Sarah Gerard - Binary Star

The events are unrelated except that, if you take a wide enough view, they happen at the same time.

We don’t plan to stop in Seattle, but John hears about a vegan donut shop on the outskirts, so he makes me take a detour, saying it’s for me. The shop is flanked by a Dunkin’ Donuts on one side and a Starbucks on the other, and is across the street from a Fantastic Sams in an otherwise residential neighborhood. John orders six donuts and four holes and we sit in the window eating them and taking pictures of each other and the display case. We finish and I throw up in the bathroom. I don’t make noise because I know how to open my throat and purge in silence.

When I come back, John knows what I’ve been doing.

Going to the bathroom, I say.

Let me smell your breath.

I know that it smells like donuts because donuts are all I’ve eaten.

Show me your hands.

My hands are washed.

Eat another.

I’m full.

He’s angry.

We came here for you. I’m not the vegan one here.

You promised.

(I lie.)

Later, I look at the pictures and notice a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee on a table in the background.

When I ask John to stop at Walgreens for Dramamine, I buy a bottle of Hydroxycut as well. I take them sitting alone on a toilet in a bathroom lined with stainless steel walls, like the inside of a spacecraft. I wash them down with water from the sink and hide the rest in the lining of my purse, so they don’t rattle.

Most spacecraft don’t have seats anymore because sitting is unnecessary without gravity.

Stand.

When I come out of the bathroom, John is at the cash registers buying a Mars bar. I read the racks of magazines and stare down the aisles of corn chips and candy and Christmas decorations, beauty products and toys and Ace bandages, and over-the-counter medicine. I relax my focus and they all look the same. I feel far away from everything.

We find a Days Inn and I stay awake all night staring at the parking lot, buzzing all over while John sleeps and I finger the edges of a Star Magazine. In the morning, he asks me what’s wrong.

I couldn’t sleep.

Why not?

I wasn’t tired. Something was upsetting me.

Are you sick?

(Yes.) No. I don’t know what it was.

Another thing the researchers feared was that, sending astronauts into space alone, they would lose the feeling of belonging to any species.

They would forget what it’s like to be human.

We decide to use our tent for the first time in the woods outside Portland. That afternoon, we visit a small zine distributor run out of a ramshackle building set back from the road in a quiet part of town. We have a hard time finding it but John eventually recognizes it from a picture he finds online, on his phone. Closer to the road, there’s a Chipotle on one side and a Moe’s Southwest Grill on the other. Sometimes, signs are easy to miss if you don’t know where to look for them.

In two rooms at the back of the otherwise empty unit, we find wooden boxes holding stapled-together multicolored booklets and racks of zines on natural birth control, the Zapatistas, Chomsky, bicycle culture, and primitivism. We pay in cash and John listens to the only employee talk about animal liberation for almost an hour while I continue to browse.

Big Ag.

Prisoners.

Sentient beings.

Violence.

Monsanto.

Mass extinction.

The guy convinces him to buy two more books, both about veganism, and a book by John Zerzan. He offers us bottles of The Abyss, a locally brewed imperial stout, from a cooler under the desk, and John accepts, explaining that it would be rude not to. I don’t say anything, though I know John expects me to. He and the bookseller drink the beers together, standing in the doorway.

On the way to the campsite, John stops at a convenience store and buys a six-pack of The Abyss, promising he’ll only have two. It’s the end of the day, and we’re not going to drive anywhere. I need to relax, he says.

But you promised.

(I lie.) It’s only two.

Don’t be a drag. We’re in the middle of nowhere.

We pitch the tent together and I walk into the woods, saying I want to be alone. John sits by the bank with the six-pack and takes his shoes off and puts his feet in the icy water, smoking. The day is cold, but the air is humid, and the sun is low and bright as I walk through the trees. I put my hands in my pockets and chew a stick of sugar-free Orbit and breathe deeply. I haven’t eaten anything since this morning, but I don’t feel hungry. I attribute it to the gum. The forest has a language of its own. At times, I stop chewing to listen.

When I return to the campsite, John is talking gibberish. This happens when he takes his pills and then drinks with them, or drinks and then takes his pills, getting ready to go to sleep.

Why did you take them now? I ask.

Everyone here is primitive, he says.

I sit down next to him on the bank. He hands me a beer.

There’s nobody here, John.

Revolution is a spiral.

I don’t really want this beer. I haven’t eaten anything all day.

The people are ready for revolution.

His eyes are half open. He struggles to open them more, but succeeds in closing one.

Let’s go to bed, I say.

There’s too much to do.

I’m not sleeping by the river. It’s getting dark. The animals will come out soon.

It’s always night when the people are sleeping.

You’re sleeping, I say.

No, I’m awake for the first time.

He thinks I’m primitive and I think he’s primitive. We stay on the bank. I wonder how I can help him.

I open a beer and drink half of it staring into the blackening water. John opens the last one and drinks half of it.

The natives are sleeping, he says.

You’re an animal.

You’ve kidnapped me here with the natives.

How many Seroquel did you take?

What and when?

Whenever. At one time.

This is not a democracy.

No, it’s not. You’re drunk. I want to go to bed.

Complete the circle.

I’m cold. Please come to bed with me.

I wonder if I’m angry. Do I feel it?

It isn’t too late. There will always be revolution.

Until the rulers fall from orbit.

I light a cigarette. I blow smoke into the river. Ultra Light.

I don’t want to go to sleep while you’re sitting here in the cold.

He finishes the last beer and crawls toward the tent. I try to pull him inside by his hands, but he’s too heavy. I sleep with him half-inside and the door unzipped.

This is like being in a tree house, he says.

The water in the walls is a presence in the room.

Memory may explain things, or else it may confuse things, which is enlightening.

Memory is curve, a misdirection, a reflection distorted.

I drink a glass of water and look in the mirror. I distort what I see.

The next morning, John apologizes for his behavior.

I see that he’s embarrassed. I’m embarrassed. I look down into the river. Water rushes over a branch that’s fallen from an overhanging tree.

I’m sorry, too, I say.

We agree that it never happened.

We agree to let time erase it.

We’ve been driving for hours in the wrong direction and neither of us has slept well. We stop at a BP in northern California and put two coffees in the console between us. We put the seats back and look at each other.

Did you know that astronauts sleep upright? I say.

I know. You’ve told me this before.

No beds. They don’t even need pillows.

I know.

He turns on his back and closes his eyes, and crosses his hands on his chest.

Their rooms are even smaller than this car. Much smaller. Are you okay?

I’m just trying to sleep and it’s freezing, he says.