MICROWAVABLE DINNERS

by

Sabrina Beth Davis

A Thesi s Submitted to the Faculty of

The Dorothy F. Schmidt College of Arts and Letters

In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of

Master of Arts

Florida Atlantic University

Boca Raton, Florida

December 2005

MICROWAVABLE DINNERS

by Sabrina Beth Davis

This thesis was prepared under the direction of the candidate's thesis advisor, Professor A. Papatya Bucak, Department of English, and has been approved by the members of her supervisory committee. It was submitted to the faculty of the Dorothy F. Schmjdt College of Arts and Letters and was accepted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Masters of Arts.

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Author:

Title:

Institution:

Thesis Advisor:

Degree:

Year:

ABSTRACT

Sabrina Beth Davis

Microwavable Dinners

Florida Atlantic University

Professor A. Papatya Bucak

Masters of Arts

2005

Our lives are a series of patterns. In Katrina's case, fear plays a reoccurring role.

Each chapter illustrates one particular picture in the protagonist's existence; each scene

depicts a different year of her life, ranging from age six to twenty-six. The human body,

both inner and outer, is a theme throughout, as well as her relationship with her mother.

Each chapter title is named after a type of phobia, ranging from Mnemophobia (the fear

of memories) to Ostraconophobia (the fear of shellfish).

Ill

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Table of Contents

Mnemophobia .............. ...... ......... ... .. ... ................ ... ................. .. ... 1

Catagelophobia. . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

Apeirophobia.............. .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

Didaskaleinophobia .... .. ..... ... ....... ..... ........ ................ .. .. ... ... ..... .. .. 10

Cibophobia .................................................................................. 16

Eromophobia .... ........ ........ ..... ... ............ .... .. ....... .............. ............ 19

Medorthophobia ..... ....... ............... ..... .... .............. ..... ................... 21

Cardiophobia ........ ..... ............... ........ .. .............. .... .. ... ........ ... ..... .. 24

Dromophobia ....... ......... ... .. .. ... .. ... ........... .... .......... ..... .. .. ....... ...... . 38

Phallophobia ................................. ............................................ ... 43

J udeophobia ..... .... .. ..... ...... .... ..... ...... ... ............ .. ... ...... ..... .. .. .. ... ... . 44

Mageirophobia ........ .. ... ............... ...... .................. .. .................. ..... 50

Ostraconophobia ...................... ... ...... .. ... .......... .... ... ... .. ... .... ...... ... 51

Ith ylphallobia ............ ...... ................ ..... ............ .... .................. ... .. . 58

Gymnophobia ...................................... .. ......... ............................. 60

Dermatosiophobia ........ .. ................... .... ............ ..... ............... ...... 64

Misophobia .............. .................... .................... .... .... ........... ......... 70

Tomophobia ......... .. ...... .................. ........ ........... .. ...... ......... ........ .. 75

Dementophobia ............. ................ ... ............................................ 85

Sitophobia ..... .. .. .... .... ..... .... ..... ......... ... .. ... ... ... ......... .... .... ... ..... .. ... 90

Mycophobia ..................................... .. ............... .... ... ............... ..... 93

IV

Mnemophobia

Twenty six years old, climbing out of the shower. The bathroom mmor IS

framed in a film of fog, and I flip a switch to get the fan ventilating. I snap open the door

to the medicine cabinet, grab a tube of cream. Ninety-five dollars for .78 ounces, the

newest product guaranteed to reduce the appearance of under-eye circles. I dab a small

amount below my eyes and on the lids. A warm sensation tingles before I even replace

the cap onto the tube. Staring at my reflection, I hope to see immediate results from the

application. But nothing happens. Nothing happened last night, or yesterday morning, or

the night before last. But I hope with my continued use, it will eventually produce the

intended effect.

I am pale. The veins that run just below the surface of my skin appear like rivers

drawn on an atlas, indigo threads of a cobweb covering me. My irises are blue, as well as

the depressions underneath my eyes, as if bruised. Without makeup, I appear exhausted

after ten hours of sleep, and look like a corpse after five. But the new cream promises to

work, so I shell out ninety five dollars a month in the hopes of having a smooth transition

from brow to cheek.

Staring at my face, I notice the white sprinkled with lightly tanned freckles , spots

from sun damage, irreversible. Before I apply a layer of concealer, powdering it all over

to make my skin one continuous shade of off-white, I apply a thin coating of sunscreen,

spread evenly over my face. I wear the sunblock like armor, a protective layer shielding

me against additional battle scars.

I know what Medusa is, having seen Clash of the Titans. I don't have snakes in

my hair, I say. Leave me alone.

Rebuttal dismissed. Amy Lebowitz joins my inquisition. You know, she says

matter-of-factly, hand on hip, designer jeans tucked into bright yellow scrunchy socks,

pretty face and flawless skin, hair in an ideal side-ponytail, you look like a ghost.

I tum my head and see my reflection in the windows of a classroom. Of course I

look like a ghost. My mother never lets me out without protection on - my skin is never

exposed to the ultraviolet darkening powers of the sun. We have no time share in St.

Martin or St. Thomas like the rest of my classmates, no place to brown my skin and get

cornrows in my hair, colorful beads to click and tap against each other when I flip my

head from side to side. I am still the color I was the day I exited my mother's womb. My

hair, an ashy dark blond, the faded color washes out my paper-white complexion, nearly

looks blue from the blood that rushes beneath it. Dark sunken circles have taken up a

permanent residence under my eyes from lack of sleep, the prospect of being teased at

school haunting me like the witch I think I see at night, flying around outside my

bedroom window.

I have no nice clothes like Amy, I think to myself, nothing new and fashionable.

Instead, my sister Jordana's hand-me-downs. My outfit today- hot pink sweatshirt, sizes

too big, with puffy-paint teddy bears lifting weights in exercise gear, bandanas on heads,

and sweatbands on wrists. My pants are less fashionable- an old pair of stirrup leggings,

stirrup on left foot ripping, close to becoming a pair of regular leggings. There is a slight,

light discoloration at the knees from years of wash and wear, and when I sit, I'm careful

to cross my legs, the hole in the crotch of the pants obvious at so many angles. I have

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asked my mother to sew them five times this month, and have worn them twice this week

anyway.

My head hangs even lower- my chin nearly touches my chest. A tear rolls out of

my eye, along the bridge of my nose. It hangs at the tip, holding on like a child on the

monkey bars, dangling. Another follows, out of the other eye, down the slope, fusing

with the first. I snivel, and the binary tear disembarks from my face and disappears into

the confusion of shoes and blades of grass.

Someone notices my outfit, as if they heard my inner monologue.

Jeez, Katrina. Where do you get your clothes? The garbage?

Her name is Mamie. She has pin-straight hair, blond. She wears green Umbras

today, and a tie died t-shirt. Her Keds are the real thing, unlike mine, and have the blue

rubber insignia on the back of the heel, KEDS. Her family has a pool with a waterfall and

slide. Each summer, she has an end of the year party that I've never been invited to.

Can't your parents afford to get you new clothes? She persists, poking me while

not actually touching me.

I bring my head up. I notice that David is no longer with the crowd that bothers

me. He is kicking around a ball on the soccer field with a boy named Danny.

Other kids start to lose interest in me, as Nancy, the not-so-bright girl emerges

from the Swiss cheese climbing castle. She pops her head out of the top, black tendrils

flopping, one side perfectly curled, the other flattened against her head like a wig just

taken out of its box. The fuchsia bows her mother has planted in it filled with grass and

straw. She smiles- mouth full of braces, carrots and fruit snacks still stuck in the silver

wiring from lunch- too dim to realize the attention she receives is not intended nicely.

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Nancy, what's two plus two? Anthony, the boy whose mother died last year, asks.

He guffaws, holds a stick in his hand, ready, it looks like, to nudge her with.

I don't know. She giggles a sweet giggle, thinking these people her friends.

How do you spell CAT?

Again, a giggle.

I slowly back away from the crowd, mosey towards the playground. I keep my

feet light on the grass, not wanting to make any noise, not wanting to bring the attention

back to myself. I hear more questions directed at Nancy, each getting fainter and fainter

as I get further and further away from the climbing station.

I wait out the remainder of recess on the tire swing, digging my fake Keds into the

pebbles, achieving lift-off, swinging up and down, up and around.

Hear a whistle. We are called back inside. I force my feet into the ground. They

drag through the smooth pebbles that line the floor of the jungle gym, so that the dirt that

lies beneath it becomes exposed. I slow the velocity of the tire by creating a deep chasm

through the little rocks. Come to a stop, walk towards school, the sun at my back.

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Apeirophobia

Seven years old, on a bus coming home from summer camp. There are boys in

the back, chatting loudly. Not necessarily eaves-dropping - some words stand out,

unavoidable. Murder. Stabbed. In their beds. In the neighborhood. Where? Here.

Down the block. In the neighborhood. I shiver.

aware.

Run off the bus, straight to my mother. Tell her what I heard. She nods, already

Where are we moving to? I ask.

Nowhere says mother, we aren't going anywhere.

I'm not staying here. I'll run away.

Where will you go?

Florida.

We live here for a reason. Long Island has the lowest crime rate in the country.

You're much safer here than in Florida.

Uncomforted by her logic, I climb the stairs to find my ten year old sister,

Jordana. She is in her room, reading Little Men.

Dana, will you come play with me?

I'm reading.

Haven't you read that before?

Yeah. So?

Please come and play with me.

What do you want to play?

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We could go downstairs and play with the Barbie.\·.

I don't want to play with them.

What about Legos? Will you play with me if we play with Legos?

Fine.

We descend to the basement and partake in building a Lego amusement park.

Plastic squares are stacked on rectangular ones, red on top of white, candy cane stripes

formed in an upside-down V. We fold the legs of little Lego men into sitting position,

hold them as they slowly ascend the incline, then let them go as they slide down the

imaginary roller coaster, falling off the sides before ever making it to the bottom.

In my bed, in the middle of the night, I wake from a bad dream. Men. Breaking

into our house. Sneak upstairs. Barge into parent's bedroom. Have knives. Or a gun.

Threaten them. Want something. Parents refuse. Parents killed. I hide in my room,

shake, waiting for them to find me. A woken by fear.

Draw a conclusion in my head. It is possible to die, even if you are a little girl, in

your own house, it is feasible your life could end. I feel uncomfortable and get out of

bed. Wander into the hallway, string bean arms hanging out of hand-me-down

nightgown two sizes too big. Standing in the dark, I call for my mother.

Mommy? Mommy?

I hear creaking along the floor, know she is coming.

What? What, Katrina? Is everything okay? She whispers in her just-woken-up

vmce. Raspy, hushed.

I had a nightmare.

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Shh. You're gonna wake your sister. Do you want to talk about it?

I guess.

What happened?

There were burglars. They came into the house and hurt you guys. They were

gonna come after me.

It was just a dream. Remember what I said before. We're safe here.

Okay. But I'm scared.

You'll be okay. She walks over, squeezes me, plants a kiss on my head. You

ready to go back to bed?

I guess. Wait, will you promise me something?

Sure. What?

If burglars do break in, will you guys promise to give them whatever they want?

Of course.

You promise?

Yes, I promise.

Okay. Goodnight, mommy. I love you.

I love you too. Now go get some sleep, Katrina.

I shuffle back in my room, look around and exit. Slowly open Jordana's door,

crawl into the bottom of her bunk bed. Cannot fall asleep. Return to the hallway. Call

for my mother again.

Mommy, what happens when you die? I want to be told that everything will be

okay, that we all go someplace nice.

I don't know. No one knows. Try not to think about it. Go back to bed.

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But what do you think happens?

Probably nothing.

But where do you go?

Nowhere.

That's really scary.

Not really, because you won't know what happened. You'll just cease to be. Go

back to bed. You have a long time before you need to worry about that.

She spins around, returns to the darkness of her room. After that news, I return to

my bed in Jordana's room, too frightened to close my eyes, trying to wrap my mind

around what my mother said. I attempt to understand forever, infinity, nothingness, not

being. But I cannot. The more I try not to think about it, the more I shake, teeth chatter. I

think, and think, and think, and obsess. I don't go to sleep, sleep too much like dying, too

much like ceasing to be. I keep my eyes open, rigid, unblinking.

Eventually, the sun rises, blades of light enter the room through the breaks in the

Venetian blinds. Not noticing I had not slept, nor mentioning I am not in my own bed,

my mother enters to wake me and Jordana for school.

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Didaskaleinophobia

Eight years old, sitting in my third grade classroom. A girl has just accused me of

farting, even though she knows that I didn't. Blood rushes to my cheeks, face turns pink,

an interesting change from my usual white, pasty look.

I check the clock. It sits directly above the wall-mounted pencil sharpener, big

hand on the nine, little hand a centimeter from the twelve. Noon is approaching, and with

it lunchtime and recess. Panic, raise my hand, and interrupt the instruction on long

division.

Mrs. Elsner's back faces the class, a piece of chalk gripped tightly in her hand.

She writes the number three hundred and six on the board - vertical line next to the three,

horizontal line above the three, the zero, and the six. Keeping her feet firmly planted on

the floor, and toes facing the chalkboard, she swivels her head around to look at the class

over her shoulder.

Let's begin with the first part of the equation. Who can tell me how many times

six goes into thirty? Yes, Katrina.

I have not been paying attention, and therefore do not have the response that my

teacher expects.

Mrs. Elsner, I don'tfeel well. Can I go to the nurse's office?

My sickly complexion and emaciated body produce compassion from my

teacher. She sighs, clicks over to her desk, her heels tap-tap-tapping along the tiled floor.

Out of her drawer, she pulls a laminated piece of red construction paper, a hall-pass, cut

into the shape of an "E."

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Pushing the chair out from behind my legs, a screeching n01se reverberates

through the room as the metal feet drag across the floor. The sound, not unlike nails on a

chalkboard, produces faces from my classmates, and a girl in the corner covers her

mouth, whispers something into a friend's ear.

I shuffle to the front of the room to obtain the hall pass from Mrs. Elsner. She is

just feet from me, but with each step seems to become further away. People are staring, I

know it, feel their eyes ablaze, burning through the back of my shirt. Did I sit in gum, I

wonder? Is there something on my skirt? Is my skirt tucked into my stockings? I brush

my hand across my backside, make sure everything feels in place. My skirt is hanging

freely, the hem nowhere near the entrance to my tights or underpants. I run my hand over

it again, checking the surface, searching for any discrepancies in the fabric. I don't feel

anything stuck to it, don't notice any holes.

I meet my teacher at the center point between my desk and her own. Her hand is

stretched out, offering me the giant red letter which I promptly take hold of. Produce a

feeble smile, say thank you, and walk into the corridor.

Hang a right at the doorway, and march down towards the nurse at a brisk pace,

trying to avoid the lunchtime crowd soon to be spilling out of their classrooms. My

Minnie Mouse watch says noon, both of her arms pointed straight up, telling me that in

two minutes these hallways are going to be overflowing with third, fourth, and fifth

graders.

I pass through the glass walkway which has been transformed into a long and

narrow greenhouse. On either side, plants garnish the window sill, a tunnel of foliage and

flora, humidity - dank and pungent. In each pot sits a frog figurine, or two, or three.

