Blackouts By Arya F. Jenkins

BLACKOUTS


            She can’t remember having a blackout before. How did she come to be sitting here across from this man, James, she has been dating, how long?
            “I can’t believe you said that,” he says.
            “What did I say?” she shakes her head a little to bring herself back, much as she can with half a pint of vodka, two lines of coke and 20 mills of Valium in her, the last for that nasty headache.
              How much she wants to relax into the world, into being in a relationship even, into the hands of the moment, although, of course, it’s impossible. Her head is a monster chewing on the remains of endless days of a childhood and adolescence spent searching, lost in the midst of absences. Her father, gone, mother, mad, sister, a junkie, out of control.
              She grew up understanding the world had cracks, fissures into which you could insert yourself if you tried hard enough. She wants to hide. Oh, how she wants to hide even just a little from herself.
              Last she remembers she was behind the diner puking elegantly, ruining nothing, far as she could tell. Feeding the grass and avoiding staining the mink James had bought her. Her birthday coat underneath which are a bra, undies, stockings, heels, nothing more-- heels she should think twice about wearing when she goes out like this. Even James has said, “you’ll kill yourself stumbling around in them things.”
             Perhaps she can crash and burn in the fissure of herself.
             He gazes at her weirdly, mouth slightly ajar so she can see the gap between his teeth that is one of his greatest charms. He sucks on an unlit cigarette, as if chastising himself for failing to understand something, head shaking a little.
            “Hey darlin’,” she bats her lashes. He is gazing with a little disgust at her, the spot just above her left breast on the pale fur, and she realizes why. One of her false eyelashes hangs there. “Oops,” she says, plucking it up expertly with her manicured fingernails and tries foolishly to re-apply it, then opts to tear the other off instead. “There, you happy?”
              He keeps shaking his head. “You know for somebody who’s already what—24?—you cut a pretty pathetic picture. I mean, you might think of getting a job, for one,” he sniffs and wipes his runny nose with the back of one grimy hand.
            “Look who’s talking,” she tosses back. “Mr. Dirty fingernails sniffing god knows what.”
            “Well, at least I’m not puking my brains out every chance I get,” he leans close to her as if to avoid an audience.
              His shoulders are broad in his pea coat, and his hair, unruly. He seems so like a real man. She feels a latent thrill run through her, a rush from something that perks her momentarily. “Let’s go dancing. I haven’t been dancing in so long.”
            “Dancing? You nuts? You know I don’t dance. Dancing?” he repeats as if it’s a new language.
            “We could dance next door. You won’t know anybody.” She leans close to him, whispering exaggeratedly. “It’s a gay bar.”
            “Gay bar? What?” He starts laughing. “No way. No way.”
            “Honey, nobody will know you. It’s my birthday.” She makes her sad baby face at him. He keeps shaking his head, looking down at his folded hands as if this will help him stay his position.
            “Honey, please? Look at me.” He peeks up slightly as she opens her coat enough for him to see what awaits him underneath. She licks her lips. “Come on,” she gets up and grabs his hand and they go next door.
              It’s early yet, not yet 10, and on the dance floor, she makes herself the aggressor, rubbing up against him sexily while he looks around himself, blinking at the flashing lights and the only other person there, a gay boy wearing a bowler hat and suspenders, contorting, then moving wildly across the floor. When the song is over, they move to the bar and he orders two beers, which the bartender, a handsome bald man wearing a plain black tee, brings.
              She flirts with James, there being little else to do, trying to get him to forget whatever it was she said before that she cannot remember and slowly his eyes glaze and a small smile creeps over him, as he feels himself lapped up. Presently, someone taps her shoulder.
             “Maze, is that you?”
             “Sheila, oh my god. How have you been?” She hugs her friend, placing both hands on her shoulders as Sheila extends a supportive hand under her friend’s elbow. “James, this is my best girlfriend ever from high school. Sheila. Oh my god. What are you doing here?”
              Sheila puts out both hands to indicate she belongs. They both laugh, and Sheila fondly removes a stray hair from in front of Maze’s eyes. “You look great, babe.”
             “You too,” says Maze, leaning slightly in her direction so her hair, which smells of a very expensive shampoo, brushes Sheila’s face. “You’re so strong. You work out?” Her fingers press Sheila’s bicep just below where she has rolled up a pack of cigarettes on her t-shirt sleeve. Then she runs her fingers familiarly through her short blonde crop, stopping to admire the line of studs in one ear lobe.
             “C’mon, we’re going,” says a voice behind her. James pulls her sleeve so her coat slips slightly off.
             “Whoa,” says Sheila.
             “C’mon, let’s go. Let’s get out of here,” he says again.
             “I don’t want to go. I want to talk to my friend.”
             “Hey bud, take a hint. You heard the lady,” Sheila offers.
             “Who the fuck are you?” he says. “This ain’t your discussion.”
             “Excuse me,” Sheila comes right up to James, the top of her head, reaching only to his neck, thrusting her bust at him defiantly. “You want to take it outside, bud.”
             “Get the fuck out of my way, butch,” he shoves Sheila aside and grabs Maze, so Sheila head butts him and the bouncer escorts the combatants out by the elbow.
              They stumble to the side of the building, where there is a big green ash can and some cars are parked. Sheila swiftly flips up the trunk of her car, plucks something out and closes it.
             “Bitch, you better think twice before using that on me or you won’t have a face left.”
             “Yeah? Tell me about it.” She approaches him swinging a crow bar. Maze stands alongside the ash can, yelling, “please don’t, please don’t,” but no one is listening.
               Sheila swings hard at James’s leg and as he goes down he grabs the crowbar from Sheila and thwack, once across her shoulder, then across her jaw. Then he drops the crowbar.
              “You fucking animal,” says Maze, looking down at her bloodied friend. “You fucking animal, get the fuck away from me.”
              “You’ll come back. You’ll see. Just try to come back and see what happens,” he backs away, limping.
               Maze kneels next to Sheila whose mouth and cheek are a gash. Sheila is moaning and Maze, tapping 911 on her cell.
              “Don’t,” says Sheila. “Don’t bother. Just take me to the hospital.”
               Maze helps her into the passenger’s seat. There is blood on her coat that will stain it forever. She gets behind the wheel of Sheila’s car and drives her to Cortland Central and waits for her in the emergency room thinking how much it means that she was willing to lose a tooth for her.
                Maze in turn is willing to lose her coat. And this is how they come to be. There will be another mink, darker in shade soon, in which she will enfold the memory of a duel that proved for a night at least there is love.
    
                                                                                                                             *    *    *    *

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Bio: Arya F. Jenkins’s poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction have appeared in numerous journals and zines. Her short story, “Foolish Love,” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2017. Her poetry has also been nominated for the Pushcart. Her work has appeared in at least four anthologies. She writes jazz fiction for Jerry Jazz Musician, an online zine. Her poetry chapbooks are: Jewel Fire (AllBook Books, 2011) Silence Has A Name(Finishing Line Press, 2016). Her poetry chapbook, Autumn Rumors, is slated for publication by CW Books in September 2018. Her jazz-inspired short story collection, Blue Songs in an Open Key, was just accepted for publication by Fomite Press.

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