R&R

“Dammit, Can you see, she said, anything at all?”
The smoke choked my words. I managed to yak out, “No, just smoke, where are you? Are they coming?”
” How the hell should I know, shit, I don’t know, okay, I can’t tell. I’m here, I’m right here.”
“I can’t see you.”I whisper screamed.
“No shit, Sherlock.” came back through the darkened clouds.
“What happened?” I said asking her and myself. I was out of breath. I couldn’t recall how far we had run. I was ready to pass out.
” He did it, we both know exactly what happened.” Rita said still within earshot but not close enough for me to touch. I could tell she was standing though, I could feel the heat from her body, or was that impending fire somewhere lurking in the darkness. I rolled into my knees not sure which direction was the ground. The room and my body felt hot and the smoke had so enveloped the space that I couldn’t tell which direction I had come from a few moments ago either. I was on the verge of tears. Were we under ground? Surrounded by rubble? Was this the end?
“Rita, where’s Pal? Pal! Pal can you hear me?” My anguished cries were met with silence other than Rita coughing and stumbling about.
“He didn’t fucking make it, Randie, you know he didn’t. Listen get up. Girl, get your ass up. We’ve got to get out of here, now. Can you see anything? I’m blind. I don’t have my fucking glasses. What the holy hell. Randie! Follow my voice!”
Blood pouring down your face is an opportune time for reflection, I find.
In those final moments, as the pain begins to ring in your ears, something changes in a microsecond and reality slows way down. There’s almost a relief, like you might be dying as the blood trickles, a softness and lightness over take your senses and laying down and staying down sounds like a treat. You, glimpsing the film reel of your life, suddenly have the space to connect the string of your memories to the present. It comes flooding back, reels and reels of your pitifully small and unloved life and the fullness of the end of it. Someone will discover me lifeless, and not be able to appreciate how my lipstick matches my blouse and earrings and shoes. A bell has been rung and I realized, laying there, possibly dying in the real sense instead of the dramatic one I’m used to moaning about, that this all happened because I’m a chicken shit. I can admit the truth when death is staring me down. Yes I’m brilliant, and talented, beautiful on top of it but underneath it all, I’m just scared to be on my bloody own. I think I’m British when I’m dying apparently. If I wasn’t such a People pleasing chickenshit, I’d probably be a lesbian but no. People pleasing literally has me on the ground, covered in blood, blinded by darkness. I could have said fuck off too, if I wasn’t a frightened little monster. I could have ignored it all but instead, out of the compliance to my own fear, I offered her comfort. Again. She was a horse that couldn’t properly be tamed and snooty as that sounds now. Trying to please Rita was my downfall. I knew it then and still feel the same way now. Complete chickenshit behavior. I wonder in this moment and that one, what would my life be like had I not met her? Had I not worried about her, cared so much that I thought I could fix her, make her normal, and useful and popular. Turn a starving peculiar plant into a full grown garden. Who the fuck do I think I am. Am I Glinda? No, but this is all my fault. Why have I pressed myself so hard against a cruel outcast anyway? No answers would come. Had I just minded my own business perhaps, I would be smiling and drinking champagne. Maybe, saving some cats from starvation and drinking tea on a snowy mountain porch outside of the city. Nothing of the sort is ever in the cards, when you get your fulfillment and joys in the eyes and souls of others. I know this for sure now. But there is so much I don’t understand in the flashes that come to mind as you linger and languish between the responsibilities of being alive and the calm completion of death- who are you if things are not the same anymore? Are you the victim, or are you the mark? Rita was always a mystery to me but one thing that I knew for certain was that she did not like gifts. Giving them or receiving them. Of course I discovered this the hard way. Back in undergrad, Rita Manweep and I were college roommates our freshman and sophomore years. We bonded immediately over our ridiculous names- her name sounded like a consequence of trying to hustle a card sharp, and mine sounded like a person who should be on a sex offender’s watchlist.
