Posted 12th March by @Eunuch_Onegin in series The Call-Out
creator chose not to give content warnings
tags: art; communal housing; Bach
I’m guessing that night was full of caresses
and meaningful convos, but now it’s done,
and the aftermath of its excesses
is risen upon by the wintry sun.
The city always seems enchanting
mornings like these, the light slanting
between the buildings, and reaching deep
into the bedrooms, to wake you from sleep.
Day opens her eyes to a strange ceiling
and sits bolt upright, then remembers, she met
that girl . . . She turns and looks at Bette,
who’s deep asleep. Day grins and, feeling
horny, she kisses Bette’s neck for a bit
then runs her fingers down to Bette’s clit.
Bette turns. —“Oomph. What are you doing?”
Day freezes. Bette smiles, sleepily:
—“S’okay, it’s nice. T4T.
Give me some of that next-day wooing.”
And now let’s skip ahead an hour
or two: they’ve fucked, and had a shower,
(where they fucked again) and picked their way
through the kitchen, which is in disarray:
it smells, the floor is sticky as toffee
and the sink is clogged with unwashed plates—
Bette blames it all on her many roommates—
to retreat with their prizes (a pot of coffee,
some Jif, some jam, and some Wonder Bread)
to the safety of Bette’s single bed.
(Regarding Bette’s flat, a brief divagation:
it’s a walk-up in Brooklyn, well south of the park,
above a launderette with a bad reputation.
Four windows, eight rooms: the whole place is dark;
the rooms are tiny, the partitions are flimsy,
the paint is peeling. There are touches of whimsy,
a large stuffed goat with a Stalin pin,
a struggling fern in an old soup tin,
an artistically defaced Bikini Kill poster,
but what you notice first are the messes.
There are piles of clothing, lamé dresses
and latex shorts, it seems like most of
the contents of the local thrift store
have been requisitioned, then dumped on the floor.
There’s a purple dildo in the shower
and elsewhere in the bathroom, several more.
There are three switchblades in the cutlery drawer
but only one fork. There’s a sort of tower
of mysterious amps, laptops, and cable
taking up half of the only table.
No-one has ever cleaned anything at all.
It’s sort of like Eden right after The Fall
before Eve had figured how to deal
with the sudden freedom of being cast
out into the world, so beautiful and vast
and cold, and ineluctable, and real.)
Bette gives Day a kiss, tells her she’s gay
and makes them both sandwiches with PB&J.
Day munches, then giggles. —“I feel like a child!”
—“I only eat these,” Bette says, “and pills.”
She gestures to her nightstand, which is piled
with orange and green prescription refills.
“And ramen, as well. Though not in that order.”
—“You’re a pharmaceutical hoarder!”
—“Your pleasure is something you have to pursue.
I know what I like. What about you?”
—“I dunno. I mean, it’s been nice to meet you.
Um. I have a Nintendo Switch.
I just got Smash Bros.” —“Oh my God, you bitch,
invite me over, I will totally whip you
if I play as Samus.” —“Well, it’s not far.
Wanna go now? I can call a car.”
And so, Bette brings a pair of knickers,
some noodles, and some Percocets
and gets Day to stop the cab for liquors
(Maker’s and Cocchi) and cigarettes
(Spirits). Her instructions are emphatic:
—“Drinking bad liquor is problematic!”
Day laughs, wide eyes: she’s absorbing it all.
Her building’s the kind with an entrance hall,
pre-war, when apartments used to be bigger:
she lives in two whole rooms alone,
though the only things she seems to own
are a TV, some boxes, and a Gundam figure.
Bette gapes at all the empty space
in disbelief —“Wow. Nice place.”
And here I’ll leave these two to honey
(though we’ll miss the bit where Bette ascertains
Day has no saucepans. That bit is funny)
and refocus on Bushwick, a room that contains
Gaia and Keiko. Is barely containing,
I should say, since Gaia is nervously obtaining
her garments, scattered here and there,
(she can’t find her bra, which is under a chair)
in preparation for splitting while Keiko slumbers.
