When I was young I delivered cookies wearing French braids and half smiles. When I was older I sold memberships to forest preservation organizations and memorized stories about things I knew nothing about. The volcanoes were coming. Tsunamis and earthquakes too. It was all our fault. You had to believe me. You would say you were busy, please come back again, maybe after dinner. I was hot. I wanted you to let me inside for a glass of water. I wondered what the inside of your hall closet looked like. Towels folded into tidy squares, a box of stale communion wafers, antacid tablets. I would walk to your bookshelf and run my fingers along dusted titles. You would say the books belonged to your father who died a few years ago of forgetfulness. He forgot to eat. He forgot to put his pants on when he fetched the mail. He forgot who you were and what you had become, but somehow this was a relief to you because what you had become was something your father never wanted you to be in the first place. You fed him ice chips until he could no longer squeeze his disappointment through your hand. You would be there for him until all breath left his body, and you were.

Did I need to use the bathroom? How much were they paying me to knock on all of these doors anyway? I was not doing it for the money. I was doing it to know you, but in disguise. I would tell you about the praying mantis I had seen at a gas station just a few blocks away. How it climbed onto my shoulder and rode along for a while. The sensation of its legs was like whiskers. You would think I said "whispers," not "whiskers," and we both would agree that the two are similar especially in the context of a praying mantis and its feet. I would ask if you knew your neighbors. You would claim to mostly keep to yourself unless you were mowing the lawn and someone happened to walk by. On rare occasions "have a nice day" would shoot from your mouth, but you would never mean it. You reserved most of your words for a childhood friend. You preferred to talk to her on the phone because it made you nervous to think about her looking at you in real life, knowing you had aged, knowing you had not taken the best care of your skin or arms or ass like she had. She was always so perfect about conquering her possible imperfections. You would tell her everything except the dirty stuff. She would never know you masturbated with a toilet brush while listening to Jean Michel Jarre through headphones. Your friend dated her plumber, her divorce lawyer and the librarian scientist. She let them all go easily. You had not dated anyone since your husband left you for Croatia. You could have gone, he asked you to go, but you refused because you did not like being anywhere else.

You would ask me questions about ordinary things. I would not tell you the 100% truth because I wanted to seem less interesting than I was. To you I lived in a dreary suburb in the basement of my Great Aunt's house. To you I watched infomercials while sipping carbonated orange juice. No, I did not have a sleeping disorder. Yes, I was sometimes afraid of my dreams because they seemed so much larger than me. They could eat me and I would never wake up. You would ask me what I liked to do in my spare time. Banging on strangers' doors could not be the only thing you have going on, you would say. I would tell you about how sometimes I enjoyed visiting the zoo on Wednesday afternoons. I would watch penguins. I appreciated their waddle and that they could survive in frigid waters and on land. I was curious about the inherent multitasking behaviors of human and non-human species. Sometimes I considered my own. I could walk slowly while humming a song, something by Peggy Lee my Great Aunt sang to me long ago. What could you do, I would ask you. It is not that easy, you would say, and I cannot just answer questions like that without having at least a half an hour to think about them. So instead you would offer me another glass of water or tea while shuffling unopened mail around your table. You liked to watch the sky for planes and asked me if I had ever been on one. Did the organization I worked for require me to travel great distances? I doubted it.

You did not appreciate chatty gas-station attendants or emboldened reality stars. I did not consume milk unless it was from a human mother, but only because I had never known mine. Maybe you should stay, you would say, I can make us a simple roast. I had to get back to the streets. They may have been looking for me. Who are they, you would ask and I would tell you they were other people who also knocked on doors. I was to be on a specific corner at a specific time and if I was not there they might worry that someone might have abducted me. Sadness would leak onto your face. I would see years of losing out on opportunities clench your jaw and sour your lips. This was disheartening to me. I would kiss your lips to loosen the tension. I would roll my hands over your waist and tell you how glorious your eyes were in their brown. I would move in with you. It is not a big deal, I would say. We can figure out the details once we are settled. You would seem excited by this and flick on and off the lights while mumbling, hurrah.

Felicity Fenton has had work in Split Lip, Fanzine and others. Her first book, USER NOT FOUND, will be out soon from Future Tense. She lives in Portland.

Detail of art on main page courtesy of Levin Garson.





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