“Randie Foryeau, what the hell is this?” She was incensed. I knew that her favorite color was yellow and that she had finally gotten the part time job in the English Department and had recently won the Womack Wordsmith Poetry Scholarship so I thought, being the good girlfriend that I believed that I was, that she would absolutely love a stack of #2 yellow pencils I’d snagged from our RA during that semester’s corny get to know you night in our dorm’s lounge. Apparently I was mistaken.
“Pencils for the poet.” I said smiling like a simpleton. She rolled her big doe eyes and feigned a smile and threw the pencils one by one into the corkboard like they were darts. She was going to be a hard one to domesticate but I remained hopeful as I always do with my projects.
“Don’t buy me things, it’s manipulative, and pencils, really, do you think I cannot even afford the most basic utensil known to man in order to write with? I would use my own blood before I let someone influence my art. Girl, what do you want from me, be honest!” She glared, arms on her hips.
I cowered a bit.
” I don’t want anything, I just try to be useful to my friends. Its not my fault that others don’t give like I do.”
“Is that right, she responded, so you’re basically a Eurythmics lyric from Sweet Dreams? Like being used do ya? Right. Well, next time, don’t. It presupposes you expect to get something from me and I hate gifts.”
“Who hurt you,” I whispered.
” Why do people have to be victims of something if they don’t agree with how you are? Do you think it’s a noble trait to want to be appreciated all of the time, girl? Relax.” The tension was thick. I can admit now that I was a fan of hers, and terrified of her at the same time. I don’t even remember now when we actually became real friends, but I wish I had recalled the pencils when I invited her to the resort retreat six weeks ago. Maybe none of this would have happened. Gifts just weren’t her thing. She’d even told me so, blatantly warned me and what did I do? The opposite. Even during the years we have known one another not once has she ever so much as bought me a birthday card- and who doesn’t do that for someone they have lived with, worked with and even been crying drunk with unless they are a Jehovah’s Witness? I dunno, I guess I thought having a beautiful and popular friend like me would rub off on her somehow, and she’d eventually love talking about nail polishes and which night cream was the least greasy and see something adorable, and expensive on her travels and just scoop it up just for me after all of my efforts at bonding but nada. Zilch. Zip.
Rita was only religious to the fact that everything we do makes us easier to control- how we celebrate, what we wear, who we praise and why, were all little tells for con-artists, scammers and thieves. Giving was just a trick and receiving- a trap. She never held onto any one thing for long- a zip code, hair style or relationship- nothing was worth crying over or keeping, except Rayoson. This fucking pretty idiot. The first time she broke up with Yoso which was the nickname she forced everyone to use so often that no one actually recalled his real first name, her shell cracked. Everything about her was intimidating to me. She was a tall woman and shapely like a Rubenesque goddess- I almost wondered how her body defined gravity holding all of that meat into curves and bulbs. What was wild was that she was someone new whenever I saw her- she didn’t feel obligated to commit to an aesthetic- On Monday she was a long blonde dreadlocked wig wearing earth mommy hippie with bangles and peace signs and on the very next day, she was in combat boots, black tight cargo pants with visible distressed holes you could see black fishnet through and a black razor sharp bobbed wig, with red nails and lips. If you didn’t know her, you wouldn’t recognize her. I remember walking across the quad with her back at school one day and a classmate asked her to tell the truth- was she in a witness protection program or what? She just laughed. She had this way about her where everything and nothing was real at the same time. Shifts in even her emotional state or visage took nothing away from her gravity or intimidating manner. Flowers leaned toward her, and she would simply hiss.This was again a mystery to me because I can’t understand how she copes. I am naturally commercially attractive, I’ve always known this and it isn’t my fault if god blessed me with favorited gene sets and I gather others do have to develop somewhat of a personality to survive and I just need to be, well, in the vicinity and someone will make sure I know how beautiful I am. What’s clever about those who don’t