Kicks

by Malinda McCollum

      High-heeled kicks were all wrong for the journey to the rocky beach called the Lost Planet. Severa hung onto Dougís arm not to fall. Not that his shoes were better. The canvas yawned away from the soles, laces missing. But they stuck to his feet. Magic Chucks.
      Kids staggered into the Planet, wide-eyed and thankful, like victims that lived. Jolly B drove in and ditched his truck on the bank of the lime pit. He played rap on his stereo and gave beers from a bag. A fire burned most nights, puny, with twigs.
      One night, fall newly arrived, heat gone for good, Severa sprawled on her back by the fire, criss-crossing her high heels in the air. She was flexible and strong. She did synchronized swimming at school. ìFuck me!î she yelled to the glorious night. ìPlease!î Most people laughed. Most people were into her then. Jolly B said, ìYou should be a stripper.î
      ìYou bet,î she said, flattered. ìI like to exhibit.î
      ìSick,î Jill said. ìThatís a total step back.î
      ìShut it,î Severa warned.
      ìWe donít need no preachers here,î Jolly B said. ìWe donít need Jillís morals.î Severa smiled at him and his white baby teeth.
      ìMorals exist,î Jill said. ìNot mine. Everybodyís. People are discovering them.î
      ìTraitor,î Severa said. ìAbsolutist.î
      Jolly B sneered with her.
      Jill performed a delicate wet cough that suited her. ìGo to hell, both,î she said. ìPlus, Severa wouldnít do it, anyway. Deep down it makes her skin crawl.î
      Severa struggled to stand. Her knees cracked, a sound rich inside her. Her toes, stinging, awoke. She stood, and with two fingers freed a dead leaf trapped in Jillís hair. When Jill looked up, Severa spat in her face.
      ìI wouldnít do it,î Severa said. ìBut not for why youíd think. I wouldnít do it because Iím not sure theyíd hire me. Iím scared they would think Iím too fat.î
      Most people were quick to reassure her. Jolly B and Robb, Steve, too, and Murple, and even Leonard the Fifth. The adoration felt right and she glowed in it, what she had wanted from the start.
      Then she spied Doug, silent, moving to Jill, to clean her face with the hem of his shirt. Severa had given him the shirt on his b-day, wrapped up in newspaper and floss. She eyed Doug and felt, no kidding, like a little kid just kicked by her dad.

      Back at the house she started wailing on Doug. She slapped his face, rammed her fist in his gut. He stood, silent, no payback. If he even poked her, sheíd call his parole officer. She beat on him until her impulse reversed itself, then ran to the front door and put her fist through the glass.
      Doug drove her to SF General. She made him take off his shirt to wrap around her wrist. Blood soaked the fabric like indelible ink. He stared at the road, and she stared at the strings of his neck. He was skinny, how she liked, with visible bones. She touched his clavicle with the tip of her tongue.
      The emergency room was full of free chairs. Theyósomeone, somewhereócalled her name, and a small-fingered nurse came to tweeze window from her arm. The nurse stitched her skin tight and wrapped it in cloth. Doug held Severaís intact hand.
      ìFunny thing is,î the nurse said, ìthat the trauma comes not from the punching, but from withdrawing your arm back through the glass.î ìI should have stayed there forever,î said Severa.
      The nurse nodded and pointed at Doug. ìShould have had him break out the window around you.î
      ìWrite that down,î Severa commanded. Dizzy, so dizzy, yellow and cerulean sparks. ìFor future reference.î
      ìThere is no future,î Doug intoned. And she took it as just more of the generic doom settling upon them like dirt on a wooden box. But the next morning, at a white hour, Doug slammed out the injured front door. Out and away from her life. She paid, she realized when she woke up alone. She paid.
      She always did pay.
      Standard response: cut her hair. One-handed, with her healthy whole hand. Should have gone to a professional, but the thrill of cutting something pain- free! Now, reborn as a little pixie, clean-cut, face round and aglow. Afterwards, the floor, strewn with hair wisps, the shed tails of a thousand freak things.
      Then a knock on the poor door. It was Dougís best friend, Jolly B.
      ìWhat luck,î she almost said. ìI want to get with you to drive Doug mad.î But behind him she saw Jen, his girlfriend, bitter, big-titted shrew.
      ìSo I apologize already,î Jolly B said. ìI donít want to alienate you by questioning. But here goes. Is this yours?î From his fingers hung an all-lace black bra.
      ìOuch,î Severa said, cupping her chest. ìIím only cotton or silk. My nips donít like the rough stuff.î
      Jen growled. Severa considered biting her before she struck first.
      ìJen found it in my truck,î Jolly B explained. ìShe thought it was yours.î
      ìGotta trust your guy!î Severa said, bright, hyper. ìOr heíll fall into another chickís arms!î
      ìJust watch it,î Jen said. ìLetís go, Jolly.î He followed her, meek, down the walk.
      ìChew off your arm, B!î Severa called. ìGet free!î She closed the door and collapsed on the carpet.
      A few nights earlier, she and Doug had been loop-scooping downtown with Jolly. The boys rode in the front seat where the music was loud. She was in the open cab. Bored, she teased some farm boys cruising behind them. She worked her arms out of their sleeves and removed her bra. She wrapped the bra around her neck, pretended to hang herself. The farm boys mooned her. She lapped at the night air. The farm boys sped up to Jollyís bumper, honking. ìCow-fuckers!î
      Jolly B screamed, and Doug, silent, stuck his knife out the window. The farm boys fell back and took the next turn. She had pushed her bra under Jolly Bís spare tire, one strap peeking out, shy and black. Because playing with people was fun. That was something she knew.
      Severa took a cigarette from a pack on the table and went to the stove to light up. She had left her bangs long, and when she leaned into the burner, her hair curled up and caught fire. She smelled it, sharp and scary, a thing not supposed to be burnt. She dropped the cigarette and slapped at her forehead. The impact made her teeth hurt. Then she broke off crisp bits of her hair, as easy and nothing as an old personís bones.
      She found Dougís stash zipped into their mattress. The danger revealed itself after two bowls of his pot. He would have somebody mess her up. Sheíd ruined his shirt, left a mark on his face. He had friends. She had the opposite. Her hand pulsed, agreeing. Oxygen escaped through the hole in the door. Rope, baseball bats, sirens. Cruel Doug, to leave her alone, half-sunk in terrible visions.
      The pages in the phone book were as thin as toilet paper. She flipped through the yellow ones until she found Domestic Abuse. She scanned the short list and picked Victims, Inc.
      When someone answeredóa steady voice, female and warmer than bloodóshe cried into the phone, ìHelp me! Please help!î

