Читать книгу Hearts Beat Strong - B. M. Fischer - Страница 6

I am the past, and they all know it. Weakness. Desperation. Vulnerability. These things emanate off of me, off of my tall, slender frame as I stand at the cash register at work. The uniform t-shirt tightly drawn across my chest and the bow tied up in my brunette hair compliment the flirtatious and careless demeanor I have at work. Women detest me, and men want to use me.

I take a long sip from an energy drink I purchased to get me through my shift. The caffeinated toxin enters my body and lifts my awareness just enough so that I can continue on with my meaningless work. I turn and look at Shelby, one of the girls I work with, as she addresses me.

“I just finished mopping out the back, Katie. Is there anything else you want me to do for close?” She asks me. The pizza shop we work at closes in two hours, but when it starts to slow down, we start cleaning for the nightly close.

“No, thank you Shelby; you can go ahead and clock out if you want to. I can handle the rest. I don’t think we’ll have many more customers.” I reply. She smiles and thanks me. After she clocks out at our electronic register, I watch her walk out of the front door of the shop.

I started working at the pizza shop in high school. It started out as a part time job so that I could afford my car payments and help my mom out here and there. I used to aspire to be a medical doctor, but when the time came to go college, I started to doubt my abilities. The owner offered me the position of manager after I graduated high school, and seeing the pay raise made me accept it. Even though I was working full time, I attempted to take classes at a community college as well. After two semesters of classes, most of which I dropped, I gave up. My failed higher education left me with disappointment and a sizeable student loan, and nothing else.

Mindlessly, I begin wiping things down in the store. There’s a certain comfort in thoughtless work. I at least know that I am earning money and doing my job, however irrelevant it may be to society. Periodically, I check my phone, hoping that a boy I met a week ago had decided to send me a text. Every time I touch the screen and have no new messages, my heart breaks just a little bit more. I feel pathetic, but am able to lose myself in my work.

As I’m bent over wiping around the mixer in one corner of the shop, I hear a long whistle from behind me. I instinctively giggle and stand up. Seeing a young man at the front of the register, I make my way across the store to help him.

“Hi, how can I help you?” I ask him in a high-pitched voice. He’s taller, and is wearing the clothes of someone who works outside: boots, jeans, and a t-shirt. He gives me a funny look and responds.

“You could give me your number, sweet heart.” He says. I giggle girlishly in response. He seems really cute, and I can’t help but enjoy the masculine attention.

“Oh yeah? Maybe… But what can I get you?” I ask him in a joking manner. This was one of the few things at work that wasn’t a pain. There were a few fun customers a day that made the job bearable.

“Well, I was hoping to get a large cheese pizza and a large soda if you can do that for me baby.” He tells me. I smile back at him and type the order into the register.

“That’ll be $14.86. I’ll have to make your pizza though, so it’ll be about ten or fifteen minutes. Is that OK?” I ask him. As he takes out his wallet, he tells me that that’s fine. He hands me a twenty-dollar bill and I ring it up into the register. As I go to hand him his change, he lifts his hand up to me in refusal.

“That’s all you sweetie. Just make it good for me, alright?” He says to me. I laugh and tell him sure. I get to work making his pizza, happy at the unexpected tip I just made.

I go to the high-top counter where the pizzas are made and begin the process. I cut the dough and begin pressing it out with my fingers. Every time I look up, the guy from the register is smiling at me and making eye contact. It’s a little distracting, but I’ve made so many pizzas that the steps of pizza-making are almost engrained into my body and mind. As I put his pizza into the oven, I feel his eyes on my back and try to act like I don’t know he’s staring at me.

I’ve been with a lot men. I know it’s bad, but once you start really having a lot of sex, it’s hard to stop. So many guys promise so many things, and seem so sweet, but then end up fucking you over. They say that women who are promiscuous have daddy issues. I guess that makes sense for me as my Dad walked out on my Mom and me when I was only a little girl. He’s such a bastard.