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Some are plastic, some are ceranuc, all vanous shades of green. My favorite - the

avocado-colored one. I stroke it with my finger, smooth the digit over the damp, shiny

back, a skin varnished with a thick glaze, still wet from the morning watering. The eyes

bulge out on top of its head, eyelashes painted on behind them.

After I remove my finger from the back of the ceramic toad, and walk five more

feet, I emerge on the other side of the greenhouse hallway. The air is different- dryer­

more hermetic and less natural. I can smell cleaning products, ammonia, a spray used on

windows and mirrors .

There is a rolling. Ahead, a custodian crosses the intersection of two

perpendicular halls, pushing his mop in a wheeled bucket. Dirty cleaning water

swooshes around, nearly spilling out the side. He tilts his head and flicks it in a motion

that says hello, pulls his mop out, and spreads the liquid over the floor.

Careful not to lose my balance on the slippery linoleum, I run my hand along the

wall, fingers brushing over sky blue cinderblocks, a high-gloss paint with a silky glaze.

Decorated over the azure tint, a picture. A giraffe stands on its hind legs, holds in his

hoof strings tied to a collection of balloons. They soar into the sky, floating amongst

white clouds and a bright yellow circular sun, lines jutting out around the circumference.

A hippo stands below it, on posterior legs as well, wearing overalls, a straw hat, and a

piece of hay sticks out of its mouth. I whisper hi as I walk by, imagine the animals

winking back at me.

I arrive at Mrs. Annania's office, and peek through the rectangular window in the

door before entering. She sits at her desk, reading an edition of Nurse World Magazine.

I recognize the issue, looked through it in her office on Monday. A woman, a nurse, in

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pink scrubs stands next to an old man in a hospital bed. Tubes are attached to his arms,

suction cups stuck to his upper chest, while one of her hands rests upon his boney

shoulder. A caption on the side reads, Geriatrics: Times are Changing.

I allow my shoulders to slump, let the corners of my mouth droop. Prepare the

appearance of illness, take a deep breath and sigh before pushing open the door and

entering.

How are you doing, Katrina, says Mrs. Annania with a smooth, calm tone.

I conjure up a weak, pathetic voice. I don't feel well.

She practices patience, even though I have been in her office everyday for the past

week. What's the matter?

My throat hurts and my belly aches.

Come here. Let me take your temperature. She pulls the thermometer out from a

drawer, gives it a swift shake by doing a one-armed funky chicken, reads it before

placing it under my armpit. Points to the seat next to her desk.

I sit in the chair, carefully holding my bicep and elbow close to my rib cage.

Without having to look up the number, Mrs. Annania calls my mother at work. I can hear

faint ringing through the receiver as the phone balances on her shoulder and leans against

her ear.

Hello Lorna. It's Mrs. Annania. How are you .... Yes, she's here. I'm waiting to

see if she has a fever .. .I know, I know. Let me go check. She places the phone down on

her desk, gently removes the thermometer, and examines it. Then the phone is at her ear

again. Nope. No fever. Do you want me to let her lie down a while? Okay,

sure ... Katrina, your mommy wants to talk to you.

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Hello. I try to speak with a sick person's voice, but the best I can do is a whisper.

What's wrong? my mother asks, more out of force and habit than out of concern.

I don't feel well. I want to go home. Come get me.

Katrina, you know I can't leave work. And you know the rules; no fever means

you have to stay in school.

But I really don't feel good.

You've already been to the nurse four times this week.

That's because I haven't beenfeeling good. I really ...

I am cut off- Put Mrs. Annania back on the phone- and I hand the phone back to

the nurse.

I'm back .. . Okay. Sounds good. Take care, Lorna. Talk to you tomorrow. Mrs.

Annania turns to me. You can lie down here until you feel better, then you have to go

back to class. Okay?

Okay.

I wait out lunch and recess lying on a school issued cot, a vinyl chaise lounge,

maroon, with a hard hump for a pillow. I stare above, gazing at the speckled ceiling tiles .

I play connect the dots, seeing what shapes the tiny specks and holes in the foam can

create. One resembles a puppy, running, with four pairs of legs. I shift my eyes out of

focus, and the dog begins to move, unsteadily, like a cartoon in the pages of an animated

flip book.

After a dog, a bird, and a bouquet of flowers, I lose interest in the patterns and

designs. My gaze drifts over the florescent tube lighting, and my eyes close. Light seeps

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through the lids. I press my fingers against them, pull away, and see spots and stars, a

kaleidoscope of glitter.

Mrs. Annania's voice distracts me, and I remove my fingers from my eyes.

Katrina, are you feeling any better? You ready to go back to class?

Eyes refocus. Blurred shapes and haziness dissipate, eyesight becomes clear, and

I check the clock above the door. Big hand on the six, little hand at the middle point

between one and two. Recess ended half an hour ago.

I swing my legs off the slick surface of the bed, stand, and smooth my skirt, make

sure it rests properly over my thighs.

I feel a little better. I'll go back to class now. Thank you.

Mrs. Annania hands me the laminated "E," says Bye bye, Katrina, and I leave her

office, follow the hallway back towards the third grade wing. I say hi to the hippo and

the giraffe, pass through the greenhouse, and I stroke my finger over the back of the

avocado-colored frog figurine.

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Cibophobia

Nine years old, at the kitchen table. Jordana sits across from me, hair hanging

down in her face, stringy, like spaghetti - reminds me of the time a strand was pulled

from her nose. She choked, coughed, pasta emerging from her nostril. A tug, a gag, and

it was gone.

At the table tonight, Jordana holds a book in her colorless hands. L.M.

Montgomery's Anne of Avonlea now read for the third time. Her eyes are focused with a

hazy coating covering them, her right cheek squashed as it rests in the palm of her hand,

elbow on the table.

Wheel of Fortune plays in the background, the show my mother has dubbed The

Fucking Moron Show. Another contestant makes a stupid mistake, and my mother

comments. It's not SIPPING HOT CHOCOLATE ON THE FIRE, you moron; it's

SIPPING HOT CHOCOLATE BY THE FIRE.

Our father walks in the door, promptly at 7:37 p.m., after a ride from the train

station taking exactly fourteen minutes. Our beagle, Tally, rushes to greet him, while my

mother shuffles over in her flip-flop slippers- slap-slap-slap-slap- to give him a peck on

the cheek. He puts his briefcase down by the door and joins me and my sister at the table.

My mother follows my father into the kitchen and hands me a plate. Slimy dark

meat chicken with gooey brown rice concoction. The food is gray, as if it is depressed.

No salt, no pepper, no seasonings. All texture - no flavor. I take two bites. It slithers

down my throat the way I imagine oysters or mussels would, a gelatinous gummy

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formation. I push the meal to the center of the table. My mother notices what I have

done, questions with an authoritative tone.

What? What 's the matter with it?

I hate when you make this. It's so gross.

What would you have me make?

Marisa's mom makes London broil for her.

I don't eat red meat and I won't cook it.

Can't you make me something else?

What do you think this is? A restaurant? Am I supposed to make everyone

whatever they're in the mood for ?

Your dinners are gross. You're a bad cook.

My plate is picked up from the table and slammed into the sink, slippery chicken

and mushy rice make a squishy thumping noise as they hit the metal basin.

You ungrateful little brat. I am not cooking for you anymore. Any of you.

My mother storms upstairs, a light breeze follows her exit. I move to the sink to

watch my dinner drown. It is no longer melancholy- now suicidal. My dad and sister

are silent, seemingly unfazed.

I didn't mean to get her upset, I say.

What you said was really mean, Jordana says.

You know it's true. You don't want to eat it. You told me last time that you hate

the chicken.

Katrina, my dad turns to tne with a stern expression, lips pursed, your mother

works really hard. She deserves some appreciation.

17

I slump in my chair, defeated. My dad is unbothered by my mother's

shortcomings in the kitchen, often eating pizza or hotdogs at PENN Station before riding

the train back to Long Island. And besides, he is the one with the breast and the wing.

He picks up a fork and digs into a breast. The white meat is less moist, less

slippery, slightly more edible. It doesn't make the squashy, spongy noise that my sister's

drumstick makes when she bites into it, but rather a soft tearing sound. They both chew,

mouths open, and I walk upstairs to my room, stomach empty.

18

Eromophobia

Ten years old. It is after seven in the evening and I am hungry. I wander

downstairs to the kitchen. My mother is at the table, eyes glued on Jeopardy and Alex

Trebek's mustache.

I open the freezer, peruse my options. Frozen bagels and pretzels. Boxes of

breakfast foods, Jordana's customary dinner cuisine of waffles and French toast sticks.

Behind one of my dad's Lean Cuisine pasta meals, and on top of a frozen ice pack, is my

dinner. Hungryman dinner - the white meat fried chicken with mashed potatoes, corn

and a brownie.

I un-wrap it. Grab a fork. Poke holes in the plastic over the chicken and starch,

makes a popping-snapping noise. Peel covering off of brownie. Eat the cold, gooey

substance that was supposed to morph into my post-meal dessert. Pop tray into

microwave. Set on high for 6 minutes and 50 seconds.

I sit at the table and watch my mother finish her dinner, the same dinner she has

eaten every night for the past year. Three rice cakes with two pieces of melted Swiss

cheese on top. Either a slice of tomato or some lettuce covers them like a hat or a wig.

Tonight, Arugula.

Jeopardy ends, she takes her last bite of cardboard. She pushes the chair out from

under her, shuts the TV off, places her plate in the dishwasher after rinsing it. She

retreats upstairs to play solitaire on her bed, hunched over like a ninety year old woman.

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The microwave beeps, I retrieve my meal. I ponder whether or not to remove the

food and place it on a dish, give the impression of a home-cooked meal. I choose to eat

directly out of Hungryman's microwavable platter tonight, forgoing the illusion.

I take my first bite, rip the fried battered skin off with my teeth, and get a small

chunk of dry, white breast meat from underneath. I stir some corn into the mashed

potatoes, blow on the scoopful, and unite it with the chicken already in my mouth. The

concoction is delightfully salty, the texture a perfect mix of crunchy and chewy.

Through the munching and chomping in my ears, I hear keys jingle, metal on

metal. A doorknob turns, and the front door opens. My dad is home and I get excited at

the prospect of company while I eat. He walks through the foyer into the kitchen, Tally

following, her nails tapping along the kitchen floor. He musses my hair as he walks by,

pets me like the dog. An empty soda can is thrown in the garbage and he places a small

pizza box next to it in the pile of recyclable paper goods. He has already gotten dinner at

the train station, I realize. He pivots, this time tapping me twice on the head as he passes,

goes up the stairs to change into his running clothes and reflector vest.

I finish the contents of my dinner while staring at the blank TV screen. I look at

the clock above it, and read 7:30. In half an hour I will be allowed to watch it.

My gaze returns to the Hungryman dinner. All that remains is the carcasses of

two chicken bones and a thin, brown coating where the dessert was supposed to be. I get

out of my seat, pick up the tray and push it deep into the garbage, hiding the splintery

poultry bones from Tally. I set off upstairs, wishing I had waited to eat the brownie.

20

Medorthophobia

Eleven years old, at the mall with Marisa, our third time shopping without our

parents. We are in one of those high-quality junk stores, one with shiny items sold for

engraving, make personalized rubbish. We wait by the counter, watch as an employee

guides the needle of an engraver over the plate of a bracelet. We each bought one to read

MAR/SA AND KATRINA BEST FRIENDS FOREVER. The machine buzzes and grinds, screams

in a high pitch as letters are carved into a fake gold-plated stainless steel.

Throughout the show, I notice a man standing outside of the store. He watches

me, makes eye contact and keeps it, makes me nervous. He wears a white t-shirt. Sweat

stains under the arms visible from thirty feet. His jeans are dirty, brown marks on knees

from squatting.

We leave Things Remembered, and walk towards Aeropostal. I glance over my

shoulder, and the man is behind us, following. Each time we pause, stop to look at

something in a window, he does the same, hanging back twenty feet. If Marisa notices

my anxiety or the man, she says nothing. We enter a children's clothing store, he follows.

Leave, he exits as well. No mall employees - all teenagers, self-absorbed - take notice of

the predicament.

We enter a drugstore, inspect the candy and gum at the front counter. A guy

stands at the register, hair gelled, earring in left ear, pimples on his face red and angry.

He is awkward, holds his mouth as if he just got his braces off, lips jutting out,

unnecessarily. I contemplate telling him I am scared, uncomfortable, that the guy staring

into the front of the store is creepy, that he's followed us in and out of every store since

21

we left Things Remembered. But I walk away from the counter when I notice the man

entering the store, corning after me like a shark in water.

He closes the gap between us, upon inspection seems wet, shiny, sweat covers his

face, which looks like plastic. I grab Marisa's arm, and lead her to the make-up section

of the pharmacy. I don't tell her what is happening, don't want her to laugh at me, don't

want to frighten her. We look at lip gloss, and I think that I outsmarted him, since a man

has no business in the woman's makeup section, and would dare not to follow.

I pick up raspberry-flavored Lip Smackers, feel something touching me. It is

hard, pointy, pushes into me. There are butterflies in my stomach, something pressing

against the small of my back. I feel it through my flannel shirt, know it is a penis, look

down and see a pair of shoes just behind me, his dirty jeans next to my clean ones.

Marisa is busy painting lipstick samples on the back of her hand, does not notice

the man against me. I think about calling attention to the situation, about calling out

Marisa' s name, force her to look at me and the man who is obviously standing

uncomfortably close. I try, but no sound is uttered. I want him to go away, but I am too

scared to move, stuck, as if his manhood is Velcro-ed to me. He stands there, breathing

heavy, his erection shoved at my behind, makes noises and lightly thrusting into me. The

movement causes me to lose my footing, breaking the connection, freeing me from the

penis. I take a step forward, worrying he will grab me, hold me, make me look at it,

touch it. But it drops, grazes the top of my ass as it flops downward.

I link my arm through Marisa's, start moving towards the front of the store. We

walk briskly down the mall, her chatting on about saving allowance money to buy a pair

of Farlow's. She gets sidetracked for a moment, just to announce that she is hungry.

22

We enter Burger King, purchase a small fry and steel a pile of pickles off the

fixings bar. Although we have more time to shop before my mother picks us up at three,

I tell Marisa I'd rather stay at our little booth facing the mini carousel. Always easy­

going, she happily agrees. We sit for forty-five minutes, talk about everything and

nothing, me not saying anything about the man with the plastic face and the unwanted

private parts.

At five to three, we leave our table, wait outside for the white van to drive through

the parking lot. When my mom arrives, and we hop into her car, she asks us if we had a

good time. We say yes, in unison, and show her the engraved bracelets we had made.

23

Cardiophobia

Twelve years old, exiting my last class of the day. Math, algebra. 2x + 3 = 11.

Find x. Girls in the hallway walking brisker than usual. Cheerleading tryouts, results,

list on the office window.

My heart beat, fast. Think back to each day of tryouts, each routine, each herkie

jump, high v, and hurdler. I did okay, I think to myself. Knew the steps, smiled, hands

sharp, fingers pointed, chanted loudly.

Rounding the corner of the math and science wing, my strut is unnaturally fast

like the legs on a wound-up toy. Left-right-left-right. I walk as quickly as I can without

jogging, shoes scuffing along the tweed carpeting.

