Jasmina
“Are
you okay to talk about this?”
Molly’s
couch affords a wonderful view of Mill Valley: the little bowl of the downtown
area, the high ridges across the way, slivers of fog teasing the redwoods.
“I
was afraid that I had broken the contract.”
“Okay,
Jasmina. I appreciate that, but… Let’s say we’re in a court of law right now.
I’m an attorney, and I have just asked you to describe the events of… the
afternoon in question.”
“Okay.
Counselor. Paul headed off for a meeting. He was being mysterious, so I assumed
it was with you. I decided to make a nice big salad so I could leave some for
Paul. Lettuce, cucumbers, red bell peppers and a can of sweet peas. The can had
one of those pull-tops. I was having a hard time getting leverage, so I braced
my thumb against the edge. When I yanked it open, the side of the lid cut my
thumb, and… I started bleeding.”
“Okay,”
says Molly. “Stop right there. Why were you worried about the contract? This
sounds like a common accident.”
I
look out the window. My eye lands on a tall white steeple. “I can’t trust my
own mind. I thought maybe I had done it on purpose.”
Molly
thinks about it. “Okay. What happened next?”
“I
wrapped the cut with a towel. The sight of the blood was bringing on an
impulse. I was getting fuzzy.”
“Okay.
Hold on. You understand what was happening, right?”
“I
think. But… tell me.”
“Okay.
This would be like an alcoholic who mistakenly takes cough syrup that contains
alcohol. The incident with the can activated some of the same endorphins and
dopamines that you used to get when you self-injured on purpose. And the
fuzziness was the same too, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.
So what did you do next?”
“I
sat down, stilled my limbs, fought the physical action. I focused on my
conscious thoughts, did the breathing exercises. But still, things were
speeding up: breath, heartbeat, the boiling pot. There was something else I had
devised as a last resort: Plan F, Plan G. I headed for the basement.”
Molly
shifts in her seat. “The basement?”
“That’s
where Paul grows his pot. He keeps a pipe on his drying table. For… sampling.”
“Okay.”
“Was
that… all right?”
“Well,
yes. I’d rather have you smoking than self-injuring. But you so totally didn’t
hear that from me.”
“Anything
you say here is held in complete confidence.”
“Okay.
Smartass. So… why weren’t you in the basement when Paul found you?”
“Okay.
This is where the – what do you call it? The fuzziness?”
“Dissociation.”
“Yes!
This is where the dissociation got really heavy. I moved the shelves, I undid
the lock, and I just… couldn’t. It was like every little Satan in the world was
in that basement. It felt like a dead end, and the pot kept boiling. For a
moment – I confess – I thought of going ahead and doing it, just to have it
over with. I took off the towel and looked at my thumb – and of course that
just made it worse. I started to search my pockets – for anything,
distractions, ideas, Plan J. In my sweatshirt I found a tube of paint. I
squeezed it onto my fingers and pressed it to the wall, watching the loops and
smears take shape like roads on a map. I spelled out the word BREATHE. A minute
later, I remembered my cell phone and I called you.”
Molly
walks toward the window, rubbing a spot on her thigh. “Where did the paint come
from?”
“Anna
gave me a set of acrylics. The day before, I thought it would be a good idea to
carry one with me.”
She
taps a pencil against her lips. “Good thing you did. This particular scenario
had never occurred to me. Oh, and I completely trust you on the accidental cut.
But don’t let it happen again.”
“I’m
thinking not.”
She
returns to her chair and crosses her legs. “One suggestion?”
“Yes?”
“Next
time? I’m thinking… blue.”
Paul
I
have definitely made the right choice. I am simply not smooth enough to be
relaxed with some non-Jasmina woman, so I got this wiry dude named Scott.
Scott’s got strong hands, and his technique is on the level of a ninja-masseur.
He seems to reach under my skin, isolating each of my knots and drawing out the
fibers like Billy tuning his guitar. The man’s a freakin’ genius.
