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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/book “The False Portrait” cc&d, v281 (the March 2018 issue) Order this as a 6"x9" paperback book:  |
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Perdita
Brittany Micka-Foos
“Welcome to your first act of civil disobedience.” She beams at me, and I feel like I’ve been flung headlong into a brick wall. Her smile is dizzying.
I watch her flitter into the human mosaic that congeals around us. Perdita’s patchwork skirt billows up in the sudden gusts, briefly revealing the sweep of her
thigh. When I first met her, I made the obvious comparison, and it rang true on every level: My hair pulled back in a bun so tight I suffer constant headaches, versus her self-cut strands that curl down her cheeks like ivy, resistant, untamed by her headband. My sullen personality versus her free-spirited wiles. Perdita is bubbly. Frankly, I’m boring. In a competition, any competition, Perdita would win every time. But I’m content right now, alongside Perdita, basking in her excitement and indignation. Somewhere outside myself, a drum beats boldly, and my heart leaps.
The drum signaled the march—the blaze came later.
We march down State Street. I’m entranced by the haphazard drumming that regulates my steps. I haven’t felt this defiant since college. I haven’t felt this meaningful since bible camp, so I know I must be getting old. Tomorrow marks my five years as Inventory Manager II at the Auditor’s Office. Tomorrow’s my anniversary party. I’ll receive a slightly bigger plaque for my desk and a slightly more expensive cake. I’m eagerly anticipating my 20-year anniversary: it comes with a stainless steel pen-and-ink set. I’m not sure what kind of cake you get, probably a fancy ice cream cake, Haagen-Dazs or whatever. Sometimes
I sit at my desk and daydream about that pen-and-ink set. My boss has one; it’s quite smart looking, actually. Very professional. Besides, I get so fucking fed up with the cheap plastic Bics. They always run out of ink at inopportune times or get lost or stolen. Some days, I catch myself thinking about that set, that amalgamation of processed pieces of earth. To think that a fancy pen could justify 20 years of hell seems silly, even to me. But sometimes I let myself get away with that kind of thinking. Especially on Mondays. Whatever gets you through the day, that’s my mantra.
The drums halt, causing me to stop awkwardly, my feet mechanically marching in place. The group gathers in front of an abandoned building that I’m sure I’ve never noticed until this very moment, even though I’ve driven past it every single damn day on my commute. I smell brimstone. Perdita releases my hand, and I find the sudden distance from her jarring. Tonight had consisted of her leading me, pulling my hand in every direction, and now I’m lost without her. She leaves me standing there stunned, as she confers with a group in the center of the mob—a few very serious-looking girls in skirts shouldering
a drunk boy, and a stoic older man with a black bicycle and a baby. I watch her converse with the man as he cradles the infant in one arm. His expression tells nothing, but something in his brief glances ignites flames of jealousy inside my stomach. I want to walk over to her and kiss her on the mouth, with every hippie and hippie’s baby a witness. But I can’t, so I keep marching in place to the beat of my own mantra.
Inertia’s a funny thing. Essentially, it means that an object will stay at its constant rate of movement, unless acted upon by outside forces. It makes sense, though I never really had much of an interest in physics. Nowadays, I can’t recall anything I would term “an interest.” Drinking, I suppose, if you define interest as blandly as “what you do in your spare time.”
Drinking and work, which seems pathetic on a level I can’t even stomach. It’s hard, going to the same place, seeing the same disinterested faces, thinking every day “so this is what my life is going to be like from now on.” And I’m 27, so I have
a lot of that life to look forward to.
Working in a nondescript, white-walled office, associating with more paperwork than people. It’s really rare
for me to meet people—I mean really meet people, not in the robotic, perfunctory sense. Even when you’re all jammed together, it’s rare to meet someone who you actually connect with. That’s what I told Perdita anyway, when she led me into her bedroom, telling me I had nothing to worry about.
Thinking of that, it’s difficult to concentrate. I feel warmth creep up my leg as I realize the bush next to me is on fire.
Under normal circumstances I would find arson alarming, but the way tonight is going I genuinely feel I have nothing to worry about. At this point, two of the boys begin to scale the walls of the building. The old man with the baby looks on in stern approval. Perdita explains that the structure is abandoned and closed off, that we are attempting to reclaim it. I almost ask who we are claiming it from, but I bite my tongue instead. I don’t want to seem ignorant or offensive. Perdita is gleeful at this point, fluttering around and asking strangers for a cigarette.
Everything about Perdita screams of fire. Her smile could light up an abandoned building. Her tongue flickers over her lips whenever she is deep in thought. Her skin is always warm and her eyes shining. I know I’m staring, and she looks back at me, searchingly, tilting her head. Every movement makes me want to grab her hand and tell her she is the only woman I have ever loved. Instead, I look back at her and shrug. She winks impishly and flashes a grin that would make Mother Teresa wet. She gestures to the boys, who have
succeeded in gaining entrance to the building, opening up the main door for the eagerly awaiting mob.
Shortly thereafter a window explodes, sending shards of glass and boxes out onto the parking lot lawn. A few boxes rupture on impact, scattering a variety of office supplies on the ground. Soon, the small lot is shrouded with papers—unsent memos, outdated calendars chock full of meetings long passed, dentist’s appointments, all of junior’s unwitnessed Little League games. I mistake a flaming office desk for another burning bush. I watch its paint slowly peel away, revealing charred drawers overflowing with work and ash. Doing my part to assist in the bedlam, I kick the rubbish at my feet, inadvertently unearthing a familiar pen-and-ink set with a metal plate bearing an unfamiliar name. Picking it up, I run my finger over the metal, surprised at its heat. Its surface renders a vague reflection of the flames surrounding me. The bottom has begun to blacken, but it’s not yet falling apart, even in the midst of this anarchy. It might withstand. As I hold it, I think about my life up until this point. Admittedly, it isn’t everything I envisioned in college, maybe a six on a scale of ten. It could have been a nine. I could have gone to art school. Or could I? I could end up better off, sure, but I could also end up at a one or two on the scale of life. So, most times, I think I’ll settle for the six. But at times like this, I wonder. I can see the flames and police sirens reflecting in the metal, and I can’t tell if this is a promising vision of the future or a terrible omen. Things have been strange lately, one more smile from Perdita and I’m going to want to write poetry, I swear. I stand in the midst of the maelstrom, wondering if it’s simply inertia keeping me here, or if there’s something larger at stake. By the time I decide, the pen set has cooled and darkened. Desperately, I fling it through one of the last untouched windows and into the inferno. As it makes impact, it echoes.
Perdita lights her new-found cigarette in the burgeoning office supply fire that blazes right before my eyes. A car passes by warily. Perdita claims with supreme disinterest that the cops will arrive any moment. God, she looks so beautiful holding her convictions and her cigarette, surrounded by the conflagration. I pull her in to kiss her and taste the lingering tobacco on her lips.
