Joshua Mohr - Some Things That Meant the World to Me

I slept on the burned couch. In the middle of my nightmare, I felt someone touching my hair, but I didn't open my eyes. "Mom?"

"It's me, Crash Man," old lady Rhonda said. She sat on the edge of the couch. "I still have a key to your place from your trip."

I opened my eyes. "Is your husband gone?"

"He left," she said, and I scooted my body so my head rested in her lap. She said, "I'm so sorry," and I said, "What happened?" and she played with my hair, saying, "We'd been married a long time and needed to make sure we were doing the right thing by splitting up."

"You weren't happy."

"Yeah, but there's nothing scarier than changing your life." She leaned down and kissed my forehead. "He and I were up all night talking. I need to take a nap, but I wanted to come down and let you know he's gone."

"Thanks."

"Thank you," she said, "for everything." Old lady Rhonda looked tired. Her long gray hair crusted along the edges of her face with dried sweat. Maybe tears, too. "Do you have plans tonight?" her fingers still working through my curls.

"No."

"I'd like to take you out."

"Where?"

"It's a surprise," she said, reaching in her pocket and handing me my wallet. "Sorry I took so long getting back to you." She winked at me. "Don't worry, I didn't steal anything, but I did learn some interesting stuff about you."

"Like what?"

"You'll see tonight."

A couple hours later, I looked out my window and saw three construction workers shoveling piles of hot asphalt on top of the dirt trenches. Another man, sitting on a bulldozer, waited to run it all over and fill the gaps.

Old lady Rhonda and I cut down 20th Street, passing Folsom. It looked like we were heading toward Damascus. I asked, hoping I was only being paranoid.

"It's a surprise," she said.

"I don't want to go there."

She stopped walking; I stopped, too.

"I looked in your wallet," she said, "and saw your driver's license."

"So?"

"So I know your real birthday is this coming Sunday"

Me, Rhonda, good hand getting the microwave-popcornfeeling. Me, wanting to run away from her, humiliated, disgraced. She was the only person who had been nice to me, and I lied to her and for what, what reason did I really have?

"I'm not mad," she said.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't worry. But I organized a little party to celebrate the actual day. I'll be visiting my sister in Portland this weekend, so I thought we'd have the soiree tonight."

"I can't go in there," I said, imagining the angry sneer on Vern's face, remembering the way he'd stormed out of my bathroom that night, repulsed and disappointed.

"Please. Let's go in, and if you're not having fun, we can leave. But please try."

I agreed because I didn't know how to say no to her, but Damascus was the last place I wanted to go. I felt true shame over the night with Vern and his tire iron, enough shame to make me never want to see him again. The same breed of shame I'd felt for the thousands of ways I hadn't protected my mom over the years, all the ways I'd done nothing to help her, all the days, months, years I'd thought about trying to contact her but couldn't bear the thought of her shunning me again. Shame is the strongest god in the solar system.

But I guess that's not really true. Shame can't be the strongest god, because I was ashamed of what I'd done, but I went into Damascus anyway. Old lady Rhonda asked me to go, and I did, so shame didn't wield as much authority as what I felt for her. What I still feel for her.

"Why do you want to throw me another party after I lied to you?"

"You should know by now," she said.

We walked into Damascus, into its outer-space paintjob. Back by the pool table was a banner that said Happy Birtbda_y. There was a cake on a table.

Vern and Enrique were at the bar, drinking warm ones. I didn't want to talk to them, but old lady Rhonda told me to go say hi, she'd come in earlier that day and invited them to the party.

Vern eyeballed me as I walked over. I wondered if he'd told Enrique what had happened between us.

"You better not offer to suck off your commanding officer again," he said.

I nodded.

"Ever!" he said.

I nodded again: "I won't."

"Then happy birthday, Gunnery Sergeant Fellatio," he said.

"Thanks."

"Happy birthday, kid," Enrique said. "Two birthdays, pretty good trick."

