Joshua Mohr - Some Things That Meant the World to Me

Little-Rhonda and I sat around the apartment, but it wasn't long before I got antsy and said, "I'm going back up there," and he said, "I don't think that's a good idea," and I said, "I don't care what you think," and he said, "Will you leave the knife here?" and I said, "Why would I leave the knife here?" and he said, "So you don't do anything stupid," but I grabbed the knife and walked toward the door, little-Rhonda yelling after me, "Please don't do this."

Some tiny sidewinders slithered through my good hand. I put the knife in my dead one and held it behind my back. I didn't knock as hard this time. They didn't answer. I knocked a little harder, but they still didn't come to the door. I put a little more verve in my knock, but I want you to know that I was calm, only knocking harder in case they hadn't heard me. No one answered.

"Rhonda, it's me," I said.

Still nothing.

I didn't know whether to knock or yell or go away. I didn't even know if they were still in there. Then quiet footsteps coming to the door. The deadbolt flipped. The knob turned. The door creaked open a few inches. The security chain still latched. Old lady Rhonda peeked out.

"I need you to go downstairs," she said.

I had the knife behind my back. "Is he hurting you?"

"I'm fine."

"Can I come in?"

"No."

"Why did he come back?"

"Will you go downstairs?"

"Why's he here?"

"We can talk later."

"Are you two getting back together?"

She looked at me, pursed her lips. "I can't talk right now" Whispering: "I don't know what's going to happen, but I need you to leave."

"Why?"

"He and I need some time to talk."

"Why?"

"We've been together a long time."

"But you weren't happy."

Old lady Rhonda, still whispering: "Will you please leave?"

"I thought I made you happy."

"You do."

"And you love me."

"Yes."

"And I love you."

"I can't talk right now," she said.

"Can I have my wallet back?"

"I'll give it to you later. Here." She reached into her pocket and handed me a twenty. "This will tide you over," and she shut the door, her footsteps stepping away and I was alone again.

Me, Rhonda, getting another dose of the disappearing act. Me, still standing at old lady Rhonda's door, though she'd shut and locked it two hours ago. I stood there for two hours and no one cared. Old lady Rhonda didn't care. Karla didn't care. Handa didn't care. My mom didn't care. Two hours ago old lady Rhonda had shut it and walked back to him, and for two hours I stood with the knife behind my back, praying she'd unlock the door and take me in her arms. I needed to be somewhere safe, contained, nurturing. Standing there, hoping to hear them talk, hoping for clues, a way to understand why she was doing this. Me, Rhonda, ripped up inside like Valencia Street, construction crews chiseling and pounding. And I was tired of being obliterated.

Me, kicking around a terrible notion. Knowing what I needed to do. I turned and walked down the stairs and came out on the street. It was dark outside. I tossed the knife to the ground. I ran down Valencia, toward Damascus, toward Vern. I was ready to beg for his forgiveness. Ask for one more chance. Pleading, "Please, I'll do anything if you'll break my arm."

I took a tiny detour, walking toward Handa's store. I stepped on another stenciling: Satan has soft lips. It was night so I knew Handa wouldn't be there. I wanted to see the place that used to make me feel better. I walked by and no one was inside, except her father, on his knees near the front door, stocking cans of chili. I wanted to go in there, buy some Magnums, and have everything be okay, but it wouldn't work, not anymore. I wanted her to forgive me and let me run my hand over the haze of hairs that wrapped around her belly button. Vern, only Vern was going to make me feel better. I knew he'd be mad and disgusted when I first walked into Damascus, but I knew he'd see it as a win/win once he got to smash my bone.

I stood outside the liquor store for a few minutes, thinking about Handa, another thing I'd ruined. And now it was time for Vern to help me.

"Hey, Rhonda!" little-Rhonda yelled. He stood across the street, flashing his helmet's light off and on. "Do you know Morse code?" The palm trees that decorated the middle of Dolores Street hissed, purred a noise as the wind hurtled through the fronds. His hat still flashed. He said, "This is an S-O-S."

There was a break in the traffic and I crossed the street, saving, "What's an S-O-S?" and he said, "You are."

"I'm going to Damascus."

"I won't let you."

"What?"

"I won't let you do this."

"You can't stop me."

"I'm the only person who can stop you," he said. He wasn't fiddling with his light anymore. Leaving it blazing. He must have put a new bulb in there, with higher wattage, because it blinded me.

"Well, I'm going," I said, and he said, "No, you're not."

I tried to walk by him.

"Don't make me do this," he said.

"There's nothing you can do," but little-Rhonda reached into his pocket and pulled out a sidewinder.

"What are you doing?"

"Saving me from you." He swung the sidewinder at me like a whip. The snake dug its fangs into my bent arm. I screamed, tried to run away, but I couldn't get out of the snake's bite.

A girl across the street looked at me, and I said, "Help!" but she didn't help me, walking faster to get away.

