The first thing I saw when I entered the American Apparel in Chicago +was a girl (who obviously worked there) carrying a clutch of soft +t-shirts. The store was small, an empty box like SuperCuts, but with +racks of clothing on the walls.
+It was starting to rain outside, the wind splattering raindrops and +cum tree blossoms against the storefront.
+The girl ignored me. It took me like ten minutes to look at and touch +everything in the store. I’d told my brother to go drive around for an +hour before picking me up. I can’t remember what I expected to happen in +that hour, just that my expectations were painfully high.
+I forced myself to walk over to the checkout counter and ask if there +was an application for a job.
+“Uhh,” the girl said, “I don’t know…Seth is coming back soon, he +should know.”
+“Oh,” I said. “I’ll wait?”
+“Yeah, okay.”
+The girl looked back at the checkout computer, her blonde scene hair +hiding her tiny face. She looked like an American Apparel employee, not +like a model from the posters, but the retail version of that.
+I’m still seduced by those fucking ads.
+I touched everything again. The clothes had nice materials, but I +knew they wouldn’t look good on me. I don’t have dysmorphia or anything +– I’m normal looking. I’ve always just wanted to look like my mom, who I +associate with Miss Honey from Matilda. Up until middle school I thought +my mom was really just like Miss Honey and I thought I would grow up to +be perfect like her. Realizing that my mom wasn’t really Miss Honey, and +that I was even worse, was part of what made me get into stuff like +American Apparel.
+A few minutes later, Seth arrived through the back door, with a bag +from Pret a Manger.
+“Want to come out back?” asked Seth, shaking the water from his coat. +“It’s dry by the dumpster.”
+“Okay,” said the girl, pulling her jacket around herself and walking +towards the back of the store. I thought I was going to be left there +alone.
+As Seth turned to leave, he saw me and said “Hey, can I help you find +anything?”
+“Oh yeah,” said the girl. “She wants to apply for a job.”
+“Oh, cool, haha,” said Seth. “Come out back with us then.”
+I followed them to a narrow sheltered area between the cinder block +wall and fences.
+Seth passed a drink over to the girl, and rolled a cigarette against +the arm of a wet plastic lawnchair. He cupped his hand against the wall +to light it, then offered it to me.
+“It’s a spliff,” he said, voice somewhat overwhelmed by the sound of +wind and rain.
+I took it and inhaled a few times without saying or thinking +anything.
+I felt that I was finally where I was supposed to be, with Seth and +this girl out behind the store, smoking weed.
+“What makes you, uh, want to work at American Apparel?” asked +Seth.
+I thought of my MySpace friends from Rockford. I’d never met them, +but from their photos, I knew John from SALEM worked at this American +Apparel. Or used to work there, before I started listening to SALEM.
+But maybe I should say something about the clothes? I ended up saying +“Music, I guess, I’m into SALEM and that stuff.”
+“Oh yeah, I heard one of those guys worked here. He got fired, +right?” Seth said.
+“I’m not like that,” I said.
+“Oh yeah, I can see.”
+In retrospect, Seth was probably twenty-three years old, maximum.
+“Well, we don’t have any open roles right now,” he said, looking over +at the silent girl, “but you should submit an application. I’ll send it +to you. Are you on Facebook?” Seth pulled out an iPhone.
+“Uh, yeah, one sec, I don’t, – use my real name,” I said. Actually I +didn’t even have Facebook at the time, so I frantically went to create a +new account on my feature phone. Because it was taking so long, Seth +started talking to the girl.
+“Here we are, again,” Seth said.
+“Yuppp,” she said with a little self-conscious eye roll.
+Their talked like this as the Facebook website loaded. I thought you +needed a college email so I used my new Northern Illinois University +email, with my first name and a few letters of my last name.
+“How do I friend you?” I asked Seth. He took my phone, and added +himself as my first friend.
+“I’ll send you the application,” he said.
+I spent the month before my first semester of college writing answers +to the weird questions on the application and taking pictures of myself +in the bathroom mirror.
+I was on my mom’s schedule, sitting next to her on the couch with my +laptop as she talked to the TV. She was relaxed, giving me mixed drinks. +She was obviously relieved that the hardest part of her job as a mom was +done: I was graduated, my brother wasn’t getting in trouble.
+She got me into Real Housewives, I tried to get her into my +music.
+I finally emailed Seth my application the night before my first day +at NIU. Of course I didn’t tell anyone I was applying. I had a painful +sense of my own potential, that going to college and working at American +Apparel was a chance at being different.
+I quickly realized NIU was like high school but worse, harder to +romanticize. It’s humiliating even just remembering how I was back then. +My brother dropping me off at freshman writing and accounting classes, +constantly listening to my Coby MP3 player thinking I was “Witch House” +but I’m sure everyone just thought I was goth (but blond).
