Lidia Yuknavitch - Dora - A Headcase

Holy shit. He thinks he’s … what do old guys like him think? He looks like he thinks he’s solved a really, really hard crossword puzzle. Dude. Are you for real? Is in my head. But “Wow …” is all I say.

To this he leans in real stern like and flourishes with, “The dream confirms once more that you are summoning up your old love for your father in order to protect yourself against your repressed love for Mr. K.”

I stare at him.

He drinks his tea.

I consider applauding. Or just barfing. I’m pretty good at barfing on command.

Instead, I lean in toward him. “Sig,” I say all serioso, “Do people really buy this crap you feed them? That purses and jewelry boxes are vagz ?” I ask him.

Uh oh. Soft crotch alert for the Sig. He flicks invisible lint off of his shoulder. “I didn’t say the actual objects are genitals. I said they represent them in the subconscious. In dreams.”

Come to mamma. I have him now. I stand up. I walk around the room in a circle. I can feel his stare. On my boots. On my calves. My ass covered only with teen plaid punk skirt. Then I walk across the room near his desk. I turn toward him. I put my hand on my Dora the Explorer purse hanging at my twat and pat it hard. “Reticule …” I murmur. “I see.” I smile. Then I pick up what is left of his manky ass cigar in his little ashtray and suck it. “Sssssshhhhhhhttttttt-O-gie,” I go, and pantomime a Groucho Marx. “What’s that make your cigar, Herr Doktor?”

He stands up. He sits down and flaps his hands around in the air. “Ida, we are not in the process of discussing random objects in a room. .” he babbles, but I cut him off. I’m moving in for the kill. Watch it. I’m not your niece, old man. I’m your worst teen nightmare. And I know a thing or two about the art of interpretation.

“No? Why not? I’d wager a fatty that the objects in this room — the porn cracks in the ceiling, the half-smoked stub of a cigar –

I mean who smokes cigars anymore — just crusty old farts, Siggy, are you a crusty old fart? C’mon! You and what’s in your pants are very much part of this discussion. You old dog you. You really want to talk about reticules and jewel cases with young girls. I bet talking about it gets you all hot. I bet you own the complete works of Aubrey Beardsley. Wanna know what I think of your theory here Sig? I think it’s all about dick.”

Then a sound cracks the air between us. Cough. Über loud cough from Sig. “Ida,” he tries, but his cough cuts him off. Cough. Coughing. Coughity cough can’t stop.

I rush over. I slap his back a high hard one. “You OK, Sig?” I slam pat his back. His face reddens. He bends over with coughing. “More tea!” I go — and shuttle him over another cup. He gulps and gulps. After a sputtering coupla minutes, he manages to breathe and collect himself.

Me? I’m sitting calmly on the black leather couch like the most polite and normal girl on the entire fucking planet. Legs crossed, hands folded over knees. Churchlike.

As if on cue, the spy clock chimes. It sounds something like birds shitting tin.

“Well,” I offer, “that was quite an interpretation. You really do have the synaptic wizardry, Herr Doktor, that’s for damn sure.” I put my chin on top of my fist. “I’ll have to go think about all that. No, don’t get up … I can let myself out. You have a seat. Man alive. You sure got the big head.”

I rise.

I turn.

My parting words: “Keep it up, Doc. That’s what you’re good at.”

WHEN I EXIT SIG’S, I WALK EXACTLY ONE BLOCK TO where Ave Maria’s mom’s Jag is parked and waiting for me. I can see Little Teena in the driver’s seat as I approach. I can see Ave Maria in the back seat. And I can see both of the wigs they are wearing.

Uh huh, it occurs to me what I’m doing is over the line. Uh huh, I think about the possible consequences of my actions. For a moment I fear for the Sigster. What would a lethal overdose of Viagra look like? I earlier read on the Internet some dangerous side effects … he could pass out. Go into a coma. He could go blind. A few guys have actually died. My throat gets a little tight and my chest feels like someone is pushing on it. I think about Sig going coronary.

But you know what I think about more? I think about all the times in my life I didn’t understand what the fuck was happening and no one bothered to explain it to me. Like when I got my period. I thought I was dying of cancer. My gym teacher took me into his office and explained it to me. Yeah. That’s what you want. You want some balding old creep explaining your bleeding vag back to you while some middle school lunch lady comes in shoving a giant cotton pad in your face and telling you to put it between your legs, dear. Awesome.

I think about Mr. K trying to stick his Altoid tongue down my throat on a lakeside picnic — no one rescuing me from the lakeside letch. I mean I had to pop that guy right in the nose hard enough to make his eyes water. I was fourteen. There are no superheroes.

I keep walking toward the car and the posse. Family is a word you can make your own.

I can hear the purr of the Jag’s engine.

I think about all the shit that goes wrong in the world today that teens have to endure.

Like how Ave Maria’s stepdad used to give her a bath — wash her real good — when she was like four. Five. Six. And film it. Home movies.

How when Little Teena told his über Christian parents he was gay all the way, they told him the devil had him and sent him to some weird military school compound. Then they went away for the summer on a wine tour in Germany and spread some word of god seed. While Little Teena took three bottles of pharmaceuticals and had his stomach pumped. Enjoy that case of Gewürztraminer, Mr. and Mrs. Jesus Fuck?

Remember the Joseph Fritzl case? The Austrian daddy who made a prison in his basement for his daughter? Yeah. He fathered her good. Seven children and one miscarriage. I keep wondering. What’s it like to be a forty-two-year old woman who comes out of the basement and tells that story? And who were the fucktards living next door who didn’t … see … a … thing ?

Boo-hoo, right? Life’s not fair. Well life’s not supposed to be a fucking Disney gone bad horror ride where you are trapped in a car called “family” with creepola psycho adults popping out at you at every turn either now, is it? Look at the world ride you’ve made for your children. No wonder we want your drugs. It’s the least you can do.

So yeah, I think about what I’m doing. What I’m doing is opening the door of Ave Maria’s mom’s Jag and getting in. It’s like I told you. We stage art attacks. It’s not like we’re terrorists. At least not the way you think.

I climb into the Jag. My Farrah wig and clothes are on the back seat, waiting for me.

“We locked and loaded?” Little Teena asks from the driver’s seat.

“Ready!” Ave Maria pitches a high note at me. There’s a compact suitcase on the seat between us. She pats the top of it.

I look at my comrades for a long minute. God. I love them so.

Ave Maria wears the Molly Ringwald wig from Marlena’s, offset with wire-rimmed glasses.

Up front is what can only be described as the head of Julia Child. It’s some weird, tall, big-curled tower of a wig that makes Little Teena look like somebody’s grandmother. Somebody’s very scary man in drag grandmother. He’s driving one-handed, arm extended. Somehow he’s fit his girth into a sharp navy blue women’s business suit. Complete with hose and pumps. Oh and he’s got a false police detective badge. Nice touch.

“Oh yeah,” I go, “we’re locked and loaded.” And begin my transformation.