happy face and departed, I log on to my computer. I’m worried that Jeremy might start rifling my things now that he thinks I’m going loony. So I bury the file I’m writing in the middle of an old disk.
I make two lists. The first list is called “In the Taurus.” Underneath that I write: new clothes, new sunglasses, wig, CDs, money, new IDs. The other list is called “In the Porsche.” Beneath that one I write: Clarisse Broder IDs and purse, switchblade, black hooded jacket, garage key for the Taurus.
Pleased with this, I type in the things that I have to get done this week, adding at the bottom to delete this file when I’ve completed my tasks. I don’t want any posthumous discoveries.
I shower and paint on a heavy coating of makeup to cover my suspiciously rectangular rash. The phone rings. It’s my agent so I pick up thinking that otherwise, I would have to call her back. I hate making phone calls more than I hate answering them.
“
Time
wants to do an interview,” she says, her voice filled with triumph.
“God,” I say.
“Thursday. And they’re going to want to take pictures.”
I must have been some terrible shit in my previous life to deserve this. “I’ve got a rash,” I say. “On my face.”
“Oh.”
“The doctor said it would clear in three weeks. Couldn’t we do it then?” I guess I don’t hate lying so much after all.
“I’ll have to call you back on that.”
“Fine. You’re a dear.”
I fire up the Porsche and make a side trip while on my way to my great psychiatrist appointment. I go to see Bob. You know, of Bob’s Guns.
While in there, I pick up a Smith and Wesson Ladysmith, the one with the wood grip (so appealing to women). I buy a body holster so that I can keep it next to me. Then because I’m in a shopping mood, I think what the hell, and spring for a twelve-gauge shotgun to boot. It’s like Christmas in July. Picking out bullets reminds me of going through a Toys “R” Us.
I lean over the counter so Bob can see more than my cleavage.
“An Uzi,” I say to him, certain that more firepower would be an aid in my present circumstances. “Full automatic,” I add, having done my research.
Bob’s eyes are fixed on my breasts. I let one of the straps of my dress slip a bit to the side.
“Sorry, babe,” he says, his eyes wide but sad, and his hands clutched beneath the counter. “No can do. Major illegal weapon. You want to land me in jail?”
I slide around to the end of the counter and slip my dress strap farther down so he can see the real thing. I stare at his crotch. “But you know somebody, right? I’ll pay. Cash.”
He rubs his hand over my breast. I unzip his pants and reach in.
He starts breathing heavy. “There’s a place in South Philly. I have their card.”
I hear the door open and shut behind me. He looks over, his eyes half open. I stay where I am and keep it up as the other shopper browses in another part of the store. Bob is quick about it. I zip him up and pull my strap back in place.
He slips me a card.
“Don’t tell anybody where you got this.”
“Not a word.”
I pack my new purchases into the Porsche and rip into the city to make my shrink appointment.
“Jeremy said you were hiding in the closet,” she says.
“I wasn’t hiding. I was sleeping.”
“Why in the closet?”
“Seemed the best thing to do.”
She scribbles something down on her pad.
“When did you first begin this behavior?”
I fidget, trying to think back.
“As a child?” she ventures.
God, you’d think they’d come up with something new every once in a while.
“I didn’t have a childhood.”
“Everybody has a childhood.”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”
She keeps probing here and there for some tidbit, some clue to my dementia. I’m beginning to think of her as a persistent poodle, which suddenly makes me wonder about Jeremy, who plays poker with his Harvard pals on Sunday afternoon. I get this sudden flash that maybe
I make two lists. The first list is called “In the Taurus.” Underneath that I write: new clothes, new sunglasses, wig, CDs, money, new IDs. The other list is called “In the Porsche.” Beneath that one I write: Clarisse Broder IDs and purse, switchblade, black hooded jacket, garage key for the Taurus.
Pleased with this, I type in the things that I have to get done this week, adding at the bottom to delete this file when I’ve completed my tasks. I don’t want any posthumous discoveries.
I shower and paint on a heavy coating of makeup to cover my suspiciously rectangular rash. The phone rings. It’s my agent so I pick up thinking that otherwise, I would have to call her back. I hate making phone calls more than I hate answering them.
“
Time
wants to do an interview,” she says, her voice filled with triumph.
“God,” I say.
“Thursday. And they’re going to want to take pictures.”
I must have been some terrible shit in my previous life to deserve this. “I’ve got a rash,” I say. “On my face.”
“Oh.”
“The doctor said it would clear in three weeks. Couldn’t we do it then?” I guess I don’t hate lying so much after all.
“I’ll have to call you back on that.”
“Fine. You’re a dear.”
I fire up the Porsche and make a side trip while on my way to my great psychiatrist appointment. I go to see Bob. You know, of Bob’s Guns.
While in there, I pick up a Smith and Wesson Ladysmith, the one with the wood grip (so appealing to women). I buy a body holster so that I can keep it next to me. Then because I’m in a shopping mood, I think what the hell, and spring for a twelve-gauge shotgun to boot. It’s like Christmas in July. Picking out bullets reminds me of going through a Toys “R” Us.
I lean over the counter so Bob can see more than my cleavage.
“An Uzi,” I say to him, certain that more firepower would be an aid in my present circumstances. “Full automatic,” I add, having done my research.
Bob’s eyes are fixed on my breasts. I let one of the straps of my dress slip a bit to the side.
“Sorry, babe,” he says, his eyes wide but sad, and his hands clutched beneath the counter. “No can do. Major illegal weapon. You want to land me in jail?”
I slide around to the end of the counter and slip my dress strap farther down so he can see the real thing. I stare at his crotch. “But you know somebody, right? I’ll pay. Cash.”
He rubs his hand over my breast. I unzip his pants and reach in.
He starts breathing heavy. “There’s a place in South Philly. I have their card.”
I hear the door open and shut behind me. He looks over, his eyes half open. I stay where I am and keep it up as the other shopper browses in another part of the store. Bob is quick about it. I zip him up and pull my strap back in place.
He slips me a card.
“Don’t tell anybody where you got this.”
“Not a word.”
I pack my new purchases into the Porsche and rip into the city to make my shrink appointment.
“Jeremy said you were hiding in the closet,” she says.
“I wasn’t hiding. I was sleeping.”
“Why in the closet?”
“Seemed the best thing to do.”
She scribbles something down on her pad.
“When did you first begin this behavior?”
I fidget, trying to think back.
“As a child?” she ventures.
God, you’d think they’d come up with something new every once in a while.
“I didn’t have a childhood.”
“Everybody has a childhood.”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”
She keeps probing here and there for some tidbit, some clue to my dementia. I’m beginning to think of her as a persistent poodle, which suddenly makes me wonder about Jeremy, who plays poker with his Harvard pals on Sunday afternoon. I get this sudden flash that maybe
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