Another Day

12:30 a.m. My ankles hang off the edge of the bed. I have just finished eating my caustic spinach, beans, onion and one green pepper dinner. Bugs Bunny’s voice still blaring through my head ANOTHER DAY ANOTHER CARROT. Another day. Yes. I look over at the little pill sitting on the edge of my (used to be white) windowsill, take my last swig of seltzer; reach, then stop.
I have been putting this pill off forever. In fact, just the other day on the bitter snow-dusted street I screamed at myself (after stealing them). Phoebe, I said (walking out of CVS), don’t do it I said, you don’t need them, if you start now you’ll never stop. I even considered dropping the package on the sidewalk—but then I thought, what is wrong with me, I haven’t slept in seven days.
PAUSE. I put the pill in my mouth. Let it sit for a moment to see if I could taste the vanilla (the box says it has a new vanilla flavor)… and sure enough. There was definitely a candle in the window, tidy Christmas mouse with a hanky on his head wearing a red mouse robe, carrying his morsel of cheese to his wee hole taste…
Yum.
I wriggled deep into my cave-safe blankets—ah—I settled my hands on my chest, shut my eyes, flipped up my hair, spread it out on my pillow fairytale style; moved my hand behind me to tuck in the blue curtain so that no air would get through, then I moved my hand back under the covers onto my stomach, up to my neck; I got out of bed and turned on the light, my hands were freezing. I needed my cashmere gloves (I have a wicker trunk full of socks and gloves). I flicked on the light, opened the trunk—bad, BAD, my novel (it happens every night) slid off—I picked it up then located one green glove, one rose. Lights off, I pulled on the gloves, back in bed, I resettled, flipped up my hair, shut my eyes.
CLANG, open.
The radiator, shut.
La, la, la, no worries little one, I hummed to myself, you have taken a sleeping pill and that pill is much more powerful than that man inside your radiator beating the bars with a hammer.
Several minutes of clanging.
Then.
POUND. POUND. POUND. Fuck. That underwear model neighbor of mine. 1:19…every night. A million things went through my mind. First how I’d like to kill him, then how I’ve got to move, but then—I watched the ceiling; POUND. POUND. POUND. My eyes made a mad scramble across BAM (he dropped something)—No, I said, I am not going to freak out. This is my New Year’s resolution, when I hear feet or balls ROLL (something was rolling)...I will say, Feet you do not bother me, Feet you may walk and pound and…POUND, POUND…Actually, sorry—I got up, stripped off the covers, put on my sweatpants and hat—I am bothered.
Out into the silent hall, up the steps, around the corner—I had socks (and gloves) on…I am good, I am the example—(Bang, bang.) I looked up at the dirty door, there was harp music coming from it...and then the music went down; (oh), I think he thought if he turned it down I would go away, but (bang, bang) I was not going to go away, it was not that harp—it was THOSE FEET. I banged again; a half-naked man came to the door. (He looked at my gloves.)
“Hi…” My god, he was handsome, rock solid, tan—and young. I stared at his nice bare feet then leered further into his apartment, “I’m sorry to bother you, but,” he had a nice sofa “…if you could please just walk a little bit lighter on the floor, it’s just so loud.”
1:30 AM.
Back to bed, earplugs in my ears. I even turned on my air conditioner and my fan. All I could think was I have to get a bigger fan. I thought about soundproofing, how much I want to soundproof just that little area. Verrrrrrrrrrrrrr, I looked over at my air conditioner (one sound replaces another) verrrrrrrrrrrr. I lay there about twenty minutes trying to decide what was worse, the POUND, CLANG, POUND or the verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, until… SAW. SAW. SAW. SAW.
Why is life so hard? That’s my FUCKING other neighbor . The man who saws in the courtyard at one in the morning.
