She sat across the table from me in the smoking room.
Aaron was by the door, a new Steele book in his hands.
Cigarette rolling between my fingers, I searched for the words. I could find none.
Inhale. Exhale. Silence. Smoke rings.
Hey, that’s a pretty fat one! Shaking my head, I put my cigarette out. That’s the problem with letting your mind wander. Sometimes it likes to play with itself. “Listen, Sandra Joe…”
“Let’s go in the common room and watch a movie with the others, what do you say?”
“Huh?”
“The others were going to put on The Princess Bride. Let’s watch it with them.” She smiled at me serenely and stood. “I’m not upset about earlier. It was just a misunderstanding. You don’t have to apologize to me.”
“Fine.” I snapped. “Go on. I’m staying for another cigarette.”
“Brittni, I appreciate you want to apologize, but I am simply trying to convey you do not need to. If you want to apologize, that is fine. However, you will be apologizing because you need it, not me.”
“Yeah, I heard you loud and fucking clear. Enjoy.” I lifted my feet and put them in her empty seat, stubborn and selfish over losing the opportunity to apologize.
Yep, that’s a new low. What the hell, I’m here. Why not roll deeper in it, right?
Sandra Joe, however, did not leave, which was not exactly how I planned things going after saying ‘enjoy’.
“What? Just go.” I spat and swiveled in my seat, avoiding her. I put my cigarette in the ashtray and tugged at my hair band to remove it.
The shuffle of her feet sounded across the floor softly toward the door.
I continued messing with my hair. I’d wound the band too tightly to slip my finger nails beneath it, so I pulled the entire band, tugging it to the end of my hair. Grimacing, I closed my eyes as a knot of hair wrapped securely about the band tried to come with it.
“Damn it!” I growled, wincing. My head began to pound and tears squeezed from the corners of my eyes, crying. Inside, a dam – one beyond the vulgar -- broke. My first day I cried because I’d attacked everyone, and today I was crying because some damn hippy wouldn’t let me apologize to her. I really was losing it, but not because of a frigging hippy.
I felt like I was failing at being human.
I tried to laugh at the insipid nature of the thought, how very 80’s and Alan Thicke it was, but the problem was I wasn’t a robot like the child he built in Not Quite Human.
I felt like one, sometimes. I tried to act like one, at times. It seemed easier than exposing the deep and webbed insides of myself, but holy Brunhilda, when that eight foot Amazon of emotion catches up to you carrying all of the heartache you’ve avoided over the years, there is not one part of you which doesn’t ache when she swings that mighty hammer at your back. More and more of me was aching, lately. I didn’t like it, I didn’t want it, I needed it, but I hated it. It hurt, and I never wanted to hurt again.
For once, the laughter would not come. A sob rose in its place. I swallowed it down and ducked my head, dropped my hands and pulled my legs from the chair. To be honest, I didn’t know what to do with the sorrow bubbling in my chest, so I leaned forward to put my elbows on the table, head drooping to let my forehead could rest against my forearms. The tears fell freely to the floor.
A few minutes later I heard the sweep of feet come back into the room. Before I could snarl a word, I realized my throat was closing up and my nose was running. I laughed, garbled, and it was bitter. Screw you, irony. Of course, now I can laugh when snot is dribbling down the side of my cheek.
Something wet spritzed against the back of my hair. The sound reminded me of my mother and the smell…the smell was home. No More Tears. I cried deeply. Weeping, wracking sobs as I felt my hair being gently tugged and unknotted. My mother used to have hell with my hair when I was a child. She bought No More Tears and used bottle after bottle just to get my hair manageable. I almost grew to hate the bottle, but when I got older and stopped using it, I finally saw it had helped.
My hair was pulled back from my face, the hands doing the work both gentle and rough, fingertips of freshly picked cotton. Sweeping a strand from my cheek, coated in snot and humility, I reached up and grabbed the hand. I knew who the hand belonged to. Finally, the words came.
“Sandra Joe, I’m sorry.”
Back in the common room, the lights were low. The hallway door was open, allowing a shaft of light to spill in, but we pretended it wasn’t there. Sandra Joe had asked to braid my hair after untangling it and I, for some reason, couldn’t refuse her. Her fingers were gentle and nimble, a welcome difference from what I was used to growing up.
