Any Other City, page 4
At least half of the short film was footage of a male seahorse giving birth. There were no English subtitles, but my French is pretty good. The female deposits eggs in the male’s pouch and floats away. And when the male gives birth, he spurts so many teensy-weensy seahorse babies out of his swollen pouch. Even after all those teensy seahorse babies have squirted out of him, he keeps spasming from birth contractions for a few more hours. It’s hard not to feel bad for that seahorse dad with his endless spasms.
Only when I wandered back home did I realize that I live in Seahorse Alley.
—
Lately, I’m finding it difficult to make myself come. The ways I used to jerk off don’t feel that good anymore. There’s a new technique I’ve discovered that I call “cup and rub.” It’s difficult to describe, but it seems to be working. I’ll show you the next time I see you. I miss your hands and your mouth on my body.
—
I wrote a letter to Sadie Tang in care of her school, asking to interview her for my radio show. I told her my name is Tracy.
—
I was just remembering when your dad helped us paint our overpriced one-bedroom apartment. He was bemused that I had no idea how to paint. I helped clumsily lug the paint cans from his truck. It was kind of him to pay for the paint and to lend his expertise, but he treated me like his dim-witted sidekick the entire time.
I never told you, but I overheard the two of you talking while you painted the bathroom magenta and absinthe green. It sounded like your dad said I was growing on him; then, I think he asked if you were sure I wasn’t gay. I didn’t catch your answer, but whatever you said made him laugh so hard that he had to reach for his puffer.
—
I met Sadie Tang today. She wanted to go for coffee before agreeing to do the interview for my imaginary college radio show. When she asked me over the phone what my show was called, I blanked. Oh, my show, I blathered, I thought I already told you the name. No, she said, you didn’t. Oh, okay, I said. It’s called Art Attack. Well, it used to be called Art Attack and Vine. Then I shortened it. To Art Attack. (Sometimes, when I start making things up, I just can’t turn my mouth off. I’m like a faucet with a broken handle.)
She met me near a well-known monument related to the war. A few tourists were standing around it, snapping shots and studying their guidebooks. Sadie had told me she would be easy to spot. She was unmissable in her black leather jacket and white T-shirt with three lines of bright red text:
trans
sexual
artist
I waved at her. She drifted through the tourists to where I was standing and smiled warmly. It’s good to meet you, Tracy, she said. I know a great coffee shop that way. She pointed toward an alley. Follow me.
She led me down Blood Alley, up a dark, twisting staircase, past a couple of family dwellings, past a barber and a butcher and a florist, and then, just like that, we had arrived at the coffee shop. Actually, it was a coffee shop and a shoe shop housed in the same small space. Sadie introduced me to the Thai lesbian couple who ran it, El and Em. El was quiet and androgynous, dressed in a black T-shirt, black jeans, and black sneakers, with a shaved head and dark hazel eyes; she ran the coffee shop. Em was flamboyant and flirty, wearing a denim dress and shocking-pink motorcycle boots; she ran the shoe store and was a skilled cobbler. I felt embarrassed for Em, because she looked like an overweight man in a dress. She had wide shoulders and a five o’clock shadow.
Sadie said we were just there for coffee. She muttered something to Em that I didn’t catch. All three of them laughed. Em smiled at me and said in English, She told me that maybe she will talk you into buying a pair of my boots. Em winked. Nice meeting you, she said. With that, she disappeared behind a paisley curtain on her side of the store.
Once we were seated at a table with our cups of coffee and a couple of pastries, I realized Sadie was probably the first transsexual person I’d ever met. Of course, I’d just met Em, but it was hard for me to think of her as a woman. She seemed more like a drag queen or something.
It was warm in the coffee shop, so Sadie shrugged off her leather jacket and folded it gently on the chair beside us. She reminded me of a Vietnamese Juliette Binoche. Her dark hair was in a pixie cut with a streak of silver along one side.
I sipped my coffee and scalded the roof of my mouth. Be careful, Sadie said, they make the coffee piping hot here. She’d ordered Vietnamese iced coffee. It was slowly dripping through a small metal filter, a tall glass full of ice waiting beside it. I nodded and made an “okay” sign with my fingers. I had no idea about transsexual etiquette, but I sensed it would be rude to ask her how and when she’d known she was a transsexual.