When the pizza is done cooking, I box it up and walk it towards the counter. The guy, smiling and laughing, walks up to me. I laugh back at him over nothing. He’s so dumb. As I hand him his pizza, he says to me,

“So a buddy of mine is having a house party tonight over on the north side of town. I was thinking maybe you could come too? If you’re into that kind of thing. Here’s my number anyway.” He hands me an old receipt with his name and number scribbled on it. I laugh and say,

“OK, yeah that sounds fun! I’ll see what my girlfriends are doing tonight.” He laughs slightly and half-smiles.

“Text me.” He says, and he turns and leaves the store.

I take my time cleaning and closing the store. I enjoy the stillness of the shop after the doors are locked and the open sign is turned off. I lose myself in my thoughts; thinking about all the ways I’ve fucked up in the past. How could I ever live honestly given all that I’ve done?

As I lock the front door, and start down the street, I pull out my phone and check it; still no messages. I stare at my phone for a few moments and then decide. I pull out the receipt and type in the guy’s number from earlier. I then send him a message: “Hey you”.

When I was little, I went to a public elementary school on the east side of town. I have a few memories of being there: the classes and the activities. It was before my Dad fucked us over. It was before my purity was crushed by the heavy handed dominance of masculinity.

I can remember the classroom where we had art activities. It was on a lower level of the school. It was a small room with concrete floors. It was hidden behind a door painted bright blue. All of the children, including myself, loved going to art class the most.

One day in art class, we were given clay to mold into any kind of pottery of our choosing. I don’t know why, but I built two towers. They were the most beautiful and tall moldings in the entire class. I loved them like they represented something about me; like I was special, unique, and had something magnificent to offer the world.

After we had finished making our clay structures, we had to leave them for two days to cook and dry in the kiln. We were all excited to see our new creations. It was all we talked about.

During one of the days of waiting, all of the children were out on the playground for free play. We were all running around, screaming and laughing, and climbing and jumping. There were two twin brothers, whose first names I do not recall, because they were always referred to by their last name: “Freeman”. The brothers approached me and told me that my towers had been destroyed. They were smashed in the art room, crushed by a ball that was thrown by another boy, Amir.

I ran into the classroom and was devastated at what I saw. My two towers laid in a pile of rubble on one of the art room tables. I cried and cried. The symbolic structures of my incredible worth to the world sat before me smashed and in ruin.

A boy named Daniel stood beside me as I cried. Daniel was the biggest, strongest, and most popular boy in our entire class. He had heard what the Freeman brothers had said. He grew angry at Amir. He was consumed with a desire for retribution, to make this atrocity right.

Daniel exited the art room, and ran the great distance to the sandboxes on the mideastern side of the playground. There, he found Amir sitting alone. Daniel attacked him: pushing him to the ground, and punching and kicking him. Amir stood no chance in the fight. Daniel was by far bigger and stronger. Everyone who watched knew that.

Daniel was suspended from school for three days because of what he did. He stood by his actions though. In childish ignorance, he maintained a hatred for Amir. Most of the class went along with Daniel, fearing and ostracizing the foreign boy.

Later on, it became rumor that Amir hadn’t really smashed my towers at all. It was said that the Freeman brothers had shoved fire crackers into the clay moldings and set them off. Without the school disciplining the Freemans, and with Daniel so fervently sticking to his actions, the rumor remained just that: a rumor. No one dared to speak it out loud.

I remember later that day, I was walking to the bus stop to ride home from school. As I travelled down the sidewalk, I saw a familiar car. It was my father’s car. As the car zoomed into view, I saw my Dad in the front seat. In the passenger side was woman whom I didn’t know. She was pretty and blonde. I remember waving at the car as it passed me, expecting my father to stop and pick me up. He just never looked at me though, and kept on driving.

I realized later that he was probably having an affair with the woman with him. I doubt that he was ever faithful at all to my Mom. It wasn’t much later that they got divorced. He slowly pushed us both out of his life altogether.

I wake up in a stranger’s bed. I try to piece together the night before, but can’t remember much. I remember doing shots at the party and taking a few pain killers that were offered to me. After that, my memory is blurry. I can tell I had sex though.

There’s a man lying beside me in the bed. He’s sprawled out, face-down against the sheets. I slip out of bed and am careful to not stir him. I stand up and feel the cool air of the dark room against my naked body. Looking back to the man in the bed, I recognize him as the guy who came to the store the night before. I search for my phone.

