wouldn’t remember anything I said. It took a full month of things being real lousy between us for me to call it off, and I was ashamed that I’d stuck around that long. But she never stopped looking good to me; and she had charm, a glow that the beer both fed and ruined.
In my kitchen, I startled a small, feral cat; a black thing mottled with bits of orange. So tiny, it hissed ferociously and darted out my back door into the weeds. I tried to jam the door shut but it was useless. Same with the one upstairs. I made coffee and emptied the dregs of a box of cereal into a bowl, dousing it with soy milk. I tried to get a plan together. Even though I always had my rent ready on the first of the month, I made a point not to pay Larry until the fifth. I liked to put off spending my money until the last possible moment. The first was four days ago; at the time I had had all my rent and more. Today was the fifth and I had one hundred and fifty dollars. Rent for this damp but spacious basement apartment was seven hundred dollars. People liked to tell me I had a good deal. They would gasp when I told them. Seven Hundred Dollars? And You Live All By Yourself? They would moon dreamily. I suppose it was a good deal, and that said a lot about this town. I would have to tell Larry that I didn’t have the money. I decided against telling him about the break-in. I didn’t want him knowing I kept my cash in a box rather than a bank; didn’t want him to know about my romantic drama, or anything about me whatsoever. It was none of his business. I’d tell him that I’d have it for him as soon as possible, and leave it at that. Let the fucker evict me, what did I care. I seemed to have awoken at a certain bottom. All I could figure to do was call my service and have them put me on call twenty-four hours a day for the indefinite future, and then try not to think too hard about what that would really entail.
Out on the street, I banged on Larry’s front door. I’d given it about a half-dozen whacks before I remembered the man had a doorbell. I guess I just wanted to hit something. The rag of a dog across the street responded to my violence with a series of futile yaps. The sky above was perfect and blue, but a bank of clouds were in the distance, blowing my way.
Larry! I hollered. I banged and rang.
The dog was barking itself a sore throat. Then I looked down. Coming out from under Larry’s door was a bit of hair, brown hair, sort of oily. Just a little greasy tuft, sliding out from inside the house.
Larry? I asked, in a normal voice.
I crouched down and touched it. It felt like real hair. A wig? Why would Larry have a wig? I had a flash of him, drunk and outfitted in attire common to the opposite gender, and then a flash of sympathy for him and his poor attitude. We all have our secrets, don’t we? I gave the wig a tug, but it didn’t shift. It felt attached to something heavy, like a body. I cracked open Larry’s mail slot and peered into the darkness. The crumpled mass lumped on the other side of the door looked like my landlord.
You lookin for something?
The voice made me jump; I sprung up in my stocking feet and spun around to greet my neighbor, the militia man. His belly preceded him, jutting out of his undershirt like a round, hard melon. He looked like he was sneering but it was simply the set of his face. A rifle would not have looked out of place in his arms.
I Live Here, I reminded him.
Every so often, this would happen. The guy would accost me as I fumbled for my keys, or as I lingered outside my door awaiting a taxi. I’d notice him peering out from behind his tattered flag, and then he’d be galumphing down his front stairs and confronting me in the street like I was set to burgle the neighborhood. I rapped my fingers on the door again, and moved a fish-netted foot to cover the lock of Larry’s hair, which protruded onto the sidewalk.
You live here? he asked suspiciously. How come I ain’t seen ya?
You Have, I said. We Do This All The Time. You See Me Out Here, Ask Me What I’m Doing, And I Tell You I Live Here. I sighed patiently.
That other girl lives here, he informed me. The redheaded one? Forgot her keys this morning and busted her own damn door in. He chuckled with affection for who I could only imagine was Jenny, breaking into my house.
Oh, Yeah, I nodded. She Lives Here, Too.
Uh-huh, he nodded, looking me up and down. Stalling briefly on the gauzy outline of my bra and moving on up to my face. You all keep leaving your keys behind and breaking your doors down, that man up there’s gonna get rid of ya. He gave his chin a chuck in the general direction of Larry’s apartment. He your dad? You two sisters?
Six months I’ve lived on Porter Street and this guy has never spoken to me beyond clarifying that I’m not a criminal. He picks this moment, this bizarre and creepy moment on this strange and terrible day, to inquire about my life.
No, I tell him. Larry’s The Landlord. Me And That Girl, We’re Just-Roommates.
Norma, he nods.
Right, I’m Norma. I’m losing patience. He frowns.
No, that other girl, she said her name was Norma. Now he’s suspicious again.
Well, She’s Fucking With You. She Likes To Do That. And Actually, She Didn’t Lose Her Keys. She Broke The Door Down Cause She’s Crazy, And If You See Her Around Here Again Breaking Things, I’d Appreciate It If You Could Call The Cops.
The man took a step back, as if the breath my speech had been carried out on was laced with something noxious.