x x x
One day, on the way home from the library, I see Sue driving out of the parking lot of the fried chicken fast-food restaurant. My impulse is to duck out of the way.
“Need a ride?” she asks, pulling up alongside me.
I peer into the car. There’s no Joe, no Scottie, just a big bag, already seeping with grease. Sue moves the chicken to the backseat and opens the door for me.
“Where you headed?” she asks, as if there are multiple possible destinations.
“Home,” I say, which is true. “Tricia’s waiting for me,” I add, which is not, but I’m worried she’s going to invite me over and I can’t face that, especially right now, with the folder full of Final Solution printouts in my hand.
“We haven’t seen much of you,” Sue says. “I’ve left you some messages.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “We want you to get on with your life.”
“I am,” I say. The lies slip off my tongue so easily now, they barely register as untrue.
“Good. Good.” She looks at the folder, and I start to sweat. I think she’s going to ask about it, but she doesn’t. The silence grows and gapes between us, shimmering like the heat on the empty asphalt.
It’s not a big town, and within five minutes we are home. I’m relieved to find Tricia’s car in the driveway, if only because it backs up my story.
“Maybe come for dinner one night next week,” Sue says. She glances toward the bag in the backseat; the deep-fried smell has now settled throughout the car. “If you come, I can make the chili you like. I’m starting to cook again.”
“Chili would be great,” I say, opening the door. As I shut it, I catch a glimpse of Sue’s face in the side mirror, and I understand that we’re both of us liars now.
x x x
The next day, I clean Mrs. Driggs’s house. It’s one of my easiest jobs because it is usually immaculate. I strip her bed, the sheets smelling like old lady, even though Mrs. Driggs can’t be more than ten years older than Tricia. I scrub the bathtub, self-clean the oven, Windex the windows. I save Jeremy’s room for last. It creeps me out a bit, the ghostliness of it, vacuuming the shag carpet, still bearing the treads from last week’s cleaning.
I push the vacuum into the corner where Hendrix’s cage once sat. Something clatters in the motor. I switch it off, get down on the floor to inspect what’s inside, and find a bobby pin, the kind Mrs. Driggs uses to pull back her bun. So she haunts this empty room, this empty house. She should get a pet or something, maybe some cats. Much better than a snake, although cats would go after mice too. Still, it wouldn’t be such a rigged game as it was when Jeremy fed Hendrix—the victim and the victor predetermined. Poor fucking mouse.
I’m sitting there with the bobby pin in my hand when it hits me. How to find All_BS. He’s the snake. To get him, I have to be the mouse.
22
What makes someone appetizing to someone like All_BS? Why did he choose to help Meg and not, say, Sassafrants, or the guy who always asks about rat poison? And how can I get him to think I’m one of those people?
I go back through his posts, looking for a pattern. He responds more to girls than to guys—particularly to smart girls. He doesn’t ever reply to the illiterates, or the ranters. He also seems to take an interest in people at the beginning of their journey, the ones who are just starting to think about “catching the bus.” And he likes philosophy—his posts are full of quotes—and seems drawn to those whose posts are philosophical too. No wonder he liked Meg.
The first step is obvious. I’ll have to post something on the boards. An opening, like Meg’s. Something that introduces me to the group, announces my intentions to kill myself, couching those intentions in a question. If I’m too sure, if I’m already shopping for rat poison, I won’t seem like a mouse.
It takes me several days to come up with something, and then I get stuck thinking of a username. Everything I want to use is related to Meg, and I don’t know how much she told him about herself, so I don’t want to give myself away. I glance at the overdue stack of library books and use them as inspiration.
Kafkaesque
Opening SalvoI’ve been thinking about catching the bus for a while. I think I’m ready to buy my ticket. I just need some encouragement. I’m worried about my family and not succeeding, and let’s be honest, succeeding. I’d welcome intelligent thoughts.
As soon as I post it, I regret it. It sounds fake, nothing like me, and nothing like a suicidal person. I fully expect to be called out as a fraud by everyone on the boards. But the next day, there are several responses. As with Meg, most of them are so nice and encouraging—Welcome! Congratulations!—which, in an odd way, is gratifying. Except All_BS isn’t among the responders. I might have fooled some of these people. But not the one I’m looking for.
I switch usernames and think of Meg’s post about Scottie and try again.
CR0308
SurvivorI have been thinking very seriously about taking my life for several months now, but what’s held me back is my mother. It’s just her and me, and I worry about what it’ll be like for her if I’m gone. Can I live with myself? Will I have to?
This one also smells of bullshit. It’s not entirely accurate to say Tricia didn’t want me, because she did keep me. It’s more that I don’t think Tricia wanted children. What mother makes her two-year-old call her by her first name because she says she’s too young to be called Mommy? I know Tricia would probably be pretty bummed if I killed myself, but I also know she’s looking forward to having me out of her hair. She tells me this on a regular basis.
I get a bunch of responses, some of them telling me that, yeah, it’s a pretty fucked-up thing to do to a single mom. That maybe I should wait for her to remarry or something. Which makes me laugh. Tricia can’t remarry until she marries, and with her three-month-relationship shelf life, I can’t see either of those ever happening.
There’s nothing from All_BS. I have this weird feeling that as long as I lie, I won’t get a response. Which is kind of a catch-22, because how can I do this without lying?
I pick a new username, something vaguely Meg-related—the Pete and Repeat—but ambiguous enough not to be tied to her. Instead of trying to channel Meg, I try channeling myself.