I pick up a phone and realize it is his as I look at the screen. I lose my breath for just one moment as I read the first message on the screen: “I miss you and love you too baby. I’ll see you next weekend.” I want to cry. I’m the slut whom he cheated on his girlfriend with.

In a hurried panic I collect my clothes and things which are thrown all across the floor of the room. I want to get out of here as quickly as possible. After I’m dressed, I head to the door to exit the room and take one more glance back at the man in the bed. He’s snoring slightly and sleeping soundly, probably exhausted from taking me last night.

I start crying on the drive home. I can’t keep doing this. I don’t even know how my car ended up at that apartment complex. The early morning light makes me feel sick. The veins in my arms are sunken in, and my body is shaking. At a stop light, I pull up on the neck of my shirt to wipe the tears from my eyes and see a large bruise right above my left breast. It’s a bite mark and it makes me cry even harder.

My self-loathing thoughts are interrupted by my phone ringing. It’s my Mom. I hold in my tears and slow my breathing as I answer and talk to her. I forgot that it’s Sunday and I’m supposed to meet her at church. I tell her that I’ll have to run home and change, but then I’ll come over to go with her. She asks me where I’m coming from and I have to lie. I say that I stayed at one of my girlfriend’s apartments last night.

I calm down a bit after talking to my Mom and turn on the stereo in my car. After switching through a few channels on the radio, I find a song I like. It’s that hit song Alien Abduction. The rhythmic beats slow down my mind. I feel better letting the song take me over. I start moving back and forth, dancing while I’m driving. I sing along to the lyrics.

“You’re from the heavens

And I’m on the ground

Take, take, take me up now.

Big dark eyes

And a contemplating stare

You know, you know, know I don’t care.”

The doors to the church are large and ancient, having hosted many thousands of worshippers through-out the years. So many Christians had come here to reaffirm each Sunday that they are the submissive servants of God. I walk in side by side with my Mom.

I feel the glances of the congregation upon my body. It’s as if all of the attendees know what I did last night. We walk into the community establishment and receive barely a single “hello”. I feel unwanted here.

As the music from the organ plays on and on, I see the minister walks up to his position on the pulpit. I swear that he makes a judgmental eye contact with me, reinforcing what I know: I’m going to hell. Soon.

He is a short and bald man, but becomes loud and powerful when he speaks. During sermons his face becomes a glowing red, and his mouth bellows the words of God out like a thunderstorm. Every Sunday he makes it seem like the next day will be Judgment Day, and he tells the congregation to be ready.

“Praise God!” He begins, motioning towards the organist.

“May He see that we are here to worship Him and grant forgiveness upon us sinful mortals.” He says. I hope God sees me here. Maybe just coming to church will earn me a place in heaven. I hope so.

The minister explains the course of the day’s worship. I mindlessly follow along in the pamphlet that shows the schedule of the proceedings, and my heart stops for a beat when I see the sermon. The sermon is entitled: “The Sins of Sexuality in Today’s Modern Culture”.

I start to nervously shake a little, thinking about the night before; all of the nights I’ve had like that. God hates me, and I will burn for my sins. I’m pulled away from my thoughts by the minister’s loud voice.

“I would like to begin the service today by reminding everyone of the parable of the rich young man.” He starts.

“A rich young man came to Jesus and asked, ‘Good Master, what good thing shall I do, that I may have eternal life?’. And Jesus told him, ‘keep the commandments.’” The minister pauses for a moment and then continues.

“But the rich young man pressed on. He asked which of the commandments were the most important to keep. Jesus then told him, ‘Honour thy father and thy mother: and, Thou shalt love they neighbor as thyself.’ The church leader continues with the familiar story.

“The young man told Jesus that he had kept the commandments, and inquired what else that he lacked. Jesus then said to him, ‘If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come and follow me.’”

“But the rich young man did not like this answer. You see he had many possessions and did not wish to sell them. He walked away and left, grieving for he did not wish to give up his many things.” The minister then reads directly from his bible.

“Jesus then says, in the holy gospel of Matthew, ‘Verily I say unto you, That a rich man shall hardly enter into the kingdom of heaven. And again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.’” His voice then gains more power, building up into a tremendous volume.

