Two hours later, we were still in the smoking room. We had put the CD player on the floor and set it on a radio station. Juvenile’s song Back That Azz Up came on, and before I knew it, Jerrilyn and Veronica had pulled me from my seat. Rolling my eyes, I let them pull me about the room, but it wasn’t enough. No, for women it is never enough. We’re never satisfied unless we’ve formed a train and spanked each other’s asses.
Whatever. Let me show y’all how it’s done!
I busted out my best dance moves, causing Veronica and Jerrilyn to stop and watch me. I shook my hips and rolled my ribcage, waiting for the opportune moment. When the end of the song neared, I unleashed my super power.
I did the Carlton Banks.
Marigold, Jerrilyn, and Veronica erupted in laughter. Smiling, I turned the music back down and we sat at the table, again.
“Your father must be proud.” Marigold said with mock solemnity.
“He’s probably more proud I didn’t take that job at the strip club.” I told her, reaching for the coke bottle I had re-filled earlier with water.
“Wait, you were going to be a stripper?” Jerrilyn asked, lighting another cigarette.
“Yeah, my stage name was going to be Anita Dikenmi.”
“Really?” Ah, gullibility, you‘ve got a hot sister named Jerrilyn.
I laughed. “No, that wasn’t going to be my stage name. I did checkout a strip club when I first moved here, though.”
“Which one?” Veronica asked.
“Pandora’s Boxx, you know? The one on Knickerbocker by the church Jenny Jones got strippers from last year? I went in and I swear it looked like a pimp exploded in there. There was zebra striped carpet, waist-high strobe lights like somebody blinged out was spinning in front of a flashlight, and vanilla smoke from a smoke machine. I asked the manager about hiring procedure and he said I’d need to perform a private audition in his office. I left. I don‘t care what he calls it, a private audition is way too close to prostitution.” I explained, lighting another cigarette, as well.
“Ew. Was he at least cute?” Jerrilyn asked.
“No. He was fifty-ish and balding, with greasy skin and a comb over. I think it was more like a test to see if I could gyrate on him without puking.”
“Your Mom would’ve had every right to kick your ass if you’d taken it.” Said the crackhead... Oh wait, she bought me dinner. That should’ve read ‘Said the rich crackhead…’
“Yeah, well, Mari, that’s why I didn’t. That and I love dancing, just not on fat slobs with halitosis and dirty fingernails.” I took a swig of my water, then wiped my mouth on the back of my hand as un-ladylike as possible.
Chumbawumba came on and Jerrilyn turned the music back up. We talked for another hour or two, lost in a cozy cocoon of Crazy Bitches Just Bein’. We were finally sent back to our rooms after complaints from the floor below during a particularly raucous rendition of The Roof is On Fire. I’d tell you more about it, but you’re not worthy. Some things are just too good to taint by description.
Anyways, I considered the night a roaring success to end on that note.
Aaron did not agree, but the enormous, romance novel loving orderly still smiled as he led us, giggling, to our rooms.
The next morning we had a new patient. Her name was Sandra Joe, and she was so similar to my biological mother I blanched at the sight of her. By biological, I mean the woman who shot me out, not raised me. The woman who raised me is my Mom. Having met my biological mother only recently and been half-raped on my visit to see her in Las Vegas (half-raped, held hostage four hours, then miraculously loved; I don’t know who penned Murphy’s law, but you are one sick, but oddly not heartless, bastard), I wasn’t happy seeing such a close resemblance to her sitting on the couch chatting it up with my friends. Barely taller than I, she had long dark brown wavy hair hanging just passed the middle of her back. She could have been my biological Aunt, having small eyes with laugh lines curving over high, rounded cheekbones above a narrow, but full mouth and blunted chin.
She was odd, to say the least. When she spoke, her voice was tinged with an almost ethereal quality. Her fluttery little movements had an unexpected grace. How her delicate hands seemed to glide as she entertained the other women made me think of floating in water.
The other patients were wrapped securely in a web of comfort she exuded, probably without even realizing it. Shit, tell me she’s not a holy roller or bible beater, I thought. I’ve gone to church my whole life. God can leave me alone for a week while I go crazy.