+Soon I was skipping class, telling my mom that it was cancelled, so I +could sit on the couch with her doing “homework”. Actually, I was +looking at Seth and his friends on Facebook. Neither Seth or the girl +ever messaged me or liked my posts, but I felt like I was learning a lot +about my chances by looking at their feeds, adding their friends.
+People messaged me, so I also started messaging people, people in +Rockford or Chicago who seemed like they might be connected to SALEM. +This is how I met James. He was tagged in an photo album of an early +tour, a tall hippy-looking guy in a baseball cap staring at the camera +with a mean smile.
+I asked him what he did for SALEM, etc. He never really explained +things clearly. It had something to do with graphic design and merch. +But he also made music.
+The night before my first midterm I drank a whole two liter of +Mountain Dew and even after I gave up on studying I couldn’t sleep +thinking about how James didn’t really seem interested in me. In +desperation I asked him a question that I’d always wanted to ask: “was +there one moment in your childhood when you realized your life was going +to be disappointing no matter what?”
+I don’t really remember exactly what James said - something about +killing a rabbit - but I remember messaging him until my phone +overheated, telling him my specific story. The moment I actually started +feeling fucked came out of nowhere, on a class field trip to Lake +Michigan in middle school.
+I was standing apart from the other kids on a big dune looking out at +the light on the lake when it happened very suddenly, like a glow stick +breaking in my head and the cold loneliness quickly spread through every +part of my brain. I felt like I’d never be okay again and I started +panicking, confused. I couldn’t move, I was frozen, I wanted to call for +help, and even though I could hear the voices of the other kids over at +the picnic table it was like there was no one else in the world. I felt +embarrassed, like I’d peed myself.
+Eventually someone yelled my name, yelled that we were leaving. I +climbed up onto the bus, and my teacher (bitch that she was) asked if I +was okay. I must have looked like shit.
+I’ve constantly looked for someone (or something or somewhere), that +could undo that moment, make me feel un-fucked. In high school, it was +ugly guys from other schools, guys who pretended to make music.
+That night, as I finally fell asleep, James said that we should meet. +We could meet at the animal hospital owned by his cousin, about halfway +between between my mom’s place and Rockford.
+I told my brother I’d let him play his favorite music (Unreal +Tournament 2000) if he drove me there instead of my midterm. I was so +nervous during the hour long car ride, but exhausted, I bit my tongue as +I fell asleep and woke up every few minutes.
+When we arrived and I walked up to James in the parking lot, there +was a moment when I felt like it was all a big mistake.
+But James grabbed my hand, hard, without saying anything. He led me +inside and we sat down in a big cow sling, he started talking and +everything was fine, just different than I expected. Then he kissed +me.
+After meeting at the animal hospital a few times, then his place in +Rockford, James said I was his girlfriend. Around Thanksgiving, he got +me an office job at the vet clinic, so we could hang out more. I told my +mom that I was going to fail all my classes but accounting, but – I got +a job! I told her about the animals, didn’t say they were farm animals. +She just teared up a bit and made me promise I’d try again next +semester.
+Over winter break my brother drove me out to the animal hospital +every day. He liked going there because he got to play with the +chickens, pigs, and computers while James and I did stuff in the +construction trailer office out back. I wanted to do my job, but James +said it was more important that we work on our EP. He wanted me to write +the lyrics but I could only write in the most blunt and unappetizing way +because that’s the only way I know how to describe the world. I used one +of my mom’s old VCR camcorders to make videos of James recording and +some of the shows we went to. That’s what was beautiful and important to +me – I was hurt when my mom got made at me for taping over video’s she’d +made of me and my brother.
+On Christmas Eve James got out a seed bag of Ketamine. It was the +first drug I really liked, it made me feel normal and it made James +really crazy in a way that I liked.
+We went into the grain silo because of the resonance and pigeon +noises. James had the idea of turning the silo into a big drone +instrument, and he got my brother to wire it up with the 240V power, so +it actually worked.
+On New Years James brought a rifle in there. He pointed the rifle up +at the top of the silo and fired it, the muzzle flare illuminating the +roosting pigeons for a moment, burning their shadows into my eyes.
+In the darkness there was the echoes of the gunshot and a burst of +pigeon noises, the alarm feathers feathers my brother told me about, the +pigeons blindly smashing into the corrugated sides of the grain silo, +bashing down and down.
+Suddenly the lights turned on. My brother was standing by the circuit +breaker.
+“Don’t do that again,” he said, his voice unusually clear. “The right +way to remove pigeons from grain silos is with a high-powered air +rifle.”
+I expected James to call my brother a faggot but he just said, okay, +got it, and put the shotgun back on its mounting. We watched as the +pigeons flew back up to their roosts, and then my brother turned the +lights off, talking about how the pigeons could see the electromagnetism +fields.