have the magic DNA is that because they’ve never had it, they don’t miss it and time tells me that one day if I live, I will. I’ll need my community then, and friends and being in everybody’s business just affords me the connections necessary to thrive for a good long while. Rita was what you would call stunning I suppose, when she smiled it lit up a room but getting her to do so was rare or even trying to photograph her when she wasn’t making some ridiculous ‘everyone around me is dumb’ eyeroll-heavy face was rarer. But people remembered her. Asked about her. Missed her when she wasn’t there. Yet another mystery I mean, were they doing that to her when I wasn’t there? She never bothered to mention if so. She was like a tree and generally in costume and as soon as she smiled, she took over the place. This is always a usable attribute in an appetizer. As a professional woman about town and obvious icon, the opening act always needs to get you excited for what’s next. I never heard anyone call her beautiful but even old ladies referred to her in hushed tones behind her back as sexy. Whatever. I very rarely get sexy. Damned if I could figure it out.I think its because I’m just naturally elegant and classy that it simple. But Yoso, I dunno, he saw something no one else seemed to- her weak spot. He became it and when you’d see them together, nothing about her really felt bad ass anymore. She was no longer a lion but a domesticated cat purring at his feet. It was fun for a while to see her as a regular girl, which she wasn’t but his presence somehow unlocked an extra side. It was weird because he was so much younger than us, and not really accomplished at anything other than looking like one of those gorgeous catalog models that hawk perfume in bathing suits on secluded beaches. The man was undoubtedly fine by anybody’s standards, regardless of one’s tastes, that I would give him but like her, he was mysterious too. She had a beautiful friend in me and a beautiful boy in her bed so I guess, what did she have to be beautiful for? She was a light for gorgeous moths.They broke up nearly every other month, either he would leave her an I’m sorry letter in her kitchen and go silent for 3 weeks and then send her an email wondering if he was missed, or she would get tired of his little games and throw him out, pitch his clothes off the balcony and change her number just for us to have to cancel any plans because out of nowhere, he had come over and they hadn’t slept and she wouldn’t be able to make it, suddenly. Over the years no matter who he was dating or who she was claiming at the time, they still texted each other, called, sent videos and even mocked their partners with each other until inevitably one would hop on a flight to the other in the dead of night, and cling to each other for a few weeks all over again.The story got boring to all of us but it was truly over now and she seemed to grow dark. She started writing the bleakest poetry anyone had ever read and her readership skyrocketed. Poets and true yearning never go out of style for those with low self esteem. He’d reached out to her once again this time after 5 years apart and tried to pick up where they left off. As she was sobbing, dressed like a 1950’s housewife who lucked into some tickets to the Kentucky Derby, dabbing her tears with an embroidered handkerchief and straightening the crinoline under her skirt, she blamed herself for ever loving at all.
” He’s wicked and I’m stupid- I don’t know what I thought. Rita moaned. “You can have a muse, but you can’t fuck your muse right, that’s like Jason and the Argonauts leaping into the sea as soon as they hear a Siren, but if you truly love you will jump won’t you? And I jumped, he jumped, but we both, we both had tethers on- we were just bungee jumping and that should tell us something shouldn’t it, we don’t really want to be together, he doesn’t really deserve me, I’m not really his type and we’re just drug addicts aren’t we, you can admit it, we’re just hooked on one another, that man is the worst cocaine ever invented, I hate him, my love for him was real and I know because it’s fucking hate now, I hope he dies this very afternoon, the lousy piece of shit, I’m blocking him, I mean it, I’m deleting him from my phone and apps and I might just post the videos of him begging me to beat him, and begging me to piss on him all over the fucking interwebs!I tried to console her because that last one was a doozy- I’d never seen her anything but serving Mae West realness or Maleficient in a good mood but this was quite endearing actually. She wasn’t some untouchable stone goddess- really, just a puddle of jelly inside a Dalek.
