Tweet

My Boyfriend's in Jail

M. Bernard

He came down from Oakland to fuck me, but he ended up dropping me on my head in the parking lot at the Vagabond. Not my boyfriend. This other guy.
 
My boyfriend's in jail. That's why I'm working at the phone sex place.
 
There's a hospital gown in my purse. It's not really a purse. It's a paper bag. I call it my purse. There's a hospital gown in it.
 
The waitresses in the bar saw it. They thought I was escaping from a mental institution in my chemical warfare clothes.
 
If there wasn't nuclear stuff to worry about, it would be chemical warfare stuff. That doesn’t make the nuclear stuff any less scary though.
 
Nothing makes anything less scary anymore.
 
My boyfriend's in jail for crimes he thinks he committed but didn't. I know how it is though. I'm the same way. My boyfriend says that jail's good for him. He says it gives him time to think.
 
Not to think about me. To think about his crimes. He knows that he did or didn't commit them.
 
But, to my boyfriend, thinking and doing are so often almost the same thing that they really are the same thing. I know how it is though. I'm the same way.
 
Little crimes become big crimes in my mind. Big crimes become little crimes. I'm not crazy though. I'm not. I mean, I steal face cream from Thrifty but Thrifty's a big corporation and it's insured for its losses. I'm not a real criminal. I wouldn't steal from a little store where it mattered or from a friend whether it mattered or not. I'm not a real criminal.
 
I'm a fake criminal. And I'm not crazy. The hospital gown is from the emergency room. See, he came down from Oakland to fuck me, but he ended up dropping me on my head in the parking lot at the Vagabond.
 
We were all tripping on mushrooms. We were supposed to be going to get something to eat.
 
Not me and my boyfriend. Me and this other guy. I've been seeing him sometimes.
 
My boyfriend’s in jail
 
so it's okay. My boyfriend's in jail thinking about his crimes.
It doesn't matter if the crimes are real or not.
It doesn't matter if the jail is real or not. I know how it is though. I'm the same way.
 
We were all tripping on mushrooms. We were supposed to be going to get something to eat.
 
If I'm crazy, it's crazy the same way my boyfriend is.
 
Everyone’s crazy.
 
The hard thing is to find the person who's crazy the same way you are. That's who my boyfriend is to me. That's why I'm patient.
 
I worry about getting old working at the phone sex place and waiting for my boyfriend.
 
Smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. Stealing face cream from Thrifty and smoothing it, rubbing it, pushing it into my skin.
 
I worry about getting old
 
but I try to be patient.
 
It's a virtue.
He came down from Oakland to fuck me and be in love with me but he ended up dropping me on my head in the parking lot at the Vagabond.
 
We were all tripping on mushrooms and we had to go to three different emergency rooms before we could find one that would take care of poor people.
 
I had a cut on my head and one on my shoulder and one on my hip and one on my leg and one and one and one someplace else and it hurt but all I could do was feel sorry for him.
 
Not my boyfriend. The other guy. The one from Oakland.
 
Renette was there and so was Ollie. Renette was on mushrooms too and she was saying you guys, remember, you're on shrooms.
 
But I was trying to show him that I trusted him even though I couldn't be in love with him. I was trying to show him that I trusted him to carry me, to carry me in his arms even though I couldn't be in love with him. I was trying to show him that I trusted him so it would be good for him to fuck me so he would feel good like I trusted him and forget that I wasn't in love with him.
 
Because he gave me fifty dollars plus he bought groceries for me and Renette and Ollie and it was so nice of him and I didn't want to have to give the fifty dollars back to him because I needed it and I knew he wouldn't have asked for it back but I knew too that underneath he gave it to me so I would make him happy. If I couldn't make him happy, it would be wrong to keep his fifty dollars. It would be.
 
But the way it worked out, I didn't make him happy because I just ended up having to go home and take Tylenol instead of aspirin and sleep.
 
Tylenol is always being poisoned.
 