“Brittni? Come sit down.” Jerrilyn urged, seeing me at the door.
Sandra Joe looked at me and smiled serenely.
Veronica finished her lip liner. Ah, Vanity, thy name is Woman. Makeup before eight AM is a sin and is chiseled on a tablet somewhere, I know it. Possibly Egypt.
I sat down next to Sandra Joe and leaned against the arm of the couch. “So, what’d you do? Or more importantly, what’d you do it with?” I asked, taking a long strand of my hair and twirling it in my fingers. I’d wanted to say that since Jerrilyn asked me my first day here.
Yeah…buddy.
The color drained from Sandra Joe’s face.
Oh, shit. Bad Brittni.
Her mouth opened and closed, then she got up and left the room just as breakfast arrived.
The other women looked at me, and I suddenly felt small, like a child who was about to get in trouble and desperately needed a good excuse. But I had none. Let’s go with sincerity, instead.
“I wasn‘t trying to make her leave, you know?” I said, staying on the couch as the other residents walked into the hall to get their food off of the caddy.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not really what you said; it’s that she’s not ready to talk about it.” Jerrilyn explained, sitting down and using her fork to inspect the condition of the food, testing density, dryness, and composition before mixing all of the foods into one atrocious mixture and hoovering the contents. I’m all for mixing food in certain instances, but those runny eggs oozing between the shredded, undercooked hash browns topped with salsa and grape jelly? My God, woman, that is plain foul.
I decided I‘d apologize to Sandra Joe--and eat---later.
By the evening, Sandra Joe was still in her room, so I decided to visit her after watching X-Files and having a quick smoke. I was a late-comer to The X-Files, but I actually prefer it this way, because when you’re hooked from the beginning you have to wait for each episode. Get hooked near the end and you have a plethora of episodes to choose from. Luckily for me, Veronica tried not to give away too much as we watched.
When the episode was over, we made our way to the smoking room, Marigold, Jerrilyn, Veronica and I. Walking by the desk, I noticed a diarrhea brown, perhaps formerly orange, beat-up duffle bag sitting on the floor. I glanced at the humility closet and saw it was shut. Two in one day, really? Who do they think we are? Porn stars?
Crazy never takes a number.
It was only a few minutes before the latest patient joined us in the smoking room. We all have vices we placate our lives with, be they platitudes, tits, or tobacco. I guess the depressed and suicidal opt for tobacco when nothing else is within reach and platitudes run dry. The newest patient was no exception.
She walked in, a tiny, wraithlike woman with empty, heavy eyes and a mouth that when pursed looked sewn shut by the many wrinkles framing the lips. If only we had been so lucky… No, really. You have no idea.
The cigarette in her hand was already lit. She sat next to me and promptly dropped ashes on my shirt, one my grandmother gave me after my grandfather’s death. It had been his favorite.
The woman switched the cigarette to her other hand and ground the ashes securely in with the heel of her palm, squeaking like an ancient cog in need of a thorough oiling, “Oh, I’m so sorry! Well, at least it’s not a new shirt.”
Woman, you could not sell enough of your organs on the black market to make up for the sentimental value in this shirt. Ice, very thin. You, right the fuck on it.
“No, that’s great. Just rub it in instead of blowing the ashes off. Perfect.” I muttered, and shoved her hand away. Looking down, I appraised the damage. There was a hole the size of the tip of a pen right next to the second to last button, a streak of grey arcing out behind it like a comet. I slowly raised my eyes without lifting my head and glared at her. Fuck the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. I went straight to Friday the 13, the faithful chuh chuh chuh, kah kah kah playing menacingly in my head. My life has a soundtrack. Yes. The people who do not are the weird ones in my book. Yeah, baby. Wrap your mind around that.
Anyways, back to the one about to die. First she burns my shirt, then she tries to dismiss her action as unimportant by saying it was an old shirt, which negated her apology. This daffy broad and I were not going to play well together.
“You don’t have to get rude about it.” She scolded.
Her comment brought my chin up, and I narrowed my eyes. Touch me or scold me one more time, and you will be smoking that tobacco out of the same hole you are talking from, you primordial hag of Hades.
