Adrift

 

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Synopsis

Zaina is experiencing a crisis of faith within herself. Sure, that makes her like every other twentysomething living in Los Angeles without any dreams or any skills other than converting oxygen into carbon monoxide and Dorito's bags into hollow, non-recyclable vessels. If everyone has a purpose, why hasn't she found one yet?

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Prologue

 

            Nothing is quite so special as when a child moves out of their home for the first time to search for the fortune on the horizon.

            This will be the fourth time I’m moving out.

            Life has its detours and its moments and its boyfriends and its holy-shit-why-is-rent-so-highs. For Pete’s sake, there’s a political party called The Rent’s Too Damn High (but seriously, my people).

            Fourth start. Fresh start. First feelings.

            The nerves and aches and reliefs that come from leaving hit me like a wave chasing the horizon. Further up and further in, as C.S. always says. I’m still deciding if this is the good nausea or the I’m actually going to throw up because not under my parents' house means no more of their rules, which are stifling when you are a grown ass woman.

            For instance, don’t eat in the bedrooms. Um, how else am I supposed to relax? Or please keep all papers off the kitchen table. Code for: get your shit organized. Interpreted as: I resent you believing I’m not organized and will find a manner of it being in disarray anyway to display my high functionality and overall spectacularness. Or, the worst one, let me know when you are having company over.

            Ugh.

            Now, this seemingly sweet, southern invitation may seem to be a careful consideration. It’s not. It’s a hack of bullshit in a big skirt my mother is twirling to figure out if I have any gentlemen callers and if they would please take me away and financially provide for me because I cannot support myself and Mom is dying to go to Fiji. Mom should totally go to Fiji and take me with her. Because a romantic second honeymoon is easily heightened by my glowing personality and insistence on flying solo as much as possible.

           “Where’s your mother?”

            “Huh,” the kid squeaked.

            “Your mother,” a man repeated, louder.

            He looked confused. They were both confused. Why did he say that? He’s gonna scare the thing. It doesn’t even look ten years old yet. It. Hah. It’s a little boy. I can call it a boy, can’t I?

            It’s so beautiful. How could he be cold? Water must still be off. Also, Santa Monica isn’t really the best ocean spot from a sanitary standpoint, is it? Maybe there’s oil they are dumping or something. That makes you cold, right? The earth dying? Global warming isn’t always warm. Except for up in polar bear land. Coca-Cola could cool them off.

            The man talking to the boy is interesting. The man can talk to me if he wants. Buy me a drink. But no, he’s interested in the child.

            Makes one of us, guy.

            It scares me. The amount I don’t want to touch or see or interact with It. I’ve been watching that fucking kid splash and swim and holler and I don’t want it. It’s gross. And by ‘it’ I mean the boy. The boy is gross. But I’ll take the man home.

            Oh, wouldn’t I take that man home and ride him like a train after dancing on him like a pole. Fuck, it’s been a long time. Fuck me. Seriously, fuck me.

            Sand is crusting on me like a starfish. I always thought they were the friendliest sea creature. Probably the only thing out of the ocean I would not eat. But you could shape anything like a starfish and I’ll devour it. Starfish is my favorite shape, after all. I used to trace them as soon as I’d get home from the beach and –

            I lay back and roll onto the lumpy sand. Spin into my stomach and shove my face in. Like an ostreich. Shaking out my hand, I feel the invasive beads wiggling in my ear canal. Not my best choice. Not my worst. I make sand angels and play and roll and cover myself in the heat and –

 

            “Is this your mother?”

            “Not a chance,” I say without hesitation.

            Fuck me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Did I really say that? Shit. I get off my ass, speckled and sparkled with the dots of sand, wipe the grains off my bush eyebrows, and stand like a woman in front of the beautiful, most likely gainfully employed gentleman (because who the fuck else wears a suit to the beach).          

            “I mean,” I fumble, “I am unwed. I am –“

            Little boy starts crying. Because of course It does. I am unwed? Who am I? Jane Austen pursuing James McAvoy?

            Another on the hit list. Let’s see if we can actually achieve this goal with Man-In-Suit who, to his credit, did not snarl at me.

            Snarl like a dragon. Snarl like Smaug. Snarl because it’s an ugly word with that ugly English ‘r’ and it is phonetically pleasing in its hideousness.

            “I am Eric, nice to meet you,” Man-In-Suit grins. 

            Eric. I’m a fucking mermaid meeting Prince Eric. Should I sing now or later? With my clothes on your bedroom or kitchen floor? 

            “Angelica,” I say.

            I don’t know why I say that. It’s not my name. But, fuck it. If I were a mermaid my name would fucking be Angelica.

