Chris Fash

Heroine

Dude: a word, like a body-blow. He, the speaker, will have no idea what he’s done. I know this man. I know the boy, in this man. He hit me, with one word, by mistake. I’d like to get my bearings. The place I’m in seems new, unfamiliar and terrifying. I missed you: we slam hands. I haven’t seen you for 25 years. You moved away at age nine, but it’s like we’re kids again. Right: I live here. I’d forgotten, momentarily, that I live here. I’m reoriented, but like a broken bone, something doesn’t quite heal. It’s like we’re looking ahead to our futures, the grownup-lives we’ll have one day: your family in the car, your family, a woman you started seeing in high school. You’ve got a little girl now. We’re in front of my home… or sort-of. I rent a room here, live here. 

Cool place! I agree, living here. I do live here, in this home, this body too.  Thanks bruv! still feels like I’m breaking in whenever I walk up the driveway. Someone spoke: me. I’m the one who spoke. It doesn’t feel as if I’m the one who spoke. It’s like somebody else spoke, a stranger. The stranger keeps talking.  It’s nearly all doctoral students here, so I’m the dumbest person around. You remember how I crash-land all the time, wrecked my fair share of brain cells back then and went on to toast the rest in cheap whiskey. You laugh: I’ve missed this fucker. Most people wouldn’t laugh, just kind of pause, make it weird, but you still know I’m kidding. You always did. Hell, you saw me wipe out enough times.

It’s like the laughter shatters time, the distance of decades, or nearly.

I’m nine years old; inside myself: we’ll move soon. I’m not ready to move. We’re going to another town, another country. Right now, though, I’m bare-assed and bleeding on a school playground. Another kid knocked me down; it’s not hard to knock me down. I tore the seat of pants I’m wearing out on a walker I’ve been made to use. From here, it’ll be the vice-principal’s office. I taste blood, but I’m not going to cry: a little girl watches. The little girl’s younger than me. She’s in kindergarten, and she’s crying. She follows me around out here a lot. She likes my walker; I’ve let her use it. I’d like to let her keep it. She’s okay, for a little kid. It’s hard for me to play other games during recess: I can’t really climb the play structure, or play a sport. My aide doesn’t let me climb the play structure, but she’s on break, which is how the bully got me.  

Well… where the hell do I rent some semblance of executive function from now? I still seem to be lurching around okay. Where’s your walker? You mean the one I’d use back in the day: I crashed it bro. I’d liquor up on cheap whiskey and crash it. You would’ve, ha. Thing is man, I’ve got a secret: strong coffee, a full carafe of it, black and cold as my heart, brain-dead sure but my caffeine addiction lets me appear sentient, less necrotic. 

You’re a soldier now, much like half those kids we grew up with, but I’ll never be in the Forces myself. I’m ineligible for enlistment, unemployed where you’re a provider now, supporting dependents, a family. We’re a long way from those two kids who met on a base, in Cub Scouts: homemade ice cream, treks through marshland, the following year when you’d move to my school and request to be in my class.

I have never forgotten that.

I’m coming back from the bathroom, I’m seven years old; a kid trips me up. I never tell anyone how he tripped me up. . . It’s easier to say I tripped over a chair leg. I fracture my back. I’ll be in bed for weeks, which is okay because I don’t go to school. I’m new here, so I don’t have a friend, just bullies.  

A house has blown up nearby: that’s what I tell people, anyhow, upon being asked why the roof is off. It stands up the road, bare to public view like some oversized, open dollhouse. It seems to break up an otherwise-peaceful neighbourhood, standing out from the row of suburban homes like one black tooth inside an otherwise-perfect smile.

I have no idea what happened to the home, expect you to ask: you don’t ask.

A hospital also stands up the road. Back when we hung out, I spent half my life in hospitals. I’ve never been to this particular hospital. It’s just off a main road, a busy road with speed cameras. 

The odd passing car seems to smooth over silence. 

You and I stand here for a minute, joking around more. It’s almost like we’ve become the suburban grownups we imagined back then. The street glitters with salt, a late winter day, lots of snow but blue sky. A secret sleeps inside me. I try to speak my secret, but I’m unable to. 