One thing I've learned from Ollie. It's better to drink beer than it is to take aspirin. Beer kills the pain as much as aspirin does and it's more fun having something to do with your hands. Like smoking.
 
And it's dangerous when you get dropped on your head in a parking lot and you don't really care if you have brain damage or not anymore. And that's when you know that everything's different
 
and suicide's real now and not a religious outrage because you've learned too much and you don't care if you charm people anymore if you blow them away if you blow them if they give you a check for fifty dollars and write BLUE MONEY in the memo part for a joke that's not really a joke and you have to go into the dark side of the world if you want to learn about light we all know that and now I know it and believe it and you can't help it if you want to know ultimate sanity and innocence and you think they're the same thing and everyone thinks that you're talking about insanity and decadence and you have to keep believing that there's a light at the end of that dark dark
 
One time my husband dropped me on my head. He threw me on my head. I was trying to give him a blow job. He got mad when he got hard. He got mad at me for making him hard. One more power I had over him. He threw me on my head. When I couldn't get up, he called the emergency room and he said my wife fell and hit her head. I remember it was like a bad TV movie. I remember it.
 
He says now, when we see each other, that I'm too sentimental. I see him sometimes to give him the mail.
 
Not my boyfriend. Not the one from Oakland. My husband. I'm at a restaurant. I can ask for anything I want as long as I'm prepared to pay for it.
 
I should steal this glass.
 
It's a good glass.
 
Beautiful and not too fragile. I should take it home with me.
 
But at home, there are Ollie and Renette. Too many people trying to survive.
 
If I stole this glass, it wouldn't be a crime. But, when I got home, I would want to put it in the cupboard. And there isn't any more room in the cupboard for stolen glasses.
 
I used to be the award-winning type, but I'm not the award-winning type anymore. I was never comfortable being the award-winning type, so I put a stop to it. I put a stop to it as soon after I knew what it was as quickly as I possibly could.
 
And I understand that his dropping me on my head in the parking lot at the Vagabond and Renette saying you guys are on shrooms remember you guys are on shrooms, could have happened five years ago even though really it only happened last night and
 
this movie producer offered me money to turn my life into a screenplay even without sleeping with me and I would do it too because I don't always care about GOOD anymore
 
it's just that I don't seem to understand about linear time.
 
When I was little --
 
-- I would tell you about when I was little, but I know you'd just get bored. I always do when people tell me about when they were little. I always skip those parts in the books I read.
 
I'm almost old now anyway
 
so it doesn’t matter.
 
My boyfriend's in jail but I believe he's going to break out and come and save me soon. He's going to break out and he's going to come and save me and take me to a better place. I don't know it, but I believe it.
 
I can't fuck anymore because it bores me. I have to convince myself that I'm in love to have an orgasm and that takes more energy than I have left.
 
I'm at a restaurant and I have the money I took from Ollie and the money I took from Renette.
 
I'll pay them back.
 
I'm at a restaurant and I want to order
 
but the waitresses won't take my order
 
because they think that I escaped from a mental institution in my chemical warfare clothes with a hospital gown in my purse that's really a paper bag.
 
And they should remember -- everyone should -- that I was once a very privileged girl from Brentwood and that I look this way because I chose to look this way somewhere along the way
 
and even though I can't remember choosing it exactly I know I did I know I did because I had all of the advantages
 
plenty of food and clothing and shelter and education, a good education
 
and I hope it explains why my husband left me and I hope it explains why he wants to have eight wives
 
and why the afternoons frighten me into drinking beer and smoking joints
 
and dreaming about my boyfriend who's in jail
 
and why he came down from Oakland to fuck me and ended up dropping me on my head in the parking lot at the Vagabond after the party last night. Not my boyfriend. This other guy.
 
The other guy.
 
The one from the real world.

Copyright © 2010 by San Diego State University.

Authors of individual works retain copyright, with the restriction that subsequent publication of any text be accompanied by notice of prior publication in Fiction International.