The problem is that you think you have time – Buddha
I don't know if the Buddha really said that. If he did, I do know it would've been in Sanskrit. Which incidentally might as well have been what Aunt Constance was speaking right now. She had just informed me that I was not to meet the one person who had the slightest chance of guiding me along this shiny new path I'd launched myself upon. And with each passing moment she was only making less sense.
"Why can't I see Baccha anymore?" I practically cried out.
"Tonight's a new moon," she said, giving me a super judgy look. Like this was common knowledge.
I was about to ask if we were all going to make sure our periods aligned with the lunar cycles now, but checked myself. There'd be time enough to wreck myself later, I was sure.
"Fill me in," I said, "that's important why?"
"A new moon heralds change. It's the time for letting go of the old, releasing the past." She was glaring at me when she added, "and that includes deadbeat friends."
"Woah now," I said, suddenly defensive. For Baccha?? "Look, Aunt Constance, I know Baccha might not look for much, but he's not exactly a deadbeat."
"His choice of hairstyle, and the tattered jacket say otherwise."
"The dreads are part of his heritage," I shrugged. But that look on her face . . . what was she not telling me?
Tossing her hands in the air, she exhaled sharply and flicked the cigarette towards the window. Again, it went right through. Damn, I'd hate to play darts with this woman.
"You can do what you like," she said, "I'm not your mom, lord knows I'm not, but do me a favour, and at least make sure you can really trust him. That's all I'm saying."
Ah. This must be the talk, you know, the birds and the bees, but for the females. What, did she think Baccha Yelin was going to roofie me? Was she looking out for my modesty? As I was about to look into the distance and get lost questioning just how much of my modesty remained, she reached for the remote and flipped to a local channel.
I saw the headline before I recognised the backdrop. Local Man Missing After Running Into Woods. And behind it was the ever-classy patio of The Invisible Scorpion. Last night's empty mugs and trash were still on the tables. That Vinny, such a slacker.
"I was there last night," I said to Aunt Constance. "I thought I'd see you."
"I showed up pretty late." She'd said it so quickly that I immediately leaned into the couch. "I actually saw the guy bolt into the forest," I said as nonchalantly as I could.
"Really?" she turned towards me. "Then I can't say I feel too sorry for him. There are myths and whispers about the woods. You don't fuck around with it."
"Then what about the people going in to look for him?" I asked.
"They're just as stupid. He's long gone by now."
"Okay," I said. She was getting very intense on me, and I'd just made up my mind to not tell her shit until I knew for sure that I could trust her.
She shook her head slowly, tucking the loose locks of her hair behind her ear.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm on edge and I don't even know why."
"Maybe it's that new moon, huh," I said, earning a murderous stare, prompting me to add, "or maybe you just really need to rest."
"Maybe?" She patted her thighs and got up. "Maybe I'll do just that."
She moved towards the window and I got to follow her. Once she'd got out she knelt down and said, "Seriously, be careful. Just stay in tonight."
I promised her I would, and I intended to. The incongruity of what I meant and what my reality was became apparent as soon as I was all alone again. I looked at my empty mess of a room and immediately felt dread and a need for escape. Why was this my default reaction to everything except things that either got me high or got me off?
There were more than enough things to keep me occupied. With books alone I could spend the rest of my life barricaded in here and not desire a new storyline. I just needed to pass the eleven or twelve hours until I could crawl into the safe arms of sleep. Til that sweet respite, I could listen to music, or continue Metal Slug 3. Or hey, I could pick up the guitar and noodle around, maybe learn a song. Shit, maybe I'd surprise myself and even write something.
I'd been down this train of thought many times, so I knew that if I didn't just do something and assumed it was exactly what I needed to do I'd get all anxious about my indecision and do the worst thing. Maybe that's what the Buddha meant. The problem is that you think you can do everything. Sure sounds like a limiting believe though, don't it?
But that's how I ended up on my Amazon Prime page with The Vampire Diaries ready to go. I remembered that it was part of Baccha's great and wise solution to all of my problems. The other half was in the freezer upstairs. I would have to quest.
The door creaked noisily, blowing all my hopes of moving in and out of the kitchen undetected. Still I treaded lightly and slowly towards my destination. I got to the fridge and opened the top door. I was in luck: a pint of Strawberry Cheesecake. Grabbing it and shutting the door, I turned around and nearly screamed.
"I'm not that scary," my mother said, frowning heavily.
"I didn't even hear you come in," I said in defence, my heart thumping. Usually I was the one that gave people shocks in this house. 'Stealth' wasn't the word I'd use to describe how my parents moved.
My mother was watching me, with a great deal more attentiveness that I'd ever received from her. Excepting the times I was in trouble of course.
"Did you do something to your hair?" she asked.
"Yep. Gave it a little trim for a kind of layered look." I said quickly. I didn't even know what I'd meant. She seemed to buy it though.
"Looks good, honey! Here, let me get you a spoon for that ice cream."
"Thanks, mom." I said, but her back was already turned, her attention all set on some veggies that needed slicing.
