BACKSTORY: The song “Drive On” brings to light our mysterious will as humans to do things that go against our natural inclinations, the ability of the mind to overcome the instincts of self-preservation and self-love, and to compel the body to act in ways that can be damaging to us. The fact that we are able to put a cause or idea from the outside world before our own desires and safety makes it seem as though we are born with self-sacrifice in our veins. This will strikes me as a big part of what makes our world and our own lives at once so baffling and so admirable.
TERI? SHERRY? MOLLY FLICKED HER ZIPPO and sucked on a Red, trying to recall which name she’d said. She stared at the forest of his back hair. Nice and sound, snoring like a pig. The blue dawn light already fingered the sky. She pulled on her jeans and coat, looked around the room. Why do they never have any taste? And the worst, always that black leather sofa as though it’s some totem of manhood, their furniture like their fucking balls. She rolled her eyes and dropped her butt on his clean, black kitchen tile and crushed it with her boot. “Don’t we all wish we was from Texas?” She had smiled like she knew what he meant. Molly had never been there, but she figured that was the kind of macho asshole thing a Texan would do—put out a butt on some bastard’s clean floor. She muttered in Southern, running her tongue along her teeth, Maybe I do.
She jabbed and cracked at the lock but it wouldn’t budge. Dead bolt. Why dead? Oh goddamn it, he’s up.
“Hey there. . . .” from the bedroom. Searching—doesn’t remember the name either.
“Cherry,” she provided.
He walked out, brows knit at this, but said, clapping his hands together and doing a gross little knee-dip, “Yes! Cherry, honey, you’re leaving already? We were sure up late to be leaving so early.”
Molly breathed out, “Yeah, I’ve got a busy day,” but had to bite down and look away to avoid his appraisal. Sloppy watering mouth. “Lock’s stuck.”
He put a beefy hand to the door. With half-fake suspicion, “Well, when am I gonna see you again?” Oh shit, not going to let me out? She felt sweat burst out on her face.
“Uh, sometime soon, I guess.”
“Alright.” He lifted and twisted the bolt, and Molly heard it click. “When?” as she slipped into the hall, her eyes on him low.
“Actually. It’s not such a good idea.” Jesus, quite a stare. Why every time do I have to go through this? As though I’m breaking their goddamn hearts. “I actually have a boyfriend. So. . . .”
A little air sailed through his nose in disbelief and he shook his head. “Little whore.” And a slam of the door. Finally.
The dry, freezing air on her hot cheeks. Feels good. Oh, thank God. Well, that was quite a pick, lady. She oriented herself and headed home, smoking and feeling the freedom of the gray empty streets mix with her self-disgust. Lunch with Karen. She’ll know because I’ll probably look like hell. She climbed up to the third floor, entered her studio, dropped her purse by the door and fell on to the bed. She raised herself a little to set the alarm for eleven and then she sank and sank. Joseph Campbell and the necessity of sorrow, self-sacrifice. That man’s greediness, his need. Loneliness, putting it onto me, the desire like a wave he’s lost in, couldn’t paw his way out if he wanted. . . . And then sleep—dreamless, wordless.
Molly opened her eyes to the midday light. Uhm. Head pounding. Shit, must be late. No—Saturday. Oh God. The night before rushed through her. Leaving Maureen after dinner, would go home and finish The Mythic Image or maybe some Baldwin. But she’d felt good, didn’t have to get up, would have one more on the way. The two of them, the only ones left in the bar toward three. He’d walked her home. A little gross. But could talk about Virginia Woolf. God only knows what he said. He probably just mentioned her and I jumped. Jesus. Pathetic.
Out of the shower, she turned on the radio. Can’t deal with NPR. She flipped around, heard the DJ say Johnny Cash, so she left it. “Drive On” came on. Vietnam. O’Brien talks about the insanity, the terror, but also, somehow a love for it. When that guy shot the little baby water buffalo, tortured it because his friend died. Or maybe not because his friend died. Maybe just did. How “normal,” non-war life can never live up to that intensity. She lit up a smoke, put on red lipstick, and stood smoking, looking at herself in the mirror. As if she was tough. Johnny sang in the voice of a vet, how he was a walking miracle from Vietnam, told himself how it didn’t mean nothin’, told himself to drive on.
She hit the street walking fast. Late as usual. When she pictures herself with Karen she sees them lying on the beach silently, letting the waves’ rhythm sink into them before fall. Or at the zoo, laughing with some joy she’d be tempted to describe as untainted, at the humanness of an orangutan. Is it that my life is truly this desolate piece of shit right now or is it that the mind is great at editing? Maybe I was always restless, but all I remember is the good?