            “What’s your name, buddy,” I say in a saccharine pitched high voice. Lucky Charms spokeswoman over here. Or a witch.

            “Pablo,” he sniffles.

            Brave face. Good show, chap. Through adversity, we rise. Kid can’t even suck his thumb because no way should anything enter your mouth from the Los Angeles oceanfront. Or maybe that’s a Pablo – unafraid.

            “Well, Pablo. Do you remember how you got here?”

            Head swivels.

            Why couldn’t you have nodded? Cock block extreme. I need to reunite you with your mother as quickly as possible so I can get a sweet release.

            Why can’t I go on Tinder like everyone else? Guess I’m a romantic?

            Nah. That’s not it. 

            “I suppose this won’t make sense to you, but I NEED YOU TO FOCUS, PABLO.”

            Why did my voice change? Why am I shouting?

            “WHERE IS YOUR MOTHER OR FATHER OR MOMS OR DADS OR SIBLING?”

 

            Very inclusive of me, if I may say so. Totally social justice warrior.

 

            “OVER THERE,” Pablo shrieks.

            “WELL, GOOD. LET’S GO GET THEM.”

            “OKAY.”

 

            And then this motherfucker grabs my hand. No, not Prince Eric. The child. The child grabs me like a lifeline and Its fingers are still like raisins. Prunes maybe. Dried fruit. I dried plums once for Marbella chicken. Never made the chicken. Didn’t have capers. Took me all fucking day to dry the plums though. Should have made apple chips so I can keep lying to myself about being on a diet.

            But this fucking kid in his red Hawaiian print trunks. I don’t even know why they still make these. They remind me of Anthony’s trunks. And walking to the country club pool every day.

            Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m from a place where the country club costs $1 to play. Really squeezing out the bank. Us neighborhood kids would walk the three hills and be there: pool paradise with a diving board and awesomely shitty 90s music playing on a beaten up silver boombox. Days weren’t so different than here. Winter would come, but summertime was hot and humid and full of swatting mosquitoes. Pesticides don’t bother me when I remember my swampland. Worth the parched polar bears dying from the global warming and such.

            His hand is so small and breakable with shell-like fingernails. And he’s right here as sticky with sand as I am, rocking a whole new footwear look of fish fry coating. Red trunks and a striped beach towel. Striped and worn and dirty. I don’t trust when things aren’t dirty. Like they must be lying about something. Mud is good. Mud is kind. Bleach is hell. White is some kind of secret. Black is me. Brown is my skin. Red are his trunks. And dirty is everything.

            Man-In-Suit probably doesn’t know that. He's too straight-laced. Straight-laced. Lined and rigid. Not striped. Lined.

            Through the rocky cove structures that make this place so cool, wading through people’s lard and fat and KFC tub picnics that I pray to God they will clean up if they have any decency because if I see anymore litter I could go buy a shotgun and rage.

            Or rage in the car with myself. I’m due for a rager every afternoon at 4 p.m. and I’m almost home but not quite and then the onslaught of everyone keeps me from making it back to Dog.

            There was Dog. No more Dog. I can’t keep anything alive. Not a peace plant. Not a pot. Not a goddamn thing. They should have screened me harder before letting me care for anything with breath, anything with life, anything with hope. Medical screen pulled it out just fine. No soil there. No way to grow. Nowhere to grow. No chance. No miracle of participating in Darwinism. Sure, have the urges. Have the needs. Have the wants. You just can’t have the kid.

            Next closest thing to a child is a dog, right? They need you. They’re stupid. Their intelligence doesn’t surpass that of a three-year-old, which is when kids cease to be neat. Except Pablo here. He’s older than three.

            I give back the boy to his family.

            “Bye, Pablo.”

            “Bye, missy.”

 

            Ugh. Missy? Gross. Don’t feel like a missy. Don’t like being called a missy. Maybe because every southern gentleman ever uses missy to lord the patriarchy over me.

 

            “Bye, bye. Mind your mama.”

 

            Jesus and now I’m an old southern belle. That’s that. Let the happy family be happy. Go away, you hag.

 

            “Thanks back there,” Eric says.

            “You’re welcome.”

            How am I supposed to talk when my head is mushed and filled and swirling?

            Prince Eric says earnestly, “Really. I didn’t even know to ask his name.”

            I study his face. Pale. I don’t like white guys. But pale and sallow and sad, sad white skin. Stubble rising up on his cheeks. Is he not stable. Is he not safe? Is he nothing? Am I crazy?

            “Why are you in a suit,” I blurt.