SAW. SAW. SAW. Verrrrrrreeeeeeerrrrrr, my air conditioner shifted gears. My metal lampshade blew over. Jesus Christ, I turned. Try to find a comfortable position for your hand. Think of a memory Phoebe, from childhood (yes), take out your great childhood with your great mother and your great father and think SAW. SAW. SAW.… about grilled cheese sandwiches with buttered backs, English Setters—and sunsets. SAW. SAW. SAW. Standing in bare feet, camp and shorts, open swim, tennis balls and hotdogs…SAW. SAW. SAW… locker rooms and the older girls with breasts and Tracy and Kelly! (Oh Yes!) I love this memory. SAW. SAW. SAW. Tracy and Kelly.
The Taylors. I met them at church. Kelly was fatter, Tracy had freckles; I was better friends with Tracy, but Kelly was her sister. Their family had just moved into the old MacIntyre House on the other side of town. “Phoebe,” I was invited over to play.
God to god to god to god, that cold, cold day… I hugged the covers between my legs… “Let’s go outside,” Tracy said and we did. We got snowsuits on and took a walk along the frozen river. I’m wearing purple, she’s wearing red, the snow was white…I opened my eyes and stared at the window. SAW. SAW. SAW. I was just hoping it would stop. SAW. SAW. SAW…SAW. SAW. SAW. SAW…I thought of another memory. The piggy jar at the Church Farm House we dropped our quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies in. I tried to remember the sound a coin made when it fell… SAW. SAW. SAW…. I got very still. The cool quarter my mother gave me for emptying the wastebaskets; the cool quarter my mother gave me for polishing the dining room table; the cool quarter my mother gave me for a tooth: quarters when you are little are like gold.
SAW. SAW. SAW.
Okay. I am now going to drop my quarter and—ching, the coin lands then disappears into the silver pile. I drop another. SAW. SAW. SAW. Another. SAW. SAW. Oh…SAW. SAW. SAW. SAW…The sound of the quarter is… SAW. SAW. I licked my lips, a taste. I was…SAW. SAW. SAW. SAW…tasting, yes, I ran my hands along my collarbone, lying on the thin blue and red Oriental den rug in winter eating warm Christmas cookies sprinkled in silver… HAMMER. HAMMER. GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD.
Excuse me.
WAR. I leapt out of bed, climbed on top of the hot radiator, pulled down the window and stuck my head out like Marie Antoinette in the guillotine. WILL WHOEVER IS CUTTING THAT WOOD PLEASE SHUT UP!!!!
I waited a moment… SAW. SAW (I swear to god).
I closed the window, switched off the air, (put my lampshade back on the lamp), and returned to bed. I lay there a few minutes without breathing. A few wood gathering sounds, but then it was gone. No footsteps, no sawing. The reflection of my smoke alarm behind me glowed like a red eye, church bells were ringing 2:00; the radiator clanged (that’s okay)…For a second I thought I was hallucinating… three pigeons lined up like statues on my air conditioner, sleeping.
Time 2:01.
I dragged the blankets up to my face, rolled over. I breathed in the old house, yard just mowed, clothes drying on the line, May. I held the blankets tightly in my arms. CLANG. I heard the past, it was loud and water splashed, I could see my wet towel with the stripes. I imagined lying on pool concrete tan and young when Twinkies were so good. CLANG. Songs floated through my head…Murder, murder, murder and kill, kill, kill, dangerous rap lyrics I tried ousting with Christmas music, Have a holly jolly Christmas and Murder, murder, murder, in case you didn’t hear, Oh by golly have a holly jolly…
I tried to remember every word to that song… Have a holly jolly Christmas, rolled over, it’s the best time of the year, I don’t know if there’ll be snow but have a cup of cheer. I placed myself in my old Exton Elementary School on the shiny wood floor, in the warm main hall where all the kids would gather to decorate the big tree. I saw the snow outside where the teachers parked their cars…snow was falling... I could see the snow, I could see…Barbara? No. Snow! Dana, SNOW. Melissa, no, Helen? (No.) Some meaningless customer from the restaurant. That’s right. 2:12 and I was now trying to recall a name. That woman who owns the pet shop, sometimes she brings her dog and—the shrimp.
