Inez and the Good Life

When did Inez still have a chance at a good life?  It was definitely before she was hit by the car that injured her back and put her on hydrocodone.  It was before her father died as a result of "an altercation" at age 74.  It was before she divorced her husband.  It was before they lost their house on South Street.  It was before they sold family land in South Carolina to a paper company to pay their bills.  It was before she dropped out of community college.  It was before she got pregnant.  When did the chances for a good life stop, or was it that she stopped seeing them?

Inspiration #15

Dr. Laurel set up his equipment in the corner of the padded isolation cell.  They moved M. to the padded cell because they were not sure how he would react to the playback of his professional recordings, made before his psychotic break.  Early in his confinement, they had him in a padded cell for his own safety, but after some additional, unclear psychic trauma, M. has been placid.

The doctor was well aware the "M.", as he was now known in their notes, had been a renowned psychiatrist before his illness.  Dr. Laurel was deeply invested in M.'s case, not only because it was a mystery, but because he had written several papers based on M.'s extraordinary work.

Inspired by the final short story in the slipstream fiction collection, "You Have Never Been Here" by M. Rickert.  "You are on the train, considering the tips of your clean fingers against the dirty glass through which you watch the small shapes of bodies, the silhouettes on the street, hurrying past in long coats, clutching briefcases, or there, that one in jeans and a sweater, hunched shoulders beneath a backpack."

"You Have Never Been Here" will disturb your perceptions, which I think is the basic premise of slipstream fiction.  I read and reread the ending paragraph because it's so fascinating.  Overall, a cool collection of stories that are not quite science fiction nor are they quite "regular" fiction.  Worth a try if you like 'em weird!

How did you develop your sense of morals?

I have eaten from the Tree of Knowledge, and I feel shame.  I'm not religious, it's just that the idea fits my situation perfectly.  I know about religious stuff from the old guy who lives on the fifth floor.  He recites, or shouts, stuff from the Bible at me as I walk by on the stairs to my eighth floor walk-up.  I'm fourteen, but I can call it my apartment because I pay the rent.  The landlord doesn't know that, of course.  He'd be obliged to call social services, and they would ruin my ruined life.  It's ruined.  I see it now.  But it's my life.  Sticking me in foster care again, or forcing me into a children's home, would mean I'm not in control.

The Tree of Knowledge has shown me the lousiness of my life.  The first thing eating from that damned Tree showed me was my smell.  I remember getting into a fight with Candy Booger (real name Bourgan) in fifth grade when I actually hit a girl.  I knew it was bad to hit, but I didn't know it was extra bad to hit a girl.  She said that I smelled, and I punched her.  While I waited outside Principal Morgan's office, I tried to notice smells.  The copy machine next to me smelled like warm paper.  The secretary who walked past smelled like acid flowers.  I kept sniffing and, finally, I smelled it.  Piss.  Body odor.  Maybe mold?  God, save me, Candy Booger was right, and I had punched her for it.  Nobody appreciates the messenger.

If you were a shoe, what kind would you be?

He was beyond indignities.  Whatever could be done to him had been, and he was simply tired of the time that stretched in front of him.  He shuffled slowly, partly because he had nowhere to go, and partly because the shoes on his feet didn't fit.  Cars beeped, but couldn't get him to raise a hand.  He shuffled, and waited for the end of his time.

Do you lie?

When I was fifteen, I finally landed my first boyfriend.  I had been desperate for some years, but I finally had enough and pushed this kid into a locker and leaned on him, one-handed on his chest, and told him I liked him.  Naturally, he gave in to my subtle charms.

His name was Mike, and he was cute.  That was about it.  Nice enough, but though I didn't know my type yet, he was not it.  We were okay together.  Mild.  We made out.  He never invited me over to his house, and I never met his family.  What stands out in my memories of him was that he was cute, he named his younger sister Marsha after Marsha Brady, and he introduced me to the guy who would become my second boyfriend in one of the most dramatic ways possible.

Mike and Peter walked to my house in the middle of winter, which was quite an accomplishment.  It wasn't as cold as it had been, but it was snowy.  When I came to the door, I was surprised to see him, and even more surprised to see his friend.

Where Mike was tall, thin and dark, Peter was sturdy and pale.  He had grey eyes that rarely blinked and a full head of fair, well-combed hair--the kind that he'd be sure to lose at middle age, but that feathered nicely as a teenager.  Mike looked frightened.  Peter looked determined.  I let them both in, though my parents were gone for the day.