So, she said, resting her elbows on the table and leaning toward me, why do you want to interview me? You don’t really have a radio show, do you?
Well, I stammered, I don’t know, uh. Well, okay. I don’t know how you know, but you’re right. I don’t have a radio show.
She nodded and cut a piece off her raspberry scone with a butter knife. And, she said, you aren’t going to RISD, are you? She buttered the piece of scone and popped it in her mouth.
How did you know? I asked. I felt defeated and deflated. Within a few minutes of my sitting down with her, Sadie Tang had already clocked me as a fraud.
I have friends who teach there, honey, she said. Hell, one of my exes worked there the whole time we were dating. Bloody Providence. Now, that city really wasn’t my city. If you want to concoct a cock-and-bull story for me, you need to make sure your cock-and-bull story is airtight. She pointed her butter-smeared, crumb-encrusted butter knife at me. Got it? Air. Tight.
I nodded. I felt like a hermit crab trapped in a shell two sizes too small. I tried to sit up straight in my smooth plastic chair. I touched my tongue to the scalded spot on the roof of my mouth. A piece of skin had been burnt off by the piping-hot coffee. I gently nudged the flap forward and backward with my tongue. It reminded me of when I was small and had a loose tooth that was happy to wiggle back and forth but wasn’t quite ready to come out yet.
It’s okay, Sadie said. I’m not upset. I’m intrigued. You’ve piqued my curiosity. They say curiosity killed the cat. But they also say that satisfaction will bring it back.
I’m really sorry I lied to you. I just didn’t know what else to do.
That’s fine, she said. Apology accepted. Water under the bridge. Now you need to tell me why you lied to me. My curiosity is piqued. Ergo, I’m dead. It appears I’ve had an art attack. She winked at me. But you can revive my exquisite corpse by satisfying my curiosity.
Well, I said, I lied because I wanted to meet you.
Okaaaay, she said. She buttered another chunk of scone. Now why did you want to meet me? She whispered loudly like a character in a play: Here’s where you spill the beans, Tracy. She bit into the buttered scone and gestured with her palm for me to talk.
I touched my tongue to the tender, scalded skin on the roof of my mouth again. Okay, I thought, here we go.
As soon as I started to talk, everything tumbled out of me. Visiting Platypus Pornography with Cory. Getting rejected twice from the art school where she teaches. Flying across the ocean to live in this city of mysteries and alleys. Missing you fiercely, but still feeling the pull to stay here. Working at the bakery. Making watercolours of the meandering chaos the alleys. And, finally, deciding that I needed to meet her, that I wanted more than anything to make art that was as energetic and emotional as hers, but I didn’t know how to do it yet.
When I’d finished, Sadie sat silently for a moment, pursing her lips and nodding. Okay, she said. Thank you for all that. I need to pee. But I’ll be back, and I have a few things to say. She grabbed her purse from under her leather jacket.
El came over to refill my cup and check if we needed anything else. I shook my head. I nibbled on my raspberry Danish and snuck a glance at Em, who was adjusting a row of colourful cowboy boots in her store.
Sadie returned to the table a few minutes later. She poured her Vietnamese coffee over the ice cubes and took a sip. Oh, that’s good, she said. She had another sip. She rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward. Look, she said, if you think you should be here, you probably should be here. I don’t believe in fate or whatever, but I’ve seen some spooky shit, and sometimes your gut knows more than you’d think. I’ll meet you here for coffee once a week for the rest of the term. So, that’s like four or five weeks. Then, I have to fly to Tokyo for a thing. How does that sound?
It sounded unreal. Wow, I said, that’s so nice of you. I don’t know how to thank you.
You can thank me, she said, by thanking me. Which you just did. And by buying the coffee and snacks next time. This time it’s on me. First time is always free. You’ll need to bring some of your art next time. And, yes, this is a nice thing I’m doing for you, isn’t it? Keep the unbearable niceness of my being in mind if I become a total fucking bitch to you later, okay?
Okay, I said.
