Michelle Tea - Black Wave

Michelle opened the folder, rustling through pages of her life. Her trip across the country, leaving her mothers for a life in San Francisco. Her eight years with Lu, what it looked like, the ways it changed her, for better and for worse. Their breakup. In one passage Michelle wails long into the night like a shot animal. She feels stripped of her dignity to have such a private moment known by Ashley — Ashley who seemed so dignified, despite her meager age. She shut the folder, ashamed at how quickly she’d become obsessed with the details of her life.

Sorry, she said. This Is Just — I Write Memoir. It’s Weird To Read My Story Before I’ve Lived It.

Ashley nodded. I’ve got to go. My number is in the folder. She leaned over the counter one more time, and as they kissed Michelle could feel a glimmer of the person she was with Ashley. How good it felt, that version of herself, what a gift it was to feel some dormant part of herself enlivened. Ashley caught a glimpse of her own future self, felt older, tougher, more of a boy than the girl she was then. They pushed their different selves between them until the door jingled open and Michelle jumped away from the kiss. Ashley smiled. Please call me and I will take you. I know you don’t have any money, it doesn’t matter.

Michelle didn’t bother trying to defend her financial state, the girl knew everything. And if she knew everything, she had to have known that Michelle could never go with her.

Michelle enjoyed matching music to writings. Much of the music for sale in the shop was obscure to her, so she took a lot of chances with album covers. She played gospel as she read Dorothy Allison, and with Eileen Myles skipped between opera and Sonic Youth. Peter Plate and the Clash. Charles Bukowski and Tom Waits seemed too obvious. She tried Leonard Cohen instead, but went back to Tom Waits. Dodie Bellamy and Nico. Kevin Killian and Kylie Minogue. What would the sound track be to this folder in front of her, notes for a memoir of a life never lived? She found not an album but a busted cassette of Morrissey’s Viva Hate , slid it into the tape player, and opened the folder. This was where she was when Paul stumbled into the bookshop.

Michelle had not seen her boss in weeks. He’d grown larger, his hair longer, more matted. If she hadn’t known him she’d presume he was another drug addict looking to pawn a Danielle Steel paperback. When he spoke his voice croaked, as if he hadn’t spoken out loud for a very long time. He moved the phlegm around his throat with some coughs and gurgles.

Melissa , he addressed her. Excuse me. I haven’t spoken out loud in a while .

His eyes, Michelle noted, were crusted with sleep, as if he’d been lying facedown in a sandbox. The corners of his mouth looked sticky above his beard.

It’s Michelle, Michelle said. She observed her boss, who leaned on the counter, taking a breath. He was a mess. Do You Need Water Or Anything? Are You Okay?

He brushed away her kindnesses impatiently. I’m fine, I’m fine. He turned his face to the windows, looking out onto the Strip. The world is really deteriorating. Have you noticed?

Michelle shrugged. I Thought It Would Be Worse Actually, she said.

You’re just accustomed to the pace of its unraveling. Go to sleep for a couple weeks and then take a look at it. It’s much, much worse. You can hardly use the freeway now even if you wanted to, there are just busted cars and bodies — dead bodies, Rochelle — all over the road. It is a sight. People are considerably more unhinged, people in the streets. He heaved a breath. I’m going back to bed, ASAP. I just wanted to talk to you about the store.

You’re Having Good Dreams? Michelle asked cautiously. Paul’s appearance suggested that her suspicions that her bosses were using the dreamtime like drugs were correct.

Beatrice and I have synced ourselves up and figured out how to go anywhere we want, not just places we were destined to go on vacation. Truthfully, if the world were to continue, we wouldn’t have traveled very far. I don’t like vacations. Too much work, they’re very stressful. But this dreaming thing is wonderful. We just link up and poof, we’re wherever we want to be. You should try it with someone. You’ve got to really love them though. It’s gotta be the real thing.

Well, I Don’t Have The Real Thing. I Don’t Believe In It.

What, you haven’t met your soul mate on one of those websites? I thought that was working out for everyone.

Michelle tried to think of something tough and cynical to say, but nothing came. She shrugged. Not For Me, I Guess.

You seem sad about it, Paul squinted at her, his face cramped in a wince. Don’t waste your time, you’re almost dead. Listen, I can tell you want to talk about this, so I’m going to get out of here. I don’t want to be weighed down with your problems.

Michelle was taken aback by the man’s bluntness. She had wanted to talk to him. Paul was very annoying but he was also sort of wise.

Do You Love Beatrice? she blurted. Do You Really, Really Love Her For Real?

Of course, Paul said.

No — Really, Really Love Her? Or Are You Just Resigned To Her? Is She Your Habit? And Speaking Of Habits, Should You Really Be Spending All Your Time Dreaming?

One world is the same as the next, go to the world you like best, Melissa. He sighed. Are you afraid love is not actually real because you’re experiencing romantic sadness?

Michelle nodded. I Think It Might Just Be Like Sexual Attraction Plus Codependency. Desire Plus Your Own Personal Damage Melding You To Another.

Interesting, Paul stroked his grimy beard . I do think we have an interesting relationship with personal damage in this culture. The ways our lives, our families, and our childhoods ruin us is exactly what makes it possible to be in relationships with other people. If I hadn’t been raised by such a depressed mother, could I tolerate Beatrice’s constant weeping? I think it would creep me out.

It Is Disturbing, Michelle confirmed.

I’m sure it is. But it feels familiar to me and I accept it and I don’t try to make Beatrice change, you know. She can cry all she wants. I buy her hankies.

Why Is She Always Crying?

She’s just sad, Paul said. Some people feel that more than others. Anyway, listen, love is real, I love Beatrice very much, I love her because I am a damaged person, not in spite of it — damage opens your heart, you know, if you allow it to — and, oh, that’s all I have for you. Good luck with the rest of your life. I wanted to give you the bookstore.

For Real? Like I Can Have It?

Yeah, take it. We’re done. We’re retiring. We don’t need anything, I mean we’ve got enough food in the house for the rest of time — we’re not expending very much energy sleeping so we don’t need a lot. We’re just going to sleep as much as we can until the world ends.

What About Joey? Michelle asked. Shouldn’t He Inherit It? I Just Started Working Here.

Oh, Joey picked up his heroin habit again, Paul said with a shrug. I don’t think he’ll be around much. I made sure he had food, but junkies don’t eat a lot.

That’s Not Good, Michelle said.

It’s fine, Paul said. The worst thing that can happen is he dies a few months before he dies. It makes him happy. It gives him better dreams, he told me. Paul clapped his hand on the counter, done. So, do what you like. He gestured around the store . There’s a safe under that patch of peeling linoleum in the back room. The key for it is on that key ring, one of those. Buy yourself some food, canned stuff, that’s all you’re going to need. If Joey comes by, you know, share it all with him, but it’s yours I’d say. Nice knowing you, Melissa. He smiled through the web of his beard. Who would’ve known when you got hired here that I’d end up giving you the place? That you’d be the last human I spoke to, huh? He shook his tangles. You gotta love life, just for things like that. Gotta love it. Listen. His sleepy, bloodshot eyes widened with a sense of seriousness and bore into Michelle’s like they were seeking out her soul. There’s not enough time on the planet for you to get over your heartache, but you should just trust that if things hadn’t all gone to shit you would’ve gotten over it. You would have been in love a bunch more, I can feel it. You’re one of those people. I bet you fall in love easy, don’t you?