      The counselor, Christina, explained the cycle of violence. They were in the intake room at The Shelter. No windows and an uncarpeted floor. On Christinaís small desk was a green plastic plaque. It read, in block letters, GO PEACE.
      ìTension builds,î Christina said. ìYou feel like youíre walking on eggshells. Like any minute, the ax falls.î
      ìRight,î Severa said. ìExactly.î
      ìThen boom! The explosion.î
      Severa raised her wrapped wrist as evidence.
      ìAnd finally, the most insidious, the thing that keeps the circle closed. The honeymoon period. He tries to woo you back. He sends flowers. He says never again.î
      ìYouíre a dyke, right?î Severa asked.
      Christina didnít blink. ìThatís right.î
      ìYour arms are so worked. Thatís how I knew.î
      ìNot all of us have strong arms.î
      ìI heard you guys have a spy network, like a pussy patrol. So you always know if your girlfriend is cheating.î
      ìWords travel,î Christina said evenly. ìIím sure thatís true in your world as well.î
      ìSo, do you try to convert the women who come here?î
      ìWe donít recruit, if youíre asking.î
      ìBe a sister and fist her?î
      Christina stood and leaned across the desk until she was so close Severa could smell her tongue. A little something like fresh-brewed sun tea. ìIf you donít want the pep talk, just say so,î Christina said. ìYouíre a bigot, but Iím here to help. Not even a little oyster like you deserves to be hit.î
      ìMy boyfriend eats them raw,î she said, happily. This was better. She hated women who acted like women, hiding their mean. She knew they all wanted what she had. She hated most men, too, so dull and easy to read. One of her projects, along with learning to knit, was to transcend gender altogether. In fact, she almost had. So close, that one night, magic-drunk at the bar on the corner, she had paused in front of the marked restroom doors and wondered, for real, ìWhich is me?î

      Severa sat on her bunk in the sleep room, a green-walled square place with a window stuck up with so many decals it looked like stained glass. She smoked, ashing into the folded-up cuffs of her jeans. She stamped out the cigarette, then reclined on the bunk. Self-truths came to her. The first was that she was a Buddhist. Sheíd given up grasping. Her hands were open and flat. Then she stopped thinking and went to the phone in the hall to call Jill.
      A vicious machine answered. ìThis is for Doug,î she said after the tone. ìTell him Iím weak, tell him I need someone to do for me.î He liked it when she made herself small enough to fit in his wallet. She wanted to say more, but a woman, a shelter resident, appeared at the other end of the hallway. The woman came toward her, fast.
      ìYou called your abuser?î she asked.
      ìThat ainít allowed?î Play dumb, Severa thought, fracture words.
      ìSome of us want things to get better.î
      ìIf you learn anything here,î Severa said, ìlearn this. Ainít no better to get.î
      ìI have to tell Christina you broke the rules,î the woman said ruefully. ìI donít want my trouble finding me.î
      ìLook what he did.î Severa pointed to the bandages. ìHe dunked my hand in boiling water.î
      ìAnd you called him.î
      ìDonít make me go back.î
      ìYouíre going back. Thatís what youíve chosen.î
      ìIn case you havenít heard, Iím disempowered. I donít even have access to choice.î
      ìYou have to feel you can choose. There has to be something you want.î
      Severa considered. ìI want to be able to breathe under water.î
      ìThatís good.î
      ìI want a day of the week named after me.î
      ìYou got it.î
      ìI want to kick the shit out of you.î
      The woman smiled, a slow one that started in the center of her lips and moved to the edges. ìGo on,î she said finally. ìChoose violence, choose shame. Keep choosing bad often enough and finally youíll realize itís not working. Youíll choose different.î
      ìCome look at this world.î Severa swept the air with her fingers. ìNotice that itís disgusting. Dive to the bottom.î She took a step closer. ìStay with me. Weíll hang out.î
      ìThatís right, babe,î the woman said in a soft, encouraging voice, one youíd use to coax puke out of a drunk. ìKeep on choosing bad. And when it all falls apart, choose good.î
      ìHow about instead I choose you,î Severa said. She made her voice wiggle. ìHow about you teach me the way.î
      The woman stared at her, then put her hands on Severaís shoulders and eased her forward into an embrace. She scratched Severaís back, softly, in diminishing concentric shapes.

