Edie
Enter: Edie. Aged: 25; hair: brown; eyes: brown; status: human.
I always thought my life was great, or at least good enough. I went to college. I had a great time. I had good friends, and struck up a wild-hair modeling career.
Things were great. Drugs were done, and sex was had. But then, everyone else was doing it. So who really cares? I suppose I do. I suppose I could have done a better job with my career. It all came so naturally to me. All the pictures they took expressed exactly who I was at the moment. It was amazing. But that’s what my story is about. I could have been better, and I like it that way.
I gasp. I am very steadily emanating a whitish glow, increasing by the moment. I have the very odd and challenging urge to take a step forward, but my mind is also telling me this isn’t such a good idea. I don’t listen, the decision is made and my foot hits the floor in front of me and all of a sudden I am away, 10 years away. Quicker than you can say, “dream,” I am whisked into another dimension.
On the other side, there are people. People that look like me. And people that look like complete strangers. These people are strangers. Their skin is jaundiced; their eyes are dilated and bloodshot. They stare. The stare they wear is almost blank, but they watch. They’re lying on huge stainless steel slabs meant for dead things. But their eyes are still thinking, screaming, and there’s a television going in the background and the voice is singing and telling me, “More furniture for less, at Mor!” There’s so much screaming I can hardly hear myself scream and collapse.
I press my hands to my ears, trying to block out the noise, but, as you know, this never works when the noise is in your own head. Slowly, the noise fades and all I can hear is the echo off of the morgue wall. It’s very empty in here.
I take a step back. Had I known I could have left at any moment I would have, but it took until I regained my courage for me to finally do it.
Every day I wake up, and put a smile on my face. I sit outside for about 15 minutes and have a couple cigarettes. It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m wearing clothing or makeup yet. This is my time. My time to sit and not think. My past thinks for me. Farther than physical. And farther past what I can remember.
MY life is a trip. A journey that most are taking subconsciously. Making subtle twists and turns that decide the future and what is now called the present. Right now my journey seems a lot like a constant straight highway; very boring and uneventful.
After that I lye around for hours at the bottom of an empty swimming pool. There are all sorts of things like pillows and sarongs and other interesting beautiful things down there. I love the walls being yellow. It feels very sobering down there, unlike it was a couple of years ago. This house used to be home. A home away from the madness. Away from Manhattan and its horrors, and its parties. I love it here.
Even after that, there’s still more to do. Makeup. Clothing. Hair. I am slow at these chores, like a sloth. It’s an art. And, naturally, art should be slow, and enjoyed.
I dress like I did years ago, just like I did while I was still modeling, with my nice, loose tops wide brimmed straw hats and my saucer-sized sunglasses. My skin is older now, but it still gleams like snow. I am very partial of my skin, now that people are dying of cancer and such things.
After I pull on my pumps I take a drive into town in my boat-sized sedan with slate-blue trailer. I don’t enjoy driving it much. The vibrations are bad and make me feel sick to my stomach. I do it anyway. On the way I have to take the travel the long, twisty route. I pass by the ocean and have to be careful not to go too fast or I’ll fly off the cliff. I also have to be careful not to hit anything. Driving while wearing what I wear is more of a challenge than you might think.
In town there’s an old, beat-up, 50’s style café. It sits alone on the corner, like it’s time frozen. But that’s what it is, frozen. Everyday I walk in, the bells on the door jingle. The same old Elvis record is playing quietly. It’s a warm, happy, inviting sound. You aint nothing but a hound-dog. The man behind the desk hasn’t aged a day since the first time I walked in there. He always says, “Hello there, ma’am. Can I check your coat?” And I always reply, “Oh, no thank you. It’s rather chilly.”
And I always take the seat closest to the window and sip the twenty-year-old tea that is always the greatest I have ever tasted. Nobody else is ever there, which is a shame because the place is rather charming.
It’s a small building; the walls are a great cream color, with ultra-marine colored molding and a deep, blood red tiled floor. I’m fond of the floor. Whenever I stand up or walk my heels go click click click like a horse.
