Hula Ville: And Other Short Stories

Hula Ville

Charlie Blake was sitting quietly on the lumpy sofa, his hands folded in his lap and his eyes focused on the wall across the room. He was dressed in his gray three-piece suit, white shirt, and yellow tie. There was a film of light brown dust still clinging to his shoes and pants cuffs, but except for this dust, Charlie looked just about the same as he did every day.

Charlie removed a piece of white paper from his coat pocket and unfolded it slowly. He looked at it. It was the only material evidence of what had happened to him during the past twenty-four hours, and he read it again for the umpteenth time. "Involuntary Patient Advisement: You are being placed into this psychiatric facility because it is the opinion of the professional staff that as a result of your mental disorder, you are likely to—"

Hey, man! the guy across from Charlie shouted. Charlie stuffed the paper back into his pocket and looked across the room at a long-haired, rough-looking motorcycle type with a lot of tattoos embroidered up and down his arms. He was wearing a white tank top and a pair of tattered, oil-stained jeans with a chrome chain for a belt and lock for its buckle. There had been an old cigarette butt poking out of his mouth since Charlie first arrived twenty-four hours ago. He had been asking Charlie if he had any matches just about every hour on the hour, like a sort of Hell’s Angels grandfather clock. Hey, man! the guy shouted. "Hey, you man. Mr. Three-Piece Suit. You got any matches on you?"

Is it really ten o’clock already? Charlie said. He looked down at his wristwatch.

What? the guy shouted.

Sorry friend. No, I don’t have any matches.

Bummer, the guy said. He scratched his crotch and looked out toward the window angrily.

Through the corner of his eye, Charlie looked over at a woman. She too had been here since Charlie arrived. She was sitting in a chair at the other end of the room, staring at Charlie and smiling whenever he looked at her. She’d smile and then her face would light up like she was about to say something, but she never said anything. She just stopped and stared. She looked like an average housewife type with closely cropped wavy red hair and a pair of hazy green eyes. Charlie wondered what the woman had done to end up in this place; abandoned her baby in a garbage can, perhaps, or poisoned her husband with a deadly batch of fried chicken? She was still staring at Charlie as he spied at her through the corner of his eye, and he quickly looked away. He looked instead at the wall, waiting.

Mr. Blake? a voice said. Charlie turned his head and looked toward the doorway. A nurse was standing and smiling at him. Are you Mr. Blake?

Yes I am, Charlie said.

Please come with me.

Charlie stood up from the sofa and stretched his arms. He walked to the doorway and followed the nurse down a hallway and into a room full of empty beige walls and a large wooden table. Two men were waiting for Charlie in the room, seated at the end of the table. The nurse pulled a chair out for Charlie, and he sat down and smiled.

Charles Blake? a man said.

Please call me Charlie.

Okay, Charlie, the man said. My name is Dr. Lee, and this is my associate, Dr. Flower.

Nice to meet you, Charlie said.

Do you know where you are?

In a mental hospital.

That’s correct.

Somewhere in Santa Ana, I think.

Very good! Lee said. We’re here to evaluate your case.

I understand.

Just one moment please. Lee leaned over and whispered something to his associate, pointing to a piece of paper.

Dr. Lee, Charlie thought, was a smartly dressed man. He had a head full of neatly combed silver hair and a pair of gold framed glasses that defined his face rather nicely, and Charlie noticed a lot of jewelry on his fingers and wrists, and on the cuffs of his white starched shirt. Lee’s associate was quite different in appearance, an obese man who wore a pair of crooked wire-rimmed spectacles that were high at one eye and low at the other. He had a massive beard that fell from his face to his chest in black oily curls, like some forest growth, the kind of stuff that grows in the crooks and armpits of trees. The man’s extra weight and massive beard made him appear a lot older than he probably was, and Charlie guessed the man to be in his forties, the same as Charlie. Neither of these two men matched Charlie’s conception of psychiatrists. Dr. Lee, Charlie thought, looked like the president of a computer company, and Dr. Flower looked more like a post office clerk.

