Page 116 of Nearly Roadkill
Scratch and Winc have each gone back to their own caves to nurse their psychic wounds. They are still not speaking to each other. It’s been over a week. I got back to Gwynyth’s with no trouble.
I can see why it’d be hard when somebody suddenly becomes aheorsheif you’ve known them in the free zone ofze. They each blame themselves for the fight. Perfect for each other. Gwynyth still says not to worry; they need this time to think. If they could meet in some chat room, I think they’d be fine. But they refuse.
And Winc and Scratch still write to me.
Here’s just one of the letters Scratch has sent me:
To:Toobe
From:Scratch
Subj:Dummy
Toobe, my man, I’m an idiot. I asked for something, I got what I asked for, and now I’m running away from it. Not to whine, but it ain’t a great time in the world to be unusual, and as you have seen for yourself, I’m anything but usual.
I’m not one of the cool kids, I wear big shoes, I sleep with whoever turns me on but mostly only online. I’m in love with somebody who looks like a woman but kind of looks like both. What a dream come true, eh? What did I do with that? Took a great big breath, and ran the fuck away.
Easier to be a freak all alone, at least you’re carrying your own suitcases. When you’ve got someone else with you it’s less lonely but your feelers extend to them now, you get protective and controlling and anxious and worried.
I’m back in my stupid apartment, just like I wanted. There’s dust over everything, real-time sunlight streams in, illuminating all that is dingy. Instead of a happy Spring feeling, it merely points up the pitfalls of the Real.
I miss hir. I wouldn’t have even noticed this crummy apartment last week. I would have jumped online and talked to my Winc.
Am I nothing without interacting with another? Me, who loves to be alone more than anything? Now that I’m *there* I don’t truly know who I am.
I am Scratch to the mailman, Scratch to the woman I buy cigarettes from, and Scratch to Winc. To you. To Gwynyth even. And without them I am Scratch to myself, whoever the hell *ze* is: stubborn, boring, unwilling to stretch, unable to makeconnections fire in my brain, unable to even pee without commenting on it.
Big talker all right.
Me, scared of this person? Smoky eyes and a laugh like music even when it was shaking with fear?
Me, not willing to walk down the street with a creature whose gender slips like a failing clutch?
Me, with the short hair and the wide hips and the mannish walk, the one who makes the bad guys uncomfortable and the ladies curious?
Me, what exactly do I have to protect?
—S.
END TOOBE ENTRY
NARRATIVE ENTRY, JABBATHEHUT
Wally Budge is nervous. This is his first face-to-face with the entity known as Scratch.
*** You are in room “White Flag” ***
Scratch:::drumming fingers on tabletop:: You’re late!
Ms. Budge:Let me guess: You’re not really on the Santa Monica boardwalk, are you?
Scratch:What’s it to you?
Scratch:And what makes you think I wanna talk?
Ms. Budge:If I were you, I’d want to know as much about who’s chasing me as I could.
Scratch:OK, here’s a starter. I thought you were a guy.