This
is further evidence that I have been taking on stress, absorbing Jasmina’s
issues as if they were my own. For one thing, I cannot seem to make a landing
on Carter, Montana. The place is a virtual Brigadoon. After the grand Eureka of
resurrecting Sass Hunter, I have come to a standstill. Lately, I just sit at
the computer and run aground on the usual sandbars: Kelly’s Bakery, Coppertown
Supplies. I feel like I’m letting Molly down, forcing her to wander a dark
forest without a flashlight. Once a day, I take that card out of my wallet and
stare at my encoded phone number.
Other
stresses are more immediate. On a trip that was supposed to be a pleasure
cruise, Jasmina is being aggressively quiet. There’s something brewing in
there. Perhaps I am overthinking. Nobody can maintain that level of
graciousness forever. Scott’s fingerwork settles me into a welcome semi-snooze.
The
mud room offers three grave-like depressions, two of them filled with a
substance resembling half-melted chocolate. I shuck my clothes and sink in. Yaz
wraps herself in a towel, and then uses it to screen her body as she makes her
descent. Bashful? Now? I pretend to find great fascination in the gray-green
tiles until she’s done, then I turn to address her disembodied head.
“Have
a good massage?”
“Yes.”
“I
don’t know if this stuff really does
anything, but it is certainly a unique sensation."
“Explain
to me how you’re affording this?”
“Ava
got her distribution license this week. I made my first delivery – in broad
daylight, no less – accepted her generous payment, and received a certificate for this weekend as Ava’s bonus.”
Ten
seconds later, Jasmina blinks and says, “Okay.” I decide that it’s best if I
shut up and soak.
Scientifically,
I’m not buying the claims of mud-bath therapists. Except perhaps in the area of
libido, because mine is raging. That and Jasmina’s continuing striptease. When
she finishes a lengthy toilette and joins me in bed, I kiss her on the ear and
trace a hand along her side. This brings nothing, so I kiss her neck. And…
nothing.
“Honey.”
“No.”
“I
just…”
“No.”
“Not
‘Sorry no.’ Just ‘no.’”
“Yes.”
“Well,
fuck.”
She
turns over and glares at me. “What is your problem?”
“My problem is not a problem at all. I’ve
been rubbed and muddied and lubed up, and I am now in the mood to do something
we usually enjoy. Is that a problem?”
“It’s
my body. I’ll do with it what I
want.”
“Well
at least allow me to be disappointed.”
“No.
Fuck you.”
“What
the fuck is with you? You haven’t
said twelve words all day and now you’re
pissed at me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh,
that’s illuminating.”
She
turns back over and mutters, “Asshole.”
I’m
on my feet, pulling on my jeans. What does Molly call it, the boiling kettle?
“I do not fucking deserve this.
Jesus. Is there nothing I haven’t done for you this weekend? Princess?”
Again,
nothing. The brick wall of Jasmina’s back.
“Shit!”
I
slam the wall, then I stare at my palm, the skin flushing red. Time to get the
kettle away from the stove.
A
half-hour later, I’m down to a simmer, sitting in the lobby with a glass of
port. I seem to remember that Jasmina needs me, but I’m forgetting why. My feet
are bare, but I’m betting the employees are used to various levels of undress.
I think of Jasmina in the shower, mud drifting down her shoulder, coffee over
cream. This is not helping. A retired couple sits across the room, reading
magazines. The woman gives me a glance. No doubt her husband has once or twice
found himself barefoot in a lobby, thinking, What the hell did I say?
“Hi.”
Jasmina
stands above me in a white bathrobe. Her face is scrubbed of makeup, tired but
calm, as if the whole argument was a practical joke and she’s about to spring
the punch line. She sits across from me.
“I’ve
been trying all day not to tell you
something.”
Try not telling you
that Sass Hunter is alive.
“I
can’t have sex. Medical reasons.”
“Is
it… serious?”
