"Invisible" The
Holy Chronicles
by Emily Suzanne
Smiltneck
“Hey, wanna go to Marquette with me
tonight?” she asks, over the phone.
My first instinct is to decline, but I hesitate for
some reason. I know very well that “go to Marquette” is Holly-code
for “go to Upfront & Company with me so I have someone to talk to
when I’m not obscenely flirting with every man in sight, and so I
have someone to drive me home when I’m so doped up on Vicodin and
booze that I can hardly walk, much less drive.”
I also know that Holly, at forty years old, is far
beyond the age of such irresponsibility, and that she fully intends
to leave her twelve-year-old daughter and her fourteen-year-old son
to their own devices for at least the night, and possibly for the
entire weekend. And I know that Tom is probably sitting home alone
right now, watching TV and trusting her when he has every reason not
to. But I do not decline.
“Okay,” I say instead.
I don’t know why I say okay. I tell myself it is
because I am afraid if I don’t go with her, she will drink too much,
drive too fast, wind up dead. But the truth is more than that, I
think. I, fat and overlooked and lonely and not at all wise to the
ways of the world that exists in bars and clubs and bedrooms, crave
excitement. I am twenty-two years old and I feel like my life has
not yet begun. I crave late nights in smoky bars, house parties
full of drunk people and fast music, early mornings on the beach
watching the sunrise through an alcohol-induced haze. I crave
intimate conversations with, of all people, men!
Holly, thin and fast and smooth and oozing sex, is my
vehicle to that end. I am using her just as much as she is using
me, because she is somehow able to drag me out of myself and into
her world, even if it is only as a casual observer.
And so I dress my curves up as naked as I dare
against the sultry AuTomt nighttime air and meet her at the coffee
shop on Eighth and Main. Tom, not home alone after all, is with her
when she arrives, and I envision a repeat of nights out past, where
he and I sit together at a table, nervously making small talk and
pretending his girlfriend isn’t flittering around the bar and
hitting on every other man in the place. He doesn’t come with us,
though. Instead, he kisses her goodbye, thumps me on the shoulder,
tells me to keep an eye on her, silently begs me not to let it
happen again. He watches through the window as we go outside and
drive away in Holly’s car.
Marquette is an hour away, but it’s worth it; we have
to get out of town. The smallness of our city is stifling us and we
need excitement, new people, something new to look at. This is what
Holly tells me in a steady but rhythmless chatter that hardly lets
me catch my breath as she drives, too fast, into the almost-sunset.
I think the real reason we are going to Marquette is that “we” have
scared away most of the men in Escanaba with our desperate attempts
to bed them so we can pretend that someone loves us (and by “we” I
mean Holly, of course). Whatever the reason, though, I don’t mind.
Marquette’s a little bigger, a little broader, a college town.
Maybe I will meet someone there who can ignore my fatness, discover
my beauty, let me see, for just a moment, what it’s like to be
Holly. Without the pills and booze and immaturity, of course.
When we get to Upfront, the streets are full of
parked cars, taxis, beautiful people with sun-bronzed skin. We are
forced to park in the city parking lot two blocks away, at the
bottom of a hill. I am afraid that I won’t make it, walking up the
hill. I am not in good shape and I can’t walk as fast as Holly, and
even if I do manage to keep up, I don’t want to walk into the bar
all sweaty and red-faced and breathless. But it’s okay, because I
always forget that a steady diet of cheap beer and Vicodin, not to
mention the beginning stages of anorexia, can take a toll on a
person. Holly is just as slow as I am in the damp heavy air. I
square my shoulders and stand tall, determined to appear as though I
think I’m hot stuff, the sexiest woman around. My tank top is cut
low and tight, and if I can meet everyone’s eye, they might miss
seeing the rest of me. If all they notice is my chest and my eyes,
I might be all right.
There is a bouncer just inside the door. He’s a big
man, massive and muscled, but just a little soft, too. And his eyes
are sparkling even in the darkness of the crowded bar. I don’t know
exactly why, but I find myself smiling, pulling back my shoulders,
thrusting out my chest.
“Hey, there,” I say as I flash him my ID, hand him
five bucks, and hold my hand out, palm down, to be marked so I’ll be
allowed to order drinks that I won’t order anyway. “Don’t just ex
my hand,” I tell him. I tip my chin downwards, look up into his
eyes through my bangs, smile. “I want somethin’ fun. How ‘bout the
Mona Lisa?” I wink. Am I flirting? Is this how it’s done? Maybe,
maybe not, but I’m having a good time.
“I can try,” he says, grinning. “But the marker only
shows up under black light. Can’t really see what I’m doing.”
“Go ahead.” I wink again. “I have faith in you.”
And so he does. He could be drawing random lines on my hand, for
all I know, because without a black light I can’t see his artwork
any more than he can. I make a mental note to ask a bartender,
later, to flash a black light my way. Holly asks for the Mona Lisa,
too, but I was first, and the bouncer rewards me, not her, with an
amused smile. Tonight feels good, so far. Better than I expected
it to.
We push our way through the bar and find an empty
table near the dance floor. I sit down to save it for us while
Holly goes to get us drinks: a rum and diet Coke each, minus the rum
in mine. She’s gone for a long time and I suspect that she is
chatting up some unsuspecting man and that she won’t be paying for
our drinks herself. Suits me just fine. I sure can’t get a guy to
buy me a drink, so I may as well take advantage. After all, I’m the
one who’s sitting at this table all alone, watching everyone around
me dancing and laughing and chattering while I pretend, with a smile
that feels too broad and bright, that I’m having fun, too.
It’s easier when Holly finally returns, because even
though the music is too loud for us to talk and I can’t think of
much to say to her anyway, at least there’s someone across the table
from me, and my drink gives me something to do with my hands. The
music is smooth and the atmosphere is cool and I begin to lose
myself again. Which is good. I’m at my best when I’m lost.
Then the band goes on break. Pre-recorded music,
much quieter than the real stuff, begins to play, and the dancers
abandon the dance floor. Holly gets up and wanders away without
saying anything, presumably to get herself another drink. With the
band and Holly both gone, there’s nothing to focus my attention on.
My face starts to burn as I look around the room, trying not to seem
lonely. I toy with the idea of getting up to get myself a drink,
but I haven’t finished the first one yet. Besides, if I get up, we
might lose our table, and then I’ll have nowhere to hide when Holly
goes on the prowl. I sit alone, bending my straw in a thousand
places to keep myself busy, until it splits open at one of the
creases. I finish my drink, strawlessly. I chew on the ice that is
melting in the bottom of my glass. I look at the people around me,
people who fit in here, who know what to say and who to say it to
and how to be a part of the crowd. I am careful not to let them
know I am studying them, though. If they catch me, they’ll think
I’m crazy, sitting alone in a bar and staring at everyone. Or they
will see me and know that I am fat and therefore alone and therefore
lonely, and they will pity me. I would rather they think I’m crazy.
........To be Continued Next Month