Yes. She looks just like a shrimp with glasses, and she always orders the shrimp—Patty? No, no. She comes in every week: Striped hair, white wine, a side of ice—god, I scratched my head, “What is her name.”
ABCDEFG. I literally poured down the alphabet. I was sure it was Tammy or Betty or Brenda, or Pam; she is fat and fat girls are always Pam or Brenda. I could just see her sitting in the window, napkin folded into her cleavage like a bib—no Jenny, it was a J, god, I can’t stand this woman, or was it a C, Claire, Claire is a fat girl name, Cammy, Cathy, no it was definitely a Ja, Je, Ji, Jo, Ju. I went from vowel to vowel, then I added to the vowel: Jab, Jac, Jad, Jaf, Jag, Jah—
You get the gist; an hour went by before I realized my brain was swimming at the same speed it always swims. That vanilla fucking pill wasn’t working...Ja, Jo, Ji, Je, then it was back to Judy, Jane, Jill, Jackie, Jamie, Judy.
What—Okay, I took a breath. I was starting to feel shaky and jittery, 2:35. 2:37. I watched the green numbers morph… 2:38. 39…I felt my hips. 2:41. Just be patient. You are an artist. Think of things to make. Yes. My mind began to tick. This will put you to sleep. What will you make when you get up? How about—I folded my hands together under the covers—toast, no…
Actually, my latest concept is taking pictures of this eighty-five dollar plastic Japanese doll I recently bought. She’s beautiful. Pink and green with big black painted eyes, black eyelashes, rouge red mouth that’s slightly open. I love her. She wears a plastic helmet. Last night I gave her a bubble bath in my sink before bed (while my beans were cooking)—she floats. I was taking Polaroids of her, using up all my expensive film (the film I have to give blowjobs to get).
Then I dried her off and put her in the oven. I took more pictures; she doesn’t have arms, just these little pink hands sticking out from her side, and so there she sat—smiling on the demonic grill.
Perfect.
After that I put her on my pink scale—that was disturbing, the scale read 0, she weighs 0, I’m jealous, of my plastic green and pink nothing-weighing doll whose only job in this life is to sit on top of my wardrobe and be happy.
Hmmm. I rubbed my feet together. What other shots of her can I do, well, many; the playground for starters. I’ll get her on the swing, the seesaw, the merry go round, I’ll take a picture of her on a horse—at the Carlyle, going through the brass doors, sliding into the lobby; maybe they’d even let me sit her on the counter with a room key taped to her hand.
I started to think Doll School. My doll is lonely. She needs friends…bigger art, bigger heads, more realistic… I need to attend doll school. How hard can it be to make a doll? I turned onto my left side…dolls carrying Tupperware, little blue and white casserole dishes, skillets with eggs, tiny records; installations. My eyes opened. A doll sitting on blue carpet, YES, and in summer I will design sheets, towels—a fuzzy mint bathmat. I will make a tent and a pond. I will use real water and maybe a goldfish… AND…I will charge a lot of money because I can no longer be a waitress, NO, I turned onto my other side—no longer can I be responsible for standing before tables yawning into the face of our public’s idiotic requests.
I stared at my clock.
3:20.
(Unbelievable.)
For a moment I sat on the side of my bed (trying to figure things out). I decided to turn on Looney Tunes. Stupid, I know, but that’s what I did. Propped up in bed holding both of my remote controls like a pilot… REWIND, I wanted to see Another Day again (that’s the episode title), Another Day (I just love this one), Another Day, there—STOP.
PLAY. (Grand.) “Another day, another carrot,” Bugs Bunny says, climbing into his nest after a long day at the fair.
I rewound it.
ANOTHER DAY ANOTHER CARROT, I love this! I rewound it, ANOTHER DAY ANOTHER CARROT, incredible! I rewound it, ANOTHER DAY ANOTHER CARROT, brilliant! I rewound it, ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER CARROT, ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER CARROT—I kept rewinding, playing—until…ANOTHER DAY ANOTHER CARROT…suddenly, oh, ANOTHER DAY ANOTHER CARROT, oh my god—ANOTHER DAY ANOTHER CARROT. I inched forward. ANOTHER DAY—of course.