My Mom and I fought over this hair when I was a kid. Not that it is anything capable of being spun into silk. It’s even got a streak of black in the back with what’s known in these parts as a cow’s lick. Yep, it looks like it sounds, as if a cow licked the back of my head and made that particular bit of hair stand up—forever. But damn it, it’s long and it is mine. I like it that way.
Mom wanted it kept short, and I demanded it be left to grow long. I wished for it every night on every star I saw, sitting up in my bed peeking out between the blinds and trying to find a star between the branches of the huge shade tree in front of my window. I wanted it long so much when I climbed from the bath I would leave the towel draped around the top of my forehead and cascading down my back just to pretend it was long, parading before my parents in protest. Of course, one good flip of it over my shoulder was enough to break the illusion.
I also swiped my Mom’s old wigs and wore them bald, or put them on my brother. By eighth grade, he got his own wig and went as a mermaid for Halloween. Yeah, I never said I didn’t add to his problems.
When it was finally long enough to braid, my mother began taking me to a girl in High School who could French braid. My mom never learned, so most of the time my hair ended up in pigtails with ‘hair bobbers’ on them.
I like to think of all the time I had short hair as preparation for this chick. You see, my Mom was never really good at fixing my hair. She banged my head with the blow drier multiple times every session. She burnt my forehead with the curling iron every Sunday and most Mondays. No More Tears was really just wishful thinking.
And really, thank God for that.
Amy was rough.
A tight French braid can alter your face. Now, my face already looks altered half the time because of my chinky eyes. I can’t help it if my eyes disappear when I smile. It’s why I don’t smile that much. I hated my eyes as a kid; size, shape, all of it. And yeah, I just admitted chink was a nickname when I was in fifth grade. A shortly lived nickname, because my tongue is quicker and was dipped in venom longer than most other kids my age. Suzette Bolivas found that out during a particularly nasty game of telling each other off when she got the nickname ‘fang’, because of her overlapping incisors. By graduation, she had an orthodontically perfected smile, and I like to think I played a small part in that. Let’s face it. Calling her fang got her more and better dick.
You are welcome, Ma’am!
Anyways, Amy made my eyes smaller, if that’s possible, and even made them impossible to close. And the night I saw her after she and her boyfriend broke up, well, I’m pretty sure that was just child abuse. But my hair looked great. I think.
After The Princess Bride, the others had put in Thelma and Louise. Marigold was in a reclining chair, close to Veronica and Jerrilyn. Veronica and Jerrilyn snuggled up together on the end of the couch while Nettie was on the opposite side, and the two women had their feet pointed at her as a warning of proximity. Nettie had fallen asleep, her lips flapping outward lightly as she snored. Sandra Joe was in the chair next to the couch on Nettie’s side and I sat on the floor in front of her while she did my hair. Life seemed absurdly normal for almost an hour.
Then Nettie turned her head in my direction, mouth aimed downward, breath sweeping greasily across my face.
I gagged.
And that was when the trouble started.
Everybody has those ‘things’ that they cannot stand. The truth is those ‘things’ are things none of us can stand, so I know y’all are going to be with me on this one.
I cannot stand rancid breath, but Nettie was not even in that category. In fact, if rancid breath had an inbred, interspecies, bastard offspring step-child which made no scientific sense in the modern world, it would still be an upgrade from the foulness marinating in her mouth. What was going on in there simply defied all logic and ate through ship hulls as a day job.
My throat went into protective mode, shutting down all byways and locking down the main entrance. My stomach revolted against my throat and decided an immediate evacuation was necessary. I started to scramble to my feet. My head jerked back and I realized Sandra Joe still had a grip on my hair. I lost my balance and fell.
Thank God for fat asses. Or more specifically, thank God for my fat ass. I landed on the smooth finished cement floor and instantly considered smothering Nettie with a pillow. The thought briefly relieved the aching in my ass.
Nettie awoke as Veronica, Jerrilyn, and Marigold sat up, each bombarding me with questions. I tried swallowing down the rising bile in my throat, patting my chest and raising my other hand at them to stop for a second. But good, reliable Nettie leapt into action.
“I know what to do!” She said, hoarsely. Standing shakily, she took two steps and knelt down in front of my face. “Doo yooo neeeeed hhhhhhellp? Aaaree yooo chhhokiiiing? Dooo yooo neeeed thheee hiiinleenk mahhhnuuubbberrr?”