She finished her iced coffee and put a few wrinkled bills on the table that must have been at least twice the price of our coffee and pastries. She hugged El and Em and exchanged goodbye kisses with them.
El waved goodbye to me, and Em blew me a theatrical kiss. Next time, she shouted, you will buy some boots from me, yes?
Uh, maybe, I said. I knew that wasn’t true, so I quickly added, Probably not. Sorry. I found it hard to make eye contact with Em because I didn’t want her to notice that I thought she looked like a linebacker playing dress-up in girly clothes. I wondered what her life was like.
Em and Sadie laughed.
You lie to me, Sadie said, and you tell her the truth. Interesting. Well, sometimes the truth sets you free, and sometimes it brings you a tsunami of bullshit.
Sadie whisked us through the alley back to the tourist-infested war monument. Until next week, she said. Then, she gave me a quick goodbye hug and disappeared down an alley.
—
I don’t think I’ve ever told you about how my brain is often counting things or doing weird little calculations. Oh, actually, you might have noticed it, because I’ll often check the door three times before we leave the apartment. Then, I’ll occasionally walk back and check it another four times. (My brain likes the number seven. 3 + 4 = 7.) I do something similar with the stove, looking at all of the element dials and the oven dial to make sure nothing is turned on. With the stove, I need the numbers to add up to 21, which can get complicated because there are only five dials. Why do I need it to add up to 21? I don’t know. That’s just the way it is.
Now I wonder if I’m worrying you. You don’t need to be worried. I went and saw a therapist a couple of years ago because I was worried there was something wrong with me. She listened to me unspool the bendy calculations my brain does with the numbers and objects it encounters. When I stopped talking, she asked if “all these little number rituals” kept me from being able to do things. I said it was sometimes distracting or annoying, but it didn’t really affect my life too much. She said that if things “escalated” and started to interfere with my life, I should visit her or another therapist for “possible interventions.” But she assured me that it sounded like there was nothing wrong with me. It’s just something my mind does “to find order within chaos,” she said, and plenty of people have similar quirks. I’m fine. Really, everything is all right.
For some reason, there are certain numbers that make me feel comfy. 2. 3. 7. 12. 21. 34. 43. 47. 102.
I’m mentioning this because the address for El and Em’s coffee shop / shoe shop is number 47, which feels fairly auspicious.
—
After my shift at the bakery today, I sifted through pieces of art, considering which to show Sadie Tang. I hate all of them. I don’t know how to make art. Now I wish I’d never contacted her.
After spinning my wheels for an hour or two, I dropped the mixtape you made for me before I left into my boom box as a quick pick-me-up and started sorting things into three piles: awful, maybe, not bad. When I finished sorting, there were only a few things in the not bad pile and a handful in the maybe pile, so I decided to just bring those items with me. (There were more things than I could count in the awful pile.)
Now I have to wait almost a week for Sadie to dismiss my flimsy pieces and bury me under an avalanche of honesty. I can already imagine her giving me a tight-lipped smile, wanting to be encouraging in the same way a mom is encouraging when her toddler poops or when a cat lady thanks her kitty for leaving a decapitated mouse on the doormat. Then, her tight-lipped smile fades as she morphs into the merciless bitch she warned me she might become. Oh dear, I see her saying, these are not good. And they’re not good in a way that I rarely encounter. These are—what’s the right phrase—oh yes, spectacular failures. Then, I picture her waving El and Em over to gawk at the crap art I’ve brought in.
Your mixtape ended, so I popped in the new album by the Dalloways, which opens with “Song for Edmond Edmont.” Have you heard that song yet? It’s catchy and weird and has an off-kilter, herky-jerky beat. In an instant, that song pricked a hole in my inflated emotions. And I was laughing at my insecurities and flailing around in time to the pulsing beat in my cramped apartment.
According to the liner notes, “Song for Edmond Edmont” is about a language surveyor who rode around nineteenth-century France on a bicycle, recording different French dialects. My favourite part in the song (maybe it’s what musicians call a “bridge”?) is where the singer, Ginger Astaire, ecstatically sings four words again and again and again:
Bicycler!
Topographer!
Stenographer!
