{"id":16601,"date":"2021-05-19T05:00:26","date_gmt":"2021-05-19T09:00:26","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/bullmensfiction.com\/?p=16601"},"modified":"2022-08-03T13:12:05","modified_gmt":"2022-08-03T17:12:05","slug":"what-we-tell-ourselves","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/fiction\/what-we-tell-ourselves\/","title":{"rendered":"What We Tell Ourselves"},"content":{"rendered":"

I\u2019ve been thinking a lot about my sister Evie since Ernest Scared Stupid<\/em> during the annual free weekend of HBO. We don\u2019t speak that often, mostly text messages separated by hours or days. But yesterday, I called her, and to my surprise, I did not receive that message that the \u201cuser\u2019s voicemail box is full.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was the first time we spoke in months. Not for any dramatic reason; just how it is with me down in Queens and her still living upstate. That\u2019s what we tell ourselves.<\/p>\n

She was watching Ernest Scared Stupid<\/em>, too, she says. She\u2019s working at the same factory where Mom worked while going to nursing school. We were talking during one of her breaks, while she was outside smoking a cigarette with the middle-aged dudes that also worked there the summer I was temping, the ones that called me \u201cthe little college faggot\u201d behind my back (and to my face). I was just relieved they weren\u2019t being racist. I forgot what she and I\u2019d been talking about\u2013I was probably resisting the urge to tell her to go back to school or find a better job\u2013when she brought up that she was now dating someone I might remember.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you remember the night you threw up in my car?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe night I got all my graduate school rejections?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you say so, buddy. You remember things better than I do.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWas this in your Hyundai?\u201d I ask. \u201cThe one that always smelled like Tommy Boy cologne and cigarette smoke?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. Until someone threw up in it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d I laugh. \u201cUntil that.\u201d<\/p>\n

She heads back to work before she tells me who. She says she\u2019ll call me back soon. But Evie\u2019s “soon” is not as predictable as other people\u2019s\u2013I think she thinks it makes hers more special.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s no big deal\u2013we\u2019ll talk when we talk.<\/p>\n

And when we do, the sound of her voice will bring me home. Not brought<\/em>, past tense, meaning I\u2019m just remembering it, but present tense, brings<\/em>, because I\u2019m home, I\u2019m home.<\/p>\n

The memories we share exist in the present-tense. Not just re-told but re-lived.<\/p>\n

What follows is kind of a work of fiction.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Growing up whenever we said \u201cthe city,\u201d we always meant Rochester. When we got our license and could go anywhere we wanted, each of us chose there. We were still so taken by the sight of the skyline from I-490 when the setting sun illuminated the clouds purple, orange, and pink. On this night, though, there is no time to enjoy it because Evie is desperate to find a spot to pull over because I\u2019m feeling ill in her backseat.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, Chris,\u201d she says. Then in her best drill sergeant impression, modelled after our own dad\u2019s cadence when he brought it home, \u201cHurry, hurry, hurry, hurry. Go! Go!\u201d<\/p>\n

Still buckled in, I lean the top half of my body out of her car and vomit. I\u2019m trying to think of ways to describe it, even as it\u2019s happening. The image in my head, then and now and always, is of an out-of-control fire hose flailing about and coating everything in foamy spew.<\/p>\n

Evie and her friends stare ahead, so I don\u2019t feel self-conscious. But at the time, I just wonder why they\u2019re not looking at me. I start to think that I\u2019m not really with them, there in the car, that maybe this is a dream.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou, stupid,\u201d Evie laughs. \u201cIf you\u2019re done, close the door, so we can keep going. I\u2019m starting to smell it.\u201d<\/p>\n

We continue to the bar where Evie is performing in a drag show. I\u2019m tagging along because I had nothing else planned, except sitting in the house by myself and drinking because I\u2019d gotten the last of my graduate school rejection letters.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s me, vomit on breath, flirting with Evie\u2019s friend in the backseat, this girl named Roslyn, even though I know she\u2019s a lesbian and I don\u2019t have a chance. Roslyn\u2019s playing along, though. At one point, she even calls me “cute.” Why is it so hard for me to relax and talk to straight girls like this? In Evie\u2019s words: You, stupid.<\/p>\n

Evie leads a sing-along of the New Kids on the Block CD she\u2019s playing. Evie has always been my best friend. Together, we endured our parents\u2019 divorce, that time some white kids hurled racial slurs and rocks at us as we walked home from school, that other time we tried to beat them up but got beat up instead. Our fates linked, always linking. On this night, she\u2019s the reason the four of us are in the car together (the fourth person is Evie\u2019s girlfriend at the time, Susie, who won\u2019t factor into the story really. I bring her up simply for logistics. Goodbye, Susie, I never actually got to say goodbye to you. I hope you\u2019re well, wherever you are and whoever you are these days).<\/p>\n