+After that, my brother wouldn’t drive me to the animal hospital +anymore. My mom didn’t like James either, wouldn’t let him come over. +Sometimes he’d camp out in the woods behind our house.
+I finally gave up on college when someone did a mass shooting on +Valentine’s Day.
+(I wasn’t on the NIU campus then, I was up in a deer stand with James +drinking a hot mix of Everclear and apple cider from a thermos.)
+This all makes James seem lame, and yeah he was kinda: he never had +any money. But he was a lot stronger than me, and he kept making +music.
+He let me move into his big room in Rockford, and my real adult life +started. I think I was pretty happy then, for reasons that are hard to +explain to normies. I got a job as a bookkeeper, and after work we’d +hang out with his roommates. Drinking beer with those guys and doing +Adderall and watching stuff on YouTube was basically heaven for me.
+At least I wasn’t living at home like my brother, who got fatter and +fatter each time I visited. My mom told me got my old job at the animal +clinic and stayed up all night talking to his “friends” online, +“friends” from the DHGate agricultural products review section or +something like that.
+I had online friends too, but with James online friends were becoming +my real friends.
+My twenties passed.
+It felt like swimming down, past where I’d be able to make it back up +to the surface. But the water got warmer instead of colder.
+We moved every few years, going to places that were supposed to be +relevant. James could predict where the world was going. It was sort of +scary. He started getting design work.
+I stopped caring so much about music. But I also became closer with +my mom, James, other firends. I even talked with my dad a few times, but +he just wanted to talk about how private equity was ruining the HVAC +industry.
+When COVID happened, a bunch of our friends moved to New York. I felt +sort of betrayed, because some of them said they’d never do that. Even +my brother moved somewhere for a “real” job.
+We went to go to stay at my mom’s for the Fourth of July. James got +there first, I was getting hot dogs and pop from Aldi’s. When I got +there, he was waiting in the kitchen listening to Vivaldi on his +phone.
+“Bum me a cig from your mom,” he said.
+“She’ll get mad,” I said.
+“No she won’t,” he said. “Just ask.”
+I said fine whatever and went upstairs.
+I looked at my mom. She had purple lips my first thought was was: she +is wearing some weird lipstick, then I started screaming MOM, MOM, MOM, +over and over and ran downstairs to get my phone and called the +cops.
+James came upstairs and said “dude she’s dead” I said “shut the fuck +up shut the fuck up” and he left.
+It was from Roxicodone and alcohol.
+My brother wasn’t responding to my texts, so I had to deal with +everything. He sent someone who came over cleaned out the house, I don’t +know where all the stuff went.
+A month later I got a big life insurance check. Overnight I became a +total alcoholic (if I wasn’t already). I put most of the money into +crypto.
+I was truly fucking devastated. Everything felt dead to me.
+But I was was still stubborn enough to want to try something, try to +betray betray everything about myself that had made my life turn out so +bad. It was my last chance, I knew that. And James was my best chance, +almost because of how fucked he was.
+The happier, more successful people I knew were kinda cold, kinda +sociopathic. And James was like that, deep down, under layers of other +craziness.
+I told James we should move to New York. We could get jobs there, +from the people we knew.
+After a year of bullshit we somehow got our shit together and moved +to an apartment in Ridgewood.
+It was fall, and as the weather cooled I began to feel at home. I +felt like I was getting another chance at being nineteen.
+I felt old, but I told myself: at least I’m not in Rockford, I’m with +James, in New York.
+I could go to bars six nights a week and see my boyfriend and a bunch +of other friends, I wasn’t alone or bored.
+I did notice a growing difference between me and other girls my age, +they were getting really fucked up for fun and I was just getting as +fucked up as possible and hoping something new would happen. This +difference wasn’t obvious until later in the night. Part of it was that +other people had real jobs while I had trading crypto and buying drugs +on the darknet. Which did make shittons of money but people would always +lowkey shit on it, or talk about their stupid startups that I knew were +dumb, because I knew how the internet really worked.
+New things did happen: the best moments I had were outside smoking an +unfiltered cigarette at like 4AM, with someone I’d just met, both of us +high to the point where our consciousness was reduced to little points, +little flames flickering close to each other.
+At least I felt close to someone then, intimate. I felt like my mind +was so small I could feel how my mom felt, I could understand her. +Months were browning out, faster and faster.
+James went on a trip to Rotterdam to visit the production company he +was working for.
+He extended his trip, then missed a flight. I guess staying in Europe +was his way of breaking up with me, without really breaking up with me. +He promised he he wouldn’t do that. He messaged me all the time, sent me +dissociatives in the mail. Some were really cool.
+A few months after James left, I met Annicka at one of the non-dive +bars in Ridgewood. I liked her because she seemed both excited and +knowledgable, in a sort of grown up rockabilly way. I don’t know.