She finally looked away.
Satisfied, I swiveled in the opposite direction to pick up the conversation where the others and I left off, not including the sack of shit beside me. Awful? Perhaps. But she’d desecrated my grandfather’s shirt, the one I saw him in regularly before he died, and had therefore automatically gone right to the top of my shit list. Fuck fair. I’m Crazy, remember?
Behind me, she went on as if I still faced her. “My name is Nettie. The doctor said I really shouldn’t be at this ward, because there’s a better one about two hundred miles east, but my husband has to make the arrangements first, so I’m stuck here. At least until he gets me a reservation. You know they’re even supposed to have these big ol’ therapy rooms with massooges-”
Marigold interrupted her, “What’s a massooge?”
Turning, I cut my eyes back around to her to watch her answer.
Nettie glowed, thrilled to have knowledge of something Marigold did not. “They’re people who, they all… massage, like, your back and shoulders and stuff. I get ‘em all the time.”
“So, shouldn’t you know the word is ‘masseuse’?”
The pink flush of joy in Nettie’s grey cheeks faded, only to return brighter and redder, “O-Of course. Massooges is just what I call ‘em.”
“Oh, like a nickname, then.” Jerrilyn stated, her sarcasm almost undetectable. Almost. I glanced at her and saw both eyebrows raised. Her expression was very cool, almost detached. I frowned.
“Yeah. “ Nettie said, eagerly. “Yeah, like a nickname. I mean, I know they’re really called massue-” She paused, and I could hear her brain working furiously to replay the way Marigold had pronounced ‘masseuse’.
“Sss. There’s an ‘s’ sound on the end.” Marigold corrected.
“I know!” Nettie snapped, “You just didn’t give me enough time to say it! Garshdangit!“ The whine in her voice made all of the muscles in my neck contract and my jaw clench. Her voice had a quality to it, a raspy screech, which brought to mind the owls of midnight outside of my grandparents home, nesting in the ancient windmill by the house and seeking out late-night snacks. The only difference was the owls also made hooting noises that were soothing in the moonlight, whereas I’m sure Nettie had nothing soothing or even close to it which could come from her mouth or any other orifice capable of sound.
I turned one more time, just enough to give her my profile, but not enough to give her my full attention. “Just, uh, how much time did you need, Nettie? Our insurance only pays for so long.”
“I-”
“Her question was rhetorical, Nettie.” Jerrilyn said, quietly but sharply.
“I-“
“No, that means no answer is really required, Nettie.” Jerrilyn interrupted, again. Jerrilyn was never mean, but tonight her patience was even thinner than mine. I decided to corner Jerrilyn after speaking with Sandra Joe and find out what was going on.
“I’ll meet y’all back in the common room in a little bit,” I told the others, ignoring Nettie and rising.
“Where you going, Britt?” Jerrilyn asked.
“See Sandra Joe. About earlier.” I explained, watching her. I saw the light dawn in her eyes. Jerrilyn had completely forgotten Sandra Joe was even here. “I’ll just meet y’all in a little bit and we’ll wa-“
“Your name is Britt? That’s my middle name!”
Brakes slammed in my head and I nearly wheeled into reverse. What the hell is this daffy damn woman jawing about, now? I know she is not saying her name is Nettie Britt. Swallow it, ignore it, and roll on, Brittni. “Like I was saying, we’ll watch a shitty movie, or something.”
Jerrilyn, Veronica, and Marigold nodded, all three watching me struggle not to snap at Nettie on my way out the door.
“See ya later! Isn’t that just so cool? We both have the same name! How tall is she? Is she married? You know, I think I'm shorter than she is.” Nettie continued after I left. I could still hear her after I passed the elevator and walked in front of the nurses desk.
Great.
A fucking life-mimic. She sees what cards you’ve been dealt in life, then claims to have the exact same set, only one step higher or lower depending on what you value.
I chuckled as I walked into the hall, Thin Lizzy’s Don’t Believe a Word beginning to play in my head. She may think she’s creative or quick, coming up with near identical situations with slight deviations, but she’s never gone up against someone whose life is stranger than fiction. The woman was about to get a lesson in here she would never forget.
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