It was one H too many. I promptly vomited down the front of her shirt. Her face colored crimson in outrage, Nettie opened her odoriferous orifice and shrieked.
Climbing to my feet, I tried to wipe my face. A cacophony of voices and swishing garments thundered down the hall. The telltale swish of nylon encased thighs seemed to carry the loudest. A battalion of nurses and orderlies burst into the room, flicking on the light and moving into the room to separate us.
I flashed an apologetic look at my friends. Sandra Joe, who still had a hold of my hair, slipped an arm around my shoulder. I shook, angry, afraid, and impotent with this grandmotherly woman holding me. I couldn’t bring myself to shrug her off or push her away. We backed up to the wall. What was going to happen?
“Who screamed? What is going on? Nettie, was that you? Are you okay? Did one of these women hurt you?” The Debra asked, not even looking at the woman she was addressing, preferring to glare at the rest of us in turn. Eat shit, you bitch. Ask Nettie where she dines, since you’re so damn fond of her.
“She…she attacked me!” Nettie shrieked, pointing in my direction. Fuck me, Amadeus. At least she left the others out of it. But honestly, hag, if I wanted to attack you, I wouldn’t do it with stomach acid. I mean, really.
Instead, I glanced around for a pillow.
“Debra, if I may?” Sandra Joe interrupted. She waited until she had Debra’s full attention before continuing. “What we have here is a simple misunderstanding. Brittni has not been eating well and simply became ill, as—Nettie, is it?—as Nettie’s shirt can attest. I’m afraid she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, but there was no attack. Was there, Nettie? It was a misunderstanding, wasn’t it?”
Her voice was calming and I felt the tension in the air dissipate slightly. All eyes in the room swung back to stare at Nettie, whose cheeks were now bright red with embarrassment. The only mark on her was on the shirt, and she knew it. Her eyes narrowed at Sandra Joe, but she could not deny her words. “I—it…fine!” She snapped, then stomped out of the room in house slippers.
Marigold smirked. Veronica and Jerrilyn moved away from the orderlies.
Somebody nudged my back and I looked over my shoulder, the feeling of dread which had come over me slipping away. Aaron held out a bottle of coke. Grateful, I took it and twisted off the cap, sucking it down despite the nasty taste in my mouth. After a few gulps, some of the taste washed away. Burns so good. I whispered a thanks to him. He didn’t answer, and I followed his gaze.
On the television screen, Brad Pitt had stripped down to his underwear.
Aaron was watching. Hah, Aaron was memorizing, actually. Aaron was recording visuals to masturbate to later. My eyebrow took a hike up my forehead. Aaron noticed me and finally drug his eyes from the screen.
He’s gay, he’s a linebacker, and he wants to be swept off his feet…by Brad Pitt. Wasn’t going to happen, but damn if it wasn’t cute in a ten-foot tall, fluffy bunny sort of way.
The Debra, foiled for now, and in my mind, muttering ‘curses!’, walked to the VCR. “I think it’s time for bed.”
I shook my head, about to speak. Beside me, Sandra Joe poked me in the ribs and spoke first, “The movie was almost over. I think finishing it would be a good way to let us wind down after all the excitement. What do you say, Debra?”
The Debra cocked her head to the side, trying to figure out what was happening. Inside, I clapped. She was being manipulated not only by a pro, but by a pro who did it kindly. Sandra Joe could teach me a thing or two, that’s for damn sure. I waited to see if Debra took the bait.
“Okay,” She said, slowly, “just this once, then lights out.” Debra paused by the door, “But this light stays on.”
“Absolutely.” Sandra Joe nodded, as if the idea were hers.
The Debra frowned, her brain still plodding along the puzzle, trying to figure out what was siphoning her power, then swished out of the room in bright pink, heart printed stirrup pants.
I grabbed the back of my hair and spun around to face Sandra Joe. “Teach me this. I must learn your ways.”
She clucked her tongue and shook her head, sighing as if I were a lost cause. “The only thing you must do is go brush those teeth, unless you want to end up like Nettie.”
I covered my mouth with my hand, “Point taken. I will be back.”
“Wait! Turn around and let me put a hair bobber on, so I can finish your hair.”
Hand still over my mouth, I smiled and obediently turned around. She really was just like my Mom.
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