            He smiles wanly and laughs. It’s not a real laugh. It’s a nightmare. It’s a horror. It’s haunted. I want to be sick. Like I’ve got vomit spent in me but it’s actually gas ballooning my body in anticipation to fly the fuck out of here.

 

            “I’ve been here for a while.”

 

            Fuck. This guy is suicidal. Of course he’s suicidal. Of course I am magnetically drawn to someone more issue laden than me. Like a spoon. Like chili. Like a bunch of fucking bullshit.

 

            “You should leave,” I say carefully.

            “I don’t know how to.”

            “Where do you work?”

            “I'm done with work,” Eric says.

            “That’s okay. People don’t like it.”

            “That’s what I hear,” Eric replies.

            “It’s not worth drowning over,” I say.

 

            Wow. Way to really empathize with a suicidal person, Aziza. Really fucking nailed it. Jesus. You better pray so hard, girl, that you did not tip him over the edge. Maybe this is the edge. Maybe the shoreline is a metaphor for this guy is gonna take you out with him. Not the taking out I wanted. Like, he is going to grab your neck, bruise it with his fingers as he sends your spiny, puny body into the water and you inhale wet sand mud you used to make sandballs out of and that gross kelp and shells that cut around your lungs and make you tear and rip and squeal and die and moan and die again because I was choked. No one will save me. I’ll be lost. Can’t get life that was lost. No loss.

 

            “I’m not suicidal,” Eric laughs.

            Of course you’re not.

            “I’m not. We were shooting over there and wrapped early. Can’t bring myself to leave. Traffic,” he shrugs.

            “You’re a fucking actor?”

            Explains the sexy, dark side of the French moon look to him. Like Romain. Man would I fuck that movie star.

 

            “Most say simply ‘actor’.”

            “You cheeky son of a bitch,” I say furiously.

            “No. Well, yes.”

            “You used a child, you manipulative cow!”

            “We aren’t in Chino. No need for name calling.”

            “No need for you, you wise ass. You totally replaceable, shit for brains, moron preying on people that might get worried. Might be worried about you. Might be anxious. Might need to lie down. Might come to the beach to be alone.”

            “No one is alone in Los Angeles.”

            “Shut the fuck up, Romain.”

            “My name is Eric.”

            “Whoopedy-fucking-doo.”

            This fucker. This fucking liar. Liar about all he is.

            “I wanted to say thanks. I did. Clearly I should go.”

            “Clearly. Clearly you should go back to my place,” I say violently.

 

            And he does. And I do. And we do things.

            And I’m still empty.

            Eric stays with me for months during his lull patch. Between gigs or shoots or whatever. He cooks for me when I get home. We fuck. We love. We fuck. We watch Netflix the way I like to – naked and with salty, sweet, and any kind of snack bar just in reach thanks to the coffee table he brought when he moved in.

            And I’m still empty.

            I put on twelve pounds. Eric says he doesn’t care. And I’m still empty.

            I go back to the gym and swing through it so when Eric came back after a six- month shoot in New Zealand, he found a hot new me.

            And I’m still empty.

            Eric proposes.

            I’m still empty.

            I said yes. I want him. I don’t want him to know about me. I didn’t tell him. I never told him. I never can tell him.

            So, that’s everything. That’s how I got here and why I need something to shut my head up. Or something to get out of this tainted skin. Or anything to not have to live like me anymore in a not suicidal way because I'm such a pathetic narcissist on top of it all. 

            I want a Pablo and an Eric. At first, I wanted Eric only. Then realized Pablo was better than Eric. Now, I can’t have both. I lied for too long.

            God, he’ll divorce me.

            I lied. I’m a piece of shit. I’m worthless. I’m done. I’m through. I am only nothing.

            Nothing is everything. Everything is nothing.

            I haven’t had sex in a long time. That’s good. I don’t deserve sex. Please Sex Responsibly doesn’t come on your genitalia with your secondary sex characteristics when you start puberty. And sex abstinence is just fucking stupid. Bunch of morons making Idiocracy real.

            I told Eric. He left me. I sent the blender back, but kept most of the CuisinArt shit because fuck if I’m going through this without a new kitchen. Hello, cotton candy maker.

            I was numb before. Then I was too much again. I need a balance. I can never find a balance. I forget to breathe. All the time. When I do breathe, it lie nails grinding chalkboard down my sternum. It pierces and hurts and it must be done after you get started of clawing down my body.

            So, here it is: the moment you all have been waiting for. And by you all, I mean Me. It's another time of reinvention. Of creation. Of discovery. Of wishing I was on the other side of this already because it's not going to be pretty.

            Fuck it. I hate pretty.

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