+Over the course of five, dix drinks she told me about her KonMari +cleaning consultation business. I’d already read “The Life Changing +Magic of Tidying Up”. No matter how degenerate James and I got, I always +kept our place clean. I freaked out if it was a mess, couldn’t enjoy our +little benders.
+For Annicka, the KonMari book was literally magic (I thought it was +okay). I was more into the natural cleaning products she said provided +her employees. She had samples with her and she let me smell them and +explained which suited different types of clients. I gave her my number +when she asked.
+When she texted me the next morning, offering me a job, I was stupid +enough to respond. I’m not stupid enough to get recruited into a cult, +but at that point I was willing to do whatever to fix my horrible sleep +schedule and eating habits.
+In my “shadowing sessions” I realized the whole Kon Mari method thing +was kind of a gimmick. Some clients took it seriously, we’d talk over +how they wanted their space to ‘feel’. Other clients were just like “I’m +in a rush” (fake rush movements towards door) “I’ll leave you to +it!”.
+Having a job in New York was not like having a job in Rockford. It +didn’t make me feel normal. Instead the job seemed to disrupt my +schedule even more. At least I got out of my apartment and saw new parts +of the city, got to drink at new places.
+I’d tell people at the bar that I had just finished moving out, +that’s why I was dressed in soggy sweatpants and had a backpack full of +spray bottles. Sometimes I’d ask to use their showers.
+At home I had a whole jewellery box full of Netherlands Post +packaging and plastic bags labeled with chemical formulas and hazard +pictograms. Some of the bags had sticky notes with the names of James’s +friends. I was supposed to arrange pickups, but I think most of those +guys were like, afraid of me, so they never asked.
+I often did a keybump in a park or bathroom before showing up at +clients, in the elevator if I was late. It made me open up to other +people, made me actually care about the stuff in their apartments. It +made the Marie Kondo method feel important and real to me, like I had a +special futuristic job, bringing meaning into people’s homes.
+Some of my “clients” were older, maybe rich or important, but a lot +seemed like me, with dumb jobs and not enough time. Also maybe drinking +problems too, I could smell it even in big nice apartments. Basic +bitches with a little layer of manatee body fat and pink shower slime. +Often it was this type of GroupOn client who didn’t really want to do +the Kondo method, they just wanted me to clean while they “took a +call”.
+So much of what these people owned was trash anyway, there wasn’t +much point in going all Kondo on it. But I could get emotionally +involved with their Ikea stuff, pretend to set up Craigslist curb +alerts. No one would find the stuff amid hundreds of identical black +trash bags blocking the sidewalks outside “luxury” buildings.
+Maybe the Kondo thing was just a way to make having a servant feel +principled and new. I’m glad I guess, normal cleaning would be worse. +The Kondo thing paid better, $26/hr, still nothing compared my +crypto.
+A few of the people I cleaned for seemed truly better than me. In my +opinion these people actually deserved a cleaner, a chef and driver too. +But they seemed in control of their lives, so that if they had to do +everything themselves they could manage that anyway.
+Like a designer guy who wasn’t gay maybe? After I re-arranged his +bedroom he gave me his copy of “The Art of Swedish Death Cleaning”.
+Or there was a woman with a ground floor apartment in Fort Greene. +Her and her husband had a toddler, his room was already so clean, I sat +on the floor and played with his toys, sliding captive beads and cars +along wire tracks. On the door there was a little velcro calendar with +the correct date set.
+When I googled the woman’s name I saw art reviews by her, and I found +her Egyptian husband, also a writer.
+If it wasn’t for these clients I would have totally lost belief in +quiet good families, due to my daily-increasing dull heavy bitterness. +Maybe the writing family did make their living from writing, what do I +know. They were nice, but they didn’t schedule another cleaning. Maybe +Annicka sent them someone else.
+I think I try too hard sometimes. I’d accept jobs at weird times or +places, covering for other people, telling myself it didn’t really +matter.
+If Annicka fired me for being late to appointments or whatever, it’d +be so humiliating, it’d crush my fragile vanity world.
+Part of my vanity was the videos I made of people, like I videos I +made back in Rockford, videos of people talking outside of SALEM shows, +stuff like that. I was uploading them to Facebook groups, editing them +into one giant video.
+If I really stop and think about it, it’s all so small and sad.
+Obviously in a lot of ways I was better off in Rockford, where at +least I had a walk-in closet and central AC.
+The next summer, the humidity made me think about getting a +bookkeeping job or something. But then the economy got more and more bad +and weird. So I just looked forward to winter, my favorite time to do +drugs.
+It was clear I was spiraling to somewhere unimaginably worse. Because +I was unstable. I know girls with dog walking jobs, guys who do art +handling, who seem stable, on time, they’ll be fine.
