So, sometimes I just want to feel pathetic.
You know, like one of those characters in a melodrama. Maybe like a soap opera queen who has had one too many and is about to finally drive her Mercedes off a cliff as one final gesture to the great all-powerful Love.
But instead, I just sit in my room with Are You Lonesome Tonight playing over and over. The version sung by Elvis before he sounded too gooey. I found out it’s an older song, actually, and that other people did it before Elvis. But there were people before Elvis?
I picture him singing, wearing jeans and a black leather jacket, standing by one of those old cars from the 50’s. Maybe he’s more James Dean than Elvis, I don’t know.
I’m lying on the ground in front of him, curled on my side, looking up at him. I want to be the one with the broken bottle at the end of my finger tips but that seems wrong. I picture a small table with a ham sandwich, instead. Every now and then, Elvis can pause and take a bite from the sandwich. His smile assures me it’s good.
Oh, I am soooooooo hungry!
My uncle showed up and made my mother cry. She didn’t do it while he was still here – she waited for him to leave. I saw her sitting on the end of her bed.
I remember him from before. I have foggy memories of him staying with us for a while. He slept in the little weirdo’s room. So that was long ago – before he was born. And where has he been hiding, anyway?
I love my bed and the lights in my room. The ceiling needs something, though. I want to take down the posters and replace them with new ones. The only one I like is a multicoloured echoed Elvis with a gun in his hand. Is that a gun? It’s from a magazine I found. It’s too small.
I want to be a maiden and do things. I don’t even know what that means.
I think I have seen too many movies. Or maybe the wrong movies. I see movies with girls in them and the girls are all easily shocked and scared and they have honour and expectations. I don’t feel like I have honour, not the way they do. And I don’t expect anything at all. I’m thinking the dish I’ll be served will have a nice neat pile of dogshit on it.
But if I could be a character, that could all be changed. There would be no more random feeling. I would be a certain way. Instead, I am lying on my bed and want to sleep but it’s four pm and I just got home from school. I have nothing to do and nowhere to go and I don’t even have a reason to feel melancholy.
Someone tell me how pathetic I am. I can’t even be melancholy.
But the sound of Elvis’ lazy voice pooping out “Is your heart filled with pain?” makes me want to scream “No!”
My heart is not filled with pain or anything else.
I think it’s got some blood in it and that’s about all.
Oh, god! Why am I listening to this ancient crap? So, I press the stop button and shut him up. Holy shit, that was weird. My room looks like a palace of unrequited horniness with all the boys staring at me off the walls. When did I ever think this was a good idea? But it’s okay – they tear nicely as I rip them off the wall. Soon, they’re in shreds on the floor, bits of gleaming eyes and teeth and hair randomly strewn across the clothing and books and junk that hides the carpet. Gun-toting Elvis is mixed in with the rest. I briefly curse that I will be forced to clean up and find myself sitting on the floor.
“What’s wrong?” My mother is standing in the doorway, the sheepish boy is looking carefully around her at me. I feel slightly more like a bomb than a dishrag.
“Are you ok? What happened?” She took a step forward but stopped when I held out my hand. She stood and looked for a few seconds and then walked away.
Georgie looked like a ghost. But then he pinched his nose with his right hand, elbow in the air, and spun around while waving his left hand up above his head like some kind of miniature deranged tapdancer. “Take off, you little freak!”
I think everything’s ok.