Michelle Tea - Black Wave

You really can’t tell half the story. People wrap around each other like trees planted so close that they fuse together. If something happens they both fall. Then you’re just this busted tree walking around. Learning how to think again, learning how to be. It’s like you had a stroke. In an AA meeting where Michelle had shared that she was exiting an eight-year relationship, an old woman had held her hand and said, It’s like a death , and contorted her face in understanding. Because the woman was old Michelle presumed she had known death personally and was grateful for her condolences. Michelle felt like a part of her had died, the part that believed in love.

Michelle had always felt annoyance at the dramatics of jilted people claiming to have given up on love. It sounded so silly. No one gave up on love. Who could resist its pull? But now Michelle got it. It wasn’t a pose. She had pulled back the curtain and found nothing. No forever, no loyalty, nothing to stake a life on. She supposed this is what it had been like for Andy. Andy had really loved her, and Michelle had shat upon that devotion. Understanding for the first time Andy’s pain, wondering if she was perhaps a sociopath for it having taken so long, Michelle guessed she deserved it. She deserved to have the illusion of love ripped from her heart. Everyone did.

Most days at the bookstore Michelle worked alone, but Beatrice or her husband could pop in at any minute, so she could never really relax into slacking off the way she would have liked to. She would select a book that looked interesting, sit on a ladder, and try to look like she was just checking what shelf it should be placed on. This prevented her from really being consumed by the story the way she liked, but the husband especially was always looking for proof that Michelle was not earning her seven dollars an hour, and so she had to be vigilant. It also made it hard to steal books. Michelle had no qualms about stealing from the bookstore. Indeed she felt like she was doing them a favor by taking some of the dead weight of inventory off their hands. She never stole money and she didn’t steal first editions or anything bound for eBay. She just clipped titles she wanted to read but would never be able to really get into while balancing on a ladder at work. Besides reading and stealing, Michelle also enjoyed masturbating in the bathroom and talking on the telephone long-distance to her moms — but all these activities were risky. On that day, the second day of the end of the world, the husband came in unannounced. He was furious about permit parking.

You know what will happen? he raged, stuffed in the kiosk behind the counter, making it impossible for Michelle to retain her post there. The businesses will die. All of them will die. People won’t come here if they can’t park.

Well, The Businesses Are Going To Die, Michelle said. Right? She said this for herself more than the husband. It seemed she should be making an attempt to lift herself out of shock, but it was hard because so many other people were also in shock, and Michelle was finding it creepily easy to just carry through her day, ringing up records and purchasing paperbacks from junkies as if they hadn’t just officially entered the End Times.

The husband looked at her, first blank and then offended. We cannot lose our humanity because of what has happened , he proclaimed . We cannot aid in the unraveling of civilization. Do you want to spend the next year living like a dog? Because people will. People will die like dogs, you can go join them. The husband pointed to the door with such a fierce look on his face Michelle wondered if she was being fired. I refuse to die like a dog. I refuse to allow my world to go to hell because of this. We have built this neighborhood into the thriving commercial strip it is today through hard work and cooperation and I am not going to let permit parking destroy it, even if we’re all going to be dead in a year. He clutched at his heart as acidic bile rose inside him like molten lava. Especially if we are going to be dead. How do you want to spend your next twelve months, Rochelle?

Michelle, Michelle corrected him. She wasn’t mad, she didn’t know his name either. He was her boss. How did Michelle want to spend the next twelve months? She hated questions like that. She hated having to have a plan, ever. She knew that any plan she came up with would be a little pathetic. She’d rather keep it open, invite the randomness of the universe to toy with her. I’ll See Where Life Takes Me, she said airily.

The boss snorted. That’s imbecilic. You should know what you want. If this turn of events has a silver lining it is that people will have to know what they want. Why don’t you know what you want?

What Do You Want? Michelle asked, defensive. She had never talked to this man for more than two minutes and now they were having a deep, existential fight. And Michelle had started it.

I am living the life of my dreams, he said grandly, stretching his arms out toward the store. I built this place, every little shelf. I filled it with books and records. I make my living transferring works of art between people who love art, who love to read books and hear music. I help recycle. I have my woman. Michelle blanched. We have no children, nothing bringing us down, no drain on our resources. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. And I won’t let permit parking suck the vitality out of what I’ve created. He brought his fist down on the counter, jostling some office supplies and a copy of Jayne Anne Phillips’s Black Tickets .

Michelle wrote a book. Beatrice had crept into the store and hovered off to the side, listening to her husband’s grand pronouncements. The skin beneath her eyes was so pale Michelle could see tiny veins ferrying blue blood around her face. The husband turned.

Oh yeah? Maybe you want to do that, then. Maybe you want to write another book? Or maybe a screenplay?

I Was Going To, Michelle said slowly, But Now I’m Not Sure It Would Be Worth It. It’s Hard To Write A Book. It Might Take Me A While And Then You Have To Find A Publisher—

Your agent does that, doesn’t he? He does all that for you?

I Don’t Have An Agent, Michelle said.

Well, there’s one thing you can do, find an agent. This town’s crawling with them. They come in here all the time, I’ll introduce you.

Michelle shrugged. She hated when people acted like there were simple solutions to the huge problems of her life. The husband wasn’t just going to introduce her to an agent. And even if he did she’d still have to write the book, which would take her forever, and then it took so long for books to come out once they’re finished, by the time the thing got published the world would have been pulped. It was useless.

Don’t you want to write for the joy of it, the joy of writing?

Michelle used to. Back when she had first moved to San Francisco, when she’d had no friends. She was so grateful to have something that felt meaningful and filled up her nights. She would sit alone in bars and coffee shops writing, writing. But things were different now. There were stakes at stake. Getting published changed things. Her writing wasn’t a fuck you to her job, it had become her job, one that paid even worse than her day job but was somehow more important. Michelle tried to explain this to the husband but felt embarrassed. It made her sound like she thought she was so important, and she wasn’t. She wasn’t important at all.

I’m a writer , the husband proclaimed. He sounded like he was trying on the declaration and liked how it fit. It brought a smile to his bearded face. I wrote a letter to the editor, about permit parking. And when I wrote it, I’ll tell you, honestly — I did not think they would publish it. I wasn’t thinking of it being good, I wasn’t thinking like that at all, I was just in that place of flow. I was expressing my feelings and it felt right. And I think that came through because the editor published it. He even asked me to write an op-ed about it! You just have to find that flow and do the work for the joy of it. That’s another silver lining. He stroked his beard meditatively. There won’t be any time for things to pay off so you’ll have to only do things because you love them. Here. He pulled a scrap of scratch paper from under the register. Here, make a list. I love lists. They’re so helpful. Make a list of five things you want to do in the next year. Think about it.