Karen was sitting at a table near the front, reading what looked to be a novel. As Molly bustled into the opposite chair, she slowly drew her eyes up and placed the bookmark tight in the binding. “Hey, flyface. Rough night?”
Molly removed her sunglasses. Karen looks perfect as usual. “Yeah, I guess.”
Karen looked Molly over, eyebrows raised but with no particular look on her face. “Meet the man of your dreams?”
“Well. If that’s what you call an overweight fifty-year-old greasy detective from Oklahoma.” Molly couldn’t help smiling at this description, despite her total lack of desire to tell Karen about the night.
“Oh, Jesus,” Karen half-laughed. “Sounds disgusting.” Then, “I have no idea why you do it to yourself.” Of course you don’t, Miss Safe Little Boyfriend. Karen’s boyfriend, Ralph, was perfect. A nice-looking feminist, bookish painter who adored her and was always fun to be around and was supposedly great in bed on top of it.
“Neither do I.” Molly sighed genuinely. Why do I do it? Molly tried to think while the waitress came over. She heard Karen order the shaved parmesan salad with walnuts and she heard herself say, “Whatever the soup of the day is.” When the waitress went away, Molly spoke slowly. “It seems—necessary. Like a sacrifice.” She gained momentum. “You know, like Joseph Campbell says—that we have to give ourselves up to a degree, be willing to suffer in order to connect with others.” Is this total bullshit? “I’m relieving their loneliness by being weak. So I understand them more, the good and the bad of people.”
“You really want to know these losers you pick up in bars and then hope you never see again?”
“Oh God, I don’t know. But I know I understand more about men’s desire than most men do.”
Karen sighed seriously and frowned. Is she intrigued or annoyed? Oh God, I shouldn’t have gotten into this. Karen shook her head as though trying to clear it. “Well, I don’t know either. But frankly, that sounds like bullshit to me. Sounds like you’re lonely and get drunk and want attention from whoever’s there to give it. I don’t mean to be mean. But your life isn’t some goddamn philosophical proof to be worked out by endangering yourself.”
Molly rolled her eyes. Jesus Christ. The waitress came and placed the dishes before them, saying to Molly, “It’s cream of vegetable.” Molly looked up into the dull brown eyes. “Thanks,” she smiled. Perfect. I love the cream of vegetable here. She waited to speak while they both had their first tastes of food. The soup in her throat made her think of sinking into a hot bath. That’s what I’ll do tonight. Bring a bottle of wine into the tub and finish Campbell. “I’m not endangering myself,” she said quietly. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to be in the tub with the wine. Maybe even this afternoon.
“Yes, actually you are. You know you are.” Sometimes Karen’s hypochondriac arsenal of fears was funny and sometimes it wasn’t. “You don’t know these men. They could lock you in their basements, sell you into slavery. I just read an article about a man in Russia who had six women locked in his basement for ten years. He made them work for him and raped them on a daily basis before finally one of them escaped. TEN YEARS!” Karen made a face of dread.
Molly pictured herself locked in a cold basement being raped in front of other women by some crazy Russian. Ugh God. Why does that shit happen? “Well,” dryly, “I know that these things happen. But this is Manhattan, and I’ve been known to be a decent judge of character. Even when I’m drunk.” She put down her spoon and looked up to where the ceiling met the bright yellow wall. “Besides. It don’t mean nothin’.”
Karen rolled her eyes, annoyed. “What are you, some kind of cowgirl now?”
Molly ignored her and looked around the room, humming the Cash song. Then she raised herself up straight in her chair and said, “Anyway, we don’t have to spend the day analyzing my life and loves. What book are you reading?”
“Oh, an essay by this poet Anne Carson who Ralph’s all in love with lately. She’s pretty good though. I like her a lot, too.”
“Yeah, I think I’ve heard of her. What’s the essay about?”
“Well it’s kind of about her doing the Camino de Santiago, you know that pilgrimage in Spain? She does it with her boyfriend, whom she refers to as her Cid. It’s interesting because she starts talking about shame and these women who hide in holes in these stone walls along the path, I guess out of some Catholic ritual of shaming themselves. Anyway, they depend on food from the pilgrims to survive. Listen to this.” Karen pulled out the book and turned right to the page she meant to read from. Oh God, usually I love this stuff, but I’m just not in the mood right now to hear about women’s shame. Karen read: “‘Shame is the presence of someone right up against me. Hot because her eyes are closer to me than my own honor. She is a woman in a pit in a wall with a stone as hot as the midday sun in her hands: listen the footsteps go fading down the street.’ (Apparently most of the pilgrims just walk by without giving any food.) ‘She is my Cid cut open by a word from me, him weeping within me. Kinds of water drown us.’ Ugh. Anyway, I just love the idea of the heat of shame, and somehow letting someone in beneath your honor.”