+I was constantly trying to convince myself I knew better by knowing +things, knowing facts I didn’t need to know. After a day cleaning out +the UWS apartment of some former frat bros with their girlfriends +watching me, I’d get drunk at a bar near the train station and start +reading the bitcointalk forum on my phone, and I’d get home past +midnight and fall asleep with my shoes on and my phone in my hand, +dehydrated and face greasy.
+After about two years of this, I realized I was transitioning to +being a totally undesirable person, experiencing the associated +irreversible psychological damage.
+On the subway to jobs early in the morning I’d see middle aged women +and old women with probably shittier jobs than mine, and also maybe kids +to deal with too, and I just felt like I wasn’t strong enough to do +that.
+I had to stop the spiral, somehow.
+I decided to “ask for help”, as they say.
+The next time Annicka invited me out I told her things were getting +bad, told her about my mom, James, the research chemicals.
+I remember the first thing she said was “It’s called PTSD and it’s +totally normal.”
+Annicka was yelling into my ear because we were at a club.
+She told me: step one, she was giving me the week off from public +transit, I was in fight or flight mode. She told me “she’d been on that +type of medicine before,” I’m not sure if she really understand what I +meant by designer dissociatives but whatever.
+“Let’s give your brain some rest,” she said. She told me to go to the +river and watch the water, watch birds circling to land, following +things with my eyes would help metabolize things.
+“When do you feel most relaxed?”, she asked me.
+“Sucking dick,” I said, thinking of James.
+Annicka sniggered into her drink.
+It realized it was crazy we were still texting almost every day, he +was still mailing me drugs.
+Thanks to the religous certainty of an abstract and animal-like life, +I was finally less afraid of people and it didn’t take much courage to +DM guys, starting with the names on the drug baggies.
+At this point I was trying to stop doing the drugs on weekdays. I’d +try to be normal for a few days, but eventually a pressure built up, and +I just couldn’t take it anymore.
+One day in the fall, in a client’s bathroom, I emptied a stray bag +into a large Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee and opened Facebook Messenger. I +looked up the name on the empty baggie on Instagram.
+I drank the iced coffee sitting on the toilet looking at his +pictures: it was clear he lived in Greenpoint, near where I was.
+Soon my head was pleasantly simmering. His pictures made my eyes +shimmer with tears. I was lucky to know such people. I DM’d him and said +I was around: did he want to get a drink? It was 2pm, but a Friday. +Maybe it would rain, but it wasn’t humid, it was the beginning of +autumn.
+I’d been in the bathroom for half an hour already. My vision was +going from super smooth high 60fps to choppy, a lovely effect. I added +water to my bottle of peppermint essential oil and wiped down the +shower. I could smell myself very clearly, as well as a vague indefinite +smell from the shower: I poured some vinegar down the drain.
+Then I cleaned the big mirror, a fancy one with warm LEDs beneath the +glass. I got lost staring at my face, running a super fine microfiber +through my hands thinking about the nose job I’d planned to get after +moving to New York. I fantasized about calmly using a jigsaw to slice +away of a bit of jaw bone.
+My phone buzzed against my leg. There was a DM from Patrick. I sat +down on the toilet. It seemed incredible that he actually existed. He +asked what I was up to. I wanted to be honest with him, so I took a +picture of of myself half visbile in the mirror, like a faded devotional +icon. “Haha nice,” he responded. He said he was working on music but +would be free in the evening. I asked him to send some of his stuff and +I played the Bandcamp link with my phone.
+It sounded really insanely good. I tried to stand up to clean, but +realized I was fucked up beyond my usual levels as I slid down to the +floor. I tried to wipe the base of the toilet.
+The light from the small window was gray, ambiguous light from an air +shaft. A pigeon was standing on the sill, resting. I watched the light +cycling from midnight blue to the golden yellow of a beautiful +morning.
+My phone vibrated. 3pm. A new message from Patrick appeared and then +glitched, disappeared. My phone was hot, my skin was dry. I started +hearing rapid tapping noises, maybe some sort of auditory +hallucination.
+I tried to stand up again, feeling anxious.
+I didn’t want to watch Patrick working on music, I’d had enough of +that with James, it was like watching someone jerk off. I tried to open +my phone to text Patrick but it was emergency locked or something. I +felt like something was preventing me from using my phone to contact +others. I’d broken reality too much, no phone allowed.
+I pulled myself up using the sink, and then over to the window, where +the tapping noises were coming from. It was the pigeon: the pigeon was +tapping its beak on the small window, in short rhythmic bursts like +someone banging on a door.
+I clacked my nails twice on the window, seeing if the pigeon would +scare away.
+It pecked back twice. Suddenly my phone got even hotter, burning +through my sweatpants, to my hips.
