Her bed is empty when she wakes up. Not even she’s there. Why should she be? Her bed hasn’t been an interesting place since she traded hate for waiting. That’s okay she thinks, it’s still a good trade. She learned that you can do a lot of damage by holding still. Her enemies are ripping their own lips off. They’re wrapping barbed wire around their necks and tying knots. They are jumping in front of trains. She doesn’t have to move or say anything, but now she’s not even there when she wakes up.
No matter.
She rides on a thought.
It used to be she could get lost in her thoughts. Now she never forgets her address. There’s always a carpet under her feet.
She keeps stealing paint because she keeps wasting it. She dumps an entire can of Benjamin Moore Bold Yellow on the floor of the bus. The next one she does is going to be Rock Candy in the public computers area at the library. She wants someone to look at the spill and ask what the fuck happened.
The thought she rides on is a burgundy heriz rug that sat unused in a storage closet for 40 years. It was prized by her mother, at least in conversation, though no one ever saw it. So stupid, she thinks, to have something beautiful and not use it. Beauty is something you use. That’s the thought. Beauty is something you use. The pattern is unassuming at a glance, but close scrutiny will drive you insane.
She hasn’t brushed her teeth since she traded hate for waiting, and all of her teeth have turned blue. Every morning she paints them white. Her breath smells like apple juice. When she washes her hands the water comes away black, but her fingers always look clean. Her toenails never grow. Her hair doesn’t grow either, but every year she stands an inch taller. By the end of the decade she’ll be a freak.
“What’s all this movement proving?” she asks herself. “Or should I not inspect myself, and keep things moving?”
At night she goes from window to window gathering looks of surprise. People on the nineteenth floor see her right before they get in bed. She’s walking by with a stern look on her face. It’s like her eyes are chewing on something in front of her. Her hair is pulled back tightly, and she’s upsettingly beautiful.
I’ve been studying her for years. She’s named Fever Telling Me Nothing. There’s nothing written about her anywhere because people have better things to do than sit around and wonder. I’m only friends with other people who know about her. The cool thing is, she knows about me too.
Sometimes she lets me drive her body. I take it all over the city while I’m laying in bed with the stupidest smile anyone’s ever seen plastered on my face. I like the way it feels to tap on glass with her dirty clean fingers. I like to taste her sick apple breath between stops. Sometimes I’m still in her when she returns to her cave, where there’s a cat who stands tall playing the clarinet while she builds a fire and writes a letter to her dumb as dirt mother.
I’m in her when she goes to sleep, and then I slip away.
I’ve got a straight day job.
I scratch plastic squares.
Time concessions.
Wonder gleam.
Grape check-ins.
Gun on gun violence.
Jorge makes a dent.
Fear circling back.
Put a pin in dolly.
Make it bug.
Please her pitcher.
Where’s the water going?
It’s too hot inside the fire.
I keep getting my pages mixed up.
The black one looks white in the dark.
The white one looks a notebook in the daylight.
Keep it slow.
Don’t jump for fun.
Fever Telling Me Nothing, get me out of this perfection.
And she’s there on my calendar.
Taking her time with her morning task. If she can get through it, I can get to it. I can get to the part of the day when I’m waiting, just like her.
****
I’m afraid one of these times she won’t make it easy. I’m worried she’s going to loosen up. She’ll let her hair down and take off all of her clothes and tell me I’m not it.
What worries me about that, is that I’m under no false delusions regarding her behavior. I know what she gets up to. I’m paying my friends good money to follow her throughout the day. I shrunk one of my friends down to the size of a needle and he snuck into her head. He and I are in constant correspondence.
She knows that too.
So if she calls me out, it will be because she wants to hurt me. I am not clever enough to dodge a heart attack.
She’s my worst nightmare.
“You’ve got some fucked up notions about me,” she says. “I’m an engineer. When I call out, it’s a fucking problem. Do you know what it’s like to produce anything?”
“You’re an engineer? What does that mean?”
“Stop trying to get to the bottom of it,” she says.
“I just want to get a sense for how you talk,” I tell her. “I never get to hear your voice. I’m just excited for the opportunity.”
“Well you can stop that anytime you like. I don’t make you do anything.”
“Sure you do,” I say.
“Everything you think about me is childish,”she says.
“I’m a childish person. I’ll admit that.”
I make eye contact with the cat, who has been grinning madly. I wonder if she trained him to do this. She is a master of animals.
She’ll turn away from me and walk up the side of the cave, finding a comfortable place to sit on the ceiling. She’ll throw peanut shells at me. The cat will mock me, and dance with joy.
****
Fever Telling Me Nothing, give me your hands again. I want you to know that I’m not going to hurt myself on your behalf. I serve a different master entirely, and the pleasure of your dumb game can’t compete. I know you don’t think you can get anything out of me, but you can get out of me.
Plain and simple.
****
She has a deadly sweet atmosphere when she throws oranges. She hasn’t worn clothes in ten years. Her soul is rotten. She wants the worst for people. She hides her mistakes. She always has a perfect excuse. She can hold her breath for four minutes without blushing. She rides a magic carpet made out of a thought. She has a real sharp knife behind her back. She practices history. She shot someone. She walks with a purpose. She never does anything. She owes me a favor. She doesn’t have a dog in the race. She gets the grease. She knows the difference between an eye kiss and a suite. She has a general sense of downward motion. She marks the spot with a huge red x. She never learns. She places a lot of importance. She stole a silver teaspoon from my mother. She stole lessons. She drinks detergent. She drinks doubles. She thinks about bombs. She sickens the sick. She carries cash. She’s a cattle rustler. She’s an astronaut. She’s a dictator. She buys feelings from a Japanese retailer. She took a good long look at the devil and made fun of his dirt dinner. She spills paint. She has a headache in her pelvis. She buried great men. She sold her gun to a child. She slept in the middle of an intersection. She can waste time like nobody. Her clock ticks quieter. Her mouth is below her nose. She ignores patterns. She collects fools, processed food, and blades of grass. She only counts days. She has a painful style. She has panache. She’s fab. She says it right the first time. She traded hate for waiting. She chose her own name. She plays cards with idols. She carves graven images. She has access to green felt. She matches things by temper. She catches birds in her hand. She bites people. Her sisters all fear her. Her sisters sit behind her on the rocks. She changes appearance when you approach her. She holds up. She shot someone else. She hides things. She looks like she’s sleeping. She can float. She breaks into song when you treat her right. She uses a napkin Her blood tastes like apple juice. She drinks herself.
She has a fever and she is the fever.