Valencia (15 page)

Eventually we left and became one of the cars carrying fucked-up kids down the perilous road. We did not crash. We took Trent to his house and parked there.
You want to smoke some more weed?
he asked.
I've got some really good shit inside
. Not being one to turn down pot, Iris said yes and Trent darted into his house. I'm Really Fucked Up, I said. Iris nodded.
Do you think they're all doing each other?
she asked, grinning. We wanted them to be, partly because that was hot and partly because we were so starved for gay people. Trent came back to the car and lit a joint off the car lighter. I could not imagine what would happen to me if I smoked more pot. I held it to my lips and drew it in. We silently held our clouds in our chests, passing the joint around the car and watching Trent's mother watch us through the window. She'd edge up to the curtain and slowly draw it back, spy for a minute and move away.
Look, there she is again
, Trent exhaled.
Crazy bitch. Want to see my dog?
He led us over to a small pen that held a fierce-looking dog. It went wild as we approached, barking and trying like crazy to fly over the fence. Trent liked to give his dog pot and alcohol.
I'm going to give her acid
, he said rubbing her slobbery head.
She'll fucking trip out!
I turned back to the house and saw the mom's silhouette at the window. Let's Go, I mouthed to Iris. She made vague plans to see Trent again as we wobbled back to the car.
I'm going to come to San Francisco!
he yelled as we climbed in.
I'm going to
come out there!
He waved to us from the lawn. That Poor Fucking Dog, I said as we drove away. I was disturbed. He's Going To Kill It.
He's fucked-up
, Iris said simply. What else could she say? She was terribly stoned and they used to be such good friends. Towns trap people, that's for sure. The rest of the world may as well not even be out there.

And the wedding, the reason we were stuck in a little Georgia town where a famous Civil War battle had been fought, the creek running red with the blood of the soldiers. This town is so small it's a shock to see it on a map, but usually it's listed, because of the battle. The night before the wedding I was crying. I wasn't going to go. They could shove it up their ass. I had been with Iris at the bridal shop, in the dressing room, helping her into the horrible dress, maroon like the color of crusty menstrual blood, long and straight, little rosettes on the shoulder. Raw silk. Classy, not one of those froofy pastel numbers. I was trying to make the best of it by getting frisky behind the heavy dressing room curtain. It's not every day that Iris looked girly. I thought I'd put the moves on her but it was hopeless. This is where everything turned sour. Iris on a little pedestal, an old woman crouched at her feet, sticking pins in the hem. It was so wrong, so obviously wrong. Iris was a boy, she was beautiful, she was Peter Pan, and they had her done up like a matron. Take a strong and noble animal, an elephant or a black bear, and throw a hat on it and put it in a circus. That's what was happening to my girlfriend. It was terrible to observe. And what
about me, my hair was bleached a fuzzy blonde so that with my glasses I looked like a cartoon chick. I looked like Tweety Bird. I had caved in to the bride and scrubbed the lime color from my scruff. Hanging in the closet was a Laura Ashley dress Iris's Aunt Dixie handed over when we realized I had brought nothing suitable for a six thousand dollar Southern Baptist wedding. It would have been really embarrassing had I given a shit, sitting in this perfect country home my mother would die for, ducks and rabbits and that blue and white ribbon motif. Dixie was rushing in and out of her two perfect daughters' closets, offering me all kinds of tasteful clothing, and I couldn't even make a decision because I had no idea what was appropriate. I felt like such a pauper, but instead of blushing I got into it. What else could I do?
Dixie loves this
, Iris's mom assured me as Dixie whooshed back with a pair of navy blue flats for me to sample. There I was, selling out to ease the bride's histrionics. And know what the problem was? She didn't want everyone to be paying attention to me and my green hair on her big day. It wasn't fair. She was supposed to be the center of attention. She'd waited her entire life for it. Please. Like I wanted the collective eyes of the homophobic Baptist family focused on me. Maybe I Just Won't Go. I
Can't
Go. I was crying in Iris's bed. It's Just
Wrong
. It's
Wrong
That I Can't Hold Your Hand. We
Always
Hold Hands. I was wracked by the injustice. At a marriage, a celebration of love. And Iris, it seemed so easy for her to pretend we were pals, she could just shut it off like that. I was sobbing. Maybe a little melodramatic, maybe not.
This is what it comes down to, right? Standing up for what's right and all that.
Have you lost respect for me?
she asked, and I wanted to say no, do the unconditional love thing, you know, I Support You No Matter What, but I thought it sucked. Little tough-shit kiss-my-ass Iris, all self-righteous in San Francisco, so quick to judge, and she can't even hold my fucking hand. But it's her family, and that's a big deal, and you can't force someone out of the closet, blah blah blah. I know, and I'm telling you it was wrong. And it was a dry wedding on top of it all. Baptist. Iris and I had plotted to smuggle in a bottle of whiskey to share with her alcoholic dad and the best man, who was so far gone everyone feared he'd get the shakes during the ceremony, going so long without booze. Obviously that little plan couldn't happen.

