Lidia Yuknavitch - Dora - A Headcase

I rub my mangy head. I could probably pass for a guy. But I don’t want to be a guy.

The Farrah wig from before is at the ready. For later. After we retrieve Obsidian from the godforsaken teen halfway house hell. For the airport. I carefully fold it and stow it in my backpack.

Marlene leaves the kitchen for a moment and returns with a soft pelt in her arms. “This,” she says very solemnly, “is for your Obsidian.” A hush falls over us all. We stare at the monumental beauty of it. A Wonder Woman wig. Big huge piles of dark chocolate locks. Then Marlene carefully explains the post-escape drama to me.

By the time we get to Sea-Tac airport — assuming we get that far — Obsidian and I will have become two young hair show models on their way to Paris for one of the most important hairdressing industry conferences around. For those who are in search of excellence, who are always looking ahead for ways to innovate in the growing industry of hair design, this conference is a cross between the best in artistry and the best in business, featuring the top names in hair, creators who believe in a new you for every age. Marlene hands me several brochures.

False I.D.s, false paperwork, false hair.

Courtesy of Hakizamana Ojo.

It doesn’t matter who you really are in the world any longer. It only matters what it says on your documents and what the rules of surveillance are on your chosen path. Houston means take off any twat or tit jewelry or you’ll be strip searched. O’Hare means add three hours to your wait in line time and don’t even think about trying to act “down” by saying “da bomb” or anything. If you have the right documentation for the particular geographic area, the right magical stamps and data and weird little tilt and glow hieroglyphics on your paperwork and identification, you can be anyone. I know the current shtick is that HOMELAND SECURITY is all over your ass, but you know what the truth is? The folks manning the security at airports are all a bunch of overworked underpaid people who just need paychecks and jobs so they don’t get deported or arrested or thrown out of their homes.

Ironic, isn’t it.

The paperwork is neatly displayed before us on Marlene’s kitchen table. It really is something. Artful even. I take out my purple sharpie. I write BEAUTIFUL on the surface of Marlene’s kitchen table. She smiles.

“Now I have something to remember you by,” she says.

My chest implodes.

It’s time to go. My arms go numb. My mouth opens. I drop my head down and look at the linoleum floor. So I don’t have to think about not seeing Marlene for god knows how long I study the floor. When I look back up, Marlene is all business.

“I will meet you at my north terminal surveillance hut,” Marlene says, winking, and hands me two plane tickets. She sizes me and my little sadness up. “Liebchen!” She says. “This is not the last time you will see me. Of that I am certain. This is simply the last time we will see each other as the people we are in this kitchen this moment.”

She laughs. You know which laugh. The one from her belly. The one with all of history in it.

“Think who you will be the next time! We will drink to it!” She exclaims.

“Yay!” Ave Maria pipes, spinning around in a circle, her real hair shooting out like spaghetti.

I want Marlene’s laugh to hold us like that all night — in her kitchen — wigs all over the place — the word “beautiful” drawn in purple sharpie on her kitchen table. I walk over to her and hug her and bury my face in her tits, wondering even inside my ripped up heart what her tits are made of. Socks? Silicone? They feel like perfect warm water balloons against my face.

When we leave the back of my head itches. I’m afraid to turn back around and look or I’ll bawl like a pussy.

But Marlene calls out in a booming manwoman voice “Lamskotelet!” So I gotta turn around one last time.

In Marlene’s hand is a giant plastic bag filled with bacon. “For the journey!” And laughing and laughing.

IN THE JAG ON THE WAY TO THE TEEN HALFWAY HOUSE I stare at my thighs. Then I stare out the car window. Shadows of shit pass by. It’s late. Maybe midnight. We want to control the scene at the halfway house. We’re hoping for a small staff of exhausted underpaid workers. I’m riding shotgun.

Little Teena, A.K.A. “the caseworker,” drives. His face is partially lit up by the green and orange console lights. Ave Maria, A.K.A. “the distraught sister,” is in the backseat. I can see her head bopping up and down in the rearview mirror. Her earbuds jammed in her ears. Her Alice in Wonderland hair cascading over her shoulder. Her absurd eyepatch momentarily flipped up.

I think into the night. I search the sky. I used to be able to find the Dippers easily. Now I don’t know what direction to look.

No one says anything especially me.

It hurts. The silence.

We drive.

I think I see some cows pass by on the side of the road but they might just be those eye blotches you get when you are trying not to cry.

Mercifully, Little Teena saves me from my own pathos.

“All right. What’s our motivation?” he shouts out.

Ave Maria pulls out her earbuds. “What?” she says.

“Our motivations. We need to know how to act,” he repeats.

“Oh. Did we eat all the bacon?” Ave Maria says, hooking her arms over the seat so her face is up by us in the front.

I hand her what’s left of the bacon. The whole car pretty much smells like pig oil.

Between swine chews Ave Maria says, “Well, I’m beside myself because my sister tried to gouge my eye out witha … with a… ” she looks up at the felted car ceiling. “With a spoon!” she says.

I have to admit, I like it. That girl has hidden talents. God knows I’ve always got a spoon with me. My mother’s.

“But you love your sister too, isn’t that right, distraught sister? You can’t bear for anything too terrible to happen to her?” Little Teena coaches.

“Uh huh!” Ave Maria agrees, chewing seriously.

“I’m the sole legal guardian, is what the paperwork says,” Ave Maria goes.

I smile. I am never going to meet anyone like her in my life again. I know it.

“I’m wanting outta this chickenshit assignment — bucking for a reassignment — homicide. I’m looking to make detective.” He fingers a mutton chop. He waves his finger at us collectively and says, “You two are an embarrassment to me. Beneath me. I’m just looking to unload you,” he points to me, “and bone you,” he points to Ave Maria, “before it’s all over.”

Ave Maria cracks up. I do too. The image of Little Teena A.K.A. the mutton-chopped caseworker boning little miss eye patch while the scary bald teen tries to gouge everyone’s eyes out with a spoon is worthy of an LSD dose.

“So then let’s go over the script again,” Little Teena prods.

“I know what to say,” Ave Maria bleats, nearly hitting her head on the car ceiling. “I’m supposed to make a big deal all distraught-y if we needa … what do you call it?”

“Diversion.” Little Teena shakes his head up and down.

“You say all the cop-ly stuff and give whoever is at the intake desk that whole cool pile of paperwork. Do you wanna practice your cop-y authority voice on us?” Ave Maria’s quite nearly in the front seat with us, her skinny arms and elbows poking everywhere.

Little Teena clears his throat. “We’ ve got a live one here, I’m afraid, emergency intake. They can’t take her up at Chelan so we had to come here. Full up at Chelan. Christ. Kids these days, huh?”

“Fuck that’s hot!” Ave Maria shouts. “Say it again!”

Little Teena complies. Then they go back and forth for a bit in mock bad cop television show lingo. It’s weirdly relaxing.