      Once, Severaís dad had slapped her, which shut her up; then he looked too pleased with himself, and his pupils grew big, and his hands curled to fists, and he stopped breathing. She screamed out a question, anything to change the direction in which everything was headed: ìIf you could be anyone, Dad, who would it be?î Her father had stared at her, fist by his ear, and said, finally, ìThe late great Janis Joplin.î Then he blinked and his cheeks were covered with tears.
      At that moment all her notions exploded. The world disclosed itself, cross- sectioned and pink. Everyone should be like her father, she had realized, steel-shelled, fat, and sloppy inside.
      ìPoor tiny thing,î the woman said, still scratching.
      ìGet off me,î Severa said and pulled away. ìYouíre easy as pie.î

      The night surprised her. She hated to miss the day getting dark, hated when night just appeared, like a flasher in the playground. After expelling her, Christina had driven her to the Safeway, where Severa bought a two-liter bottle of Pepsi and called a cab. The low curb she waited on leached the warmth from her ass. She took a long drink from the bottle. One thing about Dougóhe couldnít write stories or explain away mysteries or play guitaróhe kissed with a perfect restraint that maddened her, that made her want to bite his tongue right out of his mouth.
      When the cab arrived, she sat up front with the driver, propping her feet high on the dash. Ash fell from her cuffs to the floormat. She admired her high- heeled kicks. Wearing them, her ankles looked frail, her toes like little pale morsels of pork.
      ìNice shoes,î the cabbie said flatly.
      ìAre you mean?î she asked him. He had dry hair and too-long front teeth.
      ìWhen I got to be,î he said. ìSure I am.î
      ìHow about Armenian?î she asked. ìAre you that?î
      ìIím homegrown,î he said. ìCorn-fed. Iím Iowan. I do people right.î
      ìDo you go to strip clubs? Do you cheat on your girl?î
      ìI said I do people right. What does that mean?î
      ìIndeed,î she said. ìOh indeedy.î
      They drove on Fleur, past the flooded mess of Waterworks Park and the abandoned Holiday Inn, decaying.
      ìHow did you mess up your arm?î the cabbie asked.
      ìMy girlfriend,î she said. ìSheís real jealous. She saw me kissing this other woman and she freaked. She slashed at my wrist with a knife.î
      He cleared his throat and his nose twitched. ìDoes it hurt?î
      ìYou know how it is,î she said. ìItís less painful than being alone.î
      ìI wouldnít know about that.î
      ìGreat for you,î she said. ìYouíre loved. Arenít you just so incredibly it.î
      ìWhere you going, anyway?î the cabbie asked. Sheíd told him to head for the airport.
      ìIím hopping a flight to Girls Town,î she said. ìIím winging my way to Nirvana.î
      ìLook,î he said. ìIím too beat for this shit. Just tell me where you want to get let off.î
      She directed him to Blue Lights, a vast, high-fenced parking lot across the street from the airport. She gave him $15 and left the Pepsi on the passenger seat. She told him to wait.
      Blue Lights was cool-lit and almost vacant, regularly overflown by planes. She and Doug used to go there on long nights, and eat lemonade concentrate out of the can, and dance cha-cha to no music at all. Summer bugs in swarms, biting; trucks rushing by, ashamed of their size. Perfect.
      There were a few abandoned cars. She sprawled on oneís hood. She let the nightís silence rest on top of her, like a sleepy little kid. Then she heard it: a plane, rising, screechy, fired up. When it passed over, close enough for her to read the numbers on its belly, close enough to feel the engine in the empty spaces of her skull, she scissored open her legs and yelled, ìFuck me!î She had told the cabbie to wait. Because all she needed was someone to see her. The rule of the world is so obvious. The only way to get by is to make yourself low. Make others feel superior, better, more kind.
      She yelled, ìFuck me, fucking fuck!î Her legs ached. The cabbie honked twice before driving off. Itís working, she thought. Yes, it is!

Malinda McCollum, a recent graduate of the Iowa Writersí Workshop, lives in
San Francisco. E-mail: malinda.mccollum@consumer-action.org