The search isn’t easy: the room, though small,
has art supplies from wall to wall,
and those walls are pinned with significant numbers
of exquisite landscapes, whose details include
much both meticulous and rude.
These, once noticed, are quite beguiling:
Forgetting her bra, Gaia stands in her jeans
hunting for the pairs of tall girls defiling
each other in these classic sylvan scenes.
And not just couples: sometimes they’re poly!
It’s like a sexy bucolic Where’s Wally?
if the artist had come to it by way
of serious study of ukiyo-e.
She’s so charmed by one combination—
two tiny girls are restraining a third
in a forest clearing, watched by a bird—
that she makes a joyful exclamation.
It’s loud enough that Keiko wakes,
and groans: —“Oooh, my head, it aches.”
Gaia jumps —“Oh sorry, I’d forgotten
that you were there. Your art is, like,
really interesting. Like a misbegotten
child of Hiroshige who’s a hot trans dyke.
It’s so cool how you take this tradition
and give it contemporary rendition,
but it’s also timeless, like a fantasy.”
—“Oh yeah, that’s Greenwood Cemetery.”
Keiko looks bleary and disconcerted.
“It’s the view from just inside the gate.
They’re all in New York, or New York State.
See the mausoleums? I’ve just inserted
the people.” —“Oh right! Like what if these places,
we’re told are public, were actual safe spaces?
That’s clever! A contemporary re-engineering
of something like the Hundred Famous Views
depicting these sites, but also queering
their function by implanting the bodies they refuse.”
—“Um, I mean, Hiroshige’s decent,
but my favorite stuff is a bit more recent,
Yoshida Hiroshi is, like, the best.
But . . . how come you’re getting dressed?
Were you . . . ghosting? That’s kind of scuzzy.”
—“Oh. Well, um.” Gaia stares at her feet.
“My memories of last night are . . . incomplete,
like, did we have sex? It’s sort of fuzzy.
And when you don’t know that it’s awkward to stay
for breakfast. What are you supposed to say?
“Ugh, I’m sorry. I’ve been enacting
a terrible model of consent to sex.
What I should have been doing is interacting
to process what each of us recollects . . .”
—“We didn’t have sex, you can stop freaking
out about it. We were too busy speaking!
We were drunk. It was fun. We did these weird shots,
you said they were ‘picklebacks’ . . . I think we did lots,
and you taught me this game where after drinking
we’d slap each other. One time you missed.
I think you were drunk. And also we kissed.”
—“Whisky Slaps? What was I thinking?
And I just remembered I tried to show
you how to do makeup. You’re an artist! You know!”
—“But I’ve only been a girl since September,
I don’t know those tricks. I think they’re cool.”
—“Oh god, what else am I going to remember?
Why do I always act like a fool?
Fuck, I’ve got to try to be calmer,
even now I’m bringing the drama!
Sorry. Listen, you seem really sweet . . .”
—“Yeah, I had fun. Perhaps we can meet
again?” —“Yeah maybe, when I’m not in a panic.
Why can’t I find my bra anywhere?”
—“Don’t worry, it’s just beneath that chair.”
—“Your art is great! Sorry I’m manic!”
And just like that she’s up and flown,
and Keiko is sitting in the bed, alone.
Meanwhile, in another part of the city
(to be precise, the Lower East Side),
Kate is also feeling shitty.
She wants to sleep but she’s been wide
awake for ages. Aashvi is snoring.
She could ignore that, but there’s no ignoring
the jostling thoughts inside her head.
Eventually she gets out of bed.
Normally on the first she’d do her injection,
regular as a period. She glances down
at her body, picks a dressing gown
from off the floor, sighs with dejection,
and pads into the other room
hoping some coffee will cut through her gloom.
It’s cold, but it’s bright. It isn’t snowing.
It’s one of those days when it’s going to snow.
It’s one of those days when you’re almost knowing
something you somehow still don’t know.
The weather’s changing. It’s all potential.
There’s a steep pressure differential:
it’s about to drop, low and fast.
Something’s changing. This just can’t last.