Pageant Question: If you had to spend the rest of your life eating one thing, what would it be?

It's not about being clean.  It's not even about germs, though for some people they make it about germs because it doesn't sound as crazy.  It's not about being a perfectionist, either.  It's compulsion, but not in any logical way.  It's magical thinking without even a hint of purpose.  It's called Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or OCD.  I have a friend who brags she has OCD because she likes her desk at work to be "just so."  That's not OCD.

OCD is putting away a glass over and over and over.  Trying to set it back in the cupboard, but having to reset it.  Then turn it a little, but you've turned it too far and now you must turn it back, but that's not right, either.  Don't you remember, I said it wasn't about perfection!  The glass doesn't need to be set in the exact spot because it's level with the other glasses or because now it is smudged or for any other logical reason.  It's because... it's just not right.  It didn't feel right.  It wouldn't be okay to leave it because it's wrong, so I have to do it again.  Try again.  Try again.  It's not right.  Try again.

Yes, I've tried to walk away, but the idea of it being wrong comes back.  My steps slow and I feel myself pulled back to the cupboard and the glass that just isn't quite right.  Compelled to come back.  Obsessed with trying to get it to feel right.

For me, it's the vague idea of "bad luck" that makes me want to make it right.  My house is not super clean.  It's not neat.  It's not anal, which is what you're picturing, and what my friend really is.  I start walking with my right foot, and if it doesn't feel like it did it right, I start again.  And again.  You get the picture.  I looked at a weird spot and now I must blink my eyes and look away and furrow my brow and sniff it away.  What made it a weird spot?  Nothing.  Don't you understand yet?  Nothing!  There is no reason.

There was also no reason for me to start scraping my teeth against the wood window sills in my apartment, rubbing the shavings against the roof of my mouth, until I'd chewed them down as far as my nose would let me, pressed against the glass.  No reason except I had to, or else.  Or else what?!?  Nothing!  Or else nothing.  But I didn't stop.

Pageant Question 20: What is one thing you wish you had learned in high school?

How to Recognize a Sociopath

My name is Sara, and though I am not a psychologist, I am qualified to tell you the secret to identifying the sociopath in your life.  I consider myself fully qualified because I dated a sociopath in the prime of my socially formative years: from tenth grade through the start of college. Hopefully, you don't have a sociopath in your life, much less as your boyfriend or girlfriend, but if you do, the tell-tale signs will be there.  For ease of readability and because of my personal experience, I have used male pronouns, but the same signs apply to female sociopaths.

1) First glance: he is super-charming.  He is "the life of the party".  He is hilarious.  Others pay attention when he speaks because he's interesting and confident.  Being super-charming does not automatically qualify someone as a sociopath, but it is best if you are aware that these people do not appear as monsters.  This quality will allow you to be drawn in, but here's the important part: do not be blinded!  First impressions stick, but make sure you stay aware when the other signs start to appear.

2) He is self-absorbed.  You can see if he basks in the attention his charm brings him.  Does he allow others to be charming around him?  Does he listen to others' stories and laugh with them?  Does he constantly clamor for attention when it wanes?  These are closer observations you can make during the super-charming faze.  The self-absorption will be revealed in more dramatic ways if you allow yourself to be sucked in, so don't.  Further self-absorption includes: ignoring you, believing others are against him, laughing at other people, making others feel bad for what he does, forcing others to always do what he wants...or else.  The "or else" is frightening, but it is often very subtle at first and, therefore, often dismissed.  It is a true sign of a sociopath, and it is...

3) He has anger management problems.  He lashes out.  He yells.  He pouts.  He is passively aggressive.  He blames others for his problems and will tell them so.  He may throw things, punch walls, and destroy property.  He gets into fights.  The clearest sign is that he hits you, but many sociopaths are smarter than that and the hurts aren't as clear as you might think.  He is emotionally manipulative and he uses guilt to make you do what he wants.  He experiences "road rage", and doesn't even have to be the one driving to have it.  BEWARE: he will apologize.  He will explain it away as his cultural heritage's temperament or his family's temperament.  He will exude his charm like you haven't seen it since you first met, and you will want to fall for it.  This is also insidious because he may seem extremely caring and thoughtful, but if he experiences these uncontrollable outbursts of anger, no matter how justified they seem, you are with a sociopath.