I have this sudden urge to tell everyone in the car how important Evie is to me, but \u201cHangin\u2019 Tough\u201d comes on and we get distracted. And then the girls start talking about song choices and outfits for Evie\u2019s performance. I should\u2019ve said it, though\u2013if only for Evie\u2019s sake. Because sometimes I don\u2019t think she knows. I say it a lot to her now when we talk, but only because I have less else to say.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

These days, we talk like we\u2019re following a script: How are you? What\u2019s up? You know I love you, right? Right. I know<\/em>.<\/p>\n

It is only in memory that our words are effortless. It is only in the past, when time is most static, that it passes so easily.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m watching Evie on stage that night and she kills it, just kills it, doing a rendition of \u201cIt\u2019s Gonna Be Me\u201d by NSYNC. Although I can recognize the hard work and detail she put in to resembling a man, I still see my kid sister who used to follow me around, the perpetual Robin in our games of Batman. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail and tucked inside a baseball cap. She\u2019s wearing a black T-shirt with an open flannel over it, faded jeans strategically ripped at the knees, and pristine-looking sneakers. On her face is the pretty and symmetrical facial hair that only exists on boy band members. I joke that if genetics were any indicator, her facial hair would actually be stringy and grow in patches: \u201cpube-y,\u201d as she always teased me about my own.<\/p>\n

A little while afterwards, Evie gets me at the bar, and I join her and her friends at a corner table outside on the patio. I take a seat next to Roslyn, the only seat left.<\/p>\n

\u201cSaved you a seat, good-looking,\u201d Roslyn says. When she smiles at me, she does it with every freckle on her face. There are other freckles on her shoulder blades that I glimpse when her oversized shirt slides down. I rest my head on her shoulder, kind of jokingly, and I nestle in when she doesn\u2019t push me away. Her skin smells like fruit and sweat where I kiss her.<\/p>\n

Evie and her friends buy each other drinks and talk about an upcoming regional drag competition that awards the winner a hundred dollars. They\u2019re all trying to get Evie to sign up because she\u2019s seriously that good. But Evie refuses and won\u2019t budge. Instead she suggests other performers that I\u2019m sure have a fraction of her talent.<\/p>\n

The beer feels good in my empty stomach. Roslyn\u2019s hand feels soft and warm on my leg. I slip in and out the moment as I try to take it in. My gaps in memory keep me from ever rendering it whole. My limitations as a writer make it worse.<\/p>\n

Evie and her friends never stop making each other laugh: about what, I don\u2019t know, I can\u2019t keep up. They\u2019ve known each other just long enough to do anything for each other and always will. At some point, I start to believe that they will, too, and that maybe I might be there for some of their nights together. I wonder if Evie, like me, sometimes wonders what they\u2019re up to these days.<\/p>\n

Evie is looking at a friend talking to her. But I can tell that she isn\u2019t hearing a word: she\u2019s bouncing her knee and absent-mindedly biting her nails. She\u2019s been itching to leave since her friends tried to persuade her about entering the competition. She gets so antsy when people give her attention. I always admired her bravery for coming out in high school knowing some of her friends and members of the community would turn their backs on her. She was so strong, still is. But sometimes, I catch glimpses of what those experiences have taken from her.<\/p>\n

We\u2019re family, so we always try to build each other up. But it\u2019s so much easier to hide behind lines from our favorite movies and sing-alongs to our favorite boyband songs. Our adolescence taught us that we\u2019re two zeroes, and Zero plus Zero always equals the same.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs this your brother?\u201d someone asks Evie.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re the only two brown kids at the table. Obviously!\u201d she says, summoning the same charisma and charm she observed and obsessed over in our dad whenever he was in a party setting. \u201cHe\u2019s just a lot uglier than I am. But that\u2019s because he\u2019s sad.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This memory can\u2019t exist without others.<\/p>\n

Evie used to joke that I was always \u201csad\u201d about something,\u201d or as she\u2019d say, \u201cChris being a pussy.\u201d<\/p>\n

For a few years, while she bounced between jobs, in and out of school, the slightest remark from someone in the family would set her herk off: How\u2019s school, hon? Oh, you don\u2019t work at _____ anymore? Oh, you and ____ broke up? That\u2019s too bad. She seemed nice<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Once at Christmas, she started screaming at mom for asking when she planned on graduating college. From the couch, I told her to relax. The flashing lights from the tree, unperturbed. On the television, the Grinch again out to ruin Christmas.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, wow, she<\/em> speaks,\u201d Evie responded. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you go write a poem about it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t even write poems,\u201d was the second thing I could think to say. The first thing would\u2019ve been too mean.<\/p>\n

