Christopher Sorrentino - Trance

Who is she now? Who in the end had changed her name?

On the tape, she says, “It only took me a week or two at most to begin to feel sympathetic with the SLA.”

She says, “I was given a choice: join the unit or go back to my parents and Eric Stump. I was worried I wouldn’t measure up, but my new comrades were enthusiastic about helping me acquire the military and political skills I needed, as long as I was willing to truly struggle.”

Does that make sense?

Did she choose the SLA? Did Cinque actually offer her a “choice”? Has she forgotten the daily death threats? Has she forgotten having been locked in a closet for six weeks?

On the tape, she says, “Well, it was pretty cramped in there.”

She says, “What is meant by ‘brainwashing’? To me, now, it seems mostly to refer to what the fascists refer to as ‘mandatory education.’ School begins the process and the pig media ensures its continuance.”

She says, “How could I disagree with the goals of the SLA? How dishonest would I have to be with myself to disagree with the idea of wanting hungry children to have enough to eat?”

And, “Starvation, hunger, ghettos, poverty. This is the real tragedy, not that one rich bitch has been kidnapped and might get killed.”

Does that make sense?

Is it really self-honesty that causes a person to seek common ground with the people who threaten to kill her?

Does she actually not understand that she was the “rich bitch” who might get killed? Has her conversion in any real way relieved the plight of the poor? Would her death have relieved it?

Who is she now? Does it matter, really, to anyone except her?

On the tape, she says, “Most of us in the struggle are like millions of other young people. We have overcome our conditioning to see Amerikkka for what it really is.”

She says, “That is what scares the pigs. They would like to portray us as freaks and outcasts, but we are in every town, on every street, in every house. We could be anyone’s child, spouse, sibling, neighbor, or friend.”

She says, “My parents used their grip on the media to rouse public sympathy. My family exploited their plight to sell newspapers.”

And, “It was the fascist nightmare of a little white girl carried off by strong black men. They used my baby pictures to stoke fear.”

Does that make sense?

Is it not clear to her that she is not just anyone’s child? How effortful could it have been to “rouse public sympathy” for suffering parents?

Does she really believe her kidnapping to have been her family ’ s plight?

On the tape, she says, “My parents left our care to others, to nannies and governesses. They didn’t want to dirty their hands. We were their little trophies.”

She says, “My mother was on drugs too often to be a real mother to me. Even as a child I found it to be very unappealing.”

She says, “Both my mother and father had problems with booze and pills.”

And, “Only now does my mother deign to talk to me. She cries crocodile tears in front of reporters and advises me to trust in God. But she dresses in black which tells me that as far as she’s concerned I’m already dead. Well, bitch, the feeling is mutual.”

Does she really hate her parents? Or do these answers serve the purpose of exposing her parents’ “values and ideas” and by extension those of their class?

Who is she now? Who changed her name?

What might have brought about the change, other than some form of coercion?

On the tape, she says, “The geniuses of the pig media suggest that during the early weeks with my comrades I was falling in love with some member of the group. How bourgeois that they could not recognize that it was the People with whom I was falling in love.”

She says, “Cujo sat outside the closet, before I got a light in there to study by, and read aloud to me from Stalin’s Dialectical and Historical Materialism and other essays.”

She says, “He was very patient with me. He answered all my ignorant questions, knowing that I was growing and changing under his attention.”

And, “I had a lot of positive and strong feelings for him before my acceptance as a member of the cell.”

And, “Cujo was patient, loving, devoted, enthusiastic, and passionate.”

And, “Cujo was beautiful, gentle, kind, and tender.”

And, “Cujo was strong, brave, resolute, and unhesitant.”

And, “Cujo and I grew stronger and more purposeful because of the reinforcement and encouragement we provided each other.”

And, “Cujo and I were assigned to different teams because our skills and talents complemented those of different people. It was definitely not because we were in love and the others wanted to separate us.”

Hmmmm.

J. V. Stalin: “Hence, the practical activity of the party of the proletariat must not be based on the good wishes of ‘outstanding individuals’ … Hence, the party of the proletariat should not guide itself in its practical activity by casual motives.”

Must she deny him even now? Or is it simply easier? What would it cost her to attempt to describe the intricacy of her feelings concerning this brief and intense affair? To reveal the stubborn, continuing effort to camouflage the political infelicity of love as another form of radical camaraderie?

Oh, Cujo. 6’4” freckles stupid peaked cap the mustache that wouldn’t grow Stump he said Stump had a mustache dumb-dumb jealous of Stump! that smile of his gone belt buckle in the newspaper photo pigs standing over that crushed pile of ashes and bone “beyond recognition” with his belt buckle there she spotted it and who got the monkey?—

How frequently does she reach up to touch that stone monkey nestled in the hollow of her throat?

— and what about her other feelings? Cujo on her in the closet, having “asked” for the opportunity to be “comradely.” Wasn’t forgiveness accelerated by death, that one wedge between them knocked aside only once he’d vanished into oblivion?

Does she begin to lose her enthusiasm for the interview process at this point? Do the neatly written questions and answers, and the various interlinear and marginal interpolations and emendations, suddenly appear meaningless, trite, remote from her real preoccupations? Does Trout’s face, opposite hers, eager behind the impassive mask he wears, begin to betray his impatience as he waits for her to speak?

Who is she now? Is she more articulate now? More aware now? More brave now? More critical now? More experienced now? More fit now? More happy now? More lonely now? More mature now? More moral now? More practical now? More ruthless now? More smart now? More strong now? More sympathetic now? More tired now?

Is she less dependent now? Less elitist now? Less frightened now? Less helpless now? Less ignorant now? Less naive now? Less pliant now? Less sentimental now? Less silly now? Less spoiled now? Less squeamish now? Less tongue-tied now?

So many questions. They proffer themselves. Though most go unanswered, like prayers.

AROAR AND A glow in the air, both faint, both coming from Candlestick Park off to the southwest. Extra innings coming to their clammy finale in the fog and the swirling, stymieing outfield winds. The rolled-up windows of Popeye Jackson’s car are all fogged up from the hot breaths of its occupants. Popeye sitting with Deandra Booker, a sweet little sister up from East Menlo. She seems somewhat nonplussed by the proposition he is making. I mean like not what she expected.

“Popeye, I got work down there. In a office? You know?”

“What work? You type?”

“Learned in school.”

“So you say you can’t go to this office , type up these letters and shit, just as well from right here?”