Eden This Time {short story}
“They call that one, Paradise,” the gorgeous one whispers to me as you come onto the stage. I play dumb. I recognize you immediately, but I don’t want anyone to know that. I’m good at pretending, kind of like you are too I guess.
“She likes that one!” he asks excitedly. “I knew this was the best place for her,” elated at his success once again. While giving my butt a strong squeeze, as if to say good girl, he leans over me and talks to his wife, the dazzling beauty on my left. They clearly approve of my interest in you, like parents pleased that their child wants to go to the school dance. I try to look away from you, but I can’t stop scanning your body. I am searching for remnants of normalcy, textures and features that you let me discover when we were little girls.
“That’s Paradise?” I mumble, to no one in particular. That’s not the name I saved for you all these years. Don’t worry, I know better than to break your cover. An alias is the safest way through change. I’d give anything to be someone else right now. Nearly a decade’s worth of living and I’m still me. I wish tonight that I could be someone new for you, Eden.
“Yeeeees…she’s a crowd favorite,” his voice drags, raspy like a pervert might sound. I hate it when he does that, but I don’t ever critique him. “Extremely flexible and very friendly,” he offers as if to sell me on your perks. But I am already a believer. The more I stare, the greater the flood of images. A kaleidoscope of expired identities explodes in my brain. The things we used to be, drifting far away from right now. He hands me some ones, tells me to relax. “Paradise will stay with us a while.”
The only thing I can’t remember, is if we looked into each other’s eyes tonight—pilfering pieces of the time we lost in a wink, reveling in our innocent, fragile memories if only for a heartbeat. Seasons past when we were sisters cut from the same cloth, born of the same third grade classroom all those years ago. We did used to play Down By the River and When You Put Two Lips Together and Twista-Baby on the playground near the honeysuckle. I would ask if I could touch your long, good hair and you would say un-unh if the boy you liked was watching.
But in the bathroom all by ourselves, you let me comb my chocolate fingers through your soft, oil-sheened tresses. I traced the same path everyday, driving my forefinger down the part through your bangs, and then around to the edges behind your ears before finally committing both of my hands to the luscious waterfall of your mane. I loved those secret moments between us. I loved how you closed your eyes so that I could explore your perfection in peace, savoring your delicious Jergens cherry-almond scent that seemed to linger on my fingertips for the rest of the day.
Once when Mrs. Kendricks caught us after recess, she acted like she didn’t see us and left us alone. She understood you were just letting me try on your beauty, giving me a few minutes to escape my tightly coiled existence. I think she permitted us our sanctuary because she felt guilty about the laughter that tugged inappropriately at her own honey-tinged face, too weak she was against the jokes snapping at my dark brown skin and beady-beads. But it never bothered me because in the end, Mrs. Kendricks didn’t hold it against me for being less than pretty, and she didn’t make me write one thousand times on the blackboard after school, I will not play in Eden’s hair in the bathroom.
It might seem strange to hear this from me now, but we are connected more than you know. Even though we flowed down different rivers after junior high, tonight at The Gardens we converge in one complimentary ocean of wonder and horror. You got caught up in the currents of smooth-talking penises and circumstantial motherhood, opened legs and cluttered dreams. I always felt bad about not calling you, but what would we talk about? I didn’t know if you would feel like I was a show-off, with my scholarship and grand plans to go somewhere with my future. But honestly, I missed sharing my shames with you, and instead went by myself down a slow-to-bloom stream, winding through an awkward rites of sexual passages, a virgin at the end of the line, easily romanced by that older man restoring his youth in my beginnings.
Sometimes when I was bored or confused or uncomfortable—my body pressed between his flaccid torso and its sour perspiration above, the sticky, soaked linens below—I would think of you. Eden would be so much more sophisticated about this sex stuff. She would be honest and tell a man his dick was too small or that his thrusts hurt more than they pleased. Eden would go home without looking back on a disappointing situation.
You see, I really did imagine you to be this powerful woman all the time we’ve been apart. And even though tonight your gyrations are dense with ancient rhythms and the extreme arch of your spine as it twists you around is an awesome feat, I can see that underneath the act is a hollow core of dry-rotted dreams. Some barren space in your belly where a happier spirit once grew. I recall fashion designs for that company you wanted to build. You used to sketch outfits on paper and slip them into my lap when no teachers would notice. What of all those things you wanted to create? Scraps of your genius faded and discarded on the floor of your potential, something like the crumpled money collecting around your feet when you dance.