Repeat
The Truth
One day, on the way home from the library, I see Sue driving out of the parking lot of the fried chicken fast-food restaurant. My impulse is to duck out of the way.
“Need a ride?” she asks, pulling up alongside me.
I peer into the car. There’s no Joe, no Scottie, just a big bag, already seeping with grease. Sue moves the chicken to the backseat and opens the door for me.
“Where you headed?” she asks, as if there are multiple possible destinations.
“Home,” I say, which is true. “Tricia’s waiting for me,” I add, which is not, but I’m worried she’s going to invite me over and I can’t face that, especially right now, with the folder full of Final Solution printouts in my hand.
“We haven’t seen much of you,” Sue says. “I’ve left you some messages.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “We want you to get on with your life.”
“I am,” I say. The lies slip off my tongue so easily now, they barely register as untrue.
“Good. Good.” She looks at the folder, and I start to sweat. I think she’s going to ask about it, but she doesn’t. The silence grows and gapes between us, shimmering like the heat on the empty asphalt.
It’s not a big town, and within five minutes we are home. I’m relieved to find Tricia’s car in the driveway, if only because it backs up my story.
“Maybe come for dinner one night next week,” Sue says. She glances toward the bag in the backseat; the deep-fried smell has now settled throughout the car. “If you come, I can make the chili you like. I’m starting to cook again.”
“Chili would be great,” I say, opening the door. As I shut it, I catch a glimpse of Sue’s face in the side mirror, and I understand that we’re both of us liars now.
x x x
The next day, I clean Mrs. Driggs’s house. It’s one of my easiest jobs because it is usually immaculate. I strip her bed, the sheets smelling like old lady, even though Mrs. Driggs can’t be more than ten years older than Tricia. I scrub the bathtub, self-clean the oven, Windex the windows. I save Jeremy’s room for last. It creeps me out a bit, the ghostliness of it, vacuuming the shag carpet, still bearing the treads from last week’s cleaning.
I push the vacuum into the corner where Hendrix’s cage once sat. Something clatters in the motor. I switch it off, get down on the floor to inspect what’s inside, and find a bobby pin, the kind Mrs. Driggs uses to pull back her bun. So she haunts this empty room, this empty house. She should get a pet or something, maybe some cats. Much better than a snake, although cats would go after mice too. Still, it wouldn’t be such a rigged game as it was when Jeremy fed Hendrix—the victim and the victor predetermined. Poor fucking mouse.
I’m sitting there with the bobby pin in my hand when it hits me. How to find All_BS. He’s the snake. To get him, I have to be the mouse.
22
What makes someone appetizing to someone like All_BS? Why did he choose to help Meg and not, say, Sassafrants, or the guy who always asks about rat poison? And how can I get him to think I’m one of those people?
I go back through his posts, looking for a pattern. He responds more to girls than to guys—particularly to smart girls. He doesn’t ever reply to the illiterates, or the ranters. He also seems to take an interest in people at the beginning of their journey, the ones who are just starting to think about “catching the bus.” And he likes philosophy—his posts are full of quotes—and seems drawn to those whose posts are philosophical too. No wonder he liked Meg.
The first step is obvious. I’ll have to post something on the boards. An opening, like Meg’s. Something that introduces me to the group, announces my intentions to kill myself, couching those intentions in a question. If I’m too sure, if I’m already shopping for rat poison, I won’t seem like a mouse.
It takes me several days to come up with something, and then I get stuck thinking of a username. Everything I want to use is related to Meg, and I don’t know how much she told him about herself, so I don’t want to give myself away. I glance at the overdue stack of library books and use them as inspiration.
Kafkaesque
Opening SalvoI’ve been thinking about catching the bus for a while. I think I’m ready to buy my ticket. I just need some encouragement. I’m worried about my family and not succeeding, and let’s be honest, succeeding. I’d welcome intelligent thoughts.
As soon as I post it, I regret it. It sounds fake, nothing like me, and nothing like a suicidal person. I fully expect to be called out as a fraud by everyone on the boards. But the next day, there are several responses. As with Meg, most of them are so nice and encouraging—Welcome! Congratulations!—which, in an odd way, is gratifying. Except All_BS isn’t among the responders. I might have fooled some of these people. But not the one I’m looking for.
I switch usernames and think of Meg’s post about Scottie and try again.
CR0308
SurvivorI have been thinking very seriously about taking my life for several months now, but what’s held me back is my mother. It’s just her and me, and I worry about what it’ll be like for her if I’m gone. Can I live with myself? Will I have to?
This one also smells of bullshit. It’s not entirely accurate to say Tricia didn’t want me, because she did keep me. It’s more that I don’t think Tricia wanted children. What mother makes her two-year-old call her by her first name because she says she’s too young to be called Mommy? I know Tricia would probably be pretty bummed if I killed myself, but I also know she’s looking forward to having me out of her hair. She tells me this on a regular basis.
I get a bunch of responses, some of them telling me that, yeah, it’s a pretty fucked-up thing to do to a single mom. That maybe I should wait for her to remarry or something. Which makes me laugh. Tricia can’t remarry until she marries, and with her three-month-relationship shelf life, I can’t see either of those ever happening.
There’s nothing from All_BS. I have this weird feeling that as long as I lie, I won’t get a response. Which is kind of a catch-22, because how can I do this without lying?
I pick a new username, something vaguely Meg-related—the Pete and Repeat—but ambiguous enough not to be tied to her. Instead of trying to channel Meg, I try channeling myself.
Repeat
The Truth
