I beat my alarm by two minutes, this day beginning for me like they all do. Up at six to be at school by eight, I clear my eyes, feel them focus on the popcorn ceiling of my bedroom, probably toxic and long since destroyed by Cat Madigan and I on one of our infamous afternoons when we’d reveled in the act of scratching our names into it with the point of my cymbal stand, along with random phrases and curses.
My room sits in the back of the house in which they’d hoped to realize their middle class dream for us – a large, sprawling tract home with its own little details and quirks, one off from the corner, across from Dovie and next door to Mrs. Wilson, on a curvy avenue in safe, suburban SoCal, white bread America, the home of Karen Carpenter – Downey, California. It wasn’t originally meant to be a bedroom, I don’t think, more like an office or bonus room by the look of it. It’s got these kitschy, 1970’s built-ins and that – cabinets along one wall, cork board above one corner, above the other a book case, split by a window that looks out on the backyard. Another wall of the room is a sliding glass door. A separate entrance, or exit, depending on how you wanna look at it. And that lets out to a screened in porch, patio, whatever. The heavy green carpet and beaten up drapes I can do without, but it’s a small price to pay for the freedom to leave when I want without Harry knowing.
It was my Mother’s other daughter’s before mine and unremarkable in her care – she’d left behind a lone, ugly brass day bed when she got married, below just two one sheets, Peter Frampton and The Eagles. Poignant, isn’t it? Three if you count the one my Mother had tacked to the bedroom door, John Travolta posing Saturday Night and pursed lips. The room is mine now, though, and much more interesting, quite frankly – my aesthetic decidedly Ferris. Bueller, not wheel, to be clear. The film’s been quite an influence, I have to say. I’d seen it with Harry on one of our weekly movie outings, I’d just turned thirteen and Harry freaked the fuck out on our way home and I kind of did, too. He because he thought it would make me start cutting school all the time, me because I’d seen in the character something I felt in myself. Travolta’s still there, though.
I’d started by collaging over the bulletin board, no real plan in mind, honestly, starting with the new Calvin ads. It wasn’t long, though, before the bounds of cork proved woefully inadequate for my vision, I had no other choice but to let my paper amoeba crawl slowly outside, adding in clips from glossies – Madonna, Cindy Crawford, Theatre Company show posters, random newspaper clips. And Linda, of course. The Fairy Godmother. Covers, namely. Vogue, primarily. Perfection, definitely. It’s weird, the things I find myself fascinated with, now that I’m thinking about it. My finishing touch the U.S. flag Harry used to hang from the front of our house on the Fourth of July and Veterans Day, doing the same across my sliding glass entrance, or exit, depending on how you wanna look at it, though now proudly upside down. He just about lost his mind the first time he saw it like that. Now I think he wonders how he could have fucked things up so badly that a daughter of HIS could do such a disrespectful thing, which just makes me laugh, quite honestly.
I just can’t stand plain, bare, white walls. I don’t know what it is, but the blankness all over the place makes me fucking crazy. Always has, really. So I just kept going. The entire space is just one big collage now. Pretty embarrassed to say this, but I will, anyway, I guess. But I can see where it began. In my old bedroom next door. That Marty made for me. Pinups of Ricky Schroder, Rob and Chad Lowe, all the boys in Bop Magazine and Super Teen. Which is fucking hilarious because it’s not like I ever really thought of them that way. I mean, I did. But I didn’t. I’m still not sure what it was. Or is. Something girlish about them all, maybe.
I’ve taken to stealing remnants of Marty from Harry, little by little I’ve made quite the stash for myself. Photos, mainly. I’ve hid them in the crawlspace under my closet, to be safe. I’m still fucking pissed he took that mug to Goodwill. And this isn’t the first time he’s pulled shit like this on me, either. He gave Marty’s other daughter all of her needlepoint and didn’t even talk to me about it. Didn’t even tell me. I only found out when I opened the closet where she’d kept them and found it empty. I’ve been forgotten in the death of my own Mother. And I don’t want to talk about it with him, either.
I have all of her books out, though. All of the books she got for me, too. He knows fucking better than to mess with our books. Weird to think of her reading some of them. Like this paperback she had, it’s thick and it must be a thousand pages or something, cover’s ripped off, this anthology of Victorian porn. Who would have fucking thought? It just speaks to this. Inner life she might have had. And breeds questions I don’t know that I’ll ever find the answers to. Then there’s this other one, Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex* (*But Were Afraid to Ask). Some of the stories in it are just fucking awful. I mean, I read those when I was, like, ten or something. Kind of explains a lot, now that I’m thinking about it. Those are the books of hers that I always found myself gravitating to.