“It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God!” He shouts as he scans across the faces of the congregation.

“Do not be like the young rich man. Do not desire these things. Surely, the eternal kingdom of God is worth more than your clothes, your car, or even your house?” The organ starts playing again and four ushers with offering plates stand at the front of the church, just in front of the minister. They then start walking and passing the offering plates systematically down each of the pews.

“Do not be like the young rich man.” The minister repeats, a bit more quietly this time. As the offering plates near our pew, I see my mom pull out her checkbook. She makes a check out to the church for a hundred dollars. I wonder silently if she has enough money in her bank account to cover it.

The service goes on, and my attention comes and goes. My mother and I stand when appropriate, read along from the pamphlet when required, and sing along to the age old hymns carried by the timeless pipe-induced vibrations of the organ. I begin to realize how tired I am, and just as I am mentally checking out (yet looking awake), the minister’s voice brings me back.

“They have made our sons and daughters sexually immoral! The sinful music and celebrities and television tell our children that these actions are OK!” He begins to really yell.

“They tell our children in the schools that these actions are OK! They have defiled the sanctity of marriage!” He picks up the bible from in front of him and reads.

“For this is the will of God, even your sanctification, that ye should abstain from fornication: That every one of you should know how to possess his vessel in sanctification and honour; Not in the lust of concupiscence, even as the Gentiles which know not God” He quotes the scripture in a powerful tone.

“God has told us his will! We must obey! We must submit ourselves to the Lord!” He shouts downward at the congregation. The room begins to feel warm to me. There’s a light buzzing in my ears that is growing louder with each passing moment. I’m seeing small dark spots. I try to ignore these things and continue listening to the sermon.

“And what happens to those who do not listen to the warnings? What happens to those who pay no heed to the will of our God? The bible tells us.” The minister says, and then flips through his bible to another marked page.

“In the holy book of Revelation, it is written: ‘But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.’” He reads and then pauses for a moment while still looking downward at his bible. Lifting his face, he addresses the congregation.

“Hell. Let it be known to those on the radio, to those on the television, to those teaching in our schools. Eternal damnation awaits the sinners who ignore the Lord! Let it be known to everyone who partakes in these physical acts, which dishonor the all-powerful and almighty Father, that the worst and most horrible place imaginable shall be their home.”

The buzzing in my ears reaches such a high volume that it begins to drown out even the minister’s booming voice. I feel as if the weight of the world is pressing down on me. I feel as if my heart is being crushed. I only catch words here and there for the duration of the service. Throughout the rest of the day, the minister’s voice periodically rings through my mind.

“The lake which burneth with fire and brimstone” echoes in my ears. I know it is true. God cannot love me anymore. No one can.

After church, I go with my Mom to her house to eat lunch. Her house is located in a lower-middle class suburban neighborhood. The home is rundown with cracked windows and chipped paint. The lawn looks like an overgrown jungle where landmines wouldn’t be entirely out of place. The residence is full of problems, which have been largely unaddressed; a symptom caused by a missing consistent man in my mother’s life.

My Mom prepares lunch and we sit at the table ready to eat. Apparently, my brother has told her that he will attend the meal as well. After a half hour or so of waiting though, we decide to start eating anyway. My brother is notoriously late for everything.

As we eat, my Mom starts to make conversation. She asks me about work and my new apartment. She genuinely cares about me, but her prying can become annoying at times. She takes a spoonful of soup and questions me further.

“So Katie, have you thought about taking a few classes again next semester?” She asks. I look at her for a second before responding. Her comment makes me slightly angry.

“Mom, you know I can’t afford to. With rent and my car payments, taking out more loans to go to class for God-knows-what seems stupid.” I tell her. She thinks, just as everyone else in this country does, that everyone no matter what should get a college degree.

“Well I know Katie, but you’re so smart, and getting a degree will help you get a real job someday.” She says to me. The comment irritates me, and I reply aggressively.

“Oh right, the fifty hours a week I spend making pizzas isn’t a real job?” I respond. I don’t know what the hell she expects from me. At least I am paying my bills by myself, unlike my older brother Austin. My Mom replies.