Molly thought about the heat of her face this morning in that man’s apartment. But why should I be ashamed. Isn’t the key that I let them use me? “I don’t know. I guess I like the idea, too.” Karen looked directly at her very kindly, but sadly. Oh God, now I feel like crying. I love Karen. But I’ve got to explain it somehow. “But what is honor worth in anything? I mean what about letting someone see beneath your honor, which I guess means to let someone see your weakness, your badness, sinfulness, whatever you want to call it. And then forgiving them for seeing it. And letting yourself see others’ badness and forgiving them that, too?”
“Well that’s awfully nice of you.” Karen said, signaling to the waitress for the check at the same time.
Oh God. Am I having lunch with my mother here? “We weren’t talking about me; we were talking about an idea. Besides, it’s better than always protecting yourself and being around only one kind of people and never letting yourself get hurt.”
Karen stopped digging through her purse and looked directly at Molly, not kindly this time. “Is that what you think I do? You think I’m not living fully just because I don’t go out and fuck everyone I can for some stupid philosophy of. . . . I don’t even know what. Self-sacrifice?”
Molly realized she’d been holding her whole body tense during the whole exchange and she could feel her throat constrict as her voice rose. Enough, enough of this stupid conversation. “Fine. Maybe it all means nothing but for some reason I do it. It’s what I do right now, as awful as that sounds. And it’s what I’m drawn to. I don’t like it either. But for God’s sake I don’t know why you’re so worried. It’s just fucking.” The waitress had been standing there waiting for her to finish.
“Here’s the check. Thank you, ladies.” She smiled sympathetically at Molly and again Molly felt like she might cry.
Karen looked down and said, “I’m sorry. Let’s not talk about it anymore. There’s supposedly this great Egon Schiele exhibit at the Neue Gallery. Do you want to go see it? I just love him.”
Molly was exhausted but she didn’t really have anything to do. It’s a little early for vino. Maybe I’ll head home to the tub after the museum. “Yeah, that sounds good. Neue’s a pretty small museum, isn’t it?”
Karen smiled. “Yeah. No more than an hour.”
“Perfect.” They paid and Molly left an unusually big tip. When Karen looked at her like she was crazy, Molly just shook her head and waved her hand. “I don’t know why. I just liked her.”
They walked out and cut over to Central Park on 85th. It was one of the spring days when all of the trees lining the blocks are in bloom, and so you get feathered with petals whenever there’s a breeze. The day had gotten pretty warm, and it lifted their moods. Oh thank God we’re out of that restaurant. It’s beautiful. Makes me feel like a little kid or something. Or that when I was a kid isn’t as far back as it usually seems.
As they crossed into the park, Molly said, “I don’t know his work. I only know a poem about him. He died of the Spanish flu, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. I think so, I guess I don’t know much about his life, only seen his work. But I think you’ll like it.” They walked on in silence for a while. The further they got into the park, the lighter Molly felt. She wasn’t really thinking about anything in particular when she realized her eyes were resting on a big butt on a bicycle seat. That is one big butt to be in flaming red biker’s pants. But I guess the rest of him isn’t fat. Only has a big butt. She suddenly realized that she had been looking at him for a long time and that the guy was moving like a turtle. She poked Karen’s arm and she whispered loudly, “Look at how slow that guy’s going.”
Karen burst out laughing. “Yeah, I was looking at him, too. But it’s a nice spanking new outfit he’s got, shoes and all to go out riding so slowly. He looks exhausted.” They continued watching him. “But he’s not even going uphill.”
Molly snorted. “I didn’t even know it was possible to go so slow on a bike without it tipping over.” They were laughing when they noticed he was making a slow loop and heading back toward them. So they straightened their faces. Still coming about one mile an hour, they saw his face approach. He looked like the nicest guy in the world and he exhaustedly exhaled a “hello” as he passed them. Molly and Karen burst into laughter again when he had gone. “Poor guy.”
“Well, you’ve got to start somewhere,” Karen said.
Oh, nice to feel comfortable with Karen again. I hate it when she’s all judgmental. “It reminds me of this Johnny Cash song I heard on the radio this morning. Do you know the song ‘Drive On?’”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“It’s about the guys in Vietnam who, when they lost one of their buddies, when one of them would get shot, they’d just tell each other to drive on, that it didn’t mean anything. In order to keep themselves going. When of course it meant everything.”