You’re always playing with younger kids: I’ve blocked out the speaker’s name, but wonder if you’d remember now. Only the words endure, divorced from a name, the blur of bullies I’ve known blending mentally because they’re all the same to me. You’re always playing with girls, they’d ask: why are you always playing with girls? I play with girls because their games are often quieter. Some girls play sports with boys, but some talk by the wall. They sit with me at a picnic table. Sometimes, I’ll wish I was a girl. Girls are a lot nicer than most boys. What are you, some kind of blank?

I didn’t know the blank word, but I’ll hear it again as a teen, a steam-like kind of slur which never quite sticks. Years later, age 14, I’ll get kicked half to shit on a cafeteria floor while my fellow losers pretend to not see. I’ll be years into another posting by then. We’ll move again before long, but I won’t miss anyone. I’ll think of you then, my last real friend, but we’ll have long-since fallen out of touch.

We said goodbye at age nine, back before our spoken words began to crack, before we grew into taller bodies but shrunk within ourselves.

The teenage years never came between us, which makes me glad. We said goodbye at age nine, back before our spoken words began to crack, before we grew into taller bodies but shrunk within ourselves. We never stopped hanging out, but might’ve, given more time. I’d play that scene out with other people, a pseudo-friend or three, other outcasts who hung around together because bullies had a harder time beating us up that way. None of them were you.

I wonder who you’ve become. 

Adulthood for me has been a basement. It’s been a bunch of long walks. I read a lot; you used to read with me. I’ve gotten out, left my mother’s place, and live alone now. I’m glad to live alone now. 

How’s your family, bro? Well… Dad’s gone. What do you mean, like gone, gone? I don’t really know man. I haven’t seen him for a long time, and Mom… we don’t really talk anymore. Don’t you have a sister too? I have a sibling; they’re non-binary. I test you, sort of, try and figure out whether it’s a good idea to tell my secret.

How’s your family bro?

I remember your parents well; they helped out in our Cub Scout pack. I also slept over at your place a few times, always found them super-cool, really nice people. I always liked being at your house.

Back then, I couldn’t quite place it.

Hey dude: she’s gone inside… you set? You’re sure she’s gone? Yeah: let’s have fun! It’s recess! I’ll help you up. Where’d she go? We’re clear, man. I’m not sure; yeah you are. You can do it. I got you, man. She’ll come back, and we’ll get in trouble. Let’s just try the slide. Ha: I’d like to try the monkey bars. It’ll be our secret man. 

What secrets do you have?

You help me to your car now. You have a car now; you’re old enough to drive now. We’re both old enough to drive now. I’ve never driven, never got my licence. I’ve been old enough to drive for half my life now but never got a licence. I took the bus for years; the transit system is messed up now. It’s easier to just stay home now. 

The truth is, I like to stay home now.

How’re your parents? Ahhh, bro, they’re good. They’re still saints. I liked that, how they’d pray with us. I’ll tell them you remember that. My kid brother… he’s living on-base now, man. He’s in the same place we met.

No way, man. Yeah. They have a different name for it now. Oh, and they shut our old school down. We were old school, ha.

Hey man… and for a second, I nearly tell him.

Yeah? You… still in touch with anyone? Naw bro, not really… not anymore. Dude… how many of those kids do you think ended up in the war?

How many of those kids do you think ended up in jail?

Do you play with dolls? I try to picture the bully who still seems to speak, or a name at least. You’re a little blank. I’ve never heard the blank word before, but I’m sure it’s mean. A few kids gather around. A few kids laugh; the little girl cries. I’m sorry she cries.

Leave him alone.

I don’t play with dolls. I do carry this: here. She’s a good-luck charm. I take her out of my pocket, a little queen. She’s a little metal chess queen. She fell off her base, and can’t be used in games anymore. My parents threw her out. I picked her out of the garbage, cleaned her. 

I show her to you like a secret I’m not able to explain.

I show her to you like a secret I’m not able to explain.

What, you a little blank too? How about I punch you in the mouth? Kids close in, sensing a fight. My bully’s a real beef-head. You’re smaller, but also fast. I look for the little girl, but she’s gone: I’m glad.

