She was a kid, yet honestly—not really. She just turned 55, pays
the rent, works hard, and was diagnosed with chronic depression by her
psychiatrist. Genetics and bad experiences were hard to overcome, but she did.
It left her mostly exhausted while self-medicating but talkative with her
therapist.
So, that girl, well — woman, had long reached and passed the age
of knowing better, having never been raised by circumstance to walk the narrow
path to Heaven or, despite parental or alternative authority, just chose to go
her own way. She was left-handed, which is where the word sinister comes from,
and of course, no good would come from people like that.
Her grandmother said this when she was five, and she never got
over it. You just don’t.
When she arrived at the crossroads at certain age in life, she
already had her chosen path. There was no devil to make a deal with, not that
she wanted to ask for something in return. Instead, the decision was made
effortlessly on her own, and it seemed without much thought was involved. She
was not one for self-reflection except to check her make-up or horns finally
sprouted.
A dangerous person is confident without the burden of faith
tugging at their soul—an inhuman lacking remorse or reservation. The kind who
doesn’t break stride as she hurts people on the journey. Draw a distinction
between those who love and care and those who hate.
She also thought herself wise. As she progresses, she becomes
mindful of the story of the great-uncle who disappeared on a high school trip
because he decided to go his own way, stepping off the road and into the
forest—his body was never found.
She craved the attention too much to disappear, so she walked
straight in the middle of the trail on the way to whatever destiny left for
her.
The leopard skirt was too young for her, but whatever, pretend
it will be the last time. The day sucked, and nightfall brought opportunities
for a respite of hopeful socializing, and the bartender liked her enough to
comp half the orders.
The decision on footwear depended on how drunk she was going to
get tonight, so she settled for Docs--over fishnet—she wasn’t that old.
She put on her oversized black t-shirt to hide the gut. She
thought about a session in hot yoga again and not blowing off the gym, but
forgot both looked in the mirror and realized she still looked younger than her
age thanks to her hairstyle and fair skin.
She threw on her shawl and motorcycle jacket. She was that kind
of girl. Slapped on her headphones and left her apartment, listening to obscure
shoegaze loud to start up the tinnitus by the time the elevator doors opened,
walking through the courtyard, passing the fountain, and onward to the street
before turning the corner that led to the dive bar.
While walking, she remembered the rocker girl days. It started
with a cheap black leather jacket made in Pakistan, purchased at St. Mark’s
Place for 99 dollars. Then came a couple of mock turtlenecks at the Gap, a
garrison bilt made from lacquered leather, and two pairs of drainpipe black
jeans that never faded unless she washed them in cold water in the sink at her
dorm at NYU. She completed the ensemble with black leather pointed-to boots at
a used closing warehouse in Brooklyn.
She remembered becoming a different person. She was surprised at
how fast and complete the transformation from good girl to badass was.
But this was only in appearance, and it wasn’t long before she
became yet another East Village cartoon, wandering from King Tuts to the
Pyramid to the Knitting Factory and both Downtown Beiruits, along with Space
From Chase, shows at the Ritz and the wretched old dance hall in Midtown, where
she first tripped during a Spiritualized show.
Dipped into a well of the blackest ink and dropped into a feral
New York landscape where one never ventured alone past Avenue B.
It wasn’t too long before she was invisible. Just another punk
rock girl attending an expensive school with no plans or real friends, even
though she never really tried.
She reached the bar, pausing at the window, looking in. The
brewpub down the street closed last week, so that crowd had taken over.
Younger, professional, button-down shirts, neat haircuts, and designer
everything, likely ordering new hip cocktails,
like espresso martinis.
The kids working the bar knew how to make
them.
She put her hand to the window and saw herself as she was.
Outside looking in.
Turning, she walked across the street to the liquor store,
bought a half-liter of vodka, and returned to her apartment.
She drank herself into a fugue state, and while asleep, she dreamed of walking in the middle of the road, no destination in mind, her leather cowboy boots crunching on gravel, going nowhere, as always, nameless in a crowd until work begins Monday morning.
About the author
Mike Lee is a writer and editor at a trade union in New York City. His work appears in or is forthcoming in Wallstrait, Bright Flash Literary Review, Panoplyzine, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Bristol Noir, BULL, Drunk Monkeys, and many others. His story collection, The Northern Line, is available on Amazon
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