Where’s your magic now I wanted to ask, everytime she was in a tizzy but friends don’t use the frailties of friends on them when they are down. Do they? I still didn’t fully understand her but it made me, I dunno, see myself as slightly more hinged than she so regardless if anyone compared us, I could say I’m sane and there would be no contest. She’d tried to take her own life a few times over the years I discovered later into our friendship- once because her mother didn’t love her, and once because her ex husband cheated and this was starting to feel like it might be a time to keep her from opting out of life in that manner over this- it only occurred to me because on a couch, drunk some years ago now, she’d said even in college it was really hard for her to hang on, but that wasn’t how anyone saw her at the time. Her recklessness was because she was broken and I saw if the Fonz was a girl. And this Yoso, had her looking at knives too sharply. So how could I help? My only option was to fall back to the old faithful and reliable- charity. I admit, all of the people who look down on others do this but they only do because they can. I had hope for her though- plus I can’t have friends who have killed themselves, like it looks bad on my relationship resume. This time, my best effort was a gift, an all expense paid week with me and my bestie, Paladin. Paladin is the party. He seems to live on a rainbow cloud if I am honest, and nothing ever dims his spirits. Its weird how we met, we were at a coffee shop in Soho and they asked us both for our names for the order and of course we both said Queen. Immediately when I approached the counter, Paladin shrieked, just so you know, we’re best friends now and we have been ever since. He’s one of the few people that I associate with that I needed to like Rita because no one else did- and if he didn’t, I wouldn’t continue to be able to engage with her because I’d lose anybody, but not my Pal. We’d literally been through so many battles with money, and boyfriends, and gambling and jobs together that I couldn’t see a future where he didn’t exist. Fortunately when they met for the first time, they hit it off like gangbusters but if I am honest, I had yet to meet the person who didn’t like Pal until the vacation itself. Maybe I wouldn’t be concussed and reliving my whole existence, had I invited someone else- it’s all a bit hazy and I’m sure if I want to stay lucid, I’m going to have to recall things clearly- really get the story straight in my mind, or I’ll truly fall to pieces.
If I remember correctly, the first time I was brave enough to have Pal meet Rita was at the Karaoke bar near Pal’s downtown Chicago sky-rise apartment maybe 15 years ago. She had been in town doing a poetry reading with a group of Santa Cruz Poets in some east coast west coast exchange of the arts committee, and this year they invited Midwesterners and southerners to come and read. I was only there because this was Pal’s 4th apartment move in the past 5 weeks, the man kept getting into relationship after relationship with rich macho abusers and making their houses into homes like some Marie Kondo meets Martha Stewart gay fembot only to discover that all they really wanted were punching bags with penises. He swore for the millionth time that he was giving up men and I offered to come help. I really like cheering people up, I don’t know it gives me great joy to bring a little joy to people who are close to me, like maybe I think it’ll rub off on me somehow- if I facilitate peace and happiness, won’t I then become peaceful and happy too? It was settled. We needed a girl’s night out drinking like the old days, singing yearning burning love songs from the early 90’s and just bonding. They both enjoyed the spotlight, and I was the best audience money could buy so I set it up. I can hear Pal now telling Rita, ” Ooh, miss maa’m I have heard so much about you and I am so glad you came, I could use your advice because Randie is forever singing your praises, tell me, how do you always have so many young fine men at your disposal, Queen? What is your secret?” Rita clinked his glass to hers and said without missing a beat, ” I drink their blood.” and started rubbing a red crystal pendant dangling from her rope necklace. Pal clutched his imaginary pearls and we all laughed. I was a genius. I’m still a genius. And when I decided they both would be a perfect pair to join me at the resort, Pal was the ideal choice. At least I’d have someone there at the pity party resort retreat to have fun with so we weren’t in Rita’s face or various wigs for hair. The vacation was going to be on Santa Carmorina Island, with the added bonus, that there was a Poets Coalition Workshop happening at the Royal Labyrinth Riveria Resort where we were booked to stay, at the same time. Santa Carmorina wasn’t one of those islands you see splashed in advertisements for travel on discount travel apps or in the background of reality shows funded by paid influencers- it was the Rolls Royce of Island Getways- you only knew about it if you were in the know, and I pride myself on being in the know. It was remote enough the Rita couldn’t be reached by Yoso trying once more after he’d hurt her yet again, and fabulous enough for Pal to find a new rich beau who at the very least had gone to therapy and wasn’t ashamed or abusive. It was also a spot, which I wasn’t going to mention to either of them, was there was a vigorous nudist community of former supermodels and athletes near the Resort and if you are going to people watch what better view could you ask for? Pal and Rita were suckers for pretty boy artists and musicians, as evidenced by their swooning and hissing every time someone approached them both.