There is something vacant in your eyes tonight, or maybe this is every night. But I know better than to feel sorry for you. I know that blank facade is a willful retreat from this dingy and musty moment. I know it takes great skill to dupe us all into believing you’re enjoying your career, expertly flexing and popping your buttocks up and down, open and shut. Amazing that no matter what, you are still the one in control of something. I am so giddy and nervous with envy, fumbling in my purse for lip gloss, giving myself something to do other than fantasize that I am you.
It’s crazy, right? I finally have a beautiful face, a good degree, a man who’ll buy me anything, my own key to his uptown condo, two brand new dresses just for smiling and getting dolled up for brunch. But my ass has grown stiff from these cheap stools and I couldn’t give you one reason why I’m here. I feel like the idiot and I’m the girl with all her clothes on. See Eden, there is something still very fortunate about you. Something to admire about the woman who says, I’m not taking no shit unless it’s absolutely necessary for survival.
Never mind the dirty floor and the dark walls, never mind the hungry crowd and its groping stare—you’re up there, and I’m down here. If we could commune for a spell, I would tell you the truth. I’m not judging you at all. I too know what it is to be on display, to wear a mask over my body and count the seconds until it’s all over. You have to be strong to live this freak show, because it wears on you if you’re not vigilant, makes those sturdy parts of yourself tenuous and threadbare.
Do you cry sometimes? Do you want to lose your mind when Paradise comes undone? I can give you that hug if you want it. I get it, Eden. I really do. I know this life sucks you dry after last call, and you just want to go home to your own body, to your own hands.
It’s truly phenomenal when you swallow the whole thing—despite fractured passions and silenced protests—we’ve migrated all the way back to each other at this horrifically thrilling moment. The choices we made in our seemingly alternate worlds still led us to the same vulnerable reality. Oh sister, I really am another you, as the indigenous ones would say. By the time I found my exotic self, I put it up for sale too, in museums, in photographs, in paintings, in cold classrooms with charcoal-stained sheets. In fact, that sea of difference between us is just a matter of space and wages.
If I were as courageous as you Eden, I’d come up on that stage and dance with you. Take my clothes off so you wouldn’t be the only one naked tonight. I’d hold your hand through the circus, leap with you out of this soiled existence until we could find ourselves back in that sunlit toilet stall. That private space we used to frequent as little girls, where you would be my mirror and I would be your savior. Remember how you used to trust me with your naughty stories? Tales of freaky boys who popped your bra strap and tugged at your skirt, who jammed their fingers inside your underwear and squeezed your nipples too hard. And in exchange, you’d undo your braids, even though it meant you’d get in trouble at home, and let me live in the strands of your hair. I always cherished our times together, but when you had a baby in high school I had to move on. I grew out my perm and found out there were more accessible mirrors for girls like me. Singers like Lauryn Hill and India.Arie were my heroes after you.
But Eden, it is so good to see you! I am only embarrassed that you are catching me in this odd threesome. It wasn’t my idea to come here, but he likes his ladies to spend quality time together. The two of them come here to The Gardens all the time, but this is the first time they bring me with them. They effortlessly append me to their ritual, place me safely between them at our table, order me drinks I’ve never heard of and don’t even want, give me dollar bills to tuck into your crevices. They don’t know we share a childhood of decency, of choir rehearsals and honor roll, of loving parents and expensive summer vacations. They are merely delighted in your dance routine and want me to have fun. He leans into me, whispering that he wants you to spin with your leg raised up, show us that piercing one more time.
When it’s my turn to touch you, I take my time. After all, it has been so long since we last shared a breath.
“Don’t be shy, Paradise likes you,” the wife encourages, pushing my hand forward. “She won’t bite.” They laugh at me and I try to ignore them.
It’s because I know you that I am so delicate with you. I gently lift up the silver band of your thong, my lone dollar snug against your hip. I am careful not scratch you or dig into your sweaty flesh like the others sneaking cheap pinches and penetrations when they give you money. Really, I only want to catch your eye for a moment, a split second for you to recognize that I can see you—amidst smeared glitter, flawless wig, and diamond-jeweled clitoris—the real Eden.
Perhaps it’s my imagination but I swear you wink through your eye’s shadow. Maybe I tarried too long placing my dollar without realizing it. I think a smirk comes across your face.