Old lady Rhonda walked over to us and said, "Are you playing nice, Vern?"

He made a farting noise, little white tongue waggling again. "This lady," he said to me, "drove a hard bargain. Told us if we didn't come to your party tonight there'd be hell to pay, and the look in her eyes said she meant business."

We all laughed.

"Can we cut the cake?" Enrique said. "I'm starving."

"Let's have a couple drinks first," old lady Rhonda said, and we did. Enrique played lots of songs on the jukebox, most of which I didn't know, obscure rock and roll. Old lady Rhonda and Vern shot a game of pool; I sat and watched their flirty squabbling.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bright light over by the bathroom, coming from little-Rhonda's helmet. He waved me over.

"Gotta go to the little boys' room," I said.

"Don't fall in," old lady Rhonda said.

"Or offer anyone a blowjob," Vern said.

"How dare you speak to him that way!" she said to him, menace in her eyes.

"Kitty got claws," he said, menace filling his eyes, too. "I like that."

She sighed and took her next shot on the pool table, six ball all the way down the rail.

I followed little-Rhonda into the bathroom, locked the door, and asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Finally celebrating the real thing, huh?"

"Can we talk about this later?"

"No, we can't."

"Why not?"

"I'm here to say good-bye."

"What?"

"I'm leaving."

"Where are you going?"

"Take your shirt off," he said.

"Why?"

"Just do it."

I pulled my shirt over my head and set it on the counter. "Why did I do that?"

"I have to go home."

"Where?"

"Jesus." He shook his head.

"Tell me."

"You still don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?"

He poked his finger into the middle of my Rorschach tattoo. His finger didn't stop at the skin. His finger moved right into my body It didn't hurt, didn't feel like anything. Little-Rhonda said, "You didn't let Vern break your arm. The old lady loves you. I can go back home," pushing his arm farther into me, all the way up to his shoulder.

"You kept Vern from breaking my arm," I said.

"So did you."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

I backed away from him. His arm slipped out of me. I covered my chest. I pressed my hands against the tattoo, to see if I could travel in there, too, but all I felt was the boundary of skin.

"Why are you leaving?"

"You don't need me."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

"How do you figure?"

He walked to me. He moved my hands away from my chest. I tried to fight him off, didn't want to let him go, but he overpowered me, like he'd done as he dragged me to the dumpster. "Hold still," he said.

"What if I need your help?"

"I'll always be helping you."

"What if I want to talk to you?"

"Then talk to me."

I didn't know what to say, tried to stammer a couple sentences, but little-Rhonda held up his finger. "Let's not draw this out," he said. "I don't want to watch you blubber like a baby." He put both his hands through my tattoo and used his arms like someone doing the breaststroke to open the tattoo wider. He stretched it until it was the size of a manhole. I wish I could explain to you what it felt like, but there's nothing to explain. If I hadn't been watching him do it, I'd have had no idea he touched me. His arms pried me open farther and he pulled his feet up off the ground and began to shimmy inside. His helmet disappeared into my chest, and little-Rhonda's face was about to slip into me and he said, "Well, this is it," and I said, "I'll miss you," and he said, "You can't miss yourself, Rhonda." Then he sank the rest of his head into my body. His legs stuck straight out of me, and I panicked, thinking that I'd never see him again, and I grabbed his legs, trying to keep him from going any deeper. I held him still. I wondered about my heart, wondered where it went while little-Rhonda slipped deeper into my chest. He yelled from inside, "Let go," and I said, "I don't want to," and he said, "You have to," and I said, "No," and he said, "Let me go." He kicked his feet, and I tried to hold onto him, please believe me that I tried to hold on, but I lost my grip and his body kept noodling, now burying his torso in. I watched as his back sunk deeper into me. His waist slipping in, his thighs, knees, calves. The last thing I saw of him was a ratty pair of sneakers, and then they were gone and he was gone.