karousel kaleidoscope

The orange sunset clashes so spectacularly with my faded red brick apartment building, I don’t even mind the dozens of pastel plimpers floating around. They swim and worm across my vision, like maggots slowly feeding off my decaying reality.
     Andͩ dͩoͦn’tͭ foͦrͬgeͤtͭ tͭhͪeͤ stͭaͣndͩaͣrͬdͩ Scͨrͬaͣntͭoͦn smͫoͦg. Juͧstͭ giͥvͮeͤs iͥtͭ aͣll aͣ piͥcͨtͭuͧrͬeͤsquͧeͤ gloͦw, dͩoͦntͭcͨhͪaͣ tͭhͪiͥnk? Modly says from somewhere above me. A fly buzzing around my head, his snarky criticism flits about. I suppress the urge to bat him away.
     The setting sun is garish and blinding. I shield my eyes trying to get a good look at my third story window. I think I left the light on.
     Beͤtͭtͭeͤrͬ goͦ uͧp aͣndͩ cͨhͪeͤcͨk, Pug’s whiny, cracking baritone says. Juͧstͭ oͦneͤ mͫoͦrͬeͤ tͭiͥmͫeͤ.
     “Shut up,” I say, and I force myself to turn away and head toward the bus stop. I try to blink away the distracting plimpers, but to spite me, they bounce around the sidewalk like baby shower balloons.
     The cracked concrete is unforgiving on my thin Adidas sneakers. I need a new pair, but I haven’t made myself go out to buy them. Maybe Sara would be willing to get them for me?
     Someone’s singing an aria behind me. It sounds like Wagner, maybe from Lohengrin? I dig through my satchel for my walkman.
     Hoͦoͦrͬaͣy! Hoͦoͦrͬaͣy! Yoͦuͧ goͦtͭ iͥtͭ! The Triplets tumble in front of me, belting the song in harmony. Their tutus brush close to my face, and I flinch violently. My face grows red when a woman and her kid hurries by.
     “Eh, sorry,” I mutter, but they’re already out of earshot.
     Ughͪ, yoͦuͧ shͪoͦuͧldͩaͣ juͧstͭ iͥgnoͦrͬeͤdͩ tͭhͪeͤmͫ. Noͦw tͭhͪeͤy tͭhͪiͥnk yoͦuͧ’rͬeͤ aͣ frͬeͤaͣk.
     “I am a freak,” I say, jamming my headphones on my ears. Maybe The Ramones can drown out the chatter. I flip out Ziggy and fish around for ‘Halfway to Sanity.’ I balance on the lip of the sidewalk, narrowly missing telephone poles when strangers pass by.
     Goͦdͩ, whͪaͣtͭ aͣ frͬeͤaͣk, oͦhͪ goͦdͩ, yoͦuͧ’rͬeͤ suͧcͨhͪ aͣ frͬeͤaͣk, oͦhͪ goͦdͩ, yoͦuͧ’rͬeͤ suͧcͨhͪ aͣ—
     I hͪaͣtͭeͤ iͥtͭ hͪeͤrͬeͤ. Itͭ’s fuͧcͨkiͥng grͬoͦss. Hoͦw dͩoͦ yoͦuͧ eͤvͮeͤn brͬeͤaͣtͭhͪeͤ? Thͪaͣtͭ shͪiͥtͭ’s cͨoͦaͣtͭiͥng yoͦuͧrͬ whͪoͦleͤ iͥnsiͥdͩeͤs. Yoͦuͧ’rͬeͤ fuͧcͨkiͥng grͬoͦss.
     IT’S INSIDE OF ME! INSIDE OF ME! OH GOD, IT’S INSIDE OF ME!
     I round the corner, and the bus shed is in view. It’s more crowded than I’d like. I pick up the pace and dodge a couple crossing the street. I manage not to apologize profusely.
     I skid to a halt before I run into a telephone pole. Was I just running? My heart’s pounding. My chest is tight.
     Ohͪ mͫy goͦdͩ, tͭhͪeͤy’rͬeͤ aͣll stͭaͣrͬiͥng aͣtͭ yoͦuͧ noͦw, Gyspy interjects. Juͧstͭ dͩiͥeͤ aͣlrͬeͤaͣdͩy. Goͦdͩ, tͭhͪiͥs iͥs soͦ eͤmͫbaͣrͬrͬaͣssiͥng. I ignore her and try to focus on breathing.