"I can't let you go to Damascus," little-Rhonda said. "I won't let Vern break that arm."

"Let go of me!"

But he didn't. Instead he used the snake as a leash, dragging me down the street.

"Where are you taking me?" I said.

"Home."

I couldn't believe that the last person in the solar system who hadn't betrayed me was doing this. "Why won't you help me?"

"I am."

"I want him to do it."

"We're going home."

"Let me go."

He kept tugging so I went limp, falling to the ground. I didn't think there was any way that little-Rhonda could drag all my weight, but he didn't slow down.

"Please," I said, "let him hurt me."

We passed a couple guys smoking out front of a bar. I held my bent arm up so they could see the snake's fangs, ripping my skin. I screamed at them, "Will you help me?"

"Help you what?" they said.

"Please help!"

But they turned their backs on me.

Little-Rhonda pulled me along.

"Let him hurt me," I said. "I want him to hurt me."

"I won't listen to another word," little-Rhonda said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out another sidewinder. This one launched at my face, its fangs puncturing my upper and lower lips, pinching them together like a muzzle. He towed me down Valencia, all the way to our dumpster.

Over the days, months, years, Dr. Angel-Hair kept telling me that the house didn't move — that houses don't move, it's impossible — you imagined everything. Left eye. It isn't your fault, he said. The mind adapts to survive, he said. We were in his office. Again. Still. Words, so many words. It was raining out the window, on the other side of the metal grating, the window in the middle of all his diplomas. I was taking classes in the hospital. Working toward my GED. Yes, yes, he kept squashing these things, and the more he squashed them, the more I believed them. Believed him. I loved him. I loved that he wanted to help me, and I'd been in trouble when I first got there because I kept trying to masturbate during our sessions. I wanted to love myself in front of him. I wanted him to know that I could love myself. I could be a son. Could he be my father. My mom was gone and Letch was gone and there was no one left to love me. I liked the classes I took. Especially history. I liked reading the Greek myths. Right eye. I liked the idea of Sisyphus rolling his boulder up a hill forever. Rolling it right to the top and then having to start over at the bottom. I liked the way he got what was coming to him. The way they all did. And then some other time in his office, reeking of tuna fish. Again. Still. Without rain out the windows. Tell me, he said. Tell me about the night you poisoned Letch. We'd already talked about this many times. Tell me why you thought it was okay to hurt him, he said. I didn't think it was okay, I said. Then why did you do it, he said. Why did he do it, I said. Left eye. But he kept asking me, every day, every month. He kept asking me, why did you do it. I kept a journal. It was Angel-Hair's idea. It would help me get some of my secret feelings out. Writing could do that, he said. I wrote down all the stuff I didn't understand, the memories that seemed so real but I knew were impossible. Snakes didn't protect me. The house's rooms never lost their anchoring and drifted around the desert. And why did you think these things happened, he asked. I knew the answer. He'd told me the answer. Personalization, I said. No, he said. What, I said. Depersonalization, he said. Depersonalization, I said. Great, he said. Great work, he said. Right eye. We worked on how to say that word, what the word meant, what the word meant to me. Words sometimes mean different things to different people. All the days, months, years funneled themselves into one afternoon when I was eighteen and I was allowed to go outside, on the other side of the metal grating. I could leave. I'm fixed, I asked. You're going to be fine, he said. I scribbled in my journal a lot about my mom. I wrote poems about her, little stories, tried to remember happy times, wondered if she still went on disappearing acts. I didn't know if I missed her or if I missed the idea of another mom. The teacher always called on me during the classes. There were four other kids. We did algebra and I was the first to know the coefficient. The cosine. I was the first to solve equations with multiple variables. Right eye. I can leave, I asked him. Yes, he said. Stay in touch, he said. If you need anything, he said. We hugged. There was an English class. I loved reading Brave Neap World. In the book, people swallowed Soma. It was a pill. It was a pill to make them happy. I swallowed Klonopin. Is it like Soma, I asked Angel-Hair. Yes and no, he said. Left eye. I wrote a paper about swallowing Soma and my teacher told me it moved her. She was all bangs and a big nose and sturdy hips. Six feet tall. She had a thick German accent that made her sound mean. No matter what she was saying. And she was usually saying nice things. Complimenting us. Encouraging us. But the accent made me think of Nazis, death chambers disguised as showers. Dr. Angel-Hair said, Make me proud. He'd arranged for me to see a therapist in Phoenix who'd make sure I kept talking and swallowing pills. He'd arranged for me to rent a room from an old colleague of his, arranged for me to have a part-time job. At a drug store. Tell me, he said. Are you excited, he said. Make smart decisions, he said. Be patient, he said. You're going to be fine, he said. You're going to be great, he said. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Don't fall in with the wrong crowd. Don't forget everything that's happened. Don't forget everything we've talked about. Love yourself.