Okay, Lee sighed. I think we’re ready.

Good, Charlie said.

Would you like to tell us about yesterday?

Sure, Charlie said. Where would you like me to begin?

Wherever you like.

Okay, Charlie said. He thought for a moment, looking across the table at Flower, who was listening intently and trying to get his large body comfortable in the wooden chair. There isn’t really all that much to tell you. I was on my way to work yesterday morning, the same way I am every morning. I was driving my car on the freeway toward Anaheim.

You work in Anaheim? Flower asked.

Yes, Charlie said. I’ve worked at the same firm for nearly twelve years. I don’t think I’ve ever missed a single day.

That’s a very impressive record, Lee said.

Thanks, Charlie replied. It isn’t a crime to miss a day of work, is it?

But that’s not why you’re here.

I know, Charlie said.

Let’s go back to yesterday morning, Lee said. Tell us something about yesterday morning. What happened that morning?

I got up and showered just like I do every morning. I put on these clothes. I went downstairs to eat breakfast in the kitchen. I sat at the table with my son.

You have a son? Flower asked.

It’s using the term loosely.

Oh?

He has blue hair.

I see.

He’s one of those, whatever they’re called, those kids who dye their hair strange colors.

Punks? Flower said.

Yes, Charlie agreed. And he’s got a golden earring in his left ear, and one in his nose.

You’re having difficulty with your son?

Not really, Charlie said. I mean, I did yesterday, but not right now. Yesterday morning while I was eating my breakfast, I finally asked him, ‘What’s the deal with the blue hair and earrings?’ I’m not sure why I brought it up all of a sudden like that; it’s not like this was the first time this question had ever crossed my mind. My wife always says that it’s just a phase he’s going through, that he’s just rebelling against things. ‘It’s his outlet,’ she says to me. I suppose when I asked him why he did these things, I was expecting an appropriate answer from him, like it all had something to do with nuclear weapons or acid rain or apartheid in South Africa. I mean, I lived through the sixties, not that I was a hippie or anything—in fact, I was a Republican then—but I was around during all that nonsense, and I think I’m capable of understanding this sort of thing.

So what did he say? Flower asked.

He said he didn’t know.

I see, Lee said.

"He sounds like my son," Flower noticed.

"Then he told me to chill out, whatever that means."

My son says that too, Flower said.

Go on, Lee said.

I think he’s taking drugs, Charlie said. I think my son is one of those kids who says yes to drugs.

Why do you say that?

Because no one could be that stupid naturally.

I see, Lee said.

You’ve just got to see this kid to believe it. I mean, it’s amazing this blue hair of his. He puts wax in it so it all stands on end. He’s sitting there at the breakfast table, chewing on his cereal with milk running down from the corners of his mouth, his hair up on end like he’s got his finger in an electrical socket.

I see, Lee said.

My wife says he’ll grow out of it.

Is he your only child?

Oh no, Charlie said. I’ve also got a daughter.

Do you have any difficult with her?

Not at all, Charlie said. She lives in Boston.

I see, Lee said.

"She graduated from high school several years ago and got a job as an airline stewardess. She met a businessman from Boston and married him and moved in with him. I’m not really sure what the guy does for a living. He’s supposedly very high up the ladder of some East Coast corporation, and he bought her a wristwatch that cost more money than our first house. She sent us a picture of it. Now she calls me Faather, and her husband calls me Charles, like I’m the Prince of Wales or something. They’re a real pair."

I see.

Dr. Lee leaned over to Flower and whispered for a moment. The two of them nodded in agreement and then looked back at Charlie.

Let’s talk about your wife, Charlie.

Okay.

Are you two getting along?

I think so.

Tell us about her.

I’m not sure what to tell you about her. She’s changed a lot in the years we’ve been married. It’s hard to put my finger on it. She’s there but she isn’t. It’s like she’s disappearing.