I reach the atrium. Trees reach up 30 feet towards the glass roofing, a soft trickle

in the background, the waterfall dripping into the pool below. A couple, eighth graders,

sits on the stone benches holding hands, whispering, he pushes her hair behind an ear.

The crowd leaks into the atrium. Heads and necks extended, giraffes, girls on tip­

toes. I maneuver around the side, attack the list from the front rim. I gently shove the

girls gawking at the list, thinking there is no way I made it, I never win anything, I am

never picked. They're only taking five girls from the seventh grade, and about one

hundred tried out. 10075. My odds- 20:1.

I am feet from the office window, inches from the list. I remember being in this

same position last year, my mother making me try-out for the softball team. Standing at

home plate, pitch after pitch, swing after swing, frustrated and red-faced, pitch after pitch,

24

swing after swing and nothing. Went to the Jist the next day. Nancy, the slow girl, and I,

the only ones that didn't make the team.

There is only one girl ahead of me now, her perm crowned around her head like a

bushy black lion's mane, blocks my view. I jut my chin out over her shoulder, and now

have an unobstructed view of the paper. Scroll my eyes down it, and see it. My name.

Don't believe it. But there, in ink, among the names of only four other girls. I feel light,

bouncy. Turn around, a well-deserved grin across my face, finally feel like I

accomplished something, some sort of acceptance. I push through the crowd, all the

faces of girls who did not make it staring at me, jealous.

I float out to the buses, and get on number 17 bound for the Arbor neighborhood.

I tap my foot on the base of the bus the entire ride home, and run inside the house when I

arrive at my stop to tell Jordana the good news. She sits on the brown couch in the living

room, the one with the mirrored arms left over from the seventies, legs tucked beneath

her, concentrating hard on a worn copy of Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead.

Guess what, I say.

What?

No, you have to guess.

I have no idea.

Guess who made the cheerleading squad?

Who?

Me!

I know. There's a message on the answering machine for you and mommy. She

has to take you to a school physician for a physical.

25

Oh, okay. Aren't you gonna congratulate me?

Oh, yeah, sorry. Congrats.

She digs her nose back in her book, unexcited for the best thing that has happened

to me besides starting to grow some breasts. I skip into the kitchen, listen to the message

saved on the machine.

Hello, this is Teresa calling from the main office at West Hollow. You may have

heard that Katrina has made the cheerleading squad at school. But before she can attend

practice, she needs a physical from a school district physician. There 's one in your

neighborhood, Dr. Tatom, over on Redwood. Let him know you're coming in for a

pennission slip, and he can usually squeeze you right in. If you have any questions, give

us a call at the office. Congratulations.

Dr. Tatom, Dr. Tatom, I think to myself, I know I have seen that somewhere.

Then it clicks. Around the comer, at a house, a sign that says, Dr. Tatom.

I reach into the foyer closet, shove aside old winter coats, and rummage around

for a local phone book. Underneath three umbrellas, two empty boxes of my dad's

running sneakers, and a dust bin, is the White Pages. I rip it out of the closet, tearing the

top of the cover slightly where it meets the binding.

Back in the kitchen, it is thrown onto the table with a loud thud. Pages are

flipped, in manic excitement. Find the T's, the Ta's, and then the Tatom's. Redwood

Drive. 673-0351.

The clock says 3:04. My mother gets home by 3:30, doesn't go running until

5:00. Just enough time to take me for an appointment. Pick up the phone, and dial.

Ring, Ring. Good Afternoon. Dr. Tatom's office.

26

Hi. I'm a student at West Hollow and I need to make an appointment for a school

physical. I'm made the cheerleading squad.

Okay, dear. When do you want to come in ?

Could I come in today around 3:30?

That would be fine. What 's your name?

Katrina Davis.

Okay, Katrina. We'll see you later. Oh, your mother can come with you, right?

Yup

Great.

Thanks. Bye.

Bye.

I walk outside, sit on the front steps. Hear a ball bouncing across the street, my

neighbor playing basketball at the side of his house, the twelve foot by twelve foot court

his parents had installed for him. Thump-thump-thump. Swish. Smack-smack. Thump­

thump-thump. Swish. Smack-smack. I see him through the Evergreens my parents kept

for privacy instead of installing a fence. See quick movements, flashes of color, jumping,

orange ball springing up and down, occasionally rolling.

I hear a car tum the comer, come up the hill, a revving engine. Hike my head up,

straighten my posture, as if it will help me determine if the car is, indeed, my mother's.

Through the trees, see a flicker of silver, not our white mini-van.

Thump-thump-thump. Swish. Smack-smack. Acceleration, vroom, red, running

through the openings in the foliage. Thump, thump, thump. Swish. Smack, smack.

27

There is a double beep from inside the house. Recognize it as the microwave.

Jordana's afternoon snack- French toast sticks.

I notice acceleration, then deceleration. White is seen through the breaks in the

trees, and then turns into the driveway. I pop up, dance over to where she parks. As soon

as the car is stationary, I yank the door open, speak at monumental speed.

Mommy, I made the cheerleading squad, so I need a physical. I can get one

around the comer, at Dr. Tatom. I made an appointment for this afternoon. Will you

take me?

What time?

3:30.

That's in five minutes.

I know. If we leave now, we 'll be on time.

No.

Please?

I haven't had a chance to eat anything.

I'll grab you a snack.

Fine. Grab me twenty Wheat Thins while I go pee.

Come on, I whine, hurry up. We're gonna be late.

I swing open the snack cabinet, shove my hand into the box, and pull out a fist

full of crackers. On the counter, paper towels. I grab one, place the Wheat Thins in the

center, count 1, 2, 3 to 17 pushing the little squares around with my pointer finger. I grab

three more out of the cabinet, throw them with the rest, and bunch up the top of the paper

towel like a satchel of potpourri.

28

She thump-thump-thump-thump-thumps down the staircase, still buttoning up her

pants. I present her with the snack, nearly pull her out of the front door.

Down the driveway we go, similar gait, swinging our hips with a certain side-to­

side movement, more weight on the balls of our feet than the heels. We bounce more

than we glide, a quick spring in our steps.

At the end of the driveway, we stop, crank our heads out, look both ways. All is

clear, hang a left off of our property and onto the road. In twenty feet, we are at the

corner of the block, street sign showing the crossing of Arbor Lane and Blue Spruce

Road. Left on Blue Spruce, then left on Redwood. Doctor Tatom's sign 75 feet up on

the right.

The house looks like any other. Beige shingles cover the face of the house, vinyl

siding covers the sides. A motion detector is installed over the garage, light shines when

something approaches, irrelevant at this time of day. The windows are all ANDERSON,

have Venetian blinds hanging inside. The driveway is the only feature leaving the hint of

a business in residence, wider than most, three white lines separating spots for cars to

park.

My mother opens the door to the office, and I follow in behind her. The waiting

room is small, red woven carpet sits square in its middle, surrounded by a hard-wood

border. Chairs line the perimeter, all empty, save one with a plastic toy train and wooden

puzzle sitting in it. Giving the room a once over, I notice a small window in the center of

the left wall, a poof of gray hair just barely visible on the other side of it.

We take a few steps, stand at the opening, and peer down at an older lady. Please

sign in, she says, pointing at a clipboard with her eyes. My mother signs my name and

29

the time, even though the list has been untouched since II :20 this morning. The woman

gets out of her chair, scarcely much taller than when she was sitting, opens the door just

to the right of the window.

You can come around to the back now. The doctor will be ready for you in a few

minutes.

We enter the exam room. The little lady takes my height, weight, blood pressure,

tells us to wait for the doctor, exits. I sit on the table, examining the room while I wait to

be examined. It looks nothing like my pediatrician's office. Maroon shag carpet, wood

paneled walls, all straight out of the '70s. The only similarity is that universal sterile

doctor's office smell. Bleach, mixed with plastic, mixed with germs.

Dr. Tatom enters the room. His how-do-you-dos are mostly addressed to my

mother. He asks what team I will be joining.

Cheerleading squad, my mother tells him with a face and voice of indifference,

she made the cheerleading squad.

A stethoscope is swung off of his shoulders, inserted under my shirt, cold metal

circle touching the upper portion of my back.

Take one deep breath in, he says, listens, and pauses. All right, let it out. He

moves it over a few inches and repeats, one more in. Metal travels around my back,

moves to the front, pushes into my breastplate at the heart of my soon-to-be cleavage. I

inhale, he listens, finishes. The stethoscope is wrapped around his neck again.

Dr. Tatom turns to my mother, I'm going to need some documentation about her

murmur.

30

Hmm? A murmur? She doesn't have one. My mother shifts uncomfortably in her

chair. I have never heard of a murmur, do not know what it is.

Oh yes, she definitely does. Come here and listen.

The cold metal has warmed slightly from my body heat, placed back on my chest.

My mother inserts the instrument into her ears, has a listen.

Do you hear it? he asks. That extra swishing noise between beats? It's a fairly

loud one. I take it this is the first you're hearing of this?

Yes.

Well I'm afraid I can't sign off on her permission slip until a cardiologist gives it

the okay. Do you need me to refer you to somebody?

She appears out of it, slowly comes to, responds. Oh no, that won't be necessary.

Thank you.

We walk out of the office, I wave to the old lady as we pass by. Once outside, I

question my mother.

What's going on?

You have a murmur.

What's that?

Your heart is making extra noises when it beats.

Is that bad?

I don't know. Hopefully not.

What are we going to do?

I'm going to call one of the guys I run with. He's a pediatric cardiologist. We'll

schedule an appointment with him.

31

Okay. I mull it all over. Mommy?

Yeah?

Am I gonna die?

I hope not.

We arrive back at the house. My mother opens the foyer closet, roughly pushes

jackets aside, tosses around shoe boxes and umbrellas.

I can't find anything in this place. Why don't you people ever clean. She stands,

face rabid. Where are all the phone books?

There's one on the kitchen table. She rushes by me. I needed it to find Dr.

Tatom's number.

Before I finish speaking, she is at the table, flipping through the book. She finds

the number, picks up the cordless, dials.

Hello. My name is Lorna Davis. I'm a friend of Dr. Reitman. It turns out my

twelve year old daughter has a heart murmur and I was hoping Milt, Dr. Reitman, could

squeeze us in this afternoon. Yeah, sure. She paces to and fro in front of the sink, phone

stuck between ear and shoulder, waits, speaks. That would be great. We can get there by

4:45. Is that alright? Great, see you soon. Thanks a lot.

She hangs the phone up on the receiver, grabs her car keys and purse off the back

of the living room piano, and asks if I'm ready to go. I say, sure. She takes a big breath,

chest expanding, bellows upstairs to Jordana, Dana, we're leaving again. We'll be back

around 6ish. A muffled, annoyed whatever sounds from her room, and we walk out of

the front door.

32

The car ride takes us fifteen minutes, and we arrive at a square, glass building

housing medical offices and architects, lawyers and insurance brokers. We enter, stand at

the bottom of a glass-roofed atrium, ten floors of balconies loom down upon us, squares

within squares. Hear a bell to the left, see the elevators and a sign listing where the

offices are. Dr. Milton Reitman. Office 620.

After a short elevator ride to the sixth floor, we find ourselves at the office. Enter,

sign in, take a seat, wait. A short man in a suit and tie smiles as he walks from the other

end of the office to the waiting room. His has curly gray hair and goofy smile, a

miniature version of Gene Wilder. He shakes my mother's hand, and she says hullo in

her nasal, parrot tone.

We follow him to an exam room. The space is cramped, yet strangely empty, the

only decorations an examination table and an electronic machine with tubes, clamps, and

suction cups emerging from it like tentacles.

I am asked to sit on the table while my mother's friend fiddles around underneath

my shirt with a stethoscope. He listens, repeats Dr. Tatom's diagnosis, and asks me to lie

back. A young woman is called into the room, rolls the machine out of its comer.

Something cool and wet is rubbed on my wrists and ankJes, hard metal clamps are

pressed tightly on them as if I am a car in need of a jump start. Three other tentacles are

picked up, each with little suction cups attached to their ends. Filled with a see-through

blue gel, each is stuck onto my chest- above and below my breasts, on my rib cage, and

in my cleavage. Switches are flipped, noises are made, paper feeds out of the contraption

like an adding machine, zigzagging lines drawn side-to-side with a pen resembling a

record player's needle. I put my head back, try to relax, but a stinging sensation has

33

begun to tingle unpleasantly where the metal is clamped onto the bridges to hands and

feet.

Suddenly, the noise quiets, paper is ripped, suction cups and clamps are removed

from my body. Obnoxious red bumps have formed where the metal touched my skin,

stinging progresses into an intense conflagration. I rub the areas, while a print out of my

heart beat is given to the doctor who is now waiting in the doorway. He stretches the

ticker tape out, eyeballs jerking in rapid eye movement, reading it as easily as if it were a

telegram.

I'd like to do another test. We can do in the office, right next door. I'll take a

video of your heart- an echocardiogram- and we can get a better idea of what is going

on.

My mother nods her head, mouth in an awkward smile. I slide off the table, the

wax -paper barrier between me and it sliding off as well. We make a sharp turn out of the

door, loop around, come to a room with a bed and a large computer in it. I am given a

gown, told to undress from the waist up, leave the dress open to the front. I do as I am

told, my mother watching me from the little stool in the corner, the same discomfited

grin. I sit at the edge of the bed, and wait.

There is a knock. My mother says come on in as the door is already being

opened. The doctor walks in, says I'll be performing the echocardiogram. Doreen

needed to leave fifteen minutes ago. I shrug, thinking it really makes no difference to me,

not realizing what the test entails.

He tells me to lie back, again, types into the computer, click-click-click-click­

click. A thick, metal pen is picked up with his right hand. With his left, he pulls aside

34

my hospital gown, first one side and then the next, exposing my B-cups. A bottle is

removed from the shelf above the computer, squeezed over my chest, cool blue gel

squirting, the gobs on my nipples sliding into my cleavage. I wait, exposed, my mother's

running buddy privy to a half frontal.

Some adjustments are made, and the pen-like apparatus is rubbed over my breasts,

roll-on deodorant spread through jelly, cold and sticky. He doesn't focus his eyes on my

body - instead, stares at the computer screen which is playing a black and white video of

my heart beating in my chest. He turns the monitor in my direction, allowing me a

glimpse inside myself. The image is grainy, little granules swish across the screen,

particles swimming, whoosh, the organ expanding and constricting, thump-thump-thump.

I know that it is my heart, but the gray, globular cluster looks nothing like the red heart

shapes represented elsewhere. In here, the heart is a bulbous pumping entity, pipes and

balls, membrane stretching and contracting.

The test is finished. Dr. Rietman tells me to get dressed, to meet him in his office

once I am decent, and hands me a tissue to wipe away the goop glistening on my breasts.

He leaves the room, and I rub the Kleenex around, trying to scoop up the remnants of the

gel. All I do is spread it around. After four tissues, I give up, throw my shirt on over my

head, allow the cotton to stick to the substance.

We sit in the office, two chairs turned inward, facing his desk. His feet, I

imagine, dangling off his seat, toes barely grazing the carpet. Behind him, family

pictures line the wall. Ski trips and beach vacations, Bat Mitzvahs and casual glamour

shots. In front of him, a file, my new file, a dossier of my imperfections.