The dear man behind the desk always cooks my scone the way I like it. He knows just how by now, with raspberry jelly-jam and a little slice of butter all placed just so on the white doily on the fist-sized china tea bicuit plate. It’s perfect every time.
Lovely. Everything is simply, lovely.
Wow. I’ve known her for years but everyday when I pass her and see her in the window I feel less and less connected. I remember the lights, the parties, the men, the women. I remember how cool we all were. I remember Manhattan. The greatest years of our lives. Everyday we’d wake up past 3 PM, get high, and take pictures. She was beautiful. She was modern. I sigh. The good life is nothing to be proud or ashamed of, it lives as a memory, and frankly, it’s the only good memory worth keeping for me.
I stay there until the world turns orange with the light of the sun. Then I go grocery shopping. I see him every day, behind that gas station counter. Today he asked to take my picture. I said yes, just for old time’s sake. I couldn’t stop staring at him. He still wears wigs.
We went out to the alley way and sat for a while. Chatted about how things were. He has a boyfriend now. I’ll call him Mr. America because I can’t remember his real name, and I probably never will. And says he’s got blue eyes, blonde hair, and a nice body. Sound’s just like the American dream to me.
Voila. A perfect shot. I look a lot different from how I used to. A lot older, and, undoubtedly, tanner.
After about twenty shots he stops and has a cigarette. Andy is like a drug. Once you have one, you think it’s the greatest thing in the world, until you’re addicted. But you can never go back to where you were. He’ll never let you.
I asked her. It wasn’t any sort of promotion or implication. She recognized me and walked towards my counter, just as she does every day. She held in her arms a carton of eggs and a couple of fake, deep-blue daisies with shots of white painting their petals. I rang her up, and she never looked away. I could tell she clearly misses the past.
We didn’t get coffee or anything. We just sat in the alleyway, smoked, took pictures, and talked about quiet things. It was safe. It was fun.
“I see you every day,”
“Yeah,” She says, and continues,
“But today it seems real.”
I can’t control it. This time I take two steps forward and this time I’m in the street, the light slowly wearing off, unlike last time, and that same television that screams, “More! More! More!” echoes down the empty streets with the whistling leaves, this time quieter. It seems just like where I left off, only in a different place, and I don’t feel as afraid. There’s no trees on the street corners, no sales in the windows, and no vendors selling crepes. I feel perplexed by the sudden radical change from dream to future tense.
After some time getting comfortable, I feel like I can lie still in the street forever, twice over. I can stare into the blue sky for as long as I please, not being bothered by any cabs, cars, trucks, or people. Peace at last. This must be what it’s like to be dead. Just here. I suppose the future must be pretty dull.
This feels just like Manhattan, just like heaven.
The haze in my mind lifts. I am enlightened.
I hear a shower going and I walk back to reality. I wake up, and do exactly the same thing I do every day, and not a bad feeling or thought bleeds through to the surface. I am like a doll. I know my time has now come.
Why am I here? Am I stuck in some sort of thought bubble time warp? Everyday I think the same thing, do relatively the same things, wear the same things I’ve worn for years, and make the same decisions. It’s all because of her. She keeps me here and holds me under her skinny little finger. I’m drawn to her, my muse.
Move. Eat. Breathe. Work. Sleep. Every. Single. Day. All because of her, or rather, for her.
IT’s about 3 in the morning. I work both shifts today. I sit behind the counter at the silent gas station and the clock ticks and the lights flicker. Déjà vu. My arms squeeze my knees and I look a lot like a little boy who’s got nothing to do but think.
Like a mesenger from the gods, my manager pokes his head through the “employees only” door, the bathroom, like he always does, and says,
“You’re free now, Andy.”
How ironic.
I’m so happy that I will never have to wake up and work another day in my life.
Thank you mother, thank you father, thank you Andy.
You’ve made my life beautiful and now I’m leaving you now, just like a baby bird leaves a nest.
Don’t wait up. I love you
-Edie