Invisible Monsters Remix Read online

  Brandy is waiting to take the card and read it out loud. Brandy’s waiting to read my worst fears to the world, but I don’t give her the card. I kiss it myself with the lips I don’t have and let the wind take it out of my hand. The card flies up, up, up to the stars and then falls down to land in the suicide net.

  While I watch my future trapped in the suicide net, Brandy reads another card from Seth.

  “We are all self-composting.”

  I write on another card from the future, and Brandy reads it.

  “When we don’t know who to hate, we hate ourselves.”

  An updraft lifts my worst fears from the suicide net and sails them away.

  Seth writes and Brandy reads.

  “You have to keep recycling yourself.”

  I write and Brandy reads.

  “Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everybody I’ve ever known.”

  I write and Brandy reads.

  “The one you love and the one who loves you are never, ever the same person.”

  Jump to us going down fast in a TWA return trip home from the moon, Brandy and Seth and me dancing our dance party frug in the zero-gravity brass and glass go-go cage elevator. Brandy makes a big ring-beaded fist and tells the poly-blend service droid who tries to stop us to chill out unless he wants to die on reentry.

  Back on earth in the twenty-first century, our rented Lincoln with its blue casket interior is waiting to take us to a nice hotel. On the windshield is a ticket, but when Brandy storms over to tear it up, the ticket is a postcard from the future.

  Maybe my worst fears.

  For Brandy to read out loud to Seth. I love Seth so much I have to destroy him . . .

  Even if I overcompensate, nobody will ever want me. Not Seth. Not my folks. You can’t kiss someone who has no lips. Oh, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me. I’ll be anybody you want me to be.

  Brandy Alexander, her big hand lifts the postcard. The queen supreme reads it to herself, silent, and slips the postcard into her handbag. Princess Princess, she says, “At this rate, we’ll never get to the future.”

  Now, Please, Jump to Chapter Thirty-seven

  ump to Brandy Alexander tucking me into a Seattle bed. This is the night of the Space Needle, the night the future doesn’t happen. Brandy, she’s wearing yards and yards of black tulle wrapped around her legs, twisted up and around her hourglass waist. A black veil crosses her torpedo breasts and loops up and over the top of her auburn hair. All this sparkle that bends over beside my bed could be the trial-sized mock-up for the original summer night sky.

  Little rhinestones, not the plastic ones pooped out by a factory in Calcutta but the Austrian crystal ones cut by elves in the Black Forest, these little star-shaped rhinestones are set all over the black tulle. The queen supreme’s face is the moon in the night sky that bends over and kisses me good night. My hotel room is dark, and the television at the foot of my bed is turned on so the handmade stars twinkle in all the colors the television is trying to show us.

  Seth’s right, the television does make me God. I can look in on anybody and every hour the lives change. Here in the real world, that’s not always the case.

  “I will always love you,” the queen of the night sky says, and I know which postcard she’s found.

  The hotel sheets feel the same as the hospital sheets. This is thousands of miles since we met, and the big fingers of Brandy are still smoothing the blankets under where my chin used to be. My face is the last thing the go-go boys and girls want to meet when they go into a dark alley looking to buy drugs.

  Brandy says, “We’ll be back as soon as we sell out.”

  Seth is silhouetted in the open doorway to the hall. How he looks from my bed is the terrific outline of a superhero against the neon green and gray and pink tropical leaves of the hallway wallpaper. His coat, the long black leather coat Seth wears, is fitted tight until the waist and then flares from there down so in outline you think it’s a cape.

  And maybe when he kisses Brandy Alexander’s royal butt he’s not just pretending. Maybe it’s the two of them in love when I’m not around. This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve lost him.

  The face surrounded in black veil that leans over me is a surprise of color. The skin is a lot of pink around a Plumbago mouth, and the eyes are too aubergine. Even these colors are too garish right now, too saturated, too intense. Lurid. You think of cartoon characters. Fashion dolls have pink skin like this, like plastic bandages. Flesh tone. Too-aubergine eyes, cheekbones too defined by Rusty Rose blusher. Nothing is left to your imagination.