These days, depending on what exit I take from my work building, I sometimes pass the Stonewall Inn. Each time I do, I think of when Evie taught me about the riots. I\u2019ve mentioned that she should come down and visit, that I could take her there so she could see the place for herself. Last time I did, she declined because she said she didn\u2019t care for crowds, which really meant that her girlfriend didn\u2019t like crowds. Evie\u2019s relationships all take the on the same dynamic: her and her girlfriend drinking coffee and watching television, just the two of them, all day all night.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust the two of us against the world. Right, baby?\u201d she always says. I know where I fall in that dichotomy.<\/p>\n

Back in the car ride home that night, Evie and I are the last ones awake. I roll down my window and smell pollen and tar. I listen to the steady hum of the engine as we cruise down the thruway towards home. Evie decelerates just as we approach the bend where a cop car usually lurks. She is talking to Susie without realizing that Susie is asleep. I don\u2019t say anything because it\u2019s so funny how soft and playful Evie is speaking.<\/p>\n

\u201cBaby?\u201d she says.<\/p>\n

\u201cShut up, bitch, I\u2019m trying to sleep,\u201d I say in my high-pitched voice that I use to represent all girls.<\/p>\n

Evie and I laugh but not too much because we don\u2019t want to wake the other people in the car. She turns to Susie, still passed out. I start to wonder if Roslyn is spending the night and, if so, where she\u2019ll sleep.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe won\u2019t have sex with you,\u201d Evie says, reading my mind.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m not her type.\u201d<\/p>\n

Evie makes a face then looks back at me all serious. \u201cNeither are girls, dude.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m probably going to pass out when we get home, anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBefore you do, you never told me what you thought of my performance. Did you think I was good?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were great,\u201d I reply. \u201cReally.\u201d<\/p>\n

Not only was she great but she was great when it mattered, with other people watching. One of us has to succeed. Like Evie joked, we\u2019re just two poor brown kids from upstate New York trying to make it. But our story only means something if one of us does.<\/p>\n

We hit a bump on the road, and Roslyn\u2019s head rolls onto my chest. Her hand flops into my lap near my crotch. In the rear-view, Evie watches Roslyn cuddle up to me. \u201cWatch it, Chris,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019m telling you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTelling you what?\u201d asks Roslyn, half-awake.<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing,\u201d I reply. \u201cEvie was saying that she\u2019s not good enough to enter that competition in a few weeks. I was telling her she was.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should enter, Evie. Me and your brother will come and cheer you on.\u201d<\/p>\n

I agree and then shift Roslyn\u2019s hand closer to my crotch until it\u2019s on it. She pats it gently, without urgency, like it\u2019s a puppy she\u2019s trying to lull asleep.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell,\u201d Evie says. \u201cFor what it\u2019s worth, I\u2019m happy you\u2019re home for at least another year.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo am I,\u201d I say. Because sometimes a good brother lies.<\/p>\n

This is about the time that we started to think of different places when we say \u201cthe city.\u201d For me, it\u2019s becoming New York, where I think I need to live in order to become a writer. A year later when I make it to Brooklyn, it becomes Manhattan, where I\u2019ll spend my time chasing after people and sometimes catching up with them, whether or not they notice.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd who cares what anyone else says? I like your stories,\u201d Evie says. \u201cThere\u2019s no reason for you to feel bad because of some asshole\u2019s opinion of them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou put so much pressure on yourself, dude,\u201d she says. She looks at me through the rear-view and smiles. \u201cEnough for both of us. Don\u2019t be in such a rush to leave me. I\u2019ll miss you like crazy.\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019m staring out the window, wondering how I can describe this scene later, all the little details that I might lose if I don\u2019t pay attention, but all I see is our reflections, occasionally washed out when we drive under a streetlight, just me and her and me and her in these little moments that belong only to us.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I think that we\u2019re unique because we can quote boy band songs and Ernest<\/em> movies like no one else.<\/p>\n

I think we\u2019re unique because we grew up poor and brown.<\/p>\n

Really, what makes us unique is each other.<\/p>\n

Last time I got off the phone with her, Evie said she would call me back. I wait for her call because her voice sounds like an idea of home that I realize, the older I get, maybe never existed. At least when we say \u201chome,\u201d we know we are thinking of the same thing.<\/p>\n

Our lives (N)sync whenever we look back.<\/p>\n

What\u2019s so bad about talking about the same things, telling the same stories, when they mean so much and make us happy?<\/p>\n

What\u2019s so bad if they give us something to say until we can finally say what we should?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Our lives (N)sync whenever we look back.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":16773,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[1359,972,2621,252],"class_list":["post-16601","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-experimental","tag-family","tag-fiction","tag-memory","writer-francisco-delgado"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16601","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=16601"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16601\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16760,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16601\/revisions\/16760"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/16773"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=16601"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=16601"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=16601"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}