paradoxical
03-18-2010, 03:30 AM
Victoria
Whenever I think about that day, right after she got out of jail, but before she went to prison, I always picture her riding that beat up 10 speed bike. I can still hear that squeaky bike chain, can see her carrying a trash bag filled with aluminum cans to sell at the recycling place. That's how I remember her, when she still lived upstairs from me, in those apartments on Wilson Street. She was dressed in black that day, which is what she wore most days. I can see her dirty, tangled hair. The sores on her face. She was too thin to be healthy, but it was the twitching that gave her away. She was always twitching and scratching herself. I was outside that day talking with Willy, my neighbor in 2C, and we watched her pedal down Wilson, heading to 4th Street.
"Dude, doesn't she look like a witch?", Willy asked, using his index finger to adjust his round, John Lennon style sunglasses. Willy had long, dirty blonde hair that was parted in the middle and eyes that made him look stoned, even when he wasn't.
"Oh God, yes," I said, laughing. I watched Willy pull his hair out of his eyes and tuck it back behind his ear, wondering if I should say anything else.
"Did you know she comes from money?"
"What? No way," he said.
"Yea, she comes from a good family. She used to be pretty, too."
I remember going outside late at night and seeing her in the dumpster searching for empty cans. One night I went out and found her running in circles in the parking lot and talking to herself. Sometimes she would knock on the door or tap on the window, when she was high and needed to talk to someone.
"So how do you know her?", he asked.
"I used to hang out with her brother."
"Oh yea, what's he like?"
"He's totally normal. Has a good job. I don't think he does drugs at all," I said. "Do you remember CD Cafe?"
"Oh yea, across from the math building?" "I remember that."
"We used to play on open mike night. Acoustic stuff. All covers, we never wrote any songs."
"So has she always been messed up?"
"No, not at all," I said.
What I didn't know, what nobody understood, was that there had always been something wrong with her. A lonely, empty feeling that had been there since she was a child; like a cold wind blowing inside her guts. A feeling inside of her that was so real she couldn't talk about it with anybody. A hole inside of her that nothing, not even drugs could fill. But drugs could hide the pain for awhile.
"What do you think she's going get?" Willy joked. We both knew where she was going.
We went back inside Willy's apartment to play guitar. He played electric and was better then me so he would play lead while I played rhythm and tried to keep up. All I owned was a cheap acoustic but Willy had two electric guitars, a nice acoustic, and an expensive Fender amp.
"You know she tried to get me to take a hit of that stuff the other night?"
"Really?" I asked.
"She goes, one time won't hurt you. And I looked at her and said, I might wind up like you!"
I started laughing. "Dude, that is funny. Were you up in her room?"
"No, she had tapped on my window and I let her in. I couldn't sleep anyway. It's kind of funny, though. Half the time you can't even understand her." Willy gave me a strange look.
"I feel sorry for her," he said.
"Yea, I know what you mean."
* * * *
It was just after midnight on Thursday night and I was finishing my last beer at Changes when I saw Victoria walk up to the bar. A few people called out her name and waved to her, which surprised me, but I hardly ever went out, so I didn't know how often she went there. She ordered a large beer in a plastic cup, walked up to me and gave me a kind of awkward high five then held my hand for a second. There was a guy waiting for her outside, watching her in the bar. He looked like one of the dealers who went to her apartment sometimes.
"Hey, I gotta run," she said, grabbing the beer and holding it with both hands. She seemed agitated, and kept looking around the bar, searching for something.
"OK," I said.
She was always going somewhere, and every time she was in a rush to get there. I ignored her and started walking back home, feeling slightly drunk. When I got back to my apartment, Willy came over and told me what had happened. He had come home from work earlier that night, and found his window broken and the door open. When he went inside, he saw that all of his guitars were gone. He had filed a police report. We both suspected Victoria.
"I just saw her down at Changes," I said.
"Changes? When?"
"Maybe 15 minutes ago."
We thought about it and decided that she had gone there to try to establish an alibi, and she didn't expect to see me at the bar. She didn't come home that night, or the next. On Sunday, I bought a newspaper and saw her name in the arrest report. She had been arrested with two men in a motel room on the north side of town. She was being charged with possession of crack cocaine and trafficking in stolen property. The police had found some guns that had been taken from a store and they even found Willy's guitars a month later when they turned up in a pawn shop.
"I wonder what it feels like to be in handcuffs?" I asked. "To be locked in a cell?"
Then I realized that Victoria had always been in handcuffs and shackles, and this enslavement would follow her into death. She was already on parole, now she was going to prison, but even when she got out, she would not be free. In a prison cell or a cheap motel room, she would have to follow her destiny to its conclusion, like all of us. I closed my eyes and pictured her alone and twitching, forever scratching at an itch that would never go away.