Disappearing?

Yes, Charlie said. I mean she’s there at the house and everything, and she still cooks dinner and cleans things up. Well, she doesn’t exactly do the cleaning herself. She hired a housekeeper who does the actual work, but the woman can’t speak a word of English, so it’s really a full-time job just telling her what to do.

Tell us more about her disappearing, Flower said.

"I don’t mean that she’s literally disappearing. I mean if I said that, you’d know I was crazy, and then I’d never get out of this place."

Go on.

"I just mean she’s not really there anymore. I mean, we talk to each other every day, but we seem to be running out of things to talk about. It has after all been twenty-two years. I mean how many different things can you talk about for twenty-two years? Sometimes we just sit there and stare at each other. I thought about this on the way to work yesterday morning; twenty-two years is eight thousand days. Can you think of eight thousand things to talk about with the same person? I think it’s impossible, and I think sometimes that marriage itself is impossible. Until I look at my parents. They’ve been married for fifty-two years. They’re beginning to lose their memories now, so they can talk about the same things over and over and they don’t really notice what they’re doing. They can talk about the last earthquake, for example, a thousand times, about the crack they found in the kitchen window, like it just happened yesterday, like they just discovered it. I think if you can keep your marriage together until you’re their age, in your sixties or seventies, you’ll pretty much be home free."

"Do you talk about anything?" Flower asked.

For the past two months we’ve been talking about carpet samples.

Carpet samples?

We decided to have new carpet installed in the house, and for the past two months my wife has been bringing home samples and laying them around on the floor. We look at them, discuss them, and compare them with each other, and lay them next to different pieces of furniture—

How about sex? Lee interrupted.

No, we don’t talk about sex.

I mean, how is your sexual relationship with your wife?

After eight thousand days?

Yes, Lee said.

We have sex just about as often as my son cleans his ears. It’s not that we have a problem with each other in this department. I think we both enjoy it, although eight thousand times seems a bit much. I think it’s really something subconscious that’s keeping us celibate, as though we’re both frightened of the risk we’d be taking.

The risk?

Of having more children. I just can’t imagine myself in my sixties, my golden years, eating breakfast each morning with another blue-haired son. I’d be much too old. And I wouldn’t have the patience. I’d probably do something rash, like kill him with my cane or something.

I see.

"I mean, not really kill him."

Of course.

It’s just an expression.

Dr. Lee paused for a moment and scribbled some notes on his pad of paper. There was a sudden ruckus from the hallway outside, a lot of banging against the walls and shouting from hospital orderlies. The door opened and a nurse called for Dr. Lee.

It’s Mrs. Williams, she said. We can’t keep her tied down. We can’t keep the straps on her wrists. Her wrists are too fat, and she keeps pulling—

Excuse me a moment, Lee said to Charlie, and he stood and stepped out of the room.

Charlie looked over at Dr. Flower who was still seated. He was in a sort of trance with his mouth open and his hand tugging gently on the end of his beard.

Are you okay? Charlie asked.

Oh, yes, Flower said. He blinked his eyes and looked back at Charlie. That thing you were talking about, about your wife disappearing?

Yes, Charlie said.

I think I know what you’re talking about—

Ahhhh! the woman outside screamed. The door was open and the orderlies were now pushing her stretcher past the doorway. Charlie turned around and saw the woman, a gigantic heap of flesh in a hospital gown, a beast of a woman, her huge arms and legs hog-tied behind her back, and her head swinging wildly like a bull’s in a rodeo. She drooled and grimaced and glared over at Charlie as they wheeled her past. Ahhhh! she screamed.

Wow, Charlie said.

We have some real sad people in here, Flower said. It really gets to you after a while.

I see, Charlie said.

Okay, Lee said as he returned to the room and sat down in his chair. Where were we?

I was talking about my wife.

Would you like to continue?

Do you mind if I change the subject a little?