“Ooooh, look at that!” The gorgeous one pinches my side and teases me, “Paradise is hot for you,” she slurps the last of her drink and he goes to get her a refill. I am annoyed that she notices anything, and brush her off, stirring my ice nonchalantly. But I am curious now. Did you see me too? Did you want to let me know that you are in fact happy, relieved, that I am here?
When he comes back with glasses for all of us, the gorgeous one tells him, “Paradise winked at our girl here. I think we should call her down for a special treat. She’s been such a good sport and all.”
“Excellent!” he yelps, as he plunges a fat tongue down her mouth and hands her the blue-tinted liquor. Next, he motions for the floor manager to come over to us, pointing at me as he speaks to the stocky man. I can see all the while their eyes are following Paradise’s dancing form. When the big man nods and walks back toward the stage, the wife pulls a hundred dollar bill from our lover’s inner coat pocket.
“Oh, I don’t need a—” I don’t know what I’m trying to say, but it’s too late. Paradise is already being escorted down to our table by the big man. Our lover stuffs the hundred note into my palm and seals my fingers around it.
“Now sweetie, you make her work for this, okay. This is an early Christmas gift for you. Have fun!” He raises his glass and his wife clinks hers against it. All eyes are on me as Paradise straddles my lap with her back to me. My legs grow tense under the weight of her thighs, but I try to stay calm. I can feel her moist skin through my stockings and I realize a peculiar fear I have of getting her sweat on my hands.
This is not how I wanted to reunite with you—.
“Slap her ass, sweetie!” The man and his wife coach me on how to enjoy a lap dance. I’m failing them, I know. I am frozen, terrified that you’ll turn around and hate who you see. Now, I just want everything to stop—the heavy bass music, the roaring crowd happy to see woman-on-woman, the violent clatter of ice falling to the bottom of empty glasses. I want them to turn the real lights on, end this charade, cease this hoax. I just want to see my old friend and caress our history in peace.
In a split second you pivot around to face me, the spiked heels propelling your legs around in a daring somersault. I feel restrained under your pressure, like I’ve been strapped down for a rollercoaster ride. Shimmery breasts plop around my jaw and cheeks as you bounce up and down, rotating your pelvis aggressively the whole time. I force myself to look up at you, into your face, but damn it, your bangs are in my way.
“Eden?” I accidentally sputter, barely audible over the ruckus. You don’t hear me so I reach for your face to move your hair. You slap my hand away without missing a stroke as you ride me even harder. The onlookers lick their lips, grab their crotches, hoot and holler that they like it rough too.
“NO TOUCHING THE FACE!” the big man barks. I don’t even see him standing guard all this time, so shocked I am that this wild thing is happening on top of me at all.
“Oh Jackson, man, she didn’t mean it. She’s new to all this,” my coach defends. “She won’t do it again, promise!”
“Sorry,” I whisper to no one, my hands limp by my sides. I will not shed one pathetic tear under your Paradise. I stare at your belly button instead, a small ring with a silver cursive letter “E” poking from your outtie.
I lose my sense of time in all the chaos. It’s a whirlwind of tricks that you do with your body. At some point I realize I am gripping your back. No familiar lotion scent, no soft, human hair on my fingers, maybe it’s not—.
Abruptly, you reach for my head, forcing my nose into your chest. The club bursts with cheer. It seems we are gladiators in a coliseum, vying for the kill, but I don’t want to win. I can’t play this anonymity game anymore. I yank my head back so that our eyes can meet.
“Hi, Eden!” I say directly to you, louder and more deliberate this time. I finally get my chance to look into your eyes. They seem dark, but maybe it’s the light. They seem so smoky, but maybe it’s the life. Either way, I am praying that you can see me too. “It’s me.”
This is where everything gets fuzzy each time I replay the scene, so I keep rewinding it over and over in my mind. I don’t know what really happened, if you saw me first, and then jumped off of me, or if you simply heard your girlhood name and your instincts sent you into flight mode. Running out of the emergency exit, the big man chasing after you. My guides laughing drunkenly to each other that they should get to see some more pussy for a $100.
Maybe you thought I was trying to unmask you, but no one could have heard me over all that noise. You must know I would never violate our secrets like that. But really, what aches most of all is that I never got to tell you, I’m proud of you, Eden. People might look down on you for making love in filthy places, but that’s only because they’re afraid of you. Beautiful. Naked. Free. Out of their control. I’m glad I slipped you the money before you ran away. It would have surely gone to waste otherwise.
Eden This Time received the first place prize from the DC Commission on the Arts & Humanities Larry Neal Writers Award, 2010.