We’re all sitting by the vice-principal’s office. I reach into my pocket and… she’s gone man. What’s gone? My metal queen… she must’ve fallen out on the blacktop.

My parents were having bad trouble back then, bro. You remember that one girl in our class whose parents got a divorce? She came to class crying one day, but I’ve forgotten her name. Our house was quiet; it was quieter when people were there. You help me to the car; all good bro? Sure. You should go to a doctor, but I laugh. Naw, bro: had my life’s worth of those as a kid. Yeah man, but we’re getting older now. Exactly man… exactly. I look him in the eye. Maybe they’ll get me in a mobility device, whatever 20, 30 years down the line, but I’m good for now. 

I’m good.

You laugh, get it. Other people don’t. You remember how it was. I was a bubble-kid, adults on me all the time. I don’t need a walker anymore, move without a walker, am sick of everyone else knowing what’s best for me. I’d rather take my hits and move on. We’ve taken our hits bro; we’ve taken our hits.

I remember moving, the yard-sale and a truck. We’d moved before. It used to be fun, for me anyway. It wasn’t fun anymore, not by age nine: I wanted to cry. I did cry when the plane was landing, but made sure nobody could see me. 

I already knew I’d never have a friend like you again. 

Once we’re in the car, I say hi to the woman you’re with, and your little girl too. She looks a good bit like you. It’s almost like I’m seeing what you’d have looked like as a girl.

You seemed neutral when I mentioned my sibling, neither for nor against. It’s in line with what I remember of the military’s don’t ask, don’t tell policy. I haven’t been in a military home for years, but was raised in one. Some of what I learned there… sticks. It sticks like soap, a bar of soap, no talking back. It’s like certain words are stuck in my mouth. It’s like I can’t speak, soaped into silence. 

We’re driving off, headed to a bookstore-cafe, a favourite haunt of mine. I’ve often gone there alone, but we’re going together now. We’re going together now. It’s like another life… an afterlife. 

I’m not used to car-travel anymore, and work to contain my stomach. It’s not so hard, because I haven’t eaten in 24 hours. All I’ve had today is coffee: two cups of good, strong coffee. I chugged it all at once. What I’ll do is, I make my coffee the night before. I let it sit in the carafe all night, then get up, belt it, and go to work. That way, I don’t have to buy milk or creamer, and it’s already cool.

I feel hollow, hungry, and also a little lightheaded, but passing out in front of a child would scare her. I can’t scare her. I do it for my buddy, his kid. It makes me think of that other girl, from decades ago, the kindergarten girl who used to follow me around.

I watch you climb a tree, sunlight cutting through branches: you’re a good climber. I can’t climb. You move up, but I’m still here. I’m still here. I’m able to play Nintendo, but I don’t have one. We play it at your house. You win at most games, but I’m getting better. I do have a sprinkler; we play in the sprinkler. I can’t run through it, like you, but we have a good time. I see rainbows. We sit on steps, and are having ice cream bars. You’re not usually allowed to have ice cream at your house. You talk about a girl at school. You like a girl at school. It’s brave, saying that. I like girls too: my friends are nearly all girls, except for you. I like how you also like girls, and have told me that. It seems like a grownup thing to say. It seems like a secret.The lawn is getting greener, and our friendship too. We’re friends, rainbow friends, though I’ll move away soon.

You win at most games, but I’m getting better. I do have a sprinkler; we play in the sprinkler. I can’t run through it, like you, but we have a good time. I see rainbows.

The tree was cut down.

How long have you lived here now, bro? Just over a year now: it’s hard to believe we’ve both been here this whole time, me having only looked you up on social media a few months ago. I feel bad, because you’ll move soon: you’re the one who’ll move away this time.

The girl you’re talking about is older than us. Your tongue is purple: I laugh. Do you like her? It’s okay… I’m not going to tell. Kids have gotten wrist-burned for less. I like her, don’t care who knows.

That’s really brave. 

How about me… do I like any girls?

