Susan Steinberg - Spectacle - Stories

And at what point does one tire of performance. At what point is it all just tiring. The friend’s performance of guy. My performance of girl. The guy I liked not even stepping in. Not lighting my cigarette himself. Too scared to get that close to me.

Just standing there like some dumb fuck.

The friend just stood there, dumb, as well.

To say I had them where I wanted them.

They were dumbstruck more than dumb.

Because I was just so fucking charming.

Because I was always just so fucking this.

Just ask my father.

Just ask his ladies.

They would say, What a charming little thing.

They would say, What a pretty little thing.

I could eat you up, is what they would say.

Inside the woods was darker than out. There were birds and bird sounds all around. The friend knew all about birds. He told us what he knew about birds. He told us what he knew about trees. I pretended not to listen. What did I care what tree was what. What birds.

Though I liked to look upward through the leaves. I wouldn’t have told this to anyone. That it gave me a feeling I can’t explain.

And at times I considered stepping off the trail. Of running wild through the woods. It would have been something, I thought. To get lost in the trees. To imagine there was no other world.

And I would have stepped off the trail if the friend hadn’t called out, Come on.

There was something he wanted to show us. It was up ahead. He was walking way too fast.

He called back to me, Let’s go.

Then he was running, and the guy was running, and I didn’t want to run. I wasn’t dressed to run. And I didn’t know what was up ahead. So I walked at my own slow pace.

There were stories from childhood I’d read of the woods. There were pictures in books I’d stared at at night. In the pictures the trees had eyes and teeth.

And there were other stories I knew of the woods. There were things that happened in the woods at night. There were woods by our house and I was told stay away.

I was told stay away from other things too. Like the dog next door, yet I fed him bones through the fence. Like the two dumb guys who came around. They wanted to fuck me. They were both so dumb.

Like my father.

I told myself, Stay away.

He will destroy you, is what I told myself.

Run away, is what I told myself.

He will turn you into him, I told myself.

You are not that whore, I told myself.

But look at me hiking in completely wrong shoes. Look at me in completely wrong clothes. Look at my fucking hair.

From far ahead the friend said, Come on, and the guy said, Come on, but I walked slowly, staring up into leaves.

My father would say, Don’t go in the woods.

I would mock him, Don’t go into the woods.

Then I would go.

At first I didn’t know what to expect.

Darkness, perhaps.

The terrible sound of owls.

Or worse.

The terrible acts of guys.

My body surrounded by what surrounded.

My body eaten, the rest left for worms.

But it wasn’t any of that.

It was far worse, of course, than that.

The friend said, Come on.

The guy said, Let’s go.

Their voices sounded far away. And here was my chance to step off the trail. My chance to save what was left to save.

But there I was, running to catch up with them. There I was, some scared-as-shit girl. I was some scared-as-shit child. Running in wrong shoes up the trail. Scared to be left alone.

And there were the guys, waiting for me.

Then the woods opened up and we were in a place. It was like childhood. Not mine, of course, but the childhood I wished I’d had.

There was what one could call a clearing, and there were trees. There was what one could call a waterfall.

And there was me looking at the waterfall. There was the friend looking at it too. There was the guy sticking his hands into the water.

I didn’t want anything in that moment. I mean I didn’t want to want anything. I don’t know exactly what I mean.

I know I wanted to be a different person than I was.

I wanted to see the waterfall as beautiful.

I wanted to be less beautiful than the waterfall.

I wanted to want to be that.

But when my arms began to ache, for we’d been all day hiking, I said, My arms.

The guy said, Your arms.

The friend said, What do you mean your arms.

He walked over to me.

He said, It should be your legs.

He said, Where.

I held out my arms. He touched them. And the guy just watched. He did nothing to stop it. He too was too scared.

After the hike, we drank in the car. And after we drank, we went for a ride. It was early evening and summer and perfect. And I loved in that moment the sound of the crickets. I loved in that moment the color of the sky. And the back of both guys’ heads in the front.

As a child, I could never make up my mind. I would want both toys. I would want both dolls.

Old maid, my father always said.

You’ll end up with nothing, he always said.

Or both, I always said.

If one was truly charming, one could have both.

Just look at me charming my father’s ladies as a child.

Look at them giving me things to keep.

I would hold out my hands, which were filled and refilled.

And look at me getting the toy and the game.

Getting both new dolls.

Getting both dumb guys.

Look at me hiking up my skirt.

Look at them now all scared of me.

Look at me running through woods.

I was utterly disgraceful.

Just look at the sun about to set.

Just look.

The guy had to piss. The friend pulled off to the side. The guy went into the woods. The friend and I stood by the car. At first it was nothing, just standing. But then he lifted me onto the hood of the car. It was just to be funny, I was thinking. But I wasn’t thinking. I mean to say there was no thought.

But that’s not true. Because I was thinking something as he lifted me up.

I was thinking of something wrong to think.

And when his face was near mine, I thought of the guy.

And when he said, Pretty face, I thought, Pretty face.

And when I said to stop, he said, Stop what.

And when it was me on the hood of the car, it wasn’t me on the hood of the car.

And when I was a girl on the hood of the car, I was a guy on the hood of the car.

I didn’t know where to put my hands.

The guy had come out from the woods by then. He was standing at the woods’ edge. He was looking at us like I don’t know what.

Like, Fuck you two. Like, I will kill you two.

I want to say I was drunk. But I was more that thing after drunk. That thing between drunk and sleep. Or drunk and regret. Or drunk and drunk again.

And the truth is I knew where to put my hands.

Because I was predatory.

That’s not the word.

I was perverted.

That’s not it.

I was something though.

Just some little thing.

Just some charming little thing.

I wish I could give you a climactic moment. But there is no climactic moment in this. There is no such thing here as climactic. In a story about a hike, there is only a circling around and around.

In a story about me and guys, there is only a circling around.

And in a story about a story.

In a story about the father.

Mine taught me all the wrong things.

Mine taught me how to be that girl.

Mine taught me how to be that guy.

So thank you, Father, thank you, thank you.

And thank you, trees, for not noticing me.

Thank you, birds, for not noticing me.

Thank you, windows, for keeping the universe on its side.

For keeping me on mine.

My father would wake me mornings, his face too close, shout, Rise and shine, in my face, and I wanted his face far away.