” Last night was, incredible,” Pal told me, maybe five years ago. I figured that per normal He had taken a new young lover and was enthralled yet again with some woman’s beautiful spoiled and emotionally unavailable narcissist child. He was beaming and shiny breath smelling like cigarettes and coffee.Normally Pal was only this giddy if the dude was able to pick him up and toss him around the room so hard and fast and long that his first inclination the next morning would be to make pancakes from scratch. I was worried there would be a new rash in the future though or a desperate midnight trip to a pharmacy for a salve for some itching in the genital area soon. ” I absolutely love Rita, she is down for whatever!”
“What?” How do you mean, exactly?”
“Girl, I don’t know where you were last night but Rita was in town and we went out and let me tell you what, I never expected that miss ma’am was really up for the challenge but we totally had a menage a threesome and she did that. I literally just got home!” This sort of thing was where Pal and Rita connected best- I wasn’t a whore like the two of them and wasn’t really interested in just giving my body away to the horniest man in the vicinity on a whim.
He went onto say that Rita had told them while they were drinking at the bar that fantasies were foolish. If anyone was interested in your fantasies she’d quipped and they remained so, then they were dull and stupid. The both of them saw a man who in their eyes was the ideal- tall, angelic in demeanor and presentation, with long flowing hair and darkend olive skin, soft round lips and piercing light eyes. He strolled up to the bar wearing a vest and no shirt, a cowboy hat and tight jeans cut so low every angle of his torso was chiseled and visible. Rita was the first to speak even though this was a gay bar and he offered to buy them both drinks. After they all went out to the smoking area together surrounded by drag queens on breaks and young patrons snorting lines or writing phone numbers on skin, Rita made her move. Turns out the guy said he’d take them both on so they high fived, got a taxi and worked the guy over all night long and vice versa, tag teaming I suppose but thinking about it hard gives me hives.
How was I to know, that Santa Carmorina was inhabited by wealthy witches though? And with Rita being a transformational witch, that this place, this experience, these people all together would cause so much chaos and confusion? There’s so much that begins to make sense, when you are on the verge of passing out or near death- the only problem is, if you survive, will you attribute that to your own will and strength, or to other forces, working for your ability to live, simply for their entertainment? It’s all so embarrassing now, as we gasp and cough in the darkness.
Santa Carmorina, like Rita, had sketchy historical details online outside of the resort pages if you looked hard enough but chose to ignore like I had. No one could really agree if it was a man made island, or if it had been annexed by the British, Dutch or the French. The best things are Dutch Pal used to say but that’s only because he met and temporarily married a male hand model from Amsterdam. All anyone knew was that if you knew about it at all, you were in a select group and it was important to me that my friends knew what kind of strings I could pull.I’m not just easy on the eyes I used to say to myself when I found these deluxe accommodations or swanky adventures but smart to boot. Carmorina was just like it looked in the brochures- when we arrived we were greeted by the resort staff who picked us up from the tiny white airport made of glass and whisked us through what looked like a very exclusive windy road to an expensive golf course directly to the resort itself without so much as seeing a street sign or highway. The lush green landscapes grew in every shade with tons of photo perfect foliage that definitely did’t grow together in nature but was sculptured and manicured in such a way that it looked as if we’d been dropped into a rainforest by the sea. You could hear bird song and frogs along side tiki style thatched roofs on cabins and the air itself smelled of lavender and sea life. The walkway to the lobby was made of assorted polished dark stones which led to an interior vestibule that eerily resembled some southern plantation surrounded by large white columns and yet you could see nautical motifs in the walled decorations. The mishmash screamed distinctly American to me but I was convinced my friends would immediately feel relaxed and impressed. None of us would have believed then that in just a few days the entire place would be a blaze, fire engulfing all of the fixtures and the smoke so heavy, it was blinding.

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