I walked around the reception like a ghost, this dazed girl in a flowing dress. I wasn't there at all. Getting introduced to various relatives who had no idea who they were meeting. They thought I was someone else. It was awful. And Iris getting escorted down the aisle on the arm of some gentleman. I locked myself in the church bathroom and cried. All the relatives telling her how pretty she looked and how San Francisco is such a lovely city and how they're going to come visit one day. Iris was in the receiving line with the dyed-to-match pumps lying on the carpet, pantyhose webbing her toes.
When's your turn?
an aunty teased.
Oh, I don't know
, Iris laughed uncomfortably. Beside her was her dad, so robust and glowing I knew he was sipping from his own private stash. He knew
what he was getting into. I was the fool who drove halfway across the country on a lark. Totally unprepared. I sat like a wallflower on a folding chair eating cantaloupe. Next to me were a couple of girls Iris's sister taught science to. They were pretty weird-looking for that part of Georgia, dark blue nailpolish, a cluster of silver hoops jangling off their ears. And they were fixated on Iris. She was kind of a legend, being the one girl who had looked weird and had played music and had been so outspoken about things like racism that she got a cross burned on her lawn in high school. These girls were gazing at her.
Are you her cousin?
one asked. No, I'm Her Friend.
You two are best friends?
I nodded. They were best friends too. Iris's dad danced with the evil bride and everyone went
Awww
, and then we were allowed to leave. Out front sat the bridal getaway car, hung with balloons and streamers. One kid was hiding balloons under the tires for a big bang when the car pulled off. The bitchy sister flung her bouquet and, alas, Iris did not catch it, her eighty-year-old grandmother did, and I suppose she does have a better chance at marriage than Iris. Everyone thought it was so cute that the old lady caught the flowers. The wedding was over and we all got to go home.