     My legs are shaky. I take a seat across from a businessman, smartly suited up and likely headed home to the wife, dog, and 1.5 kids. I glance at my watch. 4:52. I'm going to be a little late.
     My breath’s coming in gasps now.
     Maͣybeͤ weͤ shͪoͦuͧldͩ juͧstͭ goͦ hͪoͦmͫeͤ. Weͤ cͨaͣn tͭeͤll hͪeͤrͬ weͤ'rͬeͤ noͦtͭ feͤeͤliͥng weͤll.
     The Triplets twitter somewhere behind me, just behind my right ear, where I can't swat at them or hum away their increasingly ringing tones. I impulsively press “play” on my walkman, but the tape doesn't play. I flip it over and press it again. It. Doesn't. God. Damn. Play. And the Triplets' harmonies are still screeching.
     I fight to keep my hands from clawing at my ears. My face is screwed up like I've got a 20-year-old grudge on this guy. My eyes are watering, and they won't shut up. Just shut up shut up shut up—
     “Shut up!” I yell. The guy next to me stands and waits by the sidewalk. I don't blame him.
     I shake a bottle of small pink pills into my hand and down I-don't-care-how-many with a swig of stale, overnight water.
     The familiar rattle and screech of the bus breaks whistles in my ears. Everyone shuffles in and I quietly get in line. I keep my eyes glued to the ground, fish through my pocket for a quarter, and try to act like a fucking normal human being for once in my goddamn life.
     “Henry!” a woman’s voice calls good-naturedly. It startles me, and I awkwardly bump into the person behind me. I look up at Sheila, turned in her driver’s seat to face me. She’s smiling her big yellow smile, cornrows tickling her dark freckles.
     “How you doin’, honey? Been a while since I seen you.”
     I nod and give what is supposed to be a smirk. I stagger into my usual seat, the first one past the door which hisses shut as the bus rattles on.
     Sheila glances up at the mirror and grins at me. “So where you goin’? You lookin’ sharp. You gotta date?” I smirk and look away. She squeals,“Ooh, you do gotta date! Good for you, baby!”
     “We’ve seen each other a few times.”
     She takes a wide left turn onto Prince. “Hm, wassat, baby?”
     “We’re just going to a diner.”
     “Mm, well, that’s jus’ wonderful. Good for you.”
     When I leave, she hollers to me, “Now, you be sweet to her! See ya around, Henry!”
     I don’t respond. I’m confronted with the rusty visage of a downtown diner.
     Fuͧcͨk, whͪaͣtͭ kiͥndͩ oͦf iͥnsaͣneͤ peͤrͬsoͦn eͤaͣtͭs iͥn aͣ plaͣcͨeͤ liͥkeͤ tͭhͪiͥs? Ohͪ mͫy goͦdͩ, iͥs tͭhͪaͣtͭ aͣ cͨoͦndͩoͦmͫ?
     I'mͫ goͦnnaͣ beͤ siͥcͨk. I knoͦw. I juͧstͭ knoͦw I'mͫ goͦiͥng puͧkeͤ aͣll oͦvͮeͤrͬ hͪeͤrͬ.
     IT’S INSIDE OF ME! GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT! INSIDE! OUT!
     My breathing’s in huffs. My throat’s closing up. I charge in. The door dings and my sneakers are tacky against the linoleum floor. It smells overwhelmingly of frying oil and cigarettes. The stale air is thick with it and makes me want to take a shower. I scan the crowd for her familiar face. From behind my right ear, a breathy voice chills the hairs on my neck.
     I see you.
     Where is he? I whip around, my eyes dancing wildly, trying to get a glimpse. If I can see him, I can run from him.
     You can’t hide from me.
     He’s so close, I can feel his lips brush skin. I cringe violently and try to slap him away.
     I know you.
     I don't see her until she's touching my arm, and everything else—every noise, color, song, texture, and terror—settles down, still and dim and sweet.
     Sara points to her ears and asks, a little loudly, "What're you listening to?"
     "What do you mean?"
     She pulls off my headphones that I completely forgot I was still wearing. I can feel my whole face get hot, but she chuckles and puts them in my satchel.
     "Come on. I got us a seat." She slips her hand in mine and drags me through a sea of overweight diners, but I focus on her bouncing brown bob, her slender tan arm, the warmth of her hand in mine.