Lexicographer!
Each time she sings it, another member of the band joins her, so it becomes like a spell or an incantation. Finally, all four members are singing, and it’s glorious. And then it goes into the catchy, off-kilter chorus.
After the music ends, Ginger Astaire yells, “Que sera, sera, baby!” and we can hear a couple of her bandmates laughing. For some reason, her tweak on the title of that Doris Day staple calmed me down about seeing Sadie Tang next week. Whatever will be, will be, baby.
I spent the week working at the bakery, obsessing over the flawed pieces I was going to show Sadie, slinking through alleys, and drinking beer under a tree at a popular park near the canal.
Wherever I went, the latest Dalloways album provided the soundtrack. At the bakery, I played it whenever my colleagues would let me. At home, it never left my boom box. In alleys and at the park, my whirring portable disc player broadcast it to my earphones.
It feels like it’s been years since an album has pulled me in so completely. All I want to do is listen to those ten songs on repeat. All the tracks on Forgotten Songs for Forgotten Souls are about obscure historical figures. Besides Edmond Edmont, there are songs about overlooked oddballs like Capability Brown (an eighteenth-century English gardener), Anastasius Lagrantius Rosenstengel (a gender-bending eighteenth-century Prussian), Ching Shih (a nineteenth-century Chinese pirate and sex worker), and Huda Sha′arawi (a twentieth-century Egyptian feminist revolutionary).
Today, my favourite is “Song for the World’s Greatest Actor.” It’s sung from the point of view of an actress playing Desdemona in a production of Othello in the Wild West. According to the album’s liner notes, a sozzled cowboy in the audience became infuriated watching devious Iago convince his friend Othello to murder his own wife. Apparently, the drunk cowboy sprang up from his seat, shouted, You lying bastard! and shot the actor playing Iago dead.
The part of the song that always gets me is its devastating ending:
You still walk in my memory’s hallways
I’ll visit you in the cemetery always
I drink a drink at your gravestone, my dear
“Here lies,” it says, “the world’s greatest actor”
And here lies our baby girl in a basket
And here lies my whole world in a casket
Those last two lines are like a dagger to my heart. Please pick up this album so we can fill our ears with the same weird sound waves. These songs are also making me want to play the guitar again. Maybe I’ll buy myself a ukulele. I bet “Nuclear Reactor” would sound amazing on a cute little uke. Yeah, fuckin’ yeah. Just imagine me singing those lines in a Hawaiian shirt with a lei around my neck while strumming a ukulele. As I write this, I can already hear you saying, Oh, I’ll give you a lei. Yeah, fuckin’ yeah, indeed.
—
I think about going down on you all the time. The way you grab fistfuls of my hair and push my head down hard as you fuck my face. The way you tell me exactly how to suck your clit, sometimes tenderly, sometimes with more pressure, sometimes with a flickering tongue. All the ways you want me to fuck you with my fingers while I give you head. The way you breathe, sometimes shallowly, sometimes whispery, sometimes throaty. The way you cup your breasts and arch your back. The way you dribble down my chin. The way you gasp and quake as you come in my mouth. The way my body fits against yours as we cuddle afterward.
Now I’m remembering you and me in that pizza joint on Main Street. While I was sprinkling chili flakes on a slice, you leaned over and whispered, When we get home I’m going to need you to pussyburger me, and then you let out a short, tight laugh. And I knew exactly what you meant, because “pussyburger” had just become part of our sexual shorthand. Earlier that week, you’d trained me to get my right hand in a Vulcan salute and squeeze you between my fingers. While I was gripping you like that, you held me with your gaze and said, It’s like your fingers are the bun and my pussy is the patty. Like a pussyburger. You laughed and propped yourself up with your elbows to kiss me. Then, you showed me so many ways to make you feel good with my fingers by moving them this way or that way or by using my thumb or my mouth against your clit. At times, you are greedy for pleasure, and it’s incredibly hot.
I asked you, If my fingers are the bun and your pussy is the patty, what’s your clit? You shook your head and said, Oh fuck, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the pickle on top. All I know is that right now more than anything in the world I want you to make me come with your mouth. Can you do that for me?