35

He begins. What you have is called Pulmonary Stenosis. The pulmonary valve,

the one pumping blood to your lungs, is narrower than most, which is causing the noise

we hear - the murmur. Normally, people have a tricuspid valve -he uses three

intertwined fingers to demonstrate - but yours is either bicuspid or unicuspid. It may

have one or two leaflets controlling the flow of blood to the lungs, instead of the usual

three. So your heart has to work extra hard to get oxygen to your blood.

Will I be allowed to cheerlead?

Yes, I don't see why not. There are no physical restrictions for someone with mild

to medium Pulmonary Stenosis. In fact, in a case like yours, I recommend physical

activity to strengthen the heart to avoid complications in the future. The only

recommendation I have is that you take antibiotics before you got to the dentist.

Oh, okay. Why?

The blood vessels in your mouth lead directly to your heart. It's common to get

small abrasions in your gums during routine cleanings. Bacteria could wash into one of

the cuts, traveling to your heart. And because your valve is thin, it could cause an

infection.

What happens to me then?

You could be stuck in the hospital on an IV for six weeks.

Is there anything else I should know ?

I do recommend you don't smoke cigarettes or do anything else that unnaturally

speeds up your heart rate. Your heart needs to work hard enough without outside

elements putting any more strain on it.

36

My mother finally breaks her lip-locked silence, asks a question. Milt, you said

that her heart is either unicuspid or bicuspid. How do we find out which?

The only way to find that out is through an autopsy.

Uncomfortable at the thought of my own autopsy, I quickly change the subject.

So you'lllet Dr. Tatom know that I can cheerlead?

Yeah, sure. Just give him the number to my office. Or wait, better yet ... He pulls

out his prescription pad, scribbles a note on the top. Why don 't you give this to him, and

if there's a problem, my number is on the top.

I take the small slip of paper, barely comprehending the scripted scrawl, hand it

over to my mother to place in her purse.

Is that it? My mother asks.

Pretty much. I'll want her back here every September to do another EKG and an

echocardiogram. Oh, one more thing. He fiddles around in a filing cabinet, then hands

me a credit card size folded pamphlet about my medical condition. Here you go Katrina,

keep that in your wallet.

Thanks, I say, thinking, one day when I have a wallet, I'll put it in there.

37

Dromophobia

Thirteen years old, hanging with Janet, "the rebel", a new and temporary friend.

We are at her house, where I have spent my time after school for the last few weeks,

smoking cigarettes, sampling marijuana, and setting dumpsters on fire. Presently, we are

in her basement, MTV grooving in the background. An Arrested Development video is

playing. 3 Years, 5 Months And 2 Days In The Life Of

We returned from Caldor, the Long Island version of Walmart, two videos ago.

Our goodies are spread across the floor, a hodgepodge of makeup and toiletries: L'Oreal,

Revlon, Almay, Wet and Wild- creams, blushes, nail polishes, etc., etc., etc. My baggy

jeans free once again, the nylons underneath emptied.

I watch Janet as she paints Melon of Troy on her stubby nails . Her cuticles are red

and bleeding from biting and ripping, finger tips bulbous, infected, as if she has flesh­

colored olives stuck on each. Her head resembles a q-tip, already used, cotton unwinding

in a twist formation- a skinny Don King.

I wanted Yucatan If U Want, but I grabbed this instead, she complains. I'd

already pulled the sticker off and stuffed it in my stockings when I realized. I guess I'll

get it next time.

I give a faint mm hmm, busy reading the label of a new self-tanner. Do you think

this will work? What if it comes out bad?

Try it out, says Janet, an optimist, with no need to use a fake tanner, her skin light

ebony. My mom used one once. It didn't come out all that bad.

38

Janet's mom lies in a king size bed upstairs. Her bleached blond hair perfectly

quaffed, a full face of exaggerated makeup, lounging on black satin sheets, an Asian­

inspired robe draped over her. Her double Ds, which stick out like torpedoes on her tiny

frame, plunge out of the cloth suggestively, as if she is trying to entice the actors on her

television.

I squeeze some lotion on my hand, massage it into my left arm. Wait three

minutes, four. Notice a slight stain forming on my palm, the lines and crevices thin

orange tributaries. I pick up the bottle, read the back. Wash hands immediately after use.

I run to the bathroom, scrub my hands with vigor. Left arm develops an orangey

hue, amber, Yucatan If U Want. I wipe my wet hands on my jeans, scamper back to

Janet.

Look. Look what happened, I say, holding my arm out, open palms in her face.

Why is only one of your arms orange?

I wanted to see how it was going to come out first. I sulk. I can't go to school

like this.

You know what we could do, Janet schemes, we could go back to Caldor and get

something to exfoliate with. Like a pumice stone or something.

But what about your mom? She's upstairs.

She must be asleep by now. She takes a valium every night after dinner. Come on,

Janet says. We won't get caught. Do you really want to go to school looking like that?

We sneak out the back door. After a hop over the backyard fence, a stroll past the

dumpster we set on fire with burning rolls of toilet paper, across the four lane highway,

39

avoiding the smoke shop window where we were caught stealing a pack of Salem Lights,

we are at Caldor.

We split up and peruse the aisles. I find Saint lves Apricot Scrub, and remove the

inventory control sticker, slide the item under my shirt, inside the baggy pants and the

stockings underneath my jeans. They act as a net to catch my plunder.

Having the scrub presses tightly against my thigh, held by skin and nylon, I find

Janet in the nail polish section. She holds Melon of Troy in her hand, slips it into her

denims. Smiles, Did you get it?

Yeah, I got it. Do you think it will work?

Maybe we should get a pumice stone too, just in case.

I look along the manicure/pedicure wall, find the stone between the cuticle

trimmers and the press-on nails. Push it up the sleeve of my sweater, hold it against my

wrist. An employee walks by, grins, the mole on his upper lip lifting, smiling too.

We waddle to the make-up aisle, the Apricot scrub shimmies down my leg,

knocking now against my knee. I grab the last Revlon 12-hour lip-stain to complete my

collection, and once I have removed the inventory control sticker, slide it in my sleeve

next to the stone. My hand is placed under my shirt, pretending to scratch my belly, and I

nudge the stick and stone to the stockings, nonchalant. The latter stays at my crotch, the

lipstick slithers down, makes contact with the scrub.

We are at the doors, exit without a buzz, a beep, or a Hey, you girls. Stop. March

through the parking lot, exfoliant now at my shin. Arrive at curb, see cause for concern

on the highway median.

40

Her hair has frizzed, platinum wisps held to her head by static electricity. She

runs across the rest of the highway, cars honking and swerving, and meets us at the edge

of the lot.

Janet's mom plants a slap on her daughter' s cheek. Then another, and another,

and another.

She grabs my collar, shakes me. You little bitch, she bellows, her usual airy,

wispy voice, harsh. She delivers me with one of her blows. Cheek will redden, I think,

distract from my orange arm and hand.

She drags us across the street, shuffling in her fuzzy heeled slippers, makes it half

way across before fainting in the midst of traffic. We pick her up, drag her to safety. She

comes to, slaps Janet once more.

After arriving back at their house, Janet's mother pours herself a glass of wine

from the cardboard keg she keeps on the kitchen counter. A big chug, she reaches into

the pocket of her robe, and pulls out a bottle of pills. The orange plastic is thrown to

Janet, and she is told to open it, the pills sounding like a packet of tic-tacs as they fly

through the air and land in her hands.

A hom is heard from the driveway. I peer at the clock on the stove, notice it is

nine o'clock, time for my parents to pick me up.

My parent's are here, I tell her.

I guess I should tell them what happened, she spits at me, looking at my puffed

up, red cheek.

She puts her feet back into her fuzzy high-heeled slippers, shuffles out to my

parent's car, me trailing behind. Standing at the driver's side window, breasts nearly

41

spilling onto my father, she explains how we snuck out and crossed the street, and how

she lost control and slapped both me and her own daughter. Thanks for letting us know,

my father says. Katrina, come on. Let's go.

On the way home, my parent's drill me. What were you thinking, crossing a busy

road like Route 110. You could have gotten yourself killed.

I'm not an idiot. I know how to cross the street. Besides, I wouldn't have been at

Janet's if mommy didn't make me quit cheerleading to get my bat mitzvah. I would have

been at practice or at a game.

That's beside the point. You're grounded.

You can't ground me. You never told me I wasn't allowed to cross the streets.

Do we have to spell out everything you are not allowed to do?

Yes, I guess so, I say, and my parents both laugh.

We arrive back home, and I retreat to my room to give Janet a call. Her face still

stings, she says, but at least her mother is asleep, passed out at the kitchen table. We

laugh at the evenings events, and discuss my strategy for the face scrub still pressed

against my leg. We are interrupted by a knock at the door, and I tell Janet I will call her

later. Come in, I say, and my own mother enters. She has brought me an icepack, and

places it on my swollen face.

42

Phallophobia

Fourteen years old, walking through suburbia to my high school. I am on the last

stretch of road, one more hill and I am on the campus of my school.

I notice a man on the other side of the block. Long, straggly hair, greasy,

immobile in the breeze from the oil weighing it down. It is a warm spring day, yet he has

donned a trench coat for his afternoon stroll. As nonchalant as possible, I steal quick

glances over my shoulder at this man who is out of place in my neighborhood. I start to

sweat, get nervous. I know the disposition of a sex offender, the hungry eyes and sinister

fa<;ade. I know when a man is following me. I have been followed before.

He turns at an angle and starts for my side of the street. I pick up my pace, the

high school not more that 500 meters from where I stand. He is nearly upon me, and I

hear a friendly voice. Excuse me, excuse me. What time is it? I breathe a sigh of relief

and read my watch, turn around. It 's three .. .. Words fail me, mouth hangs open. There,

in plain sight, a man in open trench coat, pants around ankles, rigid penis in hand, pointed

at me like a pistol ready to shoot.

I spin around and run, never looking back, never finishing telling him that it is

three-thirty.

43

Judeophobia

Fifteen years old. Arrive home on LSD, parents waiting for me. Overlook the fact

it is Passover, dinner at my Aunt's house. Family in its entirety. Grandparents, cousins,

aunts, uncles, sister, and parents.

You're right on time, says my mother. Look at her with the black saucers, the

blues of the eyes being squeezed out of the irises. Fine red lines painted in the white like

little hairs.

The car ride is long, but not long enough. Cannot calm down, come down. My

mother yells at my father for not signaling before changing lanes. Indicate. Indicate. Joe.

Joe. Hold back from flicking the back of her head. Shift uneasy in my seat every time

my dad looks in the rear view mirror. Do not want him to see my eyes. Do not want to

be sent to rehab like my friend Rich. Heart races. Panic. Look towards the window, do

not want my sister to see my face. Get distracted by the light poles on the highway.

Count them as they zoom by, squint as the sun squeezes through the breaks in the trees.

On arrival, jump from cheek to cheek. Lips meet greased-up, over-moisturized

face. She pickles it with creams to keep her looking young, white residue in the few

creases where time has laid claim. Hi grandma. Her response in a thick, Hungarian

accent, Hello, darling Katrina. How is my sparkling diamond? Produce a quiet and

awkward fine.

Next thing I know I am sitting at the elongated dining room table, the seating a

potpourri of polished oak and the folding types, a piano bench, and two swiveling chairs

44

from my aunt's office. Wonder how I got here. Speculation ends, again distracted. I

glance down at my hand. Card and check, my grandma' s script. It reads 'Dearest

Kutrena.' After a long moment, I realize that that IS me.

Haggadot are passed out. Jewish manual for all things Passover. In Hebrew, my

youngest cousin asks, Mah nishtanah ha-lahylah ha-zeh mi-kol ha-layloht? Why is this

night different from all others? A religious question, not a personal one, read, in what

sounds like gibberish, out of the Maxwell House coffee booklet. I picture Juan Valdez

wearing a yarmulke, sitting at the table in between old Aunt Edna in her flowered house

dress and retarded cousin Richieu, banging at his head with a rubber shark. A giggle

escapes my lips. Look around to see if anyone notices the little slip towards insanity, but

they are too absorbed in Lilla's religious performance to notice my lunacy.

Nerves get the better of me, palms begin to sweat. Rubbing my hands on a

napkin, I watch for family watching me. All eyes on their Haggadah, all thoughts on the

sacred. Or maybe not. Maybe they are all concentrating on me. Judging, examining. I

picture the outcome, a realization. Questions. Crying. Accusations. Constriction of my

airways, realize I am not breathing. Take a huge gulp of air, but all I get is my great­

aunt's perfume.

My Great-Aunt nudges me, and passes along some celery. I am supposed to dip it

in salt water, which represents the tears of the Jews, years of persecution. I take a bite

before the saline solution reaches my seat. Chewing is awkward, somehow incorrect.

The texture of the vegetable seems more like plywood or cardboard than anything edible,

if swallowed, celery will sit in my stomach forever, unable to breakdown. Look around

table for a chance to sneak mashed up celery from mouth to napkin, unnoticed. Distracted

45

by the strange appearance of family members, engrossed by the display of the grotesque,

the chewed up celery concoction sits in my mouth, not dealt with.

Stare across the table at my second cousin, Libby, in her seventies. Balding. Not

wearing her wig today. The crown of her head home to just a few sparse hairs holding on

desperately, each one knowing at any moment they will detach from the ancient,

wrinkled scalp, and drop to the floor, or to a shoulder, or into someone's food.

Uncle Lester. The blackheads on his nose growing and shrinking with each

breathe of air his nostrils steal from the room. Expand, contract, expand, contract. His

pores a black liquid, churning, then growing out of his skin like ground beef being

squeezed out of a meat grinder. He takes a sip of Manishevitz. Purple dribbles out the

corner of his mouth, a dark plum stain left on the pucker of his lips, and a film on his

teeth. A Holocaust number tattooed on his forearm, 87452.

Notice Grandfather. Is he still alive? Think he is a slight shade of blue, but then

his shirt moves. He breathes. My Grandfather, the corpse, bones coming through a paper

mache covering, what used to be skin.

Chanting, a group mantra in Hebrew. Dahy-dahyenu, dahy-dahyenu, dahy­

dahyenu, dahy-dahyenu, Dahy-dahyenu, dahy-dahyenu, dahy-dahyenu, dahyenu,

dahyenu! Move my lips along with everyone else's- do not make a sound. Decide I

have been tricked, this is not Passover dinner; it is a religious cult. A sacrifice. Faces

around the table begin to look unfamiliar, caricatures of the people I have known and

loved. Transformation into cartoons, Jewish comic strip characters with exaggerated

noses, glasses, and frizzy, curly hair. The chanting continues. Gets exponentially louder.

Hear heathen drums in the background, thumping along with my heart. Freak out. See

46

blood dripping out of my cousins' eyes, smoke rising behind the chairs. Notice a faint

scream far away, the sacrificial virgin being taken against her will to a scalding pot of

matza ball soup. There she will be boiled alive by these imposter Jews that claim to be

my relations.

The song stops. The envisioned smoke vacates the room. Had been

hyperventilating, breathe slowly and steady once again. Relax . The festive meal begins.