  Maybe this is what guys want. I just want Brandy Alexander to leave.

  I want Seth’s belt around my neck. I want Seth’s fingers in my mouth and his hands pulling my knees apart and then his wet fingers prying me open.

  “If you want something to read,” Brandy says, “that Miss Rona Barrett book is in my room. I can run get it.”

  I want to be rubbed so raw by the stubble around Seth’s mouth that it will hurt when I pee.

  Seth says, “Are you coming?”

  A ring-beaded hand tosses the television remote control onto the bed.

  “Come on, Princess Princess,” Seth says. “The night’s not getting any younger.”

  And I want Seth dead. Worse than dead, I want him fat and bloated with water and insecure and emotional. If Seth doesn’t want me, I want to not want him.

  “If the police or anything happens,” the moon tells me, “the money is all in my makeup case.”

  The one I love is already gone out to warm up the car. The one who will love me forever says, “Sleep tight,” and closes the door behind her.

  Jump to once a long time ago, Manus, my fiancé who dumped me, Manus Kelley, the police detective, he told me that your folks are like God because you want to know they’re out there and you want them to approve of your life, still you only call them when you’re in crisis and need something.

  Jump back to me in bed in Seattle, alone with the TV remote control I hit a button on and make the television mute.

  On television are three or four people in chairs sitting on a low stage in front of a television audience. This is on television like an infomercial, but as the camera zooms in on each person for a close-up, a little caption appears across the person’s chest. Each caption on each close-up is a first name followed by three or four words like a last name, the sort of literal who-they-really-are last names that Indians give to each other, but instead of Heather Runs with Bison . . . Trisha Hunts by Moonlight, these names are:

  Cristy Drank Human Blood

  Roger Lived with Dead Mother

  Brenda Ate Her Baby

  I change channels.

  I change channels.

  I change channels and here are another three people:

  Gwen Works as Hooker

  Neville Was Raped in Prison

  Brent Slept with His Father

  People are all over the world telling their one dramatic story and how their life has turned into getting over this one event. Now their lives are more about the past than their future. I hit a button and give Gwen Works as Hooker her voice back for a little sound bite of prostitute talk.

  Gwen shapes her story with her hands as she talks. She leans forward out of her chair. Her eyes are watching something up and to the right, just off camera. I know it’s the monitor. Gwen’s watching herself tell her story.

  Gwen balls her fingers until only the left index finger is out, and she slowly twists her hand to show both sides of her fingernail as she talks.

  “ . . . to protect themselves, most girls on the street break off a little bit of razor blade and glue it under their fingernail. Girls paint the razor nail so it looks like a regular fingernail.” Here, Gwen sees something in the monitor. She frowns and tosses her red hair back off what look like pearl earrings.

  “When they go to jail,” Gwen tells herself in the monitor, “or when they’re not attra
ctive anymore, some girls use the razor nails to slash their wrists.”

  I make Gwen Works as Hooker mute again.

  I change channels.

  I change channels.

  I change channels.

  Sixteen channels away, a beautiful young woman in a sequined dress is smiling and dropping animal wastes into a Num Num Snack Factory.

  Evie and me, we did this infomercial. It’s one of those television commercials you think is a real program except it’s just a thirty-minute pitch. The television camera cuts to another girl in a sequined dress, this one is wading through an audience of snowbirds and Midwest tourists. The girl offers a golden anniversary couple in matching Hawaiian shirts a selection of canapés from a silver tray, but the couple and everybody else in their double knits and camera necklaces, they’re staring up and to the right at something off camera.

  You know it’s the monitor.

  It’s eerie, but what’s happening is the folks are staring at themselves in the monitor staring at themselves in the monitor staring at themselves in the monitor, on and on, completely trapped in a reality loop that never ends.

