hurry?"
"I’m off to get a job."
"Really?" There was genuine optimism in her voice. "Would you like a sandwich, or a ride at least?"
"I'm just taking my bike, thanks. I'm fine."
She looked at me with a growing half-smile, the jammy knife hovering mid-sentence. "Well, be careful."
And with a nod and a smile, I left.
As I rode my bike toward the Kinkos, I began to fantasize and plan the next two weeks. We would be all set by the time we had rehearsal on Saturday. I imagined us making the eight track recording, track by track, take by take. I imagined our first small show, and arriving with rudimentary recordings and t-shirts with my design on them for a little merch table. It would be okay if there were only a few people there, because we would look like professionals, and we would bring it like there were a thousand. It would be okay if everything happened slowly and surely. It was all finally falling into place.
I dropped my resume off at the copy store, and shook the hand of the manager before leaving. I got a coke at the pizza joint next door, and I sat and studied my lyrics and songs as dusk approached. I bought a slice, choked it down with the rest of my soda, and huffed back home.
The porch light was on outside the house when I arrived, and the windows were black. The only sound was the klacketty clack of the gear on my bike chi-chickling off the trees, and the houses, and the pavement, and the swift tickle of leaves, leaves, leaves dancing to the feet of the shadow of Jenny under the porchlight.
She was barely holding it together, as I dropped my bike mid-pedal and ran to her. I grabbed her shoulders.
"What happened?"
"Mom. Again."
I opened the door to the house, swift and sure, and walked her up to my bedroom. The house was dark and empty, and she dropped onto my bed in a whimper.
Chapter 5
I returned from the bathroom with a glass of water, and wrapped my arm around Jenny. She had sunk to a depth of sadness and otherworldly terror, and interpreting her mother's manic episodes was always difficult. She leaned her head into me.
"I’m not good enough," she sobbed. There was no easy way through this catatonic state.
"You aren't good enough for what? What happened?"
"You. I’m not good enough for you. Maybe not now, but maybe in the future when we can move into a little house and everything is okay, but right now everything is shit and I don't know what to do. I just want out of here."
"I understand. Tell me what happened."
"Mom called the fire department again."
Jenny's mother had some issues. She had paranoid delusional schizophrenic issues. This story was one of the four main ones that recurred in the poor life of my little lover.
One of the stories was that her mother had a microphone in her ear. She would call the FBI offices in Salt Lake City or the local nine-one-one to tell them that she was on to them. The police would come, and then she would be locked up and evaluated at the hospital. The next story was that there were microphones and cameras in the smoke detectors in the ceiling. Same ending. Sometimes she would think there was drugs and poison in the water, and take the plumbing in the house apart, flooding everything. The final, and most occurring one, was the fire department. She would call, explaining the house was filling with gas, and they would come with an ambulance. She was the only one that needed the ambulance ride to the hospital, suffering through a psychotic episode in the middle of the night in the suburbs of Twin Falls.
"It seems so real to her," Jenny continued, "that there is someone out to get her."
"Is it the medication thing again?"
"Isn't it always?"
The majority of the time it was as simple as her stopping her medication because she felt well enough that she didn't need it anymore. That seemed to be the curse of the disease, silently whispering the possibility that you didn't have it anymore until you take everyone down with you.
Every time this happened,
"I’m off to get a job."
"Really?" There was genuine optimism in her voice. "Would you like a sandwich, or a ride at least?"
"I'm just taking my bike, thanks. I'm fine."
She looked at me with a growing half-smile, the jammy knife hovering mid-sentence. "Well, be careful."
And with a nod and a smile, I left.
As I rode my bike toward the Kinkos, I began to fantasize and plan the next two weeks. We would be all set by the time we had rehearsal on Saturday. I imagined us making the eight track recording, track by track, take by take. I imagined our first small show, and arriving with rudimentary recordings and t-shirts with my design on them for a little merch table. It would be okay if there were only a few people there, because we would look like professionals, and we would bring it like there were a thousand. It would be okay if everything happened slowly and surely. It was all finally falling into place.
I dropped my resume off at the copy store, and shook the hand of the manager before leaving. I got a coke at the pizza joint next door, and I sat and studied my lyrics and songs as dusk approached. I bought a slice, choked it down with the rest of my soda, and huffed back home.
The porch light was on outside the house when I arrived, and the windows were black. The only sound was the klacketty clack of the gear on my bike chi-chickling off the trees, and the houses, and the pavement, and the swift tickle of leaves, leaves, leaves dancing to the feet of the shadow of Jenny under the porchlight.
She was barely holding it together, as I dropped my bike mid-pedal and ran to her. I grabbed her shoulders.
"What happened?"
"Mom. Again."
I opened the door to the house, swift and sure, and walked her up to my bedroom. The house was dark and empty, and she dropped onto my bed in a whimper.
Chapter 5
I returned from the bathroom with a glass of water, and wrapped my arm around Jenny. She had sunk to a depth of sadness and otherworldly terror, and interpreting her mother's manic episodes was always difficult. She leaned her head into me.
"I’m not good enough," she sobbed. There was no easy way through this catatonic state.
"You aren't good enough for what? What happened?"
"You. I’m not good enough for you. Maybe not now, but maybe in the future when we can move into a little house and everything is okay, but right now everything is shit and I don't know what to do. I just want out of here."
"I understand. Tell me what happened."
"Mom called the fire department again."
Jenny's mother had some issues. She had paranoid delusional schizophrenic issues. This story was one of the four main ones that recurred in the poor life of my little lover.
One of the stories was that her mother had a microphone in her ear. She would call the FBI offices in Salt Lake City or the local nine-one-one to tell them that she was on to them. The police would come, and then she would be locked up and evaluated at the hospital. The next story was that there were microphones and cameras in the smoke detectors in the ceiling. Same ending. Sometimes she would think there was drugs and poison in the water, and take the plumbing in the house apart, flooding everything. The final, and most occurring one, was the fire department. She would call, explaining the house was filling with gas, and they would come with an ambulance. She was the only one that needed the ambulance ride to the hospital, suffering through a psychotic episode in the middle of the night in the suburbs of Twin Falls.
"It seems so real to her," Jenny continued, "that there is someone out to get her."
"Is it the medication thing again?"
"Isn't it always?"
The majority of the time it was as simple as her stopping her medication because she felt well enough that she didn't need it anymore. That seemed to be the curse of the disease, silently whispering the possibility that you didn't have it anymore until you take everyone down with you.
Every time this happened,
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