Part Nine
She did not turn around when she reached her stoop. She paused at the doorway with her head bowed and her arms hanging loosely at her side. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to tell you to go away and leave me alone.”
I stood at the curb, but not too close to the curb, and could barely make out what she said. “If you’re saying you want me to leave you alone, I will,” I said, my voice echoing in the empty street of the early morning.
“You’ll no doubt force your way in as soon as I open the door.” She unlocked the door and pressed it open, then stood there in the open doorway making no move to go inside.
Utterly dismayed by her actions, I looked up and down the street – back down the way we’d come, where the walk was littered with my “stupid” postits, and up the way I wanted to go, where I’d decided it would be best to begin my mission. I’d not counted on being thus distracted. I had to search deep to try and understand why I was torn. The obvious thing to do was to walk away and yell at her if she followed me, but something held me there waiting for her to tell me what I would probably do next.
“You’ll think about walking away,” she said, turning to face me. “But you’ll find that you can’t. You’re torn between what’s right and what you want. You know you shouldn’t force you’re way in, but you know it would be easy. Doing the wrong thing here is so easy.”
I remember her words with such crystal clarity. Somehow, she was in my head, reading my thoughts like a cheesy B-movie script. She moved closer to me and stared at me and spoke in such a low voice that I shuddered to hear it. “There’s nothing I can do to stop you. Screaming in this neighborhood would be totally useless. You know that. I can see in your eyes that you know. You know you could kill me for screaming here, and no one would pay any attention. You’ll force your way in the door and follow me up to my room. You’ll do terrible, wonderful things to me.”
Turning again to her open door, she went in without closing the door. And I did follow her.
To the editors of Nonzine: I hope you can now begin to see my hesitancy in relating this story. I know how this looks. As I’ve said, every superhero has his secrets, and I am no exception—and some secrets are better left untold. What can I do? I’m trapped. I must tell it to go on with the rest. I don’t want to tell it. Even under the guise of all words are lies do I despair at this telling.
Yes, I followed her, though I took several minutes standing paralyzed by the tension I felt and becoming suddenly conscious again of the thrumming pain in my knee, ribs and neck – punctuated now by this tension as I tried to decide between going in and walking away. I looked down the street again, and again took notice of my “stupid” postits. I am stupid, I thought. Why not behave stupidly? I tugged at my left leg, the gimpy leg, to get moving and limped up the stoop and into the stairwell. I took the steps to her apartment slowly, one step at a time.
Her apartment was furnished with the widest assortment of aluminum-framed furniture that I had ever seen. She had aluminum lawn chairs, an aluminum love-seat, fold-out aluminum camping tables and aluminum lanterns. “Moving’s a breeze,” she said, watching me scan over the variety of her recyclable furnishings. “I assume you’ll be making yourself right at home, even if I ask you again to leave,” she said. “So you might as well take a seat.”
“Can we stop it with that?”
“Stop it with what?”
“This whatever-it-is you’re doing, telling me what I’ll probably be doing.”
“I just like to keep things out in the open. Keep everyone honest about what’s going on.” She was standing in the middle of the room, unabashed. She put her hands on her hips, impatient with me to do something or say something.
I stood at the curb, but not too close to the curb, and could barely make out what she said. “If you’re saying you want me to leave you alone, I will,” I said, my voice echoing in the empty street of the early morning.
“You’ll no doubt force your way in as soon as I open the door.” She unlocked the door and pressed it open, then stood there in the open doorway making no move to go inside.
Utterly dismayed by her actions, I looked up and down the street – back down the way we’d come, where the walk was littered with my “stupid” postits, and up the way I wanted to go, where I’d decided it would be best to begin my mission. I’d not counted on being thus distracted. I had to search deep to try and understand why I was torn. The obvious thing to do was to walk away and yell at her if she followed me, but something held me there waiting for her to tell me what I would probably do next.
“You’ll think about walking away,” she said, turning to face me. “But you’ll find that you can’t. You’re torn between what’s right and what you want. You know you shouldn’t force you’re way in, but you know it would be easy. Doing the wrong thing here is so easy.”
I remember her words with such crystal clarity. Somehow, she was in my head, reading my thoughts like a cheesy B-movie script. She moved closer to me and stared at me and spoke in such a low voice that I shuddered to hear it. “There’s nothing I can do to stop you. Screaming in this neighborhood would be totally useless. You know that. I can see in your eyes that you know. You know you could kill me for screaming here, and no one would pay any attention. You’ll force your way in the door and follow me up to my room. You’ll do terrible, wonderful things to me.”
Turning again to her open door, she went in without closing the door. And I did follow her.
To the editors of Nonzine: I hope you can now begin to see my hesitancy in relating this story. I know how this looks. As I’ve said, every superhero has his secrets, and I am no exception—and some secrets are better left untold. What can I do? I’m trapped. I must tell it to go on with the rest. I don’t want to tell it. Even under the guise of all words are lies do I despair at this telling.
Yes, I followed her, though I took several minutes standing paralyzed by the tension I felt and becoming suddenly conscious again of the thrumming pain in my knee, ribs and neck – punctuated now by this tension as I tried to decide between going in and walking away. I looked down the street again, and again took notice of my “stupid” postits. I am stupid, I thought. Why not behave stupidly? I tugged at my left leg, the gimpy leg, to get moving and limped up the stoop and into the stairwell. I took the steps to her apartment slowly, one step at a time.
Her apartment was furnished with the widest assortment of aluminum-framed furniture that I had ever seen. She had aluminum lawn chairs, an aluminum love-seat, fold-out aluminum camping tables and aluminum lanterns. “Moving’s a breeze,” she said, watching me scan over the variety of her recyclable furnishings. “I assume you’ll be making yourself right at home, even if I ask you again to leave,” she said. “So you might as well take a seat.”
“Can we stop it with that?”
“Stop it with what?”
“This whatever-it-is you’re doing, telling me what I’ll probably be doing.”
“I just like to keep things out in the open. Keep everyone honest about what’s going on.” She was standing in the middle of the room, unabashed. She put her hands on her hips, impatient with me to do something or say something.
© 2006Labelman
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