+I managed to get the scorching phone out of my pants with my +fingernails, but as it fell to the floor I clearly heard in the male +Siri voice: “Beautiful woman, open the window, I need to get in.”
+“Come on, open the window,” my phone said. “I have a big pile of shit +to do today,” it continued.
+The pigeon pecked more insistently at the window.
+At this point, after years of experience with accidental megadoses of +designer drugs, I knew that I should just roll with things so long as +there didn’t seem to be risk of major bodily harm. Fighting it would +just result in a major headache, nausea, blowing chunks.
+If the pigeon was asking to get into the bathroom, that was the drug +telling me that the pigeon wanted into the bathroom. I could either try +to be rational about the talking pigeon and try to claw my way back to +reality, or I could have fun, let the pigeon in (if there was really a +pigeon), and try to figure it out later. Usually there was an +explanation.
+I pushed up the small sliding window and the pigeon immediately +scurried in. I jolted away in surpise and slid back down to the +floor.
+The pigeon flapped up onto the toilet rim, at my eye level.
+“Well, here’s how it is,” said my phone, or the pigeon. The pigeon +was making intense eye contact with me.
+“My job is to inform you that you have people who care for you. They +are very busy, but they feel hurt, hearing lately how you have +been.”
+The pigeon kept readjusting its gaze, like pigeons do, but he was +seeing me and I was seeing him in a way that I’d never experienced with +a person before.
+The pigeon plopped down from the toilet and marched over to my tote +bag full of cleaning stuff. It jumped up onto the brim and started +pecking at the wax paper from Dunkin’ Donuts, then bit at the plain +glazed donut (the brown lady gave me one free), ripping off the crushed +bits.
+Pigeon wanted to come in because he’s hungry, I thought.
+The pigeon shook the donut around its head like a dog with a toy.
+“This bread is not good.” The pigeon flung the donut on the +floor.
+“Already soon winter, need to eat protein. Barley, peanut, thin-rind +nut, millet.”
+“This is rich people house, probably many organic foods, go to +kitchen? Let’s go.” The pigeon jumped down off the bag.
+I smiled, less and less conscious.
+“You can help me open the refrigerator. Maybe some leafy greens +inside, celery, amaranth, purslane.”
+Recently, I tried amaranth based on the pigeon’s recommendation. It’s +like quinoa but somehow worse.
+“Get up,” the pigeon said.
+“I am special police for North Brooklyn area, listen to me.”
+“Get up.”
+My center of gravity seemed to be somewhere a few feet under the +floor and I was starting to experience all sorts of Interstellar-like +hallucinations.
+“Come on, get up. Get up! Everything requires effort! You think it is +easy for me, pigeon in New York City? No! I risk life every day, +determined to fulfill the mission! Well, but the feral hens, fuck! A +little compensation!”
+“Okay, no? Then, here, I will tell you.”
+The pigeon walked across the bathroom tip-tap-scritch-scratch and +jumped up on my leg.
+“Me, smart pigeon, can talk, pigeons on the internet, incredible. +Everything is struggling more and more, but when I learn this sister +lives in Brooklyn, my district, I decide to see her, probably also +incredible, maybe big beautiful woman. But, result, she is loser, doing +drugs all day.”
+“Here’s how it is,” said the pigeon. “I understand you. More than you +understand yourself. You just need to listen to me and your life will +get better.”
+“You can be good,” the pigeon said. “It will be extremely hard for +you, this time, but it’s still possible.”
+I winced, not so much because of what the pigeon was saying, but +because I was struggling to stay conscious.
+“Oh, drug bug,” the pigeon said, jumping up on my shoulder.
+“Actually, you are good. From very awesome family,” the pigeon said, +sticking his head under my chin and cooing.
+The soft noise from the idling dehumidifier was starting to sound +like angels.
+I could see the pigeons wing twitching out of the corner of my +teared-up eye. “I think you will be okay, huh? It is hard for +everyone!”
+That was the last thing I remember the pigeon saying before the +universe began folding onto itself, rapidly over and over until it was a +single point that flickered away, wind chimes in flowing grass.
+When everything came back I wiped the drool from the corner of my +mouth. The pigeon was gone, the bathroom window was still open.
+The light from the air shaft told me that the afternoon was over.
+I think I have early onset sundown syndrome.
+I immediately stood up and started pacing in circles around the +kitchen, enjoying the luxury of having enough space to do that.
+I needed a drink. I suddenly remembered Patrick.
+“Free soon,” I messaged Patrick. “Can you pick a bar?”
+I could do the cleaning in an hour. I lit candles and aligned all the +coffee table books. I started to process the experience I’d just had, +which was pretty different to say the least (but of course the whole +reason I was doing these drugs was because they provided a sort of new +childhood-like experience every few weeks).