Allow my plate to be filled up with no plans of partaking in the repast. The food

moves on the china. See the leg of lamb pulsating, the blood still moving in its veins. A

piece of gefilte fish grows gills, bubbles as it tries to breathe the air, gelatin oozes out of

it. Broccoli sprouts as it lays dead on my dish, the florets blooming, becoming greener

and greener.

Fade off into private thoughts. Have epiphany about life - know what it is all

about, the secrets of the universe. Will forget by tomorrow, tonight, in five minutes,

now. Forgotten.

The mix of voices in the room deafening. My mother's Brooklyn-Jewish drawl is

distinct among the rest. A female Woody Allen, not as funny. Tells a story to cousin

Mindy that I have heard before.

Right after Katrina's bat mitzvah, we cancelled our membership with our

temple." She continues without an uh-huh or a why' We donated the girls' old bunk

beds to the synagogue. This horribly fat woman, Heather Belsky, was President and was

supposed to sell them and use the money for the Hebrew School or the youth group or

something. Instead, when the Levines went to her house for dinner, they saw our old

bunk beds in one of their kid's rooms. They have nine kids, but that's no excuse to steal

47

from the temple. It was a scandal. Caused some rifts between members and we left.

Didn't want to associate ourselves with an organization that is supposed to be religious,

and really is all politics and economics.

Mindy nods in agreement, horoset stuck in meeting place of gums and teeth.

Wipes her mouth with a napkin, smears food up her left cheek.

Aunt gets up to open the door. We have to let Elijah in, she says. Take notice of

wine glass on table, a present to the spirit we supposedly just let in. Get him drunk.

Maybe he'll come back next year. Look at the open door. Swear I see something come

through it, something moving along the air, drifting through the air, on the air. Molecules

on molecules. The clear surfing on the clear. I see it wafting, taking a shape.

Commotion. Distracted again. Kids looking for afikomen, hidden matzo. Each

will get a dollar when it is found, even cousin Richieu who is still banging on his head

with his rubber shark. He seems to blend in today. Everyone seems to have misshapen

eyes and an enlarged forehead, mumbling incoherently, glasses tilted, hair a mess.

Suddenly he seems the normal one, fixated on his toy, food on his face where it is meant

to be.

My sister says something to me. See her lips moving, words forming. Hear

something, comprehend nothing. Crinkling her eyebrows, her forehead follows suit. It is

a big forehead. Hairline starting too far up, or perhaps eye placement too low. Her skin

like mine, porcelain white. Looks blue now, a throbbing indigo from the blood pump­

pumping beneath the paper-thin epidermis. Her face begins to churn, a kaleidoscope of

cool colors. Behind her, the background twists and turns in opposition to the swirls on

48

her face. If not for the disparity, her face would fade away into the movement of the

backdrop, disappearing.

49

Mageirocophobia

Sixteen years old, sitting at the kitchen table at Marisa's house. I have been

invited over for dinner. I offer to help her mother, an offer that was thankfully declined.

I would not have the foggiest idea how to do anything in the kitchen besides start up the

microwave.

50

Ostraconophobia

Seventeen years old, in my first white Volvo, the 740 so square, with edges so

pointy, that the comers could draw blood. I am driving to work, my first full-time job -

waitressing at the local diner.

A joint sits in my ashtray, pre-rolled, a post-shift reward. My evening ritual is the

same five nights a week- hop-box on the way home, drive the three minutes slow, give

me enough time to get stoned. And stoned is the way to be now. There is no high school

- I just graduated. I have no boyfriend now - we broke up a month ago. There is no more

sex three times a day, no more come on, show me you love me by doing me again and

again and again. Well if you're not getting it from me, then where are you getting it

from? Just watch TV while I do my thing. My time is all mine now, I do with it as I

please, and what pleases me is getting high.

I enter the restaurant at exactly 3:58, two minutes before my shift is scheduled to

start. I walk straight to the back, grab my mini-apron from the shelves above the salad

bar, wrap it around my waist, and grab a notepad from the counter. I say hey to Spanish

Tony who hands me a plate of mozzarella sticks, chicken fingers, and French fries. He

smiles and I say thanks. I pivot out of the back, give a swift kick to the swinging door,

squeeze out of it before it hits me in the behind on its way to and fro. I plop down at the

staff table to munch on my snack plate.

Melissa, the twenty-three year old soon-to-be lesbian, arrives, sits across from me.

So, did you go out with Frankie this weekend?

51

Frankie is Italian Tony's nephew who works at the diner when he is home from

college on holidays and weekends. And I did, in fact, go out with him on Saturday.

Yeah, we went to a movie.

Is that it?

Yup.

That's all you guys did?

Yeah.

Really?

Uh-huh.

Disappointed at the lack of juicy details, she shimmies out of the booth and goes

behind the counter. Later, I' 11 confide the truth to her, a hypothesis created by Marisa

and me. Frankie was born in Italy, lived there until he was three. Rumor has it that

babies in the boot-shaped country are not circumcised at the same frequency as babies in

United States. His family is old-fashioned, conservative - therefore, we surmise that

Frankie must be uncircumcised. As a result, I have decided against discovering what lies

in his pants.

I finish my munchies, gaze at nothing, and wait patiently for my first table of

elderly early birds, here for the $10.99 complete dinner. Ten choices of entrees, with

soup and salad, an appetizer, bread basket, a choice of potato and a vegetable, dessert,

and tea or coffee. All of which, is my duty to serve and carry out on dishes stacked up

my arm.

Today's Specials are listed neatly on a shiny black board in neon yellow, pink,

and orange. I copy them to the back of my pad. Broiled Half Spring Chicken,

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Townhouse Skirt Steak with Stuffed Mushrooms, Veal Piccata- veal sauteed in a wine

sauce with butters and capers, Stuffed Lemon Filet of Sole with Crabmeat, Spinach Pie

with Stuffed Grape Leaves, Broiled Bluefish, Roasted Leg of Lamb, Linguine Primavera,

Chicken Scarpariello - sauteed chicken breast with mushrooms, onions, and stir fired

peppers, and shit, fuck, god damn it, Lobster Special - a whole lobster served with

mussels, shrimp, baked clams, and scallops .

There is nothing heavier than stacking two Lobster Specials up your left arm, and

then placing a plate of potatoes and vegetables in the inside crease of the elbow. A long,

expressive Fuck sings from my lips at the prospect of serving the shell fish, as Leigh, the

heavy smoker who sounds like Joan Rivers, waltzes in a half an hour late.

Hey Katrina she says, chafing my eardrums with her raspy voice, irritating my

nose as she breezes by in her I-just-rolled-around-in-an-ashtray perfume. Behind the

counter, she tosses off her black leather jacket, which has two new cigarette burns since

yesterday, stuffs it under the dessert case, and ties her apron on, goes to the back to have

a smoke.

A couple walks in, is sat in my section. KJitos, my boss, makes a joke about my

expanding butt as I tum my back to him to greet my table. The five nights a week of

consuming fried foods, waffles with ice cream, and pudding are catching up with me. I

no longer swim in a size zero. My 90 pounds of skin and bone now covered in 20 more

pounds of flesh, my size five pants tight around my new apple-shaped behind.

They want to hear the specials, so I read them. They want a diet coke and a

Heineken, so I get them. They want cheeseburger deluxe and a grilled cheese, so I place

the order and bring them coleslaw and pickles in monkey dishes. When the order is

53

ready, and the bell is ding-dinged, I bring them their food. When they want their check, I

calculate the total and place it face down on the table, in the middle, as not to offend

either half of their party. And when they get up, I remove the three bucks from the table.

As I place my first few dollars of the evening in the right pocket of my apron, I

am sat again. I take the order, and as I am making them a milk shake, I am sat again. I

drop off their drinks, and acknowledge my new table. They say they are ready to order

so I write down what they want. I go to the back, drop off both tickets, make three dishes

of coleslaw and pickle- two at one table got a grilled cheese, and one guy from the other

ordered a Reuben - and make drinks for the second table on my way to drop off the

coleslaw. And I am sat again.

The couple is grey-haired and wrinkly so I know they're going to want to hear the

specials. I read them, do not have the foggiest idea what half of the dishes are, having

never eaten much of anything besides poultry, grilled cheese, burgers, and breakfast. The

years of eating TV dinners have left me quite ignorant in gastronomy.

Is this grape pie ? I asked Leigh during my training.

Are you serious?

Yeah.

Does it look like grape?

It's purple.

Honey, it's blueberry pie. Haven't you ever had blueberry pie?

Oh. Yeah. Of course. I lied, kept the secret to myself, not wanting to come

across any more uninformed. I had never had blueberry pie, and have still not. I have

54

never had apple pie, or cherry pie, or lemon meringue pie. I am, however, quite familiar

with Stouffer's Chicken Pot Pie.

As I repeat the specials, and the Lobster Special waits to be listed last, I stop with

the Chicken Scarpariello. I say that's all, do you need afew moments to decide? What

they do not know they cannot ask for.

I take orders, get drinks, drop appetizer ticket, get sat again, take orders, get bread

baskets, make drinks, drop check, make coffee, toast bread, drop dinner ticket, serve

potato and vegetables, hear ding-ding, stack plates, get sat, say hello, I'll be right with

you, get coleslaw and pickle, make breadbasket, say shit- forgot table fourteen's coffee,

drop check, drop ticket, pour more coffee, get sat again, take order, get drinks, serve a

milk shake, place an order, get sat, drop a check, serve food, get sodas, stuff straws in my

apron, hear ding-ding, stack plates, pour more coffee, make some decaf, serve appetizers,

take order, drop check, get sat. .. again .. . and again . .. and again.

My brain is a computer, on auto pilot, keeping my sanity as I serve dinner to thirty

people. I am speedy, and I smile. I am quick and accommodating. The kitchen is

slammed and Italian Tony is a prick. A costumer sends back their Townhouse Broiled

Skirt Steak, the well-done that they asked for is not even medium-rare. I tell Tony it

needs to go back on the grill, and he slams the plate down, calls me a Stupid Kike. I am

too busy to be offended, but decide not to go out with Frankie again.

A table leaves, and a new one is not sat. The restaurant slows. The thirty people I

had in eating in my section are now reduced to nine, and I place my own dinner order- a

Belgium waffle with chocolate ice cream. I have eaten it every night I work since I

started back in February, and will eat it every night until I leave for college in the fall.

55

Once I hear the ding-ding, and the waffle is ready, I shovel hefty scoops of ice

cream onto it. I smooth the chocolate over the top, spread it like cream cheese on a

bagel, make sure each crevice is filled with the cold sweetness, watch it slowly melt, tum

into tiny pools of chocolate liquid accumulating in the comers of each square. Grab a

fork, dig in. Dairy and carbohydrate - the perfect amalgamation.

I get cut, and wait out my last table as they sip the remnants of their coffee. I

offered to fill their cups, the pot dangling in my right hand, but they declined. They will

leave soon, and in the meantime, I meander from table to table collecting my ketchups,

and bring them to the back to be married. The almost finished bottles are poured into the

nearly full ones. The half full ones are joined with the other half full ones, and I soak the

caps in hot water. To give the appearance of a new bottle, I wipe the inside of the

opening, clean and shine the outside.

My last table leaves, and I grab the four dollars and fifty cents off of it. I count

my tips, subtract fifteen percent for the busboys, grab my jacket, say goodnight to Klitos,

Melissa, Leigh, and Spanish Tony, purposely glare at Italian Tony and say nothing, leave

through the same door I came in.

Starting my car, I push in the cigarette lighter, wait for it to pop before putting the

joint in the crack between my lips. It dangles, paper and lower lip fused together, the tiny

weight pulling, exposing the white of my bottom teeth. I press the molten circle against

the doobie, three big puffs and then blow on the paper, get it to sizzle properly. Reverse,

drive out of the parking lot, joint sending smoke directly into my eye, squint as I drive

back to my house. The windows are up, the air is thick, and I stop at the flashing red

56

light at the end of my block. I sit and relax, wait for a green signal, and remain for five

minutes before I realize that after a quick pause, I was free to go.

57

Ithylphallophobia

Eighteen years old, in my new Volvo, its square corners somewhat rounded, a

welcomed change from the angular edges of my old 740. I am on my way home from a

nightclub, a packed bowl is clutched in my hand, in the crevice between thumb and

pointer finger. A lighter sits in my other hand, and I flick the safety off as I drive.

Approaching a straightaway on the highway, I pick my left knee up, press it against the

wheel, allow it to steer. At a slight curve, I lift my foot off the floor, press harder, and

direct the car along the bend. I roll my thumb over the grated flint wheel, once, twice,

then again before I achieve light up. Cupping the glass and lifting it to my lips, I hold the

flame over the pot-filled end. 1 breathe in and hold, cough, and a little fleck of smoke

leaks out from my mouth - all the while, my hamstring gets a workout, maneuvering my

car along the pavement.

After three puffs, I toss the lighter and the bowl into the center consol, and allow

my hands to take over, relieving my leg from its duty. My reefer-impaired driving is a

great deal better then the Saturday night drunkards- I am overly cautious, forced into the

slow lane, struggling to keep up with the 55 mph speed limit. A car zooms past me on

the left, and then slows when they see me. They erratically swerve within their lane, and

then roll down a window to scream for my number. Cher's Do You Believe seeps

through my stereo speakers, and I crank it, ignoring the morons next to me.

The testosterone-mobile speeds away and headlights begin to shine through my

rearview mirror. I flip it up to get less of a glare. As I push harder onto the pedal, the

58

lights keep getting closer and closer. Am I just stoned, or is the guy trying to mess with

me? The lights go away, and I decide it was reefer-induced madness, paranoia. But then

the car reappears at the driver's-side mirror. This time I slow down, let him pass. The

lights disappear, but the car never passes. It hangs on my left, mimicking my speed.

I look over, see a man smiling, looking at me. He rolls down his window, hikes

himself up. See that he wears no pants. Left hand on wheel, his right on his penis.

Holds it like a joystick, a perverted video game. 1 'm a magnet for unsolicited erections, I

think to myself, counting the other times in my life when a penis popped up uninvited.

I focus my eyes back on the road, not wanting the penile distraction to impair my

driving. In my peripheral vision, I see the noses of our cars neck and neck, his speed a

copy of mine. I look again. His mouth is open, hi s hair blows around, the comb-over no

longer plastered to the hairless circle on top of his head, and he screams at me. I pretend

not to notice, turn the volume on my radio up, but it is already as loud as it will go.

He drops back behind my car, honks his horn at me. Beep-beep-beeeeeeeep. I

slam my finger into the radio's on/off switch, needing quiet, needing to concentrate on

the road and not the guy trying to run me off of it. The lights in the rear view go black,

turned off. I hear him behind me, accelerating, braking, accelerating, braking, vroom,

vroom. He swerves to my side again, makes obscene gestures, sticking his tongue

between the fork of his pointer and middle fingers , flailing it around.

There are no other vehicles around, and I look into his car once more, see him

hiked up, really giving it to himself, taking turns looking at me, his dick, and the road.

We are head to head, and I immediately take the exit on my right, screeching off the

highway while he is forced to keep going.

59

Gymnophobia

Nineteen years old, naked, on a beach. A nude beach. Up and to the left, a pair of

testicles dangles down to knobby knees. To my right and up, a penis, long and thin.

