Chapter Six, Part VI
Big Sister
“I’m really sorry, Shari. Really sorry.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “Tell me why we’re here?”
Here is the end of the Jerisich Dock, my waterborne synagogue. The drizzle has returned, and we’re huddled beneath a huge umbrella that I keep in the truck.
“We’re here to smoke really bad cigars,” I say. “And, to forget.”
“Amen, sister,” says Shari. I hand her the first of the new Swisher Sweets. The last of the old is for me. I extract the silver polygon and fire it up with a roll of my thumb. First time, like magic. Shari’s first drag fills the dome of the umbrella.
“Whew! Nasty. Nice lighter, though. Whatcha call that flowery thing?”
“A fleur de lis.” I give myself a light and breathe in the familiar toxins. Raindrops smack the cloth above us.
“So hey,” she says. “I understand if maybe… you don’t want to tell me about…”
“Good,” I say, then I laugh, so I can pretend I’m joking. “Honestly, Shari, it’s just a bunch of little things, piling up all day long.”
“A straw/camel’s back situation?”
“Exactly.” (She has purchased the fabrication.)
“Okay,” she says. “But Channy. Could you tell me something else about yourself? I feel sometimes like I don’t know the least thing about you.”
I consider my options, watching the little spits of water jumping from the harbor surface.
I say this: “Chanson.”
Shari looks puzzled.
“That’s my name.”
“Song,” says Shari. “Wow. That’s beautiful. Can I tell?”
“Ain’t no state secret. But it was the reason I got beat up in third grade.”
“Aren’t kids awful?”
“Yeah. But they got theirs. I grew six inches that summer.”
Shari lets out a raspy Janis cackle, wrapped in tobacco.
Tell me something, Shari. Sometimes when you sing, I feel like you’re just gonna bust. Is there something behind that?”
She cackles again. “Absolutely nothin’. But I get that a lot. ‘Why, that girl musta had a turrible life. Just turrible.”
“Exactly,” I say.
She smiles. “In truth, I have had a mundanely happy existence. I think I seek out weepy, heart-wrenching ballads so I can balance things out. I think our emotions are like our skills. Use ‘em or lose ‘em, right? When I found you back there casting tears all over your parking brake, I was actually a little envious. I mean, ya feel better now, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess so.”
“I’ve got this friend who gets real bad PMS. And she decided to scour her CDs for sad songs, and listen to them, one after another, till she made herself cry. ‘Cause she knew it would make her feel better. After a while, she went ahead and made a PMS mix tape.”
“That is fucking beautiful,” I say. We laugh at my sudden obscenity, and I’m thinking, It would be so good to have a sister.
But there’s something else in that box. And it might be years before I look at it.
Next: Lunch On the Roof
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Image: Kari Mitchell. Photograph by MJV.
Big Sister
“I’m really sorry, Shari. Really sorry.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “Tell me why we’re here?”
Here is the end of the Jerisich Dock, my waterborne synagogue. The drizzle has returned, and we’re huddled beneath a huge umbrella that I keep in the truck.
“We’re here to smoke really bad cigars,” I say. “And, to forget.”
“Amen, sister,” says Shari. I hand her the first of the new Swisher Sweets. The last of the old is for me. I extract the silver polygon and fire it up with a roll of my thumb. First time, like magic. Shari’s first drag fills the dome of the umbrella.
“Whew! Nasty. Nice lighter, though. Whatcha call that flowery thing?”
“A fleur de lis.” I give myself a light and breathe in the familiar toxins. Raindrops smack the cloth above us.
“So hey,” she says. “I understand if maybe… you don’t want to tell me about…”
“Good,” I say, then I laugh, so I can pretend I’m joking. “Honestly, Shari, it’s just a bunch of little things, piling up all day long.”
“A straw/camel’s back situation?”
“Exactly.” (She has purchased the fabrication.)
“Okay,” she says. “But Channy. Could you tell me something else about yourself? I feel sometimes like I don’t know the least thing about you.”
I consider my options, watching the little spits of water jumping from the harbor surface.
I say this: “Chanson.”
Shari looks puzzled.
“That’s my name.”
“Song,” says Shari. “Wow. That’s beautiful. Can I tell?”
“Ain’t no state secret. But it was the reason I got beat up in third grade.”
“Aren’t kids awful?”
“Yeah. But they got theirs. I grew six inches that summer.”
Shari lets out a raspy Janis cackle, wrapped in tobacco.
Tell me something, Shari. Sometimes when you sing, I feel like you’re just gonna bust. Is there something behind that?”
She cackles again. “Absolutely nothin’. But I get that a lot. ‘Why, that girl musta had a turrible life. Just turrible.”
“Exactly,” I say.
She smiles. “In truth, I have had a mundanely happy existence. I think I seek out weepy, heart-wrenching ballads so I can balance things out. I think our emotions are like our skills. Use ‘em or lose ‘em, right? When I found you back there casting tears all over your parking brake, I was actually a little envious. I mean, ya feel better now, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess so.”
“I’ve got this friend who gets real bad PMS. And she decided to scour her CDs for sad songs, and listen to them, one after another, till she made herself cry. ‘Cause she knew it would make her feel better. After a while, she went ahead and made a PMS mix tape.”
“That is fucking beautiful,” I say. We laugh at my sudden obscenity, and I’m thinking, It would be so good to have a sister.
But there’s something else in that box. And it might be years before I look at it.
Next: Lunch On the Roof
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Image: Kari Mitchell. Photograph by MJV.
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