I shrugged and removed myself from the kitchen, silently making my way back down. I peeked into the living room and caught a side glimpse of dad in his easy chair, probably watching TV. Isn't it funny how unchanged the world might appear, despite the pure madness going on just below the surface. Me, whatever was eating Aunt Constance, this whole thing with the missing biker. Jon Hodkins, his name was.
A little known factoid about me, reader: I have absolutely no problem starting a show right in the middle. I'm not planting myself down in front of a screen for hours on end because I long to ruminate on the big philosophical questions of life. Through hard work and clearly a sadomasochistic impulse I'd taught myself to turn to books for that. It might sound a little snooty, like oh, no pictures for me when I'm being intellectual please haw haw, but I don't care. But now I'm no longer convinced that sequential order could ever grant me the answers to those questions anyway. I just read to wake my mind up and get it focused. I know I'm "in the zone" when I can get through a couple pages without my mind wondering. No, when I'm watching something, I just wanna see stuff. I'd just as easily be entertained by a lava lamp.
And given everything, I absolutely didn't want to think. So, vampires? Perfect? Nina Dobrev? Very cute. The ice cream? The bomb. I even had my feet up, like Baccha had suggested.
True to all gender change tropes and cliches, I found myself fixated by outfits. I assessed how the leather jackets looked on the Salvatore brothers, the well-chosen bespoke shirts. I admired their sharp jawlines and the thick hair on their heads, their overall very masculine features. And I wasn't even disturbed by this. It was like I was witnessing the workings of my mind, somewhat detached from it all. An observer. I couldn't help but draw a parallel with being drunk: you became dissociated, but you also blacked out before it got anywhere very substantial.
By my third episode there was only only a smidge left in the pint of B&J's. A little rock in an evaporating puddle of pink and white. I felt then maybe the first real tinge of sadness since Friday. I longed for more.
Deciding that was enough for today (I was lying to myself), I went to the shelf that had my records and started flipping through, checking out the covers. Sprawling out on the couch for the past two hours, mostly inert and totally liberated from the responsibilities of feeling sorry for oneself had a rejuvenating effect. Now I wanted to move, to dance. I felt an almost desperate need to gyrate my hips in those bellydancer-like circles. For my next trick, watch me turn into Shakira.
Eventually I settled on an old favourite, one of the few in my collection with no dud tracks, The first Arctic Monkeys.
I'd never done this before, you know. Been overcome by a need to dance in my room. Okay, that was a lie, and I'm sorry. I did it all the time when I was a kid. But I grew up quick and stopped by the time I was a teen. Shit, at some point I'll stop lying to you. In all honestly I would move like a lunatic to whatever the banger of the moment was, right up to when my mom asked if I was dancing in my room one breakfast (the night before had been particularly cathartic; there was some jumping involved.) (This also happened a lot more recently than you'd think.)
Even then however, I had been doing little more than miming to the songs. Air-guitaring, and in my mind's eye I'd be performing them live, in front of the high school. Impressing all the chicks and getting all the teachers back, showing them all I wasn't a complete waste of space.
So the previous mode of dancing was ego-driven. No so much this time around. Here I was just being, letting my limbs move as they felt the urge to. I had no one that I wanted to impress. There was no flailing, either. The tempo dictated how I moved, as much as the way I felt. Yeah, yeah, I know, try to imagine all this sensual free expression happening with "I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor" as the soundtrack.
At some point I began to feel lighter, as if I was shedding skin, perhaps of a dozen old cringy selves. I pulled the wardrobe door open so I could watch myself in the mirror. It was at that precise moment that I wouldn't have cared if someone walked in. I was feeling very, very sexy . . .
Unfortunately, that sentiment didn't extend to my clothes. I needed something cuter. Why not? My mom didn't seem to notice that I'd transformed into an Instagram influencer over the weekend. Nice hair?? Either she was working through the worst denial in recorded history, or maybe this was something stipulated in one of the subliminals I'd binged. Some, if not all, of the benefits ("bennies") listed in the descriptions and pinned in the comments are wild, folks. I'm sure at least one of those bennies included that I'd be recognised and remembered as always having been a really refined lady with exquisite taste in music and ice cream and haircuts.
But Aunt Constance wasn't affected, so maybe the effects on each person were dictated by my mind, making it a much more powerful apparatus than I'd ever given it credit for. That made some kind of sense, as I was terrified of my mom finding out, but not Aunt C, but it wasn't altogether satisfying . . .
Halt. Hit pause. Nope, nah uh. I'm not overthinking this. Easy living, baby. I sprawled out on the couch again, and did perhaps the most chick thing I'd done up to now. I downloaded Pinterest.
Look, I just wanted to browse for outfits I could maybe wear to bed and prance around in. You know, those kinda skimpy and tight short-sleeved jumpsuits maybe? But oh my god, no wonder women were always on their phones. The app was a bottomless well of desirable clothes! Prints with little sleeping sheep and crescent moons, bright yellows with red cherries. And then I stumbled unto posts of fucking kittens and realised I wanted one really bad. I was in doomscrolling heaven.
And then, right as the switch in "When the Sun Goes Down" was about the kick in, Baccha's name appeared on the top of my phone screen, and my eyebrows shot up as I read his message:
Im assembling a search party to go into the woods, emphasis on party u in?