Bright red, appears sun burnt. There is a light house in the distance. The Fire Island

Lighthouse standing erect in the midst of sand and parking lots.

I am on a flower-patterned blanket. Marisa lies next to me, body paint covering

our front sides. If we arrange ourselves just so, the design is continuous from her body to

my own. One picture. Swirls and dots, red and blue. A man did it, a fat man, squatting

with balls drooping into the sand, making little indents.

We have made acquaintances. Marisa- a boyfriend. A naked New York City cop

hung like a whale. They are called dorks. Not police officers - whales' penises. He

walks towards us, his manhood swaying beneath him like the pendulum in a Grandfather

Clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock. I bury my face back in my blanket, uncomfortable seeing

what goes in my friend on nights and weekends.

Poked in the shoulder, and then handed a joint. Breathe in, the pot just as hot as

the stale, arid beach air. Exhale, the wind carries away the smoke before I get to admire

it.

Get stoned, get hot. We push ourselves off of the blanket, stroll down to the

water, put our feet in. The waves flow in and out, pulling sand with it, and it buries our

feet further and further into the ground, until we are both half a foot shorter. A spray hits

us head on, the body paint beginning to bleed down our fronts. Dig our feet out of the

60

holes, hold hands, run into the water together, twist at the sight of a big wave already

broken, turn, let our backs brace against the thrust.

The water is blue-green-brown. Long Island ocean water, too dark to see through,

feet disappearing at only a foot. A stone's throw from shore, our heads reach out of the

water, and we jump the waves as they carry us up, unbroken. We rub our hands over our

skin, remove the remnants of blue and red. I float on my back, lift my head up, trying to

see if I got it all. A wave comes, splashes over me, and I tumble, salt water entering my

nose and mouth. Gasping for air, I get some, swim towards the shore, Marisa following.

Are you okay? she asks. A streak of red left on her arm.

Yeah, you missed a spot.

We find our blanket and plop down, the naked cop gone, probably back rubbing

oil on his wife. I try to remove the clumped up sand caked onto my feet and ankles, but

all I do is transport it onto my palms.

Marisa hands me sun block, SPF 30, and I rub a small amount on my nipples

trying to stay in the lines, the sand acts as an exfoliant, chafing at the smooth areolas,

scratching at the protruding nipples. I hand back the 30 in exchange for 4, which I coat

over the rest of me.

We sit Indian-style, smoking cigarettes, watching men walk by. Not the naked

men on the beach with us, but the ones who stroll by in their bathing suits or shorts,

walking the half a mile from the regular beach to the nude beach just to get a glimpse of

exhibitionists. They gawk and giggle, like pre-teen girls at a school dance.

I put my cigarette out in the sand, the filter juts out next to a peach pit, the

seashore a giant ashtray. Momentarily, I feel bad for not throwing it in the trash, but then

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Marisa delivers an oh shit. We parked ourselves too close to the traffic today, and have

been recognized by the clothing-clad peeping toms.

Mickey Hyman, a guy from high school, is climbing through the sand with a

friend, both completely dressed, shorts and shirts, smiling. We light up two more

smokes, as if inhaling and exhaling will make us less naked. He dumps himself on our

blanket, faces us, while we sit legs open and folded. Asking us how life has been, what's

new, he does a decent job of looking at our faces instead of our crotches. His friend is

less successful.

After a grueling five minutes, a little while which seemed to last the entire day,

Mickey leaves, taking his gawking friend with him.

If you're going to come to the nude beach to look at naked people, at least have

the decency to take your suit off, Marisa says.

I agree, put my headphones back on, lie down, and jam to some Janis Joplin. I

turn my head to the left, away from the sun, and notice a pair of hairy legs moving in my

direction. Dave, the aspiring spaceship model-maker, donning just a baseball cap. In his

hand, a set of pictures, his life work most likely, spaceship models made out of soup cans

and spray paint, duct tape and watch parts. He rests his sweaty ass on our blanket, and

his two Prince Alberts become situated on top of a petunia.

I now hold a series of photos in my hands, not of homemade Millennium Falcons

or Star Trek Enterprises, but of this very beach. I sift through the images, nearly all

familiar.

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The first snapshot - The Mayor of Fire Island, in his straw hat, penis barely

sticking out. A shy turtle's head. He smiles, the picture giving no evidence of his

debilitating stutter.

The second - twin brothers, male strippers, who come to the nude beach purely

for their vocation, tan lines hampering the uniform of tiger-stripped thongs. In their

chairs, they smile smarmily, arms wrapped over each others' shoulders.

The third -the Hungarian. Likes to hear me curse in his native tongue, the useful

knowledge bestowed upon me by my grandmother. Anu-Pitchya. Your mother's private

parts. Buz Meg. Fuck you. Lofus ah sheketbelz. Stick a horse ' s dick up your ass. He

laughs, gets excited, runs into the ocean, a perfect cure for poor nude beach etiquette. In

the picture, he is on the sand. Penis nearly erect- resembles a sundial.

I return the pictures, skipping the majority of them, and place my head back on

the blanket. The sun beats down on my back, heats me like angel food cake in a

microwave, left in too long, gone aflame. My body will ache later, burn, give off heat at

fiery temperatures. White will blossom into red, the slightest touch of water or fabric

lethal to my skin. Covering me with aloe will feel like rubbing flames onto already

burned skin, and then slight sun poisoning will set in, causing shivers and fevers, a cool

bath the only temporary remedy.

But once the burn is gone, and the pain drifts away, the red fades into a color that

is darker than white. Not tan exactly, but not paper-white either. Perhaps a few more

trips, a few more sunny days, a few more sunburns, will get me there. Away from

Casper, away from Medusa, away from my porcelain complexion.

63

Dermatosiophobia

Twenty years old, face down on a cold table. A rapid heart beat in my chest,

blood swooshing through my ears, pulse throbbing in my neck, a persistent flutter in my

abdomen. A doctor enters the room, my doctor, my dermatologist. Asks if I'm ready.

Two weeks ago, I had lain in this position. Tummy down, back up, elbows on

the table, chin resting in the palms of my hands, ass jutting out of a hospital gown. I

waited to be cut open. We'll only call you if there's a problem with the tests, my doctor

had said. Then a week later, the call. Biopsy of outlying cells - cancerous. Venture back

in, eradicate layers of skin and tissue until we get a clean sample. Schedule again as

soon as possible. Have a pleasant afternoon.

On my stomach again today, resting on a smooth wax-like paper. My college

roommate, Alison, leans against the window, facing me, blank expression, arms crossed.

There for moral support and a car ride home. Her eyes bulge. I crane my neck over my

right shoulder, see the cause for excitement. A lengthy syringe is removed from a tray,

selected by a pair of gloved hands.

The spot is smeared with iodine, and I turn my head away. Take a deep breath,

place my forehead down on the balled fist I have created with my hands, feel a small

prick. The pain of the first poke, faint, the padding of my fatty behind - a cushion, breaks

the blow of the needle entering. Numbing agent works its magic, prevents sensation of

the next twenty or so stabs.

We wait for total anesthetization. I smile at Alison, she smirks back, just the right

side of her cheek and mouth rising slightly. Her arms wrapped around her belly,

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protecting, as if she is the one exposed, ass protruding out, people fiddling around with

her behind.

The doctor picks up a knife, the meeting place of ass and thigh numb, ready for

incision. He cuts. No pain, but can feel the carving of flesh, like being drawn on with a

fine-point pen. His scalpel- a box cutter. My leg- a piece of cardboard.

The slicing is finished, and the Exacto knife is returned to its resting place. A

tweezer-like apparatus is picked up in its place. Amputation and elimination of

contaminated cells. A prod and then a pull, a game of Operation, part of me being

yanked from the meeting place of ass and thigh.

Curious, cannot help but look. Twist my head again, over my right shoulder. A

hole, oozing, a crimson flow of blood, a slow dribble down the side of my thigh. A small

and feminine hand, gloved, wipes it up with a piece of white gauze. At first it is pink,

followed by scarlet, then so saturated it becomes a burgundy mess. The glob is discarded

on the tray, left for a clean piece. It, too, will make the progression from clean to

contaminated in just a few moments.

I turn my neck the other way. See a woman fiddling with a plastic cup. In the

doctor's hand, I notice tweezers. Attached, a bloody layer-cake of flesh, fat, and skin.

The cake is transported to a mini Tupperware, lid snapped on top. It sits like a left over

lasagna until it is sent to a lab for testing, the results of my dissection dissected for more

results.

The tweezers are released, placed back on the paper towel covering the metal tray.

A needle and thread are picked up in its place. The doctor becomes distracted, looks at

Alison. How are you doing? Are you okay? he asks. I notice her olive skin seems

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washed out, almost paler than mine. The doctor then turns to a nurse, or a med student,

or an assistant, Take her out of here. Grabbed by the arm, led half way into the hallway,

she faints.

The needle and thread are forgotten, the gaping hole at the meeting place of ass

and thigh ignored. All medical staff to Alison, to revive her, to take her to another room,

away from fleshy openings.

Lay on table. Think of my mother. I told you so, I hear her say. Look at your

grandfather. How many scrapings has he had? He has something removed practically

once a month. Skin cancer runs in the family. Your great grandmother died of skin

cancer. Bled to death in the hallway of a hospital after having a melanoma removed

from her ear. Do you want that? All it takes is one exposure. One really intense burn.

When I was in charge of your body, I never let you go in the sun for more than five

minutes without thirty on. Summer camp and my first sun burn pops in my head,

uninvited, like a sexual fantasy at a funeral. I am lying on the beach, one blanket, packed

with friends. Just a few minutes without sun block, I tell myself. In a little bit, /' ll put

thirty on, I'll get smidge of color. Instead, I fall asleep for an hour, back of legs burnt,

heat radiating off of them for days, skin peeling, flakes in my shorts, could barely sit

down.

Nothing can be done now, I tell myself, can't change the past, can't erase a

summer at a nude beach tanning a body not meant for tanning, sunning areas not meant to

see daylight. Just come in for routine tissue removal, have them pick away at me till

there is nothing left, until I am a piece of Swiss cheese, empty, ready to fall apart.

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I stare at the walls. On one, a flyer-sized poster hangs, a call for people living

with herpes. Clinical trial. Experimental treatment. Anticipating FDA approval.

Compensation for your time. It is the same sign I noticed last month in this room, the day

I came in for my full-body exam. The doctor was meticulous, measuring each freckle,

sunspot, and mole with magnifying glasses parked on his nose, enlarging his eyes. He

flipped through my hair to look at my scalp, and spread my toes and ass cheeks apart to

see if anything had developed since last year. I think we should remove this :-,pot,

Katrina, my doctor decided. Don't like the looks of it. We could do it right here in the

office.

I get a bit dizzy, left alone with just my seeping wound for company. My eyes feel

heavy, the florescent lights creating an artificial glow. It generates the feeling of hygiene,

as if the room is the epitome of sanitation. I stare at my arms. They look sallow, sickly.

On the wallpaper, notice a few specks, spots that could very well be dried blood. The

sense of cleanliness, gone, replaced by disgust.

Doctor returns, apologizes. Alison is all right, in a room getting blood sugar back

up. But I will need antibiotics, the hole left open and exposed for too long. Not going to

take any chances, he says. No need to risk infection.

Needle and thread return to his hands. Slight pin pricks, tugging on my skin.

Feel the strand glide through me, like dental floss sliding between my teeth along my

gums. Then stretching. Another prick. Elasticity. And so on. What was once open is

now closed.

I hear a snip and then a clink, tools placed back on metal tray. You can get

dressed now, the doctor says. Take this receipt to billing, he says. Peggy will take care

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of you. And here's the script for antibiotics. Take two a day- one in the morning, one at

night. For ten days. You may want to take them with food. They could upset your

stomach. See you soon.

I shimmy off the operating table, and allow the hospital gown to drift to the floor.

I grab my clothes, and slide my head through the sweatshirt. Put my feet through the leg

holes, pull up, careful not to bother my gash.

Exit the room, enter hallway. I turn right to go to billing, holding the fabric of my

pants out, cloth yanking on stitches. I hand Peggy my paperwork. Pay with visa, submit

to insurance later.

I waddle back down the hall to locate Alison. Find her sitting in exam room two,

under a flier that says Eczema in 30-font. A cookie and juice in each of her hands, some

color returned to her complexion.

Are you okay, I ask.

I'm feeling a little better. A little dizzy. That was so weird. I just blacked out.

I've never fainted before.

She gets up slowly, stretches her back and arms. Takes one more sip of her juice,

places the cup down on the counter, and turns, leaves the room. I follow behind, picking

up the cup and tossing it in the garbage.

At the end of the hallway, we find the elevator, press the button and wait. A ding

and then the doors open. We step in, descend, the motion causing Alison to grab my arm

for support. Ooh, she says. Ooh, I'm still a little woozy.

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Another ding, and then we are out the elevator doors. A few more feet, we leave

the building. Down the front steps, I swing my leg out wide and straight, not wanting to

stretch the skin around the wound.

Straining my eyes, I see the car parked across the street, yellow ticket stuck

underneath the windshield wipers. Meter expired. Alison incapacitated when she was

supposed to refill with coins, three dollars in quarters still jingling in her pocket.

She walks to passenger side, not well enough to drive. Do you mind if flay down

in the back, she says.

No, I say, why would I mind?

I fish keys out of my bag, hit unlock on my clicker, open driver's door. I

maneuver into my seat, trying not to disturb the stitches. I start the ignition, Alison

resting her head on a jacket in the back. Drive down West Side Highway, squinting, the

sun in my eyes.

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Misophobia

Twenty-one years old, standing in my mother's shower. Seat down, she sits on

the toilet, watching me through the clear glass door.

Make sure you get it all, she says. And get Kaya too.

My Golden Retriever is at my feet, leaning her barrel chest into me, heavy, damp

fur sticking to my leg, and filling up the drain. She is no longer powdered, back to dark

strawberry blond, the ashes have departed, now swimming down the drain.

The residue that coated me- washed away, and I stand there motionless, my eyes

squeezed shut . Water rains upon me, trickles over my face and drips down my body, and

I feel it, really feel it, each molecule dribbling over me, running its course on my skin,

covering me, wet. I rub my palms against my hair, forehead to crown, squeezing out

excess water. It falls in chunks behind me, hitting my ass on its way to the tiled floor.

Come on, Katrina. Stop dawdling. Use the soap. Get that crap off of you.

Soap sits in a ceramic sea shell jutting out of the wall, and I grab it, massaging

the bar into my skin. Suds and bubbles materialize, slide downward, washing over my

protruding ankle bones, joining together before their long ride to the septic tank.

My hands run along my skin, fiberglass seems to scratch at my epidermis,

particles exfoliate layers not meant to disappear. My skin, back to its usual pinkish­

white, the powdered, geisha look gone, the shower superficially cleanses me.

I can't believe I'm here, says the mantra in my head. Can't believe I made it.

Can't believe I am alive.

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I reach for the doggie shampoo, and squeeze a thick line along Kaya' s spine and a

small glop on her head. I lather her up, careful to soap up her chest, belly, feet, and tail.

I tell her she's a good girl while removing the showerhead from its hook, spraying her

down like a hose washing a car. She sits, jowl open and tongue hanging out, unfazed by

the shampoo bubbles seeping into her mouth.

