Leopoldine Core - When Watched - Stories

“Will you wipe off my glasses? It’s like staring through a potato chip,” Frances said and took off her black frames.

The joke was met with incredible disinterest. Peanut snatched the frames from her hand, untucked her T-shirt, and rubbed off the lenses. She handed them back to Frances without a word.

Soon they were riding past squat gray shopping centers, one after another, with slabs of dried grass in between.

“God. Walmart looks like a grocery store in a bad neighborhood,” said Frances.

“America is a bad neighborhood,” Peanut said flatly.

“Do we need anything from there? Maybe we should stop.”

“For what? A seven-foot box of cornflakes? No thanks,” Peanut said with satisfaction. She leaned back in her seat and repressed a smile.

Frances pulled a dry piece of skin off her lip and a dot of blood rose up in its place. She felt anxious beside Peanut, who sat with her arms folded, resonating anger. Often Peanut veered into dark moods without warning and Frances always knew she was being accused of something, though she rarely knew what. She wanted badly to touch Peanut, but knew she couldn’t. She knew that in Peanut’s stillness, an ambush was coming. “I want to look at you but I can’t take my eyes off the road,” said Frances. “Whatever look you’re giving me, I can feel it.”

“How does it feel?”

“Like standing next to a microwave.”

Peanut sat stiffly, wishing she could somehow prompt an apology from Frances without explaining how she felt. She bided her time like an animal, glancing out the window at fast-food signs cast with colored light. She felt sharp and focused whenever she was this angry and, in this way, partly enjoyed the eerie mood between them. Peanut visualized Frances in San Francisco, flirting with whole rooms of women, and then settling on one to lead back to her hotel room. The thought made Peanut sweat profusely. Her legs stuck to the vinyl seat, which had split in three places and been duct-taped. She forced her gaze onto passing discount stores, dark casinos with candy-bright signs. Then a strange smile crept across her face. Peanut tucked her hands under her thighs. “So were you a whore in San Francisco?” she asked in a hostile flirty tone.

“Is that what you want? You sound all turned on.”

“Come on, were you?”

“No. More of a bore than a whore.”

“You didn’t flirt with anyone? I mean out of everyone you met, say you had to pick one—”

“But I don’t have to. You are always demanding that I do this. It’s so demented, Peanut. It’s like you’re baiting me to piss you off. And I’m not going to. I’m not some dog, okay? I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“I just find it hard to believe. I mean, you can hardly contain yourself at parties. You walk around stroking your tie, waiting for someone to compliment you, and then lean into any woman who shows the slightest—”

Frances shot a glance at Peanut. “Look at you. You’re all flushed. You’re all jealous and turned on.”

“I am not turned on.” Peanut straightened her back. “I’m making a point.” She stared at Frances with a grim, determined expression. “So tell me who you found attractive in San Francisco.”

“Oh my God.” Frances sighed. “Okay. Emmet I guess.”

Peanut’s eyes grew. “Who’s Emmet?” she asked in an oddly cheerful tone that Frances knew could go dark at any moment. Peanut was always playful when gathering information about whomever Frances had paid particular attention to. She felt to Frances like someone holding a dagger behind a curtain.

“Just this drummer I like. He’s a great guy.”

“Well he can get in line.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You think everyone’s great. And you want to have sex with everyone. Men included, apparently.”

Frances opened her mouth to speak but stopped herself. It seemed like a lot of work.

Peanut looked out at crowds of cows in a field. The sun was setting. There was a glare of pink light in the rearview mirror. “What did you want to do to him?” she asked, fascinated.

“Nothing. I don’t know. I was just curious. If I wasn’t with you I probably would have fooled around with him. He seemed interested too.”

“Did you wish you weren’t with me at that moment?” Peanut asked sternly, panic flashing in her eyes. “I mean, did you fantasize?”

“It’s okay to fantasize. Are you saying you never fantasize?”

“Did you kiss him?”

“No. Not really. I mean, it was a friendly goodbye kiss.”

“Not really? Well it’s a good thing I ask you these questions because otherwise I wouldn’t have a fucking clue.” Peanut looked fiercely at her legs. “You haven’t slept with a man in over twenty years.”

“I didn’t want to sleep with him. It was just a vague sort of animal interest. I’m attracted to men all the time but I don’t want to see what they become in sex.” White headlights whooshed by. “I don’t want to be feminine ,” Frances said firmly. “I don’t want to be the counterpart to their virility. I’d wind up feeling like some slain lamb.”

Peanut laughed, surprising both of them.

“I’m not kidding. I remember going to the butcher with my mom as a kid during the spring and seeing this skinned lamb in the window with an Easter lily in its mouth.”

“Jesus.”

“It was the early sixties.”

“I know that.”

Gram Parsons sang his last raspy heartsick song and the two didn’t talk. Frances seemed to be controlling the silence between them and this maddened Peanut. She faced the window and cried discreetly, then patted her face with her fist.

Frances felt trapped in the car and wished she were home alone, away from Peanut, her vortex of need. She tunneled into herself and wrote a song. She’s a little biting daisy, tipping into insanity from seventeen directions. Bite. Bite. Bite. Frances strained to commit the words to memory, hating Peanut for having two free hands and not knowing how to drive.

Soon they stopped at an Exxon gas station and went inside in silence, past glaring truckers with fat guts. Peanut bought a giant iced coffee and jalapeño potato chips. She walked back to the car in a huff and began eating the chips without pleasure, sipping coffee between bites.

A tall man tapped on her window. It was open a crack and Peanut could hear him breathing. She looked up and a shrill, exhilarated look came across his face. He had a brown handlebar mustache and sunburned nose. Peanut looked away. The man was around Frances’s age, she guessed, though he had aged differently, with his craggy face and distended stomach. He was ugly.

Previously, Peanut had considered people either young or old. If they were young, there were many stages to consider. But after fifty, she had never bothered to gauge one’s exact age. She said Santa . She said old and looked away. After meeting Frances, however, this snide disregard had veered into complete fascination. She fixated on everyone over fifty. She measured gradations of oldness, tracking them on the street. She would see a white-haired man straining to climb a step and want to know how old he was. She would want to ask. To say, “Please, sir, I need to know. Because whatever age you say, I’ll file it away and fear that year.” She also felt compelled to know the ages of white-haired people who were walking easily in hip outfits, maybe telling smart jokes. Frances was like that, a swarm of energy. She was attractive in her enthusiasm, which seemed unusual. Most masculine women appeared dour to Peanut, as if they believed that this sort of sulky demeanor was maleness. Peanut was too peevish herself to be near anyone like that.

The man with the brown mustache stared at Peanut for a long moment. He scratched his neck, then walked slowly to his truck. Peanut leaned her head on the cool window glass.