“Well, if the school board gives me a promotion soon, then I’ll be able to help you out with paying for the classes sweet heart.” She says to me half-heartedly. She has been expecting a promotion for some five odd years.

“Mom, just stop. You had to refinance the house two months ago. It’s OK. I know we don’t have the money. I’m fine.” I tell her, trying to reassure her that it doesn’t matter to me.

Student loans seem like a death trap to me. I’ve already accumulated a few thousand dollars’ worth of loans and have almost no college credit to show for it. The workers at the financial aid office at the community college just hand you the money without question. They give you the money so easily that it seems like you don’t even have to pay it back.

I have several friends with tens of thousands of dollars of loans. A few of them have actually made it through and gotten their degrees. But even those with a degree have trouble finding jobs. Paying for college is like financing a house before you’re even 25. It’s not an investment if you just end up working some bull shit job after you graduate.

“Have you seen your father’s new house?” My Mom asks me after a while. I take a few bites of food before responding, not wanting to talk about the subject.

“Um, yeah I have. Hey I think Austin is calling me.” I say the latter part and look downward at my phone. It isn’t ringing, but I made the comment in hopes of changing the topic. I’ve seen the huge house where my Dad lives now. He must be so happy. It was such a good move for him to leave us.

After lunch, my brother actually does text me and says that he’ll be over soon. I head out to the garage to wait for him. The garage is full of useless and accumulated junk. The junk is a symbol for how America operates as a whole. Why fix anything if you could just use your credit card to buy a new replacement?

I light a cigarette to kill the time. Nothing is better for waiting than a cigarette. I take a long drag from the burning cylinder and exhale. Standing at the threshold of the opened garage door, I examine the neglected driveway and lawn. There’s a basketball goal that my father put up many years ago. The backboard is cracked and the net is torn and hangs loosely. I stare at it, and after a few minutes, my brother pulls up in his truck.

He drives an old two-door SUV with tinted-out windows. As he pulls into the driveway, I hear his loud metallic music blaring from the stereo. He opens the door to get out, and my senses are overwhelmed with the smell of marijuana.

“Hey sis! How’s it hanging?” He yells at me goofily as he gets out of the vehicle and approaches the house. I reply to him as he comes nearer.

“Good, I guess. Maybe if you weren’t so stoned, you would’ve made it to lunch on time.” I say to him and he laughs loudly. He walks up to me and pulls his white undershirt up, exposing his abdomen.

“Check this out. It’s sweet, right?” He asks, motioning to a fresh tattoo on the side of his rib cage. The tattoo is a depiction of Tommy Ninja from the cartoon we use to watch when we were kids. As I look at it, my brother shouts out.

“Hi-yaw!” He yells and mimics the character’s signature karate chop. I half smile and shake my head.

“How the fuck did you even pay for that Austin?” I ask him. He drops his shirt, and sort of readjusts himself on his feet in an uncoordinated way as he answers.

“Don’t worry about it. My buddy at the tattoo parlor did it for half price. Hey is Mom still home?” He asks me.

“Yeah, of course she is. It’s Sunday dude.” I say to him. I then look at him a little more closely, into his glossy and red eyes.

“Wait why?” I ask him. He answers casually.

“No reason, no reason. Just wanted to see her you know. Is she in a good mood?” He asks me in a cool and high kind of way. I read through the question to his intentions.

“What do you need money for? Seriously, Austin. You know she doesn’t have shit right now.” I say to him angrily. He looks at me for a little before responding, like he might be able to get sympathy out of me.

“Look, the dude I’ve been crashing with just wants some money now for rent. No big deal. I’m going to get a job soon.” He tells me. I make a loud exhalation and turn away from him.

“Fucking dead beat.” I say out-loud, and make my way to my car. You would think that when my Dad left, my brother would’ve stepped up as the man of the house. He doesn’t do shit though. It pisses me off so much some times.

I head back to my apartment slowly. I’m exhausted from everything. Every time there is a break in the music from the radio in my car, I hear the minister’s voice from earlier. It makes me feel dead inside over and over again. As I lie down to sleep later, my last conscious thoughts are those of the hell that awaits me.