Before Iris and I went back to California, one more thing happened—Daisy's tragedy. It was the day before our departure, around 2 p.m., our breakfast hour. We never did manage to overcome our strange lack of energy. From couch to bed and back was a struggle. Depressed people sleep a lot, I learned in my high school
psychology class. So it was two o'clock and Iris was hooking up the Folgers and searching the fridge for leftover wedding food, and we heard crazy barking in the backyard. Daisy. Just howls and barks and whines and we walked over to the back porch, this screened-in, astroturf place with a cozy wooden swing, and there's Daisy running in circles, frantic, crying those awful cries. I thought maybe she'd been stung by a bee. She ran around the side of the porch scratching on the wood like she wanted inside. She hopped into the window, and that's when I screamed. Look At Her Eye! It was a moment clipped from a horror movie—our screams, little Daisy who had become a monster, her eyeball hanging out of her head, red and white, grotesquely swollen like a balloon you could pop, the pupil dead and staring in the center. Iris screamed,
Oh my god, oh my god!
and we did not know what to do. We heard her scratching at the back door, a noise like this awful beast. We were scared and crying, and we couldn't open the door. Iris called her mother at work. We were really inept. Now was the moment Daisy needed puppy cuddling the most and we couldn't even look at her. But we had to. We had to get her into the car and to the vet's. It was a nightmare. We left the house gingerly, like two kids in a slasher film, and when Daisy spotted us she barked fearfully and ran. She was so confused. We had the car door open, we tried to coax her in. We couldn't touch her, I couldn't stop thinking about the eyeball bumping into me and bursting.
Come on, Daisy
. She usually hopped right in.
Daisy, get in the car
, Iris cried. She was sobbing. Daisy got
in the front, and I got in the back and held her still, petted her. I forced myself to look at her eye so I could get used to it, but that didn't work. Bulging right out of her head. The fact that eyes can pop out suddenly became a reality to me. My eye could pop out. So could Iris's. If My Eye Ever Pops Out, Just Cover My Face, Don't Look At It, I said.
Oh, Michelle, I couldn't look at you with your eye out of your head
, Iris said, still crying. I Couldn't Look At You Either, I confessed. It was terrifying and heartbreaking. Poor Daisy. She seemed much calmer and not in pain but sometimes she'd try to scratch the eyeball and I'd shriek. There was lint caught on the end of it. We pulled up to the vet's and Iris's sister's husband's mother was waiting for us. This big crazy-looking woman with makeup caked into a deeply wrinkled face, silvery bird-feather hair like a bad hat. She came over to the window with a smile. She was only seeing half of Daisy, the good half.
Oh Daisy, now, that's not so
— Her face froze. She dipped her head into her arm. It was very dramatic.
Daisy, WHY? Oh, WHY Daisy, WHY?
Daisy stared at the woman with her exploding eye, very calm. She had been hit by a truck, and it jolted her eye straight out.
Daisy got her eye knocked right out of her li'l ol' head
, Iris's mom said in her sweet voice, all perky. The vet said the eye was hanging by a single nerve. Imagine if it'd snapped. I couldn't have handled that. I guess they snipped the eye off, then sewed up her eye socket. She's a spaniel, so hair grew right over it. It's kind of cute, like a pirate puppy. Just her depth perception is off, so sometimes when she chases her braid she slams into the wall.

10

That was the year I puked on every winter holiday. If I was lucky, I had my head jammed down a toilet, innards convulsing. If I was unlucky, the stuff went elsewhere. Thanksgiving I was at Iggy's house back when I first met her, when she was fresh to the city from Chicago. Iggy was a loud redhead who told stories so incredible you wondered if they were true but ultimately didn't care because you were so enraptured by her grand gestures and re-enactments. And they were true. Iggy drank, and she cooked tremendous gourmet meals, and she smoked tons of cigarettes. I was glad that her place was a smoking household since me and Iris were a big smoking couple. Every morning Iris would rig up the espresso machine in her kitchen and froth us up these great soy milk coffee drinks, and about halfway through the
glass, weighty pint glasses stolen from The Stud or The Uptown, we'd grab our smooshed blue packs of American Spirits and light up. I loved sitting on her back porch, on the peeling grey stairs that looked on to the weedy empty lot where homeless people slept on damp mattresses. A fat, magnificent palm tree grew in the middle, its top a burst of heavy leaves like an ancient jungle. I would sit and look at the tree and smoke and think about how great my life was. I leaned back against the rickety wooden crates packed with dirt and sunflowers, tangled vines with little yellow tomatoes you could pop in your mouth. Iris's garden. She would come and sit beside me on the old wood, and the stereo from her room would leak out, Sonic Youth or PJ Harvey. PJ Harvey was ours. So tortured about what? Why were we tortured? We were in love and life was a fast current swarming around our ankles, threatening to topple us into the wet part of the planet. It was intense, that's why we were tortured. It was enormous and exploding like that palm tree. Iris was my Yuri-G, my Delilah, my Stella Marie. Strong dark women you had to love with a strong dark heart that throbbed in gorgeous pain because love is terrible. I mean, ultimately. It would go away like a needle lifting from the vinyl at the end of the song, we knew this. The music would cease, one of us would die or else we'd just break up, and this drove us to drink from each other like two twelve-year-olds sneaking vodka from the liquor cabinet, trying to get it all down, trying to get as fucked up as possible before we got caught.