Whenever I think about that day, right after she got out of jail, but before she went to prison, I always picture her riding that beat up 10 speed bike. I can still hear that squeaky bike chain, can see her carrying a trash bag filled with aluminum cans to sell at the recycling place. That's how I remember her, when she still lived upstairs from me, in those apartments on Wilson Street. She was dressed in black that day, which is what she wore most days. I can see her dirty, tangled hair. The sores on her face. She was too thin to be healthy, but it was the twitching that gave her away. She was always twitching and scratching herself. I was outside that day talking with Willy, my neighbor in 2C, and we watched her pedal down Wilson, heading to 4th Street.
"Dude, doesn't she look like a witch?", Willy asked, using his index finger to adjust his round, John Lennon style sunglasses. Willy had long, dirty blonde hair that was parted in the middle and eyes that made him look stoned, even when he wasn't.
"Oh God, yes," I said, laughing. I watched Willy pull his hair out of his eyes and tuck it back behind his ear, wondering if I should say anything else.
"Did you know she comes from money?"
"What? No way," he said.
"Yea, she comes from a good family. She used to be pretty, too."
I remember going outside late at night and seeing her in the dumpster searching for empty cans. One night I went out and found her running in circles in the parking lot and talking to herself. Sometimes she would knock on the door or tap on the window, when she was high and needed to talk to someone.
"So how do you know her?", he asked.
"I used to hang out with her brother."
"Oh yea, what's he like?"
"He's totally normal. Has a good job. I don't think he does drugs at all," I said. "Do you remember CD Cafe?"
"Oh yea, across from the math building?" "I remember that."
"We used to play on open mike night. Acoustic stuff. All covers, we never wrote any songs."
"So has she always been messed up?"
"No, not at all," I said.
What I didn't know, what nobody understood, was that there had always been something wrong with her. A lonely, empty feeling that had been there since she was a child; like a cold wind blowing inside her guts. A feeling inside of her that was so real she couldn't talk about it with anybody. A hole inside of her that nothing, not even drugs could fill. But drugs could hide the pain for awhile.
"What do you think she's going get?" Willy joked. We both knew where she was going.
We went back inside Willy's apartment to play guitar. He played electric and was better then me so he would play lead while I played rhythm and tried to keep up. All I owned was a cheap acoustic but Willy had two electric guitars, a nice acoustic, and an expensive Fender amp.
"You know she tried to get me to take a hit of that stuff the other night?"
"Really?" I asked.
"She goes, one time won't hurt you. And I looked at her and said, I might wind up like you!"
I started laughing. "Dude, that is funny. Were you up in her room?"
"No, she had tapped on my window and I let her in. I couldn't sleep anyway. It's kind of funny, though. Half the time you can't even understand her." Willy gave me a strange look.
"I feel sorry for her," he said.
"Yea, I know what you mean."
* * * *
It was just after midnight on Thursday night and I was finishing my last beer at Changes when I saw Victoria walk up to the bar. A few people called out her name and waved to her, which surprised me, but I hardly ever went out, so I didn't know how often she went there. She ordered a large beer in a plastic cup, walked up to me and gave me a kind of awkward high five then held my hand for a second. There was a guy waiting for her outside, watching her in the bar. He looked like one of the dealers who went to her apartment sometimes.
"Hey, I gotta run," she said, grabbing the beer and holding it with both hands. She seemed agitated, and kept looking around the bar, searching for something.
"OK," I said.
She was always going somewhere, and every time she was in a rush to get there. I ignored her and started walking back home, feeling slightly drunk. When I got back to my apartment, Willy came over and told me what had happened. He had come home from work earlier that night, and found his window broken and the door open. When he went inside, he saw that all of his guitars were gone. He had filed a police report. We both suspected Victoria.
"I just saw her down at Changes," I said.
"Changes? When?"
"Maybe 15 minutes ago."
We thought about it and decided that she had gone there to try to establish an alibi, and she didn't expect to see me at the bar. She didn't come home that night, or the next. On Sunday, I bought a newspaper and saw her name in the arrest report. She had been arrested with two men in a motel room on the north side of town. She was being charged with possession of crack cocaine and trafficking in stolen property. The police had found some guns that had been taken from a store and they even found Willy's guitars a month later when they turned up in a pawn shop.
"I wonder what it feels like to be in handcuffs?" I asked. "To be locked in a cell?"
Then I realized that Victoria had always been in handcuffs and shackles, and this enslavement would follow her into death. She was already on parole, now she was going to prison, but even when she got out, she would not be free. In a prison cell or a cheap motel room, she would have to follow her destiny to its conclusion, like all of us. I closed my eyes and pictured her alone and twitching, forever scratching at an itch that would never go away.