+At the bar with Patrick, everything felt kind of tired and broken. At +times I was totally unable to speak. A little temporary brain damage. +I’d be fine. Patrick and I barely looked at each other, our eyes +wandered around the bar. James had done most of the talking before.
+I ordered myself a double and drank it, but it didn’t do anything for +me. So I played with the ice in my drained glass while mentally +replaying the mysterious feeling of being reborn in someone else’s +bathroom.
+I felt comforted that I had just experienced something big, close to +a mystery of life. Rare maybe, even for druggy losers. Maybe I could +stop doing drugs now.
+Patrick and I talked about music and some gay sci fi shit but it felt +hollow and forced. The date or whatever felt pointless.
+Annicka texted me asking if I could take a job in Williamsburg, the +normal cleaner had hurt her back. She said it was a super cool job and +that she’d pay extra because it was so late in the evening. I would have +said yes even without the extra money because I’m a loser.
+“I have to go,” I said to Patrick. “Nice to meet you.”
+“Bye,” he said, maybe relieved.
+I did a bump of K in the bathroom on my way out. Annicka told me to +make sure to read the job notes, which were really long, explaining that +the store’s owner was super environmental, that I should use their +supplies, be careful about streaks, etc.
+I walked south. At first it was quiet. When I passed under awnings I +sometimes heard the sounds of pigeons getting ready for bed and wished I +lived in Greenpoint. Then I entered the area around McCarren Park. There +were so many young people at bars of all types, wearing chunky oversized +outerwear, standing outside sandlots, brasseries and dives.
+Maybe if I was like these people this would end with me going to +rehab, I could turn it all into an “experience”, invent a transition to +the next thing. But I’m not moving back to Rockford, I’m not going to a +substance abuse place. I needed more K and I needed to pee.
+I found somewhere with only cars passing by and pissed on the green +construction site hoarding.
+When I arrived at the shop around 8:20, the big window display was +all lit up. I got freaked out for a sec when a girl waved out at me with +some weird towels pinched under her chin. As she climbed out of the +display case I read the sign on the rack: Reusable Family Cloth Toilet +Paper, a great complement to the TUSHY bidet toilet.
+As she unlocked the doors of the shop, another mousier girl appeared +behind her.
+Inside, Four Tet was playing. Wooden shelving rose up two stories +around the edges of the store, concealing dozens of Sonos speakers. The +taller girl introduced herself as Willia in a quiet monotone and started +to “show me around”. Nothing special, a little office and bathroom to +clean, at the end I could do the front windows, when they were done with +the display.
+“The shelving looks really nice,” I said. “Very geometrical.” This +was the drugs speaking. Willa said “thanks” kind of ironically. Her +clothes were expensive in a way that I recognized but didn’t understand +in terms of brand.
+I put my headphones in to listen to the same gabber mix I’d been +listening to all day. The office was basically free of hair and slime so +I dusted and aligned. When I was done I walked through the dark store to +the front. The girls were still working on the display, but it looked +the same.
+“Where do I put the trash? I couldn’t find a can.” I asked.
+“Oh, we’re a zero waste shop,” said the non-Willa girl.
+“Oh, okay,” I said, embarrassed and kind of annoyed. “What should I +do with this then?” I said, lifting up the bodega bag I’d filled with a +few seltzer bottles, tampon wrappers, and dust bunnies.
+Willa interrupted whatever the other girl was going to say.
+“Oh yeah, I’ll take care of that,” she said, extending her hand.
+I laughed. Willa was expressionless. She squatted to stuff the trash +into a MOMA PS1 tote bag.
+“How do you like working here?” I asked.
+“Hah, well, my mom actually founded the brand,” she said. “It’s +alright.”
+Willa stood up and for a moment we looked directly at each other. I +could suddenly imagine her mom, her Instagram stories, an older, less +beautiful version of Willa talking confidently, the type of woman that +makes me want to kill myself. I asked Willa what her job was called, +pointing at the pyramid of stuff that they were arranging. “Director of +Product”. Willa talked for a bit about how she picked out zero waste +products, something about animal testing in China and how it was “not +ideal from a global justice perspective.”
+I went to get the Miele vacuum. It was quiet but powerful.
+At some level I was pissed at this stupid scammy store but I’d +already gone down this track of thinking. Many times. Sometimes on jobs +I’d get into a mood and my thoughts would run faster, banging back and +forth like a car on a track, but after so much sameness and nothingness +I knew some tracks to avoid or block.
+When I was done vacuuming I went outside to clean the front window. +It was probably the first cold night of the year. This made me feel +hopeful, like it has every fall in New York. On the other side of the +glass, Willa was instructing the other girl. I couldn’t hear what they +were saying.
+About fifteen minutes before 10pm the other girl walked out the door +towards the train, barely saying good night to me.