Not at all, Lee said. We’re here to listen.

"I’ve been thinking about this whole thing a lot since I arrived here yesterday. I don’t think it’s any one thing. I mean, I think it’s a combination of things, a synergy if you will, where the combined effect of the parts is greater than the sum of—"

I’m familiar with the term, Lee said.

Yesterday morning I think I experienced a sort of synergy with my thoughts. I mean, nothing really spectacular had happened that morning. Like I said earlier, I got out of bed and showered and shaved. I put on these clothes. I ate breakfast, kissed my wife, and stepped into my car to drive to work. When I was on the freeway, I began thinking to myself, not about anything in particular, but sort of about everything in general. It’s not that any one of these thoughts could make me do what I did by itself, but all together like this they seemed overpowering. I was thinking, for example, of clipping my fingernails. Have you ever thought about this?

Go on, Lee said.

If I live to be eighty years old, I figure I will have clipped my fingernails over two thousand times. If each time I cut off an eighth of an inch, I will have clipped over two hundred lineal feet of fingernails by the time I die. Nearly a football field! And it isn’t just fingernails. It’s toenails and beard bristle and the haircuts I pay for; it’s bags full of lawn clippings and tree prunings, boxes full of weeds I’ve pulled and the rotten fruit I pick up that falls from the trees in our backyard. All this stuff keeps growing out of my body and my yard like some sort of preposterous nightmare.

Go on.

"So I’m thinking about these things as I’m driving to work, and I’m thinking about my car, about how I have to keep filling it up with gas and changing its oil, washing its body and cleaning bugs off its windshield, and checking the air in its tires. I really hate this car I own. When I first met my wife, I drove a Chevy Bel-Air, a beautiful car, a two-tone yellow and white V-8 with a pair of round headlights and a chrome grill, bumpers, and fins. I inherited the car from my father. It had an AM radio with a single speaker in the dashboard. God, how I loved that car, driving it down roads on summer nights with the windows rolled down and the evening air whirling through its steel and vinyl interior. This thing I now own was made in Japan, and it looks like every other car on the road. I don’t even know what it’s called; its name sounds like every other name. I miss those days when ‘Made in Japan’ was something you found on a label on the bottom of an ashtray or a cheap toy you bought for your kid at a dime store."

Go on.

"As I was driving to work, I realized suddenly how many things I missed. Not missed out on, but missed in the way one misses a friend who has left town, or worse, who has died an untimely death. I missed drinking A&W root beer out of those large paper cones, and the car hops who would bring them to your car window. I missed leaving my headlights on for service, and those trays with the rubber-tipped brackets that would attach to your window and rest on your door. I missed real Coke bottles. I missed those straws with the ribs at their necks you could bend at the top of the bottle. I missed those guys who spun plates on the tips of sticks on the Ed Sullivan Show and cigarette commercials on television, the guy with the black eye who’d rather fight than switch. I missed drive-in theaters and black-and-white monster movies, not the sort of monsters they have now but the sort of monsters that looked like they were made out of things someone found in the garbage, or in a garage, old cans and rubber hoses and cardboard boxes and pieces of shredded clothing. As I thought about all these things, as I continued to drive down the freeway, I missed my exit for work not by accident, but on purpose I think. I remember watching the exit sign pass overhead."

Where did you think you were going?

I’m really not sure, Charlie said. I mean, I had something in mind, definitely. It wasn’t a place in particular but a place more or less in my imagination. I envisioned those highways in Arizona, out through the desert. There is something about the desert, empty and endless and quiet. I pictured myself at one of those roadside motels, not your run-of-the-mill type motel but one of those motels where people stay in concrete teepees with color TVs and air conditioning, where they sell Indian curios and authentic-imitation Indian jewelry, where it’s a hundred twenty in the shade and they advertise heated swimming pools. I pictured myself standing in the shade drinking Coke from a real Coke bottle, chatting with some old guy about UFOs or rattlesnakes.