I stared at the screen. That’s it. ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER CARROT. I looked at my purple walls. He’s right. (Bugs Bunny is a genius.) That’s all it is everyone:
Another day another carrot, another day another bagel carrot, another day another drink carrot, another day another Polaroid carrot, another day another doll carrot, blowjob carrot, carrot, another day another chapter carrot.
Jan. I turned off the TV. Oh! JAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! That fat shrimp in the window with the bib… HER NAME IS JAN. (I knew it.) Name carrot. I quickly rolled onto my left side, tucked the covers between my legs, and faced the wall. A few sirens went off. I had one hand on my ear to block the noise. I touched the wall with my other. The wall. I could never put my hand on the wall when I was a child. I hated the wall. What was on the other side...
Let me explain. For fourteen years I lived in a haunted house, for fourteen years I was afraid, for fourteen years I could not stay alone in the house. When my mom worked Wednesday nights at the switchboard (her other job), after I was done with my homework, I’d lie on the green torn-up couch in the den, I’d see a white shadow like a sheet floating through the dark hall that disappeared back to my room…steep brown steps, up, up, up… I was now inside the hall, winding back, back, past the two bathrooms on the right overlooking the fields and ivy; the doors are shut. And it is dark. Dark. I feel my way through the crooked corridor, past the attic and white trapdoor, all the way back to my cold room at the end—I reach for the light, run my hand up and down, the light, I can’t find the switch, the light—Help, I am no longer breathing, my eyes are open, I am really scared, gripping the covers—Dear god, now I lay me down to sleep, that shape on my door, it looks like a body, a face, I shrank into the mattress. The outline was getting clearer, closer, I stared and stared then slung off the blankets. (I have learned from vast experience, it is never best to hide from fear.) I reached the body, put my hand on the red ribbed bell skirt and shirt; they swished back and forth, see Phoebe, only fabric. Empty fabric.
4:48.
I tripped and nearly broke my head on the door trying to get out of my bedroom to get to the bathroom; this is a bad night. I turned on the light, and slid open my medicine cabinet—I wanted to read that sleeping pill box again, the part where it says you will fall asleep and stay asleep, you should plan for a full eight hours. I sat down on the toilet and began to urinate. I read the side effects…headache, excitability, dry mouth. I could hardly swallow… I couldn’t even get the toilet paper to go in the toilet, it fell on the floor. I had to bend down, pick it up, it fell again, I ripped off another piece, that fell; oh god. I placed my arm on the cold sink and leaned an elbow on my knee.
Dear Makers of shitty sleeping pill: Screw you.
Money, art. Money. I stared at my striped shower curtain. I’d suddenly forgotten, why I do it—all day, I stared at my foot; disciplining myself for what? I am a prostitute. I exchange money for sex. My toenails are blue. I can’t do it much longer.
In fact—I stood up and flushed the toilet—just the other day I had this great idea, separate from the other art, for a line of cards. But blue, they have to be blue. Because I love blue, I am blue—blue, blue, blue:
Eggshell blue, baby blue, Devon Horse blue (I was back in bed now), the blue we painted the walls and radiators in my old house—AH, I kicked my legs under the covers—what a great blue that was, the greatest! I tossed my head back against the mattress then sat down on my old living room floor and played a game of solitaire on the blue rug with the ash marks and fire stains—Ace, Queen, Diamond, Heart… I watched the fire crackle. I picked the burned rug with my fingers; the Christmas tree was up, it’s always up in my memories. But this time the tinsel was super roller skater sparkly, waving all around the room, some had fallen on the rug; I touched it. It smelled like candy. I sucked on it. I pulled the ribbon through my teeth—carved it through; I fucking flossed with that tinsel. Then I stared at the blue door with the green and red quilted wreath my mother made in art class, an ugly wreath, a fake wreath but a hefty one, a soft one, one I remember looping around my arm down the steps from the attic, tra la, la, la, la, oh setting up for Christmas, and the blue door, blue rug, blue paint, blue paint, blue paint… I opened my eyes then flung off the covers.