+I walked back and forth under the orange streetlights, looking +streaking on the glass. I really hated when Annicka had to “relay +feedback from the client” to me.
+Right when I was about to go back inside Willa came out, hugging +herself and shivering.
+“How are you doing?” she asked.
+“It seems like there’s something stuck on the glass there, can’t get +it off.”
+“Yeah,” said Willa. “Don’t worry about it. I’m going to get the key +from the lockbox so we can leave.”
+I grabbed my microfibers and tried to go inside but it was +locked.
+“Fuck!” yelled Willa. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, Willa +sounded like she was about to cry, the word fuck sounded weird in her +mouth.
+“What? What’s up?”
+“Rachel forgot to put the key in the lockbox.”
+“Oh shit,” I said. “My stuff’s inside.”
+“Fuck fuck fuck,” said Willa, and then stopped pacing, made herself +calm down.
+I felt really uncomfortable. I looked at the lock.
+“I’ll tell Rachel to get a car back here, hopefully she has service +on the train.”
+I thought of all the times where I paid like $30 for a Lyft to a job +where I’d only make $70, and suddenly felt bad for Rachel even though +she was clearly retarded.
+“Wait,” I said. “I can get us in probably.”
+“What?”
+I took out my keychain. My brother taught me how to pick locks years +ago, one of the many nerdy things I’d learned from him, like bitcoin +back in 2011. That Christmas he gave me a little folding lockpick, I +used it a lot back when I was into tagging. I still had it attached to +my keys. The front door wasn’t dead-bolted, I’d be able to pick it, +probably. As I started torquing the lock Willa didn’t say anything. I +realized it was dumb to do this in front of a client. But I guess I +wanted to show off. And I missed my brother and it was cold.
+When the door swung open I felt a shudder of pleasure, more +satisfying than an orgasm.
+“Wow,” said Willa. “Thank you. That’s a cool skill.”
+I stood aside, held the door open for Willa.
+“Do you have any cool skills?” I asked.
+Willa looked me up and down.
+“Can I do something to your upper back?” Willa asked, when we +inside,where it was warm. She made squeezy gestures with her hand: +massage.
+“Yeah,” I said, surprised. “It’s constantly, like, inflamed.”
+“I can see that.”
+Willa moved to stand behind me and I tensed up. I always feel +extremely aware of my body in a bad way, except, of course, on +dissociatives. At this point I was pretty sober, and could feel Willa’s +fingers running over my shoulder blades. Her knuckles stabbed into my +back at a set of symmetric points. My shoulders snapped back and it felt +like very cold or hot water was running down my back, collecting at the +base of my spine. I instantly felt lighter.
+“What – was that some sort of kung fu thing?” I said. Willa gave me a +sidelong smile. “I’m going to grab the spare keys from the office,” she +said.
+I packed up my stuff and waited by the door. As we went outside she +thanked me for my help and handed me a book.
+“Here, I – you might find this interesting. Someone gave it to me and +it helped me understand myself better.”
+I turned the book over in my hands. “Women and Girls with Autism +Spectrum Disorder: Understanding Life Experiences from Early Childhood +to Old Age”.
+I stared at the cover art, which reminded me of “Chicken Soup for the +Teenage Soul”. Did she think I had autism? Because I had this shit job, +or maybe was I acting weird because the drugs?
+“I’m heading to the train,” said Willa.
+“I’m heading that way,” I said without looking up, pointing the +opposite direction, towards the East River.
+“Good night, take care,” said Willa.
+“Good night.”
+I turned and walked while flipping through the book. I walked past +the low rise luxury apartment buildings, to the park by the river, next +to the newer, taller buildings.
+When I got to the river I considered sitting there and reading the +whole book in the freezing cold. I always do shit like that. But another +part of me was very sad, full of self pity. I felt like the butt of a +big joke.
+Fuck. Like maybe I was playing all the wrong games in life, messing +around with stuff that just wasn’t for me.
+Maybe the best case scenario for me was to end up lame like Willa. Or +get my shit together so my kid could be like her mom.
+I stared into the dark water, thinking about my day, the comforting +pigeon, the rest of my life, the Christmas when my brother gave me the +lockpick. I realized I could barely remember anything else about him, +how we were as kids. I yelped like a kicked dog. I couldn’t come up with +a single other moment.
+It was like finding an empty space in my mouth where I expected a +tooth. There was just years and years of bullshit instead.
+I paced back and forth for a few minutes, conflicted, and then turned +towards the train.
+Walking past dive bar after dive bar, I tried to remember stuff from +my childhood. Maybe if I had some of the video tapes my mom made, tapes +of us doing normal stuff, I could remember more.
+When I got to the Bedford Avenue stop, I decided to try calling my +brother. If he picked up, I’d ask if he had any of the tapes. And what +the fuck he’d been up to for the past decade.
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