Please go on.

I wound up in Hula Ville.

In what?

In Hula Ville.

I don’t understand.

I had a sort of apparition.

And you call it Hula Ville?

Oh, no, Charlie said. Hula Ville is real.

I see, Lee said.

Can you describe your apparition to us? Flower asked.

Of course, Charlie said. He thought for a moment. I had been driving for two or three hours. I found myself on the I-15 headed east, the same way one drives to Las Vegas. There were several billboards for casinos and hotels in Las Vegas spotted on the side of the highway. I remember how peaceful everything appeared, stretched out from under the hood of my car and across the desert. There were hundreds of those Joshua trees, those drunk-looking plants with crooked trunks and screwball branches; this was some sort of National Joshua Tree Forest, although I wouldn’t really call it a forest, since the trees were all quite far apart from each other. In the distance there were ranges of purple mountains, standing on the horizon like crumpled papers. It was late morning, and the sun was lifting itself high in the sky. It was incredibly bright, reflecting off the pavement and making mirages; it looked like the cars ahead of me were driving through water. I looked to my left at the median; it was filled with scruffy weeds, rocks, gravel, rusty cans, and bits of broken glass that sparkled like treasure. And that’s when I saw it, over to the left on the other side of the highway; it was parked on a frontage road on the other side of a chain link fence.

Saw what?

"Us, I suppose. Or them. It really depends how you want to look at this."

Please go on.

I’ll have to explain something. Charlie took a deep breath and looked up toward the ceiling. He collected his thoughts. Twelve years ago when we first moved out here to California, we stopped at this place at the side of the highway. The kids wanted to see it. It was called Hula Ville, a sort of outdoor desert museum in the middle of nowhere, at least that’s what the guy who built it called it—whoever he was—the sign said ‘Museum.’ There were bottles turned upside down on the ends of sticks, baking under the sun so that the wood turned black and the glass turned purple. There were sayings and jokes painted in white letters on pieces of wood, on the sides of old wooden crates and timbers, odd little structures made of scraps from the desert, a sign that said, ‘Winky slept here,’ or something to that effect. At the front of this place was a twelve foot hula girl statue, not really a statue but painted on wood like a cardboard cutout, and she faced the highway in her painted on grass skirt and lei, swishing her hips in the desert wind. We stopped at this place, my family and me. I parked my car in front of the hula girl.

Go on, Lee said.

"That’s what I saw yesterday morning. I saw them there, or us there—however you want to look at this thing. I mean, I was there with them; I could see myself getting out of the car and looking up at the hula girl painting. I could see my wife and children doing the same. At first I was watching, and then I was with them. I mean, I was no longer driving the piece-of-junk Japanese car of mine; I was across the highway standing alongside my old Chevy. I owned that car for twenty-one years. I should never have sold it.

‘Hey, Pop!’ my son called. I looked over at him. He was dressed in his blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up, a pair of black-and-white sneakers, a T-shirt. A baseball mitt hung on his hand. His hair was straight and blond, like his mother’s, and it fell across his forehead in a straight line of bangs. Let’s throw a few," he said to me, and he held up his baseball. Wow, I had forgotten his voice, his voice before changing. I had forgotten his eyes, how big and bright and blue they were when he was a little boy. He was six years old He loved playing baseball.

Look at me! my daughter called, and I turned my head. She was standing in front of the hula girl, her hair tied back in a ponytail, dressed in her white shorts and Grand Canyon T-shirt. We had stopped there on the way out. She was just entering puberty, shy around others, but not around us, and she was mocking the hula girl, striking a pose with her hips and telling a story with her hands. ‘We should get out the camera,’ my wife laughed. She was sitting on the hood of my Chevy, sunning her legs in the heat and brushing her hair from her face with her hands. She was wearing a large pair of sunglasses and a T-shirt that matched our daughter’s; they bought them at the National Park gift shop while my son and I went to the bottom of the canyon on mules. I had forgotten how beautiful my wife was, or is, I mean, she still must be beautiful—it was only twelve years ago. Her skin was a rosy peach color, and she lifted one knee from the hood of the car so she could strike a pose like some World War II pin-up girl. I could smell her perfume in the air, and I could hear the jabber from the radio that we had left on in the car. The windows were all rolled down since we didn’t have air conditioning. Then the song came on."