I can't believe I almost let her go, I think to myselt~ that in the mess and the mob

and the running and the panic, I almost let go of her chain.

I open the shower, and Kaya climbs out onto a pile of towels my mother has

placed at the door. She is rubbed down, and I stand there motionless again, fingertips and

toes- prunes- wrinkled and creased. Eventually I shut the water off and get out, holding

a towel around my trunk, cross the hallway into my old room.

Looking through a closet of old clothes, all I find is outdated rags. I think of my

closet at One West Street, and of all my clothes hanging and folded in that apartment in

the city. I think of it, wonder if it is coated in thick grey soot like the rest of lower

Manhattan.

I throw on an old pair of sweats, tapered at the bottoms, with a hole in the crotch

that either I, or my mother, were too lazy to sew. I find a t-shirt, and throw it over my

head, disregarding the particulars, like a bra or deodorant.

My dad calls from downstairs, Katrina, Marisa 's here. Hear the tremble in his

voice, a new vibrato.

I find Marisa sitting at the kitchen table. My dad is next to her, fiddling with the

newspaper, drawing on the front page of Newsday, morning addition, the last cover page

for months and months without mention of today' s events. Pen in hand, he draws

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meaningless shapes, black stokes covering black strokes, lines over lines, paper puffing

out from the incessant sketching.

Hey, I say to Marisa.

She hugs me. You want to go for a ride?

Yes, I say, let's go.

I return upstairs to grab my pot and cigarettes. Reaching into my book bag -the

black fabric now a light grey, covered in a thin layer of white dust - I find just an eighth

of marijuana and a half a pack of Parliaments, the only two things I remember upon

evacuation.

I follow Marisa out of my parent's house, conscious of each step, each breath I

take. We jump into her car, drive down to our old Elementary School, sit on the benches

by the playground. We watch the stillness of tire swing, and stare at the decaying Swiss

cheese castle. I notice the sky, the colors, purple bleeding into pink bleeding into orange.

I wonder if sunsets always resemble Bob Ross paintings, or am I just taking the time to

notice today. Life seems to have slowed down, each second is longer, lingers, the earth's

rotation being pulled to a stop by an unknowable force.

The playground is still, earth hushed in mourning, silent, minus the fighter jets

returning to their South Hampton base after circling over the city, hours too late. The

days of being teased during recess seem lifetimes away, another person.

A bitter taste sits on my tongue - the flavor of decomposed people, their

transformation from humans to ashes, sprinkled down from the sky like snow. I tell

Marisa all of it. The phone call, my mother's voice blaring through the apartment on the

answering machine, my car in the lot across the street waiting to take me to my yearly

72

Cardiologist appointment, and my choice not to get in it. I tell her about the smoke - the

disintegrated electrical equipment and computers, the insulation and fiberglass, neon

signs, fluorescent lights, plastic and glass - that now seems to swim through my lungs,

toxic. And the running, and the people falling from the towers like rag dolls being blown

in the breeze, and I want to cry but I can ' t cry because sadness is beyond the realm of

what I am feeling right now. And my face is white, whiter than usual, colorless, as if I'd

seen my own ghost.

We sit on the bench and I light a cigarette, my first drag since I went to bed the

night before. The smoke enters me like shards of glass floating on the wind, cutting my

throat and my lungs with microscopic tears, helping the venom to seep into my blood.

We return to my house, and I hug Marisa goodbye, her embrace saying, I'm glad

you're still with us, I hope the world isn 't ending, I'd like to see you again. She drives

away and I return to my room.

It is a perfectly square box, my room, and I Jay on a king size mattress which

was once my parent's. I turn the television on, regardless of the fact that it is seven

o'clock and I haven't done my homework yet. ABC's infallible presentation of Jeopardy

at seven pm on weekdays has been put on hold, news plays instead. I watch it and wait,

wonder what else has been bombed, when the war will begin, when they'll announce that

we're all going to die. The news plays, tells nothing new, and I search my room for an

old bong that I left in storage here between moves. One apartment only needs so many

apparatuses. I find it, fill it with water, pack it, light it and smoke it, no longer concerned

with hiding my habit from my parents.

Three hits and there is a knock at my door.

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Enter, I say, bong in hand, mouth portion leaning against my chest.

Do you want anything for dinner, my mom asks, ignoring the glass piece resting

against me, and the smoke I am exhaling through my nose.

No thanks, I'm not hungry.

Suit yourself. But please, open a window if you're going to do that in the house.

She leaves and I twist around my torso to open one of the bay windows. I turn the

handle round and round, it squeaks and creaks and I think, why bother?

74

Tomophobia

Twenty-two years old, coiled in fetal position on my bed. My sheets have come

undone on one corner, the mattress cover bunching up, and the comforter is in a pile on

the hardwood floor. Intense pain shoots through my abdomen, a bread knife in my

stomach, a carving knife in my back, both twist, persist. Ow, ow, ow. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Adam left at six, and ever since, I've been curled up, incapacitated. Not crying,

but yet a solitary tear runs out of my eye and down my temple. I hug myself, hold on for

comfort, squeeze my body, hope to constrict the pain away. But it ' s no good.

Need help, need to go somewhere. I crawl out of bed, doubled over in agony,

shuffle in my slippers to Marisa ' s room, back parallel to the floor. I barge in, do not

knock.

Marisa, Marisa. Wake up. I need help.

Groggy, she picks up her head, black hair wet around the face, perspiration from

sleeping. What 's the matter?

I can no longer stand, need to go back to my bed, lay down. I'm in so much pain.

Please come to my room. I can't stand up.

She follows me back to my room, and I return to fetal position, curled up like the

number two. It hurts so bad, I tell her. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Oh my god, Kartina. What happened?

I had sex with Adam last night, and ever since, it feels like someone is shooting

me in the stomach.

Oh my god. Do you want to go to the emergency room?

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I don't know. Can you call Planned Parenthood in Hempstead? I've been there

before. Maybe they can see me. I hope they're frickin' open.

She sits in the recliner facing my bed, and is nudged by Kaya, who takes a pat on

the head before collapsing onto the floor, chin resting on one of her stuffed animals.

Marisa calls information, gets the number, makes an appointment. Planned Parenthood

opens at nine, and said they'll try to squeeze you in. Planned Parenthood - where I've

been going for STD testing for the past few years. I've had routine blood tests even

though I've been as sexually active as a eunuch priest - too worried about ruining my

private parts to use them.

Marisa calls the garage beneath our building, and my car is waiting for us when

we get downstairs. Hop on the FDR Drive, go over the Triboro Bridge, back to Long

Island. I want her to drive faster, want to get there, need to get there soon. My arms are

wrapped underneath my thighs, my face nuzzled between my knees. Whine, moan, cry.

It hurts, it hurts. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

We arrive, wait for ninety minutes - routine exams, monthly pill renewal, and

HIV and STD screening all before my name is announced. Taken to a room in the back,

and sat at a desk. There is a life size replica of the female reproductive track on it, and a

bowl of condoms left like a dish of candies. A woman enters.

What brings you here this morning, Kalina?

I had sex last night, and after he left my stomach started to hurt really bad. It feels

like someone is stabbing me over and over again.

Is this a monogamous partner you were with?

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He's a good friend. I've never slept with him before. Before last night, I hadn't

had sex in over a year. Over a year is quite the understatement. It's been more like

three, and after the way I feel right now, I'll wait another three before I do it again.

Can you show me where it hurts?

I point out the places on my stomach that are now home to invisible daggers.

Then she says, without examining me, it sounds like Pelvic b1flammatory Disease. But

the only way to find out for sure is with an ultra-sound and we don't have that kind of

equipment here. You'll have to go to the emergency room.

Now?

PID is very dangerous if it's untreated. You should go get it checked out right

away.

My frustration alleviates my pain momentarily, and we return to my car, head

down to a hospital on Hempstead Turnpike. I am scared, call my mother, tell her I had

sex last night, in excruciating pain, headed to Nassau Medical Center. Says she'll meet

me there soon.

I fill out paperwork at the nurse's station, have my temperature and blood

pressure checked, and then sent back to a seat to wait. I sit, bury my face in my knees

again, Marisa rubs my back. You'refamily is here, she says, and I look up. My mother is

walking through the waiting room - father, sister, and future brother-in-law trailing

behind her.

Have they seen you yet? my mother asks. But before I produce an answer, a nurse

says Katrina, and I am brought to an exam room, my mother in tow.

Put this gown on, and a doctor will be in shortly.

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The nurse leaves, and I undress, sit at the edge of an exam table, a pair of stirrups

on either side of me, wax paper smooth underneath me as if I'm a cookie waiting to be

baked.

The doctor enters, a young woman about thirty, in all black except for the white

exam coat.

Hi Katrina, you are you doing?

I tell her everything. The sex, the pain, the diagnosis from Planned Parenthood.

Why don't I exam you before we jump to any conclusions, she says. And I put my feet in

the stirrups, allowing her a good view. She takes a quick peek, and then has me sit up.

Presses on my abdomen, makes it hurt worse.

too.

Does it hurt here ... How about here ... And here?

Yes ... yes ... yes.

Her hands move to my back, press on my love handles. Ouch, I say, it hurts there

This is presenting much more like a kidney infection than PID. Do you think you

could give me a urine sample right now?

I think so.

Great. That's a bathroom right there, she says, pointing to a door attached to the

exam room. There are little cups for you to use. Don't worry about filling it up, we only

need a tiny sample. There a packets of wipes in there, too. Make sure you clean yourself

well before urinating, otherwise the sample could be tainted. Okay?

Yeah, thanks.

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I am going to give you some antibiotics to start taking today. And take some

Tylenol for the pain. It will make you more comfortable. Lots of liquids, too. Cranberry

juice if you have some.

Okay, thanks.

She leaves the room, and my mom asks me if I have to go, and I say I think so,

and enter the bathroom. There's a mirror in it, and I look at myself, the dark raccoon

circles under my eyes weighing my face down, my complexion looks more blue than

white, like a crack or heroin addict. A tangerine-size hickey sits on one side of my neck,

a quarter-size one on the other side. For a moment I am embarrassed, my dad and

brother-in-law knowing I got laid last night, but then the knife turns again and I hurt too

much to care. I sit on the toilet, use a wipe, pee in the little cup, and try not to get any on

my hands. Once I am done, and I've washed my hands and cleaned off the outside of the

cup, I return to the exam room, get dressed.

* * *

Twenty-two, getting in my car after class. I get a call on my cell phone. It is Dr.

Schwartz, the gynecologist my aunt referred me to for a second opinion.

Hey Katrina, it's Dr. Schwartz. How are you?

I'm okay. And you?

Fine, fine. I got the lab results back from your urinalysis, and it didn't show any

infection. If you did have a UTI, it probably would have shown up, even if you have been

on antibiotics for a few days.

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So what does that mean?

Well, I'd like to send you for an ultrasound. It is possible that you have an

ovarian cyst. I'd like to rule that out. Got a pen? I want to give you the number to the

radiologist office that I work with. It's right in your neck of the woods at 83rd and 3rd.

They're expecting your call. Set something up for the next few days if you can. All

right?

Sure. One sec.

I grab a pen out of my bag, and write the number on the back of my hand. Make

an appointment for Wednesday.

* * *

Twenty-two, lying on an exam table, legs spread for a radiology technician.

There is a wand in her hand, and she unrolls a standard, prison-issued condom over the

top.

You guide it in, Katrina. And once it's in about a fingers-length, I'll take over.

I do as I am told, and the woman waves the wand around inside me. In between

my ow's, and ooh, that hurts, she turns the monitor towards me, giving me a view of my

insides.

I'm not supposed to really say this, she says, but I am seeing something on the

screen over here. See? She points to a grey area on a screen that is completely grainy

and gray. It looks more like my grandparent's old black-and-white with the broken

antenna than expensive medical equipment, and I see nothing, cannot figure out what she

80

is looking at. The doctor will take a look at this and then speak with you. I've gotten all I

need, you can get dressed now. You did great.

Thanks. She leaves the room, and I get dressed, wait for the Radiologist to come

in to discuss my innards. I sit at the edge of the exam table in between the pair of

stirrups, dangle my feet below. A knock at the door, and I say come on in.

Hello Katrina. I'm Doctor Fiegenbaum. How are you doing?

I'm okay.

So I've taken a look at the pictures Becky took for us. I am seeing a mass where

your right ovary is. It's not clear whether it's in your ovary or on it. I'll send the results

over to Dr. Schwartz and we'Ll see what she thinks.

* * *

Twenty-two, sitting in the personal office of Dr. Schwartz. My mother, father,

and I face her, waiting to hear the particulars of my upcoming surgery. After four

different antibiotics and various other types of pills, after monthly ultrasounds and lots of

pushing and prodding, the cyst grows and changes, doesn't seem to want to dissipate,

gives no more clue to what it is. Unable to identify the type, they say. There is a

possibility it is cancerous, they say. Better be safe than sorry.

I'm going to do the surgery laparoscopically, Dr. Schwartz begins. You'll go to

sleep, and we'll insert a catheter, and I'll make a small incision in your belly button, and

another right on your pubic bone, and possibly another inch-long one on the right side of

your stomach. We'll pump some air into the abdominal cavity so we can move a camera

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around in there. Hopefully, with the camera and the tiny incisions I'll be able to do

everything that needs to be done. You with me so far?

Yeah.

Now, during the surgery, I'll have to put a clamp on her cervix so I can move

your uterus where I need it to go. You won'tfeel a thing, I promise. You'LL be fast asleep.

Okay?

I guess.

Now, in the chance that the cyst cannot be removed Laparoscopically, and we

need to make a larger incision, you'll need to stay in the hospital for a few days.

Okay.

I just want you to be prepared for all possibilities. But I promise any incision I

make will be as tiny as possible.

Thanks.

Now, since there is the slightest chance that this is cancerous, and we could

possibly have to remove the ovary, I need you to sign this consent form giving me

authorization to do so. Is that okay?

Yeah, I guess.

It also authorizes me to do a hysterectomy if need be, but I highly doubt that that

will be the case. It's precautionary. Just incase, it's important to have this all taken care

of, okay? Do you guys have any questions for me?

Is there any chance that I won't wake up?

Incidences like that are so, so rare. Don't worry about it. You're young and

healthy, and we have a great Anesthesiologist scheduled to do the surgery with me. It's

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going to go great. When you wake up, you may be a little nauseous, and may experience

some vaginal bleeding from the cervical clamp. And your shoulder will most likely hurt

while your body absorbs the gas in your abdomen.

Why is that? my mother asks.

The air pushes on a nerve that shoots right up to the shoulder. It's the most

common complaint after this type of surgery. You'll do great. Anything else?

* * *

Twenty-two years old, standing in a hospital gown. Terry cloth booties sit on my

feet, and my mother helps cover my hair with a netted shower cap. I leave my clothing in

a locker, my mother holds onto the key. I wonder if I'll see her again, or my sweats, if

I'll wake up from my surgery.

There is a knock at the door. Dr. Schwartz is ready to take me to the Operating

Room. A wave goodbye to my mother, try to smile, but all I produce is an awkward

frown.

