way for memory to freeze the body like it freezes trauma in place.
Or we will let you be, give you that grace. We will drive by your homes across the country and we will imagine you inside and we will wonder if you’ve known all along that we remember.
Palm Springs
U sed to be Tania hated taking the bus anywhere. She didn’t want to become one of those people who brought the bus up in every conversation, as if it were part of her life and not just how she got from one place to another. Like her friend Jean, back when she was still living in Reno and working at the Cal-Neva. They’d sit in the smokeroom during breaks—back when they still had a smokeroom—and Jean would always have some story to tell about the bus. There was the time a guy had a heart attack in his seat and died before the bus could even come to a complete stop. There was the time a little girl fell off her seat and bit through her bottom lip and ended up bleeding on Jean’s new shoes. There was even the time Jean swore she saw Bill Cosby on the bus and that he was just as sweet as could be and had asked for her phone number.
Tania wonders now, as she steps aboard the #14 that will take her from her apartment in Desert Hot Springs to the Chuyalla Indian Casino in downtown Palm Springs, whatever became of Jean. After Tania left Reno for Las Vegas in 1985, they exchanged letters for a few months, though Tania quickly realized she didn’t have much to write about other than the weather or various personal calamities: a broken toe that kept
her from cocktailing for a week, a winter heat wave that blew out her car’s AC, her cocker, Lucy, getting into an ant hill. And so she just stopped writing or responding to Jean, eventually tossing out Jean’s letters unopened. Tania remembers a vague sense of guilt concerning this whole episode, but in retrospect it all seems petty. Just because you’re friends with someone doesn’t mean you have to stay friends with them. Sometimes it’s just easier to be without.
And anyway, what would they have to talk about today if they were still friends? Yes, better all around.
Settling into her regular seat—third from the left—Tania can’t help but think Jean would find Tania’s present condition all very ironic, particularly since back then Tania used to tease her constantly about “taking the limo” to work every day, even when Tania offered to pick her up in her Honda when they worked the same shift. She loved that car: a black Honda Accord with leather seats, a cassette player with a detachable face, six speakers. She remembers how important it was that she have six speakers, how she obsessed over the sound quality in her car, how she rolled down the windows on even the hottest days so that passing strangers could hear her stereo. Twenty-three years old then and the thing she was most proud of was a set of goddamned speakers.
Tania closes her eyes when the bus leaves the curb. The ride from Desert Hot Springs to the casino takes between thirty-seven and forty-eight minutes, depending upon whether or not the bus stops at all of the benches along the way. It’s a Sunday morning, so she figures she’s only got thirty-seven today, seeing as the bus is stone empty. She likes to close her eyes for the trip, though she never sleeps, because she knows
it’s the only time for the next nine hours she’ ll get the chance to see darkness. Cocktailing in a casino isn’t like what it used to be. Back in Reno, they kept it midnight inside the casino: black ceiling, purple carpet, blood red walls. These days it ’s all bright lights and warm yellows everywhere. The young girls think it’s soothing, but Tania finds it irritating, wonders why anyone would want to see so much. What she wouldn’t give to have missed a few things. Forty-seven years old now, Tania figures she could unsee ten, fifteen years and be happy about it.
Sometimes, when she’s done looking for her adopted daughter, Natalya, on the Internet,
Or we will let you be, give you that grace. We will drive by your homes across the country and we will imagine you inside and we will wonder if you’ve known all along that we remember.
Palm Springs
U sed to be Tania hated taking the bus anywhere. She didn’t want to become one of those people who brought the bus up in every conversation, as if it were part of her life and not just how she got from one place to another. Like her friend Jean, back when she was still living in Reno and working at the Cal-Neva. They’d sit in the smokeroom during breaks—back when they still had a smokeroom—and Jean would always have some story to tell about the bus. There was the time a guy had a heart attack in his seat and died before the bus could even come to a complete stop. There was the time a little girl fell off her seat and bit through her bottom lip and ended up bleeding on Jean’s new shoes. There was even the time Jean swore she saw Bill Cosby on the bus and that he was just as sweet as could be and had asked for her phone number.
Tania wonders now, as she steps aboard the #14 that will take her from her apartment in Desert Hot Springs to the Chuyalla Indian Casino in downtown Palm Springs, whatever became of Jean. After Tania left Reno for Las Vegas in 1985, they exchanged letters for a few months, though Tania quickly realized she didn’t have much to write about other than the weather or various personal calamities: a broken toe that kept
her from cocktailing for a week, a winter heat wave that blew out her car’s AC, her cocker, Lucy, getting into an ant hill. And so she just stopped writing or responding to Jean, eventually tossing out Jean’s letters unopened. Tania remembers a vague sense of guilt concerning this whole episode, but in retrospect it all seems petty. Just because you’re friends with someone doesn’t mean you have to stay friends with them. Sometimes it’s just easier to be without.
And anyway, what would they have to talk about today if they were still friends? Yes, better all around.
Settling into her regular seat—third from the left—Tania can’t help but think Jean would find Tania’s present condition all very ironic, particularly since back then Tania used to tease her constantly about “taking the limo” to work every day, even when Tania offered to pick her up in her Honda when they worked the same shift. She loved that car: a black Honda Accord with leather seats, a cassette player with a detachable face, six speakers. She remembers how important it was that she have six speakers, how she obsessed over the sound quality in her car, how she rolled down the windows on even the hottest days so that passing strangers could hear her stereo. Twenty-three years old then and the thing she was most proud of was a set of goddamned speakers.
Tania closes her eyes when the bus leaves the curb. The ride from Desert Hot Springs to the casino takes between thirty-seven and forty-eight minutes, depending upon whether or not the bus stops at all of the benches along the way. It’s a Sunday morning, so she figures she’s only got thirty-seven today, seeing as the bus is stone empty. She likes to close her eyes for the trip, though she never sleeps, because she knows
it’s the only time for the next nine hours she’ ll get the chance to see darkness. Cocktailing in a casino isn’t like what it used to be. Back in Reno, they kept it midnight inside the casino: black ceiling, purple carpet, blood red walls. These days it ’s all bright lights and warm yellows everywhere. The young girls think it’s soothing, but Tania finds it irritating, wonders why anyone would want to see so much. What she wouldn’t give to have missed a few things. Forty-seven years old now, Tania figures she could unsee ten, fifteen years and be happy about it.
Sometimes, when she’s done looking for her adopted daughter, Natalya, on the Internet,
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