The song? Lee said.

"A twisting song. A Chubby Checker song. A mountain of memories from the days we were children, those days when our future was as big as the sky. ‘Come on,’ I said, and I reached out my hand. ‘Come on what?’ she laughed. ‘Come on, baby!’ I sang along with the song. I took her hand as she laughed at me, and she slid off the car and onto her feet. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she laughed, but she followed along, doing the twist with me alongside the Chevy in front of our children. ‘Look!’ my son howled. ‘Mom and Dad are dancing!’ Both of them looked at us wide eyed and began laughing hysterically. ‘What do you call that? my daughter laughed. ‘You look like you’ve both got ants in your pants!’

Please go on, Lee said.

But that’s all there is.

I see.

That’s all that happened yesterday morning. I mean, that’s what was happening when the highway patrolman found me.

It’s quite a story.

It was very embarrassing.

I can imagine, Lee said, glancing through the police report.

I can’t really blame the guy for bringing me here. I mean, there I was at the side of the highway, doing the twist.

The twist, Flower mumbled, as though remembering something.

All by myself. In my three-piece suit. In the middle of the damn desert.

Ha, ha! Flower laughed. Lee turned to his associate and Flower turned quiet.

It must have looked very bizarre, Charlie continued. I mean the twist even looked strange on the dance floor back when it was popular.

Yes, Lee agreed.

They gave me a sobriety test.

It says here you passed it.

That’s probably why they figured I was crazy. But I’m not really crazy. It’s not like I tried to kill myself or something. I just forgot what it was like to be happy. It’s such a simple thing, being happy. I’m happy now, see?

Charlie smiled.

Happy, Flower said.

You guys probably have a more technical term for it.

Not really, Lee said. He looked back down at his papers a moment, and then looked up at Charlie, removing his gold framed glasses and cleaning them with a handkerchief. Since you have no past record of this kind of behavior, I’m inclined to let you go home. I see no reason to keep you here any longer. Do you agree, Dr. Flower?

Oh, yes, Flower said.

If you’ll step to the desk at the entrance, I’ll instruct the girl to release you. You’ll need to sign some papers for us.

Okay, Charlie said.

And good luck to you.

Thank you.

Lee stood up from his chair and sped out of the room with his notepad and papers in hand. Charlie stood up and stretched his arms. He began to leave.

Wait! Flower said.

What is it? Charlie asked.

Dr. Flower stood and leaned across the table, and handed Charlie a small piece of paper. This is my phone number. The next time you feel like heading to Hula Ville, please give me a call.

Thanks, Charlie said. But I think I’ll be fine.

No, I mean seriously. Give me a call. I want to come with you. Charlie looked at Flower, at his large beard and sad eyes. There was a sudden look of desperation on the man’s hairy face; it had something to do with the way his spectacles sat high on one eye and low on the other, or perhaps it was something deeper than that, something inside of him, something behind all that hair and those spectacles, like something he had forgotten to do. "Please," Flower said.

I suppose I could.

"You must, Flower said. He grabbed Charlie’s arm. I haven’t twisted for years!"

