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All the Bad Sex I’ve Had, a very, very, very long book (pt 1) |
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Written by Suzy Soro
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Friday, 10 October 2008 |
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Page 1 of 2   This is an excerpt from Suzy Soro's as-yet-to-be-released book, "All the Bad Sex I’ve Had, a very, very, very long book." For the next four Fridays, we will post portions of Chapter One.
Chapter One
DORÉ and GEORGE "I killed my cat, Z."
Oh God this was going to be a boring conversation.
"I'm making out my will because I obviously can't live knowing I killed my own fucking cat," Doré sobbed. Her real name was Goldie but she changed it to Doré, French for 'golden', because she said that Goldie made her sound Jewish. Meanwhile, she was Jewish. I checked my dashboard clock and made a mental note to get a pretend call in 2.5 minutes.
"How did you kill her?" I asked, one hand on the steering wheel trying to navigate the 101 North and the other tearing through the front seat trying to find the address of where I was going. I was wearing my shiny pink Blu-Tooth and people in other cars stared at me briefly, probably wondering if I had Botox injected in the lines between my eyes. It's not like my forehead was rigid and unyielding, it's just that it no longer looked like there were hikers on mules going down the Grand Canyon between my eyebrows.
"I put salt on her food."
"Every day?"
"No, once."
"You put salt on her food once and you think that killed her?"
"Well, that and the olive oil." Yes, the lethal dose of salt and olive oil, a definite cat killer.
Poor Doré. She had no children, no husband and now one dead pet. She was like the rest of us, The People Who Had Nothing. The only difference was that Doré was a brunette, which was definitely against The Los Angeles Rules for Girls. Doré also had money, mainly because of all her rich boyfriends, the last of whom had given her a Porsche for her birthday. When I asked her if she was happy with the car, she had to think about it before she replied, "I guess. I mean I already had one, this was only an upgrade."
Doré's staccato snivels were interrupted by the sound of ice cubes tinkling in the glass of scotch she was sucking down. I remembered those days well, only my glass had been filled with vodka. At the end, ice had only slowed down the drunk, so I used the trays to hold all the leftover pennies from the $7.99 bottle of Gordon's I got at Rite-Aid.
"Doré, remember when Lollipop died and then he came back to me five days later and was lying on top of me while I slept?"
"I remember the story, if that's what you're asking."
"Remember how upset I was and then his spirit came back to me? As if he knew how sad I was?" There was a pause you could have parked a truck in. I know my story was a bit of a push with most people, but I couldn't control that aspect of my life and I wasn't going to stop talking about it just because other people thought I was crazy. It had happened. I was lying in my bed in New York City early on a Saturday morning with my little Yorkshire terrier resting quietly on top of me. My arms were folded across my chest like I was in a coffin only I wasn't dead, I was asleep. Slowly my arms had uncrossed themselves and involuntarily flew up and outward and I felt my Yorkie lift off my chest. As I came to I realized I was lying on my back. I could never sleep on my back, not ever. I sat up and called out to him but he was nowhere around. And why would he be? He'd been dead for five days.
It started in the eighties when I was living in New York. I would hear a voice in my head telling me things. Not bad things, not good things, just things. Some of the things were everyday events like 'turn right at the light not left' or 'you're not going to get that job.' After I started talking about it to friends, they would ask me if they had a voice in their head and I would say yes. We all had the voice; it's just that some of us listened more than others. After I got comfortable with the voices, dead people started stopping by. My grandfather, my dog, my stepmother, the usual. It's not like they appeared to me or talked to me but they did crazy stuff. They'd move things around or in the case of the dog, just appear as a presence. I tried explaining that to my psychiatrist and could, with a great deal of concentration, make out the upside-down word 'schizophrenic' being written with her uni-ball extra fine tip. I did not see a question mark after that word.
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Suzy Soro