     “I’m sorry I’m late.” I’m a little breathless, but my heart’s pumping normally again.
     “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” she says from over her shoulder. She pulls me into the chipping, red plastic booth. “I hope you don’t mind; I ordered us drinks. You like Dr. Pepper, right?”
     A genuine laugh escapes. “I love Dr. Pepper.”
     “Oh good!” Her smile glows and brightens the whole disgusting place.
For a single moment, it’s just us. She tucks her hair behind her ears. She crosses her legs beneath the table. She licks her lips and glances around. She’s beautiful, with her light-hearted smile and her kind eyes. Why on earth is she interested in me?
     “Anyway,” she drops her gaze shyly to the menus in the middle of the table, “what’re you hungry for? They’ve got great breakfast specials they serve all day.” She nonchalantly flips through one. “Whatever you want. My treat.”
     “Oh, well, hm . . .” I slide the grease-stained menu toward me. It’s sticky. I don’t open it. “Why don’t we share something?”
     She beams and says, “Yeah, that’s a great idea! We can get the farmer’s special. It’s so much food but so good!” She waves at an aproned woman who nods and holds up a finger.
     “So, uh, how’s the concerto coming?” She’s making small talk. I’m being too quiet.
     “Oh, you know . . .”
     “I can’t wait to hear it when it’s finished.”
     My neck goes floppy. There’s a prick of pain behind my eyes. “Uh, yeah. Me too.”
     She goes on about something at the hospital. She’s laughing, and it makes my head spin.
     “Uh-huh.” I’m gonna be sick.
     “Henry?” Her voice is concerned.
     I gotta get outta here.
     “Henry, are you alright?”
     “I, uh . . .” My feet sludge across the floor, between the bodies, the grease.
     Scrambled eggs. Fake crab cakes. Ugh, I’m gonna be sick.
     The grimy door won’t open. Oh, it’s a pull.
     My hands hit the sticky tiles. Oh god, I’m such a mess.
     I know not to take those pills on an empty stomach. My head bounces against the wall. I’m gonna faint. I know it. Pounding from somewhere echoes in my head, marching through my brain: stupid, stupid, stupid.
     Still more pounding and shouting.
     Soft hands touch my face. I can’t open my eyes to see whose.
     “Henry! Oh my god. Are you having an episode? Can you hear me? Jesus, I’m gonna call 911.”
     Hands leave my face. “Nuh . . .”
     “Henry? Can you hear me?”
     “muh-kay-shun . . .”
     “Huh?”
     “Uh pulls . . .”
     “Your pills? You need your pills?”
     “No.” Dear god, no. Please, no.
     “What can I do? Henry!” Slapping my cheeks. My eyes startle open. Eyelids like fifty-pound weights. “You need to stay awake. Okay? Listen to me. I’m gonna take you home, okay? Come on.” She stands. “Come on, time to get up.” Pulls my arms. My legs are jello. “There we go.” Hand around my waist. Arm around her shoulders. “There we go. Let’s go.”
     I hear the ding of the door as we shuffle out, the squeal of the bus, the trudge across the concrete. I’m barely awake.
     I don’t remember how I got here, but I’m lying in bed.
     My head is throbbing from a med hangover. My eyes are still heavy, but better than they were. My third story window is dark. The bright red numbers on my alarm clock read 9:03. I breathe in. Musty with old sheet music and scores. Warm, worn sheets. Home. Thank god.
     It feels like I swallowed rubber cement, so I pull myself out of bed.
The lamp’s on in the living area. She’s sitting on my little tweed loveseat, reading. She looks up, tosses the book aside, and hurries to me. Her brown eyes are soft with lines underneath.
     “How’re you feeling?”
     “Better.”
     She squeezes my middle, and I hold her tightly to me. She smells like an English garden in full afternoon sun.
     “Hey, Sara?”
     “Hm?”
     “I hate diners. Can we never go back?” She pulls back, surprised. “I’m sorry. I shoulda told you.”
     “No no no no, it’s fine!”
     “It’s just all the grease and—”
     “Oh, yeah, no, I get it—”
     “—and the floors are always sticky, and just everyone’s smoking—”
     She puts her hands on my chest. “It’s fine.”
     “It all just drives me bonkers.”
     She nods. “I know. I’m sorry.” She hugs me again. I’m content. “We’ll figure this out together, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”
     A hot, breathy whisper brushes my neck.
     I’m not going anywhere.