Merry-Go-Round

Last weekend I was standing with my wife and five-year-old son, about to climb aboard the merry-go-round. It was not a particularly hot day, yet I was sweating. My forehead and armpits were turning wet with perspiration. I could feel little lines of sweat trickling down my sides, on my bare skin. Small droplets also fell from my eyebrows, and I wiped my eyes dry with my fingers, using my free hand. I was holding my son’s hand with the other, pulling him along behind me. I handed the ride operator our tickets, and he tore them in half and handed me the stubs. We stepped onto the platform, among all the colorful carved animals and benches, allowing my son to pick out his seat. When he finally made his selection, I lifted him and placed him on a yellow horse. I stood by his side and held onto his waist with my hands, waiting for the ride operator to push forward on his lever, expecting the brass poles to start moving up and down any second, bracing my feet below. The music started to play and with a gentle jolt, we began moving forward, we began going around.

I’ve always had a bad feeling about merry-go-rounds. I think this stems from recurring childhood dreams I used to have. They were frightful fantasies about merry-go-rounds made up of images of all merry-go-rounds I had gone on as a young boy, a composite of the merry-go-round at the county fair, Disneyland, and the Balboa Fun Zone. They were also comprised of memories I had of merry-go-rounds in TV shows and movies, probably most significantly that depicted in Alfred Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train. If I remember it right, in this particular movie scene the ride operator keels over, falling on the ride handle and sending the merry-go-round into whirling mayhem. Light bulbs are popping, and sparks are flying. People are screaming and scrambling for safety. The ride spins faster and faster, and the eerie music speeds up like a record played at the wrong speed. Eventually the entire structure crashes and topples over. It is a disaster.

In my recurring childhood dreams, all the people I knew as family, friends, and acquaintances were riding on the merry-go-round with me. There were my mother and father, for example, riding behind me on a pair of black charging horses. The horses’ nostrils were flared, and their big horse-teeth were exposed. Mom and Dad were sitting on these wooden animals, laughing up a storm. I could hear them laughing behind me. I was holding onto my own brass pole, moving up and down, my feet in leather stirrups. I was riding a brown horse with a black saddle, but there was something always wrong with my horse. One of my stirrups was always broken, causing me to ride at a ridiculous tilt. My parents found this situation hilarious. They were not laughing with me; rather, they were laughing at me, at my silly predicament. When I turned around to look at them, they’d stop the laughter, but when I faced forward, I could hear them start up again. It always struck me as odd that they should be laughing like this at their own son, behind my back. It was very unsettling.

In these dreams, a couple of rows behind my parents were always my sisters. I had two sisters, and they were both older than me. They too were laughing, but not for the same reason as my parents. They were laughing because I had a crush on a certain blond-haired girl at school, and I didn’t know what to do with her. My sisters were older and more experienced, and they found my naivety highly entertaining. Do you know how to kiss? one of them always asked. She was yelling at me, but I could barely hear her over the volume of the music. I wished she would just keep quiet. What if someone heard her? You have to know how to kiss! I was filled with dread. Was there actually a way to kiss? I didn’t want to make a fool of myself with this girl. I needed to know how to kiss. They both laughed again. Maybe you can give her a hickey, one of them would shout. Do you even know what a hickey is? Now they would be laughing like they were both being mercilessly tickled. What exactly was a hickey? Why couldn’t they just fill me in? Why did they have to embarrass me in front of the others? Why did they get so much pleasure out of making an issue of my innocence? I felt so clueless.

There were others on the ride. In front of me was always my cousin Jennifer. She was the daughter of my mom’s sister. She was ten years older than me, a big Sophia Loren of a girl. No, let’s call her a woman. Yes, she was a woman. I mean, she was old enough to drive a car, old enough to date real men. She had long brown hair, and it was flowing behind her as she sat on her zebra. The zebra had real straw for a tail, and the slender animal seemed barely stout enough to support her voluptuous body. Every so often Jennifer would turn her head back to look at me, and I suddenly saw her face, those wisps of brown hair falling and blowing over her forehead, those pierced ears and heavy woman’s earrings. Her lips were always painted ruby red, and her cheeks were rouged and glowed pink. She looked as though she had been colored from the same palate of paints as the wooden ponies and animals. She would always wink at me, flirting with me. She was flirting with me, wasn’t she? But I was way too young for her,