I’m lightheaded, my mouth dry. Come on, you fucker, I think to myself. I see streaks of light flashing off glass. Nausea twists inside me. I haven’t been downtown for months, and feel a dissonance, the city hard, jarring. It’s not just each storefront, but also electrical currents clicking to life against early winter dusk. I don’t remember this from before. I’m… quite sure I don’t remember it. I’m quite sure it’s changed: the city’s changed, or I have.

I’m in the arts, or that’s what I tell people. I am in the arts, but don’t get paid. It always feels like a lie, whenever I tell people what I’m doing, which is part of why I seldom talk to people. I live in a very 9-5 type of city. People have jobs here; I don’t have a paying job. I live off disability assistance from the government. I’m fortunate to receive it: there are some jobs… not-many, it’s true, but for example some minimum wage jobs which… and I nearly hear the voices I’m capable of working, did so for several years, hated my life, dreamt of suicide my mental health fading and those voices you have to work everyone works because you’re chained I’d like to say moocher-parasite why freeload their words a blank cheque for all the evils of a dying system and see that’s it, I think, not only are such people chained but worship their chain, that’s just how it is, no that’s a choice simple for you to say our money our food our world so what, maybe I should’ve headed back to school, the system in play, its insidious corporate structure pulling me in, degrees then a job then alcohol a fucking quality shotgun blow my head in leave you all to it, your patient long-suffering faces not only unemployed but also has Ideas for fucksake either take the tit and shut up or eat a gun do likewise leave us to it…

So hey, this one person… hm? Do you remember them? I’ve missed the name. No: can’t say I do. Well… I thought of them, when you mentioned your sibling. I heard they do drag shows now. Do you know their pronouns offhand? Naw man… sorry.

Our popsicles are dripping onto the stoop. Icicles are dripping water; we need to be careful. They look ready to fall. 

We’re here bro; you all good? For sure! Sorry, dude. The girls have gotten out. I’m alone with you for a minute, and also remember the secret I’d love to speak. I should tell you now, since we’re alone. I could say how come I’d waited so long to write, all these years, but I can’t.

I can’t.

Age 16: your school has you doing a paper on this? It’s in the news. Well, we used to have a name for people like that. I feel blank inside. Yeah: I know the name. You know the name? Yeah: it’s hurtful. What’s hurtful is having this in the news. Write your paper, but I don’t want to hear you talking about it again.

Age 18: why must you go to that wedding? Just because it’s legal now doesn’t mean it’s right. I’m legal now too, a legal adult. I’m going to go and you can’t stop me.

Age 20: I saw that guy once. What do you mean? I saw him at a wedding, a couple years back. He was in the church. The women who were getting married knew him. Did you talk to him? He broke into houses, taking underwear. He took pictures of himself wearing it. He did… way worse. 

I’m sure he did worse.

Unlike a lot of the people from back then, you’re an open-minded guy. That’s a big part of why I like you. As kids, you were honestly the one person I knew who wasn’t my friend from pity or because they didn’t have anyone else. After moving away, I’d never make another friend like you. I hung out with kids who had little in common outside reject status: we formed a pseudo-group, because that made it harder to beat us up. We moved again to a place where I didn’t even have that anymore. I’d be alone for those final few years of school, mostly hung in the library or at home. 

Wish I’d been there, man.

University was the same, I think, only bigger and more expensive, and that was when my parents began to divorce. I couldn’t blame them, chose to move out, meaning a dark room booze the seeds of addiction depressed and sure I tried to reconnect with you, felt pathetic, miserable, since you’d seemingly become a well-adjusted young adult. I had no wish to wreck our memories together by telling you about myself. I moved back home, became a basement-dwelling suicidal neurotic who didn’t even have a hint of structure social skills eroded a midnight-monster limping through dark forest could’ve died nearly did a couple times then a secret, innate, which I’m hiding now, have gotten out, you beside me.

Means a lot bro; I’ve missed you a lot too.

You offer to help me. The lot’s quite icy, frozen. I’m good. I manage, have trouble getting started. I joke about it: it’ll be fine once I’ve begun to move, needed 30 years to get started I laugh.

You laugh with me.

The girls are already inside, waving to us. You good, man? You’re asking about more than my muscles. I wonder how I’d even tell you, because we largely grew up the same. I’ve had to question some of what I grew up with, replace it where I’m not sure he has. I’d like to say this life since I knew him has mostly been a numb, frozen thing which happened to someone else, not a real person.