340

I despise keeping the secrets of my ex-boyfriends.  Invariably, they have each confessed something to me, and I hold it in my memory, wishing I could tell someone, but feeling some sort of loyalty to the promise implied by love no longer felt; the promise that I would keep the secrets forever.

I suppose it bothers me because they promised to love me forever, and, clearly, that didn't work out.  To whom should I confess these secrets?  Certainly not a new boyfriend, if there even were one.  He would not understand.  These secrets are big, not in the scope of the world, but rather in terms of their intimacy.  How can I stand to keep their secrets?

I can't.  I will confess two of them now from from the worst boyfriend I ever had.  He was abusive, and I barely escaped him with my self intact.  I was in high school and he was only my second boyfriend ever, so I hope you can forgive me for my idiocy.  We'll call him Peter.  Peter, I can see now, was a sociopath.  He lied, and lied and lied to everyone, and especially to me.  He lied to his mother, he lied to his step-father, and he lied to himself.  He was stupid, but oh, so clever.  He could manipulate.  He had no emotions of his own, but he could twist yours into knots.  He was without remorse, but he could make you feel bad about anything.  He was without conscience and would drag anyone down into the darkness with him because you couldn't believe anyone could be so evil.  He would hold me down when I said no and he'd do it anyway.  He would hit me in the leg, though I wished and wished he'd hit me in the face so I'd have a "valid" excuse to escape.  He followed me and questioned me and lied to the police and stole and lied and separated me from my friends and family.  You can see why I don't feel bad revealing Peter's secrets.

Peter has two related secrets.  One: he once reached into the toilet to squash his own poop with his hands to make it look like diarrhea, so he could get out of going to work at Burger King.  Two: he faked abdominal pain to get out of going to school, but he faked it hard and couldn't back down, so his mother, a nurse, took him to the hospital.  He doubled down on his lie and kept faking for the doctors who performed a needless appendectomy.  Peter was a committed liar.  Pity the poor high school girl, so innocent and desperate to please and be liked.  Pity her carrying the sociopath's secrets and her own hidden hurts.

320

There were some nights that Cara really, really wished she could go to bed without him.  Not for any of the mundane reasons couples usually have, but only because she used to use that time to talk to herself.  Out loud.  Or, at least, in a low mutter.  She wasn't sure how it sounded to anyone else because she only did it for herself, but she was starting to feel that these years of not being able to talk to herself before going to sleep was hurting her.  Cara's talks helped her straighten out the tangles of the day and helped her understand complications in her path.  She not only talked to herself, but she also talked to people she had met, or whom she had known, or who were dead.  These conversations sometimes ran in circles, or got into arguments, or even led to tears, but, she realized, they had been extremely important to her psyche because recently the voices were coming anyway, and they weren't hers.

262

"It feels like I'm going to jump right out of my skin," Sonja said through clenched teeth.

"Mmm..."  The counselor made a note.  "And then what?"

She perched on the edge of the sofa, "And then my skeleton's going to punch you in the smarmy face."

"Mmm..."  Another note.  "Would that make you feel better?"

"I hate that you never look up at me."

"Mmm..."  A glance over her glasses and back to the notebook.  "You don't think I look up at you enough?"

"At all, you..."  Sonja cut herself off.  The frustration was rising, and it felt like the counselor was baiting her.

231

The night that Clara was hit by a white SUV was the same night Jack lost his virginity and the two became indelibly linked in his mind.  Two divorces, five therapists and countless hours of self-loathing could be traced directly back to that night.  Of the five therapists, three suggested there was a link, one was a lousy therapist, and the last had only met Jack yesterday.

177

People rarely go crazy all at once, and if they do "snap", it's usually temporary.  When an acquaintance seems as if they've suddenly gone insane, the suddenness is usually an illusion based on time.  It was so with Gina.

To Helene, it seemed as if Gina had suddenly lost her mind, but, in reality, it had just been a long time since Helene had seen her cousin.  Helene liked to joke that their family didn't have reunions; they had wakes.  It was only after one of the family died that anyone got together, and that was the case this year, too.  Great Uncle Fritz had finally died and Helene coordinated her visit to when her parents would be there.  As it turned out, Gina was there, too.

Gina had always been Helene favorite cousin. 