“Oh lord, that’s depressing. Oh. So that’s what you meant when you said that today.”
Molly felt herself flush when she realized she’d said that to Karen, referring to her own stupid little situation. As though it’s fucking Vietnam. “Yeah. Anyway, that guy’s driving on. Hell or high water.” Karen laughed. And Molly relaxed.
They got to the museum and it wasn’t crowded at all. Nice museum. I like this Viennese style of modernism. They went in and went right up to the exhibit. The first painting was a gorgeous grayish tree bent like a hand in the wind. Molly got a chill. Oh, this is going to be good. I love going to museums with Karen. Perfect place. Don’t have to talk. They went into the next room, which was full of portraits of women. Fragile, I want to call them. Or the lines are fragile, the colors. What is it? In the next room, there were two portraits of women, legs spread touching themselves. Molly noticed herself flush pink, her hair stand on end. In what, defensiveness? Anger? Why do I care? They probably loved being painted like that. They went on and there were more trees, and finally a self-portrait. Young, good-looking. Probably a total pig.
“Hey.” Karen startled her as she was locking eyes with Egon. “Want to get a coffee or something? They have a gorgeous café here.”
“Yeah, sure. I love this style of design.” Oh lord. I’ll just say I loved it all. Why am I such a prude sometimes? Me, of all dang people.
Karen ordered a coffee, Molly a red wine. Ugh. Why do I feel stressed right now? “I guess you can’t smoke in here,” she said, looking around.
Karen was looking directly at her. “What did you think? Aren’t the paintings just amazing?”
“Yeah! I loved that tree when we first went in.”
“Yeah, me, too. And I love all the portraits.”
“Yeah. He was obviously a little bit of a pig though.” I’d kill to smoke a cigarette right now.
“Oh, do you mean the women with their crotches open for all to see? Well, all artists are pigs. They always have these young naked women around. What do you want them to do? Except Ralph. And maybe the Impressionists. They mostly stuck to fields and hay.”
“Yeah, I think I’d go out with Van Gogh if I had to choose.”
“Oh lord, well, he was a little crazy. But I see what you mean.” Karen smiled. “Anyway, Ralph and I are going to a party in Brooklyn tonight. Some artist acquaintance of his or something. But he said he’s been to the guy’s loft and it’s amazing and that the roof has great views of the city. So I think it will be fun.”
Hmm. All the way to Brooklyn. “Um. I don’t know. I think I might just stay home, pop in the bath. I was up pretty late last night.”
“Alright, well, give me a call if you change your mind. I think we’re heading over around eight.”
“Okay. Well, should we get the check?” Molly raised her hand to the waiter.
Out on the street, Karen said, “Well, I think I’m going to do some Upper East Side shopping since I find myself here. And I know that’s not your cup of tea. So call me later if you want to go.”
“Okay. I will. And we should get together next week sometime if not. There are a million movies out right now I want to see.”
“Alright, lady. See you soon.” Karen walked away bouncily. Light as can be. Well, what now. So nice out. The bath isn’t sounding all that great anymore. Molly lit a smoke and walked back into the park. About halfway through, she saw their man on the bike again. Still at it. Still going slow. She smiled. Drive on. Well, Saturday evening. I think one or two beers won’t kill me. And then I’ll go home to my lovely bed.
Molly bought a copy of the Times and walked into Joe’s lounge, which was more of a dive than a lounge. But cheapo beer. Molly sat at the end of the bar near the window. The late day rays slid beautifully in onto the wood of the bar and illuminated her smoke. Poor Johnny Cash. The poor guys in Vietnam. She sighed. Poor everyone. Some man who’d been sitting in the dark of the back of the bar came up to put some songs on the jukebox. “I Walk the Line” came on.
“Hey, you mind if I sit here with you in the sun?”
Not bad. “No. No one’s sitting there.”
He waited a couple of minutes. “You like the Man in Black here?”
“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I was just thinking about him.”
“You don’t say.” He smiled a little sarcastically, a little flirtatiously as he looked directly into her eyes. Well, at least he’s not staring at my chest like a fool. “My name’s Jack.” He put out his hand. Molly bit her lip for a second, then put out her hand. “I’m Cherry. Nice to meet you.” Drive on.
EMILY REARDON received her MFA from New York University. Most recently, she has had her poems published in NYArts Magazine, The Comstock Review, and Southern Poetry Review. Emily has also been a guest editor for NYArts Magazine, and she recently finished a stint as the first Writer-in-Residence for the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council. She lives and writes in New York City.