Up, again.
My cold kitchen, lit like a backyard shed. Out my window bruised light was just beginning to crash through the glass. The same color as the bruise on my knee—and I was passing gas. I ate too many onions so now the kitchen was smelling. I was in a t-shirt that said Wicked Wolf (the one Edward loves), no underwear, no pants, just my hair out and curly all over my shoulders and face.
I got out my professional artist paper, watercolor tubes, I started mixing slate blue with white to make light blue, then this purple blue with white to create midnight Christmas snow globe blue. It was gorgeous. 6:00 a.m. and I had blue hands. I held one up. I was ecstatic, HYPERSTATIC. I had chills. So many I thought I was coming down with something but I wasn’t, it was the blues:
Dead body blue, pool blue—question: Did you ever swim in a freshly painted swimming pool and touch the walls then find blue on your hand, glory be… Smurf blue, beach glass blue, Evan’s eye blue, Brady Bunch bedroom blue (See later chapters), Brady Bunch bathroom blue, BRADY BUNCH MOP, oh yes—Hold that one up. That blue mop is the episode where Marsha gets cast as Juliet but then recast because of her fat attitude, and look here, this mountain, this sky. They will work. I know it. They will sell—
I trotted over to my filo-case for envelopes… presentation is everything. Envelopes… envelopes… I began sorting: Chase Investment, Chase Investment, Chase Investment, I looked at the declining numbers in bold; I hate money.
6:22.
I resumed painting: three Midnight Snows, eight Devon Horses, the sun was now officially coming up, but actually it was rain. Coffee-making footsteps overhead, the pigeons cooed and rustled, bus wheels came to shrill stops—and there was I, in the middle of making dots, with my white pen. Dot, dot, dot…and making dots is usually a breeze but there was a dot block in my pen.
6:31.
I was just so tired, leaning over my cutting board with a cramping right hand, dot, dot, dot, holding onto the counter with my freezing left, dot—when, suddenly I realized. Something abnormal was happening. A dripping sound, a splashing; I straightened up—what was that sound? I couldn’t place it. Rain? I tilted an ear… gutters? If I had gutters. No, it was in this area. Something in my area was—Oh, I looked down, OH, I dropped my pen and stepped back, ME, shit! I held my butt, ME READER! I was shitting on the floor. (I’m sorry.) What I thought was gas was not, it was diarrhea from eating rotten onions, from being stupid, from cutting open a soft onion, smelling the soft onion and saying, I’m sure it’s fine, but even if it isn’t, that onion was free; I’m eating it.
Milliseconds later I was on the toilet, elbow on the sink, hand on my head—my poor cards, splashed.
Ten minutes later (floor cleaned) I was back in bed in the same god-awful jam I’d been in two hours ago, only now it was worse. I had earplugs stuffed in my ears and they hurt. I was lying on my left side then my right, the foam was coming out, the rain was coming down, I was talking to myself…Nest blue, egg blue, backdoor blue, blue, blue, blue, blue was under the covers, blue bumping legs, I had a gun, I was shooting at BLUE, get off my mattress BLUE, a pigeon clucked in my ear, it spit seed on the blue fire escape, I smashed the window with my fist. That hurt. I tried to make my drape stay shut but it would not; fucking drape. I started to think about taxes and the IRS, what if my parents have been doing my taxes wrong all these years, what if I owe money, what if the gallery doesn’t pay for my frames the way they said they would, what if Edward doesn’t want a blowjob tonight.
Fuck it.
I swung my heavy legs out of bed, fuck it. I put on my sweaty sweatpants, two crusty bras, gray glue-covered thermal shirt—7:01.
I took the sidewalk fast, butter in my head. The fog was low. It was hard to see across the road to the brownstones lining my West Village block.
Sullivan Street. Cold rain fell.
Thompson.
La Guardia.