I still have a lot of the books she used to read to me, the most important ones, at least. Richard Scarry’s Greatest Storybook Ever, The Little Engine That Could, The Giving Tree. Sandman Stories is my favorite. That’s more about the way the pages feel beneath my fingers, though. That distinct book smell it has, unique to only it. I don’t take it out all that often anymore, though. I’m afraid it will fade. I’ve added quite a few of my own, now, too. Mostly paperbacks I get for school, Catcher and Shakespeare, books I steal from the Walden’s at Stonewood Mall. Mr. C cussed us all out right before break and said we all think we’re so lofty and smart, but that we are really just a bunch of snot nosed ignoramuses that need to be shaken out of our comfortable little suburban worlds to fucking learn something. So he came in the next day with, like, this epic fucking reading list. I’ve already lifted Trail of Tears and Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. I really fucking need to pace myself, though. I learned that one the hard way at Licorice Pizza. I’ve got them all on towering, makeshift bookcases that I built out of plywood and brick. One shelf is even a skateboard, flat with the wheels down. I can’t help but revel in my literary deathtrap, earthquake country and that.
I stumble out of my bed, dial up the thermostat. A couple of clicks, then a brief groan signals the heater’s ignition as I catch a glance of that photo of the three of us, the only one I have up, in the vestibule at St. Francis at her other daughter’s wedding, the promise of that day shining bright behind the stained glass windows. There’s nothing shining bright here, now, though.
The house became kind of a dump, their middle class dreams extinguished by her metastasizing everything, by the end. Just him and me these past nine years, the house fucking shows it. He let it and him and his heart and everything else go to shit—so enjoy our spacious living room, the wall of three beautiful picture windows, through which the most beautiful afternoon sunlight shines upon the years old dog pee stains that litter the old, flat, brown carpet, glossed over now with layers and layers of disinfecting spray foam, long since dried and probably toxic. Wallpaper peels off the once lively dining room walls, termites chowing down on the window trim in there now. Or, please. Just down the back steps, out the kitchen door, and you can view our expansive and yellowed, shit littered back yard, Marty’s long stem roses long since died and gone, replaced with the corpses of pets who, I suspect now, just gave up on living their lives because it was just too fucking depressing, having to be here with us.
There are cool things about this place, too, though. We’ve got the most beautiful, big tree in the front yard and a grip of fruit in the back – orange, avocado, and plum; the hardwood floor I know is below the flat, brown, glossed over carpet, and the rough cut stone fireplace, 1950’s style or something, I don’t know for sure. But all the stones are different – different textures, different shades of earth, sealed together, rising to meet the dark, red wood of the mantle. The same kind of stone trim on the outside of the house, too. Or maybe they’re more like rocks, I don’t know. The wood on the den wall, paneled in perfect, ridged squares, gone this way and that, intersecting at edges. Harry’s toolboxes, out in the garage. They’re old school. By how much I’m not sure, exactly. His and my grandfather’s names engraved on their respective silver plates, fastened to the front – made of heavy oak, maybe? The wood of both finished cherry, beaten down a bit by their residence in a series of machine shops, over decades. Slim, green, velvet-lined drawers, I’ve always been fascinated with them. A frequent offense of mine as a child was playing with Harry’s tools without his permission. The magic I’d make if I had this house to myself. I tend to daydream about that a lot. I’ve got it all mapped out in one of my sketchbooks. I don’t know. Is it wrong to wish a parent ill will to make your house back into the home you always wished it could be? Because it was once. Before she got sick and fucking died.
I meander from my bedroom down the hallway. He’s already gone, thank fuck. He gets up at some ungodly hour, like four or something, out of the house like clockwork by six. He used to own his own shop, now he works out at this place in Compton by the casino. He seems to like it all right. As long as he isn’t here. I fucking hate if he’s here when I get out of bed in the morning. It used to just be him teasing me right off the bat, teenage boy sort of stuff he knows fucking annoys me. It’s more than that, now. And so fucking intense. In a way it wasn’t before. Something more. Like. I’m really not overstating or being dramatic when I say just his presence, just the sight of him makes me want to hit him over the head with a baseball bat.
I’m so glad I’ll be at the Vaughn’s tonight. He should be asleep by the time I get home.