Lidia Yuknavitch - Dora - A Headcase

Holding her piece of bacon between her long nailed fingertips and taking a tantalizing tiny nibble at a time, Marlene says, “How so?”

“Well I think he thinks I’m actually there for…” I fill my mouth. I hit rewind. I look at the hardwood floor.

“For what, Lamskotelet?” Marlene takes a sip and I can see she’s savoring the bacon and scotch in her mouth before.

She.

Swallows.

This is among her many pet names for me. Lamskotelet. Lambchop. In German. Marlene’s father and grandfather were Krauts. I’ve learned things you never hear at school about the history of Rwanda. Lamskotelet. I grin like a girl with a mouthful of bacon. I talk with my mouth full. “Sometimes I think he thinks I’m a moron. That I’m a confused depressed little second wave EMO girl. That I’m there at these appointments … you know, for real.”

Marlene claps her bacon hands with blue lacquered nails and throws her head back and laughs the laugh. She suddenly rips off her platinum and tosses it across the room. The little black-webbed hairnet exposed and weirdly glorious.

“I have the perfect books for you today!” She announces, her hands clasped in front of her face like Christmas, and she sashays away to the shelves.

I busy myself rewinding to a different moment in the day’s recording. Hoping for a humdinger. Hoping to drown out my own voice.

I’m making a mix.

Dr. Sig’s voice with cut-ins of Bowie, Lou Reed, Black Flag, Richard Hell, the Adverts, X, and this hilarious bit with Elliott Smith up against Dr. Sig’s discussion of suicidal impulses. If all goes well I’ll have a mix ready by the xxx-mass rave at The Kasbah. At full decibel, it oughta be one helluvah show.

When she returns, Marlene has what looks like two one-hundred-year old at least ten-by-twelve dark red cloth cover beauts. She hands them to me. They’re heavy. Not like books now. I can feel my biceps while I hold them. My heart races. Nothing is better than these old books in Marlene’s loft. Well, almost nothing. I place them on the table. They smell like dirt and old. They look like something before capitalism. Not disposable. Not fast. Nothing about Barnes & Noble. I look down at the titles and screw my face up.

Fisiologia del Dolore. Fisiologia dell’Amore .

“What do they say?” I say.

“ Physiology of Pain . 1880. And this one,” she pets the other as if it is beloved, “ Physiology of ,” she pauses and closes her eyes, “ Love . 1896.”

I stare at the author’s name and want to eat it with my bacon and scotch: “Mantegazza,” I say, shooting for not American mouthed.

“Mantegazza,” Marlene echoes.

My recording sessions, I have to say, I think of it as a stroke of pure genius. I have to wonder if any other patients do this. I can’t be the only one who has thought of it, can I? And it’s just so kick ass to play back when you get home. Beats the fuck out of television.

Other times though when I’m listening I feel itchy. Like … I don’t know. I feel kind of like I get him. I mean like radically. I mean like I can see and feel what he means before he says it. Which makes no sense. Our lives are nothing alike. We’re so far from each other we are like illegal aliens to each other’s countries. Old man balls. Still. Sometimes it’s like his words were already in me.

I pick up the beautiful heavy red books. When I go to put them in my backpack I see greasy thumbprints on the covers. I smile. “Marlene, I’m gonna take a whiz,” I say. In the bathroom I sit on the toilet. I pull out the recorder and play back, my own pee another sound layer. Siggy’s voice goes:

“Your father has made you ill. You experience your own passions as evil, just as you perceive his to be evil. The punishment for which is illness.”

I just sit there drip-drying with my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands thinking. Yeah. I get that. Way down. My vag spasms a little. Piss shiver.

But when I wipe up I hear him ask the lame-o question of the year: “Do you masturbate, Ida?”

With my erratic bird voice going, “Do you? I mean men your age?” Christ. Had to be quick on the draw on that one. How and when I touch myself is none of his goddamn business. And my twinkle pet information is only available on my terms. I’ll use it if and when I need it. Perv.

Then his voice on the H4n goes, “Ida, it is not a condition of our relationship as patient and doctor that we discuss my sexual history. It is your sexual history that has bearing on the content at hand. It is your sexual history that has put you in a difficult position.” It’s not the soft raspy voice. It’s the man he thinks he used to be voice. Deep and clear throated. Chin down.

Clever bastard. Then I hear me going, “Yeah, but aren’t you supposed to also build up some kind of fake Herr Doktor trust shit so I’ll tell you all my girl secrets? Transferral or Trans-fickle or Transfuck of something? Why should I tell you jack shit if you aren’t holding? What’s in it for me?”

God I hate my voice. There’s no whole body yet in that voice.

And he goes, “Help. Help is what’s in it for you. Do you want to go into your life as an adult coughing and losing your voice? Do you want to move into your future relationships with all of these mixed up emotions? I can help you straighten it all out. It begins in your dreams.”

Sly smug one, he is.

To which I thought the only solid one would be to tilt my head to the side, soften my eyes and mouth, slowly finger my purse in my lap and say, “Are you mad at me or something?”

I shut off the playback. I give myself a once over in the bathroom mirror. I already have five o’clock shadow on my head. I laugh. Still nothing girl voice. I open the mirror medicine cabinet. There are all of Marlene’s pills. Lined up quite perfectly. I zoom in on a bottle — pick it up — bring it closer — that’s when I see her name. His. Hakizamana Ojo. I put my finger on the words. Possibly the coolest name I have ever touched. Then I pocket the pills. She’s got lots of them.

Do I masturbate. You know what? Siggy can suck it. You have to watch out for these little booby traps. You have to stay one step ahead of the game. He’s got my father’s money on his side. The purse strings. He’s got the power to make a story of me that will make or break me. Think about it. If you can’t outsmart a middle aged shrink by the time you are eighteen, how the hell are you going to get through a life?

I thank Marlene for the books and bacon. When I get home I’ll go into my bedroom and lock the door. I’ll log and capture my newest audio onto my Mac. I’ve got software. I’m mixing voices.

I consider it my duty to beat Sig’s story of me. Like a race. Because baby, on my eighteenth birthday, I’m so fucking outta there.

RAIN FALLS ON MY HEAD. I WALK DOWNTOWN ADMIRING Seattle’s gritty little grime holes — the alleys between galleries. The backs of brick buildings where dumpsters live. Parking garages of high-rise businesses. I record sound. If you listen, you can hear metal on concrete. Or water dripping. Or wind in the urban.

My cell vibrates the front pocket of my skinny jeans. It’s the posse.

The posse is not “my peers.” We are more like a microorganism. As in Darwin. I’ve read Darwin. I stole his book from the library. I’d party with the Darwin.

The posse hooks up. Tonight the textcode is 6N DST pine-wear. You don’t know what that means but I do. I’m guessing drunk hide-and-seek or bra slingshot. One hundred points if you hit a salesperson in the ass. I get vibrated a few times in quick succession. Little Teena has Percocet. Ave Maria has Sweet Tooth. Haven’t heard yet from Obsidian. Obsidian. Obsidianobsidian. Just the word dizzies me. My Obsidian.