I wake up around mid-morning, and lie in my bed for a long time. The morning light finds its way into my room around the cracks of the blinds of my windows, shining onto my long legs. I feel helpless and unable to move at all. My thoughts run through my mind like a running dialogue.

“You’re a slut.”

“God hates me.”

“Kill yourself. Just fucking kill yourself.”

“Stop it!” My mind is racing so fast that it becomes overwhelming and unbearable. I toss and turn in my bed, unable to sleep, yet continuously shutting my eyes like I am going to. Occasionally, I pick up my phone and stare at it desperately.

I have a phone full of numbers for people that I don’t talk to anymore. I scroll down through my contacts, looking for someone to talk to. I start at the A’s: A.J., Alex, Allen, Anthony. I scroll more quickly. I get to the B’s: Billy, Brad, Brandon, Bret. I throw down my phone in disgust. All I have is numbers for guys that I barely know. I pick up my phone and look at my contact list again; it’s at the D’s. The first contact is “Dad”. I drop my phone and start crying.

I remember the last time I saw my father. I went to visit him at his new house, with his new wife, and his new kids. I got dropped off by a boy that I had spent the night with. As he drove off in his truck, my Dad addressed me.

“Who the fuck is that Katie?” He asked me in a hostile tone.

“He’s just one of my guy friends Dad.” I told him. “Guy friends” is a term I use for the men I sleep with. None of them have any intention of really being with me, thus “boyfriend” would be inappropriate. He yelled at me violently.

“Is that what you do now? You just fuck every god damn dick in town?” He shouted at me. I started crying a little bit and responded.

“Oh yeah, like you’re any better asshole.” I said. He slapped me in the face, and I began crying with more emotion. He told me to leave and forget about our dinner plans. He told me to never come back to his house again.

I think over this as I lie in bed. If I were just better, if I just hadn’t been such a slut, then maybe my Dad would still love me. A few hours pass before I decide to get up to go smoke a cigarette outside.

I stand outside in the covered porch of our apartment. The porch is on the ground floor, and the grass of the lawn reaches right up to the cement foundation. As I light my cigarette, I look outward into the cloudy skies and it starts to drizzle.

The rain comes down lightly, falling from the heavens. It’s like the tears from angels weeping. They cry and cry over me, over the unwanted and sinful whore. They cry because they know I have broken God’s laws and that he will seek justice. He will damn me to hell for eternity.

After the rain stops, I walk to my mailbox and retrieve the contents. There are a few envelopes and one black brochure. The black brochure is entitled: “What to do in case of a national emergency”.

I flip through the brochure and scan the contents. It was produced by FEMA. Apparently my roommate and I have been assigned to a FEMA camp located some twenty miles away. In the event of a national emergency, we should seek shelter there.

Moving on to the envelopes, I see one addressed to me from the city. I read through the letter and see that it is regarding my bus pass. Apparently I can get next year’s pass for free if I participate in the iris-scanning program the city is implementing next year. If I participate, instead of carrying a card, cameras at the bus door will scan and recognize my eyes. The letter says the program will improve public transportation safety and cut down on costs in the long run.

As I walk back into my apartment, I throw all the mail onto the ground and head into my room. I just don’t care about anything anymore. I go into the cabinet in my bathroom and locate a bottle of painkillers that I got from a friend. After taking a few of the pills, I lie back in bed and hope I can sleep.

The painkillers calm down my body and release endorphins from every muscle. It feels good, but my mind is still full of horrible thoughts. I think of crashing my car or drowning. I think of how my father won’t even talk to me now. My heart feels like it has been shattered into a thousand pieces and replaced with an endless blackness.

I get up out of bed and take off my t-shirt, the only item of clothing I had on. I walk slowly and lightly into my bathroom and study myself. I see my long, brunette hair and shining green eyes. My eyes shine just a little brighter as tears swell up from inside of them before flowing down my cheeks. I pick up a kitchen knife that’s sitting on my bathroom sink and feel how sharp the blade is. I hear my voice in my head.

“You’re a whore.”

“Why do I keep letting guys use me like this?”

“God hates you.” I press the sharp steel blade against the back of my right hand and pull it across several times, twisting it as I do so. It cuts the skin open and I bleed. I bleed.