“Yes
and no.” She chews on a fingernail and holds up a hand like an Italian who’s
been cut off in traffic. “Rrr! You see how this is? We’re so goddamn close,
I’ve got nowhere to hide. I can’t even tolerate a little fib. And now I’ve set
myself up. If I don’t tell you now,
that withheld piece of information will sit between us like a slobbering dog.
Couldn’t you be a little more… distant? Aloof?”
I’m
in the middle of a laugh when she says, “I had an abortion.”
“Hang
in there, Paul. I know what’s hitting you. The primal stuff. You, me, our genes
doing the cha-cha, beautiful little atheist children who like popcorn and
banned books. And yes, I hope we have
a child someday. Now, make the adjustment, turn the knob, activate that
delicious logic of yours and fill in the blanks for me…”
Nothing.
“Please,
Paul. Help me out. Write my lines.”
“Umm.
Beautiful young woman undergoing psychotherapy for self-injury. Not ready to raise children. Not ready
for the chemical bath of pregnancy.”
Jasmina
gives me the fluctuating smile, the one that could easily break into tears. She
crosses the breach, lands on my lap and gives me a kiss. She tucks her head to
my shoulder and stays there, her breath slowing with the minutes. I run a hand
over her hair and catch a glimpse of the retired lady smiling at us. I hope
she’s been here, too.
“What
was it like?”
She
stretches her arms toward the ceiling. “It was wonderful. Everybody in this
fucking country wants you to believe that it’s an agonizing experience, even
when you really want one. I go into this place. I meet with a counselor who
asks me, in the most compassionate of terms, what it is that I truly want. Not
what some jackass says on the evening news - what I want. Then she explains the procedure, step-by-step – a much
simpler operation than most would have you believe. Afterwards, I sit in the
recovery room with a college girl who offers me supportive chit-chat. I talk of
dodging bullets and life-long commitments, how much I would have fucked that
child up. When I walk outside, I just feel giddy.
Walking on the moon. Is that too much? Am I just being a callous weirdo?”
I
place a hand on her waist. “May I play amateur psychologist?”
“Why
not? You’re already having an affair with mine.”
“Yeah
yeah, sure sure. Seriously.”
She
kisses me on the forehead. “Seriously.”
“One
of the skewed motivations for self-injury is to re-establish possession of
one’s own body. No?”
“Yes.
Like, I’m going to cut this because it belongs to me.”
“Right.
Well. Through the disastrous accident of a leaky condom – for which I duly
apologize…”
“As
you should.”
“…you
have landed upon the ultimate opportunity for taking control over your own
body. Thereby goes giddiness.”
She
lays her head back against the chair and looks at me sideways, bringing to mind
the adoring gaze of a Myrna Loy, a Claudette Colbert.
“I
love you so much it hurts. Now, if we’re all okay, can we go back to our room
and sleep together? Literally speaking?”
“You
betcha.”
“And
since you’re so all-fired randy, perhaps I will find some way of
re-establishing possession of your penis.”
“Agreed.
One thing, though? I am really sorry
about slamming the wall. Resorting to physical action. You know…”
She
thinks about it. “In what way did you
slam the wall?”
“Um.
With my… palm?”
“Why?”
“So
I wouldn’t… hurt myself. Oh.”
“I’m
the patient, honey. Not that I enjoyed your little explosion, but if that’s a
way for you to dissipate your anger, go ahead. I’m kinda like an alcoholic who
has to get used to being around people who drink.”
“Gotcha.”
We
puzzle ourselves out of our chair and stroll down the hall.
“There
was a picketer in front of the clinic. Christian chick.”
“Oh
joy.”
“She
stepped in front of me. I guess she was going to talk me out of it.”
“And?”
“Well,
I didn’t mean to… I had a pretty good head of steam going…”
“And?”
Jasmina
smiles. “Clocked her. Like a linebacker over a Girl Scout.”
This
mental image revisits me several times over the next few days, and does not
fail to crack me up.
Photo by MJV
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