ASYLUMS (or Etudes from the Dark)

The story below was previously published in:
http://apla.org/publications/corpus/fall2004/Corpus3.pdf

Chapter One: Solitude Standing

AZRA
Against the whitewashed wall, one brumeliad stands brilliantly red, while another whispers its last breath away, the parent dying to give way for the child emerging from its side. Outside the window, the bougainvillea blooms orange fire, as the afternoon turns into night. And I’m wishing those tire sounds were crickets, those gun bursts, tree frogs. The night feels heavy.
Below my live space, my workspace is heated by the kitchen from the restaurant downstairs, and its patrons that crowd into the tiny space at all hours of the day. Nicolas, the owner, a heavy-set man with a bushy mustache, runs the place like a third world dom. He sits at the end of the counter, which extends from the cash register next to the kitchen, all the way to the front, greeting each person who walks through the door with gusto. Mostly, it’s men who sit at the counter, who on certain nights would surprise me from my sleep with their yells. Always, it would be a cheer - of victory or encouragement – for Mexico, winning or losing in the most recent soccer match.

Each day, before work, I take the dog out for a walk. It’s always the same. Out the front door, where he manages always to hit the frame with his wagging tail, across the street to the patch of green in front of the firehouse, where he sniffs at the same spot, turns and lifts his leg. Two squirts, a wag of the tail. He leads me down the block, underneath the American Express billboard, where Baby crashes after a night of turning tricks. If she’s awake, she offers a smile, a pipe, or, “How you doin?”

He runs around the corner, towards the Vietnamese market, finally to the small park where the signs shout their warning, “No dogs allowed!” This being Oakland. This morning, I look up from the screen, and there he stands, tail wagging. He knows it’s time. I rise from my chair, and my knees crack. “You better be quick about this.”

***
“Sorry I’m late.”

“‘s ok. No one else is here yet.” Martin looks up from his terminal. “Girrrl, you look like shit!”


“You would, too, if you’ve been up all night.”

“He didn’t come home again?”

‘’Yeah, that. But I’ve also been up writing. Then BART was crazy again. You know how it is. A little rain and it screws up the entire system.”

“I don’t know why you put up with it. But hey, it’s not my business.”

“Yeah, right . . . like that ever stopped you before. But you’re right. I don’t know why I put up with it.”

“Listen, do you want my advice?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Well, yeah.”

***
Do I really? Have a choice, I mean. I feel trapped in this cycle that keeps coming back. Not to me, but to him. To his needs, his life. God knows I’ve tried to leave, but something within always says, “Stay!” And I do. So I lose myself in poetry that speaks more eloquently about how I feel than I can ever do. To him. To my friends. Even to myself.
***
Outside, the rain’s slowing. But I wish it weren’t. I wish it would just keep on coming; become biblical. Just so I wouldn’t have to think. About what I left behind and what’s ahead. What I have unwittingly given up in order to be here, now. I wish for rain strong enough to wash away the street beneath my window, a torrent to drown this city, for a downpour strong enough to wash the grime from my soul, just so I can start anew.
***
In my dreams, I fly free. Without boundaries that bind even birds to territories. Without seasons that dictate the flight of the swallowtail. I fly alone above my world made small by the necessity to hide. Away from questions and self-awareness; far away from responsibilities, perceived, real. And sometimes, I want to do more than just fly, but the facility of floating, or riding the wind, or merely lying suspended keeps me from doing much more.

***
“So what did you do last night?”

“Nothing. Stayed home with the dog.”

“Did he . . . ”

“What?”

“ . . . come home?”

“No.”

Before lunch, I slip out without telling Martin. He’s sweet, really. Very sisterly. But sometimes, I need time away, even from family. Though the morning fog has not yet lifted, there’s a stream of joggers down the Embarcadero. I ease myself into their traffic, merging slowly so as not to impede any of them . Feeling cold, I button up my jacket, and stuff my hands in my pants pockets. I make it all the way down to the wharf: occasionally stepping aside to let joggers pass by. “Thanks.” “You’re welcome.” I watch their backs, as they maneuver through tourists, or each other.
As I get closer to the pier, the fog thins across the bay, the sun’s rays managing to break through in points over the bridge’s towers. Without histories, this city would be beautiful.

“Come out with me and Eddie tonight.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not? What do you gotta do? And girl, don’t say write.”

“Funny.”

“C’mon. It’ll be fun. We’ll have cocktails at Romper Room or Gravity. Wherever you wanna go. C’mon. You know you need this.”

“Mmmmm. ..”

“C’mon. We’ll come pick you.”

Sometimes, I wish he never did come home. While the night passes more quickly without worry, doubt, or fear, I can fly more easily alone. Without having to disentangle. Arms, legs, sometimes words he says out loud in his sleep. Or my self from his. Because I’m starting to realize that I’m becoming like him. Another being, slowly becoming lost within multiple entanglements. Of desire. Naming. Belonging.