Lidia Yuknavitch - Dora - A Headcase

Me? I’m Ida. Angry messed up Ida with the dumb-sounding voice. I’m Dora the Explorer. I’m the girl who has to go to therapy. The most me thing about me is my technological … gear. Who the fuck am I even?

Almost like she’s in my head with me, Marlene goes, “This,” standing behind me in the mirror reflection with her hands in my new hair, “is the you that will make a film. Daughter of Eve!”

I don’t know why but standing there like that under the breath of her sentence makes me feel like I’m real. I wonder if that’s what love is.

Marlene takes in a great breath of air and claps her hands above our heads and says, “ Bacon! To celebrate!”

When I wheel around to follow, I can feel the hair swing. Like it’s part of me. Big. Heavy. WINGS.

Back in the kitchen, Marlene scoops up the wig heads off of the table and throws them onto a nearby chair. They look like roadkill.

Whoever we are right then, I suddenly wish it wouldn’t end.

I grin so big I feel air all through my teeth. I shake the hair back. In my head there’s a lame ass little bird, chirping its fucking head off, happy.

IN THE HALLWAY IN FRONT OF THE SIG’S OFFICE I STUDY the wood of his door. It looks like skin. I put my hand on it without making a sound. On the other side of the door, is he waiting? I make my hand into a fist and pound the fuck out of the door.

Frankly, when he opens it? He looks agitated. And what is up with that hair? New wave bird’s nest.

“Siggy!” I yelp, blowing by him into the office. I have a present for him under my arm — all wrapped up like for birthdays. I jam it into his chest. Oh for christ’s sake. I think he’s blushing. “Oh Sig,” I say, “don’t go getting all soft on me. It’s not anything weird. G’head, open it.”

He struggles with the paper exactly like the old man bofus he is. This gives me exactly enough time to loiter over by his trench coat hanging by the door. I slip my hand into my Dora purse and then slip a GoTEK7 GPS into the pocket of his flasher coat.

The GoTEK7 is a very small, personal and powerful live tracking GPS device allowing you to track assets, vehicles or people. It is lightweight and water-resistant. It is also fitted with a discreet panic alarm; once pressed for four seconds the device will inform you of its location via your mobile phone or a PC, giving you peace of mind with loved ones.

I scan the room. Half-smoked stogie in the ashtray on his desk. Busted fucking cuckoo clock doing its nothing.

He finally has the wrapping off.

“It’s a clock,” he says.

Braniac.

“Yep. Cuz of your busted cuckoo.” I grab the clock out of his hands and take it to the big man desk and position it. “You like?”

Really, it’s not handsome. It’s this weird painted crap gold color and kind of the shape of a boil. I mean it sorta rises up in the middle and slopes down on the sides with these bizzaro ornate carvings of lions. I got it at a vintage shop … who knows if the fucker will even work beyond today. Inside is a covert camera with built in video recorder that can use any USB storage device — an iPod, a Sony PlayStation, Memory cards, PCs, external hard drives, you name it. You’d be amazed how all the tricky old school cold war spy crap has been transformed into modern-day techno gadgetry available online for $49.99.

Sig makes some incredibly awkward attempt to thank me from across the room. I make my way over toward the credenza with all the tea making crap on it. A tea pot. Mugs. A variety of bullshit bouge teabags. Sugar. Milk. A spoon. Pretty much everything I need.

“Lemme make it this time,” I offer. “What’ll it be?” I finger his tea bags.

With my back to him, I pull a vial of booger sugar out from my Dora reticule. “Earl Grey? Jasmine? Lemon ginger? Passionfruit? What say we go with Passionfruit. Get a little wild. Sugar?” I go, looking back at him over my shoulder. He nods appreciatively. God, old man balls are easy to snow. It’s actually quite sad.

Next I pull out the Viagra of Hakizamana Ojo. Marlena’s pills. “I got a bitchin’ dream to lay on you, Sig,” I say, crushing the pills — one, two, three of’em — with the back of a spoon, carefully recollecting it, and putting it into his tea. I go slowly and I take extra care. I rim the mugs with the spoon. The porcelain circle sound is something between mesmerizing and shoot yourself. I tap the cup with the spoon. This soundscape is going to be awesome .

“SO,” I go, “Lemme tell you about my dream.” I walk over to him, bend over, and serve him tea. “Trust me Siggy. You are going to LOVE this shit.”

He sips. He smiles the smile of a man who is being served.

I smile and cock my head, try to look like the niece he blathers on about so much. Gag me. “You ready for the dream junk?”

“Proceed.” Look at that smug fuck. You want it? You got it.

“So check it out. A house was on fire. My father was standing beside my bed and woke me up. I dressed myself quickly. Mother wanted to stop and save her jewel case, but father said: ‘I refuse to let myself and my child be burnt for the sake of your jewel case.’ We hurried downstairs, and as soon as I was outside I woke up.” I sit bolt upright and stare at him with the biggest eyes I can muster. “Isn’t it cool as shit?”

He thinks it’s remarkable. He rubs his hands together. He’s way into it. God. I can see him revving up his interpretation jazzy jizz. And yep, just like I think he will, he goes straight for the jewel case. And just like I knew he would, he says it’s a vag. I can’t help it. I start laughing. But when I look over at him, he’s all serious and shit. He thinks laughter is a defensive mechanism. “Sorry,” I say. And bite the inside of my cheek.

“Ida, what is it about the jewel case that your mother wanted to save?” He continues all Dr. Big-head-y.

I go, “My dad gave it to her. She has buttloads of bling, trust me. Which is retarded, since they rarely go out or do anything together. I think he piles up the bling to ease his guilt about balling Mrs. K. It just sits there piling up in the case getting dusty. Sometimes she pets the pile, though.”

His cheeks flush. He drinks his tea. His pupils — dang I think his pupils are dilating! He says, “And do you find any other associations with a jewel case?”

I look up at the ceiling. “Hey, you know you have a crack in your ceiling that looks like a big huge wang?” I point.

“Might you answer the question?”

“Might you?” I go, smiling. Then I give him more of what he wants. “Yeah. Mr. fucking tardoid K. gave me a jewelry box once. A really gross expensive one. From Vienna. I put weed in it. Hey! Want some more tea?”

I jump up. I run over like a dutiful niece. I refill his cup. I take my time. I can feel his eyes on my back when he theorizes that a return present was subconsciously due to Mr. K. No shit, Sherlock.

“Really.” I go, stirring, stirring.

“Perhaps you do not know that ‘jewel case’ is a favorite expression for the same thing that you wear daily — the … reticule.”

I turn to deliver more tea to him. “What the fuck’s a reticule?”

He laughs all sly and adult. He says, “In chiefly historical terms, a reticule is a woman’s small handbag. In other words, the jewel case and the reticule are both symbols of female genitalia.”

I roll my eyes and snort laugh. “Siggy! Dude! You always say shit like that! So you are saying Mr. K. gave me a pussy box for pussy? And it showed up all weird in my dream? And my Dora bag is a VAG, too?”

Mind bogglingly, he grins and keeps going. “In the dream you chose a situation which expresses a danger from which your father is saving you.”