  The girl with the tray, her desperate eyes are contact-lens too green and her lips are heavy red outside the natural lip line. The blond hair is thick and teased up so the girl’s shoulders don’t look so big-boned. The canapés she keeps waving under all the old noses are soda crackers pooped on with meat by-products. Waving her tray, the girl wades farther up into the studio audience bleachers with her too-green eyes and big-boned hair. This is my best friend, Evie Cottrell.

  This has to be Evie because here comes Manus stepping up to save her with his good looks. Manus, special police vice operative that he is, he takes one of those pooped-on soda crackers and puts it between his capped teeth. And chews. And tilts his handsome square-jawed face back and closes his eyes, Manus closes his power-blue eyes and twists his head just so much side to side and swallows.

  Thick black hair like Manus has, it reminds you how people’s hair is just vestigial fur with mousse on it. Such a sexy hair dog, Manus is.

  The square-jawed face rocks down to give the camera a full-face, eyes-open look of complete and total love and satisfaction. So déjà vu. This was exactly the same look Manus used to give me when he’d ask if I got my orgasm.

  Then Manus turns to give the exact same look to Evie, while the studio audience all looks off in another direction, watching themselves watch themselves watch themselves watch Manus smile with total and complete love and satisfaction at Evie.

  Evie smiles back her red-outside-the-natural-lip-line smile at Manus, and I’m this tiny sparkling figure in the background. That’s me just over Manus’s shoulder, tiny me smiling away like a space heater and dropping animal matter into the Plexiglas funnel on top of the Num Num Snack Factory.

  How could I be so dumb?

  Let’s go sailing.

  Sure.

  I should’ve known the deal was Manus and Evie all the time.

  Even here, lying in a hotel bed a year after the whole story is over, I’m making fists. I could’ve just watched the stupid infomercial and known Manus and Evie had some tortured sick relationship they wanted to think was true love.

  Okay, I did watch it. Okay, about a hundred times I watched it, but I was only watching myself. That reality loop thing.

  The camera comes back to the first girl, the one onstage, and she’s me. And I’m so beautiful. On television, I demonstrate the easy cleanability of the snack factory, and I’m so beautiful. I snap the blades out of the Plexiglas cover and rinse off the chewed-up animal waste under running water. And, jeez, I’m beautiful.

  The disembodied voice-over is saying how the Num Num Snack Factory takes meat by-products, whatever you have—your tongues or hearts or lips or genitals—chews them up, seasons them, and poops them out in the shape of a spade or a diamond or a club onto your choice of cracker for you to eat yourself.

  Here in bed, I’m crying.

  Bubba-Joan Got Her Jaw Shot Off.

  All these thousands of miles later, all these different people I’ve been, and it’s still the same story. Why is it you feel like a dope if you laugh alone, but that’s usually how you end up crying? How is it you can keep mutating and still be the same deadly virus?

  Now, Please, Jump to Chapter Thirty-five

  ump way back to the last Christmas before my accident, when I go home to open presents with my folks. My folks put up the same fake tree every year, scratchy green and making that hot poly-plastic smell that gives you a dizzy flu headache when the lights are plugged in too long. The tree’s all magic and sparkle, crowded with our red and gold glass ornaments and those strands of silver plastic loaded with static electricity that people call icicles. It’s the same ratty angel with a rubber doll face on top of the tree. Covering the mantel is the same spun-fiberglass angel hair that works into your skin and gives you an infected rash if you even touch it. It’s the same Perry Como Christmas album on the stereo. This is back when I still had a face so I wasn’t so confronted by singing Christmas carols.

  My brother Shane’s still dead so I try not to expect much attention, just a quiet Christmas. By this point, my boyfriend, Manus, was getting weird about losing his police job, and what I needed was a couple days out of the spotlight. We all talked, my mom, my dad, and me, and agreed to not buy big gifts for each other this year. Maybe just little gifts, my folks say, just stocking stuffers.

