When I Grow Up
Me and Dad in the living room together, eleven o’clock on a Tuesday, suburban Connecticut, 2005. He’s watching some sports game, sitting in his black leather polished birch recliner, which used to fit his alterna- bourgeois image but now its torn up by the cat and there’s taquito crumbs in the cracks. He won’t buy a new one till he’s employed again but none of this matters cause the chair’s comfy and plus its his damn house. And I’m on the computer talking to Ben Steinberg on instant messenger. When Dad yells at the TV I lean over and look exitedly at the screen, in a gesture of perfunctory love. Sometimes during the commercial break he says something about the world in general, in relation to the current commercial, like “Life is like a swiffer mop, or coffeemate, or shitty watered down beer. Then I’ll have to type “brb” to Ben. And I’ll spin around and say yeah Dad, oh, okay, yeah? Most of the time I’ll humour him like that. But really I know, that these criticisms don’t quite cut it.
For instance, Ben Steinberg says that the exploitative capitalist system will perish in the ashes of the imminent insurrection. Ben is in grade twelve, and we have an exclusive online relationship. He doesn’t really talk to me when we see each other in school, but we talk every night on Instant Messenger. Ben is the one who told me about riot grrrl. He sent me an mp3 of a Bikini Kill song. The lyrics went like this: White Boy, Don’t Laugh, Don’t Cry, Just Die. Over and over again, with an emphasis on the die. Then in the text box he wrote, “This song is so simple, yet so sophisticated…It really speaks to me. You probs don’t get it. But one day you’ll understand.” “CoolThanks!” I typed.
And so when I grow up, I’m going to be a guitar player in a riot grrl band. Grrl in Riot Grrrl is spelled with no I and three r’s… That’s supposed to be like for communism. Like “You, know, There’s no I in Girl” or alternatively, its “r” revolution, penisface. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s basically right. But I’m only fifteen and I’m already behind…in terms of radicalness. For instance I still bring a foamy lunch box to school, and the only way my hair looks good is parted down the middle. I guess you could say that I’m just a girl…spelled G-I-R-L. G-U-R-L, if I’m lucky.
But yeah…Ben is so sensitive…It’s amazing. And he knows so much. Like…he gave me the idea to tuck my pants into my socks, cause it looks badass, and to shop at second hand stores, cause consumerism strangles the soul, as he says. He’s got it all figured out, that Ben.
One time we were IMing and Ben typed that he’d just swallowed a whole bottle of cherry cough syrup. First I freaked out. Was he gonna die? Was I gonna have to hold his hand in the ER? Then he typed, “Shit town, Weston, Connecticut. Suburbia is the death of life. Nothing to do. Makes me wanna die. Nothing to do except plot the insurrection.” Then he said, “You’re the only one who understands me, Zoe. This town’s full of fuckin’ drones. You’re the only authentic one.” And then, “You’re not too bad looking either. I’d fuck you someday if you grew some tits.”
I glance over at my dad and he’s fallen asleep. The skin around his slackened jaw reflecting the foggy expression of a halftime concert neon lightshow. Eleven o’clock on a Tuesday, in suburban Connecticut. This is what its like to be on the inside of one glowing yellow square, seen from the highway. You wonder what people are doing inside. Is it a family? Yes. When you strain your neck to see you notice two more glowing boxes inside the yellow one. They’re all flashing colored lights, changing all the time. A big one and a little one, a daddy and a baby. And anything outside of the yellow box is irrelevant. Outside is all rods and cones, a crudely organized world of hungry possum heists, groundhog ragers, and slowly freezing puddles. The only reason I’d be outside right now is if only Ben invited me to go make out in the woods, but something tells me he’s more of a finished basement kinda guy.
(This story was originally published in Casino Magazine)