172

It's a bad thing when your perspective changes.  It messes with everything you know, and it really makes you think in a way you didn't want to think.  For a while, I was seeing everything as if I were a movie camera.  That was bad.  My arms were coming out and I could see them in front of me, typing on the keyboard, but they were the arms of an actor.  I'd be eating lunch and it was as if the actor's arms were picking up the sandwich and holding it close to the camera lens.  My arms belonged to some poor Hollywood wannabe who had to crouch under a hulking movie camera on a set in a giant studio and pretend to work and eat while my eyes were simply recording what went on and only moved when the director wanted to focus on something else.  Like I said, that was bad.

123

Cammaratta giggled like a demented schoolgirl and it was at that moment that Lara knew he was insane. "Okay, then, Cam. I gotta go. Seven in the morning gets earlier every day," she said, chuckling like she agreed what he thought was funny really was.

Cam sighed, his face still grinning on the surface. "No, you don't."

A tingle passed into Lara's belly. "No, I don't what?"

"No you're not leaving." Cammaratta's wooden desk chair squeaked backwards on its metal rollers as he pulled his feet off John's body and straightened.

91

Hamlet lived in a small world. His possessions were neatly organized in his room, mostly in shoe boxes and baggies. He carried what he needed for the day in a stiff, brightly-colored backpack. Hamlet's clothes were varied, but all looked like each other and were always well pressed. His sandwiches were small with the crusts cut off.

The bus arrived promptly between 3 and 3:15. Hamlet boarded, swiped his bus pass and sat in the middle, deftly swinging his backpack from his shoulders and holding it firmly in his lap. He looked around and noticed only details.

56

When I was ten my grandfather went insane and killed my mother. My father was some sort of transient who had raped my mother near the tracks. He was most likely insane, too.

At this point in my story, only three sentences long, you may be thinking, "Oh, her poor mother." Don't think that, because she was also insane. While most people truly aren't "asking for it", she was. Literally. She walked the tracks hoping to find a transient who would rape her. She knew my grandfather was unstable and continued to goad him. She even handed him the knife.

Now I'm on my third paragraph and maybe you're thinking, "Oh, that poor girl." This time you're right. Poor me. I'm only sixteen, and I am waiting for the insanity bomb to drop. Any second now. Genetics cannot be avoided. As sure as my eyes are hazel and my hair is blond and my knees are knobby, I will go insane.

32

Sadness doesn't just suddenly appear, like when you realize you have ants. You walk into the kitchen one morning and there's an ant crawling across the counter and you have to buy those little plastic poison roundhouses to put into corners and under the refrigerator. Sadness creeps up on you, and you do notice, but you ignore it, like when you get cancer.

You notice the spot on your arm, or the pain in your side, but it's nothing. Sure, it bothers you a little, but you manage to convince yourself there's no need to trouble anyone with it. Then the spot gets bigger, or the pain suddenly sharpens, so now you wear long sleeves or take an ibuprofen and you can keep on just as you have been.

But the cancer is still there, and it won't go away just because you ignore it. As a matter of fact, it will only get worse. If you hadn't ignored it, you might have gotten help. Yeah, it would have been painful, but not as painful as a slow death.

Sadness is a slow death that eats you from the inside out.

10

Evening
The monkeys were advancing, and I told James as much. He told me to relax, but there was no way I could relax before I gave the robots their briefing. The only problem was, I couldn't find the robots. I must have sent them to the front lines already. I shouted for my secretary until James came back and threatened to tie me into bed again. No, no, no; I could not be tied down now. Not when the monkeys were about to cross into what had always been my territory. I began planning a night mission.

Dawn
Breakfast was a mess. My scrambled eggs were overcooked and the toast was undertoasted. The butter didn't even melt. I complained to the waiter. Somehow the other patrons started a foodfight. James tied me into bed.

Dawn
Yesterday slipped from me. I managed to write my log entry before they retied me, but...whatever I keep taking takes from me, too. I lost a lot. I don't even want to know how much.

Afternoon
I promise to behave. I promise to behave. I promise to behave.

Unknown time
How can I be "good", if I, first of all, don't know what "good" means to them, and second of all, if the scratchings and chatterings of those stupid monkeys keep me from sleeping? STOP. IT.

Dawn
Someone new came to see me. He seems nice, but I can't tell yet what side he's working for. I will, as always, wait and observe.