  Perry Como is singing “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”

  The red felt stockings my mom sewed for each of us, for Shane and me, are hanging on the fireplace, each one red felt with our names spelled out, top to bottom, in fancy white felt letters. Each one lumpy with the gifts stuffed inside. It’s Christmas morning, and we’re all sitting around the tree, my father ready with his jackknife for the knotted ribbons. My mom has a brown paper shopping bag and says, “Before things get out of hand, the wrapping paper goes in here, not all over the place.”

  My mom and dad sit in recliner chairs. I sit on the floor in front of the fireplace with the stockings by me. This scene is always blocked this way. Them sitting with coffee, leaned down over me, watching for my reaction. Me Indian-sitting on the floor. All of us in bathrobes and pajamas still.

  Perry Como is singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

  The first thing out of my stocking is a little stuffed koala bear, the kind that grips your pencil with its spring-loaded hands and feet. This is who my folks think I am. My mom hands me hot chocolate in a mug with miniature marshmallows floating on top. I say, “Thanks.” Under the little koala is a box I take out.

  My folks stop everything, lean over their cups of coffee, and just watch me.

  Perry Como is singing “O Come All Ye Faithful.”

  The little box is condoms.

  Sitting right next to our sparkling, magic Christmas tree, my father says, “We don’t know how many partners you have every year, but we want you to play safe.”

  I stash the condoms in my bathrobe pocket and look down at the miniature marshmallows melting. I say, “Thanks.”

  “Those are latex,” says my mom. “You need to use only a water-based sexual lubricant. If you need a lubricant at your age. Not petroleum jelly or shortenings or any kind of lotion.” She says, “We didn’t get you the kind made from sheep intestines because those have tiny pores that can allow the transmission of HIV.”

  Next inside my stocking is another little box. This is more condoms. The color marked on the box is Nude. This seems redundant. Next to that, the label says odorless and tasteless.

  Oh, I could tell you all about tasteless.

  “A study,” my father says, “a telephone survey of heterosexuals in urban areas with a high incidence of HIV infection, showed that thirty-five percent of people are uncomfortable buying their own condoms.”

  And getting them from Santa Claus is better? I say, “Got it.”

  “This isn’t just about AIDS,” my mom says.
“There’s gonorrhea. There’s syphilis. There’s the human papilloma virus. That’s genital warts.” She says, “You do know to put the condom on as soon as the penis is erect, don’t you?”

  She says, “I paid a fortune for bananas out of season in case you need the practice.”

  This is a trap. If I say, Oh, yeah, I roll rubbers onto new dry erections all the time, I’ll get the slut lecture from my father. But if I tell them no, we’ll get to spend Christmas Day practicing to protect me from fruit.

  My dad says, “There’s tons more to this than AIDS.” He says, “There’s the herpes simplex virus two with symptoms that include small painful blisters that burst on your genitals.” He looks at Mom.

  “Body aches,” she says.

  “Yes, you get body aches,” he says, “and fever. You get vaginal discharge. It hurts to urinate.” He looks at my mom.

  Perry Como is singing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”

  Under the next box of condoms is another box of condoms. Jeez, three boxes should last me right into menopause.

  Jump to how much I want my brother alive right now so I can kill him for wrecking my Christmas. Perry Como is singing “Up on the Housetop.”

  “There’s hepatitis B,” my mom says. To my dad she says, “What’s the others?”

  “Chlamydia,” my father says. “And lymphogranuloma.”

  “Yes,” my mom says, “and mucal purulent cervicitis and nongonococcal urethritis.”

  My dad looks at my mom and says, “But that’s usually caused by an allergy to a latex condom or a spermicide.”

  My mom drinks some coffee. She looks down at both her hands around her cup, then looks up at me sitting here. “What your father’s trying to say,” she says, “is we realize now that we made some mistakes with your brother.” She says, “We’re just trying to keep you safe.”

  There’s a fourth box of condoms in my stocking. Perry Como is singing “It Came upon a Midnight Clear.” The box is labeled . . . safe and strong enough even for prolonged anal intercourse . . .