I shuffle along the hospital floor in my too-big slippers, the unsupported rubber

bottoms click-clacking across the floor. Dr. Schwartz walks to my right, reassuring me

that everything is going to be fine, and we enter the OR.

It 's a big room, a table sits in the middle with a circular hole in the lower portion,

and big equipment is scattered all over. There are at least seven people in the room

besides me and Schwartz - nurses, medical students, an Anesthesiologist - all going to

watch me be filled with air like a balloon, and then poked and prodded like a

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Thanksgiving turkey. I am told to get on the table, put my butt in the hole, stretch my

arm out. I start crying. Dr. Schwartz holds one of my hands and tells me not to worry,

while the Anesthesiologist has my other arm, starts an IV. Think pleasant thoughts, they

say. Think of a Hawaiian beach. Count back, starting with ten.

* * *

Twenty-two, laying across the very back seat of my parent's mm1-van. My

mother sits in the middle seat, turned towards the rear, holding my hand as I fade in and

out of twilight, waking to moan in pain. Each turn the car makes, each little bump the

shocks fail to cushion, causes me to squeeze my mother's hand, cut the circulation off in

her fingers.

In and out of sleep, I make it to my parent's house. They help me upstairs, and I

lie in my old bed, out after a Tylenol with Codeine. At one point my mother wakes me to

ask what I want for dinner. Chicken, I tell her, Chicken breast with rice.

I wake to use the bathroom often, and each time I try to maneuver, try to contort

myself out of bed without stretching the stitches in my belly button and the ones by my

pubic hair, it hurts. I urinate, but I never seem to be finished. Each time I pee, I feel like

I have to pee more than when I started. Decide not to bother getting up, sit on the toilet

for the rest of the evening, have my mother pull a chair in, talk to me while I sit. Sounds

like you have a UTI, my mother says. Maybe it's from the catheter. She leaves

periodically to check my dinner, brings it when it's done, keeps me company while I eat.

Her dry chicken, gooey rice concoction- perfect. Just what I needed.

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Dementophobia

Twenty-three years old, standing at the sink, Marisa and Alison lounge on the

couch, facing the kitchen. There are no dishes, no pots or pans, no sponges in the sink.

Just a rag shoved into the drain, allowing the silver basin to fill with water. The bottom

of a two-liter soda bottle has been cut off, a water pipe slide filled with weed crystals and

hash is poked through the bottle cap, and sealed with melted plastic. I twist the cap back

on, light it and pull up, water and gravity filling the body of the bottle with a thick,

yellow smoke. Hold the bong up, twist the cap off, place my mouth on the opening, push

down, smoke shooting through my lungs.

I cough, release the bong, and Alison gets off the couch to take a hit. I feel

myself getting stoned almost immediately, deep coughing opens up my lungs, helps to

soak up all the THC. I start to get nervous, wonder if I'm going to panic like so many

times I get stoned these days. Last week, in a marijuana-induced acid flashback, I

thought I had Parkinson's disease. Researching the symptoms online, a website said

fingers may curl into a claw-like position. I looked down at my own hands, each digit

turned inward, seeming to clutch an invisible ball. My face went colorless, my pupils

dilated, and I trembled for an hour at the realization that my life as I knew it was over and

I was sick. Finally, I ate a donut and sobered up a bit, then passed out on the couch.

As Alison fills up the bottle, and then discharges a lung full of smoke into her

own windpipes, butterflies begin fluttering around in my stomach, my heart begins to

palpitate. I have been getting high about five time a day for the past eight years, have

smoked cigarettes on and off for the past ten, and with the uneven pumping that I am

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experiencing in my chest and with the warning my cardiologist gave me against smoking,

I conclude that I am having a heart attack.

I try to control my breathing, try not to hyperventilate, don't want to reveal to my

roommates that I am panicking. I want to control it, make it go away, but I think I am

going to die. Marisa is in the kitchen now, taking the cookies we baked out of the oven,

and with a spatula is transferring them onto a plate. I watch her, try to distract myself,

but my vision is getting blurry, my eyes are having trouble focusing. Oxygen depletion

from my heart not pump-pumping properly, and I think I am going to pass out. Try to

breath, but my lungs are rejecting the air.

I blurt it out. Guys, I don't feel good. I'm bugging out.

What's the matter? Marisa asks, while Alison retreats to her room, not wanting to

deal with an anxiety attack.

I feel like I'm having a heart attack.

Uh-oh. Do you want me to call someone?

No, I'm probably just bugging out, but I'm scared.

Do you want one of my Xanax?

I don't know. I guess. She retreats to her room and returns with a tiny pill.

Hands me a cup of water and I take it, the swallowing mechanism in my throat not

working properly, and I spit out some water and cough a little. How long do they usually

take to start working? I ask, hoping she'll say, Now, they work immediately and you're

feeling better already.

Usually within ten or fifteen minutes depending on whether or not I take it on an

empty stomach.

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But less than two minutes go by and I start to feel even weirder.

I feel even weirder. My arm is going numb.

Do you want to call 230-CARE? They've been able to talk me down from my

anxiety attacks before.

Sure.

She picks up the phone, dials, links her shoulder with mine, places the cordless in

between both of our ears, volume on high so that we both can hear. My heart continues

to palpitate and my left arm begins to tingle.

Marisa speaks for me. Hi, my friend is on the line with me. She's having a panic

attack.

Miss ? Why don't you tell me what's wrong.

I smoked some pot, and started to panic. So I took a Xanax. I've never taken one

before and now I feel even weirder.

Okay, miss, I'm going to have to transfer you to poison control. It's standard

procedure when a substance is involved.

We hear a click and then some more ringing. Marisa, will you tell them what's

going on? I'm shaking too much to speak.

Sure

Hello. Poison control.

Hi. I'm sitting here with my friend. She started panicking after smoking some

pot, so she took a Xanax to try to calm herself down. She's never taken one before and

now she doesn 'tfeel well.

Ma'am? Can you tell me what's wrong?

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I speak, trying to control the quiver in my voice, the chattering of my teeth. I took

it a few minutes ago, and my heart is beating really fast, I 'm having trouble breathing,

and my left arm feels numb.

Urgency. Ma'am, hang up the phone immediately and call911.

Are you sure ?

Ma'am, you hearing me? Call 911 now.

Hang up, call 911, reiterate the circumstances, and they say they will send

someone right over.

We run around the apartment to put away the smoking paraphernalia, but the

apartment still reeks like weed. Marisa suggests an open window, but we decide it's

irrelevant - it will be revealed that marijuana was involved. I start to feel semi-normal

again, either the diversion of cleaning made me forget that I was dying, or the Xanax is

starting to work.

Paramedics arnve. The smell of pot lingers in the apartment, freshly baked

cookies rest in a pile on the table, and I sit on the couch, feet curled under me, eyes

blood-shot and lids droopy, giggling.

How are you feeling?

Better.

Do you mind if we take your blood pressure?

Not at all.

Fabric is wrapped around my arm, a button is pushed, and the material expands,

constricts around my bicep. He flashes a pen light in my eyes, says everything looks

okay. Asks if there is anything else? Do I feel all right now?

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Everything is fine now, I tell him. Sorry for the trouble.

Enjoy the rest of your day, and be more careful.

He grabs a cookie on his way out the door.

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Sitophobia

Twenty-four years old, standing in the kitchen of my apartment. I am hungry,

standing at the open freezer, reading through its contents, deciding between Rosemary

Chicken or Salisbury Steak, Rigatoni with Meatballs or Grilled Chicken with Penne, all

of which are neatly packaged in Lean Cuisine frozen dinner boxes.

I decide upon roasted chicken tenderloins in a garlic-rosemary sauce with a side

spinach and brown wild rice, with only 220 calories, and only four grams of fat. It

seemed a good choice during my first trip to the grocery store, the first time I stocked up

a kitchen of my very own.

I pull open the cardboard side, and slide the dish out of the box. Grab a fork,

poke holes in the plastic. The prongs slice through the taut covering, metal and frozen air

strike each other with a forceful pop-pop-pop, and the meal is free to mingle with the

radiation particles floating invisibly inside the microwave. I throw it in, slam the door,

hit power-high for seven minutes. The white noise is vacant, yet filled with sentiment - a

sound from my youth.

I plop down on the sofa, my cordless phone sits on the coffee table, and I pick it

up to call my mother. She answers, chews in my ear, says she is watching Jeopardy and

eating dinner. Without having to ask, I know what she is chomping on -three rice cakes,

two pieces of Swiss cheese, a bunch of Arugula piled on top. A newspaper is laid out in

front ofher, Newsday most likely, and she sits hunched over a 36-ounce cup filled to the

top with a mixture of orange juice and water, measured carefully to control her fluid

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intake for the day. She will have microwaved it for eight seconds before slurping

carefully off the top, an attempt to prevent the chill of cold juice slamming into her teeth.

I just wanted to say hello.

Hello. How's it going?

I'm about to eat dinner.

Okay.

Welll'lllet you watch your show. I'll call you later.

Alrighty then.

!love you.

Love you too.

Click.

Inside the box, the microwave tray drives in a circle, the food's destination always

back where it started, tiny wheels rolling along the base of the machine, around and

around and around. I lean forward on the couch, twist my head to the side, read the

numbers on the digital screen. 07 ... 06 ... 05 ... 04 ... 03 . . . 02 ... 01. The airy noise

terminates, replaced by a beep-beep-beep, and I allow the meal to sit for three minutes

before stirring, as called for by the directions.

I turn on my TV, find Jeopardy. Leaving the volume down, I stare at Alex

Trebek's face, his hair more silver now than salt-and-pepper, creases and crevices line his

cheeks and eyes, and his upper lip is naked without his signature mustache. For a

moment, there is nothing to do, no thought or idea breezing through my head, time sitting

still waiting for something, and I have an urge. It is a craving I have no desire to satisfy,

yet it comes and goes, just a reminder that it is there. A year ago, I would have used these

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minutes to take a hit off of my bong or light up a cigarette. Today, I sit on my couch,

sober, existing with empty minutes. The urge to inhale smoke has been replaced with a

new desire- sex- formally suppressed by a marijuana-induced functional coma.

I return to the kitchen, three minutes having passed. Condensation has steamed

up the door, little beads cover it like bubble wrap, and I pop it open, pull out the little

dish. Careful not to burn my finger tips, I use the lip around the edges, admire the

shrunken food - it has shriveled from exposure to the radiating machine. All the

moisture has vacated it, desiccated it. The water stuck to the glass door and attached to

the underside of the plastic covering once belonged to the rosemary chicken tenderloins.

Now all that is left is dehydrated astronaut food.

I grab a plate, pick up a fork, and scoop the contents of the dish into three neat

piles - chicken, spinach, brown rice. An old trick - make microwaved garbage seem

appetizing, like a home cooked meal. Redistribution - making art out of artificial food.

Steam wafts off of my limp dinner, reaches high and disappears, successfully

racing away from it. A landscape painting hangs on the wall, the grass serving as a

backdrop to the rising vapor, turning it green, toxic. And suddenly, I have lost my

appetite.

I carry the dish back to the kitchen, then dump its contents into the trash. I pop a

bag of popcorn in the microwave. Hit power power-high for 3 minutes and 45 seconds,

watch the digital screen count back, 3:44 ... 3:43 . . . 3:42 .... 3:41. .. 3:40 ....

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Mycophobia

Twenty-five years old, standing in the kitchen of my apartment. I have a fork in

hand, and two sweet potatoes lie helplessly on the counter, playing dead. One swift

motion and I stab, then wiggle the utensil out of the Ipomoea batatas, and repeat. The

oven is hot, and a non-stick pan lies before me, waiting to host the potatoes while they

bake.

Shouldn 't we cook them in the microwave? I ask my boyfriend, Jason.

Yeah? Don't you think you've had enough of the microwave?

I guess. But isn't it so much quicker to nuke it.

Just think of that word, nuke. Do you really trust something that radiates your

food until it's hot? I don't care what people say, it can't he good for you.

A cookbook sits open, turned to a recipe for linguine in pesto sauce. Do you want

to go your whole life having only eaten Chinese food and grilled cheese? Jason asked,

flipping through it, picking out one of the dishes I had never eaten.

Do you like pes to? he asked.

No.

Have you tried it?

Well, no.

Then how do you know you don't like it?

I don't know.

Then pesto it is.

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I am rarely bothered by these antics, and find his conquest to expand my culinary

horizons charming. Last night, I ate meatloaf for the first time, and for lunch last week,

guacamole and tacos. We sat outside La Cazuela, at a table for two, underneath an

artificial palm tree, plastic leaves covering us from fragments of sunlight. The wind

blew, the synthetic foliage swayed, and I squinted, the sun breaking out from the

obstruction. I moved my head in various directions, in search of shade, and Jason asked

if I was wearing sunscreen.

Yup, I told him, 25.

A medley of bowls, plates, and cups are sprinkled over the countertop - four

ounces of washed basil leaves dry on a red saucer dish, one chopped garlic clove rests

inside a matching red coffee mug, one ounce of pine nuts is piled in the bottom of a black

cereal bowl, and assorted vegetables wait their turn to be added. After reading the

directions once again, then checking and rechecking the ingredients, I take the top of the

blender off, toss ingredients into the belly of the glass mixer- first pine nuts, followed by

basil leaves, and then garlic. A tablespoon is held over the opening, and I measure in

four spoonfuls of extra-virgin olive oil. Careful not to make the mistake I made last week

while attempting a fruit smoothie, I replace the cap on the top of the blender. Like the

crown of a carved-out pumpkin, it slides perfectly into its slot.

Buzzing, grinding, a high-pitched squeal, and I hold the top of the blender on

tightly, picturing the gritty green mixture spattering onto my off-white walls. I jump as

something touches my neck, Jason's lips cool and wet as they brush along my skin, and I

release my finger from the button, startled.

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I think it's done, he says, and removes the mixer from its base, scoops the

contents into a pan, places it on a burner, turns the dial to low.

I pull a pasta pot out from the clean dishwasher, fill it with water, and set it on

the big burner on high. Together, we open the cabinets, remove dinner plates and

glasses, deposit them on the kitchen table, select forks and knives from their drawer, and

position them on either side of the dishes. Jason picks the open bottle of red off the table,

pours a half-glass of the opaque garnet liquid in each goblet. After a small sample, I

return to the stove, throw the linguine in the boiling water, and reduce the heat.

When the cooked pasta is strained, and the sweet potatoes are baked, split open

and filled with a ball of melting butter and a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar, I mix the

warmed pesto sauce in with the pasta, and throw the vegetables in one vegetable at a

time. One cup and one third steamed broccoli, done. Two thirds cup sauteed green

pepper, done. One cup freshly cut tomato, done. Half cup of sliced mushrooms .. . half

cup of sliced mushrooms . .. half cup of sliced mushrooms. The measuring cup hangs over

the pot, the fungus waiting for its chance to mix with the linguine and the pesto. I move

my hand to the side, flip the lid to the garbage, toss the contents of the measuring cup in

the trash. I don't like mushrooms, I think to myself, I've never had them, and never will.

I mix the contents of the pot thoroughly, make sure every ingredient is covered in grainy

green.

Jason returns to the kitchen, peers into the medley of bowls and dishes now empty

on the counter. You added everything ? he asks. Yup, I say, scooping our homemade

dinner onto a set of plates.

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