We’re outside together, playing in chilled light. We wonder who we’ll become as grown-ups.  We go inside the bookstore-cafe as grownups. I haven’t come here for months, as we’re in a wealthy part of town I can’t afford anymore. As kids, we debate the future, then debate the past as adults. I smell coffee pouring, a warm aroma.

He buys our drinks like it’s nothing.

Age 25: I’ve got cash, but feel poor. I live with Mom, but escape here. The cafe stays open late, and there’s a show on, a very loud show. The bookstore itself is reachable, but literacy has been forgotten, replaced with atavistic screaming out of some primal time. The shelves are dark, but I browse anyway. I visit enough to know a lot of the titles by heart.

It was late: 11 PM. There was a woman, bro, this really beautiful woman looking for a novel to read. We spoke, her saying how she didn’t have much time to read anymore, but missed books. The two of us were alone back there.

I’ve told this tale before, laughed about it before. The memory seems to change now, becoming unclear, as if history itself changes. It was like this woman rose from the books, beautiful as every heroine I’ve read together. It was tempting to ask her for a coffee, the band taking a break, as if we could’ve spoken, but I also wanted to give her a great book, the best I’ve read. So… did you ask her?

The memory seems to change now, becoming unclear, as if history itself changes. It was like this woman rose from the books, beautiful as every heroine I’ve read together.

A man came from the dark, seemingly born of the moment, as if he hadn’t existed before: the boyfriend.

Before, I’d like to tell you, that was where the tale ended. I’d suggest my favourite book, my very favourite. They had one copy of it, and I used to imagine the woman reading the book, finding time to read it.

I didn’t want her, that woman, in a romantic way, rather wanted to be that woman. I wanted to be a woman, but wouldn’t realise for a time that I’d always been one, having hidden it from everyone, most of all myself. For a time, I’d try to present openly as a woman.

The girls are gone now, in the section for young readers. We’re alone, you and I, and something needs to be said. I’m unsure what, if there’s even a word, and hope you’re not going to hate me because if you hate me my childhood will crash down, my memories of it anyway, the happy ones. What could I even say, how I like to wear dresses and perfume, makeup or how I love men? Maybe you’d think I’m into you.

I seem to swallow silence; I’ll never present openly as a woman. I don’t have the means to pass, even for anyone else, let alone myself. The words echo in my head, and it’s like they’ve won, as if I’ll never be myself.

Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask… I wait, and wonder if you know. Was it clear, all those years ago? Look, man: I’d like to help you.

Pardon? We’d like to help you. How? Um… financially.

Financially?

What else can I do but laugh? You’re my oldest friend, I say. I’m a woman, I say.

It’s okay if you hate that. Why would I hate that… my faith? No, it’s just… you remember back then, what people believed…

Well… we’re changing.

We are.

Wherever you are on your journey, know I’m with you.

In my mind, I tell him… in my heart… I’m a tall, spunky, super-blonde woman. I’m her. Who? Her: the woman I met here, like peering into another life. I nearly see her again in your kind words.

Huh: I wonder if we would’ve fallen in love. 

That’s the thing: two kids walking together at recess on a playground, a forest behind the school. We walk by the treeline. We don’t dig stuff up, talk instead. So many of my memories have changed since I came out to myself. I want some guys, okay, a friend or three I had, and vice versa, like, some girls I seemed to like I’d really have liked to be friends with, but you’re one of the few memories I’ve had, one of the few people I’ve known, who doesn’t change at all.

Nothing changes.

You and I… our friendship would’ve been exactly the same.

Hey man… a pause: it’s fine. I brought you something. You take a small box out of your pocket, hand it over. 

Here she is, my little metal queen. 

You found her on the playground. I’d already moved when you found her. You knew she was mine because we used to play chess together.

I’m quite sure she still has her luck, even though someone saw her, even though you saw her, and she reminded you of me, but I’ve got her back now.

The girls come back too. We get up, leave. We head back to the car.

Your little girl skips in front of us, where sunlight seems to sink and shine over memory.