Kate makes a coffee, gets out a skinny
Vogue cigarette, and opens wide
the window, letting the cold inside.
The breeze has a taste, it’s sour and tinny.
She stares at the sky as if she’s about
to grab the frame and fling herself out.
Behind her she hears the parquet creaking
—“Good morning doll-face, want some ca-fay?”
This is Aashvi’s joke: she loves speaking
in a highly unconvincing “American way.”
(Her years in New York have failed at diluting,
one bit, her cultivated, high-faluting
Indian accent.) Kate flicks her butt
out of the window and pulls it shut.
Aashvi steps closer and gives her a nuzzle.
“Kiss me, sweetness,” Kate turns her head.
—“I’m sad. Wanna watch a movie in bed,”
she asks, “and make out and maybe guzzle
unhealthy snacks?” —“Well first I should
complete a few tasks, or else I would.”
—“But it’s New Year’s Day!” —“And I’ve been intending
to repaint the skirting, and work on that grant,
and collate my expenses: there are taxes pending.”
—“Oh Aashvi, it’s January!” —“But by April I can’t
remember them all.” —“You’re so efficient,
you make me feel like I’m deficient.”
Aashvi laughs. —“Oh my suffering sweet!
Why don’t I make you something to eat?”
—“Do you think we could make an approximation
of Israeli eggs? Like, Israeli-ish?”
—“It’s called Shakshouka. It’s an Arabic dish!
This is also part of the occupation
of Palestine—both culture and land!
But yes, I can make that. Come, give me a hand.”
They kiss again, then start cooking.
One peels and chops, one spices and salts.
They step past each other without looking
or seeming to try, a culinary waltz,
set to the carefully eclectic curation
of tunes on an internet radio station.
They step and turn and pirouette
around the floor of their kitchenette.
Aashvi fries up garlic in oil,
and Kate chops tomatoes coarse
then gives them to Aashvi to make into sauce
and when the sauce reaches a boil
they break in the eggs, turn down the heat,
warm some pita, and sit down to eat.
Lulled by this domestic rhythm
Kate’s headache and nausea fade away
and most of her sadness goes with them,
or perhaps she just forgets to pay
attention to it, the food’s so delicious,
and then they have to wash the dishes,
and so, when Aashvi gets out the paint
she barely makes a cursory complaint
(“Why can’t you be more of a procrastinator?”)
before sighing loudly, kneeling down,
getting a brush, and going to town
on the baseboards. And when, some two hours later,
they’re finally painted “Snowflake White,”
she gets out her laptop and starts to write!
So much for Kate and her useful labors.
As for me, I’m pulled from a pleasant dream
about trains at like eight by my bloody neighbor’s
child practicing the Star Wars theme
again. Then again. I pull the cover
over my ears. If you don’t have a lover
then the world ought to compensate
by letting you at least sleep in late.
I fucking hate mornings. And living in a city.
And the straight family that lives next door.
And my stupid brain that can’t ignore
some child mistreating a famous ditty.
Is it any wonder I’m depressed?
All I want is to get some rest.
I’ve often thought, if the world was my oyster
and I could somehow escape this snare
I call my life, I’d live in a cloister
alone, up on a cliff somewhere
near the sea, so I could hear the beating
of waves on the rocks, and walk without meeting
a soul. Instead, what’s available to me
is my morning cup of green tea.
I groan, get up and heat the kettle
to seventy-seven degrees, and choose
a Yellow Mountain, and while it brews
I put on some Bach. And then I can settle
down for a while, all curled up,
in my favorite chair, with my favorite cup.
I try to let go of my vexation
and put myself in a state of calm.
The choir is singing Luther’s translation
of the one hundred and thirtieth psalm.
“Ob bei uns ist der sünden viel”
their voices tell me, and I almost feel
comforted. The tea is such pure green,
so vegetal, so sharp, so clean.
It smells like life, like hay and flowers.
At the bitter turning of the year
it promises spring is drawing near.
The day’s ahead, full of hours.
I drink the tea. The cantata plays.
The year’s ahead, full of days.